Read Chapter 24: The Oasis

The oasis appeared out of the heat like a mirage made of green and mud. Date palms leaned over a shallow pool of water, their fronds casting thin shade over a cluster of low whitewashed houses. Claire’s boots had worn blisters into her heels, and the shoulder where the bullet had grazed her throbbed with a dull, insistent heat.

Jean-Luc stopped at the edge of the water, his camera bag hanging loose from one shoulder. He hadn't spoken in nearly two hours, not since they'd crested the last dune ridge and seen the smudge of green below. Claire watched him now, the way he scanned the village with a careful, practiced gaze.

"It looks quiet," she said.

"Quiet can be a lie." He lowered his pack and crouched to cup water in his palms. He drank without looking at her. "We'll find somewhere to rest. Then we move on."

"Jean-Luc." She waited until he raised his head. "We need more than rest. I need a real dressing for this wound. And you need food."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes had that distant look again, the one that had settled over him since his confession in the desert. She'd thought the truth would bring them closer. Instead, it had opened a door between them, and through it she kept glimpsing a man she didn't recognize.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Liars get shot in the desert." She turned and walked toward the village before he could argue. Behind her, after a moment, she heard his footsteps in the sand.

An old woman was sweeping the threshold of a house at the edge of the village. She wore a long blue robe, her face crosshatched with the fine wrinkles of sun and age. She looked up as they approached, her eyes sharp and immediate. She said nothing, only studied Claire's face, then her shoulder, where a dark stain had bloomed through her cotton shirt.

"You're hurt," the woman said in Arabic.

Claire's French was useless here. She looked back at Jean-Luc, who stepped forward and replied in the same language, his voice low and measured. The old woman listened, her gaze flicking between them. Then she nodded and gestured for them to follow her inside.

The house was small and cool, the walls whitewashed, the floor covered with woven mats. The woman directed Claire to sit on a low bench near a shuttered window. She brought water, clean cloth, and a small clay pot of yellowish paste that smelled of honey and herbs.

"What's your name?" Claire asked, though she knew the old woman might not understand her French.

The woman's hands were gentle as she peeled back the ruined fabric of Claire's sleeve. She studied the wound—a shallow trench torn through the upper arm, red at the edges, warm to the touch—and clucked her tongue.

"My name is Zohra," the woman replied in accented but serviceable French. She began to clean the wound with brisk, confident movements. "Your man said you were going to Oran. Looking for family."

Claire flinched as the cloth touched raw flesh. "My brother."

Zohra's hands paused. She looked up at Claire, and something shifted in her old eyes. "Your brother. A young man. Tall? Dark hair?"

"Yes." Claire's heart seized. "His name is Philippe."

The old woman resumed her work, applying the paste to the wound with her fingertips. "He didn't give a name. Just 'P.' when I asked. He said P was enough." She bound the wound with fresh cloth, her movements slow and deliberate now, as if she were deciding how much to say. "He stayed two nights. Sick. Very thin. He said he was going into the hills to wait for someone."

Claire's breath came fast. She reached out and gripped the old woman's arm. "Where? Where in the hills?"

Zohra tied off the binding and sat back on her heels. She looked at Claire with an expression that was not unkind but carried weight. "There is a cave, half a day's walk past the old French outpost in the eastern ridge. He said he was waiting for his sister. He said she would come, that she was the only one who could be trusted." She paused. "I did not believe him. Most French who come here either run from something or lie about what they run toward."

"He's telling the truth," Claire said. "He's my brother. I came all the way from Paris to find him."

Zohra studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "Finish your water. Eat the flatbread on the shelf. Rest until the sun begins to fall, then walk east toward the ridge. The heat will not kill you if you go at dusk."

Claire turned to Jean-Luc, who stood near the door, his back against the frame, his arms crossed. He had been watching the street through the crack in the door. "We found him," she said. "We actually found him."

Jean-Luc didn't smile. He looked at Zohra, then back at Claire. "We should leave now. Not wait."

"It's too hot," Zohra said. "You will die on the sand."

Jean-Luc's jaw tightened. "We've made it this far."

"The wound will open again." Zohra gathered her cloths and stood, her voice final. "You will rest here. I will bring you bread and water before sunset."

She left through a rear curtain, and Claire heard her speaking to someone in the yard outside. The silence after her departure was thick.

Claire touched the fresh bandage on her arm. The paste had a cooling effect, quieting the fire in her shoulder. She looked at Jean-Luc. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Going cold." She kept her voice low. "We found the trail to Philippe. This should mean something."

Jean-Luc finally looked at her, and she saw something raw in his eyes before he masked it. "The old woman said your brother is hiding in the hills. Hiding from the French army, from the FLN, from anyone who might turn him in. He's sick. He's been waiting for you." He shook his head. "And I'm the man who used to do the hunting."

Claire rose from the bench, the room tilting slightly as she stood too fast. "You're not that man anymore. You told me yourself. You left."

"I left after I saw your name in a file." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I left because I couldn't keep doing it. But the file I read—" He broke off, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

"What about the file?" A chill ran through her. "What did it say about my family?"

Jean-Luc shook his head. "Not now. We need to focus on reaching Philippe."

"Jean-Luc."

He looked at her, and for a moment the distance between them seemed to close. Then he stepped back, toward the door. "I need to check the perimeter. Rest. I'll be back before sunset."

She watched him slip outside, the door closing silently behind him. Her arm pulsed beneath the bandage. She thought of what Zohra had said—a young Frenchman, sick, thin, waiting in a cave for his sister. Philippe was real. He was close. Everything she had risked had led to this.

But Jean-Luc was slipping away, and she didn't know if she could hold on to both.

The curtain at the rear of the room rustled. Zohra reappeared, a cloth bundle in her hands. She set it on the bench beside Claire—flatbread, dried dates, a small clay bottle of water.

"There is one thing more," Zohra said quietly. "The young man, when he left, he made me promise to tell anyone who came asking for him—anyone who seemed like family—that the walls have ears and the sky has eyes." She paused. "He said whatever you bring him, you must not pass through the village of Sidi Bel Abbès. The officer there has been asking questions about a Frenchwoman and a photographer. He showed a drawing. The woman wore a locket."

Claire's hand went instinctively to her throat, to the small gold locket her mother had pressed into her palm before Claire left home. She didn't need to look at it to know its shape. The captain from the checkpoint. He'd pushed deeper into the desert, and he was closer than she'd thought.

Zohra followed her gaze to the locket. The old woman's face was unreadable. "He is still looking, that officer. He has men. They search the villages between here and Oran." She tucked a stray strand of gray hair beneath her headscarf. "You should not stay in the hills long. Find your brother, and leave before the round-up begins."

Claire gripped the locket. It felt heavier than it had that morning. A target, Jean-Luc had called it. She'd refused to believe him.

From somewhere beyond the village walls came the distant rumble of engines — trucks, moving on a road she couldn't see, heading in the direction Zohra had pointed. Toward the hills.

Toward Philippe.