Chapter 24 Saying Goodbye

The crash of gunshot ricocheted in the cavern. Smith lurched for Hess just as the gun fired, getting one hand on the barrel. I leapt onto Hess and swung at his throat. Hess was stronger and more agile, and in a second he threw us both off. He brought the gun up and was about fire again, pointing at Smith, when behind him Julia swung forward with a rock into the side of his head. The gun clattered into the darkness of the cave, and Hess crumpled to the floor.

Dazed, I felt Julia hugging me, then she bent over Harold.

"He's shot in the stomach," she said. Blood oozed from the wound.

We carried him down the hill to the station wagon, and gently lifted him lengthwise into the back seat. Julia crouched next to him, stuffing a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. For a moment I debated running back to the cave to tie up Hess. But those minutes could mean death for Smith. I swung instead into the driver's seat and we took off in a whirl of dust and gravel.

Despite Julia's compress, Smith's blood was leaking from his wound onto the back seat. He was conscious but dying, and the violent jostling of the station wagon made it worse.

He swallowed. "Save the tapes," he said in a hoarse whisper.

We careened down the pass at a deathly frightening speed. Several hundred pounds of camping gear lay in a spaghetti heap in the far back.

"The tapes," he said, closing his eyes.

"Forget the damn tapes!" I yelled.

In the rear view mirror I saw a smoky white van in the alpenglow of dawn a mile behind us. My old station wagon was floored, but could do little in these mountains.

"There's more," Smith whispered.

Then his head dropped, and it was the last thing he said.

"Damn!" My eyes watered. I pounded the steering wheel. "Goddamn!"

The white van gained fast; in a minute it was upon us. Hess swerved over and began to draw alongside. Luckily, a pickup truck appeared around the curve ahead, flashing lights and blaring its horn. Hess retreated and I breathed a sigh of momentary relief.

Hess's vehicle advanced again over the yellow line. No oncoming traffic stopped it from drawing near. When it was a half car-length back, I jerked the steering wheel left to cut him off. He braked in time to avoid being thrown against a cliff. Stunning scenery whirled by as I see-sawed the station wagon across the road, keeping Hess from passing. I alternately stomped the gas pedal and braked, and after a minute of this could smell smoky pads. I was no race car driver, but it was working to keep Hess back.

Without warning the road straightened and widened. The granite peaks lay behind us as we descended at break-neck pace to the valley floor. Hess had plenty of shoulder now on which to maneuver and pull alongside. He raised the pistol, pointing it at me. This was our highway duel in Maryland all over again. I slammed the brakes but they'd burned out. There was a blistering explosion, glass breaking, and metal tearing. Then all went black.

* * *

I woke in a fog. It was bright, too bright, and someone was caressing my face with a warm cloth. My body felt suspended in a cloud. My right eye inched open to Julia's smile. She planted a kiss on my cheek. It was clear I'd died and gone to heaven, for nothing had ever felt so wonderful as this.

"He's awake," someone said, "the morphine's wearing off."

I struggled to sit up and found myself in a cramped hospital room painted a shade of military green. A doctor and a nurse, both in uniform, stood at the foot of the bed.

I looked to my right to find Smith in the bed next to me, an I.V. solution dripping into his arm. He said, "About time you quit goofing off around here." It was no longer the voice or accent of Smith, but that of Harold.

"How long..."

"Three days," Julia said, gently straightening my sheets. "You suffered a concussion and a broken leg in the crash. Harold's doing fine; he's lost a lot of blood but the bullet just missed his kidney."

Julia could read my anxiety.

"Max Hess is dead," she said. "A truck pulled into his path, not expecting to find a van hurtling along on the wrong side of the road. Hess died instantly. The truck driver's okay, but I think you'll be wanting to buy a new station wagon," Julia said with a light-hearted grimace. "By the way, you're both at this military base under aliases. The Feds don't want POP getting another chance at you."

"But ... how did you find us?"

"Shhh—try to rest," Julia said softly.

"You saved my life." My head began to sway again.

She held the side of my face. "I planned to come out when my exhibit closed. Then my neighbor Sarah's house was burgled, and I knew POP would find you sooner than that. Sarah was terrified of staying home, so she moved to a motel; that's why no one answered the telephone. There was no way I could reach you, so I just came."

She flew to Fresno, rented a car, and arrived at the cabin a little after eleven o'clock that night. Finding my station wagon there, but the cabin ransacked, she feared the worst and began searching the surrounding woods, to no avail. She was ready to try in town when she heard whimpering from the side of the hill.

The fog from my mind lifted and I suddenly remembered. "Rex?"

She nodded. "I'm so sorry, Rich. I found him nearly dead on the trail; I held him until he was gone. He followed you as far as he could, which means he saved your life every bit as much as I did. Once I found him it wasn't hard to follow the tracks you made up the side of the hill."

* * *

Later that afternoon, after lapsing into a sleep, I awoke to find myself alone again with my hospital companion. I slowly swung out of bed and steadied myself on the handrails. Putting weight on my good right leg, I gingerly hopped over by the other bed, careful to avoid the I.V. pole and other paraphernalia by it. I sat in a chair, and propped my left leg with its cast on a cushion. I looked up at the figure in the other bed on whom I'd grown to depend so much.

"You told me something, our last night at the cabin," I said, "You told me, 'There's a higher tribunal than tradition, it's the tribunal of one to come.' I've been thinking about that."

"I never said that!"

The voice was Harold's. He looked at me wide-eyed. "If you're talking to that Smith fellow, he's gone. Haven't had any dream or voices in my head since I woke up here three days ago. 'Cept for my stomach, which hurts like blazes, I feel great."

They say stress does strange things to a person. I lowered my head and tears began to fall and they kept falling. After a moment Harold reached over and put his hand on my shoulder.