Chapter 18

Monday, June 28, 5:45 p.m.

Christopher Louis Phelps had spent the past 48 hours in his hotel room. He had driven directly there from the wooded area where he had left Emma Majeski's body.

Phelps had retained enough presence of mind, on Saturday, to park the old Chevy well-away from the hotel, on a side street just off the main business section downtown. There were no parking meters. He was confident no one would notice the car.

But he had then walked straight to the hotel and into his room, and had not left the suite for two days. For cover, he called the front desk and, pleading a sudden illness, had arranged for the purchase and delivery of an array of patent medicines. The clerk, sounding genuinely concerned, offered to summon a physician. Phelps told him he was experiencing familiar symptoms. He would be fine with time, rest and self-treatment.

He took his meals in his suite. It was a sparse and sporadic diet. The truth was, Christopher Phelps was indeed sick. His sickness was rooted in the emotional, but it was extremely real. Saturday night and all day Sunday, he had experienced repeated episodes of severe shaking, continuing for upwards of a half-hour in duration, followed by hours of lassitude.

He had awakened periodically from troubled sleep, experiencing apparent calm and believing himself to have recovered. But each time, the violent shaking had returned. The manic cycles had seemed to be unending.

Now, late on Monday, a feeling of calm at last seemed to be holding. He had sat silently in his room, awake and alert, for more than two hours without regressing into another panic cycle.

His thought processes seemed to have become rational and linear again. Cautiously, Phelps allowed himself to relive the events of Saturday.

He had not been unduly shocked when the woman had reacted negatively to his surprising appearance at the lake. He had well-understood that making a second contact with a Gameplayer was a delicate proposition. In retrospect, it was clear that he should have arranged to see her again in a less menacing environment. He should have waited: He could have appeared to happen upon her in a restaurant or bar. He could have contrived to meet her as she shopped for groceries.

But his powerful attraction for this woman -- his lust -- had caused him to lose his composure. It had been uncharacteristic behavior. He had become heedless of the possible consequences of their meeting, coming as it did in an isolated, threatening environment.

He regretted it. Not the woman's death, specifically. But he had lost an opportunity. And she had been lovely! She would be difficult to replace.

What to do now? Phelps was confident that there were no witnesses to the actual incident at the lake. He had twice observed the splendid isolation of the area. There had been no other vehicles on the road going into the area. Probably, he thought, he would have heard, if anyone had so much as driven by while he had been with the girl. "No witnesses, other than the geese," he thought.

Hiding her car had been difficult, given the muddy conditions. It could have been a disaster, had her car become mired out in the open while he was moving it. But he'd gotten it off the road, and had taken extreme care to wipe it clean.

But that awful muddy road! His own car, less nimble than the girl's, had become completely bogged down in the muck. He'd actually had to accept help, from that old black man, getting out of there! That had rattled him, almost as much as had the terrible struggle with the girl.

What if the police were to find that old bastard? Did the old man live out there, close to the scene? Probably. How good a description could he give them? He looked to be half-blind. What had Phelps been wearing? What about the car? The old car would have to go. Probably, for the old black man, describing that old Chevrolet would be easier than would have been Phelps' late-model rented Buick. Christ!