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  "Well shit, Rupe," the radio said. "Looks like we'll be pulling another all-nighter."

  "Do me a favor, Charlie. See what you got on Vince Sealy, got a Nevada license number…" He picked up the notepad while driving, flipped on the overhead lamp. He read the number.

  "Roger wilco," Charlie said. "Maybe you can get out there after you get this guy booked?"

  "I will advise once the prisoner is secured. Adios."

  They rode in silence through the desert beneath the light of a million stars.

  "I had no choice, sheriff. That dude pulled a gun on me."

  "Son, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

  "I know that. But I'm pretty confident they're gonna throw this out. And maybe you get a black mark for making a bad call."

  "Won't be the first time," the sheriff said. "But since you're in a loquacious mood, mind telling me what you were doing out there in the first place?"

  "Summer Funderburg stole my car. She used to be my girlfriend. I want my car back, that's all."

  "Did you file a police report?"

  Vince looked out the window at the undulating darkness. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I love her. I don't want her to go to jail."

  "How many times you been arrested, son? Might as well tell me. Ahmina find out anyway."

  "Three times. Once for disturbing the peace and twice for assault. Both assault cases were thrown out. They both came from bitter patrons I ejected from various establishments when I worked as a bouncer."

  "You never served jail time?"

  Vince bit his lip.

  "Might as well tell me. Ahmina find out anyway."

  "I did a week for assaulting an officer."

  "Okay, I'm sorry I asked. You'd better shut up now. What in Sam Hill is this?"

  The sheriff slowed and pulled off the dirt road. Vince strained his neck and saw a dark bulk in the middle of the road. The sheriff left his headlights on, grabbed a big cell flash and got out. The object rested about ten feet in front of the car. The sheriff walked around it shining the light. All Vince saw was an indistinct shape as he rocked on his haunches and worked the cuffs to the front.

  From there it was a cinch to deploy the zipper/key. The cuffs came off. Vince stuffed them between the seat cushions.

  The sheriff walked back to the car. "Now why a burro would choose that as his final resting place is beyond me. I'd better set out a flare. No telling who'll come along."

  "Say sheriff! I got to take a piss."

  The sheriff looked at Vince, off toward town and back again. He came around and opened the rear door. Vince had his hands behind him.

  "Here's what we're gonna do. Ahmina put on a pair of gloves and free your dick from your drawers. You don't like it you can pee in your pants. Ain't nothin' to me. And it don't mean I like ya."

  Vince grinned gratefully. "No prob, sheriff." He swung his legs out, corkscrewed up and punched the sheriff on the mouth hard enough to break his jaw.

  Spitting, the sheriff went down fumbling for his Glock. Vince brought his boot up and smashed the sheriff's nuts into gravy. The man curled up like a carpet worm and began to breath high and reedy and fast. Vince thought maybe he was having a heart attack.

  Vince watched the sheriff go bug-eyed and wheeze. He gasped like a gaffed fish. It was taking too long. Vince reached out and removed the Glock from its holster, tossiug it onto the open back seat of the cruiser. Vince planted his right knee on the sheriff's throat leaning down with all his weight. It was over pretty quick.

  Vince looked around. The road was deserted. Vince got his legs under him, lifted the sheriff beneath the arms and dumped him in the back of the cruiser. Vince got behind the wheel and drove off the road across the gently undulating desert to a ridge a quarter mile in. He drove around the ridge until he found what he was looking for. He unloaded the sheriff in a dried-up wadi. He thought of covering the body with brush and rocks but what would that accomplish?

  Once the sun rose the birds would come whether he was buried or not. Vince looked down at the lifeless khaki-clad form. He'd neglected to mention he'd served nine months in prison for assaulting a police officer. He'd always hated pigs. He went through the Sheriff's pockets and found ninety bucks. He unzipped his pants and pissed on the body.

  Singing "I Shot the Sheriff" in a surprising falsetto Vince got in the cruiser and headed back toward The Last Chance.

