In the dream, Abraham Lincoln's decapitated head started to move. The features on the face shifted and suddenly Trent was staring at his old friend, Bobby Aimes. The mouth began to move. "Trent. . . Trent. . . Look what you did! You killed me! Now it's your turn. Die, Trent, die!"
The words struck him like a concussive blow. His body jerked back and forth in his sleep. The voice filled his head. The image zoomed closer and Aimes's features shifted into the face of a ticking clock.
"Trent, Trent, wake up! You've got to see this."
His eyes fluttered open, he looked around, startled, and realized that he was in a motel room in Denver, that he'd fallen asleep, that Doc had shaken him awake. She sat on the adjacent bed, and looked excited or nervous, or maybe both. She pointed at the television.
He rubbed his eyes with his palms, glanced at his watch, and realized he'd slept two hours. "What is it?"
He glimpsed a man with a long prominent jaw and graying hair and realized it was Gordon Maxwell. He stood at a podium, saying something about the future of the western states. The report ended and cut back to the newscaster. "This is just off the wire from that same conference. . . President Dustin in a speech this evening—"
Doc clicked off the television with a remote. "Can you believe it? He spoke at the governors conference this afternoon and made a prediction that the country was going to split apart in a few years."
"He's about the last person I care to see on television or in person. Did he say anything about Washington blowing up early next week?" Calloway hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way.
Doc shook her head. "Things are getting weird, Trent."
He recalled his dream of a broken Bobby Aimes looking up at him. Maxwell's fault, he told himself. "Let's get going. It's time."
They had driven all day and arrived on the outskirts of Denver, where they had gotten a room, at six. They'd realized that with the president speaking at the banquet, the hotel would be difficult to approach. So they'd decided to wait and try to contact Camila in the aftermath.
Doc frowned. "You still look tired. Maybe we should wait until morning."
He shook his head. "I want to find her tonight. She may be gone in the morning."
"All right," Doc responded. "But I'm going to stay here. I'm not going."
"Doc, cut the crap," Calloway snapped. "I need you to confirm my story."
Doc rubbed her arms as if she were cold. "You don't understand, Trent. There's going to be a lot of people in that hotel and I already feel a dull headache just from being on the outskirts of the city."
"Look, Doc, I'd rather be sitting in my camp and drinking beer. I've deprived myself all day. So, I think you can handle a few people, and we'll stay away from the crowds."
"Forget it, Calloway! You don't have a clue!"
Her eyes grew large and menacing, her fingers curled into fists. "It's like. . . it's like being crammed into a tiny room with the walls closing on you. Except the walls are transparent and a thousand pairs of eyes are staring at you, watching you slowly being crushed to death."
"I get the picture. But I still want you to come with me. They might want me to work tonight and I need you as a monitor."
She stood up. "I'm going home."
He bolted off the bed, stood in front of her. "No, you're not. You are going with me."
"Fuck you!" She kicked him in the shin, hurried to the bathroom, and slammed the door shut.
"Shit! Damn it, Doc." Calloway rubbed his shin and hopped on one foot. "Come out of there right now. You got me involved in this, now you follow through. Don't let me down."
Silence.
He leaned against the wall next to the bathroom, crossed his arms, and waited. After a minute, the door opened slowly. Doc stepped out, looked meekly at him. "I'm sorry for kicking you. But I can't do this. I told you that before we left. I just wanted to make sure that you got here. I'll drop you off downtown outside the hotel."
"Well guess what, Doc? I can't do this, either. Camila's not going to take my word. She's going to want proof and I'm not going to be able to give it to her or the Secret Service without you. Hell, she'll probably have me arrested for harassing her. I've never been any good without you monitoring me. I know that probably makes me sound like some kind of psychic wimp, but I don't care. That's the way it is."
"Damn you, Calloway." She gazed off as if distracted by an inner voice. "I've got one idea that might work, but don't count on it."
"What?"
"Your voice has a certain resonance that has always made me feel relaxed," Doc began. "I want you to take me slowly down an elevator and out into a tranquil setting by a pond. Then give me a suggestion that crowds won't affect me."
"That'll really work?"
"I worked with a hypnotist in Ouray for a while and it seemed to help, at least for a couple hours. But he left town a few weeks ago and I haven't done it since."
He nodded, glanced at his watch. "How about if we do it on the way. It's getting late. I'll drive and talk you down at the same time." She frowned and he figured she would refuse. But she surprised him. "Okay, that'll work. I can lay the seat down and put Carlos Nakai on the CD player. That flute music helps me relax and so will the feel of the road."
Amazing, they'd agreed on something without coming to blows.
"Nice place," Calloway said as they walked into the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel twenty-five minutes later. Even though it was ten-thirty, people crisscrossed the lobby and Calloway felt a buzz of energy that no doubt was linked with the row of media trucks parked outside.
"It's extraordinary." Doc gazed up to the eight-story atrium. Cast-iron balconies encircled each floor.
"How're you feeling?"
"Fine, so far. I think it worked. I went way down." She looked around, but he noticed she kept her gaze above the crowd. She wouldn't be much help finding Camila.
"Have you ever been here, Trent?"
"I think so, but not in person."
"What do you mean?"
He explained that one day Maxwell gave him a target that he described as a place in the future where they would meet. "I drew a triangular-shaped building with a huge atrium with iron balconies, just like this place. Except I didn't know it was an atrium or even a hotel, because I saw a bunch of cattle wandering around in it. I thought it was a barn of some sort, or a grain silo."
Doc peered up into the atrium again as several people moved past. "It's a very glamorous silo. Do you remember the date you were supposed to meet?"
