Life Blood ---XIV---Page No--46

I picked up the phone again and punched in the number of his hotel in Belize City, which seemed to be embedded permanently in my brain. That wonderful accent at the desk mon, and then they were ringing his room. I had no reason on earth to assume he
would be there, but . . .

The click, the voice, it was him.

"Sorry to call so late, love. You said you missed me, so I've
decided to find out if it's true. Your coming attraction is about to
arrive."

I guess I was trying to keep it flip. After our talk that morning, I wasn't entirely sure where we stood anymore.

"Who . . . Morgy, is that you? God it's two . . . Are you okay?" Then he started coming around, processing what I said. "You're coming . . . Honey, that's great."

As I noted before, he always knew how to give a good

reading, sound sincere, no matter what the occasion.

"Actually, I've just made a plane reservation, and I'm going to
be in Guatemala City tomorrow, just after noon." I hesitated then
thought, why beat around the bush? "Care to meet me there?"

"That's terrific," he declared coming fully awake. "But why don't you just come to Belize City? Can't you get flight? It's actually not nearly as wild here as the travel books—"

"Well, I've . . . Look, I'd rather not talk about this on the phone. But do you think you could get free and drive over I really could use your help. I've got a situation."

"Well . . ." He paused. "I could be there by late tomorrow
assuming my rented Jeep still operates after last week and the
roads haven't totally disintegrated. Where're you going to be
staying?"

"I don't know. Got any suggestions? I want to keep out of the limelight."

"Then try the Camino Real. It's like a Holiday Inn with plastic palm trees. Definitely low maintenance and low profile. Hang on, I'll get you the number."

Which he did, though I could hear him stumbling around the room in the dark. Then he continued.

"But listen, here's the bad news. I've got to be back here day
after tomorrow. I just got a special permit to do some night
shooting in the jaguar preserve down by Victoria Peak—you
remember the rain forest I told you about?—but it's only good for
one night, and I hear rumors there's an off-season hurricane

forming in the Caribbean, which means I've got to stick to schedule. After that, though, I'm free again."

"We'll work it out." I was thrilled he would just drop everything and come. Maybe we were over the rough spot about the baby.
        He didn't bring that up and I didn't either. Instead we killed a
few minutes, and then I let him go back to sleep. I wanted to say I love you, but I didn't want to push my luck.

After that I called the hotel he'd recommended. The exchange was more Spanish than English, but they had a room. Apparently lots of rooms.

Next I rang Paula Marks, even though it was terribly late. She must have had the phones off, but I left a message telling her to be careful, with a postscript that I'd explain everything later. Just stick close to home.

Finally I called David's voice mail up at Applecore. I told him I
had a personal crisis and was going to Guatemala City. I'd try to
be back by the end of the week, hell or high water, but no
guarantees. And if he touched so much as a frame of my work
print while I was gone, I'd personally strangle him.
        I don't remember much of what happened next. I basically
went on autopilot. It's as though I dropped into a trance, totally
focused. I packed my passport, a good business suit, the tailored
blue one, and also a set of mix-and-match separates, easy to roll
and cram in. Finally a couple of pairs of good (clean) jeans, a few
toiletries, and then, thinking ahead, I also threw in my yellow
plastic flashlight. I almost always over pack, but not this time.
        Oh, and one other thing. For airplane reading I grabbed a
Lonely Planet guide to Central America that Steve had left
behind—I guess he figured he was at the stage of life to start
writing them, not reading them—that turned out to be very helpful,
particularly the map of Guatemala City and the northern Peten
rain forest. I then collapsed and—images of Sarah's emaciated
face haunting my consciousness—caught a couple of hours' sleep.
        The next thing I knew, it was 9:20 A.M. and I was settling into
window seat 29F on American Airlines Flight 377—next to a two-
hundred-pound executive busy ripping articles out of the business
section of El Diario—headed for Guatemala City.