The Resort (20 page)

That last prospect filled him with fear.

He considered calling the lobby and asking for someone from maintenance to find the spider and kill it or at the very least spray the room for bugs, but he felt too embarrassed and didn't want to admit that he was afraid. He stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do, and finally decided to leave, go to the film festival, and just hope that it got out of the room through whatever crack or hole it had gotten in by the time he returned tonight.

He grabbed his keys and wallet from the top of the bathroom counter where he'd left them, took his briefcase from the closet, checking to make sure he had his tape recorder, notebook and several extra pens, and then turned to go.

It was standing in front of the door, facing him.

Staring at him.

Waiting for him.

Patrick instinctively stepped back. He looked from the spider to the door handle, then glanced frantically around the room. He was trapped in here and could not leave. Well, he
could
leave. But he was afraid to even try. The spider looked much bigger than it had on first sight.
Stop being such a pussy,
he told himself. He could tell, though, that if he attempted to stomp on the creature he would be able to feel it through his shoe, it was so large. The thought made him squirm. And there was no guarantee that he would even be able to kill the beast. This wasn't one of those hairy soft-looking spiders, like a tarantula; its body was shiny and hard, shell-like, and he imagined trying to crush it beneath his soft-soled sneakers and feeling it
move
beneath him, seeing its legs thrash frantically about as it tried to scuttle away, its solid form resisting all of his efforts to squash it.

Patrick backed away, goose bumps on his arm.

Then the spider jumped.

It did not jump far, less than a fourth of the distance between himself and the door, but it was far enough that it made him cry out—
like a fairy

—and stumble backward, almost tripping over his own feet. He kept his eyes glued to the monster, and it leaped again, sideways this time, though it remained facing him. He looked around for a weapon of some sort, something to hit it with. In three or four jumps it could be on him, and he wanted to be prepared.

Two leaps this time, both sideways—it was nearly to the armoire housing the television—and Patrick saw his opportunity. The path to the door was free; he could run over, get out and escape before the spider could even think about changing directions.

He dashed for the door.

There was an instant of panic as his sweaty hand slipped on the handle, but then the door was open and he was out. He stepped away, hoping against hope that the spider would try to follow him and get out of the room, but the door swung slowly shut on its tensioned hinges, trapping the creature inside. He stood there, thinking maybe he'd prop the door open for a few minutes and wait for it to emerge, but then he imagined it leaping at him as he opened the door, landing on his leg and scurrying up his body to his face, and decided against the idea.

It was already touch and go whether he'd make the first screening at the festival, but before taking off, Patrick took a quick detour to the lobby. The clerk behind the desk was the same unhelpful young woman who had been on duty last night when he'd come in to complain about the party next door—
how long were the shifts here?
—and she smiled at him perkily as he walked up. “How are you this morning, Mr. Schlaegel? Did you sleep well?”

He tried to appear as casual and nonchalant as possible. “Fine,” he said. “But there seems to be a spider infestation in my room, room 215. Do you think you could send someone over to take care of it while I'm gone?”

“Certainly,” she assured him. “All rooms are treated for insects and vermin after each guest leaves and before each new guest arrives, but I will make sure that someone inspects your room this morning just to make sure. Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked brightly.

He had the feeling no such inspection would occur, and already he was dreading the return, knowing he would have to scour the entire room for spiders when he walked in—in the middle of the night no less. “No,” he said. “That's it.”

“Have a nice day,” she told him.

He started for the front door and was stopped halfway there by a gorgeous blonde of approximately his own age who had the high cheekbones and regal bearing of a fashion model, but the open, friendly expression of an innocent teenager. “I know you!” she said. “I saw you on Roger Ebert's show!”

Patrick was flattered. He'd done an episode of
Roger Ebert and the Movies
after Gene Siskel died, before Richard Roeper came on board, when they were searching for Siskel's replacement. For six months, he'd been the hottest thing in pants to the single women of Chicago. He'd had no conception of how powerful a medium television was until after that broadcast, and it was a revelation. It had been a while since he'd been able to trade on that little bit of transitory fame, however, and this woman was a welcome reminder of those heady days. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was on the show.”

“I totally agreed with your review of
Death Instinct
! You were so right! I think you were the only person besides me who actually liked that movie! By the way, my name's Vicki. Well, Victoria, really, but everyone calls me Vicki.”

“Patrick,” he said. “Patrick Schlaegel. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I'm so excited to meet you, Mr. Schlaegel!” She laughed. “Or can't you tell?”

“Patrick,” he said. “Call me Patrick.”

“Patrick. So why didn't Roger pick you? I thought you were great!”

It was a question he'd asked himself a million times, and he never had come up with a satisfying answer. “You got me,” he admitted.

“I think it's because you were a threat. You were too good-looking for that show. I think they wanted more average-looking people, you know? So Roger wouldn't look bad.”

He laughed. “It's a theory.”

“So do you still review movies?”

“That's my job,” he said. “It's why I'm here, in fact. I'm covering the Tucson International Film Festival.” He looked at his watch. “To be honest, I should be there right now. I'm already late for the first briefing.”

“Oh. I was hoping we could talk.” Vicki appeared genuinely disappointed. She looked around. “Wait here a minute, will you?” She hurried over to the front desk and returned with a pen and a postcard of The Reata. Holding the postcard flat on her palm, she started writing. “Here's my name and room number,” she said. “Call me when you get back. Or come and meet us at the pool. I'm here with two of my friends, and we're going to the hotel restaurant tonight for drinks and dinner. About eightish. We'll be there until probably midnight. I'd love for you to join us. I'm sure they'd be thrilled too.”

He took the postcard, dropped it into his briefcase. “I'd like that,” he said.

She smiled, holding out her hand for him to shake. “Until then.”

