The Searcher Read Free Page A

I feel myself going limp. A hand cradles my head and gently lowers it to the ground. I try to fight it, willing my eyes to stay open. I can see the distant town, framed by the road and sky. I want to tell them all to hurry, that the fire is coming and they need to get away, but my mouth no longer works. My vision starts to tunnel, black around the edges, a diminishing circle of light in the center, as if I am falling backward down a deep well. I can see the sign now past the edge of the ambulance, the words on it visible too. I read them in the clarifying air, the last thing I see before my eyes close and the world goes dark:
    WELCOME TO THE
    CITY OF REDEMPTION

5
    M ULCAHY LEANED AGAINST THE J EEP AND STARED OUT AT THE JAGGED LINES of wings beyond the chain-link fence. From where he stood he could see a Vietnam-era B-52 bomber with upward of thirty mission decals on its fuselage, a World War II bomber of some sort, a heavy transporter plane that resembled a whale, and a squadron of sharp-nosed, lethal-looking jet fighters with various paint jobs from various countries, including a MiG with a Soviet star on the side and two smaller ones beneath the cockpit windows denoting combat kills.
    Beyond the parade of military planes a runway arrowed away into the heart of the badlands, snakes of heat twisting in the air above it. There were some buzzards to the north, circling above something dead or dying in the desert; other than that there was nothing, not even a cloud, though he had heard thunder a while back. Some rain would be nice. God knows they needed it.
    He checked his watch.
    Late.
    Sweat was starting to prick and tickle in his hair and on his back beneath his shirt as the trapped heat of the day got hold of him.The silver Grand Cherokee he was leaning against had black-tinted windows, cool leather seats, and a kick-ass air conditioner circulating chilled air at a steady sixty-five degrees. He could hear the unit whirring under the idling engine. Even so, he preferred to stand outside in the desert heat rather than remain in the car with the two morons he was having to babysit, listening to their inane conversation.
    â€”Hey, man, how many Nazis you think that bird wasted?
    â€”How many gook babies you think that one burned up?
    They’d somehow made the assumption that Mulcahy was ex-military, which, in their fidgety, drug-fried minds, also made him an expert on every war ever fought and the machines they’d used to fight them. He’d told them, several times, that he had not served in any branch of the armed forces and therefore knew as much about warplanes as they did, but they kept on with their endless questions and fantasy body counts.
    He checked his watch again.
    Once the package was delivered to the meeting point he could drive away, take a long, cold shower and wash away the day. A window buzzed open next to him, and super-cooled air leaked out from inside.
    â€œWhere’s the plane at, man?” It was Javier, the shorter, more irritating of the two men, and a distant relative of Papa Tío, the big boss on the Mexican side.
    â€œIt’s not here,” Mulcahy replied.
    â€œNo shit, tell me something I don’t know.”
    â€œHard to know where to start.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Mulcahy took a step away from the Jeep and stretched until he felt the vertebrae pop in his spine. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If anything was wrong, I’d get a message.”
    Javier thought for a moment then nodded. He had inherited some of the boss man’s swagger but none of the brains as far as Mulcahy could tell. He had also caught the family looks, which was unfortunate, and the combination of his squat stature; oily, pockmarked skin; and fleshy, petulant lips made him appear more like a toad in jeans and a T-shirt than a man.
    â€œShut the window, man, it’s like a motherfuckin’ oven out there.” That was Carlos, idiot number two, not blood, as far as he