The Good Thief. Judith Leon
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for girls in America, really in the whole world, and Lindsey simply couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him. Not even once since she was twelve and she’d lost her nerve and didn’t even place in a skiing race had she disappointed her stern but loving dad.
She felt something, looked down, and realized that her legs were exposed—and that a scorpion had crawled up onto her boot, tail raised. Lindsey froze.
The searchlight of the chopper sliced back and forth through the darkness, approaching them and driving critters skittering in the brush toward them. If the scout in the chopper ID’d the Dianas, they’d be penalized fifteen minutes. The Academy, partially supported by secret Department of Defense funding and from such government agencies as the CIA, NSA and FBI, also had close ties to nearby Luke Air Force base. The men there enjoyed helping out in the annual event.
Rachel Stein gasped and swatted at Lindsey’s shoulder. “Your legs.”
“Freeze, chicas!” Gloria commanded, just before the beam missed Rachel by inches.
They wore desert camouflage hats with leafy twigs stuck into the band, black turtleneck shirts, camo pants, fingerless black gloves and hiking boots. Each carried a two-liter water bottle, Lindsey’s now less than half full, ChapStick and simple food items. The team also carried water-based paint balloons for tagging, one knife, one pen flare and one simple first-aid kit. The designated leader always held the flashlight and the rappelling line and pitons, which had come in handy twice so far.
When the chopper finally passed, Lindsey flicked the scorpion off. She started to stand, but what felt like claws tore through her shirt. She swore. A cluster of razor-sharp thorns from a scrubby cat’s claw acacia had shredded her forearm. Man, oh, man, she hated this plant. Ecologist Edward Abbey had said that everything in the desert either “bites, stabs, sticks, stings or stinks.” He was right.
The way her classes had combined concepts, like biological adaptations and survivalist training, constantly amazed Lindsey. If women were to make things better, they had to hone every asset, every ability. Be all they could be, as her dad, a former army special forces commander, would say. Principal Christine Evans even brought in accomplished instructors to teach Lindsey’s favorite subject, art. Her dad, however, encouraged art studies only as a hobby. Mom’s income as a textbook illustrator hadn’t brought in much money and so didn’t measure up to what Dad believed Lindsey could achieve.
“Water break and alpha change,” Gloria said. “Lindsey, take us in.”
“Right.” A quick swig of water, a chunk of power bar and a handful of peanuts, and they were off again, Lindsey in the lead. “Okay, they almost caught us because we’re in the wash. We need to bend south, anyway.” She set a faster jogging pace.
The chopper followed trails and the long, meandering dry washes that gleamed white in the moonlight, the idea being to drive the five teams into challenging terrain. The White Tank Mountains were essentially a series of ridges running east and west. The Dianas had already crossed or skirted three main ridges. With one more to go, they’d soon be in the public area with its many trails. Before coming in, though, they had to find a “treasure” in Waterfall Canyon. Each team’s prize would be in a different location and they would know it because it would bear the initial of their name.
The distant lights of Phoenix lay like a spill of diamonds to the southeast, and even in the ravines, gullies and canyons, the city’s ambient light was obvious. The girls kept Polaris shining over their left shoulders. In this park, Lindsey knew where she was, even at night. She hiked through it several times a year and had spent the previous evening poring over maps.
She risked sweeping the flashlight beam across a rocky stretch. From the other side of the ridge, coyotes suddenly yipped the way they did over a fresh kill. Chills ran up her back at the sound. She held up her hand for a stop signal, and listened hard. When the yips grew fainter, team members audibly breathed again.
Leaving the wash would slow them down but the chopper was a bigger problem. “Go!” Lindsey said, and they scrambled over the rocks toward a protected arroyo.
This was a good time for one of their cheers. In a low voice, she chanted, “Dianas know no fear!” The others responded, instantly and softly: “No way, Jose!”
Lindsey called, “Dianas persevere!”
The response: “You bet, Suzette!”
Then all together, “Go, Dianas!”
They normally screamed the last line, but now each spoke barely above a whisper. If they alerted other teams to their location they risked getting pelted with dye balloons. If yellow glow-in-the-dark paint splattered a team member’s clothing, the team would suffer a ten-minute loss for each girl hit. The Dianas were definitely the team to beat. Pelting any of them would be a bragging-rights victory. All Athena girls wanted to be like the famous Cassandra team that graduated five years ago, and the Dianas were shaping up to match the Cassandras’ exploits and achievements.
“Over rock and ridge, gully and gravel, the Daring Dianas trekked on,” Crystal said softly in her exaggerated movie voice-over tone, “jogging with goat-footed precision, panting and sweating, moving ever closer to victory.” She wanted to become a screenwriter.
Out of the inky silhouette of a stand of organ-pipe cactus, black blots seemed to spew toward them, emitting tiny screams and squeaks. Bats. Lindsey raised her arms around her head, and the high-pitched noise rose and then apparently stopped as the bats’ echo-location went into an overdrive inaudible to humans. They veered off then, shy things that they were, perhaps scared up by a great horned owl.
She’d felt no panic, no pounding pulse. Lindsey had seen only one snake so far, a mildly venomous nocturnal lyre snake coiled in a rock crevice, its head raised. She’d not even blinked as she faced its stare and directed others to move back, and then, finally, moved away herself.
Athena and the desert had been good for her courage. Understanding the desert’s creatures had erased a lot of blind fears. Snakes. Bats. Coyotes. Scorpions. She understood them now, knew how to act and so had conquered the terrors they had given her at first. She could rappel down cliffs that once would have paralyzed her. She could handle guns and knives and wield a bow and arrows. Athena girls were being prepared to protect and defend as well as change the world for the better. She did have a fear, though, that she hadn’t admitted to anyone. Little eight-legged things. Even a picture of a spider sometimes gave her goose bumps. She’d been that way since childhood. But she loved it that the other girls considered her the most daring, so if this particular hang-up ever seriously threatened to freak her out, she would just use force of will to get past it.
She inhaled deeply. The pervasive sage and creosote smells had freshened with moisture. The team crossed what Lindsey was sure was Goat Canyon Trail. When they entered the wide wash of Dripping Spring Canyon, Lindsey knew her direction was true. If all went well, they were a mere hour from the amphitheater. By 4:00 a.m., they’d found the treasure underneath dried cactus wood beneath a park sign bearing the letter D. Lindsey noted that the letter, unlike the sign, wasn’t weathered. It had been placed recently. The sign explained the formation of the “white tanks,” natural stone cisterns sculpted by flash floods. Underneath some dried cactus wood, they found their treasure: chocolate bars and something shiny. The girls gasped at the beautiful gold pendants cast with the image of Athena.
Someone hissed, their secret sound for stop. Everyone crouched and froze.
“Voices,” Portia whispered, “eight o’clock.” Heads turned west. Nothing.
And then the chopper returned, following the bends of the wash. They eased into shadows, pressed into bushes, again losing time as the chopper whomped by.
The sounds gradually faded, the team heard voices more clearly. Portia hand signaled where she thought their competitors’ course lay. Lindsey calculated her options. Since, in true Athena thinking, no points would be gained in paint-tagging another team, only a point loss in getting tagged, she would not let them be sucked into losing time in an ambush. She signaled by pointing away from the voices and toward the rocks.
Soon