Though it catered to guests year-round and actually provided fair skiing for at least a couple of months in winter, the busiest time of the year for The Lodge was from early April through October.
So Quentin knew he was lucky when the front desk clerk found a room for him despite his lack of reservations. He even wondered if it was fate.
Malevolent fate.
"We have the Rhododendron Room available for the next two weeks, sir. It's in the North Wing."
In the middle of filling out the registration card, Quentin paused and looked across the desk at her. "The North Wing. Didn't that burn down, years ago?"
"Why, I believe it did, sir, but that must have been at least twenty or thirty years ago." She was new, or at least no one Quentin had talked to on his previous visits, and seemed to be not the least bit fazed by the fact that there had once been a fire here.
"I see," he said. He hadn't bargained on staying in the North Wing. Hadn't even thought about it, in fact.
"The Lodge is over a hundred years old, sir, as I'm sure you know, so having a fire here at least once in all those years isn't all that surprising. I was told it started accidentally, but not due to faulty wiring or anything like that. And it was rebuilt, of course, even nicer than before."
"I'm sure it was." He knew it had been. He had been in that part of the building many times. But he had never stayed there, never spent the night there, not since it had been rebuilt.
For the first time, Quentin had to ask himself if he did believe in ghosts. It was a surprisingly difficult question to answer.
The desk clerk hesitated for a moment, studying his face. "I don't believe we have another room available for the full two weeks, sir, but if you're willing to change rooms partway through your stay here, I'm sure I can—"
"No, I'd prefer to stay put, I think. The Rhododendron Room will be fine, thank you."
Ten minutes later, he was settling into what was actually a very nice, beautifully decorated suite with a small sitting room adjacent to the spacious bedroom and bathroom, when he found a card cheerfully explaining the "historic" meaning of the rhododendron flower "according to some sources."
He felt again the consciousness of malevolent fate taking a hand when he saw what the meaning was.
Beware.
"Well," he murmured aloud. "No one can say I haven't been warned."
Nate McDaniel waited until nearly the end of the day before he placed the call, not because of reluctance but simply because things got busy. So it was after five before he dug into the clutter on his desk to find the scrap of paper with the cell phone number scrawled on it.
He wasn't really surprised, though, when the call was answered immediately; few cops worked nine to five.
"Hello, Captain."
Nate knew it was Caller I.D. rather than psychic ability, but it still caught him slightly off guard, and it was that which made his tone a bit aggressive.
"Okay, you called in the favor and I paid. I suggested that Quentin might want to stay at The Lodge this time, and I'm pretty sure he went out there."
"I appreciate your help, Captain."
"Yeah, well, I'm not all that happy about it, so don't thank me. He might find something he's not looking for out there, and if it's trouble, I'm going to feel like shit. Plus, you know, I kinda like the guy."
"Just remember it was my idea."
Nate's unconscious frown deepened. "You know something. What is it?"
"All I know is that it's time Quentin settled with his past."
Nate wasn't about to call an FBI agent a liar, so all he said was, "And you get to decide stuff like that, huh?"
"No. I wish I did, but no."
"Well, I just hope you know what you're doing."
"Yes," Bishop said. "So do I."
Diana.
Opening her eyes with a start, Diana looked around her bedroom warily. It was dark, but not so dark that she couldn't see every corner. Nobody there, of course. Just her wayward mind not quite hearing voices.
She refused to hear voices.
Because that would make her delusional or psychotic, she knew that. So she wasn't hearing voices. Just her own random thoughts and fragments of thoughts, and so what if those fragments occasionally held her name?
The birds had begun to sing outside and darkness was shading into a slightly misty, gray dawn, which told her that she had indeed slept for at least an hour or two. Curled up in the window seat, wrapped in a soft chenille afghan.
She stirred and moved stiffly off the window seat, getting to her feet and beginning to unwrap herself. Stupid way for a grown woman to spend the night when there was a perfectly comfortable bed nearby; the housekeeping staff probably thought she was out of her mind—
Diana.
And maybe she was.
Diana went still, waiting. Listening.
Look.
For the first time, Diana was certain that the voice — this particular voice, at any rate — was outside herself. Like a whisper in her ear. On her left side, closest to the window.
Slowly, Diana turned her head.
The center pane of the window looked fogged or frosted, as though someone had breathed warmly on it. None of the other panes, just the center one. And on that pane, very clearly as if a firm finger had traced them, were two words.
HELP US
Diana caught her breath, staring at the words, the plea. A wave of coldness swept over her. But she found herself reaching out, very slowly, until she could touch the glass. That was when she realized that the words had been traced on the outside of the glass.
She jerked her hand away and quickly moved to the nightstand beside the bed and the lamp there. She turned it on, blinking in the light, and looked back at the window.
Gray, featureless panes of glass. No fog or frost.
No desperate plea.
"Of course," Diana murmured after a long moment. "Because I'm obviously out of my mind."
She managed to at least partially shake off the cold uneasiness she felt, telling herself it had probably been her imagination anyway. Just... a leftover wisp of whatever she'd been dreaming.
Probably.
She turned on a few more lamps in the cottage, checked the doors to make sure they were all locked, and then went and took a long, hot shower.
She actually wished she could believe there had been someone outside her window. Because if someone had been out there, then at least that would have been a flesh-and-blood thing. A real thing. Whether an attempt to frighten her, a stupid joke, or an actual plea for her help, it would have been real.
Not all in her head.
It was daylight, the sun rising above the mountains and rapidly burning off the mist, by the time Diana was dressed, but it was still early. It was her habit to either make coffee in her cottage's tiny kitchenette or else order room service, but on this morning she really didn't want to spend any more time alone.
She picked up the sketchpad and pencils that Beau Rafferty had given her and slipped them into an oversized tote bag and dropped her billfold and keycard in there as well, hoping she wouldn't have to have the latter rekeyed again. She'd already had to do that half a dozen times in the two weeks she'd been here, to the bafflement of the hotel staff.
She left the cottage, a bit relieved, as she moved toward the main building, to find the fog all but gone and others stirring even this early. Groundskeepers were working in the gardens, the heated outdoor pool Diana passed already boasted a couple of morning swimmers doing serious laps, and she could dimly hear the sounds of activity down at the stables.