Extreme Denial by David Morrell

as if enchanted; Decker remembered noticing that the motto on New Mexico’s license plates was “The Land of Enchantment.” The vista, encircled by the green of piñon trees, beckoned, and Decker had no doubt that was where he was headed.
    5
    Within the city limits (S ANTA F E. P OPULATION 62,424.), he followed a sign that said H ISTORIC P LAZA. The busy downtown streets seemed to become more narrow, their pattern like a maze, as if the four-hundred-year-old city had developed haphazardly. Adobe buildings were everywhere, none the same, as if each of them had been added to haphazardly, also. While most of the buildings were low, a few were three stories high, their pueblo design reminding him of cliff dwellings— he discovered they were hotels. Even the city’s downtown parking garage had a pueblo design. He locked the Intrepid, then strolled up a street that had a long portal above it. At the far end, he saw a cathedral that reminded him of churches in Spain. But before he reached it, the Plaza appeared on the left—rectangular, the size of a small city block, with a lawn, white metal benches, tall sheltering trees, and a Civil War memorial at its center. He noticed a diner called the Plaza Cafe and a restaurant called the Ore House, bunches of dried red peppers dangling from its balcony. In front of a long, low ancient-looking adobe building called the Palace of the Governors, Native Americans sat against a wall beneath a portal, blankets spread before them on the sidewalk, silver and turquoise jewelry arranged for sale on the blankets.
    As Decker slumped on a bench in the Plaza, the mellowing effect of the margaritas began to wear off. He felt a pang of misgiving and wondered how big a mistake he had made. For the past twenty years, in the military and then working as an intelligence operative, he had been taken care of, his life structured by others. Now, insecurely, he was on his own.
    You wanted a new beginning, a part of him said.
    But what am I going to do?
    A good first step would be to get a room.
    And after that?
    Try reinventing yourself.
    To his annoyance, his professional training insisted—he couldn’t help checking for surveillance as he crossed the Plaza toward a hotel called La Fonda. Its decades-old Hispanic-influenced lobby had warm, soothing dark tones, but his instincts distracted him, nagging at him to ignore his surroundings and concentrate on the people around him. After getting a room, he again checked for surveillance as he walked back to the city’s parking garage.
    This has got to stop, he told himself. I don’t have to live this way anymore.
    A man with a salt-and-pepper beard, wearing khakis and a blue summer sweater oversized enough to conceal a handgun, followed him into the parking ramp. Decker paused next to the Intrepid, took out his car keys, and prepared to use them as a weapon, exhaling as the man got in a Range Rover and drove away.
    This has got to stop , Decker repeated to himself.
    He purposefully didn’t check behind him as he drove to the La Fonda’s parking garage and carried his suitcase up to his room. He deliberately ate dinner with his back to the dining room’s entrance. He resolutely took a random nighttime stroll through the downtown area, choosing rather than avoiding poorly lit areas.
    In a wooded minipark next to a deep concrete channel through which a stream flowed, a figure emerged from shadows. “Give me your wallet.”
    Decker was dumbfounded.
    “I’ve got a gun. I said, give me your fucking wallet.”
    Decker stared at the street kid, who was barely visible. Then he couldn’t help himself. He started laughing.
    “What’s so fucking funny?”
    “You’re holding me up? You’ve got to be kidding me. After all I’ve been through, after I force myself to be careless.”
    “You won’t think it’s so fucking funny when I put a fucking bullet through you.”
    “Okay, okay, I deserve this.” Decker pulled out his wallet and reached inside it.