by Tim Tigner
A PERKY RED-HEADED RECEPTIONIST greeted me with a caffeinated, “Good evening.”
I gave her a friendly smile, knowing what the night shift was like. “I’m hoping you have room 21 available for two nights.”
“A man who knows what he wants. Clearly you’ve been with us before Mister—”
“Chase. Zachary Chase. Blackjack’s my thing.”
She pecked away with a puzzled look, then smiled and said, “I get it. Blackjack, twenty-one. Yes, that room is available. Both nights. But I don’t see your name in our system.”
Ignoring her last remark, I presented my credit card and hoped it was still working. When the charge for the totaled Harley posted, I’d be over my limit. Given that credit card applications always asked for current income and employment status, getting another was probably out of the question. I was stuck with what I had. “What time’s breakfast?”
The receptionist smiled and rewarded me with a card key. “Breakfast is from 6:00 to 10:30 a.m.”
In room 21, I immediately put ear to wall. I hoped to hear the TV, but Skylar was playing music instead. Spa music. Not perfect for concealment purposes, but much better than nothing.
Playing a hunch, I went to the bathroom, where I hoped to hear the sound or feel the vibe of running water. No such luck. Thinking about it, I decided that didn’t mean anything. The placement of her door indicated that her room layout paralleled mine, rather than mirroring it. That was very good news. It meant that her desk would rest against the opposite wall, and that her laptop screen would also face my direction if she worked on it in bed.
I unzipped my backpack and extracted a small electric drill with a foot-long 4mm bit. After a minute of analyzing angles and accoutrements, I selected a spot on the wall and marked it with the hotel pen. Ready to roll, I turned on Sports Center and adjusted the volume to the maximum allowed. Satisfied with the setup, I wrapped a bath towel around the hand holding the drill, pulled the trigger and pushed. I stopped the instant I felt the second sheet of drywall start to give.
I retracted the drill and put my eye to the fresh hole. The light spot was immediately visible—and unobstructed, meaning both that I’d calculated correctly and that Skylar wasn’t staring back.
I withdrew a slim fiber-optic camera from my backpack. Not a bit of secret CIA kit, but rather a similar industrial tool: $49 on Amazon. I connected it to my cell phone and used the optics to guide it to the opposite hole. After poking through, I could see the whole bedroom.
Skylar was nowhere to be seen.
Either she was in the bathroom, or she had left the room. The bathroom door was open, but the light did not appear to be on. Since I’d given her very little opportunity to leave undetected, my money was on the bathtub. Dim lighting, soft music, and a stress-relieving soak.
I used the remote to mute the television volume. With my hearing thus restored, I pressed the camera far enough into Skylar’s room to allow it to articulate, then began searching for inanimate objects. I didn’t spot a laptop or a cell phone on her desk. The bed and nightstand were also unadorned. Perhaps she’d taken her electronics to the tub.
I switched the phone screen over to the feed from the Mercedes. It was only a mile away at the moment, and it wasn’t moving. I felt a chill as the obvious conclusion kicked in. The tracker had come off Tom’s car. Zooming in, I read the location and relaxed. He’d parked at The Williamsburg Inn.
Google gave the hotel a five-star rating and a $379 nightly rate. Definitely not on Uncle Sam’s approved list for anyone ranking below agency head or three-star general.
I switched back to the camera feed while contemplating that development. Nothing had changed, but the bathroom light flipped on after a few minutes.
I retracted the camera so its eye was flush with the face of the wall. There was a slim chance that she’d notice the dark spot, but given the texturing and the fact that my hole was just two-thirds the diameter of a pencil eraser, I wasn’t worried.
Skylar eventually emerged wearing light pink pajamas that hugged her extraordinarily athletic build in a way that required little imagination and left me feeling a bit inadequate. Her feet were bare and her short sun-bleached hair was only towel dried. She was carrying neither cell phone nor laptop.
