Eye of the Beholder (22 page)

He was not making a great impression. Alexa had looked both resigned and wary on the drive back into town. He was pretty sure that she was toying with the possibility that he was a full-fledged wacko.

He was almost positive that she would not jump into bed with him again until she had decided just how far gone he was.

On the other hand, he thought as he walked into the lobby, she had agreed to have dinner with him tomorrow night. He allowed himself to entertain a cautious note of optimism.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Eric Emerson, busy with some colorful walking maps at the concierge desk, gave him a professional smile. “An overnight courier left a package for you while you were out.”

The coffee had finally arrived. Trask's mood escalated another notch. “About time.”

“I'll get it for you.”

Eric rose and disappeared into a small office. Trask glanced toward the front desk while he waited. A small crowd milled about in the lobby. There was an air of expectation. The first of the resort's paying guests had arrived.

A sense of satisfaction hit him when he saw the expressions on the faces of those who were surveying the glowing glass bricks, lacquered wood, and scrolled steel of the lobby desk. He'd been in the business long enough to know when the fantasy was working.

Eric reappeared bearing a carefully wrapped and taped package.

Trask inhaled deeply as he took the sealed box from Eric. He caught the faint aroma of rich, dark-roasted coffee.

“I think I'm going to survive after all, Eric.”

Eric grinned. “I'm delighted to hear that, sir, given the fact that you pay my salary. I assume those are whole beans?”

“Naturally.”

“There's a coffeemaker in your suite, but you'll need a grinder for the beans.” He reached for the phone. “I'll have the kitchen send one up.”

“Thanks. I always say, a good hotel concierge should be able to read minds.” He inclined his head toward the group at the reception desk. “Looks like our guests are starting to arrive.”

“You're looking at the first trickle. According to Mr. Santana, we'll be one-third full tonight. Sold out by the weekend. Scheduling the opening to coincide with the Spring Festival was a great idea, even if things will be a bit hectic.”

“Nothing
like opening with a bang. Hotels are like restaurants. They're either hot right from the start or they're doomed.”

Eric chuckled. “Judging by the bookings, we're definitely going to be hot. Must have tapped into some of the positive energy vortices in the ground around here when they dug the hotel's foundation.”

“Yeah, right,” Trask muttered. “Positive energy vortices. I wonder if they were masculine or feminine.”

Eric shrugged. “According to the people up at the Institute, it doesn't matter. Both kinds are equally strong. The important thing is that they're positive, not negative.”

Aware that he was rapidly getting out of his metaphysical depth, Trask nodded and headed toward the staircase.

On the second floor he went down the west wing corridor to his suite. Cradling the fragrant package in one hand, he paused to dig out his card key.

A glint of bronze caught his eye. He glanced into the alcove and saw
Dancing Satyr.
He could have sworn that the damn statue winked at him.

He remembered how he had caught Alexa trying to stuff the figure into a closet on the night of the reception. He smiled to himself.

“I may keep you even if you do turn out to be a fake,” he said aloud.

He slid the card key through the lock and pushed open the door. The suite was cool and dark. Sort of like Harmony Spring cave, he thought as he put the coffee down on the counter. But at least here he didn't experience that weird sense of being an intruder in a mysterious world.

The housekeeping team had closed the drapes and turned on the air conditioner when they cleaned. He paused at the thermostat and switched it back to the off position. Then he opened the French doors onto the balcony. He much preferred the fresh air of the desert, even when it was on the hot side.

He slid aside the screen that concealed the desk with its array of high-tech business accoutrements.

For a moment he studied the miniature office, trying to decide what was wrong.

Housekeeping had strict instructions not to straighten any papers or personal items that a guest had left on a desk. That policy went double in the owner's suite.

He was almost certain that he had left the notepad on top of the morning edition of the
Avalon Herald
. The pad was sitting beside the phone now.

The entire housekeeping staff was new. It was possible someone had forgotten the instructions regarding desks.

He opened the first drawer, picked up the small stack of papers inside, and thumbed through them quickly. There was nothing of critical importance in the pile of notes he had made. Most concerned minor management details he intended to discuss with Nathan and Pete Santana. One or two related to public relations matters he wanted to hand off to Glenda Blaine.

The important file, the one compiled by Phil Okuda, was safely locked in the suite's wall safe.

The only interesting thing about the small stack in his hand was that it seemed to be out of order. He was
willing to bet that someone had rifled through it.

A curious or poorly trained employee
might
have flipped through the papers out of curiosity. That kind of thing was not supposed to happen in an Avalon Resort hotel, but occasionally the wrong person got hired.

It was also possible that someone had searched his room while he and Alexa were at Harmony Spring. Given the general chaos that attended any hotel opening, it would have been possible for someone to slip through security.

“You're getting nervous, aren't you, you son-of-a-bitch? That's good. That's very, very good. Nervous people make mistakes.”

19
 

The Guardian downed the last swallow of the herbal tea and watched the sun set outside the cave. The light was slowly, inevitably consumed by the dark. The symbolism appealed.

