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across the table and gave a mental shrug.
I’ve had worse jobs.

Lori Westmann was waiting, tapping her elegant executive

pen on an open page of checks. I thought about what I would

make in a month in a typical year. Then I doubled it. I told her

that was my fee and she didn’t bat an eye. She started to write

in the checkbook.

You idiot. You should have tripled it.
“Plus expenses,” I added

hopefully.

She looked at me shrewdly. “Of course.” She carefully com-

pleted writing and pulled the check free. “This is a retainer for

the first two week’s work.” She stood up and extended a hand,

smiling her pleasant and mechanical business smile. “Roy will

provide you with the information you’ll need to get started.”

“I’ll be able to get going next week,” I told her.

Her smile disappeared. “I would prefer that you start

immediately.”

If I were thinking straight I would have wondered why

she was in such a rush. Eliot Westmannn had been an aca-

demic laughing stock for decades and he’d been dead for over

a month. It would take weeks for me to research this stuff. I

thought she was merely being imperious.

I shook my head and smiled to soften the disagreement.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got other commitments over the next few

days…”

“If it’s a matter of money,” she started and began to re-open

her checkbook.

I held up a hand. “No. The retainer’s fine. I’m just

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unavailable until next week.”

“I see. Do you mind telling me why?”

“Yes, I do.” She blinked at that, and seemed at a momentary

loss for words. “I’ll be back early next week. If you can accept

that, we’ve got a deal. Otherwise, it’s been nice chatting.” I

handed back the check.

She looked at me with hardened eyes. “I made calls about

you, Dr. Burke. They told me that you can be… difficult.” But,

she left the check on the table.

Ms. Westmann,
I thought to myself,
you have no idea.

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4

Wanderers

Sarah and I drove north, marveling at the arid expanse of

land along the highway and equally amazed at the familiar-

looking strip malls and fast food joints that dotted the desert

landscape. It was a juxtaposition of the strange with the famil-

iar. There were McDonald’s and Burger Kings, K-Marts and

pizza joints, odd samplings of American popular culture jet-

tisoned out onto territory that looked as foreign to me as the

surface of the moon.

An early spring snowfall dumped eighteen inches around

Flagstaff, and we spent two days there, enjoying mountain air

redolent of pine and biting with frost. As we drove toward the

city in a thickening cloud of white, I saw huge forms moving

slowly way back in the trees, like ghosts. Elk. It made me think

of mountain men and times almost forgotten.

We slept at a place called the Pony Soldier Motel. I picked

the name out of a list because it sounded like something from a

John Ford movie. It was, in fact, just like any other mid-priced

chain motel, except it had a full-size statue of a horse out front.

The next morning dawned sunny and the snow began to

melt under a sharp blue sky. We ventured out. A few miles east

on I-40 was Walnut Creek Canyon. Sarah and I scrambled down

the cliff trail maintained by the Park Service, peering into dwel -

ings that were centuries old before Europeans ever glimpsed the

“new” world. You could stoop and enter the chambers of the old

cliff dwel ings, noting the dry-stone construction, the lick of soot

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along the door lintel from ancient fires, and try to imagine life in

a vanished world. The north slope of the canyon was protected

from the ful blast of the desert sun and was greener than the

south slope—differing ecological zones a stone’s throw from one

another, separated by a trickle of silver water some six hundred

feet down at the foot of the canyon.

We shopped for souvenirs back in town. I couldn’t resist

buying a cowboy hat; every little boy wants to be a cowboy.

And, the next day, the road north was clear. After driving

through another stretch of high desert, we hit the tourist mecca

of the Southwest. People were scurrying around like ants. Buses

and cars lined up at the park gate. Ultimately, however, you got

through, and all that hassle faded away into the expanse. Sarah

and I walked along the rim of the Grand Canyon, silent so as

not to disturb the immensity of the vista, of the colored stria-

tions in the canyon’s walls, and the line between earth and sky

that seemed to melt in the distant haze.

As the day faded, we headed back across the Sin Agua

Mountains toward Williams. It sprang up from a flat landscape:

a small, erect, compact place. Its buildings had the facades of

the Old West, and there was nothing around it but the flat

empty land, the interstate, and mountains that reared up like

a dark barrier wall to the west. It looked like something from

the movie
Shane.

The next day we drove south and saw Tuzigoot National

Monument and Montezuma’s Castle. We ate in small restau-

rants, snapped roadside pictures on cheap disposable cameras,

and laughed a lot. In the evening, Sarah and I would make love

and hold each other, creating a sense of familiarity and con-

nection and comfort, a secure space in a strange and transient

landscape.

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John Donohue

We’d talk quietly in the darkness.

“She’s using you, you know,” she told me as our trip was

drawing to a close. Her head was resting on my chest and I

stroked her back. The words she spoke were a soft murmur, but

I heard the warning.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said.

“You don’t think it will hurt your academic reputation?”

Sarah asked.

She’s sweet. I didn’t want to disillusion her by stating I

had no reputation to protect, so I reassured her. “Don’t worry.

I’ll do the analysis and it will show—guess what?—that Eliot

Westmann was a fraud. When his daughter gets the report, it’ll

never see the light of day.”

“Do you think she really believes that he was telling the

truth? It’ll be sad for her to have him exposed as a liar.”

I thought about that for a minute. “I don’t know,” I finally

said. “She seems pretty hard-nosed. She’s got her reasons for

wanting this deal, but I don’t see her getting all broken up

about it. Mostly she’ll be sad she shelled out all that money for

me to do the research.”

