Elisha’s Bones (30 page)
“We’re going to the Manheim estate.”
“Excuse me?” Esperanza’s eyes darken.
“It’s the last place they’d expect us to show up.”
“Because they wouldn’t think even you would be that idiotic.”
“They’d certainly be wrong about that.” I understand her feelings because it took a while to convince myself that going to face the beast is the most logical course of action. “We’re off the grid right now, and I intend to use it to our advantage. Up to this point, we’ve been operating under a microscope, and I think it’s time for us to do something unexpected.”
“Getting ourselves killed would qualify.” She almost spits the words. She’s on the verge of slipping into Spanish, a good indicator of the level of her anger.
“I don’t think so,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “If I were Manheim, I would be watching the airports. I’d track all calls to anyone on my cell phone log. He thinks I’m going to try to leave the country. It’s the only logical decision he thinks I can make.”
“So you’re going to act illogically.”
“At least it’s something I’m good at.” The trouble with trying to charm someone who knows you well is that they become immune to it. Espy looks unmoved. “What else is there to do? We can’t go to the police. With Manheim’s influence, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re on Wanted posters all over Australia.”
That catches her off guard.
“That’s not funny. No one knew we were staying there . . .” The words trail off as she remembers the rental car. “All right, why just me? The car is in your name.”
“It’ll take them some time because of the fire, but a forensics team will find three bodies. For a while, at least, they’ll think that one of them is me. That just leaves the beautiful dark-haired woman who will likely turn up on surveillance cameras at the rental agency, and then they’ll get your name from the Qantas manifest.”
The curses that fly from her mouth, regardless of her newly touted religious faith, are in her native language, and by the time she’s done I’m sweating. She hops down from the tailgate and stalks off, kicking a rock in her path. It careens over the uneven ground, striking the pile of rocks behind which the lizard disappeared.
It’s going to be a long drive.
Two hours’ worth of ground that can only be called a road by someone with a generous disposition has passed beneath us, with the sun beating down at us through the windshield. And Espy’s stewing during the trip has made the truck’s cab more confining than I’d like. I’ve tried the radio a number of times, but we’re so far from civilization at this point that every station produces nothing but static.
We’ve reached a ridgeline—successive plateaus that act as buffers between the desert and the mountains. Foliage dots the rugged landscape, yet the barrenness of the place is only made more evident with the presence of a few scattered bushes and hardy plants. The only wildlife I’ve seen has been carrion birds, circling high on the dry desert winds. It looks as if they’re following us, tracking our progress through an area where things die with regularity. I consider it a bad omen. I look down at the gas gauge. It’s just over half full, and it’s my only real concern right now, even though there’s a second tank waiting in reserve.
“I’d guess it’s about three more hours before we cut east below MacDonnell, and it looks like there’s a road that runs along the base. And there’s a town right before we turn south toward Adelaide, where we can get gas and some supplies.”
“With what money?”
“I thought we could trade your boots. They’re worth two hundred, right?” The punch that connects with my arm tells me that was the wrong thing to say, and I don’t know if it is karma doing its business, or if the birds have jinxed me, but a red light appears on the control panel and I feel the truck lurch with some slip in the engine.
“No, you don’t,” I mutter as I ease up on the gas. But the Check Engine light stays on, and I smell something sickly sweet. Now I’m the one who’s cursing. We cover less than a hundred yards before the truck loses power and I give the steering wheel a single brutal punch. When we stop rolling, the silence is deafening. I refuse to look in Esperanza’s direction.
Above us, through the tint on the upper portion of the windshield, I see three birds making lazy circles.
I wake to the sound of Esperanza snoring. It’s still dark and the desert air has cooled to the point where I’m uncomfortable. Overhead, the tarp blocks my view of the stars, and I like to think it also discourages the carrion scavengers from making any advances. The fire has burned down so that only a faint glow remains. We used two of the pieces of wood we brought with us, which leaves two more for tonight’s fire, provided we need one. And provided we last that long. It was difficult to leave so much wood back at the truck, but there was no way we could carry any more with us, along with the water, the food, the tarp, and a dirty, stained blanket that Espy discovered beneath the passenger seat. She’s got most of the blanket wrapped around her, and I make do with the corner she’s left me. I’m glad for the coat I picked up during our nighttime shopping spree.