He shook his head. "He gave me a suggestion that I wouldn't remember it so I wouldn't take any action either to avoid the meeting or try to make it happen."
"Interesting. Do you remember anything else?"
He thought a moment. "Yeah, there was one other thing. I got a number, fifty thousand. But it didn't help either of us. We couldn't figure out where I'd gone."
"I bet this was the place," she said. "The people are the cattle."
Except he was here looking for Camila, not Maxwell. His gaze slid across the lobby and drifted up to the mezzanine. He wondered if he would even recognize her after all these years, even if she walked right past him.
Then something else came back to him. "A week later, Maxwell gave me the same target. But that time I got something else altogether. I ended up in a place with a lot of boats and Maxwell was there himself sitting by one of the boats."
"That's sort of strange. What did Maxwell say about it?"
Calloway shook his head. "He was confused and disappointed, I guess, because it didn't make much sense to him."
Doc smiled. "He never liked ambiguities. He always wanted everything clear and easily understood."
A man who looked like he might belong to the hotel's security team patrolled slowly by. "I'll try calling Camila," Calloway said. "Maybe we'll catch her in her room."
Doc looked at the people now. "I'm starting to get a headache, Trent. That's the first sign."
"Here, read this while I'm on the phone." He handed her a brochure about the hotel.
He called from a house phone and as he waited to be connected, he tried to come up with a simple way of explaining the reason for his visit. Still at a loss for an answer, he listened to the phone ring. Then a generic recording clicked in, telling him to leave a message.
"Camila, it's Trent. Yeah, surprise. Ah, I'm in the hotel. In the lobby. It's ten-forty-five. I need to talk to you. It's important. Very important. You can leave a message for me at the front desk. I'll pick it up."
He shrugged. He probably sounded like an idiot or a maniac. He walked back over to Doc, who was still looking at the brochure.
"I left a message. You okay?"
She shrugged without looking up, then tapped her finger against the brochure. "Listen to this. Starting in 1945, cattle were displayed in the hotel's lobby and the prize steers were sold for fifty thousand dollars each—a record at that time."
"Cool. Fifty thousand." He peered around the lobby again. "Except I was supposed to go to the future, not the past."
"Maybe you were just establishing the location on your first try," she answered.
He didn't want to think about his work with Maxwell any longer.
"Let's check the bar in case she's in there."
"I hate bars. They're crowded and smoky and full of wandering eyes."
"You want to wait here?"
"Hell no." She clutched his arm. "I'll just watch my feet. That's my favorite preoccupation in public these days."
He guided her across the lobby toward the corridor. They reached the entrance to the Ship Tavern, then stepped into a cozy lounge with dark wood walls. He stopped, looked around, and noticed several model ships from the clipper era.
"Take a quick look before we go any further."
Doc glanced up. "Your ships, Trent. Welcome to the future."
"I guess."
They moved into the lounge and he felt as if he were guiding a blind woman.
Doc let go of his arm. "I'm getting out of here. I can't stand it. I'll wait outside."
He scanned the tables and bar a second time. "Okay. Hold on a minute."
A woman who reminded him of Camila stood at the bar engaged in an animated conversation with two men. He moved a couple of steps closer. The woman turned, glanced in his direction. His heart pounded.
Then he realized it wasn't her.
"Trent, I'm out of here."
He grabbed her arm as she started to walk away. "Wait!"
"Let go of me."
"I see him," he said.
Gordon Maxwell was perched on a corner stool talking to the woman that he'd mistaken for Camila. Just above his head hung a model clipper. Déjà vu.
He had an urge to walk up to Maxwell and tell him what he thought of him, that he'd trusted him, that he'd once considered him a mentor, but that Maxwell had betrayed him in a terrible way. Maybe he'd turn to the woman and tell her that Maxwell had tricked him into killing someone, not just anyone but a man who had once been his best friend. But he knew he would sound demented. She wouldn't believe him. No one would, especially not when he explained how he'd killed Bobby Aimes.
Doc kept her back to the bar. "I don't want to see him. I don't want to be here."
He guided her back toward the door, but he took one look over his shoulder. For an instant, just before he moved out of sight, Maxwell peered his way.
"Yuck," Doc said as they reached the hallway. "I don't like being in the same room with him."
They moved into the lobby amid an unexpected rush of people moving one way or another, some carrying cameras. It looked like someone had hit a fire alarm, but no one knew where the door was.
"What the hell's going on?" Calloway muttered.
Doc placed her hands on either side of her head and winced. Then she rubbed her arms as she'd done in the hotel. Her face twisted in pain. Time to get her out of here. Several feet in front of him, a bright light illuminated a familiar-looking reporter with a microphone that said CNN on the side. A cameraman blocked their way out.
"Have space aliens invaded the White House? It's a strange question everyone here at the Denver Brown Palace Hotel seems to be asking in the aftermath of President Dustin's extraordinary comments."
The words didn't make sense. He couldn't quite grasp what he'd just heard. Then he no longer heard anything the reporter said. Camila Hidalgo stood at the railing of the mezzanine looking out over the confusion. She wore a shawl over her shoulders, and with her aquiline nose in profile she looked like a Native American princess, a vision from a mythical past.
Doc moaned. Her legs wobbled. She gasped for breath and started to sink to the floor, pulling Calloway with her. He grabbed her around her shoulders and tried to lift her. "Let's get out of here. I've got you. Here we go."
The security guard he'd seen earlier appeared and helped him guide Doc to the front entrance. "She just needs some air," he assured the man. "She'll be okay."
Calloway managed to glance back once toward the mezzanine, but Camila had vanished, gone like the Indians by the river.