At the sound of the gravel crunching under a heavy footstep, J.R. spun around to face the criminal and instinctively started to assume a defensive position, but he barely had time for his eyes to register the sight of the club swinging directly at his face before it struck him on the forehead.
A brilliant light exploded inside his head, and he felt his body twisting in the air from the force of the impact, and then he was falling away from the highway, toward the rocky ground and desert shrubs. He landed on his knees and elbows, his face only inches from the ground as he struggled to fight off the unconsciousness that was attempting to seize him in its grasp. He felt unnaturally weak, as if completely drained of energy, and his vision swam in and out of focus. Unable to maintain the effort to stay on his hands and knees, he slowly allowed his body to sink lower, so that his abdomen was resting on his thighs, which were tucked under him. His forehead rested on his hands, which were balled into fists on the ground. He knew that he was in a posture very similar to a fetal position, but he did not have the strength to alter it. It was as if every muscle in his body had ceased to function.
�You recognized me, didn�t you?� the man snarled. His voice sounded abnormal to the injured P.I., like it was coming to him from the end of a long metallic tunnel, but the volume and sharpness of it roused him slightly from the fog of oblivion that had nearly overtook him. �If you hadn�t�ve, I might�ve just let you hike on down the road, but I can�t do that now. You�ll tell the cops which direction I�ve gone, and I can�t have that.�
J.R. wasn�t sure what he expected to feel like after being hit over the head, but somehow, this wasn�t like anything he had ever imagined. The one other time he had been hit over the head, unconsciousness had been abrupt, with no time to consider how it felt. Not that he had ever sat around thinking about what it might feel like. There certainly wasn�t that funny little circle of stars floating around his head like in the cartoons. In fact, there was nothing funny about this at all. His ears were ringing and there seemed to be a dark veil drifting across his eyes. He blinked rapidly and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but that made the throbbing start.
With a groan, he reached for the place on his forehead where the throbbing was most intense, and gingerly pressed his fingertips against the soreness. There was no indication of a laceration, so he withdrew his fingers to verify that there was no blood present.
As he stared numbly at his fingertips, he was aware of the other man slowly circling him. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes toward the figure that shuffled slowly around him, watching the pair of heavy duty work shoes as they were placed one in front of the other, crunching the gravel as their owner walked.
�Hurts, don�t it?� the man asked, menacingly. �I�ve been hit with one o� these things often enough to know that they can be a pretty formidable weapon. Yup, I can do a lot of damage with one o� these.�
J.R.�s eyes focused on the club and noticed that it was a policeman�s baton or night stick, probably taken from the prison guard he had killed during his escape.
The man continued to circle him, something which was making J.R. feel decidedly nauseated. He thumped the baton in the palm of his hand, repeatedly, a steady rhythm intended to intimidate. It was working. J.R. was no coward, but his body refused to cooperate with the commands his brain was issuing. He wanted to get up and defend himself, but he was totally helpless. His fingers were trembling, and in an effort to steady them he closed his hands around fistfuls of dirt, sand, and gravel, holding them tightly.
�We got ourselves a predicament here,� Jessup said, clearly enjoying the dread he saw on his victim�s face. �You did fix the car for me, and I�m eternally grateful for that, but you know I can�t let you go, don�t�cha?� There was a mocking tone to the harsh voice that told J.R. he wasn�t grateful at all, except that his vehicle was now running, enabling him to escape the law. And J.R. had helped him. �Since you was so kind an� all, I�ll try to make it as painless as I can, but I�m afraid I don�t have much to work with here. Just this here club. Too bad that guard didn�t have a gun on �im. Would�ve made things a lot easier.�
Jessup paused to look up and down the road, as if making certain that no one was approaching. He didn�t want any witnesses.
�I could just kill you here and leave you here at the side of the road. This is a deserted stretch of road, from the looks of it. But the best thing would be to take you out there,� he gave a broad sweep of his hand toward the desert, �and kill you there. That way it will be some time before anyone finds you, and I�ll be long gone.� His taunting voice told the young P.I. that he would just as soon torture him slowly. �Either way, you�re a dead man.�
J.R. had already figured that out, but it didn�t stop his heart from skipping a beat as his mind processed the information it had just received. Dismissing the thought, he tried to concentrate on the quivering in his muscles, willing the strength to return to them. He had been badly stunned by the blow, and unless he was able to gain some mobility in his body, the criminal would most likely beat him to death with that club. Damn it, why can�t I move?
