Sentimental Journey Read Free Page A

seemed inconsequential to her now. Grandstanding for the female sex in a land where life had stayed the same for thousands of years? Kathryn Kincaid: some modern Joan of Arc, an icon to Middle Eastern womanhood, facing danger for the sake of an ideal in a place and time where only avarice or power changed the ways of men, and no amount of money changed anything for women.
    She could disappear. Women often did. How utterly ironic that on the day she was to leave, she had forgotten the first thing she’d learned when she came here almost two years before. She could hear her friend Susan saying, “Kitty, you’re brain wise and street stupid.”
    She kept moving, trying to hide from the man as she ran down one narrow street after another. Blood began to pound loudly in her ears; it made a hollow, beating sound that reminded her she was very much alive, but that soon she might not be.
    The last remaining odors in the air were suddenly, inexplicably gone. It was as if that blazing sun overhead had just up and melted them away, leaving nothing behind but the scent of the chase.
    She turned right and ran between two stone buildings, ran like crazy into another square. A wagon was coming through. She ducked down, grabbed hold of the side of the wagon and used it for cover. She reached up and unpinned her hat. She tossed it under the cart wheels, then jerked the thin, ivory chiffon scarf from her neck and wrapped it around and around her hair, frantically tucking in the ends as she moved alongside the wagon.
    The market voices grew distant. The wagon picked up speed. She needed to half run to keep up.
    A moment later the shadow of an alleyway cooled the right side of her face. She listened for a second, then quickly turned away from the wagon, still bent down as she ran down the alley, past a group of young boys playing a game of ball.
    Their shouts and laughter were all around her. She heard the dull sounds of the ball bouncing against the sandstone walls, before it sped past her, rolling, rolling over the constant layer of sand that seemed to coat everything in this exotic land.
    She stumbled. Her hand hit the warm stone bricks of the alley wall.
    She couldn’t hear the man’s boots anymore.
    Somewhere ahead of her dogs were barking, sharp, distant, but growing louder as she ran. Another animal brayed; for one instant it sounded like a scream.
    She smelled lamb roasting over a fire pit. She knew the food sellers were on the western edge of Rue des Souks, where the city wall ran along one side. The booths were open there and staggered in a square surrounded by streets that were too wide to fill with people and were patrolled by the Vichy police.
    And the police would not ignore her scream.
    His soles clapped rapidly on the stone.
    From behind her the children in the alley shouted again. Not at her this time, but at the man chasing her.
    She stayed to the right side, dragging her hand along the sandy stones of the wall so she would not stumble again. The dry desert wind kept coming at her and was making a set of brass tent bells ring like wind chimes. A sweet sound, as if safety were right there.
    He was running now, too. Closer.
    Oh, God . . .
    Before her was nothing but a blur. Tears of fear swelled in her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks, and streamed back into her hair. She felt them drip down behind her ears. She heard him gasp for breath. The sound was so close to her she wasn’t sure if it was the dry desert wind or his breath that brushed her ear. She tightened her fists and pumped her arms, picking up speed and running faster than she’d ever run in her life.
    The dogs barked louder. Louder. Louder.
    She stumbled again and fell down. For just a moment she was confused. Her sense of direction was gone, but she got up, afraid to stop running. But now she didn’t know if she was running away from him or toward him.
    Ahead of her she heard the shift of heavy transmission gears. An armored car? A truck? She ran toward