Read Online The Missing Person by Alix Ohlin - Free Book Online Page A

cars. In the distance I could see the small peak of Mount Taylor, floating in the desert like an island rising from a brown sea. My throat and feet and neck were dry and sore and sunburned, respectively.
    I gave myself ten more minutes and finally reached the cave, though it was less the cave of my memory than a rocky overhang with the remains of a fire below it, charred rocks, scattered trash and paper, old beer cans and condom wrappers. It was a ready-made antidote for childhood nostalgia. I sat down in the shade, leaned my head against the rocky wall, and passed out.
    When I opened my eyes the jogger I’d seen earlier was standing over me holding out a bottle of water. It was Angus Beam. I was almost positive I was dreaming. His skin shone thickly with sweat. He was wearing a light-blue T-shirt that was soaked and translucent, sweatpants, combat boots, and a Panama hat. His arms and neck were the color of persimmons.
    â€œDrink this,” he said.
    I grabbed the bottle and drank almost half of it, undeterred by its weird taste, which was both chemical and citrusy. A layer of dust had somehow settled on my tongue as I slept.
    He crouched next to me, balancing lightly on his heels, and squinted at my face. “You look terrible.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œWalking around,” he said. “Wearing a hat and carrying water. Which is more than I can say for some people.”
    â€œDon’t start.”
    â€œWater is the key to life here in the arid Southwest.”
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œWithout it we’d all perish.”
    â€œI said I know,” I said. “Can I have some more?”
    I felt nauseous and stupid and annoyed. Every time I looked for Wylie, I wound up with this character instead. He took a folded handkerchief out of his pocket, dampened it with water, and gently wiped my forehead and cheeks. “Can you walk? Otherwise I’ll carry you.”
    â€œDon’t even think about it.” I stood up and immediately sat down again. My calves were knotted and cramped, and some floating squares of color—red, blue, green, purple— hovered weirdly in my field of vision. When I pressed a hand to my face, one was hot and the other ice cold, but for a second I couldn’t tell which was which.
    â€œLet me help you,” he said.
    It took twice as long to get back down the trail as it did to climb up. I leaned heavily against his shoulder and stopped often to drink water, and by the time we got to the trailhead I was feeling almost normal. The sun was lower now, drooping densely in the flat sky, and hikers with dogs and children spilled from their cars in the parking lot. I could see far below us the sparkle of traffic on the highway. I had no idea how long I’d been on the trail. Without saying anything Angus steered me to the Caprice, took the keys I offered, opened the door, and sat me down in the driver’s seat. Then he leaned against the door and asked if I was all right to drive. Suddenly his smell hit me: the stinky pheronomic nastiness of male sweat, plus that chemical odor I’d noticed before, and, on top of that, a general odor that was strangely but recognizably clean. It was impossible, but he smelled like
water.
    â€œI think so,” I said. “Where’s your car?”
    â€œI walked.”
    â€œFrom Wylie’s apartment?”
    â€œAs modes of transportation go, it’s both safe and reliable,” he said. “Listen, would you care for a drink?”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œIt’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said, and smiled. Under the brim of his hat, sweat was gathering in drops and preparing to trickle down his face.
    â€œSo you want to get a drink,” I said slowly. “Right now.”
    He reached into the car and placed his hand flat against my forehead.
    â€œYou’re sure you’re all right to drive?”
    I glared at him, and he grinned widely,