Jessup laughed. �What, you don�t have nothin� to say about that? Well, I done learned my lesson about leavin� witnesses who could identify me. Thought I�d scared �em enough that they wouldn�t want to testify. Too bad about that one chick, though. I didn�t really mean to kill her, but she wouldn�t stop screaming. Had to shut her up. And you know what? I learned it weren�t all that hard to kill someone. They never did figure out who killed that boy in the prison.�
J.R. felt his insides clench. Another murder?
Jessup laughed heartily, apparently very comfortable with revealing his past crimes, since there would be no witnesses to repeat them. �Yer scared o� me, ain�t�cha?� He leaned closer to J.R.�s face, so close that his foul breath nearly made the younger man wretch. He turned his face away, seeking more breathable air. �Well, for what it�s worth, I ain�t happy about havin� t� kill ya, boy. Just wanted you to know that. You done me a favor, and I ain�t had too many o� those.� He leaned even closer, only inches from J.R.�s dark hair, and he seemed annoyed that the young man�s face was turned away from him. Grasping a handful of hair, he wrenched J.R.�s head around so that he was facing the convict. J.R. gasped in pain. �Look at me when I�m talkin� to ya, boy.�
J.R. stared into the convict�s face, knowing fully well that Doyle Jessup enjoyed inflicting pain on his victims. He was already sampling that violent tendency as the convict continued to hold his hair in a tight grip that he feared would pull it right out of his head. The pictures in the file flashed into his mind; pictures of the women he had raped, displaying the bruises and bite marks on various parts of their bodies, and he felt revulsion at the man�s nearness.
The convicted criminal stared at his victim�s wide brown eyes, but J.R. saw no pity or remorse in them. Roughly, he released his grip on his captive�s hair, allowing J.R. to shrink down again.
Tearing his eyes away from that ugly face, J.R. closed them tightly and pressed his forehead against his fists again and his mind worked frantically to formulate a plan. He would not submit willingly to being murdered. The sensation of numbness was wearing off, a welcoming sign that he was beginning to regain some control over his body. As his forehead touched his hands, he became aware of the gravel and dirt that was still clutched in them. A twinge of hope stirred in his heart. It would have to count. He only had one shot; one chance to save his life. Opening his eyes again, he gauged the convict�s nearness.
Abruptly wrenching his body upright, he flung the contents of both hands directly into Jessup�s face as hard as he could. Dirt and gravel sprayed into the convict�s open mouth and eyes with enough force that it made his head jerk backward away from it.
With a bellow of pain and surprise, Jessup tumbled backward on the ground, clawing frantically at his eyes and coughing and spitting the dirt and gravel at the same time.
Scrambling to his feet, J.R. rushed for the driver�s side of the car and climbed in the driver�s seat, but his hand reached for an empty ignition. Jessup had taken the keys with him, apparently anticipating that his victim might not go down easily. J.R. had no intention of getting close enough to the guy to try to find them. Quickly, he tipped the visor, hoping to find a spare key, then opened the glove compartment. He found a flashlight, a pack of cigarettes, a folded California road map, and the car�s insurance and registration, but no spare key. He grabbed the flashlight, thinking it might come in handy, then looked up to check Jessup�s progress.
The convict had climbed to his feet and staggered after him several steps, but then stopped and placed one hand on the trunk of the car while he used the other hand to rub his eyes. Bent at the waist, he shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the debris, and he bellowed again in rage and pain, but he was clearly in no condition to give chase.
Flinging himself from the seat, J.R. quickly reached up under the wheel well, feeling around for a magnetic key case, but did not really expect to find one. Casting one final glance at Jessup, he ran across the highway and into the desert. Once Jessup regained his faculties, it would be too easy to find him if he remained on the road. His only hope was to get into to the desert, where his young age and speed gave him an advantage over the much larger convict.
�I�m gonna kill you!� he shouted at the footfalls that retreated rapidly up the sloping ground. �Hear that, boy? I�m gonna hunt you down and kill you!�
J.R. heard the chilling threat, and when he was a safe distance away, he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Jessup was still bent over at the waist trying to dig the debris out of his eyes with his grimy fingers, but it appeared he was only making it worse for himself, for he was groaning loudly in pain and frustration as he rubbed the dirt and gravel that was trapped beneath his eyelids. It was obvious that he had been completely disabled by J.R.�s offensive maneuver, and it appeared he could not even get his eyes open. Eventually, he would recover as his own tears washed the dirt from his eyes, but by that time J.R. hoped to have a comfortable distance between them.
