He hadn’t known his wallet was missing at first, of course. When he had walked up to the hostess’s stand, he thought he was just going to be complaining about the physical abuse he had suffered, maybe get a free beer out of it. But then the hostess had said, “Oh, Mr. Taggert! I’m so glad you came back. I have your change.”

He had almost forgotten that he had told this woman that he was Meghan’s brother. He smiled a little feebly at her, because he was sore from the pummeling he had been given. Then, to his amazement, she extended a little tray to him, on which he counted a sum of ninety-five bucks.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Taggert?” she asked.

The first and most important intelligence he received from this question was that she didn’t know what had happened to him-maybe not so many people had seen him face planted into the floorboards after all.

The second was that he was, for whatever reason, about to receive a wind-fall. Ninety-five dollars wasn’t even pocket change to someone with his resources, but it was money, and he never held his nose up at money. He was not unaware of the predicament in which the rest of the world found itself, and he knew that in a place like the Peak Experience, this was a lot of change for a guy who had only ordered a beer.

So he said that everything was fine, and took the cash, and reached for his wallet to put it away.

No wallet. A quick check of all of his pockets revealed that his keys were also missing.

The hostess was watching him closely.

For a moment, in his fury, he considered pitching a fit that would allow him to do a healthy amount of venting. He’d say he had been mugged and robbed by professional thieves. Meghan and her gang would be captured and humiliated, as he had been humiliated.

But then he realized that if the thieves were caught, he’d have to explain why he was using a dead man’s driver’s license, had a collection of credit cards in names other than his own, had the keys to a stolen vehicle, and answer any number of other awkward questions that were sure to arise.

So he put the loose bills in his jeans pocket and walked out with what dignity he could muster. He thought he heard some sniggering from the area of the hostess’s stand but didn’t bother looking back. No use being paranoid.

He was feeling fairly stiff and sore by the time he went up the stairs to the tram. He had just reached the entrance when he realized his return tram ticket had been in his wallet. But he lucked out, because the skinny old long-haired dude who was taking tickets said, “Don’t worry about it-I remember you from the trip up. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“She’s hiking down,” he said. “I’m going to wait for her below.”

“You don’t want to take that moonlight hike?”

“I’d love to, but…well, I don’t tell many people this, but I have a rare heart condition. I’ve had to give up hiking.”

“Man, that sucks,” he said, and Frederick felt moved by this show of sympathy-something he found he needed, even under false pretenses.

Seeing his face, the other man added, “I hope she appreciates how dangerous it is for you to be up at this altitude, even to see her off.”

“I don’t want her to know how much danger I’ve been in up here,” he said in all truthfulness.

“That’s beautiful, man. I think I’ll ride down with you, just to make sure you’re okay.”

This was carrying the sympathy a little further than he would have preferred, but he graciously accepted the offer.

It was on the tram that Freddy saw something that nearly did stop his heart-the Bronco being towed. There was a police car following it.

“Hey, hey…sit down there, fella. You really shouldn’t have come up here.”

“You’re so right,” Frederick said with feeling.

Would someone be watching to see who came off the tram and didn’t have a vehicle? Of course. A trap must be in place. He was starting to wonder what Everett would say if he learned that one of his men had been arrested in Albuquerque. It didn’t bear thinking about.

His anxiety over the number of crimes he might be charged with had taken up so much of his mind that he had forgotten the story he told the hippie. So he looked a little confused when the man said, “You can wait inside until about nine, okay? That’s when the last tram comes down. Just take it easy until then, man.”

“Thanks, you’ve been so kind,” Frederick said.

The man smiled and said, “Think nothing of it. You’re an inspiration. I mean it.”

After the tram office closed and the workers had left, he considered stealing one of the other cars in the lot, but he still had some fears that the lot was being watched. After all, as far as the police knew, the Bronco might belong to one of the hikers. He knew that car theft wouldn’t usually warrant so much attention, but the theft of the Bronco would lead to the house he had tossed, the pickup he had stolen, and possibly the hotel. Not good.

The cell phone rang again. Again he ignored it. It started beeping. He looked at the display and saw a text message:

ARRIVING LGB TOMORROW 10 AM. BRING THE VAN. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.

He stared at the message for a moment, but no matter how many times he read it, it said the same thing-Everett and Cameron would be at the Long Beach Airport at ten in the morning. He called the company he used when he needed a private jet and arranged to have a plane ready to take him home at six tomorrow morning. He told them his wallet had been stolen, so he would not have his ID. They assured him that the pilot and crew they were sending were his favorites and knew him personally, so there would be no problem. Was there anything else they could do for him?

People were really wonderful, he thought. Then he saw the text message again, and thought of Everett, and how he would react when he learned what had happened here, and that he had lost track of Meghan.

He turned the phone off. He began to weep.

The first group of hikers arrived about then, so he wiped his face with the soft handkerchief he had brought with him. He had made sure not to bring one of the monogrammed ones. He looked up to see his little boyakina hurrying toward him. She looked angry. A pissed-off woman, he decided, was all he needed to make this a one-hundred-percent-fucked-up, completely whack day.

But she slowed when she saw his tears, her look changing to one of genuine concern. For some reason, that made him start crying again. He was glad Everett wasn’t here to see what a total pussy he was turning into.

She sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Where to begin? he thought. He briefly considered telling her that his grandmother had died in a fire, some accident that occurred while she had been reading the Tarot cards by candlelight, but then he remembered that she didn’t like the fortune-telling thing. He found he liked the feel of that comforting arm and suddenly no longer had the energy for lies. He leaned against her and said nothing.

She used her free hand to stroke his hair. “I think the hike helped me to start thinking a little more clearly. Your parents weren’t Russian spies, were they?”

He shook his head. “They’re alive.”

“And that was also bullshit about your grandmother, right?”

He nodded. “She’s dead.”

She sighed. “If my usual ability to pick men is at work here, you’re also out of a job and completely broke.”

“I have ninety-five dollars.”

She laughed, and he found himself laughing, too. He dried his face again.

He came to a quick decision. “I’m-” He started to give her the full title, but then said, “I’m Frederick Whitfield. What’s your name?”

“Vanessa. Vanessa Przbyslaw.”

For a moment he was distracted. “How do you spell that?”

She told him.