Desert Places

by Blake Crouch

  “Where the hell are you going?” he asked cheerfully as we rolled slowly down my drive. I’d called him three hours ago, told him I needed a ride to the airport, and to pick me up by 10:30, hanging up before he could question me.

  “Going away for a while,” I said.

  “Where? That’s a big piece of luggage you got back there.” He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice as I watched my house dwindle away in the side mirror.

  “Just away,” I said.

  “Are you being intentionally vague?” Beads of sweat had formed on his unshaven face, and he ran his fingers through his short gray hair. He glanced at me, awaiting my reply as rain fell in sheets from the charcoal sky, followed by a growl of thunder. “Andy, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I finished my book. I’m tired. I need a break—you know how it goes.” Walter sighed, and I stared out the window as trees rushed by, listening to rain patter on the windshield. Walter’s wife, Beth, had ridden in this car recently. I could smell her body wash—sweet, icy juniper. Her pink emery board lay on the floor mat at my feet.

  “You going back to Aruba?” he asked.

  “No.” I wasn’t going to lie outright to him.

  “So I guess you aren’t telling Cynthia, either.” I shook my head. “With The Scorcher coming out, she’s gonna go apeshit.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell her. She’s a drill sergeant. Call her tonight at home for me, would you? Tell her I said I’m tired of writing, I need a vacation, and not to worry.”

  “And when she asks me where you went?”

  “Tell her all you know is it’s some tiny island in the South Pacific.”

  “She’ll think I’m lying.”

  “That’s her problem. She’s not your agent.”

  “Please tell me what’s going—”

  “Don’t ask, Walter.”

  The rain was still pouring when we turned southbound onto I-77. I closed my eyes and took a careful breath, my heart dancing like I’d thrown down two shots of espresso. I wanted to turn back. The book tour, and relaxing in the comfort of my home while summer burgeoned around the lake, was how I’d envisioned spending the coming months.

  “Call me,” Walter said. “Or write. Just let me know you’re okay.”

  “If it’s possible, I will.”

  “Need me to get your mail and take care of your bills?”

  “Yeah. I meant to ask you before.”

  “You’re scaring me, Andy,” he said.

  The scurry of windshield wipers swinging back and forth and the groan of the engine became deafening. I fiddled with the automatic window, flicking the tiny button with my middle finger, though nothing happened. The child-safety lock was on.

  The minuscule skyline of Charlotte rose out of the green piedmont distance, the buildings decapitated, their pinnacles cloaked in the low ceiling of storm clouds. Walter looked over at me, attempting a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “I really don’t know. That’s the thing.”

  At eleven o’clock, we arrived at the main entrance of Douglas International Airport. We got out of the car, and I lifted my bag from the trunk and hoisted it up onto my shoulder.

  “I’ll come in with you if you want,” Walter said.

  “You can’t.” I glanced around at the crowd of travelers moving through the automatic doors. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, so I pulled out a manila envelope from a pocket on my bag and discreetly tossed it into the trunk.

  “If I’m not back by the first of September, you can open it.”

  “September?”

  “Walter. Listen to me. Don’t show it to anyone. If the time comes and I’m not back, you’ll know what to do with what’s inside. I wrote instructions.” He slammed the trunk shut.

  Our eyes locked. His searched mine, confused, apprehensive. I took him in whole so I could carry his image with me—him standing there in that granite gray suit, no tie, a white oxford shirt with the top two buttons undone. My best friend. Walter. Will I look back on this moment and regret not letting you help me? My God.

  “See you around,” I said. Then I slapped him on the shoulder and walked into the airport.

  I peered out the circular window and guessed that the jet was cruising somewhere over the plains. Even at six miles above the earth, I could only see a tawny ocean extending from horizon to horizon. In first class, I reclined, unbuckled, in a plush seat. Through the curtain that separated me from coach, I registered the discontented murmur of a hundred miserable passengers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown coach, and amid the fear that accompanied me to Denver, I found this smallest degree of luxury a comfort.

