Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-eight

Gideon brought the SUV to a stop in the driveway of the abandoned hotel and cut the lights. The desert night, star-studded and lit with a brilliant moon, closed in immediately.

Amelia unclipped her seat belt and leaned forward to get a better view of the ruins.

“I was right when I told Pete Ellerbeck that a night shoot would be the best way to photograph this place,” she said. “Talk about creepy.”

The full moon illuminated the partially destroyed hotel in shades of gray that ranged from skeletal-pale to impenetrable shadow. She dreaded getting out of the car.

“See anything?” Gideon asked.

She raised the camera and studied the scene through the windshield. As expected, a low-lying fog of old energy drifted around the lobby entrance, but there were several splashes of recent prints. They phosphoresced in the night, seething with nameless colors. Some were familiar. Gideon’s tracks were everywhere.

“The windshield is distorting things somewhat,” she said. “But I can see your prints from our first visit. There are others that are new, though.”

“What about your own prints?” Gideon sounded genuinely curious.

She shrugged. “For some reason I can’t see my own prints. Can’t photograph them, either.”

“Makes sense. You probably can’t see your own aura.”

“Very true. I never made that connection. How did you come up with it?”

“Blame Uncle Shelton.”

“Right,” she said. “That would be the Sweetwater family genius who got my friends and me into this mess.”

“Under the circumstances, I think that’s a little unfair. Tell me about the new prints at the entrance.”

“I think someone went into the lobby not too long ago.”

“Sounds like our informant has arrived,” Gideon said. “But he’s not rushing out to meet us. I wonder why.”

She raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder. “I think there’s something very wrong with whoever left those prints.”

Gideon did not take his attention off the lobby entrance. “Define ‘wrong.’?”

“I can’t be certain but I have a sense that whoever went into the lobby earlier is in pain. Ill, maybe. Weak.”

“Any exit tracks?”

“Good question.” She studied the prints again. “No. But the person could have left through another doorway. There are a lot of rooms in both wings and each one has a door that opens to the outside. And then there are all the empty windows.”

“Stay here, doors locked. I’ll see what’s going on.”

Ice touched the back of Amelia’s neck. The thought of getting out of the SUV was disturbing, but she could not let Gideon venture into the hotel alone. She needed to do this.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“You’ll be safer in the car. Get into the driver’s seat and be ready to fire up the engine if anyone other than me comes out of the lobby.”

“Whoever left those tracks could be anywhere inside. You shouldn’t walk in cold. You need me to read the prints. Also, I know the layout of the hotel.”

“No.”

She took a breath. “I’ve got a feeling, Gideon.”

He hesitated and looked at her. “A feeling?”

“My intuition tells me I should go in with you.”

He considered that, his eyes heating in the shadows, and then apparently came to a decision. “You may be right. Stick close and stay behind me.”

“I understand.” She steadied her nerves and glanced down at the penlight in his hand. “Uh, shouldn’t you have a gun?”

“I hate to break this to you, but I don’t have a gun.”

“I see.” She dove into her tote. “Fortunately, I’ve got my Taser.”

“Have you ever actually fired that thing at someone?”

“Well, no, but don’t worry, I’ve done some target practice.”

She opened the door and jumped down to the ground. No longer muted by the windshield, the mist of prints laid down over the years abruptly became heavier and more ominous. The seething currents swirled around her ankles. The paranormal fog was cold.

A flash of primal fear warned her that if she fell into the ghostly river she might never get back to the surface. She froze, staring at the lobby entrance. The last time she had walked into the darkness she had lost a night of her life to amnesia.

“Amelia.”

Gideon’s voice was low and sharp with command. She responded instinctively, clamping down on her flaring senses. Control. She had to get stronger if she wanted to get her life back. Focus. She was a photographer. She understood the concept.

She concentrated, pushing back against the unwanted visions generated by her imagination. The mist faded, no longer threatening to pull her down into the depths.

“I’m okay,” she said.

And she was. Mostly. Gideon was right; she wasn’t tipping over into madness. She was adjusting to her new normal. She had to stop fighting it and embrace her new senses. She was the same person she had always been. Yes, the special sensitivity she had taken for granted all her life had been enhanced. But she could handle it. She was not going mad.

Gideon came around the front of the vehicle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

She focused again on the recent energy prints that led into the dark lobby. Her newfound assurance gave her the confidence to pay closer attention to her intuition. She examined the pale currents in the footsteps. They rippled with an alarming vibe.

And suddenly she knew what she was looking at.

“We have to hurry,” she said. “Whoever went into that lobby tonight is badly injured. Maybe dying.”

Gideon did not question her analysis. Instead, he switched on the penlight and swept the narrow beam across the entranceway. Amelia got another rush of anxiety when she noticed the dark spots on the concrete.

“I think that’s blood,” she said.

“I think you’re right. And it’s fresh.”

Gideon moved to the side of the doorway and aimed the light into the midnight shadows of the old lobby.

“My name is Gideon Sweetwater,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m a private investigator. It looks like you’ve been injured. Do you need help?”

There was no response. Gideon edged into the shadows. Amelia followed. Something small skittered away from the light. Scorpion. She tried not to think about what other creatures might be hiding in the ruins. She was wearing boots, she reminded herself. She would be okay. Probably.

She focused on the prints. Pale and luminous, they led across the lobby to the arched entrance of the east wing.

“To the right, Gideon,” she said. “That hallway.”

Gideon aimed the flashlight at the cracked and chipped floor tiles. More splashes of blood led to the second guest room in the corridor. The sagging door stood ajar.

Gideon motioned Amelia to stay out of the line of sight and then he eased the door open.

“Gideon Sweetwater,” he said quietly. “Amelia Rivers is here with me.”

There was no response. He went into the room. She followed. The beam of the flashlight speared a man who was huddled on the floor, partially propped against the wall. His head was sunk on his chest. He was dressed in faded jeans and worn boots. He was nude from the waist up. He clutched what appeared to be a wadded-up shirt against his side. The garment was dark with blood.

Metal glinted in the beam of the flashlight. There was a gun on the floor beside the collapsed man.

Gideon started toward him. “Call nine-one-one,” he said to Amelia.

She already had her phone out of her pocket.

The injured man raised his head and opened his eyes partway. “Won’t do any good. No service out here.”

Amelia glanced down at her phone. “He’s right, Gideon.”

“We’ll have to get him into the car,” Gideon said. “But before we move him we need more pressure on the wound. I’ve got a first aid kit. I’ll get it.”

“I’ll hold his shirt in place,” she said.

She dropped her phone back into a pocket and hurried forward to crouch beside the bleeding man. He groaned when she adjusted the makeshift bandage in an attempt to pack the wound more firmly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Gideon disappeared out the door and returned a moment later, kit gripped in his free hand. Balancing himself with his cane, he opened the container and set it on the floor.

“Can you keep the pressure on while I get the dressing ready?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.” Gideon lowered himself down on one knee and took over the task of pressing the crumpled shirt against the wound.

Amelia ripped open several packages of sterile bandages. She thought the injured man had lapsed into unconsciousness but he stirred when she began wrapping the gauze tape around his chest to secure the thick dressing.

“Run,” he said, the words thick in his mouth. “Get out of here before they come back.”

“Before who comes back?” Gideon said.

“Drug gang. Go. Now.”

But the muffled rumble of a heavy engine told Amelia it was too late to run.