Decision made, she gathered up The Handy Dandy Tool Kit and in her long-legged, confident stride, circled to the door. Her hand was at the latch when a drift of sound made her pause. Head up, she turned, searching for something that would explain the disturbance.
Nothing.
The desert was still under the rising moon. Yet there was something, Patience knew she wasn’t mistaken. Executing a slow turn she looked out over the barren land once more, her stare probing, searching, then probing deeper. Nothing moved among clumps of stunted desert grasses. No shadow skulked about the prickly saguaro, pious giants of the desert with arms raised eternally toward heaven.
She could feel the stillness permeating the air.
And yet...
Stooping swiftly she gathered up a handful of pebbles and flung them into the brush. In a nearly silent flap of wings, so slowly it seemed in stop-action sequences, an owl lifted from the scrub, a snake writhing in its beak. Patience flinched and ducked, bumping her elbow against a mirror. Pain radiated down her arm, followed by a tingling numbness, but she hardly noticed. When the shock subsided she felt only profoundly relieved, chiding herself softly for a momentary revulsion for the owl’s dinner.
She was turning again to the door when some nuance, a portent, had her whirling around. Teeth clenched against an outcry, she turned cautiously in place, making another circular sweep of the land.
Saguaros stood as piously as before, grasses perched as tenuously in the sand. Above them the sky was an undisturbed expanse. Frightened and replete, the owl hadn’t returned.
What then? she wondered. What had her so spooked?
Had she heard something or only sensed it? Had she been disturbed on some subconscious level by the precursor of sound?
“Ah!” She shook her head in disgust. “God help ye, Patience, ye’ve been in the desert too long to fall prey to such buffoonery. Mayhap ‘twould be best to head back east at first chance.”
The parody of her Irish ancestors dropped like a stone from her lips as she felt it. At first it was only vibration, the subtle, immeasurable shaking of the earth in response to pounding sound. Like an electrical charge lancing through her, the vibration raced to her ears, becoming sound. Deep, pulsing sound. Sound she knew.
“Two,” she muttered, listening, her hopes rising with the sound. “Four.” Her heart raced a bit, a frown barely creased her forehead. Her hand pawed nervously for the latch, but her gaze never wavered from the direction of the invisible sound.
“Six!” The number sent terror racing through her like a ravenous fire. Her hand shook, her numb fingers wouldn’t obey as she fumbled with the latch. Frustration fed by fear erupted from her.
“God help me!” The cry was a muted scream as blinding lights rose out of a dip made invisible by the shadows of sunset. Patience wondered desperately what other secrets were hidden in the crude road that had appeared to be as perfectly level as it was straight. Spurred by the strength of panic, her nearly paralyzed fingers responded. The latch engaged and released.
Catching back a sob of pain, scrambling, stumbling, nearly falling in her frantic haste, she flung open the door and threw herself inside the dark interior of the Corvette. She managed to drag the door shut with her good hand and slap down the locks with her palm an instant before six motorcycles, six chromed and polished machines, riding in pairs roared around the car.
Savages of the modern world on modern steeds with throbbing V-twin motors circled a crippled wagon. Around and around in darkness that was complete, Harleys, Fat Boys, Electra Glides reared and spun and skidded, executing tight, sliding turns. Headlights flashed, one illuminating the one in front of it, a battery of monstrous machines, tattooed arms and brawny bodies revealed in their glare.
Patience sat woodenly, seeking refuge in a secret place of oblivion, ignoring catcalls and grinning faces leaning close to leer. Refusing to cringe as gloved fingers stretched out in their circuit to trail over the surface of the car and the windows, stroking them, caressing them, as they would the flesh of a woman.
Fighting back a shiver, she tried not to see, tried not to think. Pebbles clattered against Beauty’s smooth sides, dust spewed over her in grainy plumes, and spewed again. The air churned with it, fell thick and heavy with it, and in the flaring light, turned to suffocating haze. Patience was mercifully blinded, the riders, she was sure, would be more so. With all her might she willed them to tire of the choking dust and their game, prayed they would leave her to find her way from the desert in peace.
But the bikers weren’t so easily discouraged. In eerie silence, as engine after engine shut down and dust fell through the glare of headlights like settling fog, only a naive fool wouldn’t have realized this was far more than a bit of roadside hazing. Her body tense, woodenly stiff, in darting glances she watched them swagger toward her, strutting through blinding brightness in leathers and boots and shining chains, with thumbs hooked in the pockets of jeans, elbows bent, biceps bulging, and six smirking grins.
These were outlaws, the incarnation of every cliché. Mean-to-the-bone, born-to-be-wild, live-to-ride bikers. If she’d been lucky they might had been one of the many rubes like Devlin. Yuppies with deep pockets and gold cards living on the cutting edge. Clean-cut, clean-living country boys fulfilling dreams. The richer, older, gentlemanly urbanite out for a fashionable spin in the desert.
But she hadn’t been lucky. These weren’t rubes of any sort, and she knew she was looking at more trouble than she’d ever imagined.
“Hey, baby.” The first rider, a wiry man with a tumble of golden curls and goatee to match, slapped a palm on the window, jolting her from her thoughts. Rigid control kept her from cringing.
“You in there.” He bent near to peer at her through the window, a sudden grin splitting his face as he called out, “Jackpot! We got us a redhead this time.”
“Red?” a voice asked.
“‘S what I said.”
“For sure? You ain’t joshing us, Custer?”
“Red-gold and curly,” the biker called Custer assured them. “And lots of it.”
Patience stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed, focused on nothing. She refused to turn, refused to acknowledge him.
“Hey! I said.” Custer slapped a hand against the window again. The report rivaled the sound of a gunshot in the murky interior of the car. “What’s the matter, Red?” He bent closer, his goatee brushing the window. “Are you deaf? Blind? Cat got your tongue?”
Another rider joined him. Another face to peer at her. Patience didn’t turn, didn’t look.
“Funny,” the second observed, “she don’t look deaf.”
“How can you tell?”
“She’s wearing earrings. Deaf people don’t wear earrings.”
“Who says?”
“I dunno, me, I guess.”
“Maybe she’s not blind, either.” A third rider, a gross giant of a man running to fat, leapt to the hood, draping himself over it as he pressed his forehead to the windshield to smirk down at her. “Nah. She ain’t blind, I saw her blink.”
“Of course she’s not, dummy,” a fourth voice interjected. “Who do you think drove out here?”
“Who you callin’ dummy?”
“You, dummy. Who else?”
“That’s it.” Custer snapped his fingers, interrupting the budding altercation as if an idea just occurred. “She’s crazy. Gotta be. Only a crazy woman would drive in the desert