  I stepped into the terminal. As I stared down the long corridor bustling with impatient travelers, I saw an old white man in a black chauffeur’s suit staring at me. He held a piece of cardboard displaying my last name printed in tall, thin letters. I approached him.

  “I’m Andrew Thomas,” I said. The brim of the man’s hat came only to my shoulders. He looked me up and down with wide, uneven eyes.

  “Welcome to Denver. Name’s Hiram,” he rasped, and a smile spread suddenly across his gaunt, sinking face. “I have a limousine waiting for you outside. Shall we get your luggage?”

  I followed him through the concourse, and for an old man, his stride was fast and steady. In no time, we reached the baggage claim.

  As we waited for my duffel bag, I asked him, “So you know where to take me?”

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He frowned reproachfully. “Now, I was told to keep that a surprise, Mr. Thomas. I got a pretty penny for keeping this a secret, so I can’t go spoiling it for you.”

  “You won’t spoil it for me,” I said, forcing myself to laugh good-naturedly, attempting to put him at ease. “Really. I’ll double what he’s paying you.” Hiram laughed and shook his head.

  “He said you’d probably try something like this. Told me to tell him if you did and he’d pay me twice what you offered.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Forget it. Let it be a secret, then. Don’t tell him I asked.”

  I saw my bag gliding toward us, but when I reached for it, Hiram grabbed my arm.

  “Now, that’s my job, Mr. Thomas.”

  “No, really, it’s okay. That’s a heavy bag.”

  “I get paid well for what I do, Mr. Thomas. Let me do my job.” He stepped in front of me and heaved my bag awkwardly off the conveyor belt.

  “I have breakable items in there,” I said. “I’d prefer to carry it.”

  “No,” he said flatly, and began walking away.

  “Stop!” I yelled, drawing glances from the other passengers waiting for their luggage. He stopped, and I ran up to him and jerked the bag off his shoulder. “I’d prefer to carry it,” I said. Hiram’s sagging eyes narrowed. “I have to use the bathroom,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

  I found a rest room and squeezed into the last stall. Sitting down on the toilet, I opened the bag and could immediately tell it had been sifted, for my clothes were in shambles. Reaching down, I retrieved the black gun case I’d declared at the ticket counter.

  I unlocked and opened the case, took out the .357, and set it on top of the clothes. I found the box of rounds buried under my socks, and I tore it open and loaded five semijacketed hollow-points into the cylinder. Then, with the .357 stuffed into the waistband of my khakis, and my oversized green polo shirt pulled down over my waist, I put the empty gun case and the box of rounds back into the duffel bag, zipped it up, and exited the stall.

  Three men stood at the urinals, and I strode nervously past them. If you get caught, this is prison, I thought, moving through the swarm of people back toward Hiram. The gun felt so heavy, like it might fall out of my pants onto the floor.

  We reached the entrance of the airport, and Hiram led me outside to a black limousine. I let him load my bag into the trunk, and then he opened the door for me and I climbed inside, half-expect
ing to find someone waiting for me. But there was no one—just the immaculate gray interior of the limousine.

  When Hiram had settled into the driver’s seat and started the car, he looked back and said, “There’s a minibar and a TV if you’re interested. Just let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Thomas.”

  Hiram pulled out of the parking space and drove away from the airport. Staring out the deeply tinted windows, beyond the glare of the tarmac, I saw a brown throng of mountains in the western distance. I wanted to lose myself in them and escape whatever hell awaited me.

  3

  AN hour later, I stood watching Hiram’s black limousine roll down the exit ramp and speed away on the interstate, heading back toward Denver. Lifting my bag, I carried it into the shade of an aspen near the Motel 6 office. In the heat of the sun, it seemed impossible that snow glistened on the mountaintops. Across the interstate, thirty miles west, the front range of the Rocky Mountains swept up out of the plain without the warning of foothills, and though the sky shone blue directly above, thunderclouds clustered around the highest peaks. Lightning flickered farther back in the mountains, but I never heard the thunder that followed.

