Desert Crossing (18 page)

I scooted away from him. “That's not true.”

“No? Think about it.”

He splashed out of the water, heaving himself onto the deck and running past me to the diving board. He bounced hard, launching deftly into the pool. When he surfaced right in front of me, he flipped his hair back and stared up at me.

“So now what?” he said.

I didn't answer.

“Oh, okay. You're not talking to me again?”

I swung my hair over my shoulder and gathered the dark length of it, squeezing out the water. “Look, I can't do this anymore. I wouldn't have done it at all if I'd known…” I stopped, embarrassed.

“Luce.” His voice was gentle in a way I didn't expect. When I looked up, his eyes were on me, green and gold in the sun.

“Did you really think I wasn't seeing anybody?”

I didn't answer.

“Luce, you're a freshman. Did you really think you and I—”

“No,” I said quickly. “Stop. Let's not talk about it anymore.”

He sighed, pushing back from the wall. He swam to the rickety metal ladder near the diving board. I watched him climb out. His shoulders were freckled from the sun.

He saw me watching him and smiled suddenly, an easy, rueful smile that seemed to apologize and forgive at the same time. “Okay, let's forget it.”

I studied him doubtfully.

“Don't be mad,” he said. “I won't try anything else, I promise.”

I rubbed the towel over my arms, feeling hollow. “Okay.”

“Don't dry off yet. I'm going to teach you how to dive.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“I'm really bad. I don't go into the water at the right angle.”

“You can't be that bad.”

“I am. Believe me.”

“Try it.”

I sighed and walked to the diving board, aware of him watching me the whole time.

“Watch how I do it,” he said.

He jumped twice on the end of the diving board, and it made that low springy noise, full of anticipation and promise. Then he arced through the air and sliced the water, barely making a splash.

He bobbed to the surface, grinning.

“Okay,” I said. “Just so you know, when I dive, it won't look anything like that.”

“Show me.”

I stepped onto the board and walked carefully to the end. I put my hands together in front of me, pressed my face between my arms and jumped over the water, trying to turn my body in the air so my head went in first. But I didn't make it. I hit the surface with a loud smack.

“Owww! Owww!” I yelled. “See! That's what I told you. Ow. It kills.”

Kit was laughing. “That was really bad,” he said. “Oh my God, you weren't kidding. You're terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“It's okay, I'll teach you.” He swam over to me.

“You can't teach me. That's what I'm telling you. It's hopeless.”

“Not regular dives like that. I'll teach you some fancy ones.”

“What are you talking about? If I can't do a normal dive, there's no way I can do something complicated.”

“Sure you can. Watch.” He swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out, running ahead of me to the diving board.

“Cannonball!” he yelled, bouncing hard on the end and flinging himself into space. He gripped his knees, tucked his head under, and landed with a huge splash, dousing me with water.

When he burst through the surface, I laughed at him. “Anybody can do that.”

“No. No way,” he said, mock serious. “The form is very tricky. Try it.”

I ran to the end of the board and jumped far over the pool. I clutched my knees, pressing my forehead to them, suspended for a minute in the warm, clean air. Then I plummeted into the water.

When I came up, laughing and spluttering, Kit was already on the pool deck. “Hammerhead,” he called, running to the end of the board and throwing himself in a tight ball into the water, headfirst. He burst through the surface. “Whooo!” he cried.

*   *   *

So that was the afternoon. They weren't dives, they were jumps. There were some I remembered from the public pool when I was little: watermelon, jackknife, can opener. But Kit knew dozens of them. My favorite was the squirrel, a kind of reverse cannonball with your hands gripping your ankles.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, I climbed onto the deck and lay flat on my towel, squinting up at the cloudless sky. “I can't do anymore,” I said, laughing. “My stomach hurts.”

“See,” Kit said. He lay down beside me. “You can dive.”

I held my stomach. “Ow-ow-ow,” I moaned. “That's not diving. Anybody can do that.”

