FREY IS AT MY DOOR EXACTLY AN HOUR AND A HALF later. I have coffee brewing and a couple of hamburgers in the microwave. I picked them up on the way home. Panthers are, after all, carnivores.
I set them on the kitchen table.
Frey eyes the burger. "Thanks. I'm starved."
I take the seat opposite him and watch as he eats. Makes my salivary glands jump into overdrive. I do miss a good burger. And chocolate.
But I'm stalling.
Frey seems to know it. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me over his coffee mug. "So. What's up?"
Now that he's here and asking, I'm not sure how to begin.
"It's about your son."
Frey lowers the mug, alarm tightening the lines around his mouth. "What about my son?"
"I thought no one knew of his existence."
"No one does. Outside of this room."
I push at his plate. "I meteone this morning who does."
The alarm in Frey's expression escalates. His hands crush the napkin into a ball. "Who?"
When I tell him of Chael, who he is and how he orchestrated the challenge that resulted in Lance's death, the alarm becomes fear. "Why would he talk to you about my son? Was he threatening him? Threatening you?"
"No. Not at all. In fact, he said he meant your son no harm. He said the Keeper of the Secrets was a revered position in the supernatural community. I think he was sincere." As sincere as Chael was capable of being anyway.
"So then why mention him?"
Here's the tricky part. I tell Frey about our conversation. About the shaman who could supposedly restore a vampire to mortal state. About how this miracle worker lived on the same reservation as Frey's son.
When I finish, Frey is quiet. He's slouched against the back of the chair, eyes downcast, as if trying to distance himself from me. I don't blame him. I seem to bring nothing but trouble.
I let a moment pass and another and when his silence presses on, I break it with, "A shaman who can restore mortality. Is such a thing possible?"
He raises his eyes. "Does it matter?"
"Truthfully, I'm not sure."
Frey looks up. "Then what do you want to do?"
"I think we should go to the village. Check on your son."
"I thought you said you believed that Chael meant him no harm?"
"I did. I do. Still-"
"You don't completely trust him, do you?"
"No."
Icy resolve narrows Frey's eyes. "And you want to check this shaman out."
"Yes."
"When do you want to go?"
"When can you go?"
"Today was the last day of summer school. I have two weeks before I have to prepare for fall classes. How about tomorrow morning?"
"I can have the jet ready to go anytime you are."
He shakes his head. "We'll drive."
He's already risen from the table. I do, too. "Drive?"
"It's a beautiful part of the country. Ever been there?"
I shake my head.
"No time like the present to appreciate it."
"Do you want to drive or shall I?"
Frey slips the black-framed, amber-lensed glasses over his eyes. "I'll drive. See you in the morning."
I SPEND A RESTLESS NIGHT. PLEASANT THOUGHTS OF how my life would change if I became mortal again ricochet around in my head until I'm dizzy with it. Chief among them is the kind of life I could have with someone like Stephen. I could go with him on assignment and not risk someone noticing that I cast no reflection or don't seem to eat anything. I could visit my parents anytime I want. Take Trisha shopping and not have to avoid mirrors. Simple things. Little things.
But the responsibility Irivd accepted as the Chosen One beats its own counterpoint. Chael would not offer a gift unless he was the one benefiting from it. And if he benefits from it, all those pleasant scenarios might become very short-lived. The world as we know it would cease to exist.
I glance at the clock.
Six a.m.
Obviously, sleep isn't in the cards for me.
I roll out of bed.
I'm strangely excited about this trip. Partly for the obvious reasons. Partly because I'm going to meet Frey's son and the mother of his child. Partly because for the first time in a year I'll actually have a say in what happens to me.
Frey said he had to stop by school this morning and turn in his grades so we should be on the road by ten. All I have to do is throw some clothes in a duffle and I'm ready to go. Living mostly in jeans and T-shirts makes packing a snap. I haul the duffle downstairs and leave it by the front door. Time for coffee.