  Sitting in the cool grass, I opened the envelope Hiram had left with me. The note inside, identical in form to its predecessor, put knots in my craw as I read the black type:

  You should be reading this around two in the afternoon at the Motel 6 on 1-25 north of Denver. Get a room and pay cash for it so you can check in under the name Randy Snider. Be packed and ready to go at 6:00 A.M. tomorrow.

  Room 112 was on the ground level. My nerves were frayed, so I checked the closet, the shower, even under the bed—anyplace large enough for a man to hide. When I felt confident I was alone, I closed the blinds and locked the door. Then I lay down on the bed with the gun and a book and read all afternoon.

  Sometime after nine o’clock, the sky slipped from navy into black. Unable to keep my eyes open, I noticed the words on the page beginning to blur. Fatigue wore me down, though I fought to stay awake. A line of storms was rolling in from Rocky Mountain National Park, and every few seconds, thunder cracked and lightning flashed through the blinds.

  Starving, I ran outside to the vending machines and bought a pack of crackers and two cans of soda. By the time I returned to my door, a drenching rain was falling from the sky, and the wind gusted, flinging dust in my eyes. As I opened the door and stepped across the threshold, I glanced back at the parking lot. There were only three cars, briefly visible when lightning stoked the sky with a yellowish blue explosion of electricity.

  I shut the door and locked it. Storm warnings scrolled across the bottom of the television screen in alarming red. Within minutes, I finished the sodas and devoured the crackers, and, having satisfied my appetite, my exhaustion became complete. I cut out the lights, slipped out of my tennis shoes, and climbed into bed. Nothing could stop my eyes from closing, not even the knowledge that he was coming.

  I felt constrained beneath the covers, so I lay on top of them and placed the .357 on the bedside table. I’ll only sleep for an hour, I promised myself. One hour, no longer.

  A deafening blast of thunder shattered the sky—so loud, it seemed the storm was in the room. My eyes opened, and I saw the door swinging back and forth and lightning striking a mountain peak. I glanced at the alarm clock: 3:15.

  The door is open, I thought, and I reached for the gun on the bedside table but only palmed the smooth surface of the wood. A stabbing pain shot through my left arm, and I jerked up in bed. When I looked down at the floor, I shrieked. A dark figure crouched on all fours.

  My mouth turned cottony, and I could think of nothing but running before it stabbed me again. I tried to lunge off the other side of the bed and move toward the door, but nothing happened. It felt as if boulders had been strapped to my arms and legs. Even my fingers were incapacitated, and I fell back, my head sinking into the soft pillow. My eyes began to close as the dark figure stood and moved to the foot of the bed. It spoke to me, but the words melted.

  Lightning, black…

  Pain and darkness. The throbbing of an interstate beneath me. Muffled jazz music…

  I opened my eyes to pure darkness. My hands were cuffed behind my back, feet bound with thick rope, and an aching thirst wrenched my gut. Through chapped, splitting lips, I gave voice to a broken scream. An antique moon appeared, huge and yellow. The shadowy figure of a man reached toward me, and I felt the prick of a needle. When I groaned, he said, “This will all be over soon.” Darkness again…

  Sunlight flooded across my eyelids. On my back, sweating, I perceived the softness of a mattress beneath me and a pillow supporting my head. My hands and feet were no longer tied, so I pulled a blanket over my eyes to block the sun.

  Be packed and ready to go at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow.

  Sitting up, I looked for the alarm clock. I wasn’t in the Motel 6.

  In the small square room, my bed rested flush against the back wall, one window at the level of the bed showering brilliant sunlight into the room. Black iron bars stretched across the window, and I knew they were for me. The rough, unembellished walls were built of mud red logs, each a foot in diameter, and the floor was stone. The only other furniture consisted of a bedside table, a chair, and a tottering desk pushed against the opposite wall, beside a closed door. I moved to the window and gazed through the bars.

