Disclaimer: See Chapter one

A/N: Thanks for the positive reviews. It means a lot.

Two

BANG!

The sound of the muffled explosion directly beneath him caused him to flinch in startled reaction, and in the same instant he felt the front of the bike take an unexpected, heart-stopping dip. With the front wheel suddenly immobilized, the back end of the bike flipped up, and he was launched into the air and over the handlebars with startling abruptness. With fascinated eyes, he watched the asphalt as it rushed up to meet his face.

Just before impact, he closed his eyes tight, brought his arms up to protect his face, and allowed his body to become limber, for he knew that if he skidded at this great speed, it would peel the skin from his body. An instant later he made bone-jarring impact, his padded elbows striking the pavement first. He rolled to one side as his left arm folded beneath his body, and pain numbed his left shoulder as it collided with the hard asphalt. Rolling and tumbling down the highway, he felt another sharp pain in his right hip and at the same time heard an alarming crunching sound. His sunglasses leaped from the bridge of his nose. Behind him, he could hear the clanging and banging of the bicycle as it cartwheeled down the highway, end over end. Without making it a conscious thought, he hoped it did not land on top of him.

After what seemed a much longer time than it actually was, he came to an abrupt stop and silence settled over the desert again. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying on his belly, spread eagled on the highway. Somehow, he had turned around so that he was facing his bicycle, which had come to a stop behind him only a couple of yards back.

Charlie lay still for several moments, taking a mental inventory of all his body parts. Slowly, he moved his arms and legs and turned his head from side to side, gauging the degree of discomfort with each movement. There was some minor pain in his elbows, which had struck the pavement first, and his left shoulder ached, as did his right hip, but everything else appeared to be intact and relatively undamaged. The helmet and the knee and elbow pads had effectively done their job of sparing him serious injury.

Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position, wincing at the pain in the shoulder that intensified with the movement. Reaching back with is right hand to probe the discomfort in his hip, his hand made contact with the cell phone belt-clip. He withdrew the phone from its soft leather pocket and watched as it literally fell apart in his hands. That explained the peculiar crunching sound he had heard. Although he was grateful that it had not been his hipbones that had caused the sound, he knew this was bad news, and he sat for several disheartened moments, staring at the shattered phone that had been his only link to civilization. He was now stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help.

Reaching up, he unfastened the helmet and removed it, then thumped it down on the asphalt beside him, a gesture of frustration. The mild breeze instantly cooled the sweat that dampened his unruly curls. Pausing there on the pavement, he placed the pieces of the cell phone inside the helmet while he rested for a few moments, gazing at the bicycle, which lay on its side. The rear wheel was still turning slowly as the well-oiled chain moved through the guide, but the front wheel seemed to be hanging lopsided from the rim.

Finally, with considerable effort, he struggled to his feet, picking up the helmet with his left hand while his right hand pressed against his left shoulder in an attempt to ease the throbbing pain that persisted. He rolled the shoulder back and forth, and determined that it was not broken or dislocated, but almost certainly sprained and probably contused. Releasing the shoulder, he rubbed his hand on the sore spot on his hip. There would be a cell phone shaped bruise there, also. But it would heal. His swan dive over the handlebars at such a high speed could have left him with worse injuries than a few contusions. Instinctively, he knew he would experience greater soreness when he got up the next morning.

Slowly, he began walking back toward the bicycle. Halfway there, he stooped to pick up his sunglasses. The earpieces were askew, and the lens on one side was shattered. Useless. Dropping them into the helmet with the broken cell phone, he went to the disabled bicycle.

Grasping the handlebars, he pulled the bicycle upright again. It seemed to groan in the process, like an injured horse struggling to its feet. Pushing down the kickstand, he squatted down to assess the damage. A gaping four-inch rip in the front tire indicated that he had probably run over something sharp which had pierced the tube, resulting in the blowout. The frame displayed a few new dents, several spokes were bent, and some paint was scraped off, but it could be repaired, once he managed to get back home. Humorously, the water bottle and the pump were both still firmly attached to the frame in their respective holders, intact and unharmed. An anomaly.

