Holland Suggestions by John Dunning Page A

mirror.
    “You still going home?” she said.
    “I didn’t say that. All I said was this is as far west as I go. I’ll probably fool around in the mountains for a few days; do some exploring and maybe some fishing. Then I’ll go home.”
    “Too bad.”
    “Too bad how?”
    “Too bad we can’t have more time together. You’re sure I can’t talk you into driving me on to California?”
    I smiled. “I’m sure.”
    “I do have friends there.”
    It was a curious thing to say, and I looked at her curiously as I answered her: “I believe you.”
    “I guess we could still have some good times. If you asked me to go along with you, I mean. That’s not a hint, by the way, but it looks like you’re going to be around, and I’m not in any big hurry anyway.”
    “What about California?”
    “It’ll still be there.”
    That’s what I mean about assumptions. From the start of our little sexual adventure she had assumed that I would want her along and I assumed that she would want to come. In this case both were reasonably correct, so that made things easier. Over breakfast I looked at a road map while she visited the ladies’ room. This time she did not even look at the telephone, which was in plain view across the dining room, and I hoped that the whole nasty business—whatever it meant—was over for her. When the time was right I would ask her about it, and maybe she would have some answers. I still had a lot to find out. The New York phone call was annoying, but nothing could be done on that angle from here; I put it aside and played the hand I had dealt myself. I studied the road map, with particular attention to the area west of Pueblo, and the first thing I noticed was that Route 50 continued on through the Rockies and across Utah. More interesting at the moment was State Highway 96, which ran due west to the mountain range, then curled north and made a rendezvous with Route 50 about a hundred miles farther along. I followed 96 with my finger, looking for the road called 12, which would complete the trio of automatic-writing numbers; but either the map was not detailed enough or Highway 12 wasn’t there. The state road ran a fairly uncomplicated path, curving along the mountains, intersecting 50 and dying at that point. There were a few unmarked roads along the way, thin blue lines on my road map that led to small towns in the mountains, and all of them would be worth checking out. Amy returned and I folded the map and put it away.
    We left the smoky town in a rush, heading into the high country. I found 96 an easier driving road than 50; there was no traffic to speak of after Pueblo had been put behind us. The highway straightened and went in a beeline across a broad plain; the foothills rose up ahead and the few clouds broke and drifted away to the south. Amy asked for my road map and I gave it to her, but she put it aside immediately and stared out at the passing landscape. Her light mood of the morning had vanished; in its place had come an uneasiness. Twice I asked her what was wrong, but she brushed it off with a shrug. The road twisted sharply and began to climb; soon we saw snow-covered peaks in the distance, a great expanse of mountains that seemed to stretch north and south forever. I said, “God, look at that,” but she nodded her head only in politeness and not with any interest. I had the feeling that she had seen it all before, so many times that it was old to her, and it was an uncomfortable thought that I couldn’t shake.
    It was partly confirmed later, as we passed a federal wilderness area and came upon a mountain development called Sangre de Cristo Estates. The developer operated out of a trailer just off the highway, and his roadside sign was an annoying intrusion into the unlittered drive. But it did bring my attention for the first time to the words Sangre de Cristo. The name had a faintly familiar ring and I said it to myself.
    “It means “blood of Christ,’ ” Amy