The Nightmare begins

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket, both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.

He glanced at Rubenstein when the younger man spoke, "Now this is more like it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—" and Rubenstein leaned back against the far end of the rocks.

"Simple things can mean a lot," Rourke observed, staring then at the woman, still sleeping when last he'd looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then fell back.

"Give yourself a few minutes," Rourke said slowly to her.

"What's that I smell?" she said, her voice hoarse.

"Coffee—want some? It's yours, anyway," Rourke told her.

She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.

"My name is John Rourke—he's Paul Rubenstein." and Rourke gestured over her. She turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.

"What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?"

"Pleasant, aren't we?" Rourke said. "You were dying, we saved your life. I went back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff.

Then so we didn't have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn't come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any objections?"

"You got any cigarettes?" Natalia said. "And some coffee?"

"Here," Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. "I guess these are yours—found 'em at the jeep." She started to reach out her left arm for the cigarettes and winced.

"You were shot in the forearm," Rourke commented, then looked back to his coffee, sipping at it.

"Anybody got a light?"

Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.

"I agree—but I'd already noticed you're beautiful," Rourke said deliberately.

She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, "I think I know you from somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very professional."

Rubenstein said, "John's a doctor—among other things."

Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. "I had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from somewhere."

"What happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help."

"Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?"

"You didn't say much," Rourke said, adding, "Don't worry. You mumbled something about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to the president."

"The war?" Natalia said.

"Don't you know about the war?" Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.

"What war?" Natalia said.

"Tell her about the war," Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars.

"Looks like it's going to rain today."