The alarm in Frey’s expression escalates. His hands crush the napkin into a ball. “Who?”
When I tell him of Chael, who he is and how he orchestrated the challenge that resulted in Lance’s death, the alarm becomes fear. “Why would he talk to you about my son? Was he threatening him? Threatening you?”
“No. Not at all. In fact, he said he meant your son no harm. He said the Keeper of the Secrets was a revered position in the supernatural community. I think he was sincere.” As sincere as Chael was capable of being anyway.
“So then why mention him?”
Here’s the tricky part. I tell Frey about our conversation. About the shaman who could supposedly restore a vampire to mortal state. About how this miracle worker lived on the same reservation as Frey’s son.
When I finish, Frey is quiet. He’s slouched against the back of the chair, eyes downcast, as if trying to distance himself from me. I don’t blame him. I seem to bring nothing but trouble.
I let a moment pass and another and when his silence presses on, I break it with, “A shaman who can restore mortality. Is such a thing possible?”
He raises his eyes. “Does it matter?”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure.”
Frey looks up. “Then what do you want to do?”
“I think we should go to the village. Check on your son.”
“I thought you said you believed that Chael meant him no harm?”
“I did. I do. Still—”
“You don’t completely trust him, do you?”
“No.”
Icy resolve narrows Frey’s eyes. “And you want to check this shaman out.”
“Yes.”
“When do you want to go?”
“When can you go?”
“Today was the last day of summer school. I have two weeks before I have to prepare for fall classes. How about tomorrow morning?”
“I can have the jet ready to go anytime you are.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll drive.”
He’s already risen from the table. I do, too. “Drive?”
“It’s a beautiful part of the country. Ever been there?”
I shake my head.
“No time like the present to appreciate it.”
“Do you want to drive or shall I?”
Frey slips the black-framed, amber-lensed glasses over his eyes. “I’ll drive. See you in the morning.”
I SPEND A RESTLESS NIGHT. PLEASANT THOUGHTS OF how my life would change if I became mortal again ricochet around in my head until I’m dizzy with it. Chief among them is the kind of life I could have with someone like Stephen. I could go with him on assignment and not risk someone noticing that I cast no reflection or don’t seem to eat anything. I could visit my parents anytime I want. Take Trisha shopping and not have to avoid mirrors. Simple things. Little things.
But the responsibility I’d accepted as the Chosen One beats its own counterpoint. Chael would not offer a gift unless he was the one benefiting from it. And if he benefits from it, all those pleasant scenarios might become very short-lived. The world as we know it would cease to exist.
I glance at the clock.
Six a.m.
Obviously, sleep isn’t in the cards for me.
I roll out of bed.
I’m strangely excited about this trip. Partly for the obvious reasons. Partly because I’m going to meet Frey’s son and the mother of his child. Partly because for the first time in a year I’ll actually have a say in what happens to me.
Frey said he had to stop by school this morning and turn in his grades so we should be on the road by ten. All I have to do is throw some clothes in a duffle and I’m ready to go. Living mostly in jeans and T-shirts makes packing a snap. I haul the duffle downstairs and leave it by the front door. Time for coffee.
Frey dropped a map by early last night. It’s spread out on the kitchen table and I study it while waiting for the coffee. I’ve never been to Monument Valley. Our proposed route is marked with yellow highlighter. We’ll start out on Highway 8—not the most scenic route, Frey explained, but the fastest. Counting gas and food stops, we should make it in fourteen or fifteen hours.
Frey is excited about the trip, too. I’m not sure how long it’s been since he’s seen his kid. He won’t tell me, but I have a feeling it’s been quite a while. And though he’d never admit it, the timing is perfect. This is just the diversion he needs to take his mind off Layla. For a few days at least.
The pesky sense that I’m to blame for Frey’s breakup with Layla rushes back. I’d probably feel worse if I thought she was right for him. It irks me that during that long weekend he and I spent together, the weekend most likely responsible for Layla’s leaving, Frey had been a faithful monogamous partner.
She doesn’t deserve him.
Probably something I should be careful about bringing up on our road trip.
I refold the map, lay it on top of the duffle by the door and return to the kitchen to fill a mug. I tick things off a mental checklist—
David knows I’ll be gone for a few days. He’s fine with it. He didn’t mention trying to contact Judith Williams or find the twins. Hopefully, he’s so relieved to have passed the first series of tests, and to be able to resume his sex life, he’s content to let it go for now. I was afraid to ask.
I talked with Stephen. Let him know I was going out of town, too, for a couple of days. I tell him it’s work, since I don’t want to go into details. His voice is full of the excitement of preparing for his first big network shot. I’m smiling when I ring off.
Tracey’s sister is doing much better. I caught snippets of the press conference on last night’s news. Tracey was terrific. What witnesses
thought
they saw was explained by adrenaline and hysteria. The bottom line—no charges. Case closed.
There have been a couple of telephone calls left by reporters requesting interviews but as other more pressing stories arise, mine will be quickly forgotten.
Harris hasn’t called back again, either.
So far, so good.
Coffee mug drained, coffeepot emptied, counter wiped. I’m ready to go. It’s fifteen minutes to ten. I’m fidgeting like a kid with a sugar rush. I want to get out of here before the next disaster strikes. Everything that’s happened in the last few days either started with a telephone call or an uninvited guest. Here. In my home. It’s a disturbing trend.
Gathering my stuff, I lock up and head for the street. Better to meet Frey out on Mission.
I realize standing on the curb that I have no idea what kind of vehicle Frey will be driving. I picture a sedan, white or maybe gray, four doors, medium size. Something sedate, befitting a schoolteacher in his forties who is just now taking to the streets on his own.
