Eternal Journey. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ From here she was going home to New York, where she would put the polish on the fringe piece, as it had been labeled. Two days after that she’d be on a flight to Peru for her next assignment.

      Fossils of five-foot-tall penguins with long spearlike beaks had been found in the mountains, dating back forty million years. Her producer postulated that there was a link between the giant penguins and odd-sized skeletons with overlarge craniums that came from much later periods. “Mutant Creatures of the Peaks,” Doug intended to call the segment. She suppressed a giggle.

      She threw a towel over her shoulder, snugged into the only pair of jeans she’d brought and stuck her wallet in the back pocket; out of habit she never left her money in her hotel room. She slipped into her flip-flops, which she made a mental note to toss when she was done rather than repack them, and headed out, pausing in front of the mirror. It amazed her that she could look this good given the way she often stuffed herself silly. But then lately the problem had been keeping her weight up; she was so active, between jetting here and there for Chasing History’s Monsters and fighting the assorted clusters of toughs she’d encountered since inheriting Joan of Arc’s sword. She tucked her hair behind her ears. Dark brown, it glistened in the sunlight streaming through her hotel room window. She remembered how pale it used to make her look, contrasting sharply with her then-scholar’s complexion. Now her skin was ruddy from all the hours outdoors, and her white bikini top made her look even more tanned.

      “I look pretty good.” Annja, for once, wasn’t embarrassed to admit it.

      Maybe Oliver was up finally and would join her for a dip. If he wasn’t awake, she’d roust him and drag him along. No use her being the only one with something sodden in the suitcase.

      She took the stairs again, this time at a slow pace, as she didn’t want to stub her toes or catch her flip-flops on the metal strips edging each step. She knocked louder at his door this time.

      “Come on, Ollie.” A pause. “Ollie!”

      She let out a sigh, the air whistling between her teeth.

      Oliver wasn’t the best of company, but still…breakfast alone, a swim alone. A swim would benefit him more than her. She pounded on the door, then after a moment tried the knob.

      The mechanism that registered the keycard had been sprung, and the door opened.

      “Ollie?”

      Annja stared at the spotless, empty room.

      The bed was made, as if he hadn’t slept in it. No suitcase, no mussed towels in the bathroom.

      Her breath hissed out. So he’d taken the red-eye back with the others. A seat must have opened up. He could have told her, though, she thought angrily.

      “You should have told me,” she said, shaking her head. But she knew Ollie wasn’t the most considerate sort. An excellent cameraman, he was less than excellent in the social department.

      “Breakfast alone, swim alone. Fine.” Annja stepped back into the hall and was about to close the door when something caught her notice. She pushed the door wide and tiptoed in, nearly tripping when her flip-flops caught in the thick carpet.

      There, at the foot of the bed, near the hem of the quilt, was a spot of blood.

      3

      It’s probably nothing, Annja told herself. But the hairs on her arm prickled and indicated otherwise. She crept around Oliver’s room and this time eyed everything in a more careful light.

      Yes, the bed was made. But there was a crease in the middle that a good hotel maid would have smoothed flat. The chair by the lamp had been moved from its usual spot because the depressions in the carpet showed where it usually rested. The lamp shade was slightly askew, too.

      Annja sniffed the air, finding only the smell of cigarettes and a touch of flowery spray that the cleaning staff no doubt used to help mask the smell of cigarettes.

      She looked in the bathroom. Not a single rumpled towel, and the glasses were turned upside down on doilies, as if Ollie hadn’t used them. No toothbrush by the sink, no razor, no toiletry bag. No smudges on the faucet or mirror. No heavy towel on the floor to act as a bath mat, and no spots of water anywhere that would indicate someone had used the room recently. She pushed aside the shower curtain and saw that the tub was dry. The sink basin was dry, too, evidence to her that Ollie hadn’t been in here for at least a few hours.

      Annja sucked in a breath and went to the closet. It was empty, too, save for a fluffy white robe, an ironing board propped up against the back wall and an iron and extra feather pillow on the top shelf. Next she checked the drawers, not sure why she was doing this, and all the while trying to tell herself that indeed Oliver had caught the red-eye.

      Telling herself that the blood spot was nothing.

      “Oliver’s just fine,” she said. Then she noticed that one of the knobs was missing from the television.

      “I’m operating on too wild an imagination and too little sleep. That’s all.” But her words weren’t working to quell her rising fears. She reached for the phone and called the front desk. “Hello. Has Oliver Vylan checked out? Room 312? No? Thanks.”

      She slapped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Just call Oliver,” she said. Annja knew his cell phone number by heart and quickly punched the buttons. One ring. Two. “C’mon, Oliver. Answer.”

      If he was on the plane, maybe he couldn’t, she thought. At certain times some airlines wouldn’t let you use your cell phone. They’d flown American. She’d remembered using her cell phone all the time on American flights.

      Eight rings. His voice mail message came on.

      “Oliver, this is Annja. Call me.” She let her voice sound urgent, so he’d return the call right away. She’d have to go up to her room and grab her cell phone in case he did call.

      She depressed the switch hook and started dialing Doug Morrell. Halfway through, she stopped. The time difference, she thought. “To hell with the hours.” She finished the number and let the phone ring, then left another message when an answering machine kicked in. “Doug, this is Annja. Has Oliver checked in with you? Call me, please.”

      The blood spot could be something.

      She called the front desk again. “Hello. Would you please contact the police.” Annja didn’t know the Sydney equivalent of 911, or she would have handled that herself. “Send them up here as soon they arrive. And send someone from hotel security now, to Oliver Vylan’s room. Yes, room 312. I believe something…bad…has happened to him.” She replaced the phone in the cradle, ignoring the questions of the now nervous front-desk woman.

      Had Oliver gone pub-crawling? she wondered.

      He’d mentioned that possibility at dinner last night. Had he gotten himself into trouble at one of the bars? Had he come back bloodied from being on the receiving end of someone’s fist? That might explain the blood spot. But it wouldn’t explain his absence. While her cameraman wasn’t the politest of fellows, she hadn’t known him to be the type to get into a brawl, nor was he the type to drink to excess. But then how well did she know him? They’d worked together for several months, but never socialized more than sharing meals after shoots. He had family in New York, she recalled from conversations, two sisters, and he had a fiancée he mentioned often. СКАЧАТЬ