The park ranger had circled the site of the rally on the White Sands map. It was far into the park, she’d told Dakota. After ten minutes of driving, the dusty tangles of saltbush and sage petered out, until there was nothing but huge alabaster swells of gypsum. The road was packed hard and rutted by thousands of tires, looking like a rock-salted patch of slushy highway in the dead of winter. Turnarounds were shallow depressions in the featureless immensity of the dunes.
She passed one of the picnic areas. The ramadas could be a modern artist’s impression of covered wagons. Behind them, the dunes undulated to a backdrop of the Sacramento Mountains to the east, the last rays of sun glittering off the sugary crystals of gypsum. To the west, what little sky was left under the swollen storm clouds made her think of the gradated stain of a toilet bowl after someone has tossed a cigarette in it: grainy, muddy.
Dakota must have traveled miles before she found the wolf rally. A banner stretched across the entrance to the picnic area, declaring it MEXICAN WOLF DAY. One side of the banner depicted a blue and green earth, the other, the sad-eyed face of a wolf.
She’d missed the speeches; they were setting up for the picnic now. Dakota looked around for Clay’s truck, but the only vehicle she recognized was Rita’s SUV.
Cramped from her drive, Dakota slid down from the truck. She was surprised at the stillness of the air, as invasive to her skin as a warm bath. The light was fading, the dull black clouds closing the gap in the sky. As she watched, the sun, a fierce yellow disk, dropped below the San Andres Mountains. The day turned dark. The dunes were a solid gray now, almost blending with the horizon.
There was a stillness about the air, a heaviness, as if the gods were holding their breath.
Dakota tried to pick Clay out at one of the ramadas. Booths had been set up in two rows like a western movie town, and there were knots of people around each one. He must be here somewhere. Her heart beat faster with anticipation as she headed for the booths, barely noticing the neat ranks of colorful environmental T-shirts and outdoor equipment on the tables. Until she came to the WAG booth, which displayed vivid blowups of wolves in traps and hunters standing beside pelts. Her heart flip-flopped, and she felt ill to think what had been done to the beautiful, wild predator. She paused before the table bearing petitions, bumper stickers, and fliers.
“Are you a registered voter in Otero County?” asked the fortyish man behind the booth. There were enough ponytails (male and female), beards, and baggy pants to fill a Grateful Dead concert, and he was typical.
Dakota shook her head, but put some money in the jar. Now she was flat broke. Smoke drifted across her path, the enticing aroma of barbecued chicken filling her nostrils. She suddenly realized she was starving.
Rita broke from a group of people at the farthest ramada. “Dakota!”
“Hello, Rita.”
Rita’s lean, tanned body was sheathed in a crisp FREE THEM NOW T-shirt, khaki walking shorts, and new hiking boots. A white plastic visor crowned her hair, which had been frosted blond and was pulled back into a pony tail. A new look. “I have a message for you from Clay,” Rita said.
Dakota tensed. She could imagine the spin Rita would put on any message Clay had to give her.
“One of his horses colicked, so he can’t make it. He asked me to go by later,” she added. “For support.”
Dakota had no answer to that. She might as well leave. It was only another hour to Ruidoso at the most, and she suddenly longed to see Shameless.
“Dakota! Is that you? Dakota McAllister?” A slender redhead carrying a baby in a denim knapsack on her chest strode toward her.
“Jennie?”
“It’s got to be seventeen, eighteen years!”
“What are you doing here?” Dakota couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘The same thing you are!” Jennie hugged her so hard that Dakota was afraid they would crush the baby, who seemed oblivious to it all.
“Who’s the little one?”
“Danny T. Melrose the third. Isn’t he gorgeous?” Jennie’s grin was infectious. They had been best friends until the seventh grade, when Jennie’s family had moved away from Sonoita. “You’ve got to meet Danny the second.” She grabbed Dakota’s hand and led her to the green ramada.
