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buildings ahead.
    The map indicated that the airport was three miles northeast of the town, but as it came into view and Page prepared to angle in that direction, he felt confused when a second airstrip appeared on the opposite side of town, to the southeast. It wasn't marked on the map.
    Flying lower by that time, he was able to take a closer look, and he saw that the runway was cracked and buckled, a lot of it covered with dirt, patches of weeds and cactus growing at random. The crumbled ruins of hangars lay next to it. Lots of hangars, he noticed curiously.
    Many years ago, this had been a sizable facility.
    What happened to it? Page wondered.
    He noticed something else: an unusual topographical feature that stretched beyond the decayed airstrip. There, contrasting with the rugged brown grassland, was an extensive area of what looked like huge black cinders, seemingly evidence of volcanic activity that eons ago had pushed subterranean debris to the surface. The cinders had formed the rim of a volcanic crater that had eroded over time until only half of it remained visible, barely rising above the surface of the surrounding land.
    Whenever the eruption had occurred, the force of it had scattered chunks everywhere. Page had seen other areas like it while flying over Arizona. They were generally called "badlands," a fitting name for something so bleak and forbidding. He couldn't help concluding that the place looked the way he felt.
    Increasingly eager to find Tori, he flew from the ruined, uncharted airfield toward the airport that was marked on the map. Again the precision of what he needed to do was the only thing he could allow to occupy his mind. After radioing his intention to land and checking where the windsock was pointed, he reduced the engine's power and glided downward. When he came within a wingspan of the center line on the airstrip, he leveled the plane, felt it float, sensed it begin to settle, eased back on the yoke, and touched down gently on the two main wheels, letting the nose wheel ease down on its own, protecting the strut that supported it.
    He taxied to a tie-down area next to a building that looked like an old gas station, except that there weren't any pumps in front of it. Instead the fuel was kept in a small tanker truck. He quickly shut out the memory of the tanker that he'd seen explode in Santa Fe just a few days earlier. Off to the side, a hangar had its doors open, revealing a helicopter and a Lear jet. Their presence in this small community might have been puzzling if not for the fact that this was Texas cattle country. Four propeller-driven aircraft were tied down, all more powerful and expensive than Page's Cessna, another indicator of wealth.
    Climbing out of the cockpit, he secured the plane and pulled his bags from the rear seat, but now that his obligation to the aircraft had ended, he found that he couldn't walk. His muscles seemed paralyzed as confusion escaped from the tight mental compartment into which he'd temporarily been able to shut it away. He was no longer above everything. He didn't have a half-dozen things to accomplish in order to control the plane. At once the pressure of the past two days flooded through him again.
    Why did Tori leave without telling me?
    What's she doing here?
    What the hell's going on?
    Despite the apprehension that seized him, Page managed to force his legs to work and carried his bags across the hot pavement. The building that reminded him of an old gas station had adobe walls and a corrugated metal roof, the rust on which suggested that the structure dated back many years.
    Opening a squeaky screen door, he entered a small reception area that held a battered wooden table and a scuffed leather sofa. A candy machine stood next to a water cooler and a phone that hung on the wall. Another doorway led to an office on the right, from which a heavy, gray-haired man of about sixty appeared. He wore frayed mechanic's coveralls and used a rag to wipe grease