My body is tired but I know that falling back to sleep won’t be easy.
There’s no way to tell how far we walked after finally giving up on the Ford. I’m guessing that we covered a good fifteen miles, and I’m thankful there was an unusual layer of clouds that persisted for most of the day. And the ground is harder than I’d anticipated; I’ll take that over wading through sand any day.
I shift position and Espy stops snoring until I’m still, and then the soft sound starts up again. I’m angry with myself for carrying Esperanza this far into things. If I thought her brother was going to hurt me when we returned from San Cristóbal, I’m doubly concerned about what he might do when we get back this time. I have to cling to that last bit; I refuse to entertain the possibility that we’re going to die out here, even though hardier and better-prepared men and women have met just that fate in this wilderness. God’s playground. I wonder if that makes me God’s plaything? Like an action figure.
As much as I’ve tried to minimize the obvious connection, this business is like a bully, forcing me to think about things that I’d rather not consider. The problem is that you can’t have bones with divine power and withhold the divine element. There’s a part of me that hopes Elisha’s bones, if they do exist, turn out to be nothing more than dusty relics. It would make things a lot easier; it would allow me to avoid dealing with the list of items I’ve ignored for a very long time. At least when Duckey pushes my buttons, he placates me with cigars.
I chose to continue on toward the Manheim estate. Going back the way we’d come would have been just as long, and we know what waits for us back there. No, if fate is forcing us to face a grueling march through this hostile place, we might as well try to accomplish something.
The fire pops and there’s a momentary flare of light, enough so that I can make out the tarp overhead where we secured it to a nearby boulder. Staring at the glowing embers, I allow myself to drift off.
There’s a scene in an old Western—I think it’s a Clint Eastwood film—where a man comes crawling out of the desert, drags himself into the nearest saloon, and asks the bartender for whiskey. Women cross to the other side of the road to avoid him, shielding the eyes of their children, and men look upon the pathetic creature with contempt and no small amount of wonder that he’s somehow managed to triumph over the elements. I imagine this is close to the response that Espy and I generate as we enter town on the single road that bisects it.
The sign we passed a half mile back when we reconnected with the road—coming down through rocks larger than the truck we abandoned five days ago—read, Kent Station, population 435. From what I can see, through a haze of weariness, we’re approaching the town center: several one-story buildings built in straight lines on either side of the sun-bleached road. It really is like something from a movie; I almost expect to find that the structures are façades—that I could walk around them and see the angled beams that prop up the fronts.
Every step I take sends pain shooting up and down my leg and into my hip. But I’ve been dealing with the pain for the better part of three days, and it’s become something I’m able to ignore. Like the blisters on both feet, and the sunburn on my face and neck. None of them carry an urgency rivaling constant thirst. My throat and mouth have had every bit of moisture sucked from them; I can hardly produce saliva anymore.
I stop and swing the gathered blanket from my shoulder and set it on the ground. From it I pull our last nearly empty bottle of water. I hold it out to Esperanza, who accepts it with a weak eagerness. She takes three measured sips before handing the bottle back, and I down the rest.
Spotting a gas station on the corner, I return the blanket to my shoulder, then reach for Espy’s hand, and together we head toward the station. Two cars are parked at the pumps, and a middle-aged man stands near one of them, attending to the tank. He slips his hand under his cap and scratches his head.
“You all right?” he asks.
I try to speak but can’t utter anything beyond a croak. Instead, I nod and then push through the store entrance. There are two people inside: a young woman at the cash register, and an older woman buying cigarettes. The conversation between them comes to an immediate stop when they see us. Neither of them says a word as I pull Esperanza through the store, toward the cooler along the far wall. A blast of icy air hits me in the face when I swing open the cooler door. I grab two bottles of apple juice, noticing how weathered my hands have become, and give one to Espy. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever tasted. Deprivation enhances the senses; I had no idea that the flavor of something as basic as apple juice could be so satisfying. By the time I’ve drained the bottle, I feel immeasurably better, enough to notice the stares directed our way from the vicinity of the cash register.