“I can’t stay long,” Dakota said, but Jennie ran over her like a steamroller. Before long, the two of them were talking old times over sweet, spicy chicken and potato salad. Dakota had forgotten how fun, how full of life, Jennie was. And Dan T. Melrose the second was a perfect mate for Jennie; Dakota felt as if she’d known him all her life.
Dakota hardly noticed that people were gathering up their picnic things and driving away one by one. The wind had sprung up, whistling through the eaves of the ramada, sending streamers of dust down from the dunes.
“Sorry to break this up,” Dan said, “but we’ve got to get this guy to bed.”
“I can’t believe you live in Las Cruces now.” When Jennie had left for North Carolina, Dakota had been positive she’d never see her best friend again.
“Now that you know we’re so close, don’t be a stranger.”
“I live in LA,” Dakota said. “Or at least I did.”
“Take my advice, kiddo. Clay was the best guy—other than Dan—I ever knew. I knew it in the fourth grade, and I doubt he’s changed. Don’t let him get away again.”
Dakota walked them to the car and saw them off. She’d loved Jennie like a sister. No, better than a sister.
As she headed for the truck, she noticed Rita and Lucy breaking down the booths. Lucy rolled up the banner and piled it onto a flatbed trailer hitched to a truck that looked a lot like Clay’s. Although Lucy also wore khaki hiking shorts, they didn’t flatter her the way Rita’s did.
Dakota grinned. Lucy had certainly changed her mind about Rita. She had to give the girl credit, though. Lucy wanted to go to Ruidoso, and here she was. If the teenager was ever to shake Jerry Tanner’s influence, that kind of single-mindedness would stand her in good stead.
The wind was strong now, blowing more and more sand up from the dunes, almost obscuring the newly risen moon. Dakota checked her watch. Eight o’clock already.
As she walked to the truck, sand blasted her legs, and the wind whipped her hair. The dunes shivered in the pale moonlight, the wind stripping away veil after veil of sand.
She started the truck and put it in gear—and realized almost immediately that the left front tire was flat.
“Damn!” Getting out of the truck, she surveyed the damage. Completely flat. The tire was much bigger than her 4Runner tires. It would be a real bitch to change.
She located the tire under the truck bed and pulled it out.
“You need some help?” A man in a Cubs cap she recognized from one of the booths stood beside her.
“Please. I can do it,” she added hastily, “but I can’t do it fast.”
The man removed his cap and rubbed his balding head, studied the sky. “Looks like we’re in for a storm. Gonna be dark soon. Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll fix this tire.”
“I could help.”
“Don’t need it.” He hunkered down near the tire, dismissing her.
There were only a few cars left, and most of them were leaving. The wind howled now, and the sand whirled around her. Headlights stabbed through the white scrim of sand as cars continued to file out of the picnic area. It was unsettling to be out here so late, but it would be worse if she were all alone. She was glad the man had stopped to help.
Rita drove by, honking her horn. She didn’t bother to offer any help. Dakota could swear she was smiling. Lucy followed, towing the trailer stacked with wood and tables. In another fifteen minutes, the place would be deserted.
She sat on the picnic table under the ramada, head bowed and eyes shut against the stinging wind. It would be a nightmare just driving out in this, but she sure as hell wouldn’t stay here. She’d ask the good Samaritan if she could follow him out.
“All done,” a male voice said right at her elbow.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It’s nothing. Wouldn’t want to be stuck out here much longer,” he said. “I live in Las Cruces, and I know what these sandstorms can do. You take care now.”
The wind rose to a scream as if to punctuate his advice.
“Can I follow you out?”
“No problem. I’ll pull out first and wait for you.”
Grateful, Dakota hopped into the truck. She turned the ignition, relieved to hear the strong hum of the big engine. The lights didn’t cut through much—she figured visibility to be about five feet ahead. Her truck had yellow fog lights low on the bumper, but even these did little but reflect yellow off the road. The moonlight made things worse, catching the tiny particles of gypsum and spinning them crazily, like a snowy TV screen.
