swept his gaze across the instrument panel again and again, trying to get a sense of his position. The digital altimeter had gone blank. Altitude, airspeed, vertical speed indicators-they were all windblown, dancing, unreadable.
Again, the green blackness was lanced by lightning. Another blast of thunder engulfed him. More hail hammered at the wings. More rain gushed over the windshield. There was nothing on the headset anymore but a dim desperate calling, very far away. Bishop gripped the shivering stick. He felt his stomach come into his throat as the plane was driven down and down and down by another crush of air.
The altimeter blinked on. He was at three thousand feet above the earth, then two. The hard ground was coming up fast. The plane would pancake in another minute, a silver stain in the red dust.
He fell ten more seconds-a hundred feet. Ten more-a hundred more. Then, still in the clouds, the plane steadied. The yoke grew sure and solid in his fingers. He glanced at the Stormscope. He was through the red cell. It was blowing south and west of him. There was a break before the next yellow mass moved in. He looked up. The mist shredded and fell away from the windshield on either side…
And there, smack in front of him, was the red terrain. He was piloting straight for a hill of rock. A strange, cold thrill went through him. An image came into his mind: he saw the Centurion buried in the mountainside, nothing left but rudder and blood.
He gave the plane gas, drew the nose upward. He laughed again, shaking his head, as the plane flew over the hill, nosing into thin clouds. He banked to the right and broke through into brilliant blue sky.
As suddenly as the storm had hit, the view was clear, so clear he could make out the gleam of Sky Harbor Airport twenty miles in the distance.
Still laughing, he prepared for his landing in Phoenix.
28.
Bishop drove away from the airport in a rented Sebring, a silver-blue convertible, the top down. It was afternoon now. A typical October day in the desert city: blindingly bright, ninety degrees. It hadn't occurred to him back in chilly San Francisco it would be so hot here. As he drove, the wash of air swept over him, cooling his face. But the leather jacket was suffocating, and he couldn't take it off with the gun strapped on underneath.
All the same, he was jazzed, wired. The thrill of the thunderstorm was still in him. It had him wound up inside, ready for more action. Sure, Weiss would be pissed off when he showed up out of nowhere. He'd probably be pissed off that he'd tracked him down so easily. But that was too damn bad. Weiss was no match for the specialist and Bishop was. He was going to save the sad-faced old bastard's life whether he liked it or not.
He passed through a low area of sprawling malls, an expanse of concrete with a backdrop of red desert hills. He spotted the Saguaro Hotel half a mile away, a rippling wave of mirrored glass eight stories high. It sat across from a shopping mall on an oasis in the stone: planted grass, jets of water in a marble fountain, a line of towering palm trees standing like sentinels on each side of the reception cul-de-sac. Bishop drove up the winding driveway, under the palms.
He tilted his head back to look up at the hotel through his aviators. He was surprised. It was a fancy, high- end venue. Not really Weiss's style. As the Sebring drew to a stop, a valet-a white-faced kid in a black vest-rushed to open the door for him. Bishop stepped out into the shade of the hotel. Even in the shade, the air was hot and still. He brought his gym bag up from the passenger seat.
'You're gonna want to get rid of that jacket,' said the valet brightly.
Bishop smiled a little. He shifted his shoulder as he lifted the bag, and he could feel the shape of the K9 beneath his arm.
Two big glass doors slipped open automatically. Bishop stepped into the hotel, thankful for the cool of the air-conditioning. He went up a few stairs and came into the lobby. It was a vast open space, an eight-story atrium. There were glass walls with sunlight filtering through vines and bamboo trees. The broad floor area was thick with people-tourists with their fat asses stuffed into shorts, their big bellies ballooning under flowered shirts. They gathered in clusters around the long reception desk and in the seating areas. They filled the four elevators. The elevators were glass, too, and Bishop could see the fat people in them gaping out, rising past the galleries on each floor toward the skylight far above.