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  "Fate or Free Will"

  Beadles rose with the sun just after five. He showered, packed and was ready to jam before Summer woke. She was blinky and slow like a woodchuck dragged prematurely from her den but Beadles got her going and they were on the road by six. He'd gassed up the night before.

  With the sun in their faces they both wore sunglasses and caps with the bills pulled down. Both sun visors were flat up against the glass. The air was dry and still and Beadles could see for miles. They followed a dirt trail east into the desert. Off-road tire tracks criss-crossed the road. In the distance hazy purple mountains hovered over the baking flats. They passed some modest hills topped with a sparse green stubble like a two day beard. Some lichen or succulent that could survive in the arid conditions.

  Beadles thought of Evan Tanner, the UFC champion who rode his motorcycle into the desert and died of thirst. There ought to be a monument for all the forgotten souls who died of thirst in the desert. Beadles felt the weight of the water he carried every time the old Jeep hit a dip or a rock, which was often. Had they not been strapped in their heads would have bounced off the sky liner. By seven they had run out of road and rolled across the undulating hard-packed sand. Even with the AC cranked they could feel the heat through the windows. The glass was warm to the touch.

  "What are you going to do if this doesn't pan out?" Summer said.

  "It's got to. This is my only chance to clear my name and get back to academia."

  "I took a class in hair-dressing," Summer said. "That's about as close to college as I ever got. Then I started doing blow and I kinda lost interest."

  "Yeah, blow will suck you in," Beadles said. "I did some in college but fortunately I had the good sense to quit. I don't know what I'd do if my kid started doing blow."

  "You have a kid?"

  Beadles nodded. "Lars is two. He's with his mother."

  Summer took time to digest this. "I used to dream of being a good little housewife living in the suburbs with two point three kids, y'know? By the time I was sixteen I realized that wasn't for me."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I was born bad, y'know? I like to party. I liked drugs. I liked having that power over men when they look at you and their throats go dry. The only reason I stopped doing blow was I couldn't afford it. Vince said I was snorting all his profits. He'd parcel out a line when he wanted to fuck."

  Beadles cringed inside. He'd done the same thing. He'd treated women badly.

  Not Betty. She wouldn't stand for it. She had an exaggerated sense of entitlement. And why not? She brought in more money than Beadles. He never said anything because he brought in enough. But it bothered him. He was a typical testosterone-loaded male in that respect. He prided himself on fulfilling his family's needs and paid most of the bills. He'd often wondered what Betty did with the bulk of her earnings. He guessed he'd find out, if he survived.

  Fatherhood had changed him. He surprised himself by the depth of his love for Lars and vowed to be there for his kid every step of the way. His own dad had been benevolent but distant. They used to play catch in the yard when he was a boy but by the time he'd entered high school those days were gone. His father managed to make it to two basketball and three football games. His mother came more often but both were careerists.

  Beadles and Betty had discussed having another child but agreed to hold off until Lars was five. Beadles had narrowly avoided fatherhood during college. He'd paid for two abortions. His feelings
changed after he became a father and realized how precious life was. He didn't beat himself up over it.

  Summer reached out and switched on the radio, twisting the dial until she found a classic rock station.

  "A Horse With No Name" issued from the speakers.

  "You know what I think?" Summer said. "I believe there is a higher power who watches over us and that everything happens for a reason. I probably wouldn't have left Vince if he hadn't beat me. I never would have gone to see Grampa Ned and I probabably wouldn't have met you."

  This made Beadles nervous because he didn't want to commit to some woman he'd barely known for sixteen hours. He'd shagged women on shorter notice, but not by much. She was along because she was a good fuck and he needed another set of hands.

  "Predestination, huh?" he said. "That's the essential question--are we masters of our fates or do we unwittingly act at the behest of some higher power."