She felt all alone, wrapped in a cocoon of strange bluish-white light.
Putting the truck into gear, she drove forward until she saw two pinpricks of red: the taillights of her good Samaritan.
Visibility got worse. She had to creep up to within three feet of the car in front of her, squinting against the incredibly luminescent whiteness. The wind screamed at the edges of the windows, clawed at her nerves.
The drive was taking forever. Dakota’s eyes strained as she tried to pick out the two red lights, her only frame of reference in a white world. The whistling wind was enough to drive anyone crazy, and her neck ached from stretching it out as she peered through the windshield. They were crawling, which was fine with her.
The heater wasn’t working. Damn. She looked down, saw the problem, and moved the knob. Warm air flooded onto her knees. Her glance darted forward again, automatically seeking out the taillights of her good Samaritan, which had been her umbilical cord to the outside world.
They were gone.
Just like that.
She’d only looked down for a second. How could they have disappeared so quickly?
Panicked, she hit the brake. The truck died. She turned the key and the starter growled a bit, then caught. Dakota put it in gear, and the damn thing stalled again. She waited for a few moments, wondering if she’d flooded the engine.
A loud thump! sounded simultaneously with a jolt that banged her chest against the dash, and the Ford rocked on its wheels.
Someone must have been following her, and ran into her when she stopped. Great. Now she’d caused an accident. She peered into the rearview mirror, saw nothing but iridescent whiteness. Well, she knew someone was behind her, which was a comfort. The thought of being alone out here was unbearable.
She doubted there was much damage to the truck’s bumper—it was built like a locomotive—but who could tell what she’d done to the other vehicle? Whoever had run into her would probably be waiting for her to go back and exchange insurance information. Unless he was already coming to meet her. Expecting a knock on her side window at any moment, Dakota turned on the interior light. She grabbed her purse from under the seat and rummaged through it for her wallet, withdrew her license from its plastic holder.
No one came. That was a pretty hard bump. Maybe the driver was hurt. She pushed the door open against the tangible crush of wind, reluctant to get out into the dust storm.
The wind almost knocked her over. She could barely see the outline of her hand a foot from her face. The sandstorm was more like a snowstorm, blinding white, and so gritty she had to peek through her lashes.
“Hello!” she called. Her voice sounded strange and high in the wind.
There was no answer. Panic gripped her. Was the driver all right? She placed her hands on the truck body and felt her way back toward the rear. Standing near the back bumper, she squinted into the whirling sand, expecting to see the shadowy shape of a car behind brilliant white disks of light.
There were no headlights.
The air was uniformly white, except for the spinning particles of gypsum that caught the moonlight. She wouldn’t have known a vehicle was there at all, except for the rumble of an idling engine and the eerie warmth it gave off.
“Are you okay?” she shouted. “Stay there. I’m coming back.”
For answer, she heard a grind of gears, and the higher whining sound of a truck backing up.
Panic slammed into her. Why was he backing up? To drive away? “Stop! Wait!” Couldn’t he hear her? She waved her arms, although she was positive she couldn’t be seen.
The vehicle stopped abruptly.
That was a close call. She couldn’t stand the thought of being alone out here.
Headlights switched on, as bright as spotlights, pinning her to the rear bumper of her truck. Her arm flew to her eyes.
She heard the truck door open.
Relief drenched her. He wasn’t leaving her here alone. “Hello?”
No answer, but the crunch of feet on the gritty road. Then silence, except for the howling wind.
The headlights were blinding. She felt exposed, naked, terribly alone. Something wasn’t right. Fear trickled like ice under her armpits. “Hello?”
A rolling noise, like a foot on gravel. Another sound she did not recognize immediately, a stealthy but mechanical snick, like a bolt sliding home. A familiar sound, a sound she associated with something deadly.
But she couldn’t remember what it was.
