She turned to Angie. “Did Tony ever mention Adam York’s name to you?”

“The DEA agent?” Joanna nodded. “No, not that I remember. Why?”

“Did you read through Tony’s book by any chance? See what was in it?”

Angie shrugged. “I glanced at it is all. Names, telephone numbers, dates, that kind of thing

“Do you remember any of the names?”

“No. There wasn’t enough time. I was too worried about getting away to pay that much attention. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Supposing Adam York’s name is one of the ones listed in that book,” Joanna suggested. Supposing he’s been working with Tony and the others all along. If that’s the case, you and that book aren’t just Tony’s problem any more. If the drug dealers have a well-placed accomplice working in the DEA, they’re going to move heaven and earth to keep him there. Not only that, if they realize you and I have made contact…”

A jangling fire alarm clanged noisily in the hallway outside the room, cutting Joanna off in mid-sentence. Angie jumped like a startled deer. Reflexively, she grabbed for her beach bag and started for the door.

“Wait,” Joanna cautioned. “What if it’s a trick?”

“A trick?”

“Maybe it’s a false alarm. Maybe they’re waiting for us downstairs.”

“Oh, my God.”

Joanna went to the door and opened it a crack. The alarm was directly across the hall and the shrill clanging was almost deafening. The man from room 412, still pulling on his pants, was scurrying barefoot toward the stairs. No one else was visible in the hallway, but with the door open, Joanna could smell the unmistakable odor of smoke. She turned back to Angie.

“It is a fire! Come on.”

But Angie had retreated to the far corner of the room where she stood, clutching the beach bag and frozen with fear. “No,” she whimpered. “You’re right. It’s a trap. He’ll get me as soon as I step outside.”

Joanna slammed the door shut and came back into the room. A blue United Van Lines windbreaker lay on the bed. Joanna plucked it off the bed, walked over to Angie, and handed it to her. “Put this on,” she ordered. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Still Angie didn’t budge. Gripping both the jacket and the beach bag, she stood as if transfixed, unable to move. Joanna fought to appear calm. She spoke soothingly to Angie, persuading and cajoling, as she might have done with a terrified child.

“I won’t let them get you, Angie. I swear. We can get out the back way, but we’ve got to hurry.”

Through the open window came the confused sounds of an approaching fire truck mixed with what seemed to be a dozen garbled voices raised in excited shouts. Joanna darted into the tiny bathroom and wet two bath towels, then she raced back out to find Angie still hadn’t moved.

“Put on the jacket, Angie,” she ordered. “Now!”

Woodenly, Angie complied. Joanna passed her one of the towels. “No telling what it’ll be like when we open the door. Hold this up to your face and hang onto my arm. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

Dragging Angie along, they moved in tandem toward the door. Expecting the corridor to be filled with smoke or flames, Joanna was amazed when the hallway was relatively clear. Only a thin pall of smoke still hung in the air.

The fire alarm on the wall continued its nerve-shattering clamor, but there was no sign of flames.

At first Joanna was reassured by the fact that the fire was probably already under control, but that didn’t last long. Her second thought chilled her. If Vargas and York would go so far as to set fire to a hotel in order to flush out their quarry, then they would stop at nothing.

As they stepped into the corridor, Angie automatically turned toward the stairs. Joanna dragged her back and urged her in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” Angie protested.

“This way. There’s a fire escape back here.”

During their abbreviated honeymoon, Joanna remembered how she and Andy had tiptoed down this same hallway in the middle of the night for a two A.M. unauthorized session of skinny-dipping in the hotel’s postage stamp-sized pool. The space for the pool and surrounding patio had been carved out of a rock outcropping behind the hotel and was walled off by a combination of cliff and high stuccoed wall, but Joanna was sure she re-embered a door in the wall, or maybe a gate.

With Joanna still leading the way, they reached the fire exit door and peered out into the darkness. They were standing at the top of a long and narrow, dimly lit ramp. Halfway down the incline, the ramp doubled back on itself before dropping down to the pool. The back side of the patio was sheer cliff, the other two were impassable walls.

“We’re trapped,” Angie wailed, shrinking back into the building.

“No, we’re not,” Joanna insisted determindly. “This way.”

She dragged Angie down the ramp to the place she remembered. There, at a landing where the ramp doubled back, a dilapidated door had been built into the stuccoed wall. Barely daring to hope, Joanna tried the handle. The door was locked, but the weathered door shuddered and creaked when she pushed against it. She tried again, shoving harder this time. The wood seemed to give way beneath her body. Strengthened by a surge of fear-summoned adrenaline, she threw herself against the door. This time it sprang open, spilling both women headfirst into an abandoned street above a weed-choked yard.

Gaping for breath, Joanna leaped up and attempted to prop the door back shut. Inside the hotel, the clanging alarm ceased abruptly, leaving behind a strangely pregnant silence. Joanna held her breath and tried to listen over the rush of blood in her own ears. Sure enough, on the far side of the hotel, between it and the Presbyterian church next door, she heard at least one pair of pounding feet.

Joanna hurried back to Angie who was on her hands and knees in the rocks, patchy weeds, broken glass, and blowing trash, searching for something.

“Come on,” Joanna whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming.”

“My thong came off,” Angie whispered back. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“You’ll have to go barefoot. Come on!”

She helped pull Angie to her feet. The woman was still clutching the beach bag. She may have lost a thong, but the money was still intact. Together they started across the broken pavement and the rough, uneven yard. They had gone barely two steps each when a broken bottle sliced into the bottom of Angie’s leg. Gasping in pain, she stopped in her tracks. Joanna looked down in time to see a spurt of blood pour from her wounded ankle.

“It’s not far,” Joanna whispered. “Lean on me. We can make it.”

Together they limped down the steep hill side to where a single frail streetlight dangled on a crooked pole at the top of a stairway. They paused momentarily at the top of the stairs. Below them they heard the occasional tires and saw the headlights of passing automobiles. There was still no sound of pursuit from behind. They might just make it.

“‘That’s Brewery Gulch,” Joanna said, whispering still. “If we can make it down there, we should find someone to help us.”

They started forward again. Joanna looked back over her shoulder. They had delayed for only a matter of seconds at the top of the stairs, but a pool of blood was clearly visible on the rough concrete surface of the step. Even without someone chasing them, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

In the the old days Brewery Gulch had been a wide-open redlight district, complete with bars, gambling dens, and scarlet women. Joanna remembered her father telling stories about how, even in his time, Brewery Gulch had liven a thriving beehive of activity. As they hurried down the stairs, Joanna fervently wished it were still so. In places like that, even a woman with a bloody foot could melt into a crowd and disappear, but the same economics that had closed down the copper mines had also emptied most of the bars along Brewery Gulch.