Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories by Bill Pronzini Page A

for all of us."
    "Brennan's got the fever. He wants it all."
    "But he was our friend, our partner!"
    "Forget about him," Flake said. "We'll worry about Brennan when we get out of this desert."
    March began to laugh. "That's a good one, by God. That's rich."
    "What's the matter with you?"
    "When we get out of this desert, you said. When. Oh, that's a funny one—"
    Flake slapped him. March grew silent, his dusty fingers moving like reddish spiders on the surfaces of the canteen.
    "You're around my neck like a goddamn albatross," Flake said.
    "You haven't let up for three days now. I don't know why I don't leave you and go on alone."
    "No, Flake, please . . ."
    "Get up, then."
    "I can't. I can't move."
    Flake caught March by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. March stood there swaying. Flake began shuffling forward again, pulling March along by one arm. The reddish sand burned beneath their booted feet. Stillness, heat, nothing moving, hidden eyes watching them, waiting. Time passed, but they were in a state of timelessness.
    "Flake."
    "What is it now?"
    "Can't we rest?"
    Flake shaded his eyes to look skyward. The sun was falling now, shot through with blood-colored streaks; it had the look of a maniac's eye.
    "It'll be dark in a few hours," he said. "We'll rest then."
    To ease the pressure of its weight against his spine, Flake adjusted the canvas knapsack of dry foodstuff. March seemed to want to cry, watching him, but there was no moisture left in him for tears. He stumbled after Flake.
    They had covered another quarter of a mile when Flake came to a sudden standstill. "There's something out there," he said.
    "I don't see anything."
    "There," Flake said, pointing.
    "What is it?"
    "I don't know. We're too far away.
    They moved closer, eyes straining against swollen, peeling lids. "Flake!" March cried. "Oh Jesus, Flake, it's the jeep!"
    Flake began to run, stumbling, falling once in his haste. The jeep lay on its side near a shallow dry wash choked with mesquite and smoke trees. Three of its tires had blown out, the windshield was shattered, and its body was dented and scored in a dozen places.
    Flake staggered up to it and looked inside, looked around it and down into the dry wash. There was no sign of Brennan, no sign of the four canteens Brennan had taken from their camp in the Red Hills.
    March came lurching up. "Brennan?"
    "Gone."
    "On foot, like us?"
    "Yeah."
    "What happened? How'd he wreck the jeep?"
    "Blowout, probably. He lost control and rolled it over."
    "Can we fix it? Make it run?"
    "No."
    "Why not? Christ, Flake!"
    "Radiator's busted, three tires blown, engine and steering probably screwed up too. How far you think we'd get even if we could get it started?"
    "Radiator," March said. "Flake, the radiator . . ."
    "I already checked. If there was any water left after the smash-up, Brennan got it."
    March made another whimpering sound. He sank to his knees, hugging himself, and began the rocking motion again. "Get up," Flake said.
    "It's no good, we're going to die of thirst—"
    "You son of a bitch, get up! Brennan's out there somewhere with the canteens. Maybe we can find him."
    "How? He could be anywhere . . ."
    "Maybe he was banged up in the crash, too. If he's hurt he couldn't have gotten far. We might still catch him."
    "He's had three days on us, Flake. This must have happened the first day out."
    Flake said nothing. He turned away from the jeep and followed the rim of the dry wash to the west. March remained kneeling on the ground, watching him, until Flake was almost out of sight; then he got to his feet and began to lurch spindle-legged after him.
     
    I t was almost dusk when Flake found the first canteen.
    He had been following a trail that had become visible not far from the wrecked jeep. At that point there had been broken clumps of mesquite, other signs to indicate Brennan was hurt and crawling more than he was walking. The trail led through the arroyo where it hooked sharply to the south, then