Moon Music (44 page)

"Yes, I know they were told not to touch anything, but this is—Yes, Sergeant Poe has given out an
order
to open the trunk. We're leaving right now—Lieutenant Weinberg and I. Yes…. Yes…. Keep trying. Thank you." Poe hung up the phone, looked at Weinberg's doleful face. "Myra's not too happy?"

"Irked. But she's still making us sandwiches."

"What a gal!"

Weinberg's expression softened, his eyes grew distant. "She's a wonderful woman. I'm a lucky guy. Let's go."

FORTY-ONE

"I
T'S LOCKED
up tighter than a drumskin. I tried jimmyin' it with my knife, but the tip broke off. Now I could try shootin' it off. But if there's someone in there, I could be doin' more harm than good."

"Don't
shoot
anything!" Weinberg could just picture the bullet ricocheting off the trunk's steel surface and hitting one of Lincoln County's finest smack in the face. "We're about a half hour away."

Poe pushed down on the accelerator, straining the car to the max. He said, "Do you think there's someone in the trunk?"

"Well, it is saggin'," the officer responded over the radio. "I pushed it down coupla times. Feels like somethin' heavy's inside. But whatever it is, it sure ain't movin'."

The Honda flew upward as it hit a sudden dip, landing with a thud back on the road. Weinberg felt the impact clear up his spine.

He snapped, "Slow down!"

Over the line, the officer said, "Beg your pardon?"

Poe answered, "Nothing. We're fretting because they don't make shocks like they used to."

Weinberg said, "I'll call your desk sergeant. Let him know what's going on. Thanks for calling."

"No problem."

"Be there as soon as we can. Over and out."

Poe took another dip at speed. The car bounced on its tires.

"You're making me seasick," Weinberg groused. "Besides, you heard what the man said. Whatever is in the trunk isn't moving."

"But it still could be alive."

"How about if
we
make it there alive? Slow down!"

Poe tried to get hold of himself. He gripped the wheel, forced himself to reduce his speed. His eyes scanned the vast stretches of monotone desert—flat, sand-drenched terrain, parched and foreboding. Tufts of clouds drifted through the marine sky. The sun was beginning its descent. Within the hour, they would be housed under a canopy of brilliant oranges and roses. The crickets would come out, the air would become balmy, and a serenity would drape and soften the searing air as harsh as sackcloth.

Weinberg hung up the mike. "A pleasure to have some real interdepartmental cooperation. Someone in Lincoln County reads state bulletins." He sipped water. "We got lucky."

Poe nodded. "What do I do when I get off of the 95?"

"I'll tell you what to do when we're at the turnoff. We're about ten minutes away."

They rode in silence, the vista whizzing by them like an endless bolt of jaundiced cloth—a lifeless blur of sand and grit. Poe noticed the car's temperature needle creeping into the red zone. He turned off the air-conditioning and opened the window. A blast of heat slapped their faces.

He smiled apologetically. "Don't want to have car trouble."

"It's fine. We're close to the spot. Turnoff's about a hundred yards."

Poe dropped the speed. Weinberg squinted from the glare. "We're not far from the Nevada Test Site."

"This is true."

"The place gives me the creeps. Like I'm breathing in radioactive iodine 131."

"You probably are."

"You know, Poe, you have this uncanny knack—"

"Here?"

Weinberg consulted his notes. "Here."

Poe screeched as he rounded the turn.

"You take a right on the second service road," Weinberg said. "About a half mile. The car was dumped about two hundred feet from the pavement onto the floor. Whoever made the drop couldn't have gone far on foot. In this heat, you can't walk more than a few yards without drying up."

Poe didn't say anything.

"I wonder if they had a pickup waiting. I mean, you wouldn't just junk the car and take off on a hike."

"A pickup makes sense." But Poe was thinking:
metempsychosis
. What if Alison's delusions were more than delusions? If logic was suspended and the laws of physics were abandoned, anything could happen.

A big
if.

Her delusions are getting to you, guy
. The month's events combined with the desert sizzle were doing strange things to his mind.

"Here it is," Weinberg said. "Turn right."