The vehicle was idling, she imagined she could feel the heat of its engine blasting her knees. She smelled oil. Alarm bells rang in her head, along with a voice from nowhere, a singsong melody in her ears saying it’s deadly, deadly, get out—get out of the light.
She pitched to the side as glass shattered behind her. A crack like a backfire sounded dimly in her ears, rocketing through her soul as she fell in slow motion. She was aware of raw pain as her palms slammed against the road. Disbelief and terror warred in her as she realized that the sound she’d heard was the cab’s rear window exploding.
Someone had shot at her!
That realization seared through the shock, exploded through her limbs. She rose to her knees, fear thudding in her heart. She had to get away from here.
The truck? Could she get in, start it up, and drive away?
A bee stung her. Then she realized it wasn’t a bee but a bullet, whizzing past, kicking up shrapnel off the hard road. The report came a split second on the heels of the bullet, so close it deafened her.
She flattened against the ground and scrambled as fast as she could alongside the truck. If she could reach the driver’s side door, she might be able to get away, or at the very least find cover and defend herself. Her gun was under the seat.
Every moment she expected to feel the bullet that would end her life.
She heard the front tire explode near her head. Another bullet banged off metal, ricocheting with a whine. She reached up for the door handle, felt along the cold smooth metal door—
Another bullet ripped the air in half, right next to her cheek. Like a fly in a web, she was caught in the headlights. She had to get away from the truck.
Dakota got to her feet and ran.
She ran away from her only means of transportation. She ran away from her gun.
Her heart thumped in her chest, her head, her throat. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her terror was so great she wished she could curl into a ball and let the danger pass, but knew that soon her stalker would stop firing and look for her. She poured every ounce of will into running, trying to ignore the firing squad sounds directly behind her.
And ran smack into a dune. Grabbing handfuls of powdery sand, she shoved her feet in to her knees before gaining purchase on a rind of crusted sand. She scuttled up the dune on all fours, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Get to the top of the dune, she told herself. He’ll never find you up here.
He’d stopped firing, which was worse. It meant he was choosing his shots. Could he see her? Was she an easy target?
She had to believe that he could see just as well as she could—which was nothing. Completely blind, s
he scrambled up the dune. Some places were hard-packed ripples and she could move much faster, but there were a few pockets of deep, powdery sand, and her feet would sink to her socks. When she reached the top, winded, she sat down, breathing hard.
Silence.
He must be on foot, looking for her.
It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack, she told herself. But she stood up anyway, holding her breath. She had to keep moving, as quietly as possible. He could stumble on her by accident.
She crept along the top of the dune, trying to stay on the hard-packed area. Once, her foot plunged through the crust, a loud crumbly sound.
Her heart lurched. She froze, listening for footfalls.
Couldn’t hear anything in this screaming wind. Maybe he hadn’t heard her either.
Dakota didn’t know how long she sat there, waiting. It seemed like an hour, but she guessed it was only ten minutes in real time.
In the distance, she heard a door slam. The engine gunned. She sat down on the dune and stared in the direction of the sound, trying to pick out a shape. A weak beam of light glimmered, only slightly more yellow than the whirling whiteness. The shape behind it displaced white air like a shadow.
He was leaving!
She kept her eyes fastened on the spot. That was the road. If she had any chance at all of getting out of here, she had to get back to the road.
Either that, or stay here and wait for morning.
The sound of the engine receded. Dakota kept staring at the same spot, willing herself to concentrate. When the sound disappeared entirely, she started down the dune.
And stopped. What if it was a trick? There could be two people in the vehicle: the shooter and the driver. Or he could be parked just around the corner, waiting to hear her walk down the road. Waiting to spring his trap . . .
She sank back down, uncertain what to do. Finally, she decided to wait.
Dakota covered her head with her arms, closed her eyes against the grit, and waited. The howling wind was the loneliest sound she’d ever heard. She tried to stem the panic in her heart, counting the moments until she could go down to her truck and get the hell out of here. A glance at her watch told her fifteen minutes had passed. Surely, the killer was gone by now.
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