Life Blood ---XVIII---Page No--58

When I got back to the Camino Real, the time was early

afternoon and the bed was freshly made, with all signs and scents
of my and Steve's torrid reunion long gone. I tried to push aside
thoughts of how much I was already missing him and focus on
what I was getting myself into. I must admit I was having serious
qualms about going up to the Peten, the part of Guatemala where
Sarah had been left for dead, with my brand-new tour director, the
flaky Alan Dupre. I'd never been in a helicopter before, much less
one flying over a stormy rain forest. On the other hand, if that was
where they'd taken Sarah, the sooner I got there, the better.
        Sitting there in the room, I found myself feeling right at home:
Everything about it was so familiar to an expert on budget travel
like me. Off-brand carpet the color of decaying vegetation, the
usual two double beds (one totally unused, except as a suitcase
shelf), the TV suspended over the dresser and bolted to the wall.
Funny, but it was the first time I'd noticed half the things in the
room.

Okay, I told myself, the thing to do first is call St. Vincent's

and check on Lou. Also, I wanted to tell him what was happening.
I just hoped he wouldn't launch into a lecture about the
recklessness of what I was planning. I needed support, not male
advice.

I got the desk to give me the local AT&T contact number, then rang right through to St. Vincent's. The next thing I knew, they were calling his room.

"Hi. How's the patient?"

"Morgan, what the hell are you up to? I've been trying to reach
you. I finally called David and he said you'd left a message;
something about Central America. Why the hell—?"
        "I was trying to explain that to you Sunday night, but you were
pretty far gone."

"Well, I ain't that far gone now, so I'm telling you to—"

"By the way," I interrupted, hoping to change the subject, "how're you feeling?"

"I guess I'll live. They let me get up and go to the bathroom
now. They're saying I can probably go home tomorrow."
        "That's encouraging." Thank God he was going to be okay.

"I also had a talk with Gerry, downtown. He believes Sarah
was kidnapped, even if New York's Finest don't, so that means
the FBI has jurisdiction. We're gonna get some action. They're
trying to get a photo of that colonel, so maybe I can ID the
bastard. But the consulate's giving us a lot of shit about it."
        "Well, I'm tracking something down here. Between the two of
us, I think we'll find her."

"So, what the hell are you doing?"

I told him about finding the name of a destination on Sarah's old landing card, and about meeting a guy who was going to take me there as soon as the weather cleared.

"And you think she could be there now?" He didn't sound
hopeful.

"There're reasons to check it out." I didn't want to elaborate. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

I was attempting to say as little as possible, fearing the phone
was tapped. In that spirit, I decided to get off the line as quickly as
possible.

"Lou, you get lots of rest, and I'll try and call you tomorrow."
        With a final warning to watch out for myself, he took down my
 hotel number and hung up. Truthfully, he was sounding pretty tired and weak, not nearly his old self.

Well, he had a right to be. But at least there were no complications.

My next call was going to be to David Roth, to check in on
things at Applecore, but first I wanted to order up some huevos
rancheros, get some breakfast protein. I was becoming energized
by the prospect of progress, and being that way always makes me
ravenous. It's probably a primal female response that has a Latin
name.

I checked out the number for room service, and was literally

reaching for the black phone when it rang of its own accord.

Startled I picked up the receiver, wondering who had my number.
        "Hello." It was a man's voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
"Thought I'd check in and see how things are going with your
search."

"Hi," I answered back after a pause, trying to place his intonation.

"Oh, sorry. Barry Morton. Remember me? Fortress America. You came by the office yesterday."

"How . . . ?" Why was he calling me? "How did you get this—?"

"You must have accidentally put the wrong hotel on your

landing card as your address in Guatemala City." He hesitated a second then said "But I had my secretary call around and . . . well, it happens all the time."

"I see." It did have the ring of logic. And I had put down a

different hotel. A safety measure. "Do you always take this much . . . interest in your fellow citizens?"

"Only when they come to see me personally." He chuckled. "So how's it going?"

"Well, thanks for calling," I said. "Everything's moving along."
        "Good, good." There was another pause, then, "Incidentally,
 you having any luck finding that Ninos del Mundo place you were
looking for?"

I hesitated, wondering why he would ask and also unsure what to say.

"Not yet," I volunteered. My God, it finally dawned on me. The guy was tracking me. He wanted to know what I knew. "You come up with anything at your end?"

"I've been busy, a string of meetings, but I still think you might want to check out the phone book." It was the second time he'd made the suggestion. He was practically ordering me to do it.
Why? "You never know. I'm afraid that's about the best I can do."
        "Maybe I will," I said. "I've been a little busy too."