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    Elizabeth held her exhaustion in abeyance while the little plane flew along the coast toward Ventura . At first she could see the incredible lighted expanse below her, stretching down the long valley to fade into a feeble fluttering like stars. Then the plane moved out across the coastal range and over the water, and there was only darkness and calm on her side of the cabin.

    It seemed like only a few minutes before the little airplane began to descend. The Ventura airport wasn't much. They put a short wooden staircase next to the fuselage for people to step on, and there was an eager young man in a gold sportcoat that seemed to belong to an absent older brother to serve as spotter for the deplaning passengers. He smiled and hovered, his hands held out silently announcing his intention to catch any passenger who might begin to fall.

    The night was calm and warm, like late spring. The airport reminded her of a small town bus station, but they managed to find a cab driver lounging out front who knew the Ocean Sands Motel, where Disbursement had made their reservations. She was pleasantly surprised to see the sprawling, vaguely Spanish stucco building half-buried in luxuriant, unfamiliar vegetation. She wondered at first if Disbursement had made a mistake, but then remembered that the economies were always inconsistent: the leather-bound notepads with the cheap, thin paper in the office told it all.

    Hart took charge and registered for them. Elizabeth couldn't help wondering if it was just his faintly antiquated courtesy again, or if his experience of hotels was all of the sort where the woman didn't sign her own name. She 20

    didn't think about it for long, because as soon as the key to her room was in her hand she was on her way toward the cool, clean sheets. When she was lying there it occurred to her that she probably hadn't bothered to say good-night to him. She didn't think about that for long either.

    He always made a point of staying away from women when he was traveling. It wasn't that any of the ones he was likely to meet would suddenly become suspicious and make inquiries to the police, or anything like that. It was just that it was too damned complicated. You had to make up something to tell them about yourself, maybe even make up a fake address and phone number, agree to be someplace at a particular time. Things like that took most of the fun out of it anyway, and added an element of danger.

    So he walked more slowly to keep from catching up with the one ahead of him on the sidewalk. She was definitely trolling for someone—maybe him. He couldn't see her face, but her way of walking—her back arched slightly and her hips rolling a little as she strolled down Colfax Avenue—he had seen a thousand times. Women almost always walked fast when they were alone, especially on this kind of street. When they didn't, it was usually to say, I'm not going anywhere in particular and don't have anything to do: I've got all the time in the world. Another time, he thought as he watched her, his eyes moving irresistibly to the round, firm buttocks. A week from now it would be different.

    She turned then and he knew that she was aware of him. She stopped to look in a store window, but he knew she was studying his reflection. He fixed his eyes in front of him and walked purposefully ahead at the same pace. As he passed her she began to walk again. If anyone else had seen it, it must have looked like an accident. A pretty lady window shopping, a man on his way to the parking ramp down the street to pick up his car. He heard her say, "If you like it, maybe you should try it." The voice was soft and confident at the same time, perfectly modulated to establish a kind of intimacy that said I know everything you feel and desire: I know you. He felt a wave of resentment well and pass over him at the violation, the casual assumption of knowledge like an assertion of possession.

    He slowed and said, "Excuse me?" feigning a