it in his wallet. There was no room in the belt. He scrawled a note to the owner saying he was leaving, and sealed it into an envelope with his key. The rent was paid in advance. No bills due. No bank accounts. A utility deposit that would more than cover the reading on the meter.
He looked around the place without pleasure or regret. He felt nothing. It had been another place to hide. Another burrow. When the smell of the predator drifts down on the wind, you dig your way out and go dig another hole to stay alive in. Whether it makes sense or not. Just the stubborn will to stay alive on any terms at all. Or maybe just the desire to frustrate someone who seriously wanted you dead.
As soon as it was time, he drove to the airport and put the car in the parking lot. He carried his suitcase to the cab line and taxied to the Houston House, registered as T. K. Hollister of El Paso, and paid cash for a single night occupancy of number seventeen. He took off his jacket and tie, unpacked a bottle of bourbon, one-third empty, and made himself a drink. He turned the room lights off, opened the door and stood behind the screen, looking out at the warm night. Beyond an angle of one of the wings he could see the lighted pool. A young couple went by, snickering and whispering to each other. Colored floods shone on the shrubbery. He sipped his drink and watched the units across the way until finally a portly couple came out of one of them, locked their door and headed for the restaurant. When they were gone, he wandered over and made certain of the room number. Thirty-four. He went back to his own place, made a fresh drink and called Paula Lettinger. She answered eagerly on the first ring. “Sidney? I was beginning to be afraid you’d …”
“I didn’t run. Not yet.”
“I’m so glad. Are you phoning from the lobby?”
“No. I’m a paying guest too. Number thirty-four.”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“Come on around and I’ll buy you a drink. We can talk here.”
“Well … all right. It will be a few minutes.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He went back and stood in the dark doorway and waited. After five minutes two men came along the far walk, moving purposefully. He tensed and felt a coldness along his spine. But they walked on by. After five more minutes he saw her coming from the left. He recognized her when she walked through the glow of floodlights. She wore a pale green dress, carried the same white purse. He heard the tacking of her high heels on the walkway. She was looking at the numbers. She stopped at thirty-four. He thought he could hear her knock. He was not certain. He waited and watched. At last she started slowly back the way she had come. He finished the drink, put the glass aside, walked swiftly and silently across the grass between the wings and spoke her name before she could reach the area of brightness.
It startled her. “Oh. Where were you? Getting cigarettes or something?”
“I just happened to see you. Couldn’t you find it?”
“I found it. I knocked and knocked.”
“Seventeen?”
“You said thirty-four.”
“Did I? I’m sorry. I must be nervous. Come on. My place is over there.”
He took her back to seventeen. He held the screen open. She hesitated and walked into the darkness. He went in quickly, close behind her, pushed the door shut, grabbed her shoulder and spun her back into his arms. With an objective and calculating coldness, he watched her and watched himself. She felt sturdier than he had expected, a lot of woman-warmth and resistant fragrance in his arms. She fought him in a dogged gasping silence, wresting her mouth away. He grabbed her dark hair and levered her face back, holding her strongly, caressing her ruthlessly and intimately. Then he sensed that her strugglings were bringing her to the edge of excitement and response. He felt the change in her mouth and in her breathing, and wryly measured his own reaction to that response. She sensed her
He looked around the place without pleasure or regret. He felt nothing. It had been another place to hide. Another burrow. When the smell of the predator drifts down on the wind, you dig your way out and go dig another hole to stay alive in. Whether it makes sense or not. Just the stubborn will to stay alive on any terms at all. Or maybe just the desire to frustrate someone who seriously wanted you dead.
As soon as it was time, he drove to the airport and put the car in the parking lot. He carried his suitcase to the cab line and taxied to the Houston House, registered as T. K. Hollister of El Paso, and paid cash for a single night occupancy of number seventeen. He took off his jacket and tie, unpacked a bottle of bourbon, one-third empty, and made himself a drink. He turned the room lights off, opened the door and stood behind the screen, looking out at the warm night. Beyond an angle of one of the wings he could see the lighted pool. A young couple went by, snickering and whispering to each other. Colored floods shone on the shrubbery. He sipped his drink and watched the units across the way until finally a portly couple came out of one of them, locked their door and headed for the restaurant. When they were gone, he wandered over and made certain of the room number. Thirty-four. He went back to his own place, made a fresh drink and called Paula Lettinger. She answered eagerly on the first ring. “Sidney? I was beginning to be afraid you’d …”
“I didn’t run. Not yet.”
“I’m so glad. Are you phoning from the lobby?”
“No. I’m a paying guest too. Number thirty-four.”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“Come on around and I’ll buy you a drink. We can talk here.”
“Well … all right. It will be a few minutes.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He went back and stood in the dark doorway and waited. After five minutes two men came along the far walk, moving purposefully. He tensed and felt a coldness along his spine. But they walked on by. After five more minutes he saw her coming from the left. He recognized her when she walked through the glow of floodlights. She wore a pale green dress, carried the same white purse. He heard the tacking of her high heels on the walkway. She was looking at the numbers. She stopped at thirty-four. He thought he could hear her knock. He was not certain. He waited and watched. At last she started slowly back the way she had come. He finished the drink, put the glass aside, walked swiftly and silently across the grass between the wings and spoke her name before she could reach the area of brightness.
It startled her. “Oh. Where were you? Getting cigarettes or something?”
“I just happened to see you. Couldn’t you find it?”
“I found it. I knocked and knocked.”
“Seventeen?”
“You said thirty-four.”
“Did I? I’m sorry. I must be nervous. Come on. My place is over there.”
He took her back to seventeen. He held the screen open. She hesitated and walked into the darkness. He went in quickly, close behind her, pushed the door shut, grabbed her shoulder and spun her back into his arms. With an objective and calculating coldness, he watched her and watched himself. She felt sturdier than he had expected, a lot of woman-warmth and resistant fragrance in his arms. She fought him in a dogged gasping silence, wresting her mouth away. He grabbed her dark hair and levered her face back, holding her strongly, caressing her ruthlessly and intimately. Then he sensed that her strugglings were bringing her to the edge of excitement and response. He felt the change in her mouth and in her breathing, and wryly measured his own reaction to that response. She sensed her