Chapter 4

I

"Did that really just happen?" Kesey gasped.

"If you mean, did you really just freak out and force us off the road in the middle of the freakin' desert, then yeah – that really just happened."

Kesey gave me a long, measuring look.

"Damn near killed us, actually. And cost us half a day."

My disgust was real, though I didn't really blame Kesey. But things were about to come to a head, and it could only help to keep him off his guard and questioning his own sanity. I kind of liked Kesey.

It would be a shame to have to kill him.

II

Kesey opened the car door as if in slow motion, slumped almost to his knees on the floor mat, and began to vomit weakly on the side of the road. When the last of the dry heaves had finally wracked his body, he sagged against the doorframe, swallowing convulsively, tears staining his dirty cheeks.

"What's wrong with me?" he groaned. "My skull is splitting!"

"Sunstroke," I replied. "We've been sitting out here for hours."

I watched him shivering in a puddle on the floor, and realized that, though his shirt was soaked through, he was no longer sweating. This really had been a close call. Still was, maybe.

My skull felt like it was splitting, too. I was, at best, seriously dehydrated. Then my stomach gave a hitch, and I knew that I was close to joining Kesey on the floor.

I put a hand to my face, faux-casually. Checked forehead and cheeks. Dry as dust.

"Get your ass up, ol' boy. We gotta get you to a doctor."

Assuming I could get us that far.

III

I dropped Kesey off in front of Memorial Hospital in Flagstaff. I felt bad for abandoning him, but I didn't dare check him in, either. Flagstaff was well within The Cartel's sphere of influence, and I couldn't afford to linger. There were certain questions I just wasn't prepared to answer.

Like, who was I? And what was I doing with a trunk full of weapons?

I had the usual tools of the trade with me: Ghillie suit; sniper rifle; ammunition. Extra guns. Assorted cutting instruments. Explosives. I'd be ditching most of the ordinance shortly, but for the moment, I was one-traffic-stop-away from a firing squad.

Of course, the main reason I didn't get out to help was that I was really in no better shape than Kesey.

That was going to be a problem, too. In fact, it changed everything.

In my current condition, there was no way I could survive another day of prolonged desert exposure. Which meant the usual cautious approach was out. In fact, I didn't even have the strength for a quick, nighttime raid, assuming I wanted to risk one. Which I didn't.

I tossed the entire arsenal into a back alley dumpster on my way out of town. When the time came, I would simply have to improvise. Weapons could only serve to compromise me, now.

I was going in the front door.

IV

A motley gang of saguaros stands crucified by the fading twilight. Nearby, a coyote sits, head bowed low, as if to receive their final confessions.

I am alone.

For the first time in a long time, there are no voices, no visions, no niggling conspiracies. And I wonder if this is what death is like. Not the bright light and the gathering together, but a slow dissolve into night.

In the silence, my thoughts are sharp and focused as never before, despite my exhaustion. Yet I am achingly empty.

Cassady had it right. When you have lived every day with the fantastical, to be stripped of that mystery is profoundly disturbing.

It is like being forgotten by God.

V

Without so much as a glance at the mile markers, I knew that I had arrived.

I could smell the water.

I couldn't see the crops in the moonless desert night, but I knew they were there.

Just as I knew what must be around the corner.

VI

The two bums manning the roadblock were clearly on scut detail. They didn't have the brains between them to be menacing, let alone dangerous, but at least they knew it. They radioed their watch commander before the Ford even came to a stop, and never bothered to lift their weapons. I got out, nodded, stretched. Then we stood around and waited while they smoked and coughed and fidgeted.

And trembled. From the look of them, they were users, and obviously in need of a fix.

A powerful engine belched to life somewhere out in the darkness, then a faint glow appeared on the horizon.

Shortly, a battered jeep cleared a slight rise ahead and to the right of the highway. The jeep rumbled across the hidden track and into the road, spraying a wall of sand and gravel in its wake.

There were two occupants.

The driver was a hard man. Solid and steady. Maybe forty. His eyes never left mine as he skidded up to the roadblock and hopped out, leaving the jeep running. He didn't appear to be armed.

The passenger was younger – twenty-five, maybe. No older than thirty. Small and thin, but wired, like a terrier. He wore his long hair in a ponytail, and he carried a large machine gun cradled in his arms like an infant.

"Look at these two!" he screeched, stalking over to the guards. "I told you we shouldn't have the addicts pulling guard duty. They're not equipped for this kind of responsibility!"

But he didn't look angry. He didn't look angry at all. He looked excited.

I recognized the type immediately. He was a junkie, too. A cause junkie. Addicted to the rush of self-righteous indignation. Didn't even matter what the cause was, 'cause he didn't really care. Just so long as he could claim the moral high ground.

But because it was all really just about him, he never fully understood what was going on, and could never really be satisfied, even when he got his way.

This was the type of shit-bird who'd bring a Molotov cocktail to a peace rally, then complain bitterly if the cops hassled anybody. The type who became genuinely offended when caught in a lie, because you hadn't trusted him. The type who'd lecture you as you lay dying.

And he would never, ever see the irony.

And you could tell he absolutely loved that gun. The power it gave him. The fact that he really, really wanted to use it was palpable.

But he wasn't the one I was worried about. I was worried about the driver. I was worried about the guy who hadn't bothered to bring a gun.

VII

The Driver armed himself pretty quickly, though, snatching a semi-automatic pistol from one of the guards, without a word. Completely ignoring the guards – and his companion – he strode up to me and put the gun to my head in one slow, fluid motion, as if showing off a new dance step. Here's how you do the bullet boogie. Now you try.

He had a sensuous, disapproving mouth, with just a ghost of an old, youthful sneer. Like he'd bit into something nasty about five years back, and never quite got over it. I knew instantly that if anything bad were to happen to me here, he would be the one to do it. He was cautious, precise, and utterly, utterly blank inside.

He bent his head down to look me in the eye.

"Have I got your attention? Mister…?"

"Denver," I offered, remembering my alias this time. "Johnny Denver."

"Johnny Denver," he repeated. "Are we clear on the gravity of the situation, Mister Denver?" "We are."

"Good."

He took a step back and leveled the gun at my chest. I could feel the skin pucker on my forehead where he had pressed the gun barrel into the flesh.

"Because if it were up to me, I'd just shoot you. But Doctor Leary is the curious type, so we're going to take a little drive, all peaceful-like, down to the compound, and he's going to listen to your story. Then, I'll probably shoot you, anyway."

VIII

Leary looked more like a college professor than a spy or a revolutionary; but then that was appropriate, too, because that's how he got his start. Hey, we all have to start somewhere.

"How good to see you again, Johnny… Denver, is it, this time?"

Again? This time?

"We've been expecting you."

I felt a chill. Ponytail smirked. The Driver didn't.

"I'm sorry – I don't know what you mean. I just came to bring news about a friend of yours? Ken Kesey? The Reporter? He's been hospitalized."

"Yes, we heard. Over in Flagstaff. He called."

"He did? Good. How's he doing?"

"Fine, fine. Well… he was a little concerned about you, to tell the truth. He said you were on your way out here to kill me."