Part 1 (2/2)

”We hit that guy.”

”No, we didn't. We hit a pothole.”

In the rearview mirror, Baker could see the man still standing at the side of the road. A figure in brown, rapidly disappearing in the dust cloud behind the car as they drove away.

”We couldn't have hit him,” Baker said. ”He's still standing.”

”Dan. We hit him. I saw it.”

”I don't think so, honey.”

Baker looked again in the rearview mirror. But now he saw nothing except the cloud of dust behind the car.

”We better go back,” she said.

”Why?”

Baker was pretty sure that his wife was wrong and that they hadn't hit the man on the road. But if they had hit him, and if he was even slightly injured-just a head cut, a scratch-then it was going to mean a very long delay in their trip. They'd never get to Phoenix by nightfall. Anybody out here was undoubtedly a Navajo; they'd have to take him to a hospital, or at least to the nearest big town, which was Gallup, and that was out of their way- ”I thought you wanted to go back,” she said.

”I do.”

”Then let's go back.”

”I just don't want any problems, Liz.”

”Dan. I don't believe this.”

He sighed, and slowed the car. ”Okay, I'm turning. I'm turning.”

And he turned around, being careful not to get stuck in the red sand at the side of the road, and headed back the way they had come.

”Oh Jesus.”

Baker pulled over, and jumped out into the dust cloud of his own car. He gasped as he felt the blast of heat on his face and body. It must be 120 degrees out here, he thought.

As the dust cleared, he saw the man lying at the side of the road, trying to raise himself up on his elbow. The guy was shaky, about seventy, balding and bearded. His skin was pale; he didn't look Navajo. His brown clothes were fas.h.i.+oned into long robes. Maybe he's a priest, Baker thought.

”Are you all right?” Baker said as he helped the man to sit up on the dirt road.

The old man coughed. ”Yeah. I'm all right.”

”Do you want to stand up?” he said. He was relieved not to see any blood.

”In a minute.”

Baker looked around. ”Where's your car?” he said.

The man coughed again. Head hanging limply, he stared at the dirt road.

”Dan, I think he's hurt,” his wife said.

”Yeah,” Baker said. The old guy certainly seemed to be confused. Baker looked around again: there was nothing but flat desert in all directions, stretching away into s.h.i.+mmering haze.

No car. Nothing.

”How'd he get out here?” Baker said.

”Come on,” Liz said, ”we have to take him to a hospital.”

Baker put his hands under the man's armpits and helped the old guy to his feet. The man's clothes were heavy, made of a material like felt, but he wasn't sweating in the heat. In fact, his body felt cool, almost cold.

The old guy leaned heavily on Baker as they crossed the road. Liz opened the back door. The old man said, ”I can walk. I can talk.”

”Okay. Fine.” Baker eased him into the back seat.

The man lay down on the leather, curling into a fetal position. Underneath his robes, he was wearing ordinary clothes: jeans, a checked s.h.i.+rt, Nikes. He closed the door, and Liz got back in the front seat. Baker hesitated, remaining outside in the heat. How was it possible the old guy was out here all alone? Wearing all those clothes and not sweating?

It was as if he had just stepped out of a car.

So maybe he'd been driving, Baker thought. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Maybe his car had gone off the road and he'd had an accident. Maybe there was someone else still trapped in the car.

He heard the old guy muttering, ”Left it, heft it. Go back now, get it now, and how.”

Baker crossed the road to have a look. He stepped over a very large pothole, considered showing it to his wife, then decided not to.

Off the road, he didn't see any tire tracks, but he saw clearly the old man's footprints in the sand. The footprints ran back from the road into the desert. Thirty yards away, Baker saw the rim of an arroyo, a ravine cut into the landscape. The footprints seemed to come from there.

So he followed the footsteps back to the arroyo, stood at the edge, and looked down into it. There was no car. He saw nothing but a snake, slithering away from him among the rocks. He s.h.i.+vered.

Something white caught his eye, glinting in the sunlight a few feet down the slope. Baker scrambled down for a better look. It was a piece of white ceramic about an inch square. It looked like an electrical insulator. Baker picked it up, and was surprised to find it was cool to the touch. Maybe it was one of those new materials that didn't absorb heat.

Looking closely at the ceramic, he saw the letters ITC stamped on one edge. And there was a kind of b.u.t.ton, recessed in the side. He wondered what would happen if he pushed the b.u.t.ton. Standing in the heat, with big boulders all around him, he pushed it.

Nothing happened.

He pushed it again. Again nothing.

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