Part 50 (1/2)

”She's not here, hormone-boy. Look there, the same footprints heading out. She's been and gone.”

”How long ago?”

”About thirty-one minutes. She was walking quickly, carrying a ham sandwich, and humming The 1812 Overture.”

”You can tell all that from her footprints?”

”No, you idiot, I can't. But I'd be just as likely to know the last two as the first.” Shaking his head, the cat slid through the break in the canvas.

Because he couldn't think of anything better to do, Dean followed. ”Still no Lance.” But there was a note on the beer cooler. ”Just pa.s.sing through. Still working on the mall. I agree with your a.s.sessment of Lance. Austin, you're eating the geriatric cat food and that's final. Love you both. Claire.” He folded his hand around the paper.

”Are you going to do something sappy, like hold the note up to your heart?”

”No.” Not now he wasn't. ”Do you think she took Lance with her?”

Wrapping his tail around his toes, Austin looked thoughtful. ”They definitely headed off together, and she said she trusted your a.s.sessment of him.”

”Well, after hearing Lance's story, it wouldn't be hard for Claire to figure out that I sent him up here to get him safely out of the way.”

”So maybe she took him with her because this place is no longer safe.”

Dean's brows drew in and he studied the cat. ”Facetious comment?”

”Experienced guess.”

Fair enough. ”And if this place is no longer safe . . .”

”. . . we should go.” Austin finished, jumping down and running for the cabana's flap.

Dean caught up to him halfway back to the elevator. ”Did you know there was a back way into this beach?”

”Sure.”

”You lying to me?”

”You'll never know.”

”It's like a f.u.c.king maze down here. What do they need all these tunnels for?”

”Nothing. It's what we expected to find.” Specifically, it was what she'd expected to find, unable to shake the feeling that they couldn't just go straight to the anchor, way too easy. About to suggest they stop wandering and start coming up with some sort of a plan, she snapped her mouth closed as Kris raised a silencing hand.

Voices.

Angry voices.

Not very far away but bouncing off the rock.

Head c.o.c.ked, ears fanned out away from her skull, Kris slowly turned in place. Barely resisting the urge to make beeping sounds, Diana waited. After a long moment, Kris pointed to the left. ”That way.”

”I guess Chekhov was right.”