Did anyone of our generation travel without an internet interface? Not likely. Perhaps she’d pull one or the other out of a drawer. Unless—
Playing a hunch, I looked at my room then surveyed her desk again. Next, I slowly eased the camera back into her room so that I could see the nightstands. Neither held a phone. Both of her landlines had been removed.
Tom had isolated her.
I switched back to the GPS tracker. The Mercedes was still in the parking lot, a mere mile northeast of my current location.
Certain that Skylar was in for the night, I lost the do-rag, shaved the handlebars off my mustache, changed into a business suit, transferred my tools to my roller bag, and headed for The Williamsburg Inn.
25
Just a Number
THE WILLIAMSBURG INN looked like a converted colonial mansion. Its grand three-story central brick building was embraced by shorter wings and topped with a slate roof sporting multiple chimneys. I did a quick window count and estimated that there were about forty-eight rooms in total. That was a good size for my purposes, small enough that locating Tom shouldn’t be too challenging, large enough that I might find a vacancy to one side or the other, given that luxury hotels attempted to separate their guests.
Like all five-star hotels, this one had a bellhop, although, given the colonial atmosphere, I guessed they might call him a valet. I appraised the uniformed assistant while approaching from the self-parking lot. Late thirties and fit but not fastidious. The crease in his pants was far from crisp, and his tie was a notch too loose. I put on a friendly smile, read the nametag, and met his eye as he said, “Can I help you, sir?”
“I believe so. I need your help in selecting the right room.” I pulled a $100 bill from my pocket to set the hook. Dressed as I was in a suit and tie, I figured I fit the typical tipping-client mold.
“Absolutely, sir,” Vincent said, pupils dilating. “It would be my pleasure. What amenities are you hoping to find? The quietest location? The best view?”
“The right number,” I corrected.
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
I pulled out my cellphone and swiped until it displayed a close-up photo of Tom enjoying his Fierce beer. “Do you recognize my buddy, Tom?”
Vincent glanced warily at the photo. “I believe so, yes.”
“I need a room next to his. Not across the hall, but right next door.” I rubbed the hundred. “Can you recommend a room number?”
Vincent chewed on that.
“Just recommend a room number,” I repeated.
Vincent’s practiced fingers made the Benjamin vanish. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll see what’s available. What’s your name?”
“Chase. Zachary Chase.”
We walked to the front desk where Vincent slipped behind the counter. The receptionist gave him a sideways glance but was too occupied with another client to interfere.
Vincent began typing, and typing, and typing. Finally, I got an affirming nod. “Normally I’d recommend either 208 or 212 for someone with your needs, but 208 is occupied. Shall I book you into 212, Mister Chase? It will be $400 after taxes. That includes breakfast.”
I pulled out my Visa and said a short prayer. Four hundred dollars would be the most I’d ever paid for a room on my own dime—and I wouldn’t even be sleeping there.
“You’ll find your room on the second floor. The elevator is to your left.” Vincent didn’t bother offering to help with my roller bag, given that I had two inches and twenty pounds on him, and had already tipped.
Room 212 was filled with fine furnishings that rested on spindly hardwood legs, supposedly carved by one of Ben Franklin’s friends. The fabrics were a cream and ochre combination, as was the wallpa
per. I counted four pleated lampshades and an equal number of gold-framed colonial prints. Plenty to block my view.
The sight of silk paper on the walls saddened me. Drilling it would feel sacrilegious. Nonetheless, I unzipped my bag and prepared to do just that. It was a very small hole. Virtually unnoticeable.
The location of the doors told me that Tom’s headboard would be back-to-back with my own, separated by the wall, of course. That would be weird, sleeping with the enemy’s head literally inches away—were I to stay.
I surveyed the room and selected the point that would give me the best available angle for seeing a computer screen, whether it was on the desk or in the lap of a man in bed. I repeated the towel and TV trick, then got drilling.
My gizmo showed Tom’s room to be lights-off dark, with no one in bed and no light leaking from the bathroom. Were it not for the black roller bag on the sofa, and a white washcloth on the floor by the door, there would be no sign that the room was rented out. I seriously doubted that Tom was soaking in the dark, and thus concluded that he wasn’t in the room.
