The Resort

—but instead let out a short sharp gasp as it scuttled across the beige carpet and under the bed. He grabbed his shoes and socks, carrying them over to the vanity in the bathroom where he hastily finished buttoning his shirt before putting them on and then gamely trying to search for the creature. He used a rolled-up Entertainment Weekly to lift the edge of the bedspread, not wanting to get too close in case the spider was right there, but there was no sign of it. It had moved somewhere else, and that made Patrick uneasy. He’d kept his eye on the spot where it had scurried and it hadn’t emerged either from there or from under the foot of the bed, which had been in his sight line as well. The head of the bed was against the wall, so that meant it had gotten out on the opposite side. He walked carefully around the bed and saw nothing in the middle of the floor, but it could have been under the nightstand, under the love seat or even in one of his open suitcases.

He considered calling the lobby and asking for someone from maintenance to find the spider and kill it or at the very least spray the room for bugs, but he felt too embarrassed and didn’t want to admit that he was afraid. He stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do, and finally decided to leave, go to the film festival, and just hope that it got out of the room through whatever crack or hole it had gotten in by the time he returned tonight.

He grabbed his keys and wallet from the top of the bathroom counter where he’d left them, took his briefcase from the closet, checking to make sure he had his tape recorder, notebook and several extra pens, and then turned to go.

Patrick instinctively stepped back. He looked from the spider to the door handle, then glanced frantically around the room. He was trapped in here and could not leave. Well, he could leave. But he was afraid to even try. The spider looked much bigger than it had on first sight. Stop being such a pussy, he told himself. He could tell, though, that if he attempted to stomp on the creature he would be able to feel it through his shoe, it was so large. The thought made him squirm. And there was no guarantee that he would even be able to kill the beast. This wasn’t one of those hairy soft-looking spiders, like a tarantula; its body was shiny and hard, shell-like, and he imagined trying to crush it beneath his soft-soled sneakers and feeling it move beneath him, seeing its legs thrash frantically about as it tried to scuttle away, its solid form resisting all of his efforts to squash it.

—and stumble backward, almost tripping over his own feet. He kept his eyes glued to the monster, and it leaped again, sideways this time, though it remained facing him. He looked around for a weapon of some sort, something to hit it with. In three or four jumps it could be on him, and he wanted to be prepared.

Two leaps this time, both sideways—it was nearly to the armoire housing the television—and Patrick saw his opportunity. The path to the door was free; he could run over, get out and escape before the spider could even think about changing directions.

There was an instant of panic as his sweaty hand slipped on the handle, but then the door was open and he was out. He stepped away, hoping against hope that the spider would try to follow him and get out of the room, but the door swung slowly shut on its tensioned hinges, trapping the creature inside. He stood there, thinking maybe he’d prop the door open for a few minutes and wait for it to emerge, but then he imagined it leaping at him as he opened the door, landing on his leg and scurrying up his body to his face, and decided against the idea.

It was already touch and go whether he’d make the first screening at the festival, but before taking off, Patrick took a quick detour to the lobby. The clerk behind the desk was the same unhelpful young woman who had been on duty last night when he’d come in to complain about the party next door—how long were the shifts here?—and she smiled at him perkily as he walked up. “How are you this morning, Mr. Schlaegel? Did you sleep well?”

He tried to appear as casual and nonchalant as possible. “Fine,” he said. “But there seems to be a spider infestation in my room, room 215. Do you think you could send someone over to take care of it while I’m gone?”

“Certainly,” she assured him. “All rooms are treated for insects and vermin after each guest leaves and before each new guest arrives, but I will make sure that someone inspects your room this morning just to make sure. Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked brightly.

He had the feeling no such inspection would occur, and already he was dreading the return, knowing he would have to scour the entire room for spiders when he walked in—in the middle of the night no less. “No,” he said. “That’s it.”

He started for the front door and was stopped halfway there by a gorgeous blonde of approximately his own age who had the high cheekbones and regal bearing of a fashion model, but the open, friendly expression of an innocent teenager. “I know you!” she said. “I saw you on Roger Ebert’s show!”

Patrick was flattered. He’d done an episode of Roger Ebert and the Movies after Gene Siskel died, before Richard Roeper came on board, when they were searching for Siskel’s replacement. For six months, he’d been the hottest thing in pants to the single women of Chicago. He’d had no conception of how powerful a medium television was until after that broadcast, and it was a revelation. It had been a while since he’d been able to trade on that little bit of transitory fame, however, and this woman was a welcome reminder of those heady days. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was on the show.”

“I totally agreed with your review of Death Instinct! You were so right! I think you were the only person besides me who actually liked that movie! By the way, my name’s Vicki. Well, Victoria, really, but everyone calls me Vicki.”

“That’s my job,” he said. “It’s why I’m here, in fact. I’m covering the Tucson International Film Festival.” He looked at his watch. “To be honest, I should be there right now. I’m already late for the first briefing.”

“Oh. I was hoping we could talk.” Vicki appeared genuinely disappointed. She looked around. “Wait here a minute, will you?” She hurried over to the front desk and returned with a pen and a postcard of The Reata. Holding the postcard flat on her palm, she started writing. “Here’s my name and room number,” she said. “Call me when you get back. Or come and meet us at the pool. I’m here with two of my friends, and we’re going to the hotel restaurant tonight for drinks and dinner. About eightish. We’ll be there until probably midnight. I’d love for you to join us. I’m sure they’d be thrilled too.”

He shook her hand, nodded good-bye and started across the lobby. One of the two employees—doormen?—who seemed to be permanently and pointlessly stationed next to the entrance opened the door for him, and he stepped out into the blinding sunlight, pausing for a moment to put on his sunglasses.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch up with you sooner. It looks like you’re ready to take off. I’m The Reata’s activities coordinator, and I’m in charge of recruiting players for our volleyball tournament this afternoon, a little shindig we sponsor for the benefit of our guests. Helps to break the ice. Lets everyone get introduced to each other and, at the same time, have a little fun.”

The man didn’t seem to hear. “The thing is, we’d also like to have some real sport, keep this thing competitive, for the sake of the onlookers, if nothing else. As you’ve probably noticed,” he confided, “The Reata’s summer crowd is not exactly the pick of the litter, athletically speaking. You look like you can handle yourself, though. That’s why I was hoping you could join one of our volleyball teams, help bring up our game quality.”

“Maybe,” Patrick said, remembering that odd, dark expression and not wanting to hasten its return. There was about the activities coordinator a sense of danger and instability, as though the amicable young professional act was just that, an act, a façade hiding the rage-filled lunatic beneath.

He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be anywhere near the activities coordinator, and, besides, he really did have to get going, so before the other man could say a word, Patrick started walking toward the parking lot. He held up a hand. “Later.”

He braced himself for a follow-up objection that never came and strode gratefully across the already hot asphalt between the SUVs and yuppie-mobiles to his cheapo rental car. Three minutes later, he was speeding down that awful rutted road through the desert, The Reata in his rearview mirror.

That asshole Townsend had really done a number on him this time, and he thought about how he would get back at the editor. Something this egregious demanded retribution. The Reata wasn’t just a boring, off-the-map loser magnet out in the middle of nowhere. It was . . .

Yes. A childish word, a stupid word, but he was man enough to admit that the place weirded him out. His tire hit a particularly nasty pothole, and he glanced back at the gate and guardhouse before both disappeared behind the curve of a hillside. He thought of the angry face of the activities coordinator, the spider in his room, the party last night that supposedly didn’t happen, the wolf and snakes he’d met on the path, the angry people at the pool. If he had any sense, he’d just book a room for the night at someplace in Tucson and never return.