A moment later, the rented Buick came into view. Next to it was a highway patrol car with its doors open. Poe parked the Honda off-road, the contraption wheezing as he shut the motor. He popped the front hood, allowing the steam to vent, then got out with his picks in hand. He jogged over to the plum-colored sedan.

Immediately, he started in on the trunk's lock, burning his fingertips on the fiery metal. His hands were shaking and sweat fell in big droplets off his nut-brown face.

Two khaki-uniformed men emerged from the patrol car. Weinberg put on a panama hat, stepped from the Honda, and greeted the officers. One was named Beal. He was a stocky redhead. The other was called Polk, and he looked to be American Indian.

As Poe worked the lock, the lieutenant peered inside the backseat of the Buick. The upholstery was dark red, but Weinberg could make out a few darker-stained areas. He put on gloves and felt those specific areas. They were still damp—tacky actually—even in the heat. Something had soaked the velvet through and through. He glanced at the fingertips of the latex gloves. They were smeared with iron-brown glue.

Sticky plasma.

Weinberg shouted, "How's it going, Sergeant?"

Poe was soaked with perspiration.
Get a grip on it
, he yelled at himself. "It's jammed," he answered back. "I think someone stuffed putty inside the lock."

"Can you get inside?"

"I think so. I can feel the tumblers, but…"

Silence.

"Keep working," Weinberg encouraged him. He put his latex gloves into an evidence bag, then wiped his damp face. He took off his hat and mopped his head as well. He donned his hat, then unbuttoned the top portion of his shirt. It was all useless. Nothing was going to cool him off.

Poe shouted, "One more tumbler…here we…got it!"

The trunk popped.

Poe stood up, looked inside, and gasped. A flushed, florid face cooked medium-rare stared at him with a black expression. Puffy lids and swollen blue eyes floating in a sea of pink. His heart hammering, Poe felt for a pulse. He screamed, "He's alive! Help me get him out!"

The four men lifted the two-hundred-pound-plus body. Poe shouting, carrying his portion of the weight. "Bring him into the backseat of the Honda. It's cooler—"

Beal saying, "I got a blanket in the trunk. Protect his head."

Weinberg saying, "Poe, get the ice chest from the trunk of the Honda. We've got to bring his temperature down."

"I've got a jug of water with me," Polk answered.

Beal saying, "I'll call in nine one one."

Weinberg saying, "Just hang on, Stevie boy." The lieutenant was breathing hard. His face sweaty and pale. "We're gonna take good care of you."

Gingerly, they placed him down. Weinberg barking, "Put the blanket under his head to protect him from the heat."

"You got another blanket?" Beal asked Weinberg. "If you cover the windshield, you'll keep the rays out."

Poe lugged the cooler to the backseat. Inside, the ice cubes had turned into tepid water. He peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, dipped it in the lukewarm liquid, and wrung out the excess. Gently, he draped it over Jensen's forehead. Instantly, the material turned hot. Poe repeated the process. Over and over and over. It would have been great to be able to cool Steve's entire body in the same manner. But their water supply was precious.

Working silently, quickly, mindlessly. Poe's heart thumping against his sternum. Dipping the cloth, wringing the excess into the ice chest, draping it over a heat-smacked face. Dipping, wringing, draping, dipping, wringing, draping. After Weinberg covered the windshield with the extra blanket, he took off his own shirt and helped Poe cool off Jensen. He checked the vital signs—an irregular, fragile pulse along with faint breaths.

Beal and Polk were contacting emergency services.

Weinberg spoke softly, encouraging Jensen to keep breathing. As if it were a voluntary act. Poe licked his cracked lips. "Did those guys say something about having a jug of water? We're running a little low here."

"I'll get it."

Within moments, all three men returned to the Honda. Polk handed the jug to Poe, who poured its contents into the ice chest.

Beal said, "Ambulance should be here in…ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

An eternity
. Poe nodded, kept dipping, wringing, and draping.

Beal raised his eyebrows. "Miracle the guy's alive.

Cramped in the trunk in
this
heat." A pause. "If I'da known, I would have shot the lock out."

"You might have killed him," noted Weinberg.

"Still, sitting on it while he was burning…" Beal wiped his face. "I shouldn't talk. Sometimes they can hear."