I had seen Tom’s car in the valet parking lot, and the chiseled-cheekboned impostor had already dined. Therefore, I concluded that he was either in the bar or at another meeting.
I briefly considered breaking into Tom’s room and rummaging through his bag, but given his presence on the property, I decided that would be too reckless. Besides, in a five-star facility like this, entry would not be easy. I’d probably need to swipe a master key card.
I decided to see if he was in the bar.
I returned to the elevator and pressed the down button. It chimed a moment later. The doors opened, and out stepped Tom.
26
Good Question
RIES WADED INTO THE SURF off Point Dume as the midday sun maximized the colors of the Santa Monica Mountains. The exquisite contrast between the reds, golds, and browns of the hardened lava bluffs and the turquoise, azure, and sapphire waters crashing against them always made him smile. This trek into living art kicked off his favorite climb. Ries tried to make it at least once a month—even after his replacement. That was technically a violation of the rules, but one of no consequence, since he was alone.
Most climbers preferred to do the Dume in the morning, so they could climb in the cool of the shade. But Ries was happy to handle the heat in exchange for optimizing the view—and experiencing one of the world’s most spectacular cliffs in solitude.
Timing wasn’t the only thing that differentiated him from his fellow enthusiasts. Most of them hiked to the top on the landward side and rappelled down before climbing up. No doubt that was easier, safer, and more efficient. But he preferred swimming to the bottom and working without a top rope. In part, this was because top ropes felt to him like cheating. But mainly he just liked meeting life on his own terms, especially when that convergence involved a healthy challenge.
The swim to the boulders at the base of the cliff was no amateur undertaking. You had to stay close enough to the shore to avoid the riptide, but far enough away that the swells wouldn’t slap you against the remorseless rock. It was all part of the thrill.
Ries had always felt that he wasn’t really living if he didn’t occasionally risk dying. It was an ironic juxtaposition that immortality only intensified.
He timed his scramble out of the water and onto the bottom boulders to take assistance from a wave. That was the secret to successful ascents—and most of life for that matter—finding ways to work with nature rather than fight it.
The backpack holding his gear—his helmet, harness, rope, and chalk; his nuts, quickdraws, carabiners, and cams—was waterproof. But the swim had filled his climbing shoes with sand. He removed them one at a time and carefully cleaned each with the assistance of encroaching waves.
Shoes were the secret to rock climbing. Non-climbers had no clue of the magic they held. The way the stiff gummy soles gripped steep rock when he angled his body right still blew his mind. It was just as his instructor had confided the first time they stood at the base of a cliff. Anyone who trusted his shoes and kept his cool could literally walk up walls.
By the time Ries had fitted his footwear and assembled his gear, getting each piece arranged for quick and clean one-handed access, he was dry. He gave his curly sun-bleached hair a quick back-and-forth rubbing, then snugged his helmet, dipped his hands into his bag of chalk, and began the eighty-foot ascent.
The route was rated a 5.10, which meant it was virtually vertical and offered only scant hand and foot holds. Magic shoes and machismo definitely required. Ries knew from experience that it would take him about forty minutes.
Eighty feet doesn’t sound like a lot in a world where buildings now soar above two thousand, but sounding and experiencing are two entirely different matters. When there’s nothing between you and a quick trip to the ground, most will feel that cool kick of adrenaline before they reach ten feet. Take that up to twenty, and every human heart will start to flutter. By thirty, most are paralyzed with panic. At forty, the fright is enough to make the frail pass out.
Ries paused at that forty-foot halfway point to sip water and enjoy the stunning scenery. Precarious though his position probably looked to laymen, and insane as it undoubtedly appeared to his fellow Immortals, Ries was perfectly safe. About every ten feet, he wedged a nut or a cam into a crack and clipped it to his rope. Even if he slipped or passed out or was struck by lightning, he couldn’t fall more than twenty feet before the rope caught. It would stretch out another couple of feet, ending the descent in an experience more like feathering the brakes than slamming them to a full stop. Unpleasant perhaps, but not traumatic. Especially with a helmet.