Frey dropped a map by early last night. It's spread out on the kitchen table and I study it while waiting for the coffee. I've never been to Monument Valley. Our proposed route is marked with yellow highlighter. We'll start out on Highway 8-not the most scenic route, Frey explained, but the fastest. Counting gas and food stops, we should make it in fourteen or fifteen hours.
Frey is excited about the trip, too. I'm not sure how long it's been since he's seen his kid. He won't tell me, but I have a feeling it's been quite a while. And though he'd never admit it, the timing is perfect. This is just the diversion he needs to take his mind off Layla. For a few days at least.
The pesky sense that I'm to blame for Frey's breakup with Layla rushes back. I'd probably feel worse if I thought she was right for him. It irks me that during that long weekend he and I spent together, the weekend most likely responsible for Layla's leaving, Frey had been a faithful monogamous partner.
She doesn't deserve him.
Probably something I should be careful about bringing up on our road trip.
I refold the map, lay it on top of the duffle by the door and return to the kitchen to fill a mug. I tick things off a mental checklist-
David knows I'll be gone for a few days. He's fine with it. He didn't mention trying to contact Judith Williams or find the twins. Hopefully, he's so relieved to have passed the first series of tests, and to be able to resume his sex life, he's content to let it go for now. I was afraid to ask.
I talked with Stephen. Let him know I was going out of town, too, for a couple of days. I tell him it's work, since I don't want to go into details. His voice is full of the excitement of preparing for his first big network shot. I'm smiling when I ring off.
Tracey's sister is doing much better. I caught snippets of the press conference on last night's news. Tracey was terrific. What witnesses thought they saw was explained by adrenaline and hysteria. The bottom line-no charges. Case closed.
There have been a couple of telephone calls left by reporters requesting interviews but as other more pressing stories arise, mine will be quickly forgotten.
Harris hasn't called back again, either.
So far, so good.
Coffee mug drained, coippets pot emptied, counter wiped. I'm ready to go. It's fifteen minutes to ten. I'm fidgeting like a kid with a sugar rush. I want to get out of here before the next disaster strikes. Everything that's happened in the last few days either started with a telephone call or an uninvited guest. Here. In my home. It's a disturbing trend.
Gathering my stuff, I lock up and head for the street. Better to meet Frey out on Mission.
I realize standing on the curb that I have no idea what kind of vehicle Frey will be driving. I picture a sedan, white or maybe gray, four doors, medium size. Something sedate, befitting a schoolteacher in his forties who is just now taking to the streets on his own.
When the bright red Jeep Wrangler slides up to me, my first impulse is to wave it on. Then I peer inside. Frey is looking back at me. He has sunglasses on his face and a Padres baseball cap on his head. He's dressed in a pair of floral print board shorts and a navy blue tee with the Quiksilver Mountain and Wave logo on the front. He's got leather huaraches on bare feet. He looks very much at home behind the wheel of the Wrangler, and it takes me a second to adjust to this new surfer-dude image.
I toss my bag in the back beside his. "Wow." I slip into the front seat. "When you go native, you don't fool around."
He puts the Jeep in gear and pulls into traffic while I'm still adjusting the seat belt. When it clicks into place, I turn in the seat to look at him. "When did you get a Jeep?"
He works the gears smoothly, maneuvering through busy midmorning traffic as we head for the freeway on-ramp. "A week or so ago."
The top of the Jeep is open; only roll bars separate Frey and me from a glorious summer sky. A breeze ruffles my hair and I push it out of my eyes, wishing I had a cap like Frey's to tame it.
As if privy to my thoughts, he reaches behind his seat and without taking his eyes off the road, pulls out a second Padres cap. "Need this?"
I answer with a grin and coaxing breeze-blown strands behind my ears, I pull the cap down over my forehead.
Then I relax back in the seat. I knew Frey could drive, I just didn't know he could drive this well. He's always had a driver. Or that he would enjoy driving so much. He steals a sideways glance at me every once in a while, I think just to see if I notice. I do. I settle in to let him have his fun.
