Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [8]
But none of that was the reason she intrigued him.
It was some quality in her eyes, her face, something that lay behind her quick smile and bright demeanor. Something like ... desperation.
And as he recalled from one of his many English classes, the root word of desperation was despair.
3
Elizabeth emerged from the lobby into the balmy night, sure that Cray would be moving fast, nearly out of sight.
But he surprised her. He stood at the railing, absorbed in the view of the city.
She stopped outside the door, once again at a loss for anything inconspicuous to do.
Damn. She just wasn’t very good at this.
Sneaking around, hiding from sight, spying on a man like Cray—there were people who could do such things, but Elizabeth Palmer was not one of them.
At any moment Cray might turn, and then he would see her. He couldn’t do anything to her, not in a public place, but once he knew she was after him, she would not be safe again, ever.
All right. Think.
There were two routes he could take when he was done admiring the view. He could return to the lobby or descend to the swimming pool.
Gambling on the second outcome, Elizabeth walked quickly to the steps and headed down, never looking back.
Two children splashed in the shallow end of the pool. A thirtyish couple, no doubt the kids’ parents, shared drinks at a poolside table, laughing softly at some intimate joke. An older man lounged in a foaming spa nearby, a white cap tilted on his head. The moon was out, white and full, and woven around it was a vast wreath of stars.
Briefly Elizabeth wished she could just stop here, recline on a lounge chair and forget everything she knew and everything she suspected.
Let Cray go. Let the world fix its own problems; God knew, she had enough problems of her own. It would be so good to rest, and she’d had so little rest in the last twelve years.
She did, in fact, sit on a lounge chair, but only to rummage through her purse in an elaborate pretense of looking for some lost item.
The ruse was getting old, and she was beginning to worry that she had miscalculated about where Cray was likely to go, when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
His footsteps. She knew it, even without looking. Footsteps that were quick and light, preternaturally nimble.
A flicker of black, and he passed the spot where she was seated, heading down a pathway.
She got up and followed.
Part of her knew it was reckless to press her luck any further. In the crowded street fair the risk had been acceptable. Here at the resort there was too much open space. She was liable to be seen at any time.
But she had to do it. This was her responsibility, and hers alone. The whole city was afraid of the man who’d murdered Sharon Andrews, but only Elizabeth might know his name.
The path was lit by small lanterns at ground level, glowing like the luminaria set out at Christmas in many local neighborhoods. The ambient light blended with the pale radiance of the moon. She could see Cray easily, fifty feet ahead.
He passed between two buildings. Someone sat on a second-floor balcony smoking a cigarette. Through a ground-floor window a TV was visible, casting a blue flicker on a large bed with an ornate headboard.
Elizabeth thought of the motel where she was staying. The bed sagged, the TV didn’t work, the toilet had a funny smell. In the afternoons she heard noises of frantic passion through the walls; the adjacent rooms seemed to be booked by the hour. For this opulence she was paying nineteen dollars a night.
She wondered what it cost to stay at this resort for just one day. As much as she could earn in a week, probably—if she had a job. Which, at the moment, she did not.
Cray seemed to know where he was going. Elizabeth kept her distance as he crossed from one path to another, skirting a second swimming pool, smaller and less busy than the first.
On the prowl. He hadn’t found what he wanted in downtown Tucson’s crowded streets, so he was looking here. Hunting