Rising to his feet again, he looked up the long stretch of highway that led toward Los Angeles. He saw only the endless gray-black ribbon of highway and the dirt and sagebrush and rocks that made up the desert on both sides. Placing his hand on top of his head in utter despair, he turned to look behind him, but there was nothing to be seen in that direction, either. He had left the abandoned rest stop behind miles ago.

As a person who relied on numbers to solve his most complex problems, his first instinct was to try to calculate how long it would take to walk back to Los Angeles, but he knew it would be a useless endeavor. There were too many variables, since he would have to factor in variations in walking speed on the uneven terrain, and an unknown number of rest stops for an incalculable amount of time depending on levels of exhaustion. He wasn't even sure how many miles were left on the trip. His conclusion: Too far.

With a dejected sigh, he refastened the chinstrap of his helmet and draped it on the handlebars by the straps so that it hung upside down. Next he removed his knee pads, elbow pads, and cycling gloves, and he stuffed them inside the helmet with the sunglasses and the phone. While riding the bike, he had barely noticed them, but on foot, they seemed hot and cumbersome.

Feeling extremely helpless, he glanced up and down the highway again, trying to decide what to do. His only option seemed to be to walk back to the abandoned rest stop in the hopes that the payphones not been disconnected yet. More than likely, they had been taken out or disconnected, but it was a lot closer in distance than the place where Larry would pick him up later that evening. At the very least, when he failed to show up, his friend would backtrack and find him, and the awning would provide shade while he waited.

Severely discouraged and lacking enthusiasm about the walk that lay ahead of him, he folded his arms on the handlebars of his bicycle and rested his head on them. Closing his eyes, his tired mind attempted to form a mental picture of the group of buildings, struggling to remember if there had been a telephone at the service station or at the restaurant. Unfortunately, Charlie rarely took notice of details that surrounded him, and in his desperation his mind conjured up payphones in every nook and cranny of the buildings that he was quite certain were not there. Still, they were once operating businesses, so there had to have been phones there at one time. With a little luck, maybe one was still connected as a courtesy to stranded travelers like himself.

He lifted his head from his arms. Realizing that the flat tire would make it difficult to push, he knew he would have to make a decision about what to do with his bike. As much as he hated to do it, he had no choice but to leave it behind, but first he needed to find a secure hiding place for it.

His eyes shifted to the surrounding landscape. Desert sage, Mojave yuccas, ocotillo, creosote bushes, and a host of other desert plants were growing in abundance. He could hide the bicycle behind a clump of brush and retrieve it later, when help arrived.

With the decision reached, he pushed the bicycle off the asphalt and onto the dry ground of the desert floor. It was difficult to push on the dirt, so he simply picked it up and carried it behind the nearest clump of brush and set it back down again. He leaned on it briefly to catch his breath again, then pushed it as close to the brush as he could, effectively concealing it from the road and anyone who might try to steal it. He felt the absurdity of what he was doing, for there was no one around to steal the bicycle anyway, but hiding it made him feel better. As he rested for a moment, he noticed the bottle of water in its holder, and he reached down to remove it. For his long walk back to the Oasis, he would need it to stay hydrated.

Emerging from the brush, he returned to the highway and picked up a chunk of sandstone, which he used to mark a large X on the surface of the asphalt to mark the location of his bike so that it could be recovered later. Then he tossed the rock aside and started walking

xxxxxx

An hour and a half later, he paused, panting and sweating at the top of a high rise of ground. His hair and his shirt and jeans were damp and all three clung to his moist skin. Lifting the hem of his shirt, he used it to mop the perspiration from his face, then taking it in both hands, he began a fanning motion with the fabric to cool his torso.

