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September 11th, 1962 The Chihuahuan Desert
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TURNER forced himself to walk slow. He was on the downward slope of a foothill on the other side of the mountains, and if he wasn’t careful he’d tumble to the bottom head first. Those small, spiny agave plants that had been trying to shred his pants legs to rags still threatened his shins, but he had a lot more respect for them now—if only he’d known that those sharp stalks contained beautiful, wonderful water.
The water that MacInnes had provided had revived Turner just in time. He hadn’t been sweating too much, even in the daytime, when the air was hot enough to bake him, but he still needed to replenish the water he lost, or he wouldn’t last very long. Now he could at least stay hydrated with the help of those nasty little plants.
MacInnes had also recommended some paddle-shaped cactus as food. But Turner would have to be desperately hungry before he ate anything like that, and he knew he could survive for days without solid food. If he had to.
The ground began leveling off, but he continued carefully—while there was most of a moon, giving a little light to see where he put his feet, a wrong step could be disastrous. He certainly couldn’t see much in the distance—but supposedly the road was there, somewhere, and he wasn’t likely to miss it. At least he’d gotten this far before dawn. He hoped he could reach the highway while it remained dark and cool. You could even send me a ride before the sun comes out to cook me again.
MacInnes had said there wasn’t much traffic, so Turner didn’t know how long he might have to wait for someone to come along, much less someone who was willing to give him a lift to civilization—though he was beginning to doubt such a thing really existed—and as long as he loitered by the road, he would have no shelter from the sun.
As he kept walking, he wondered where his wife was, what Verity was doing. And with a shock he realized how little he’d been thinking of her in the past couple of days. He knew she could take care of herself, and he’d rather a lot to deal with himself. But still.
Walking steadily south, he caught himself worrying, and firmly resisted those anxieties—he loved Verity, he had married her, and he missed her. But unless something extraordinary happened—and extraordinary things did happen, Turner thought with a grin—it would be a long time before he saw Verity again. What good would it do him to mope around and let himself get depressed by dwelling on something he couldn’t do anything about?
If by some miracle he and his wife were soon reunited, all well and good. But the only thing Turner could do for Verity now was survive—and pray. I’ve turned her over into Your hands, Lord, and I’ll keep doing that until I can leave her there.
The first dim reflection of light across the land, from a sun still hiding behind those higher peaks to the east, cast enough illumination for Turner to see the road ahead of him in the distance—two hundred meters or so away. Too far yet, when he saw a semi roaring down the highway, to try hitching a ride.
But sighting his goal was enough to lift Turner’s spirit and lighten his steps, and start him considering what he would do if and when he reached civilization. His ID was no good. He didn’t know about his cash, but there was enough light to check now so he pulled out his wallet and fanned through the bills peering at the years they were printed—and realized that none of them would be worth anything.
Turner stopped in his tracks and sighed. His ID and cash from the future would all be taken as counterfeit, and the bank account Page had set up for his use wouldn’t exist for decades. His billfold was the only thing of any use—everything in it would actually be a liability. He wouldn’t want them to be found in his possession. And all of it could be replaced, if and when he made it back to the future.
So while it was still dim and the road far off, he found a natural deep depression in the sand, of the kind he’d been trying to avoid stumbling into—then dumped it all at the bottom, his identification, cash, and bank card. He took a few minutes to kick a load of dirt on top of it all and carefully stomp down and pack it tight. He’d just buried Turner Belue, possibly forever.
He started again toward the highway, considering that if he were to remain so far back in the past for any length of time, he should work to establish a new identity for himself—one that wouldn’t get confused with his twenty-first century self. Turner was his real name, and he wouldn’t give that up. Belue, though, he had chosen specifically to give to Verity. If only someone, probably Page, had not added the extra ‘e’ it would’ve been perfect for her. He’d have to come up with a new last name for his new life.
He reached the side of the road and saw that so much dust had blown over it he might not have seen it in the dark. Looking down the dusty pavement to the west and the east, he had two choices—since he didn’t want to just stand there waiting, not when he could be walking in one direction or another and at least getting closer to civilization. Even if from what MacInnes had said, it was too far in either direction to think he could actually make it. Though it would put the sun in his eyes, he felt sure east was the way he should go. He’d just have to shade his eyes with his hand.
Once the sun had fully risen over the tall peaks ahead, Turner found himself laughing out loud, and it was a harsh sound in the quiet, empty desert. He wondered if he was becoming hysterical. The entire experience of what he was going through might be making him mad.
Twice someone sped past him. The first time it was a sedan he didn’t hear until it was almost upon him. Either they didn’t see him waving or ignored it and drove on without slowing. The second time he heard the engine of the pickup before he saw it, and waved mightily with both arms as it approached. It was coming toward him from the east and slowed at least. Blinded by the sun in his eyes, he couldn’t see the driver of the truck, but that driver must’ve seen him. And apparently hadn’t liked what he saw.
