Free Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner Page A

street, a silver Mercedes SUV roared away from the motel.
    I went back into the lobby and told the desk clerk to call the police.
    The manager came to the front desk, apoplectic with embarrassment.
    She said, ‘‘We’re terribly sorry about this. Your stay will be complimentary, ma’am.’’
    It was the thinnest of silver linings. ‘‘I was just about to register. The name’s Delaney,’’ I said. ‘‘Do you have anything near room one twenty-seven?’’

8
    The East Beach Writers’ Conference was the official name, but the event should have been called the Fiction Smackdown. It was two days of controlled chaos, organized by a gang of writers who suppressed their neuroses and jealousy just long enough to book the hotel conference center. At noon the next day I arrived to give my seminar. The hotel looked out across Cabrillo Boulevard at beach volleyball courts, Stearns Wharf, and the pin-prick sparkle of the ocean. The sky flew above like a taut blue sail. I was already in a bad mood.
    I had spent the morning canceling my credit cards and arranging to get a duplicate driver’s license. The bridal shop phoned to tell me they’d lost my measurements and I should come in for another fitting. And, the pièce de résistance, Jesse called with the news that Mari Vasquez Diamond was threatening to sue him, me, and Sanchez Marks for intentional infliction of emotional distress.
    And I had stayed up most of the night, peeking through the curtains of my poolside room at the Holiday Inn, watching to see if Franklin Brand did anything. He didn’t. He kept the curtains drawn. He received no visitors. When I walked past his door I heard the television droning. The only activity along his wing of the motel was in the connecting room next to his, which I saw through the open door: Maintenance was working on a leak in the ceiling. After three a.m., espresso couldn’t keep me alert. Eventually fretting over who stole my things, and how the thieves were connected to Brand, couldn’t either.
    Now Adam Sandoval was taking a turn on watch. I left him in the motel room looking grimly refreshed, working through coffee and a box of his brother’s mementos.
    So, tired and crabby, I walked into the conference room to make my debut as a teacher. I wet my thumb before passing out a sheet of lecture points. Twelve people sat around the table, staring at me. They were a mix: women, men, tie-dye, pinstripes, slickness, reticence, looking for enlightenment, or at least craft, listening and interrupting and taking notes as I talked about story structure. To my surprise, I enjoyed it.
    No, I loved it. At the end of two hours I found myself hoarse but invigorated. I could get used to this, I thought.
    Gathering up my things, I noticed two students lingering in the doorway, a couple in their forties. The man offered his hand.
    ‘‘Tim North. Excellent seminar.’’
    He had an English accent and a brisk handshake. He was trim, with cool eyes and a mutt’s face. From his carriage, I took him to be ex-military.
    I hoisted my backpack over my shoulder. ‘‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. You didn’t say a word during the session. ’’
    ‘‘Observing and assimilating,’’ North said.
    He was tightly wound, as if he were ready to spring. His accent was broad, his features . . . malleable. I got the feeling that he wasn’t among the usual aspirants.
    He gestured to the woman. ‘‘My wife, Jakarta Rivera.’’
    Her smile gleamed. ‘‘It was everything we hoped it would be.’’
    Her voice was patently made in the USA. She was African-American, more stylishly dressed than the average Santa Barbaran, and had a ballerina’s physique: deceptive fragility covering pure muscle. She looked as sleek as a Maserati.
    She reached into her bag for a copy of my novel Lithium Sunset . ‘‘We’re fans.’’
    ‘‘I’m flattered.’’
    I led them through the door. I sensed that they wanted something—for me to read their screenplay, or to give