Then, he uncapped the bottle of water and placed it against his lips, but he only took a short drink and he was careful not to waste any of it, for very little remained in the bottom of it. After recapping it, he dragged his fingers through his wet hair to push it off his forehead as he scanned the horizon, marveling at the fact that he had not seen one vehicle the entire day. No wonder the Oasis had gone out of business. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should have inquired about the rest stop before embarking on this outing, but he had failed to heed that inner voice of logic.

Gazing ahead of him from the summit of the shallow hill, he saw that the road head of him made a gradual but steady left-hand curve, a slow continuous arch that had been barely noticeable as he had traversed it on the bicycle. His eyes followed the curve in the asphalt, hoping to see the cluster of buildings somewhere along that stretch of road, but he saw nothing except the road itself, flanked on both sides by the desert, until his gaze finally reached the most distant point of the highway that was visible to his eyes. There, so very far away that they were tiny specks on the horizon, he saw the Oasis.

With a discouraged sigh, he began walking again, thinking about the distance he still had to travel. The safest and probably the most sensible route would be to stick to the road where he might encounter a passing motorist, but he had not seen a car all day on this lonely stretch of highway, and at this point he knew that the likelihood was very remote. His other option was to cut across country and, in his estimation, shave more than a mile off his journey before reaching the highway again on the other end of the curve. But to do that might risk missing Larry when he came looking for him.

He glanced at his watch, which had survived the tumble down the asphalt with only a few scratches. It was after four o'clock. Larry would not be arriving at the rendezvous spot for another hour and a half, via the Interstate. He would likely remain at the convenience store for at least a half hour, maybe longer, waiting for him, before setting out in search of him. His heart sank with the reality that it would be at least two hours, and probably longer, before anyone even realized he was missing. That gave him ample time to cut across the terrain in an attempt to shorten his walk.

With one final glance at the tiny dots on the distant horizon, pinpointing the location in his mind, he turned off the highway and began walking across country. The buildings he sought quickly disappeared behind the uneven topography, but he was confident that he could calculate their location by the position of the sun.

At first the walk was fairly easy for the youthful professor. He was in good physical condition, and the hike was a welcomed relief from constantly being on the bicycle saddle. His well-worn sneakers made almost no sound on the hot, dry soil, merely a slight crunching sound whenever he walked over a gravelly portion of ground. There was only a slight natural breeze to cool him, far different from the stronger breeze generated by the speed of his bicycle, and he frequently reached up to mop the perspiration from his brow. The sun was continuing its gradual slide toward the western horizon, and he knew that the hottest portion of the day would be with him for a while before evening began to cool the atmosphere.

As he walked, he observed the rugged terrain that surrounded him for many miles in any direction, noticing that some of the desert flora was still in spring bloom, but as they were nearing summer, the biggest part of the colorful flowers had already dried up, scattering their seeds for the next generation of bloom. A cluster of barrel cactus was midway though its bloom, still showing off their yellow-orange flowers, while a small flock of birds fed on the fruits of the older, spent flowers.

The birds scattered when they saw him, resettling after he had passed, and he turned around to watch them, curiously, having been unaware of the diets of desert wildlife. Turning to face front again, a tawny blur bounded across his path, startling him so badly that he stumbled backward and sat down hard before he could recover. The event jarred his sore shoulder painfully, and his hand went to the injury in a protective manner. Still seated on the dry, dusty ground, he watched as the animal bounded several yards away before it stopped. Turning slightly toward him, it scrutinized him with interest, its nose twitching as if to determine whether or not he was a predator.

Charlie laughed softly. It was only a jack rabbit. Climbing slowly to his feet, he rubbed the tenderness in his shoulder and began walking again. After a moment, he saw what had frightened the hare, and it brought him to an immediate halt.

A rattlesnake was curled up in the shade beneath a creosote bush. Its eyes watched him intently as its forked tongue flicked in and out, testing his scent. He could see its rattle, poised beside its head at the top of its coils, but it made no sound, apparently unthreatened by the young man.

