Carol had grimaced as they walked into the nearly empty bookstore only to have the teenage girl behind the cash register stare blankly and ask if she could help them find anything. Carol started to say something when Michael shot her a look, the coldest, blackest look she’d ever seen in another human being, then turned to the salesgirl.
“Let me see your boss,” he said quietly. The young girl gulped, excused herself, and disappeared into the stockroom. The assistant manager came out seconds later, a concerned look already on her face as the enormity of her problem gradually soaked in.
Michael’s voice was low and steady as he explained to the poor woman who he was and why he was there, and just how much money and time and energy had been spent in arranging this signing. The woman stammered a barely intelligible reply, then scrambled back into the stockroom and was gone for several minutes.
“Maybe we should just go,” Carol suggested.
Michael turned to her. “Not yet.”
Moments later, the assistant manager, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead and a hank of unkempt hair down in her face, returned with a stack of hardcovers, obviously hoping to placate them by offering Michael the chance to sign stock. Michael looked at her, turned to Carol and said, “Wait here.” Then he took the assistant manager by the elbow and led her back to her office.
“What’s he going to do?” the ashen-faced girl behind the cash register asked.
“I don’t know,” Carol said quietly.
A minute or so later, Michael emerged from the office, strode quickly across the store, and met Carol at the front.
“We can go now.”
“But-” she said. Then she felt his fingers clamp down on her elbow and gently, but firmly, aim her toward the door.
The two walked out into the sparse mall crowd. As they exited the store, Carol glanced over her shoulder and saw the assistant manager emerge from her office, tears streaming down her face.
“What did you say to her?” Carol demanded. It occurred to her that she’d never talked to one of her authors like that before.
Michael continued walking quickly, staring straight ahead, with his hand still on Carol’s elbow pulling her along.
“Let’s just say that won’t ever happen again,” he said. Carol said nothing else until they got back to their hotel.
That had been two nights earlier, and ever since, Carol had wrestled with her feelings from that night. She’d been repulsed by an author’s behavior before. She’d been angry at them, frustrated by them, grossed out by them, resentful of them, and each time had managed to suppress all those reactions and emotions and do her work in the most professional manner possible. But this time …
This time was different. This time she was frightened by her author, and Carol Gee had never been frightened by an author before.
Denver had gone well, along with the side trip to Boulder, and the day had gone very well in Las Vegas. Still, Carol had kept her distance from Michael. For the first time, she was beginning to think she wasn’t cut out for this line of work.
Fatigued and stressed, she had gone straight up to her room after the evening’s signing. She was awaiting a FedEx package with the next group of airline tickets, the block of tickets for the last phase of the tour. Several of the signings in Southern California were so close together they would rent a car, and the contract for that was coming as well.
Carol looked down at her watch: nine-thirty. The package was supposed to have been delivered by eight. She’d been unable to get through to the toll-free number to check on the package, and the front desk had been unable to find it if it had been delivered. She was tired, but too restless to eat.
Just as she sat down on the side of the bed and reached for the remote control, the phone rang.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Front desk, Ms. Gee,” a friendly male voice said. “We found your package. The concierge got busy and forget to let us know it was here. I’m terribly sorry.”
Carol felt the muscles just below her rib cage relax. At least she could let go of that worry now. “Good, thanks. I’ll be right down.”
“I can have it sent up,” the clerk offered.
“No, I’d rather come right now. I need the walk anyway.”
Carol hung up the phone and left her room. On the elevator, she stared ahead at her own image in the polished brass.
Her hair needed trimming, she thought, and in the slight distortion of her reflection on the brass, she saw that she looked even more tired than she felt.
She exited the elevator and wound her way around a group of large men wearing fezzes, smoking cigars, and laughing.
She heard laughter and bells ringing and shouts from the casino. She wondered how people stood it.
The front desk was dark mahogany, polished to a bright luster, with a mirrored tile wall behind it. She walked over to the corner, smiled at the desk clerk, and motioned with her hand. He picked up the package and brought it over to her.
“Ms. Gee, I take it,” he said.
“Yes, thanks. We’ve been waiting on that.”
“Great,” he said brightly. “I’m glad we were able to locate it. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” Carol said, taking the package.
“Have a pleasant stay.”
Carol turned and headed back across the lobby to the bank of elevators. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted two people walking toward the main entrance to the casino from deep inside.
It was Michael Schiftmann, and on his arm was a curva-ceous blond nearly as tall as he. She wore a sequined, body-hugging dress, makeup so thick it could have been slathered on with a butter knife, and high heels of the type usually characterized as “do-me pumps.”
My God, Carol thought. Not again …
The two were walking straight toward her. Carol turned quickly and stepped behind a tree that was perhaps fifteen feet tall and in a pot as big around as a tractor tire. She turned her head away from the center of the lobby and peeked out from between the thick branches. Michael and the blond walked arm-in-arm through the lobby, weaving in and out of the throng of people, oblivious to the crowd around them.
As they passed by not ten feet away from Carol, she stepped out from behind the potted trees and watched as the two headed toward the main entrance of the hotel. A bellman held the door open as they stepped outside into the arid Las Vegas night.
Carol’s eyes tracked them through a bank of windows that ran along the front of the hotel. She strained to see past the blazing reflections of dancing, chaotic, multicolored lights in the massive plate-glass windows.
But she could see well enough to follow Michael and the blond as a taxi pulled up next to them and they climbed into the backseat together.
Carol Gee watched as the cab pulled away, then shook her head slowly and turned back toward the elevator bank.
How does he do it? she wondered. Night after night …
This will all be over soon, she reminded herself, as she went for the safety of her own double-locked hotel room.
CHAPTER 9
Monday morning, Nashville
Andy Parks hit the pedal on his rust-streaked, ancient Datsun 280Z and prayed the brakes would hold one last time. He meant to have the car serviced before leaving Chattanooga, but he’d gotten too busy-as usual-and simply hadn’t gotten around to it. The pedal had been soft for weeks, and now with the wet cold of the last few days, they’d begun squealing terribly each time he touched them.