sidewallâa ragged perforation not quite the size of my little fingertip. I blinked at it, feeling chilled, not wanting to believe my eyes. It looked like a bullet hole. An involuntary sound escaped as I was overtaken by one of those rolling shudders you experienced as a kid on leaving a dark room. I lifted my head. I surveyed the countryside. No one. Nothing. Not another car in sight. I wanted out of there.
I hoisted the tire and shoved it into my trunk. Swiftly, I gathered the jack and my crescent wrench, moved around to the driverâs side and got in. I started the engine and rammed into gear, pulling back onto the highway. I drove faster than I should have, given the condition of my spare, but I didnât like the idea of being out there by myself. It had to have been the guy in the pickup truck. Heâd passed me just as the blowout occurred. Of course, a rock might have caused the damage, but I couldnât think how it could have penetrated the sidewall, leaving such a nice neat hole in its wake.
The first service station I passed was out of business. The gas pumps were still standing, but the windows were broken, and graffiti, in a garland, had been sprayed along the foundation. Local advertisers were using the supporting columns for their poster art and a real estate companyannounced in bold print that the property could be leased. Fat chance.
On the outskirts of Niland, at the intersection of Main Street and the Salton Highway, I found a small station selling one of those peculiar brands of gasoline that makes your car engine burp. I put some air in the spare tire and dropped off the flat.
âIâve got some business to take care of at the Slabs,â I said. âAny way you can do this in the next hour and a half?â
He studied the tire. The look he gave me suggested that heâd come to the same conclusion I had, but he made no comment. He said heâd pull the tire off the rim and have it patched by the time I returned. I was guessing Iâd be back by five oâclock. I didnât want to imagine myself out in the desert once the sun went down. I gave him a ten for his trouble and told him Iâd pay for the repair when I got back. I hopped in my car and then leaned my head out in his direction. âWhereâs the road to the Slabs?â
âYouâre on it,â he said.
I took Main to the point where it becomes Beal Road, approaching Slab City this time with a sense of familiarity. I felt safer out here. There seemed to be more people about at this hour: an RV pulling into a site, kids being dropped off in a snub-nosed yellow school bus. Now the dogs were out, leaping joyously at the sight of all the children home from school. When I reached Rusted-Out Chevy Road, I turned right and soon Agnes Greyâs blue trailer appeared just ahead. I parked short of the place and pulled my tools out of the back seat. Thoroughly paranoid by now, I took out my little Davis semiautomatic andtucked it into the waistband of my blue jeans at the small of my back. I grabbed an old cotton shirt and pulled it on over my T-shirt, gathered up the lumber, the padlock, and the latch, and approached the trailer on foot.
The gremlins were in residence. I could hear the murmur of their voices. I reached the front door, unable to avoid the gravel crunching underfoot. The voices were silenced instantly. I leaned against the frame, peering in at an angle. For all I knew, Iâd get whacked with a two-by-four. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the dreadlocked creature Iâd spied earlier that day. A second scummy face appeared beside the first. Iâd been informed by the neighbors that one was the boychick and one was the girl. I was guessing this one to be male, but I truly couldnât discern any sex-based differences. Neither had facial hair. Both were young, with the unformed features of cherubs, tatty mops on top, ragged clothes below. Neither smelled any better