  A vast expanse of semiarid desert stretched out before me, the land flat and ridden with low homogenous vegetation. No power lines, no pavement, no signs of civilization outside this tiny room. I felt utterly alone. The sky was turquoise, and though warm in my room, I judged from the intensity of the sun that it was torrid outside.

  Turning from the window, I noticed a piece of paper on the desk across the room. I stepped onto the stone floor, cold as steel despite the intolerable heat, then crossed the room and lifted the sheet of paper off the desk.

  Before we meet, let me emphasize the futility of escape, deception, or destroying me. If you’ll open the middle drawer of the desk, you’ll find an envelope. Take a moment to look inside.

  When I opened the envelope, I gasped: photos of me reaching down into Rita Jones’s grave, a crudely sketched map of my lake property, disclosing the location of four bodies, and three typed pages giving details of the killings and revealing in which closet of my house the paring knife could be found. There was also a newspaper clipping regarding the sentencing of a man whose name (along with all other pertinent information) had been blacked out. Across the headline, he’d scribbled “innocence takes the punishment for my crime.” I returned to the letter.

  Prayers for my health and safety are in order, because there is another envelope with a map, showing where the bodies really are and telling where the knife really is. In two months, someone will deliver that envelope to the Charlotte Police Department. If I’m not there to stop them in person, you, Andrew Thomas, will go to prison. People have been convicted with less evidence than I have against you, and I’ve already put two individuals on death row for my crimes. (Like the newspaper clipping?)

  Last thing. Know that your mother’s safety hinges on your conduct here. Now, you’ve had quite a journey. Rest as much as you like, and when you’re ready to learn why I’ve brought you here, knock on the door.

  I returned to the bed and, leaning against the barred window, looked out again upon the desert. My eyes filled with tears as I beheld the wilderness. Aside from the windblown motion of the tumbleweeds dispersing their seed, there was no movement. It was a wasteland, a deadened landscape, which at another time might have been serene. But in my present condition, it only enhanced the foreboding. Wiping my eyes, I rose from the bed, and my heart galloped as I approached the door.

  4

  A slot six inches high and a foot wide had been cut into the center of the sturdy wooden door. I knelt down and pushed on the metal sheet, but it wouldn’t budge. Standing again, I drew a deep breath. Weak and hungry, it was impossible to know how long
I’d lain unconscious in this room. My arms were sore and speckled with needle pricks.

  Timidly, I knocked on the door and then retreated to the bed. Footsteps soon approached, clicking softly against the stone outside. The metal panel slid up, and I glimpsed another room: bookshelves, a stack of records, a white kerosene heater, a breakfast table ….

  In place of the panel, a flap of bubble wrap descended. Someone stood before the opening, though only a form without detail, blurred behind the sheet of quarter-size plastic bubbles.

  “Come here,” he said. I inched toward the door. When I was a few feet away, he said, “Stop. Turn around.”

  I turned and waited. The bubble wrap crinkled, and I assumed he’d lifted the plastic and was now appraising my condition. After a moment, he said, “Come to the door.” The slot had been cut at waist level, and when I reached the door and knelt down to peer out, he said, “No, no, don’t look at me. Sit with your back to the door.”

  I obeyed. Though it terrified me to be in proximity to him, I emphatically reassured myself that he hadn’t brought me into a desert just to kill me in my first moments of consciousness.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, and in his voice I sensed true concern. He sounded nothing like the man on the phone. His voice had a slight buzzing quality, as if he spoke with the aid of a speech enhancement device. Though his voice was familiar, I couldn’t place him, and I distrusted my perception after spending an indeterminate number of hours unconscious under a slew of narcotics.

  “I feel groggy,” I said, my tone as demure as possible. I didn’t want to excite him.

  “That’ll wear off.”

  “You wrote those letters? Killed that teacher?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Suffice it to say that you’re in the middle of a desert, and were you to escape, you’d die of thirst and heat exhaustion before you reached the outskirts of civilization.”