Charlie gave it a respectfully wide berth to avoid startling it, and proceeded on his way.

Raising his wrist, he glanced at his watch again, and felt disheartened that only a half hour had passed since the last time he had looked. He still had a long way to go, and it was becoming apparent that, while he was shaving distance off his walk, he was probably not saving time due to the rugged terrain, and the hike was much more difficult.

As he considered his error, he was stopped abruptly in his tracks by an unusual sound, one that seemed hauntingly familiar; a sound he was certain he had heard before. He turned in a circle, listening carefully, searching for the source of the sound. Then he heard it again: a soft crying sound, like the mewing of a kitten.

He knew that some cruel people dumped their unwanted pets in remote locations to fend for themselves, and he also knew that few survived such cruelty. Most either died of starvation and thirst or were killed by cars. Not likely to happen in this area, he thought wryly, thinking of the abandoned highway behind him. Some feral cats could sometimes survive in harsh conditions, but certainly not a domestic kitten. Anything that small would likely fall prey to snakes or hawks. Instinctively, he moved toward it.

When he heard it again, much closer this time, he felt as though his blood had suddenly turned to ice water in spite of the intense heat, for it became apparent that the voice he had heard was not that of a kitten. It was the whimper of a frightened child.

"Please don't hurt me," the voice pleaded.

A sound that reminded him of a low growl answered, and his first instinct was concern that a small child had somehow become cornered by a wild animal. Quickly, he realized that while the sound had not come from a four-legged predator, it had certainly come from the two-legged kind. He heard the smacking sound of a hand striking flesh, and the child began to cry.

"Didn't think I would catch you, did you?" a man's voice snarled.

The sound galvanized the young professor into action, and he bent low to the ground as he crept to the edge of an arroyo. Stopping there, he grimaced with revulsion and apprehension at the disturbing scene below him.

A large man was walking along the bottom of the arroyo, dragging a struggling young girl of about eleven or twelve years of age by the wrist. Using her feet for leverage against the uneven ground, she pulled and struggled, attempting to break free, but he held her in a viselike grip on her wrist.

"Stop it!" he growled. "You shouldn't have tried to run off! Where the hell did you think you were going out here, anyway?"

"Please! Let me go!" she begged. Apparently, she would rather take her chances with the desert than the man who held her in his grasp. Charlie could not say he blamed her.

While the young professor watched, his eyes large with horror, the man shoved her roughly to the ground in a shaded spot beneath an overhanging Joshua tree. She cried out when she landed on the rocky surface.

"Well," the man said menacingly, "I see no reason to wait until we get back to the car. It'll be just as good out here in the open."

Kneeling over her, he began wrestling with her over the decorative blue cord that was tied at the waist of her denim jeans. It was obvious that he was attempting to unfasten it, and that she was resisting. Screaming in terror, she twisted her body and fought him, kicking and punching at his face and body.

"Oh, man!' Charlie groaned, his voice a mere whisper as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Frantically, he looked to his left and then to his right and finally he looked over his shoulder behind him, as if expecting that help would miraculously materialize. He saw only the endless expanse of desert in all directions. If anyone was going to help the child, he knew it would have to be him, but he had no idea how he could rescue the girl without causing physical harm to himself. He placed his hand over his mouth, trying to think of a solution to this new problem.

It appeared that the man was not carrying a gun or a knife, but he still had the advantage of size. He looked to be more than six feet tall and very muscular. Charlie was certainly no match for him. To fight him would be suicidal.

The girl must have managed to deliver a solid kick in a tender part of the anatomy, for the man bellowed in pain and rage and abruptly released her. Seizing this moment of distraction, she tried to scramble away from him. Recovering quickly from his pain, channeling it into anger, he quickly grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her back. Then he began to wrestle with her jeans again, but she fought him, kicking and clawing. Her struggles seemed to excite him further, but when he had enough of it he slapped her, sending her careening onto the hard ground again.

