Or threatened to kil her if she didn’t.
I wait until they’ve left the lobby to retrace their steps to Room 230. There is a maid at the door, a housekeeping cart parked to the side. The maid knocks, announces herself, uses her passkey to let herself in when there’s no answer.
Curious, I wander down to stand beside the door. The maid is stripping the bed.
“Excuse me?” I point to the bed. “Where is the couple who occupied this room?”
The maid eyes me suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“We had a lunch date. They didn’t show. I was concerned something might be wrong.”
“Can’t help you,” she replies, approaching the door with an armful of sheets. “Al I know is that a few minutes ago, I got a message that the occupants of this room have checked out.”
She dumps the sheets into the hamper and pushes the cart into the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click. I’m left in the hal staring at a stupid door and wondering how the hel Chael and Wiliams managed to get by me.
And where they’d go from here.
I can’t believe while I was feeling sorry for myself, Chael managed to slip past me. Had he seen me in the lodge?
Maybe when I was having coffee with Kayani? Did he watch me leave with him? Think he was safe to take his time with the hosts?
But how then did he manage to get out while I was sitting in the lobby?
The answers are so simple, I want to thump myself in the head for letting him get away with it. Once he spotted me, he may have asked the receptionist if anyone had asked for him. There was no reason for her to lie. He probably had the hosts stay in the room while he and his bitch girlfriend slipped out. Told them to wait before leaving. Then he and Judith took the stairs and made their getaway out the back.
I fel for it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I don’t have a clue where to start looking for them. They’ve got to be close. Chael would not miss a chance to observe the suffering he’s wreaked upon my friend and the consequent pain he’s inflicted on me. Otherwise, what would be the point?
I can’t think of a single thing to do now but to go back to the house. Frey is more familiar with the area than I am. If there’s another lodge or hotel around, he’l know.
On the way back to the Jeep, questions keep popping into my head.
What if Sarah’s parents are stil there?
I won’t go in. At the sight of their car, I’l park where I can keep an eye on the house.
I worry at mlower lip. I wonder if Kayani spoke with George? That one stil gives me a bad feeling. The sooner I tel Frey about George’s parting shot to me this morning, the better. I don’t expect Frey to change his mind about someone he’s known longer than me, but he’s got to respect my gut instinct.
It’s gotten us out of some hairy situations before.
What happened at the burial today? Frey must be a wreck.
Not only because of John-John, but because he’s surrounded by people who are unlikely to show him much compassion. Even Kayani must be feeling resentment.
The sky has begun to clear — clouds breaking over Monument Val ey in a patchwork of bright blue and gray. With the clearing sky, the August heat comes roaring back, turning scattered pools of runoff into steaming cauldrons of bloodred mud. Vapor rises from the ground in streams like the delicate trains of ghostly gowns.
Even I feel the abrupt temperature change — one moment rain-cooled sixties, the next blast-furnace heat sends people scurrying for icy drinks and sun hats. There’s a cavalcade of cars leaving the parking lot to resume day trips interrupted by the summer storm.
I fold back the Jeep’s top, already dry by the time I get to the parking space, and tuck it into the boot. One of the advantages of a vampire constitution is the ability to tolerate
— even enjoy — temperatures most humans find intolerable.
Heat, for instance. The il usion that my body is warm comes only when ambient temperatures near 100—or when I’m feeding or having sex.
I close my eyes, tilt my head back, wait for the first rush of cars out of lot.
For a couple of minutes I take what pleasure I can.
CHAPTER 30
THE GPS STILL HAS RETURN COORDINATES PROGRAMMED, although when I crank over the engine, I get the “reprogramming route” message. I hate the tone of these things — it manages to be mechanical yet condescending at the same time. Al systems have it. Some frustrated engineer’s idea of a joke, I suppose.
The Jeep sloshes through mud and standing puddles as I make my way out of the parking lot. If it’s this bad on a paved surface, I can only imagine what I’m going to hit once I get off road.
I find out soon enough.
Once I’m directed to leave the road and head into private land, things get dicey. Hard dirt is now the consistency of taffy. Sticky fingers pul and suck at the tires, slowing the Jeep to a crawl. At this rate, I won’t make it back to the house until after dark.
When I get tired of fighting a stubborn steering system intent on taking the path of least resistance instead of the direction I need to go, I pul off in the shade of a towering monolith. Waves of heat and gusts of dry desert air scorch the landscape. May as wel wait for Mother Nature’s blow-dryer to turn the muck back into hardpan.
From where I’ve parked the Jeep, I see a faint path that snakes around the base of the massive rock under which I’ve sought shelter. I’m not exactly wearing hiking shoes, but after a day of tedious couch sitting, a walk is a welcome distraction.
I jump down from the Jeep into a puddle of mud, but I’ve stepped in worse. I shake off as much gunk as I can and glance at my watch. I’l give myself fifteen minutes before getting back on the road.
The path is barely worn but maybe because of the rain, now clearly visible. When I pul ed up, I thought I was parked under a single block of towering stone, but I see now it’s not solid at al. The path soon takes me into a honeycomb of caves. It’s dark and cool inside and smel s of freshly turned earth. Filtered light shines in from shafts that al ow a glimpse of sky — like fireplace chimneys with open dampers. It’s weird and wonderful at the same time.
And it’s dry.
I trudge deeper into the catacombs. There is a feeling that I am the first person to have come this way, though I know how unlikely that is. Stil, none of the detritus of civilization litters the ground. No broken bottles or soiled diapers. No fast-food containers or cigarette butts. Frey said the Navajo have a respect for the land. Perhaps they take the trouble to police their sacred lands or perhaps those who come here understand what a special place it is.
I’ve reached a fork in the trail; two paths stretch in opposite directions. It’s darker at this point, but when natural light fades, vampire vision kicks in. I know I’ve already gone past the spelunking time I al otted myself, but curiosity tempts me to go on.
The question is which way?
I pick up a smal, flat rock, scratch one side with a fingernail. Heads I go right, tails left. Flip it into the air, watch it bounce to a halt. The unmarked side seems to gaze back at me impassively.
Left it is.
The air is surprisingly fresh. I calculate I’ve traveled maybe a half mile into the mountain. The wal s of the caves are smooth and warm to the touch. I imagine I hear a pulse beat, faint but distinct. I know I must imagine it because stone has no heart, a mountain no life or spiritual center. Stil, a sound like a distant drumbeat echoes in my head.
I put out a hand, touch the stone, as if seeking an anchor in the void. I look around, testing the air with my tongue, breathing in to detect the scent of any other living creature who might be responsible for the sound.