Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

“Where are we going?”

“To a favorite place of mine, and that’s all you need to know. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“No, don’t come here. Take a cab to the Beverly Hills Hotel, make sure nobody’s following you, and I’ll pick you up at the front door in an hour.”

“Whatever you say, Sir,” she replied, then hung up.

Stone sat up in bed and thought about how he felt. A hell of a lot better than last night, was the verdict. He’d gotten some sound sleep, and he didn’t feel the heavy weight of depression that had burdened him the previous evening. He struggled out of bed and into a shower.

Betty was standing at the entrance of the hotel, a suitcase beside her, when he drove up, having made sure that no one was behind him.

“Hullo, sailor,” she said, tossing her bag into the back seat and getting in.

“Where to?” he asked, kissing her.

“Just follow my directions.”

“You had breakfast?”

“Only a cup of coffee.”

“There’s some stuff in a box in the back seat, from my kitchenette.”

She got them both a croissant and a container of orange juice, and started giving Stone directions. Soon they were on the Santa Monica Freeway, heading east.

“So where are we headed?” he asked.

“I told you, no questions,” she replied tartly, “and I don’t want to talk about anything else, either. I just want to drive and relax. We’ll be there in time for lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied obediently. The road became the San Bernardino Freeway, and he thought they must be headed for Palm Springs, but they zipped right through the town.

“Take a left on Sixty-two,” she said. It was the first time she’d spoken in an hour.

Stone started seeing signs for Joshua Tree and Twentynine Palms, but they blew through Joshua Tree, and beyond Twentynine Palms was a zillion square miles of desert, if he remembered his geography. The terrain was arid, and mountains rose to their left.

“Take the next right,” Betty said.

Stone slowed. “It’s a narrow dirt road, and it seems to go up that mountain,” he said.

“Take it, and shut up.”

Stone turned right onto the dirt road. There were no signs of any kind and no road number. Soon they left the plain and started to climb, and he was beginning to feel nervous. He had been trained to suspect everybody, and Betty was not exempt. She had been with him when they had been followed from the restaurant, and now he was with her on a dirt road to nowhere, and he wasn’t feeling great about it. He checked the fuel gauge; he still had half a tank of gas. His options were narrow; he could continue to follow orders and get himself into God knew what, or he could turn around and head back to L.A.

“Take that little road to the left,” she said.

This road was even less promising than the one they were on, and Stone stopped the car. “I have to know where we’re going,” he said.

She turned and looked at him. “Don’t you trust me?”

He made his decision, though he wasn’t happy about it; he turned left. This little track was very steep and deeply rutted, and he drove slowly of necessity. They were near the mountaintop when she issued further instructions.

“Turn right,” she said.

He turned, went around a sharp bend, and found himself in a small parking lot, along with a dozen other cars, all expensive.

“You get the bags,” Betty said and got out. She went to a post that held a box, opened it, and took out a telephone handset. “This is Betty Southard,” she said. “We’re in the parking lot.”

Stone trudged over to her with the bags. “Now what?” he asked.