Dismissing the criminal�s physical agony as an unfortunate necessity, the price paid for his criminal behavior, J.R. sprinted away from the vehicle and across the rugged terrain. But in the heat, he knew he could no keep up the pace very long.
Glancing up at the sky, he stopped abruptly, realizing that if he ran too far into the desert, he risked getting lost. Altering course, he turned toward the direction of the cluster of buildings that made up the Desert Oasis, hoping he could find refuge there until help arrived.
J.R. was uncertain how long he had been running when he finally slowed down and stopped to rest. Turning, his eyes scanned the area behind him, searching the desert for indications that he was being pursued. The desert was calm and quiet, with no sign of his attacker. He hoped it would be a while before Jessup was able to overcome the effects of the dirt and gravel in his eyes.
The adrenaline rush that had provided J.R. with the strength for his getaway was beginning to dissipate, and intense fatigue settled in its place. Panting in his exhaustion, he leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and willed his pounding heart to slow down. It was thudding loudly in his heaving chest, and he could feel it throbbing painfully in his temples and pulsing at the point of injury on his forehead.
What were the odds that the convict would follow him into the desert? His mind focused on the probabilities. He might decide to just get back in the car and drive away. On the other hand, he had caused painful injury to the convict by throwing the dirt and gravel into his face. That defensive maneuver had given J.R. a chance to get away, but he also knew he had made Jessup furious, and that fury might entice him to carry out his threat. How could you get into the mind of a convict?
He stared at the ground between his sneakers and noticed that it was hard and dry and covered with tiny bits of gravel. He had left no distinct footprints for him to follow and he had altered direction, both plusses. Jessup would have to be an experienced tracker to follow him, and tracking was a fine art. Still, he was determined not to let his guard down this time. He had made that mistake once; next time he would be ready. The flashlight he had taken from the glove compartment was still clutched in his hand and could serve as a weapon, if necessary.
His legs felt rubbery, but he resisted the urge to sit down, fearful that he would not be able to get back up again. Instead, he took deep breaths, trying to ease the throbbing in his head.
Gradually, his pulse and his breathing began to slow down to a more comfortable level. The throbbing in his head continued, but seemed to ease up a bit as his heart settled into a slower rhythm. Trying to ignore the headache, he stood up straight again and looked around at the terrain. Everything looked pretty much the same as it had at the beginning of his bike ride: dry and hot and desolate.
J.R. gazed longingly in the direction of the highway, wishing he had managed to take Jessup�s vehicle. Or more likely, the vehicle Jessup had stolen from someone else. He could only wonder if that person had become another of his murder victims.
He put his fingertips to his forehead again. Still no sign of blood, but it was tender enough that he knew he would have a contusion, at the very least. Maybe a minor concussion. His throat felt dry. A sip of water would sooth it.
Water! At some point, he had lost his bottle of water. He could not even remember when or where he had dropped it. He remembered picking it up after closing the hood of the car, so he must have dropped it when he had been struck with the club. Well, the end result was the same. Regardless of how he had lost it, he had no water. Damn!
His eyes scanned the desert again, recalling the words Jessup had shouted after him � I�m going to hunt you down and kill you. He had lingered too long. Drawing a deep breath, grateful that he was still able to do so, he set out again, hoping that Jessup had done the smart thing and just drove away.
The desert conditions would have made even the most carefully thought out hike difficult, but with no water and his injuries, it was difficult. His well-worn sneakers made almost no sound on the hot, dry soil, merely a slight crunching sound whenever he walked over a gravelly portion of ground. There was only a slight natural breeze to cool him, far different from the stronger breeze generated by the speed of his bicycle, and he frequently reached up to mop the perspiration from his brow. The sun was continuing its gradual slide toward the western horizon, and he knew that the hottest portion of the day would be with him for a while before evening began to cool the atmosphere.
