Free Getaway by Lisa Brackmann Page A

whitewashed walls, a narrow drive that dipped sharply and then rose up to meet a pink-tiled courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The rooms were grouped around it in two-story wings. A few mangy-looking dogs lay by the fountain, and a calico cat stretched out on a second-floor balcony, twined between two terra-cotta planters. About a half dozen guests—she assumed they were tourists, mostly older women and several older men—reclined in lounge chairs around the fountain, chatting with one another, reading books, sipping iced drinks.
    The office was in a lower unit immediately to the right of the entrance. The side that faced the courtyard was almost entirely open to the air, with a low wall about waist high where abandoned drinks and ashtrays sat, waiting to be cleared. Inside was a counter, a round table with a grimy computer and several shelves of books, most of which were English-language paperbacks.
    It shouldn’t look so normal, she thought. It didn’t feel real; it was like she’d arrived here in a state of jet lag.
    “You’re in Number Thirty-two,” the woman behind the counter said in lightly accented English. “Do you need help to your room?”
    “No. No, I don’t think so.”
    “We serve continental breakfast in the courtyard from seven to ten A.M.,” the woman explained. She was in her thirties, solidly built, with tanned olive skin, streaked hair, and above her breast a rose tattoo that peeked out from her embroidered tank top. “And we have happy hour every night, from five until seven.”
    “Great,” Michelle said. “You know, I can’t exactly remember. What’s the last date of my reservation?”
    The woman consulted her computer. “You’re paid through the fifteenth,” she said. “But if you want to extend, just let me know. It’s not so busy this time of year.”
    Nearly two weeks. Was that how long she was expected to play this game?
    At least the room was cute, almost a suite, with a mini-fridge, a microwave, a wardrobe that had a luggage stand and a small safe inside. Painted tiles formed borders along the walls; there were a few framed molas hung up as well, and the bed featured an elaborately carved headboard.
    She put her suitcase down on top of the open cabinet by the wardrobe and stood there for a moment. The room was hot. It would take a while before the air conditioner cooled it down.
    I have to get out of here, she thought.
    She grabbed her purse and her good camera and bolted out the door.
    In the courtyard the guests still sat, drinking, chatting, reading books. A dog trotted slowly past the fountain. It was as hot as her room and utterly still.
    She slowed her steps so it wouldn’t look like she was running, managed a smile and a half wave at the woman behind the counter, and pulled open the wrought-iron gate.
    Free.
    Up the hill, she thought. She was pretty sure that if she walked up the hill, she’d come to a broad avenue running north and south, where there were buses that went downtown, maybe even to the airport. What was stopping her from just getting on one? She had five thousand dollars in her purse. She could go pretty far with that, all the way to the border, certainly. Just walk across and tell the customs people she’d lost her passport. They wouldn’t throw her in jail for that.
    Behind her a car started with a misfire that sounded like a hammer on a tin can. She could smell the unburned gas. They probably didn’t have strict emissions standards here, she thought, not like California. She kept walking, past a gay bar, a lavandería , which she knew meant “laundry.” If I stay here, I’ll need to wash my clothes, she thought; most of them were filthy. But it was crazy to think about staying here, wasn’t it? This whole thing with Gary, whatever the money was, it couldn’t be worth the risk.
    It took a moment before she realized that the car she’d heardstart matched her progress up the hill. It floated next to her, idling roughly, a presence she