Less than twenty minutes later, she came out of the vast empty reaches
of the bleak Mojave onto Las Vegas Boulevard South, where the neon
shimmered across the rain-mirrored road in waves of purple, pink, red,
green, and gold. Pulling up to the front doors of the Bally’s Grand,
she almost wept with relief when she saw the bellmen, valet-parking
attendants, and a few hotel guests standing under the porte cochere.
For hours on the interstate, the passing cars had seemed untenanted in
the storm-obscured night, so it was wonderful to see people again, even
if they were all strangers.
At first, Rachael hesitated to leave the Mercedes with a valet-parking
attendant because the precious Wildcard file was in a garbage bag on the
floor behind the driver’s seat. But she decided that no one was likely
to steal a garbage bag, especially not one full of creased and crumpled
papers. Besides, it would be safer with the valet than parked in the
public lot. She left the car in his care and took a claim check for it.
She had mostly recovered from the twist she’d given her ankle when
running from Eric. The claw punctures in her calf throbbed and burned,
although those wounds felt better, too. She entered the hotel with only
a slight limp.
For a moment, she was almost thrown into shock by the contrast between
the stormy night behind her and the excitement of the casino. It was a
glittery world of crystal chandeliers, velvet, brocade, plush carpets,
marble, polished brass, and green felt, where the sound of wind and rain
could not be heard above the roar of voices exhorting Lady Luck, the
ringing of slot machines, and the raucous music of a pop-rock band in
the lounge.
Gradually Rachael became uncomfortably aware that her appearance made
her an object of curiosity in these surroundings. Of course, not
everyone-not even a majority of the clienteledressed elegantly for a
night of drinking, nightclub shows, and gambling. Women in cocktail
dresses and men in fine suits were common, but others were dressed more
casually, some in polyester leisure suits, some in jeans and sports
shirts. However, none of them wore a torn and soiled blouse (as she
did), and none of them wore jeans that looked as if they might have just
been through a rodeo contest (as she did), and none of them boasted
filthy sneakers with blackened laces and one sole half torn off from
scrambling up and down arroyo walls (as she did), and none of them was
dirty-faced and stringy-haired (as she was). She had to assume that,
even in the escapist world of Vegas, people watched some TV news and
might recognize her as the infamous traitor and fugitive wanted
throughout the Southwest. The last thing she needed was to call
attention to herself. Fortunately, gamblers are a single-minded group,
more intent upon their wagering than upon the need to breathe, and few
of them even glanced up from their games to look at her, none looked
twice.
She hurried around the perimeter of the casino to the public telephones,
which were in an alcove where the casino noise faded to a soft roar. She
called information for Whitney Gavis’s number. He answered on the first
ring. Rather breathlessly she said, “I’m sorry, you don’t know me, my
name’s Rachael-” “Ben’s Rachael?” he interrupted.
“Yes,” she said, surprised.
“I know you, know all about you.” He had a voice amazingly like
Benny’s, calm and measured and reassuring. “And I just heard the news
an hour ago, that n’dicJous damn story about defense secrets. What a
crock. Anybody who knows Benny wouldn’t believe it for a second. I
don’t know what’s going on, but I figured you guys would be coming my
way if you needed to go to ground for a while.”
“He’s not with me, but he sent me to you,” Rachael explained.
“Say no more. Just tell me where you are.
“The Grand.”
“It’s eight o’clock. I’ll be there by eight-ten. Don’t go wandering
around. They have so much surveillance in those casinos you’re bound to
be on a monitor somewhere if you go onto the floor, and maybe one of the