“Hey, you had great technique for the squirrel.”

I looked over at him, shading my eyes. “Yeah, well … I had a good teacher.”

He smiled at me.

I turned away. “So who taught you all of those?” I asked.

He was quiet for a minute. “My dad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He's not a great swimmer, but he loves the water. He's always showing off.”

I thought of Kit's dad, sneaking into bars with other women, getting Kit in trouble with his mom. He didn't sound like the kind of person who would teach his son twenty different ways to dive. I looked over at Kit. You could never guess what people were really like, inside.

We lay there with the hot sun on our faces. In the distance, I could hear the faint, sporadic drone of cars on the highway. I wondered where the blue truck was now.

32

“I have an idea,” I said.

We were lying on the beds in the motel room. It was almost dark outside. Kit had gotten two sodas from the vending machine by the pool, and he was holding one against his forehead—he had a chlorine headache, he said—while I rolled mine across the bedspread, playing with it.

“You won't be able to open it if you do that,” he said. “It'll explode.”

“I know, but listen,” I said. “The bracelet. What if the police could find the bracelet somewhere?”

“What do you mean?”

I reached for the strap of my backpack, pulled the bag over to the bed, and felt inside. I held the bracelet up for Kit to see, dangling it from my fingers. The charms nestled against each other. “What if the police could find the bracelet with Wicker's stuff?”

“Huh?”

“If they find the bracelet with his stuff somehow, and then they search his house and find the charm … well … it's a connection.”

“You're nuts,” Kit said.

“No, think about it.”

“I don't have to think about it. It doesn't make sense. As far as the police are concerned, the bracelet has nothing to do with the girl.”

“But if they found it in his house—”

“Luce, whether they find the bracelet in his house or in a frigging ditch, it's not going to make any difference.”

I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “Well, what do you think we should do?”

“I don't know. I really don't. But I'm hungry. Let's see if the diner's still open.”

*   *   *

A loose string of cars and trucks lined one side of the parking lot. As we crossed the highway, Kit stopped short.

“Damn,” he said.

“What?”

“Look.” He pointed.

I gasped. The blue truck. “What's he doing here?”

“Who knows. Maybe he's here 24/7. Stay away from him this time, okay?”

Kit started forward but I stayed where I was, biting my lip. “I forgot my soda,” I said.

Kit turned to me. “So? You can order one.”

“No, that's a waste. I'll just run back and get it.”

“You're going back for your soda?” He looked at me incredulously.

“Yeah. Give me the room key.” I held out my hand.

He frowned. “Hurry up,” he said, throwing it at me. “I'm hungry.”

I jogged back across the road and around the side of the motel to our room. My mind was racing. The truck. I could put the bracelet in the truck. The girl had been in the truck, I knew she had. There must be some evidence of that. And if the police found the bracelet in his truck, that would be their first clue.

I pushed open the door and snatched the bracelet from my backpack, shoving it in my pocket. I almost forgot the can of soda, but then I grabbed that, too.

33

I stood in the dark parking lot, my heart pounding. I could see the people through the diner windows: a waitress leaning over a table, a man throwing back his head and laughing. I couldn't see Kit. I couldn't see Wicker. There was no sign of anyone outside. The blue pickup was parked at an angle, slightly away from the other cars and the two big trucks. What if it was locked? It hadn't been before.

I steadied myself and walked over to it. I kept my eyes on the door of the diner. It stayed shut. With one hand, cautiously, I tried the passenger handle. It lifted easily and the door swung open. The overhead light in the cab flashed on, and I reached up quickly to flip it off. I set the can of soda on the ground and carefully, tremblingly, tugged the bracelet out of my pocket. I crouched next to the passenger foot well and hesitated. If I hid it in the litter of bottles and wrappers, he might find it. Or worse yet, gather it up with all the other junk and throw it out by mistake.