He passed into the crowd. He moved through the clusters, carrying his bag. He was a glaringly dark figure amid all those flowered shirts.
'A little hot for a leather jacket,' some guy piped up outside the elevator doors. Bishop glanced at him. An egg-shaped man in a gathering of egg-shaped men and women. They all wore shorts and untucked Hawaiian shirts pressed out by their fat bellies. 'I'm burning up and I'm dressed like this!' said the guy. He did look hot, even in the cool atrium. His face-egg-shaped like his body-was pink and damp with sweat, the skin glistening under sparse hair combed across his dome to hide the bald spot. He was practically panting as he spoke.
Bishop-who managed to look cool and untouchable even in his jeans and leather-didn't answer. He shifted his shoulder to get the feel of the gun again.
The elevator came. Bishop stepped into it in the crush of egg-shaped people. The elevator rose. He held the gym bag in front of him, looked out through the glass wall as the people in the lobby grew smaller below. It was a slow trip. The glass box stopped at every floor. The egg-shaped people got out by twos and threes. When the box reached the fourth floor, Bishop got out. The egg-shaped man who had spoken to him and two egg-shaped women stepped out with him onto the gallery.
'Well-have a good one!' said the egg-shaped man, as he and the two women waddled off to the right.
Bishop went in the opposite direction, still without a word.
The gallery wound around the atrium, catching the wave shape of the building. Then it turned the corner and became a straight hallway. Bishop carried the gym bag to the hallway's end. There was the room he wanted, right next to the fire stairs, Weiss's room, 414.
He stood at the door. He rang the bell, waited for an answer. A maid came up the hall toward him, a heavyset Mexican woman pushing a linen cart, leaning into the effort. No one opened the door. Bishop knocked. The maid and her cart passed behind him. He waited. Still, no one came. He turned his head and watched the maid push her cart to the corner. Then she went around the corner and was out of sight.
Bishop set the gym bag on the floor. He knelt and unzipped it, brought the lock pick out from beneath his clothes. It was a special pick he used for hotels. Modern hotels had electromagnetic locks with card keys. They could be picked with magnets, but this thing was easier. It was a small device like a metal tape measure. It slipped under the door and then bent up to hook the door handle. Because of the laws meant to protect people with disabilities, the door handles in hotel rooms had to be easy to pull down and had to override the latch. Bishop hooked the handle with his device and yanked it down. The door swung open for him.
He put the pick back in the bag. He stepped into the room, shut the door behind him. The room was broad and shadowy. The far wall was one long curving line of windows, but heavy curtains were drawn across them, keeping out the sun. Peering through the gloom, Bishop surveyed the place. The bed was made. No luggage was in sight. No clothes were in sight; no shoes were on the floor. The air conditioner was going, but aside from that, there was no sign that anyone was staying here.
This was the first moment Bishop suspected he'd been set up for the kill. Even now it was just a glimmering of suspicion, just a hint of it. Before this it never occurred to him that the killer was drawing him in. He'd been so focused on finding Weiss, on trying to get here. And then that thunderstorm-that had blown everything out of his mind. Also, truth be told, beneath the hard-guy stuff, he'd been eager to do this. He'd been eager to make things right with Weiss. He figured if he could help him take out the Shadow-man, it might make up for all the other stuff he'd done, the bad stuff. And no matter what he told himself, he wanted to make up for it. Weiss was the only person on earth who'd ever done shit for him. Weiss was the only friend he'd ever had.
So he'd been eager. He'd been in a hurry. He hadn't thought things through. He hadn't stopped to consider how easy this had been, how Weiss didn't make mistakes like the one with the answering machine, how he wouldn't stay in a fancy place like this. He noticed those things, but he hadn't stopped to consider them. And he still wasn't thinking about that stuff, not really. There was just that hint, that glimmering. A tendril of anger and dread drifting through him. An instinct that something was wrong.