Much safer than skydiving.
Or stumbling drunk onto a balcony.
Ries didn’t actually know how Camilla had ended up with her skull cracked by patio rocks, but now that the initial shock had worn off, he believed drinking was a safe assumption. They’d all over-imbibed after the tense meeting with the shocking announcement and unexpected vote. And Lisa had further facilitated self-medication by having so much fantastic wine on hand.
Camilla’s tragic death made Ries all the more determined to feel alive.
The crux of the climb came at a height of sixty-three feet. The crack that he’d been using to anchor his nuts and cams petered out there, leaving seventeen feet of inverted climb with no place to secure a rope. There were two tough alternatives for completing the ascent. Ries could make the rest of the climb without additional anchors for his rope, but that would risk a fall of up to thirty-four feet. Or he could shift to a crack a dozen feet off to his left. The latter was a considerably easier route, with a slope that was dead-on ninety degrees vertical rather than overhanging. But reaching it took serious skill.
The hand and foot holds between the second crack and his present position were little more than blemishes. One- or two-millimeter pimples on the face of the cliff. The first time Ries had attempted the shift, he’d fallen six times, only making it on the lucky seventh. With experience, he now only slipped about once every other climb.
He was halfway there and doing his best starfish impersonation when he heard the dreaded rattle of gravel overhead. Careful to keep his movement very slow and steady, he rotated his neck in that direction. A coil of rope flew off the clifftop and fell just his side of the last crevice. Due to the overhanging rock, the intruding rope didn’t actually touch his. It ran perpendicular to it about two inches out. That overlap was a major breach of both safety and etiquette, as was tossing a coil without first shouting, “Rope!”
“Hey!” Ries shouted. “You’re not alone on this rock.”
That was another downside to his unusual approach. Some inexperienced climbers, seeing no other lines clipped to the bolt up top, assumed they had the cliff to themselves.
He waited a beat for “Sorry!” but it didn’t come.
The climber, however, did.
He backed off over the edge and started to descend. His sk
in was dark, although whether Asian or African or spray-tanned, Ries couldn’t tell. Perhaps the oblivious bastard didn’t speak English.
The intruder rappelled down until Ries’s rope was at his eye level. Then he stopped, secured his own rope, and looked over. Had he just been surprised by the sight of Ries’s line? Perhaps he was deaf.
“You need to shout ‘Rope!’ before throwing. What you did is very dangerous for your fellow climbers. And you can’t have your line crossing mine. You’re going to have to reposition.”
The man stayed silent while he studied Ries. With his helmet and sunglasses, Ries couldn’t tell if there was comprehension on the climber’s face, but his mouth didn’t appear particularly apologetic.
“Do you understand?” Ries pressed, using his head to gesture ever so slightly toward the rope. “It’s very dangerous.” Surely his starfish stance said it all.
The man grabbed Ries’s rope in his left hand.
“No, no! That’s not what I meant! Don’t touch my rope!”
While Ries watched in horror, the man pulled a box cutter from his webbing. One of those wicked looking ones with a hooked handle and locking blade. He put it to Ries’s rope and severed the multi-strand with a single forceful swipe. There was nothing Ries could do to stop him. Clinging to the rock demanded all his strength and focus.
As the trailing tail of Ries’s rope slid back along his path like a retreating snake, making that whispery zippy sound, Ries turned away from the man and locked his eyes on the next crack. His salvation. It was still a good four feet from his grasp. You’ve done this before, dozens of times. You don’t need the rope. His hands were sweaty but he hesitated to reach for his chalk. Still, that was the smart move, and this was the time to be—
A tug ripped Ries from the rock face.
The man had pulled Ries’s rope.
As he fell into his favorite view and eternal resting place, Ries screamed his last thought. “Why?”