Consciousness expanded in the absence of light. Awareness deepened. Perception strengthened.

The Guardian studied the ebb and flow of the shifting vortices. The negative energy was running high now. Dangerous stuff if one were not careful.
But what a rush.

It had been twelve years since that intoxicating power had been tapped; twelve years since the last time it had been necessary to kill in the line of duty. The surge of personal energy was unbelievable.

It was amazing how much easier it had been this time. How much more satisfying.

Looking back, the Guardian understood that it was not a lack of necessity that had kept the defender of the Institute from killing for the past twelve years. It had been fear. A simple, paralyzing fear of getting caught.

But now it was clear that would never happen.

Last night's triumphant success was a sign. The great work must go forward. It all had to be done quickly while the dark energy storm pulsed so strongly below the surface of Avalon.

The Guardian was ready. The last of the old anxiety and the terrible fear that had been so overwhelming twelve years ago had died along with Guthrie. Power had taken the place of those incapacitating emotions.

This time the sexual release was shattering in its intensity.

20
 

Alexa hunched over the phone. “I know we've never met, Mrs. Guthrie, but I'm a friend of Joanna Bell's.”

“She's mentioned you.” Liz Guthrie sounded impatient and distracted on the other end of the line. “But I really don't have time to talk right now. This is my meditation hour. My Dimensions guide says I must develop more self-discipline. I'm trying to meditate every day at the same time.”

“I understand. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“This is a little awkward, but I wanted to ask you about your ex-husband.”

“Dean?” Liz's voice sharpened in alarm. “He's dead. Why do you want to ask me about him?”

“I'm very sorry about your loss…”

“We were divorced,” Liz said stiffly.

“Yes, I know.” Now what? Alexa wondered. She could hardly say,
I've heard that you and Dean were
still sleeping together, and I was wondering if he ever mentioned what happened to Harry Trask twelve years ago, and by the way did he indicate he might have any current enemies other than JL Trask?
There were limits to her powers of subtlety.

“I'd rather not talk about Dean,” Liz said. “My guide says that I focus too much on the negative forces around me. Dean was a negative force.”

“The thing is, I was one of the first people at the scene of his accident.”

“I see.” Surprisingly, Liz's voice softened slightly. “It must have been very traumatic for you.”

“Yes, but that's not what I wanted to discuss.”

“I suggest you get counseling. Dimensions has an excellent staff. I'm sure someone there could assist you. They've done wonders for me.”

“Thank you. But what I wanted to ask was whether or not Dean ever mentioned any personal concerns he might have had.”

There was a distinct pause on the other end of the line. “Concerns about what?”

“It really would be easier if we talked in person.”

“I don't think I can manage—”

“Please, I just want to ask you some questions. It's very important to me.” Alexa thought swiftly. “I believe that it would help me, uh, realign my inner peace and serenity. There are some unresolved issues, you see. Because of the trauma of the accident and all.”

Liz hesitated. “All right. I suppose it can't do any real harm. Be here at ten. I'll be busy with my personal guide until then. Oh, here he is now. I've got to go.”

“Thank you, I'll see you at ten.”

Alexa hung up with a sense of relief. Then she quickly punched in the number of her part-time assistant.

“Kerry, can you open the shop for me today? Something has come up. I'm going to be a little late getting to work.”

No matter what the hour of the day, Shadow Canyon was cloaked in perpetual twilight. It was a popular tourist destination in the summer when its year-round creek and canopy of green offered respite from the heat. There were several large swimming holes in Shadow Creek that were much prized by the locals as well as outsiders.

The flora and fauna of the canyon's higher elevation provided a striking contrast to the desert a short distance down the road. The cool, dark caverns and crevasses that had been etched into its rock walls drew hikers and bird-watchers.

But even at the height of summer, when the sun beat down relentlessly on the town of Avalon, Alexa was not a great fan of Shadow Canyon. The cool shade it offered could not overcome the mild sense of claustrophobia that she always felt here.

She brought the Camry to a halt and studied Liz Guthrie's home through the windshield. It was an expensive-looking, stylish affair with a lot of glass walls and a wide, encircling deck. There was no sign of a light in the windows. Granted, it was nearly ten o'clock in the morning, but given the general gloom of the canyon, it was a little surprising, she thought.

Maybe people who lived in a world of eternal twilight learned to adapt.

She opened the car door, got out, and eyed the thick stand of trees. There was something vaguely menacing about the way they loomed over the house.

She hurried toward the front steps.

The decision to talk to Dean Guthrie's last ex-wife was the result of an impulse. It had struck when she first awakened that morning.

Trask was convinced that money lay at the heart of the conspiracy theory he had woven. But she was not so certain. The late-night phone calls had a very personal feel.

She had tried to argue herself out of the notion of talking to Liz Guthrie, but the more she thought about it, the more important it seemed.

Liz was the one person who appeared to have had a close relationship of any kind with Guthrie.