“What on earth happened to you?” the clerk asks.
My initial response consists of a raspy chuckle—a sound which means to convey that condensing what’s happened over the last two weeks so it fits in the span of a short answer is near to impossible. How can I describe even the last five days of walking through much of the night and early morning, huddling beneath the tarp, following the hint of road and hoping for a car in the hazy distance, taking the risk to leave the road and cut a half-day’s travel from the journey, watching my companion fall three times in the space of an hour and trying to force warm water past her lips? Even fresh from the ordeal, much of it is a blur.
“Good morning,” is about all I can muster, my voice carrying the timbre of a heavy smoker. “Can you spare a few sandwiches?”
T
he estate is enormous. Seen from where I’ve been studying it over the last four days—from a hilltop half a mile away—it’s a colossus of windows and gardens and well-manicured labyrinths, all surrounded by an imposing yet tasteful wrought-iron gate. It is as if some force gathered all the old buildings back at Evanston to form one complementary structure of aged stone and tiled roofs with Italian influences.
Using binoculars I scan every inch of the place, as I have numerous times in committing it to memory. Once again I count seven security cameras, but there’s likely several more than that, just not that I can see from here. Either way, it’s clear that there is little chance of anyone entering the grounds of the estate without attracting notice.
I lower the binoculars and return to the van. Esperanza is leaning against the fender, adjusting the ill-fitting legs of her borrowed pants. The rightful owner of the white uniform is taller, forcing Espy to roll up the pant legs to keep from stepping on them.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
She nods. The time for arguing logistics is over, finished sometime during our six-day convalescence. We spent a day in Kent Station, the only occupants of a run-down motel, licking our wounds and doing our best to avoid others’ curiosity. There was also the problem of money. Everything Espy and I owned went up in flames with Jim’s house, including the money we borrowed from Angie. And I couldn’t think of a safe way to get a message to Duckey, not with the likelihood that, having lost track of us, the ones pursuing us would turn to bugging our friends and family. It was Espy’s chance now. Through her network a message found its way to Romero, and soon we were five thousand dollars richer. Thus fortified, we bought a ride to Adelaide, then caught a bus to Ballarat, where we disappeared, allowing the city to swallow us up.
The Manheim estate begins ten miles south of the city limits and stretches for miles beyond that. From what I’ve been able to learn, most of the land is undeveloped, designated as a private wildlife refuge—a status with tax benefits, also exempting the owner from undergoing an inspection of the area by a local or government agency. The Manheims probably earn a tax write-off of a few hundred thousand dollars solely by leaving the land alone.
Espy and I have spent much of the last four days doing nothing but watching the grounds. We’ve noted and cataloged the comings and goings of every vehicle, the movements of the staff—who seem few in number, considering the size of the estate—even the pattern of light usage through visible windows. We’re as prepared as we’re going to be. There comes a point when one must take some decisive action to move things forward. I can’t stay in this place forever, living under Manheim’s nose. Nor can I return to Evanston while this thing remains unfinished. Each time I leave my apartment, I would be looking over my shoulder.
The landscaping van was Espy’s idea. We watched them drive in on our second day here, and they spent almost six hours working among the multitude of hedge mazes, flower beds, and the lawn on the east side. By the time they knocked off for the day, we had our plan sketched in. I walked into the shop at Green Gardens Landscape Service expecting suspicious questions as I pried for information about the crew responsible for the Manheim grounds. Instead, I was met with an indifference that marked the employees as average working stiffs who didn’t care about anything beyond their next paychecks. Soon I had the names of the two operators of van number three, even the location of their favorite after-work hangout—a dive located less than a mile from Green Gardens. Three rounds of beer and two hundred dollars are all it took to convince my new friends, Joel and Napalm—I never got a definitive answer about whether that is the man’s given name—to take a paid sick day, misplace their uniforms, and lose their keys. According to Napalm, Green Gardens would cancel the next maintenance trip with a promise to double up the following week. That way, Espy and I wouldn’t run into a replacement crew when we assume our new identities.