I kept shooting glances at the diner. Should I put it between the seats? Under one of the seats? Gingerly, I reached my left hand under the passenger seat. My fingers swept over a crinkly mess: more paper, a bottle, the hard handle of something. I stood up slowly and cradled the bracelet in my palm. I looked at the charms again: the hourglass, the treasure chest, the horseshoe, the heart. I thought of how easy it had been to unclasp the bracelet and slip it out from under the girl's arm. It was the only thing left from that night. After a minute, I pushed it deep beneath the seat, into that tangled, sharp-edged darkness.

I looked again at the entrance to the diner. There was no sign of anyone. I flipped the overhead light back on and quietly closed the door to the truck, nudging it with my hip till it clicked. But then, as I turned, I tripped over my can of soda. It rattled on the rocks, a low rumble of noise that seemed to echo and magnify in the stillness. For a minute I was groping frantically in the dark. Then I felt the cool side of the can and clutched it against my chest. I crossed the parking lot, and went into the diner.

*   *   *

Kit was sitting in a booth under one of the windows, talking on his cell phone. I could see him smiling into it and hear the charge in his voice, the coaxing, generous pauses. It was Lara. Obviously. He glanced up at me. His eyes were vaguely challenging.

“Sure,” he said into the phone. “Definitely. Sorry about before. Yeah, well, nobody calls me that, I don't know why she said it.” He made a face at me. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.” His voice softened. “You too. Bye.”

I slid into the booth, setting the soda can between us, not saying anything.

“What took you so long?” Kit said. He nodded his head in the direction of the bar. I saw Wicker sitting at one end, hunched over a plate of food, just a guy in a nondescript plaid shirt and jeans. His pale eyes flickered toward me, then away.

“Where were you?” Kit said again. “I already ordered.”

I paused. “I couldn't get the door to the room open,” I said. I was going to tell him about the bracelet, but not now, not with Wicker watching us.

He frowned. “What'd you do? Get another key?”

“No,” I mumbled. “I finally got it open.” I picked up the menu and pretended to study it. “What'd you get?”

“A burger. Fries.”

The older woman came to the table, the one who'd taken our order that morning. I asked for a hamburger and a milk shake. She scribbled it on her pad, looking at us curiously but not saying anything.

“I thought you wanted your soda,” Kit said.

I looked at the can. “I changed my mind.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “So what's he doing?”

Kit bent so close I felt his breath on my cheek. He whispered, “Eating.”

“Come on, be serious.”

“Well, what do you think he's doing? He's having dinner. Pretty suspicious. I mean, what does he think this is, a restaurant?”

“Stop.”

He leaned back, smirking.

When the food came, we ate in silence. The waitress ripped the check off her pad and left it on the table. I wanted to look at Wicker, but I could feel his gaze on me and it gave me chills.

“Is he watching us?” I asked Kit.

Kit glanced at him and frowned slightly. “Yeah. But not us. You.”

I cupped the cold milk-shake glass in both hands and huddled in the corner of the booth. “Tell me when he leaves.”

“He's leaving now. He just paid. Okay, don't freak, but he's coming over here.”

I stiffened, but before I could even react, Wicker was standing at our table, looking down at me. His eyes flitted over my face. They had the same flat quality I'd noticed before, as cold as metal. I swallowed.

“You're not from around here, are you?” he said.

“No,” I said. My voice sounded high and uncertain.

“So where you from?”

I hesitated. “Kansas.”

He laughed, a short, nasal burst, and I saw his Adam's apple bob and jerk, so that the untanned part of his chest was exposed, just for a second, above the collar of his shirt. “Kansas! What are you doing all the way out here?”

“We're just driving through,” Kit said. “Crossing to Arizona.”

“Huh.” He kept looking at me. I couldn't drag my eyes away. “Be careful. This place isn't like Kansas.”

I nodded mutely. And then, as suddenly as he came, he was gone. The diner door slammed behind him, and we watched him through the window as he drifted across the dark parking lot toward his truck, shoulders hunched, head down.