I eased the stub of her boarding pass from my blazer pocket and took in the minimal information printed on it. Her name was Laura Huckaby, her destination Palm Beach.

Dallas/Fort Worth was in the central time zone, two hours ahead of us. After three plus hours in the air, it was 1:45 in the morning by the time we finally landed. A few minutes prior to our arrival, the flight attendant came on the intercom with the gate numbers for various connecting flights. She also advised us that the plane would be on the ground for approximately one hour and ten minutes before the continuation of flight 508 to Palm Beach. If we intended to deplane, we'd need to have our boarding passes with us for re-boarding purposes. Poor Laura Huckaby was now minus her boarding pass, thanks to my chicanery. I watched her with guilt, expecting her to engage in an anxious conversation with the girl steward-person or else remain, unhappily, in her seat until the flight took off again.

Instead, once we were parked at the gate and the seat belt sign was turned off, she got up, retrieved her raincoat and the duffel, tucked the book in the outer pocket, and joined the slowly moving line of departing passengers. I didn't know what to make of this, but I was compelled to follow. We stumped along the jetway in haphazard fashion, an irregular assortment of exhausted late night travelers. The few passengers with carry-on bags gravitated toward the exits, but most people headed toward the baggage claim area. I kept Laura Huckaby well within my sights. Her auburn hair had been flattened in sleep, and the back of her jumper was pleated with horizontal wrinkles. She still had the raincoat draped over one arm, but she had to pause twice to switch the duffel from hand to hand. Where was she going? Did she think this was Palm Beach?

The Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was done in neutrals and beiges, the floor tiles clay colored. The corridors were wide and quiet at that hour of the morning. A group of Asian businessmen was driven past us in a whirring electric cart, a repetitious tone peeping to warn unwary pedestrians. The overhead lighting made us all look jaundiced. Most concession kiosks were gated and dark. We passed a restaurant and a combination news and gift shop selling hard- and paperback books, glossy magazines, newspapers, Texas barbecue sauces, Tex-Mex cookbooks, and T-shirts with Texas logos. The baggage claim area for flight 508 appeared ahead of us beyond a revolving door. Laura Huckaby pushed through ahead of me and then hesitated on the far side, as if to get her bearings. I thought at first she might be looking for someone, but that didn't seem to be the case.

I moved past her and crossed to the carousel where the bags would be coming in. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Had she always intended to deplane at this point? Was her suitcase checked all the way through to Palm Beach or only as far as Dallas/Fort Worth? A row of linked chrome-and-faux-leather chairs was arranged to the left. A television set had been mounted up on the wall in one corner, and most of the heads were tilted in that direction. Pictured, in garish color, was the wreckage of a recent plane crash, black smoke still rising from the charred fuselage in a harshly lighted landscape. The reporter spoke directly to the camera. She wore a camel-hair overcoat, snow billowing around her. The wind whipped her hair and stung her cheeks with hot pink. The sound was barely audible, but none of us had any doubts about the subject matter. I crossed to the water fountain and took a long, noisy drink.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Laura Huckaby approach the wall-mounted directory, where she studied a set of printed instructions about how to call the shuttle service for the numerous hotels in the vicinity. She picked up the phone receiver and punched in four numbers. A brief conversation followed. I waited until she'd hung up again and then I intersected her path, falling in behind her as she approached the escalator. We descended to street level, where we proceeded through a set of plate-glass doors.

Outside, the night air was surprisingly cold. Despite the artificial lighting, a pervasive gloom blanketed the pickup area. Landscaping had been tucked in between the sidewalk and the building. Along the buff-colored facade, the grass was planted in tufts at distinctly placed intervals like the plugs on a hair transplant. I proceeded to the area marked "Courtesy Shuttles," where I turned and waited, peering patiently along the roadway. Laura Huckaby and I made no eye contact. She seemed tired and preoccupied, exhibiting no interest in her fellow travelers. At one point she winced, pressing a fist into the small of her back. Two others joined us: a portly gentleman in a business suit, toting a briefcase and a garment bag, and a young girl in a ski parka with a bulging backpack. A few cars passed at speeds sufficient to create an exhaust-laden breeze that swirled around our feet. At this hour of the morning, air traffic had diminished, but I could still hear the dull rumble of jets taking off from time to time.

Several courtesy shuttles passed us in succession. She made no move to flag them down, nor did the other two waiting with us. Finally, a red van swung around the curve into view. On the side, in flowing gold script, The Desert Castle was written with a symbolic castle depicted in silhouette. Laura Huckaby raised a hand, signaling the van. The driver spotted the gesture and pulled over to the curb. He stepped out of the bus and helped the businessman with his luggage while she and I got on the bus, the businessman following. The young woman with the backpack remained where she was, her gaze still focused anxiously on approaching vehicles. I found a seat near the rear of the darkened bus. Laura Huckaby ended up near the front, her cheek propped wearily against the palm of her hand. Most of her hair was straggling out of her topknot. '

The driver returned to his seat and closed the door, then picked up a clipboard and turned halfway toward us to confirm the names on his list. "Wheeler?"

"Here." The man in the business suit identified himself.

"Hudson?"

To my surprise, Laura Huckaby raised her hand. Hudson? Where did that come from? Interesting development. Not only had she deplaned in a city that was not her intended destination, but she'd apparently made hotel reservations in another name. What was she trying to pull?

"I'm meeting someone," I said, speaking up in response to his inquiring look.

The driver nodded, set the clipboard aside, put the bus in gear, and took off. We followed a complicated course of crisscrossing lanes around the terminal and finally sped through the open countryside. The land was flat and very, very dark. An occasional lighted building shot up out of the blackness like a shimmering mirage. We passed what must have been restaurant row: steak house after steak house as gaudily lighted as one of the main streets in Las Vegas. A big commercial hotel finally loomed into view, one of those tasteless facilities with the room price – $69.95 single occupancy – posted right below the name. The red neon letters of the Desert Castle appeared to empty of color and then fill up again. In subscript the sign read WHERE YOU'RE GUARANTEED A GOOD KNIGHT'S SLEEP. Oh, please. The logo consisted of the outline of two green neon palms, flanking a red neon tower with crenellated battlements.

We passed an oasis of tall palms that surrounded a mock-up of the tower depicted on the building, a structure of faux stone complete with an empty moat and drawbridge. When the shuttle pulled into the hotel's passenger loading area, I hung back until Laura Huckaby (aka Hudson) had been assisted to the curb. There didn't seem to be any bellhumans on duty. The man in the business suit picked up his briefcase and his garment bag. The three of us moved into the lobby through revolving doors, with me bringing up the rear. Aside from the duffel, Laura Huckaby was without luggage.