Eventually it became too much for Turner, with the full force of the sun coming directly at him. And he was weary from walking and sweating heavily. So when he saw the boulder by the side of the road, just off the shoulder and just big enough to sit on—but not big enough to provide any shade—he decided to stop.
At least he could rest while he roasted. So, turning his back to the sun and facing west, he sat down on the rock and closed his eyes and waited. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but You do.
He had a lot yet to learn, and he needed wisdom to find his way, so he sat there and listened. There, away from the slightest hint of civilization, he found a peace deeper than he’d ever known, and he heard what was in his heart.
How long he had sat there, listening, before he heard something else, he didn’t know. But when he finally noticed the sound of the engine, it was idling —and he hadn’t moved a muscle. Then the noise of the engine stopped and there was a brief moment of silence before two doors were slammed.
Then came a woman’s voice, close at hand. “Is it some kind of sculpture do you think? Bob?”
A man’s voice, presumably Bob’s, answered. “I think it’s a man. Perhaps some kind of performance art?”
“Out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Turner could hear Bob shaking his head. “Why would it make any more sense for a sculpture to be ‘out here in the middle of nowhere’?”
“A person would have to be crazy. Sitting there like a statue in this heat would kill them quick.”
“Maybe it’s a corpse. But if so, it’s a remarkably well-preserved corpse.”
The woman snorted. “Well this is the desert.”
Slowly and carefully opening his dry and creaky eyelids, Turner saw the couple standing only a little distance in front of him, watching him. Behind the pair a dust-coated jeep was parked on the shoulder. These two were dressed for the desert, in sleeveless t-shirts and khaki shorts and broad-brimmed hats. They looked like they were on safari.
The woman gasped and pointed. “You’re right, Bob. It is a man, and I think he’s alive.”
Turner tried to clear his throat before speaking, but his words came out as a croak. “I don’t believe dead men can talk. As far as I’m aware, anyway.”
Startled, the pair both jumped backward. Then the man took a cautious step forward and spoke. “I hope you can tell me what you’re doing out here.”
“Actually, I was hoping somebody would come along and offer me a ride.”
The man and woman looked at each other, then back to Turner. “Where to?”
“I’m not picky. Anywhere there’s shelter.”
The woman smiled back. “Well, we’re not going to leave you here to die. I don’t think it’s your time yet.”
Turner nodded. “Apparently not.”
Bob took another step forward, offering a hand which Turner took and shook, and held on to while he slowly stood.
“I’m Bob, by the way, and this is my wife, Joy.”
“Turner, and I’m pleased.” And that was an understatement.
“You can ride in the back of our jeep, if that’s alright. Do you need help getting in?”
Turner managed a grin. “Thanks, but I think I can make it.”
Still, Bob gave him a hand before climbing into the driver’s seat. Joy twisted around in the passenger seat to stare at Turner with undisguised curiosity. “You’re wearing a wedding ring. Where’s your wife? Will she be worried?” She turned to Bob. “I think we should stop at the nearest phone so he can call and let her know he’s okay.”
Clearing his throat, Turner interjected before it could go any further. “I don’t know—where my wife is or how I could get in contact. I can only hope she isn’t worried about me.”
Joy shook her head. “If she could see you now, I’m sure she’d be worried. Your nice clothes are all caked with dust—I don’t think they can be saved.”
An involuntary groan escaped Turner’s lips. It wouldn’t help to worry about his clothes though. He needed to think about what kind of job he could get with no identification. It would likely be something menial, so nice clothes wouldn’t be necessary.
Joy kept staring at him. “We’re the McMillans, since Bob didn’t say. And you’re Turner—”
He hesitated a moment. Now was the time he’d have to pick a new name for himself. Turner Learner? That would make his hypothetical parents seem like idiots. “Hope. I’m Turner Hope.” Because that was what he’d found, and that was what he needed.
Joy barked a laugh. “Any relation to Bob?”
That confused him. “Didn’t you just say he was a McMillan? How would we be related?”
Bob glanced over at his wife. “See, he’s a comedian. One of those deadpan types. Didn’t I tell you he was a performer?”
“You said a ‘performance artist’, dear. Which is different. I think Turner just has a refined sense of humor. Unlike you, dear.”
That comment only made Bob guffaw loudly. It was an easy banter between them which Turner envied—he and Verity might never have the opportunity to develop that kind of comfortable intimacy. He very well might never see her again.
He had looked forward to seeing what their life together would be like. But he might never find out. Thinking like that, though, would definitely depress him if he kept at it. He had to trust that there was a purpose to everything he was going through, and he felt confident he’d find out what that was. Eventually. What I know for sure is that You haven’t finished with me yet.