“Hmpph,” Sarah murmured and snuggled a little closer. I

pulled the sheet up over her back and held her. In the distance,

cars whined down the highway. I listened to the rhythm of her

breathing slow, felt the gradual loosening of her grasp as she

drifted off into sleep. My eyes began to droop as well, and my

arm slip off her. I shifted slowly. I made sure my arm was still

around her.
Never let go.

The next day, we said our goodbyes at the airport, a quick

embrace and whispered assurances in the exposure of a pub-

lic place. Sarah made her way through the security check and

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turned once to wave. There was the quick glint of her smile,

eyes flashing, and then she was on her way back to New York.

I sighed and headed back toward Tucson, into the harsher light

of southern Arizona.

I showed up back at the hotel a little before lunchtime. Roy,

efficient, alert, and as crisp as ever in his little hotel blazer, saw

me coming and offered a solemn greeting and a limp hand-

shake. He leaned over the high front desk, retrieved a manila

envelope and ushered me through the main reception hall and

back outside. Roy glanced at the gear slung over my shoulder

clearly disdainful that that was all my luggage. He was used to

people with matched luggage sets the size of piano cases. I had

a duffle bag and the ratty little canvas satchel I call my brief-

case. Security people at airports eye it warily and it’s routinely

searched for explosives.

“Will you require a porter, Dr. Burke?”

I hefted my gear and said I was fine. Roy looked doubt-

ful, but carried on, gesturing as we came through the doors.

Sprightly, tanned young people in pink polo shirts and khaki

shorts bounced around the walkway, piling luggage onto carts

and ushering people to various locations in little electric carts.

One of them glided up in front of us and we got in.

“Ms. Westmann has given me explicit instructions that I’m

to facilitate any requirements you may have, Dr. Burke,” he

began. Roy opened the envelope and began pointing things out

to me. The hotel was a sprawling complex of stucco buildings,

pools, and pathways. “You’ll be staying in one of our detached

suites for the duration of your assignment. As a guest of the

house, your food and entertainment expenses are complimen-

tary.” He handed me a gold plastic card. “Simply use this card

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John Donohue

when you sign for things. It’s also your room key.”

We drove sedately and silently along a palm-lined path. The

cart’s motor whined faintly, but the sound of the rubber tires

was louder than the engine. Roy traced our progress on a little

map of the grounds. “The health club is close to your suite,

and there are six pools at different locations around the facility.

Restaurants and shops here,” he touched the map lightly, “and

here, and here.”

“I’ll need high speed Internet access and computer gear for

research,” I indicated.

He nodded. “Arrangements have been made with our Exec-

utive Support Center. A laptop should also be waiting for you

in the room.”

We tooled by a pool, the water’s deep blue set off by the

almost blinding white of the surrounding cement. The sun was

hot and most people stayed in the shade or under the awning

of the outdoor bar. Machines in the bar’s eaves sprayed a fine

mist that kept the patrons cool. It would be bad for business to

have the guests collapse from heat stroke.

Our driver pulled neatly up a path and we got out. A small

flowering tree shaded the entrance to the bungalow. A dark

wooden door set in the stucco wall opened onto a spacious

living room. The furniture was finished to make it look like

it had been bleached in the sun. The color scheme was muted

pastels, and understated Southwest art was on the walls. The

AC had been on for some time and the place was about the

temperature of a meat locker. Roy ushered me around the dif-

ferent rooms in the suite, pointing out the wet bar and fridge,

the flat screen TV, the directory of services bound in some-

thing that was probably plastic but was meant to look like rich

Corinthian leather. Both the living room and the bedroom had

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sliding glass doors that opened onto a small, walled-in patio. I

slid the glass doors open and the heat hit me like a hammer.

Small birds chirped in the greenery along the tops of the patio

wall. I could smell flowers and something very like dry herbs.

It was elegant, private, and restful. If Sarah were here, I would

have liked it a great deal.

Roy must have seen the expression on my face. “I hope

everything is acceptable?” he said anxiously.

I smiled. “First-class, Roy.”

He smiled back. His was very professional. Hospitality is a

serious business. “I’m so relieved,” he told me. I looked care-

fully, but could detect no sarcasm.

I tossed my bags on the bed and he handed me the enve-

lope filled with stuff. “Your research will mostly take place at

the Westmann estate,” he told me. “No autos are permitted on

these grounds, but a hotel car will be yours to use when travel-

ing. The bell staff at the main entrance are aware of this and

will provide you with the keys.”

“Where is the Westmann estate?” I asked.

Roy had a tight smile that was more like a grimace. “Ms.

Westmann has arranged for you to be briefed by our chief of

security on a number of items.” He looked at his watch. “Would

you care to freshen up or have a bite to eat before the meeting?”

“No, I’m good,” I said. I took a last look around the room,

pocketed my magic gold pass and went with him, back out into

the harsh light.

The hotel’s chief of security was a relief: you could see laugh

lines etched in the tanned skin around his eyes.

“Charlie Fiorella,” he said, shaking my hands. His white

shirt was pressed and immaculate, the cuffs carefully folded

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back. Fiorella had freshly cut silver hair brushed back from a

pleasant face that looked like it had seen a great deal.
Cop,
I

thought.

He sat down behind a desk that had a gold nameplate, a

black phone with lots of buttons, and a carefully placed pen set