okay. You're going to this place because of that spy business, aren't you?"
"Not another word about that," she said between her teeth, and to the attendant who approached them, "Fill it."
Grabbing Serafin's shoulder, she began to march him toward the service station.
"Don't get sore," he said, and his expression undermined the toughness she knew she should mus ter. It told her better than words that he was afraid of being alone. He was afraid of losing her. Maybe he was even afraid her promises wouldn't be kept.
She shoved him toward the men's room.
"Go run water over your head. Lots of it."
When he returned, she handed him a cold canned soft drink.
"You going to send me back?" he asked, his voice subdued.
"No," she said. She'd thought it over. Having Rundell come down to get him would cause more commotion than she wanted right now, and maybe a child's need for security had to count for more than logic in this case. "But don't you ever, ever pull anything like this again. Do you hear me?"
He nodded meekly.
"I can help you set up your props and stuff. I didn't mash anything."
They walked back toward the Jeep. Out on the highway a car pulled off and meandered slowly by to stop at a curio stand a few hundred yards away. Channing frowned. It was brown with a vinyl roof. A small Cadillac. She'd swear it had been behind her when she'd left Los Angeles. She'd liked the color.
"Think there's something wrong with that car?" asked the boy beside her.
She recoiled slightly, irritated that her face had betrayed her thoughts. Serafin read people quickly. It was unnerving.
"Not a thing," she said. But the prowler two nights ago, on top of what she was about to do, made her edgy. "If you want to try reading my mind," she said, climbing into the Jeep again, "try guessing the lessons I'm assigning you for tomorrow. I helped tutor a free-lance photographer's son last year. I have a fair idea what a kid your age is supposed to be learning."
He gave her a somber, unruffled smile. She checked the license plate of the brown car as she passed it. Final digits: 321. Then they made their way through the hot afternoon toward Palacio Sol.
It was a high-priced resort carved out of the des ert. Three pools. Tennis courts. Golf and horseback riding. Palm trees and irrigated flower beds made the grounds that housed it an oasis. There was an outdoor art exhibit, and music wafted from one of the numerous lounges. The nearest town was a wide spot ten miles away. Closer to the resort, a few dusty paths suggested an occasional private dwell ing lost somewhere in the scrub beyond. Before they had even finished registering, an assistant manager came bounding out to welcome Channing .
"We're so pleased you could fill in for the gentleman who was booked here," he burbled, taking her hand. "A terrible tragedy."
More than you'll ever know, thought Channing. For whatever Yussuf had become, he had been good once.
"I didn't realize you had an assistant," the man ager said. His name was Wilbur. He was bald on top but preening for her all the same. With a look of concern at Serafin , he leaned closer to her. "Is he old enough to be in the club?"
"I'm a midget," said Serafin , deadpan.
"Oh." Wilbur's face turned red.
Channing closed her eyes to hide their rolling.
"Well. We've put you in one of our bungalows. Gives our entertainers a little more privacy, we've found." He gestured gallantly after her luggage.
"I'll be along in a minute," said Channing. "I for got something in the car."
Wilbur wasn't her type, and she wanted to study the layout of this sprawling complex. As she turned, a man on one of the lobby couches cracked open a newspaper. Paranoia, noticing that, she told herself angrily. There was no reason she should think he'd been watching her. Maybe her nerves weren't steady enough for this job.
Outside, just to reassure herself that she was growing over-imaginative, she scanned the parking lot. There it was, at the opposite end
"Not another word about that," she said between her teeth, and to the attendant who approached them, "Fill it."
Grabbing Serafin's shoulder, she began to march him toward the service station.
"Don't get sore," he said, and his expression undermined the toughness she knew she should mus ter. It told her better than words that he was afraid of being alone. He was afraid of losing her. Maybe he was even afraid her promises wouldn't be kept.
She shoved him toward the men's room.
"Go run water over your head. Lots of it."
When he returned, she handed him a cold canned soft drink.
"You going to send me back?" he asked, his voice subdued.
"No," she said. She'd thought it over. Having Rundell come down to get him would cause more commotion than she wanted right now, and maybe a child's need for security had to count for more than logic in this case. "But don't you ever, ever pull anything like this again. Do you hear me?"
He nodded meekly.
"I can help you set up your props and stuff. I didn't mash anything."
They walked back toward the Jeep. Out on the highway a car pulled off and meandered slowly by to stop at a curio stand a few hundred yards away. Channing frowned. It was brown with a vinyl roof. A small Cadillac. She'd swear it had been behind her when she'd left Los Angeles. She'd liked the color.
"Think there's something wrong with that car?" asked the boy beside her.
She recoiled slightly, irritated that her face had betrayed her thoughts. Serafin read people quickly. It was unnerving.
"Not a thing," she said. But the prowler two nights ago, on top of what she was about to do, made her edgy. "If you want to try reading my mind," she said, climbing into the Jeep again, "try guessing the lessons I'm assigning you for tomorrow. I helped tutor a free-lance photographer's son last year. I have a fair idea what a kid your age is supposed to be learning."
He gave her a somber, unruffled smile. She checked the license plate of the brown car as she passed it. Final digits: 321. Then they made their way through the hot afternoon toward Palacio Sol.
It was a high-priced resort carved out of the des ert. Three pools. Tennis courts. Golf and horseback riding. Palm trees and irrigated flower beds made the grounds that housed it an oasis. There was an outdoor art exhibit, and music wafted from one of the numerous lounges. The nearest town was a wide spot ten miles away. Closer to the resort, a few dusty paths suggested an occasional private dwell ing lost somewhere in the scrub beyond. Before they had even finished registering, an assistant manager came bounding out to welcome Channing .
"We're so pleased you could fill in for the gentleman who was booked here," he burbled, taking her hand. "A terrible tragedy."
More than you'll ever know, thought Channing. For whatever Yussuf had become, he had been good once.
"I didn't realize you had an assistant," the man ager said. His name was Wilbur. He was bald on top but preening for her all the same. With a look of concern at Serafin , he leaned closer to her. "Is he old enough to be in the club?"
"I'm a midget," said Serafin , deadpan.
"Oh." Wilbur's face turned red.
Channing closed her eyes to hide their rolling.
"Well. We've put you in one of our bungalows. Gives our entertainers a little more privacy, we've found." He gestured gallantly after her luggage.
"I'll be along in a minute," said Channing. "I for got something in the car."
Wilbur wasn't her type, and she wanted to study the layout of this sprawling complex. As she turned, a man on one of the lobby couches cracked open a newspaper. Paranoia, noticing that, she told herself angrily. There was no reason she should think he'd been watching her. Maybe her nerves weren't steady enough for this job.
Outside, just to reassure herself that she was growing over-imaginative, she scanned the parking lot. There it was, at the opposite end
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