“Is it like this out here every night?”
I’m whispering. Somehow to speak out loud might break the spel.
Frey whispers, too. “Is it any wonder the Navajo consider this a sacred place?”
My heart pounds in my chest. Why have I never been here before? How could I not know of such wonders?
Frey turns toward me in the seat. “Wait until sunrise. This val ey is one of the most breathtaking on earth.”
I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost four—
and to the east, a faint line of pink blossoms on the horizon.
Not an unbroken horizon. Jagged rock formations rise from the desert floor like the ghostly abodes of long dead gods.
One rises straight and narrow to the sky. It towers over the rest like some giant navigational pylon aimed at the stars.
Frey fol ows my gaze. “That’s cal ed the Totem Pole. It’s four hundred fifty feet high but only a few meters wide. It’s one of the most photographed spots in the val ey.”
I glance over. “You know a lot about this place. How often do you come?”
“Not often.” His tone is regretful. “I should come more.”
“Why don’t you? You obviously love it.”
“It isn’t a good idea for me to spend a lot of time in the val ey.”
He’s answering my questions, but he may as wel not be.
The closeness we’d been experiencing shatters into a mil ion hard, brittle pieces. “For god’s sake, Frey, spil it. What keeps you away?”
When the silence lingers on too long, my temper flares. I reach over and punch him in the arm.
He yelps and grabs at his bicep. “What was that for?”
“For being a jerk. You know every fucking thing about me.
Every bad thing that’s happened, every man I’ve ever slept with, every body I’ve buried. And you won’t share with me one single detail of your personal life? After al we’ve been through together? You’re real y beginning to piss me off.”
Frey grips the steering wheel. “Why would you be interested now?”
His voice is rough, whether with suppressed anger or guilt I can’t tel. It hardly matters. My own suppressed anger boils to the surface. I slam my seat back into its upright position.
Jerk around to look down at him.
“I’ve had a bitch of a week. In the last three days I had Max, David and Harris in my face. Then Chael showed up. I’d like to think you have some appreciation for that since I came to you out of concern for your son.
“I’m sorry about Layla. I’m sorry I didn’t cal to check in with you sooner. I’m sorry if my life keeps screwing up yours. If I could change any of it, I would. Maybe that’s what this trip is about. Maybe if things work out, I wil be out of your life forever and you can go back to Layla. She won’t have me to blame anymore for your problems and you can go back to your safe, stupid, boring existence.”
When the tirade passes, I swivel away from him on the seat and wait for Frey to unload on me. He should. He has every right to. My body tenses, every muscle steeling itself to receive the verbal blow I deserve.
Nothing happens.
I steal a sideways glance. Frey is staring straight ahead, his knuckles stil stiff on the steering wheel, his face pale.
Another moment passes. Then, slowly, he brings his seat to an upright position. He looks over at me. At first, his mouth is drawn in a tight line, his brow furrowed into deep, angry grooves. As I watch, though, his expression shifts. Like ice cream melting, the lines smooth, the mouth turns up instead of down. His shoulders start to shake.
Frey begins to laugh.
A laugh so hard it doubles him over.
A laugh so hard, tears run down his cheek.
A laugh so hard it casts a net that catches me up and before I realize it, I’m laughing like an idiot right along with him. I can’t say why. I don’t real y care why. Letting go is such a fucking relief.
Our laughter echoes across the stil night air and bounces off the rock citadels around us. We’re howling like moon-crazed wolves, lifting our faces to the sky. For the first time in weeks, I feel something loosening deep within me. A knot final y cut. A fist suddenly open.
I feel hopeful.
I recover my wits first. Wipe tears from my face. Slump on the seat, blinking in disbelief. “What just happened?”
Frey draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, shaking h head. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“Why did you start laughing?”
His face in profile, I see an eyebrow arch. “Wel, my first impulse was to smack you. Then I started to think what would happen if I did. I got this image of the two of us wrestling in the dirt like something from Monday Night Raw. But you’d kick my butt and I’d be humiliated, and knowing you, I’d never hear the end of it.”
“And that made you laugh?”
“I didn’t say it made sense.”
“I guess I should say thanks for not smacking me.”
“And I should say thanks for not kicking my butt.”
It’s grown quiet al around us, the echoes of our manic laughter final y fading away. Frey and I retreat into our thoughts. I’ve spent more of the past year, my first as a vampire, in the company of this man. Yet I know so little about him.
I lower my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye so he won’t catch me studying him. His eyes are stil on the stars, his expression relaxed and unperturbed. He’s a good guy. I wish he’d let me in even if I don’t deserve it.
I make a vow to myself. I’l keep my friends closer from now on. Not just Frey, but Culebra, too.
I’l be the kind of good friend they’ve been to me — not just a friend when I need one, but a friend for al days.
And I make that vow to the bright glow of the morning star.
CHAPTER 17
FREY PUTS THE JEEP IN GEAR AND WE’RE BACK ON the road just as the sun makes its first appearance over the desert. Shafts of light flood the val ey, painting inky silhouettes with shades of red. So far, I haven’t seen any sign of human habitation. Or much of any habitation at al. A few ground squirrels and rodents. A hawk circling against an ever-brightening sky. Low-to-the-ground scrub brush and spindly yucca. A desolate but remarkable landscape.
After traveling for another thirty minutes, I ask Frey, “Where the hel does your son live?”
“Patience. We’re almost there. The area we’re traveling through is cal ed Wildcat Trail. Not many people venture back here because this is private land. There are hogans and houses al around us, just so far off the trail, you won’t see them unless you know where to look.”
“Hogans?”
“Some Navajo stil live as their ancestors did — in smal, mud dwel ings. They’re cal ed hogans.”
A concept hard for me to grasp. I think of my own cottage.
Could I give it up to live in a mud house? Even in this beautiful place? Could Frey? I think not. “Does your son live in a hogan?”
Frey laughs. “No. His mother is much too modern. She likes her creature comforts. She lived in Boston for a while.
It’s where we met.”
His words trigger a memory. Frey lived in Boston before moving to San Diego. He was tracking a pedophile — the same one who abused my niece, Trish. It was how he and I met. How we learned to trust each other. Seems like a lifetime ago.
“You thinking about Trish?”
I blink over at him. “Can you read my mind again?”
“Not your mind. Your expression. You get a certain look when you’re thinking of your family.”
“Hmmmm.” I refocus. “What was your ex doing in Boston?”
“She was spending the summer with a mutual friend. She went to Massachusetts to study at Amherst. Native American Studies. She’s ful — blood Navajo.”