"You may as well give it up, you little brat," the man told her, harshly. "This is going to happen, and there is nothing you can do about it. It will go easier for both of us if you stop fighting it."

Her hand went to her stinging cheek, and she began to cry again. When her struggled ceased, the man's hands went to his belt buckle and unfastened it.

The girl was about to be raped. Charlie knew that, and he knew that his conscience would not allow him to stand helplessly by watching while that happened. But what could a mild mannered, peace loving math professor do to stop it? Slight of build, Charlie had little athletic prowess, but his one asset was his cleverness. Hoping his bluff would work, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted frantically, "Hey, Don! David! Guys, she's over here! Bring your rifles! She's being attacked!"

The man's head jerked up in alarm, and an expression of wild-eyed panic flashed across his face. Spying the young man at the top of the arroyo, listening to his urgent calls for help and assuming that a search party had been looking for the girl, he did exactly what Charlie had hoped he would do; he scrambled to his feet and fled down the arroyo.

"Don, hurry!" Charlie yelled. "He's getting away!"

His urgent shouts prodded the attacker to run even faster. He glanced once over his shoulder when the young man shouted again to his comrades, but as he faced front again, he stumbled over a rock and pitched forward on his face. He scrambled up again, and resumed his flight away from the rescuer. Charlie noticed with amusement that the attacker was attempting to fasten his trousers as he ran.

Standing alone atop the rocky bluff, the professor could only grin in amazement and self-satisfaction as he watched the retreating figure disappear around a bend in the arroyo.

"Guess that'll teach you to pick on someone your own size," Charlie quipped as he picked his way down the rocky slope toward the girl.

When she saw him coming, the child scooted away from him, a frightened expression on her smudged face. Getting her feet under her in a crouched position, she did not take her eyes off him as she prepared to flee if he proved threatening. He had saved her from the other man, but it was apparent that she did not trust him, either.

He instantly stopped, understanding that she had precious little reason to trust any man right now. He had no experience whatsoever with children, his students being young adults, but being victimized and traumatized was something he was familiar with from his own youth, for the smartest kids were always the ones who got picked on by bullies. "It's okay. I won't hurt you," he said in a soothing voice. "I'm here to help."

She whimpered in fear, but she remained where she was, watching with large, terrified eyes. After a moment, he began moving toward her again, approaching slowly and cautiously. Shifting her gaze from the man, she searched the rim of the arroyo for the other people in the search party, and realized that this man was alone. He had lied.

"I promise, I won't hurt you," he said, continuing to speak softly to her. He knelt down about six in front of her and tried to smile reassuringly. "My name's Charlie. I'm a professor at CalSci University. Have you ever heard of it?"

She shook her head, negatively.

"Well, it's a pretty small campus, and you're pretty young. On the other hand, it's never too early to start thinking about the future, is it? When its time to decide on a college, you might want to consider it." He gave an apologetic shrug and a rather embarrassed smile. "That was a shameless plug, wasn't it?"

Responding to his words and his smile, she almost answered with a smile of her own. He saw that she seemed to be relaxing just a bit, and knew that he was beginning to win her trust.

"I'm going to help you get home, okay?"

He saw something flicker in her eyes at the word home, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry again. Her chest gave a couple of small hitches, but she quickly recovered.

He made no move to approach any closer, and she stared back at him, focusing on his kind face. Young and very casual in appearance, he did not look like any teacher she had ever had in school, but his calm demeanor and friendly attitude seemed to settle her, and hope sprang to her heart at his indication that he would help her get back to her family. She nodded.

"It's okay, honey," he assured her, keeping his voice soft and gentle. "There's no need to be afraid of me. I'm a nice guy. Are you from the L.A. area?"

"San Berna –" She broke off abruptly as her eyes focused on something over his shoulder, and with a feeling of unease, he saw her face contort with fear.

TBC