Poe said, "You're doing great, Stevie. Just hang in. Just…hang—" Abruptly, the big body convulsed, loose limbs shaking as if made out of straw, the bottom jaw slamming against the upper. He said, "Give me something to keep his mouth open."

Polk took his club from his belt, and together they gently inserted it between Jensen's upper and lower back teeth. The big man continued to shake for another minute.

Weinberg said, "Well, we got brain activity."

Poe felt Jensen's forehead. Though still too hot, he seemed cooler. "Can somebody check on that ambulance?"

"It's only been a few minutes since we called," Polk said.

"Just to make sure." Poe looked up for a moment. "It's going to get dark."

"I'll do it," Beal said.

"Here he goes again," Polk stated.

Jensen spasmed uncontrollably, his teeth biting into the billy club. Poe took the moment to stretch, rotating his shoulders and touching his toes. His back ached from bending over Steve in an awkward position.

After Steve quieted, Weinberg said, "Keep working on him, Poe. I'm going to go call and ask for some guys to comb the area. We got about a half hour before it's pitch black. Like I said before, whoever dumped the car couldn't have gotten very far on foot."

"Car could have been dumped hours ago," Beal said.

Poe shook his head, looked down at Jensen. "No way. He couldn't have lasted hours in the trunk."

Weinberg said, "We're going to look for Alison, Rom. We're going to look for her and we'll find her—dead or alive."

Poe nodded, knowing in his gut that she was very much alive. Alive and absolutely crazy if she did this. But even if she was physically responsible for this horror, she wasn't to be blamed. Her sickness had reached the point of no return. She was helplessly out of control. She'd probably have to be institutionalized for life.

But Alison's emotional guiltlessness was of scant comfort to him. It didn't make Gretchen any less dead or Steve any less moribund—stricken by sunstroke or dehydration.

Dipping, wringing, draping.

Working and working. Hot and exhausted, the near sun beating down on his wet back, sending his melanin-producing cells into overdrive.

After ten minutes came the answer to Poe's prayers—the distant song of a siren's wail. To Beal, he said, "I'll keep working on him while you fetch the paramedics."

Twenty minutes later, as the sun dipped below the wasteland floor, Jensen was being loaded into the ambulance. An IV had been placed in his arm and his temperature had been brought down to a livable 103 plus. Two Lincoln County highway patrol cars had appeared on the scene, having been assigned to cruise the area. But there was little to see as the night crushed out color vision, reducing visibility to shades of gray, fuzzy shadows under starlight, moonlight, and the narrow beams of flashlights.

As his own shirt was soaked, Weinberg had donned a blue medic's tunic. He gave one to Poe. The lieutenant took a deep breath, dabbing his neck with a handkerchief. "I'm going with him to the hospital. Lincoln County has given Clark County permission to tow the Buick to our impound. You wait here and direct traffic. Set up a dozen flares. That should get their attention."

Poe nodded.

"You've got enough water?" Weinberg asked.

"Now I do." Both he and Weinberg had downed around a half gallon of bottled water given to them by the medics. No sooner did Poe drink than he felt himself sweating it out. Even in the dark, it was still around ninety.

"What about your car?" Weinberg inquired.

"I topped off the radiator. I should be able to make it back without a hitch."

"You got your phone?"

Poe lifted his cellular.

Weinberg said, "Keep in touch with Patricia. If she doesn't hear from you within the hour, I've instructed her to send someone after you."

"I'll be fine."

Weinberg placed his panama on his bald head. "Just in case."

Though it was Monday morning, it felt like a Friday. Poe dangled an unlit cigarette between his fingers as he stared at lukewarm coffee. Myra had turned on the air conditioner and the restaurant was beginning to cool off. She was in the kitchen scrambling eggs. He sat across from Weinberg and Deluca, and all of them seemed to be having trouble getting into gear. At least, Poe had slept in his own bed. He knew the lieutenant had spent the night at the hospital. True dedication.

Poe pocketed his smoke. "Did they say they'd call us?"

"If there's any change in his condition." Weinberg drank coffee. "When I left this morning, they seemed to have the seizures under control."

"But he was still unconscious?" Poe said.

"Yes."

"What do the seizures mean?" Patricia said.

"That his brain was fried," Poe said. "Jesus Christ, what a mess!" He looked at Weinberg. "There was blood on the upholstery."