  "Yeah. Not so much traditional religion, y'know? Like, I believe Jesus lived and was a great prophet but I don't think he was the son of God. My higher power comes from a different place. My father always used to bless the sun and the moon. He said the sun was father to us all and the moon our mother. Not that I subscribe to some animism or something. It would be sacrilege for me to speculate on the nature of my Supreme Being. I just accept that he's there. Or she."

  "You're pretty well spoken for someone who didn't go to college," Beadles said.

  Summer grinned. "I hung out with a lot of big shots who were trying to impress me. I guess I picked up some new words, y'know?"

  Beadles was thirsty. "Reach back there and grab one of those water bottles, wouldja? And grab one of those cracker/peanut butter deals."

  Summer turned and stretched back between the seats, her callipygian rump pointed toward the windshield and drawing Beadles' attention. She came back with the water bottle and the cracker. She uncapped the bottle and handed it to Beadles in his line of sight, then opened the cracker and placed it on a flat spot on the dash where he could see it like a good surgical assistant.

  Beadles drank thirstily and handed the bottle to Summer who screwed the cap back on and set it at her feet. The Jeep was so old it didn't have cup holders. Beadles ate the cracker.

  "Do you think there's any gold?" Summer said.

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Do I get a cut if there is?"

  "Summer, that's a tricky question. Universities frown on tomb raiding. So does everyone else. I'm doing this to redeem my career, not to get rich. Well let me amend that. I do plan to get rich but not from any gold I find. Any gold we find will be part of an archaeological expedition. All I want is to regain my rightful place at the college. Doesn't have to be Creighton. If I'm right I'll be able to write my own ticket. There will be a book. I'll be on television."

  "What about me?" Summer said. "Will I be on television?"

  Beadles didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on an anomaly standing in the desert. At first he thought it was some freak cactus but as they approached it became the figure of an old woman wearing a shawl and carrying a basket.

  "Oh my God!" Summer said. "There's someone out here!"

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  "Cloud of Dust"

  The sun was up by the time Vince reached Gap in the stolen police car but the streets were still deserted. Even at this early hour he could feel the heat gathering momentum like an avalanche or a freight train. His Hummer was where he had left it. He drove down Main and parked the police cruiser behind the dumpster enclosure behind the hardware store and walked back to his car which was parked in front of the Last Chance.

  He pulled the keys he'd taken from Conway's pocket from his own pocket. As he got into the car Vern emerged from the motel office behind him. Couldn't be helped and what could they do about it anyway? Conduct an aerial search? Those were costly. That wouldn't happen until they found the sheriff's body by which time Vince hoped to be over the horizon and gone. He had a rough idea where Beadles was headed because he had spent many hours puzzling over the stolen map. He'd considered using the map to find the peculiar butte, driven by man's atavistic lust for gold. But in the end Vince decided to sell the map to a rich collector. He thought he could get six figures.

  The Hummer's twenty-gallon gas tank was filled with premium. Vince had enough gas to drive to Durango, as the crow flies, but who knew what conditions lay ahead? Like many uninformed consumers Vince figured the Hummer was a go-all do-all sort of vehicle. He could switch into 4X4 on the fly, but that took more gas. He headed out of town into the sun, pulling wrap-around Gargoyles from the center console and putting them on.

  Vince waited until Gap was a smudge on the horizon before pulling over, pulling out the vial of coke he kept beneath the seat and laying out a line on the console. He snorked up. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions. He popped a NOS energy drink from the ice chest in the rear seat and hydrated. He pulled a zip-lock full of jerky from the ice chest and chewed. He followed the tire tracks east. They made him nervous. If they led to the butte there would be nothing to find.

  He still wanted Summer. Wanted to possess her and fuck her and beat her for what she'd done to him. That map was going to be his fuck you money. He was going to take the proceeds and move to Puerto Vallarta. If he could recover the map at least he could sell it.