When the bright red Jeep Wrangler slides up to me, my first impulse is to wave it on. Then I peer inside. Frey is looking back at me. He has sunglasses on his face and a Padres baseball cap on his head. He’s dressed in a pair of floral print board shorts and a navy blue tee with the Quiksilver Mountain and Wave logo on the front. He’s got leather huaraches on bare feet. He looks very much at home behind the wheel of the Wrangler, and it takes me a second to adjust to this new surfer-dude image.
I toss my bag in the back beside his. “Wow.” I slip into the front seat. “When you go native, you don’t fool around.”
He puts the Jeep in gear and pulls into traffic while I’m still adjusting the seat belt. When it clicks into place, I turn in the seat to look at him. “When did you get a Jeep?”
He works the gears smoothly, maneuvering through busy midmorning traffic as we head for the freeway on-ramp. “A week or so ago.”
The top of the Jeep is open; only roll bars separate Frey and me from a glorious summer sky. A breeze ruffles my hair and I push it out of my eyes, wishing I had a cap like Frey’s to tame it.
As if privy to my thoughts, he reaches behind his seat and without taking his eyes off the road, pulls out a second Padres cap. “Need this?”
I answer with a grin and coaxing breeze-blown strands behind my ears, I pull the cap down over my forehead.
Then I relax back in the seat. I knew Frey
could
drive, I just didn’t know he could drive this well. He’s always had a driver. Or that he would enjoy driving so much. He steals a sideways glance at me every once in a while, I think just to see if I notice. I do. I settle in to let him have his fun.
CHAPTER 14
T
HE HALFWAY POINT ON OUR TRIP WILL BE PHOENIX. Anyone who has traveled this route will tell you, the drive from San Diego to Phoenix is duller than dull. Butt-numbing stretches with not a Mickey D’s in sight. Miles of nondescript desert. Habitual road construction projects that slow traffic to a crawl. Tempers and radiators overheat with enough regularity to keep state troopers and a dozen tow-truck companies in business.
The halfway point on the halfway point is El Centro. There the reclaimed desert is dotted with farms and patches of green. From the road, it appears like an oasis in the distance. Since we know there won’t be much after El Centro, we pull off to get Frey some food.
El Centro is one of California’s great mysteries. That is to say, the mystery is why anyone chooses to live here. The summer is unbearably hot, the winter can be frigid. Main Street stretches relentlessly east to west across town. There are two border crossings here. For the last ten years or so, El Centro has been poised to become Southern California’s most promising new commercial and industrial region.
At least according to the El Centro Chamber of Commerce. It must be getting tired of holding the pose. It hasn’t happened yet. Picking lettuce and melons remains the mainstay of the economy.
We pull into a Carl’s Jr. and Frey orders a huge quantity of food: three cheeseburgers, a couple of chicken sandwiches, a large fry, an apple turnover and, with a glance to me for confirmation,
two
Cokes. I listen in awe. Frey doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. I guess his feline alter ego contributes to his metabolism. I’ve never heard of a fat panther, either.
I watch as he walks to the counter to pick up his order. He looks damn good in those shorts. Nice ass. Lean muscled thighs. He and I were lovers once. Long time ago. Wonder what will happen when he sees his ex? Now that he and Layla are broken up, maybe things will heat up again between him and the mother of his child.
As soon as I catch myself having
those
thoughts, I give myself a mental slap alongside the head. Keep your mind on the purpose of this trip. We’re not here on a matchmaking expedition.
Being happy in one’s love life tends to make a person wish the same for those around them.
Or is it the guilt I feel because I may have been responsible for Frey’s breakup?
Frey and I have hardly exchanged two words since we left Mission Beach. The rush of the wind coupled with road noise in the open Jeep makes simple conversation difficult. It’s hardly an uncomfortable silence. After the last couple of days, it’s a relief not to be peppered with questions. For Frey, I imagine thoughts of seeing his son are foremost in his mind.
But now, sitting at a Formica table with a watered-down Coke, being forced to watch Frey devour his burgers and chicken sandwiches, I have to do something to resist the urge to reach across and help myself to a handful of fries. I know the consequences of that. The memory of retching into the kitchen sink the first time I unwittingly ate real food after becoming vampire is vivid.
I take another sip of my Coke and break the silence. “Did you let your son know you were coming?”
Frey looks up, a tiny smear of catsup at the corner of his mouth. I want to lean over and lick it off—instead I use my napkin.
He grins and finishes the job, mopping his mouth with his own napkin. “No. Communication is iffy on the reservation.”
“Will they be surprised?”
“Oh yeah. They’ll be surprised.”
His tone suggests not pleasantly.
It startles me into asking, “Is there a problem?”
He shakes his head, waiting until he’s swallowed the last mouthful of sandwich to answer. “Not for me. My son’s mother may not so be thrilled to see me.”
There’s definitely a story there. “Want to tell me why?”
“No.”
“Did you and she have a bad breakup?”
“You sound like a reporter. Are you channeling your new boyfriend now?”
“Wait. How do you know—?”
“That you have a new boyfriend? Well, why else would you have disappeared from the radar for the last eight weeks?”
Whoa. There’s a bitter ring to that last question. Softly, I say, “I didn’t know about you and Layla breaking up.”
“Maybe because you didn’t call or drop by to see how I was doing. Not until you needed something.”
He’s right, of course. “I’m sorry.”
A scowl darkens his face. He chomps into another sandwich, chews, swallows. Looks over at me again. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to do when you find this shaman.”