With that thought in mind, he decided to take a brief break, collapsing on the hard ground beneath the meager shade of a creosote bush. Wearily, he leaned his throbbing head in his hands, wishing he could lie down for a while. But he didn�t dare. As he rested, he kept his ears alert to the sounds around him, listening for an approaching footstep, but for the moment it seemed he was safe. He heard only the silence of a desolate landscape.
While he rested, he thought about Betty, who would be waiting for him at the Traveler�s Stop in a few hours. He had told her that he might arrive a bit late, so he could not count on anyone to come looking for him for an hour or so past the scheduled rendezvous time. She would probably drive the stretch of road looking for him, and that concerned him greatly. He could only hope that she would not encounter Jessup along the way.
After five minutes, he struggled to his feet, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to send him reeling back to the ground. The shrub that had provided him with shade did not offer any support at all, but he clutched at it anyway in an attempt to steady himself. Taking deep breaths, the dizziness faded, and he checked the position of the sun and started walking again.
The headache began to ease up a bit, and as he walked, he observed the rugged terrain that surrounded him for many miles in any direction, noticing that some of the desert flora was still in spring bloom, but as they were nearing summer, the biggest part of the colorful flowers had already dried up, scattering their seeds for the next generation of bloom. A cluster of barrel cactus was midway though its spring bloom, still showing off their yellow-orange flowers, while a small flock of birds fed on the fruits of the older, spent flowers.
The birds scattered when they saw him, resettling after he had passed, and he turned around to watch them, curiously, having been unaware of the diets of desert wildlife. Briefly, he wondered if the cactus fruits were safe for human consumption. It was tempting, but if he was unable to tolerate it, then the sickness would leave him badly dehydrated. Turning to face front again, he thought of a nice meal of hamburgers and French fries when he got home. His stomach rumbled approvingly.
A whirring, rattling sound caught his attention, and he came to an immediate halt, knowing what it meant. His eyes searched the ground, and it took a few moments for his eyes to find the well camouflaged rattlesnake that was curled up in the shade beneath a thorny shrub. Its eyes watched him intently as its forked tongue flicked in and out, testing his scent. He could see its rattle, poised beside its head at the top of its coils, issuing its warning to stay away, and he was only too happy to comply.
Giving it a wide berth, J.R. proceeded on his way. He walked down a shallow embankment and emerged onto a dirt road that intersected with Highway 13. He had passed it during his walk down the paved road, but did not follow it. There was no way of knowing where it led, or if it ended up anywhere except perhaps an old abandoned mine or some other long-forgotten place from the past. He barely glanced down the road as he crossed it and continued his journey on the other side.
Fifteen minutes later, a vehicle turned off the highway and moved slowly down the dirt road that J.R. had just crossed a short time earlier. Pulling over to the side, Jessup paused briefly to look into the rear view mirror. His eyes still burned from the dirt and gravel that had been flung into them, and as he observed his reflection he saw that they were terribly bloodshot. Fortunately, he had found the bottle of water that Jones person had dropped, and had used it to help flush out his eyes. But even though the pain had diminished, his rage had not. J.R. Jones would pay dearly for that!
The agony he had endured had been such that he had not actually seen Jones coming this direction, but he had heard his footsteps running. At first, upon recovering from the eye injury, he had attempted to follow the young man into the desert, but knew he risked getting lost, so he had returned to the car and began making periodic stops along the way, looking for signs that his prey had passed this direction.
Pulling out the road map that was in the glove compartment, he examined it carefully. The dirt road he was on now wound its way back into the hills, where it terminated in a dead end. No city or town for Jones to seek help. Tracing a grimy finger along the gray line that represented Highway 13, he quickly found the Desert Oasis rest stop, and gave a slight nod. Yup, that�s where he was headed. There would be people there. He would have to find him before he reached it, or Jones would alert the other patrons that he was an escaped convict, and they would call the cops.
Tossing the map on the passenger seat, he opened the door and got out, glancing both directions. It was impossible to tell if Jones had come this far or not. He walked away several yards, scratching his head. After several moments, he turned to go back to the car, but a brief glance down at the road revealed his own footprints in the dusty dirt road. If Jones had crossed this side street, he would have left tracks.
Getting back into the car, he drove very slowly, examining the banks on either side, until he finally saw what he had been seeking: a single line of footprints made their way across the road, from one side to the other, before disappearing into the desert again.
�There you are,� the man muttered to himself.
Leaving the car parked there, he set out on foot, hoping to overtake his prey.
Go to Act IV