  Back on the road. He twisted the FM dial but all he found was C&W and Come to Jesus meetings so he ran his finger along the CD holder in the sun visor and found the Li'l Wayne jam, shoved it into the player and settled back to the dulcet tones blasting from his Harmon Kardon speakers at 85 decibels.

  Vince never got a fair shake. The world owed him. The son of a Boston meatcutter who left when he was nine, he never really knew his father. His mother was a drunken slut. She just couldn't get her shit together. She died from a heroin overdose when Vince was sixteen. His siblings were already gone. He bounced from foster home to foster home using his size and brains to outwit the jackals who opposed him at every turn. Family after family threw up their hands and he was eventually raised by the state in a facility for minor offenders.

  The counsellors urged him to get his GED and pursue a vocational career but Vince had always been a hustler. He knew from day one he was smarter and stronger than most people and had spent most his adult life running one scam or another.

  The first time he saw MMA in a Vegas lounge he was hooked. The Pride Fighting Championships on PPV from Japan. Yes! Vince thought. To be a fighter, beat the shit out of other dudes and get paid for it. For the first time in his life Vince had a concrete goal. He enrolled in a karate school and obtained his black belt within a year. He was a natural. Everybody told him so. He moved onto Brazilian ju jitsu.

  Within two years, at the age of twenty-six, he was ready for his first fight. He entered the International Kumite Competition, a low-rent fight card at the Silver Saloon Hotel and Casino at the north end of town. The certification process was a joke. They never tested him for drugs. If they had they would have found traces of cocaine and human growth serum.

  At six two and two twenty-five, Vince was a heavyweight. He had cauliflower ears. His first opponent looked like a cigar-store Indian with a massive chin and shoulders. When the bell ran Vince ran across the ring and cold-cocked the dude with a flying right hand. He set a record at four seconds for the IKC that still stood.

  He won his next three fights but then he moved up the slightly less seedy International Fight League and they did test for drugs. Vince was barred from competition in Nevada for twelve months. He fought in "tough man" competitions in Wyoming and Montana and got a reputation for being a dirty fighter. Even without a manager he wasn't making any money.

  He took a job bouncing at Lucifer's and that's when he met Summer. Lucifer's was down the road from Dante's. Even among the dancers she stood out with her exotic good looks and long straight crow black hair. Most of the dancers were on the downward spiral. Vince never got that impression from Summer. She held herself to
a higher standard, didn't turn tricks, hardly touched blow until she hooked up with him.

  She didn't even look at him the first time he approached her. He pulled that stunt with the comic book.

  After that he had her eating out of his hand.

  Until a couple days ago. Maybe he shouldn't have hit her so hard. He never was one to let sentimentality interfere with a buck.

  Ahead on the horizon he spied a cloud of dust as of a vehicle driving fast. Vince stepped on the accelerator, coaxing the big black SUV to ninety mph.

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX "Mismatched Eyes"

  The old woman stood by the side of the road wrapped in a Navajo blanket and carrying a wicker basket with a zig-zag motif. Beadles stopped the Jeep. He and Summer got out and walked up to the old woman. Her walnut-colored face had more wrinkles than a Shar-pei. Beadles wondered why she wasn't dying from the heat.

  Summer stooped to look before the old woman's shawl. "Are you all right, ma'am? Do you need help?"

  "Have you seen my son?" she said in halting diction that made Beadles think English wasn't her first language.

  "How did you get out here," he said.

  The woman pointed east at the purple mountains. "He's out there somewhere. I'm afraid some bad men got hold of him and hurt him. I warned him. I warned him about that woman."

  "What woman?" Summer said.

  "He never had much sense when it came to women," the old woman said. She did not seem distressed. Beadles wondered how she got there. They hadn't seen another living being since leaving Gap. If they had to rescue her it was going to interfere with his plans. Better to bring her along. He did a quick calculation on their resources. Beadles had always erred on the side of caution and figured he had more than enough food and water for the three of them, at least for a couple days. It was better than turning around and driving her back to Gap.

  "How did you get out here?" he said again.