Crossroads

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 cal s left by reporters requesting interviews but as other more pressing stories arise, mine wil be quickly forgotten.

Harris hasn’t cal ed back again, either.

So far, so good.

Coffee mug drained, coippets pot 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 cal 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 wil 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 basebal 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 pul s into traffic while I’m stil 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 rol 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, pul s out a second Padres cap. “Need this?”

I answer with a grin and coaxing breeze-blown strands behind my ears, I pul 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 wel. 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

THE HALFWAY POINT ON OUR TRIP WILL BE PHOENIX.

Anyone who has traveled this route wil tel you, the drive from San Diego to Phoenix is dul er than dul. 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 pul 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 he. 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 pul 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 wil happen when he sees his ex? Now that he and Layla are broken up, maybe things wil 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.”

“Wil they be surprised?”

“Oh yeah. They’l be surprised.”

His tone suggests not pleasantly.

It startles me into asking, “Is there a problem?”

He shakes his head, waiting until he’s swal owed the last mouthful of sandwich to answer. “Not for me. My son’s mother may not so be thril ed to see me.”

There’s definitely a story there. “Want to tel 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? Wel, whse 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 cal 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, swal ows. Looks over at me again. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to do when you find this shaman.”