Mary Wilson - Discovering Duncan

“You watch yourself driving on that highway,” Rusty said. “And watch your back in Vegas.”

“I intend to,” Duncan said as he pulled his watch cap out of his pocket and put it on. Then he left. Through the windows, Lauren saw him stride across to the new SUV he’d gone to earlier.

He was leaving, going to Las Vegas, and she couldn’t follow him. She couldn’t get outside fast enough to get to her car and trail him. And she didn’t think, even if she could, that it would be a good idea. She didn’t know where he was going, but she knew he’d be back here on Thursday by five. Three days, days she could use to figure out how to approach him, how to get close enough to find out more about him and, in the end, get him to go back where he belonged.

She watched him stop just as he was about to go around the front of the SUV, turn and look back up the street. She twisted to see what he was looking at and saw the same kids who had made a commotion earlier. A gang of kids with time on their hands and money enough to get into trouble.

Three of them broke away from the main group of six or seven, and caught up with a girl who was probably in her late teens, very tiny and pretty, in a bright pink skiing outfit. The three were yelling at her, laughing uproariously, catching up quickly. She was obviously trying to ignore them, but she didn’t make it past Rusty’s before they were on her, circling her like a pack of hyenas right near Duncan and the SUV.

One of the guys, wearing loose, hanging pants, ski boots and a bulky down jacket, made a grab for her arm to stop her. He caught her by the sleeve, pulling her back and spinning her around. Even through the glass, Lauren heard her say, “Just let go of me, you creep!”

The other two were laughing, blocking her way if she tried to keep going. Then things changed. The one who had a hold on the girl moved backward, but not of his own volition. Duncan was there with a handful of the guy’s jacket, pulling him away from the girl as if he weighed nothing. The kid turned, his hand balled into a fist, then reconsidered doing something drastic when he found himself facing Duncan, who was a good eight inches taller than him. He twisted, and Duncan let him go, and when one of the other two started to say something, he hushed his friend with a slap on the kid’s upper arm.

Duncan was talking, his voice so low she couldn’t hear it at all, but the boys heard it. Duncan’s expression was unreadable, giving away nothing. Not anger, not disgust, or even aggression, but Lauren waited for something to explode. It never did.

Instead, Duncan was leaning toward the ring leader, using his size the way his father did. He got close, and all three of the hoodlums backed up, shook their heads in unison and, quite remarkably, walked away…quickly, without looking back once. The girl was watching them with wide eyes, then looked up at Duncan, touched his arm. Lauren could see her cheeks were flushed as she spoke to him.

Duncan shook his head as he said something to her, then, with a nod, he went back to his SUV. But he didn’t get in. He went around it and kept walking across the street, to the far side, and disappeared from sight. Dusk was approaching. Old-fashioned lamps lined the street and flashed to life. Twinkling Christmas lights framed display windows and outlined rooflines.

“Here you go,” someone said, and Lauren looked up at the waitress who was putting a take-out container on the table. “Anything else for you tonight?”

“No, no thanks,” she said.

“Thanks for coming in,” the waitress said, laying the bill on top of the take-out carton. Lauren paid and left. Stepping out into the chilly twilight, she hurried down the street to her rental car. Once she got the heat going she sat and ate the sandwich.

Duncan Bishop had walked off without his car. One of the charges on his personal credit card had been for Silver Creek Hotel. She’d looked it up, expecting to find a luxury hotel, but she’d been wrong. It was the original hotel in the town, built back in the 1800s, with only twenty rooms in all, and the charges had been recurring, every two weeks. From the address, she’d mapped it as two blocks north of Rusty’s. If he was on foot, chances were, he’d gone there. She wouldn’t attempt to watch him again. Not tonight.

She looked up the street to the north, where more lights were flashing to life. Ski slopes were defined by climbing brilliance on the west, some close and some a lot farther away. As the heat built to a comfortable level in the car, she mulled over everything she’d seen, heard and found out today. Nibbling on her sandwich, she let the facts settle and she gradually formulated a plan.

She started humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath as she pushed the napkins into the carryout box, then put the car in gear and tipped the vents so the warm air touched her face. She had the ten o’clock return flight, but she wasn’t going to make it. She had to see a few more things, then she could head back to Las Vegas. She got on the cell phone, had enough signal to get her call through and pushed her flight reservation back to midnight. Then she drove away from the curb and headed north.

She spotted the hotel on the left as she drove. It was a three-story brick building, with a steeply pitched roof. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls downstairs, and broader windows overlooked the street from the second floor. There was a parking area to the right, and white twinkling lights framed the entry with its half-wood and half-glass door. A sign was hung above the door: The Silver Creek Hotel, Est. 1858. Another sign in a front window seemed jarringly modern and announced Vacancies.

She kept driving, out of the older part of town, into a newer, more developed area. She passed a cluster of restaurants, then the public ski lifts. There was snow on the slopes, but nowhere else. The talk at the coffee shop had been complaints about no snow, how late the season was and how unsatisfactory it was skiing on machine-made snow. The shops at the foot of the lifts were closed, as well.

She kept driving up the street lined with small cabins and homes, and headed into a more upscale area. Here, the shops were high end, the restaurants fancy, and estates were hidden behind massive security gates and high fences. She could see some homes built up the mountains, their lights cutting through the growing darkness.

She turned to follow a bend in the road and the lights from the ski slopes were glowing into the night sky. She saw what she thought was a street to her left, with soft pillar lights framing it, and a wide, sweeping turnoff. But as she got closer, she could see it was an elaborate security entrance.

The pavement was made of cobbled stones, leading up to a lit gatehouse with a security guard standing by, watching the road. Behind him were six-foot-high carved wooden gates hung on massive stone pillars. Carriage lights lit the way and showed just a portion of the stone wall that ran off to the right and left. A rock arch swept over the top of the gates and, illuminated by hidden lights, brass letters spelled out The Inn at Silver Creek.

The place was completely blocked by gates, fences and the guard who looked in her direction when he heard her car approaching. When he saw she was in a cheap import, he lost interest and went back to looking at a pad of paper he had in his hand. Lauren drove a bit farther, never finding the end of the high stone fence, and never finding any life outside of it, either. She finally turned and retraced her route. When she got to the resort’s entry it was dark, and she watched as a low black sports car cut in front of her to get to the gates.

She slowed, watching the guard walk up to the driver’s window, glance inside, then wave the car through. The gates opened slowly, and for a moment Lauren could see beyond the barriers. She caught a glimpse of a lit road heading into the compound, going toward a series of sprawling buildings. Beyond, ski slopes glowed in the darkness.