sweetness and light. Eating to calm her nerves, she gathered her strength, called him, then told him off in explicit terms. It felt good! Unfortunately, she was suddenly back over 200. After a steady diet she was down to 185—holding steady.
Nate placed the club soda in front of her, along with a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of chips. Patricia pushed the bowls aside, took out a picture of Brittany Newel, laid it on the countertop.
Nate turned it around, studied it. "Yeah, I've seen her before."
Surprised by his honesty, she took out her notebook. "When?"
Nate shrugged. "Don't remember. Maybe a week ago. Maybe two weeks ago."
"Yesterday?"
Nate actually appeared to be thinking. "This is weird."
"Go on."
"I don't work nights here. I work at Barry's…a little nothing place, but you wouldn't believe the tips."
Patricia nodded as she wrote.
"It's a workingman's bar. Not like this." He screwed up his face in concentration. "I'm not sure. But she might have been there last night."
Patricia almost choked on an ice cube. "I see." Calm, girl. "About what time did you see her?"
"I'm not even sure if it was last night. I see a lot of people. I don't trust my memory." Nate paused. "You know, I'll be at the counter there at ten tonight. Why don't you come down and I'll introduce you around."
He gave her the address. She thanked him, said she'd be there at ten.
Suddenly sweating bullets. Moist armpits. Good thing her deodorant was holding. She wiped her face with a napkin. Sand and dirt blacked the pristine white paper. She knew she was filthy. She was embarrassed.
"I need a shower."
He cleared his throat. "You live far from here?"
She eyed him. "Why?"
"Dinner at eight?" He smiled boyishly. "I know a great Italian buffet, better than anything you can get on the Strip."
In other words, she looked like a woman who'd eat.
Patricia said, "How about tomorrow?" By then I will have run you through NCIC . "I still have work to do tonight."
Nate smiled wattage. "Tomorrow would be great!"
She took a final swig of her club soda. "Thanks for your help, Nate. Do you have a last name?"
"Oh sure. Malealani." He spelled it.
"And where do you live?"
He gave her his address, along with his phone number. Shyly, he said, "I gave you mine. Can I have yours?"
"In due time. I'll see you tonight at Barry's."
"Yeah! Great!"
The guy looked downright goofy. Of course, the costume didn't help.
She stifled a smile.
He seemed rather innocent…dare she say it, unspoiled. Now, it could be an act. Yet he projected the genuine article. But that was Vegas—a mixture of predator and prey. And even she, as cynical as she was, had trouble telling the teams without a score card.
EIGHT
E XERCISE. EXORCISE.
Stomping furiously on the treadmill, sweat dripping down— pouring down—as if her entire face were crying. Her wet palms were barely able to hold on to the handgrips. In a minute, they'd slip off and she'd go flying into space. Off the belt and into a wall like some Hollywood slapstick stunt. So as long as she could, she pumped her legs, running aslant on the instrument's full tilt. She felt it in every vertebra of her backbone.
To keep her mind off the pain, Alison thought of her research. The green book. All the answers were there if she'd just take the time to look in it. If she could only get off this blasted treadmill and concentrate on her research.
It drove her crazy. To have to run. But she did it because she was too afraid not to do it. If she stopped, terrible things might happen. The nasty voices could come back. The horrid visions might return—flashing images of blood and guts and sticky stuff. They never came when she was busy. Why leave anything to chance?
Running.
Running to nowhere.
An adequate assessment of her life.
To run, run, run without any fun, fun, fun.
But she stopped short of bludgeoning herself. She had come so far. It used to be that the fear kept her in bed almost twentyfour hours a day. Steve had to
Nate placed the club soda in front of her, along with a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of chips. Patricia pushed the bowls aside, took out a picture of Brittany Newel, laid it on the countertop.
Nate turned it around, studied it. "Yeah, I've seen her before."
Surprised by his honesty, she took out her notebook. "When?"
Nate shrugged. "Don't remember. Maybe a week ago. Maybe two weeks ago."
"Yesterday?"
Nate actually appeared to be thinking. "This is weird."
"Go on."
"I don't work nights here. I work at Barry's…a little nothing place, but you wouldn't believe the tips."
Patricia nodded as she wrote.
"It's a workingman's bar. Not like this." He screwed up his face in concentration. "I'm not sure. But she might have been there last night."
Patricia almost choked on an ice cube. "I see." Calm, girl. "About what time did you see her?"
"I'm not even sure if it was last night. I see a lot of people. I don't trust my memory." Nate paused. "You know, I'll be at the counter there at ten tonight. Why don't you come down and I'll introduce you around."
He gave her the address. She thanked him, said she'd be there at ten.
Suddenly sweating bullets. Moist armpits. Good thing her deodorant was holding. She wiped her face with a napkin. Sand and dirt blacked the pristine white paper. She knew she was filthy. She was embarrassed.
"I need a shower."
He cleared his throat. "You live far from here?"
She eyed him. "Why?"
"Dinner at eight?" He smiled boyishly. "I know a great Italian buffet, better than anything you can get on the Strip."
In other words, she looked like a woman who'd eat.
Patricia said, "How about tomorrow?" By then I will have run you through NCIC . "I still have work to do tonight."
Nate smiled wattage. "Tomorrow would be great!"
She took a final swig of her club soda. "Thanks for your help, Nate. Do you have a last name?"
"Oh sure. Malealani." He spelled it.
"And where do you live?"
He gave her his address, along with his phone number. Shyly, he said, "I gave you mine. Can I have yours?"
"In due time. I'll see you tonight at Barry's."
"Yeah! Great!"
The guy looked downright goofy. Of course, the costume didn't help.
She stifled a smile.
He seemed rather innocent…dare she say it, unspoiled. Now, it could be an act. Yet he projected the genuine article. But that was Vegas—a mixture of predator and prey. And even she, as cynical as she was, had trouble telling the teams without a score card.
EIGHT
E XERCISE. EXORCISE.
Stomping furiously on the treadmill, sweat dripping down— pouring down—as if her entire face were crying. Her wet palms were barely able to hold on to the handgrips. In a minute, they'd slip off and she'd go flying into space. Off the belt and into a wall like some Hollywood slapstick stunt. So as long as she could, she pumped her legs, running aslant on the instrument's full tilt. She felt it in every vertebra of her backbone.
To keep her mind off the pain, Alison thought of her research. The green book. All the answers were there if she'd just take the time to look in it. If she could only get off this blasted treadmill and concentrate on her research.
It drove her crazy. To have to run. But she did it because she was too afraid not to do it. If she stopped, terrible things might happen. The nasty voices could come back. The horrid visions might return—flashing images of blood and guts and sticky stuff. They never came when she was busy. Why leave anything to chance?
Running.
Running to nowhere.
An adequate assessment of her life.
To run, run, run without any fun, fun, fun.
But she stopped short of bludgeoning herself. She had come so far. It used to be that the fear kept her in bed almost twentyfour hours a day. Steve had to
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