He shook her hand, nodded good-bye and started across the lobby. One of the two employees—
doormen?
—who seemed to be permanently and pointlessly stationed next to the entrance opened the door for him, and he stepped out into the blinding sunlight, pausing for a moment to put on his sunglasses.

“Hey.”

Patrick looked up to see a young man of approximately his own age, with hair and a wardrobe that bespoke urban sophistication, striding toward him across the earth-toned walkway.

“Are you Mr. Schlaegel?”

“Yes,” Patrick said warily.

“I'm sorry I didn't catch up with you sooner. It looks like you're ready to take off. I'm The Reata's activities coordinator, and I'm in charge of recruiting players for our volleyball tournament this afternoon, a little shindig we sponsor for the benefit of our guests. Helps to break the ice. Lets everyone get introduced to each other and, at the same time, have a little fun.”

“Sounds great,” Patrick told him, “but I really have to go. I'm late as it is . . .”

The man didn't seem to hear. “The thing is, we'd also like to have some real sport, keep this thing competitive, for the sake of the onlookers, if nothing else. As you've probably noticed,” he confided, “The Reata's summer crowd is not exactly the pick of the litter, athletically speaking. You look like you can handle yourself, though. That's why I was hoping you could join one of our volleyball teams, help bring up our game quality.”

“Uh—” Patrick started to say.

“The other two teams are full, but they still need a few warm bodies on the Coyotes. What do you say?”

Patrick shook his head. “I'm really sorry. I'll be in Tucson all day at a film festival. I'd like to, but I can't get out of it.”

The expression darkened on the activities coordinator's face. “We were hoping for full participation from our single male guests.”

“Sorry.”

There was a pause, one just long enough to become awkward, and then the other man was smiling. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “We have some games planned for tomorrow, too.”

“Maybe,” Patrick said, remembering that odd, dark expression and not wanting to hasten its return. There was about the activities coordinator a sense of danger and instability, as though the amicable young professional act was just that, an act, a façade hiding the rage-filled lunatic beneath.

How did the man know he was single? Patrick wondered.

He didn't want to be here, didn't want to be anywhere near the activities coordinator, and, besides, he really did have to get going, so before the other man could say a word, Patrick started walking toward the parking lot. He held up a hand. “Later.”

He braced himself for a follow-up objection that never came and strode gratefully across the already hot asphalt between the SUVs and yuppie-mobiles to his cheapo rental car. Three minutes later, he was speeding down that awful rutted road through the desert, The Reata in his rearview mirror.

That asshole Townsend had really done a number on him this time, and he thought about how he would get back at the editor. Something this egregious demanded retribution. The Reata wasn't just a boring, off-the-map loser magnet out in the middle of nowhere. It was . . .

Spooky.

Yes. A childish word, a stupid word, but he was man enough to admit that the place weirded him out. His tire hit a particularly nasty pothole, and he glanced back at the gate and guardhouse before both disappeared behind the curve of a hillside. He thought of the angry face of the activities coordinator, the spider in his room, the party last night that supposedly didn't happen, the wolf and snakes he'd met on the path, the angry people at the pool. If he had any sense, he'd just book a room for the night at someplace in Tucson and never return.

But he had to come back.

All of his luggage was still in his room.

And, besides, he wanted to see Vicki.

He had the feeling he might get lucky tonight.

This time, Rachel not only heard but saw something.

It was after the chef's cooking demo. She had struck up a conversation with Laurie Mitchell, a surprisingly down-to-earth corporate executive from San Francisco. Laurie was leaving today, but before she returned home, she wanted to buy a present for her brother's new stepson. Her brother had recently gotten married to a health food store cashier with advanced degrees in philosophy and cultural anthropology, and a twelve-year-old son from a previous relationship. The boy was wild, the mother a flake, and as the kid's stepaunt, Laurie had taken it upon herself to try to be a good influence, to provide a little bit of grounding and normalcy in his tempestuous life. She'd seen a T-shirt in the gift shop that she thought she might buy him as a present and wanted Rachel's opinion on it, since Rachel had three teenage boys. So after they finished watching the demo and eating the soup and salad, they walked up to the lobby.

“Did that sex soup work for you?” Laurie asked as they headed across the flagstone patio.

Rachel laughed. “No,” she admitted.

“Me either. I don't feel a thing.”

They went inside and passed through the lobby to the gift shop. Laurie showed her the rack full of T-shirts, and Rachel immediately vetoed the yellow one with The Reata's logo and the red one with a striped kachina doll over the word “Hano.” She suggested a black T-shirt with a picture of a skeleton rotting into the desert sand next to a barrel cactus and a wooden sign reading WELCOME TO ARIZONA.

Laurie bought it.

Afterward, Laurie had to go to the bathroom, and Rachel accompanied her, feeling an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu as they approached the restroom. She remained on edge throughout their visit, although nothing unusual occurred while they were there.

They were walking back down the corridor to the lobby when it happened.

From around the far corner emerged two men who appeared to be in the throes of a struggle—although the struggle was very one-sided. For a brief moment, Rachel thought the aggressor was the manager she and Lowell had run into yesterday at almost this very spot. It was not the manager, however, but someone who looked very much like him—bearded, portly, well-dressed—and he was dragging a young man down the hallway with him. The young man was wearing a Reata uniform and appeared to be one of the cabana bar waiters. He was crying desperately, unashamedly, his red face wet with tears and snot, begging for leniency, imploring the other man not to punish him. But his bearded antagonist showed no sympathy. The portly man's fingers were digging deep into his underling's arm, and he was yanking the waiter down the corridor with a series of harsh jerks. “Time to pay the piper,” he growled, elbowing the waiter in the gut so hard that the cries turned into gasps.