The Traveler

The diner was a long, narrow room with booths near the windows, a counter with stools, and a small kitchen. Three slot machines were near the front door and each one had a garish theme. Circus of Jackpots. Big Winner. Happy Daze. A pair of Mexicans wearing cowboy boots and dusty work clothes sat at the counter eating scrambled eggs and corn tortillas. A young waitress with bleached blond hair and a pinafore apron was emptying one ketchup bottle into another. Maya saw a face peering through the kitchen serving window: an old man with bleary eyes and a scruffy beard. The cook.

“Sit anywhere you want,” the waitress said, and Maya picked the best defensive position-last booth down, facing the entrance. As she sat down, she stared at the silverware on the Formica table and tried to visualize the room in her mind. This was a good place to stop. The two Mexicans looked harmless and she could see any car that approached the building from the road.

The waitress came over with glasses of ice water. “Mornin’. You two want coffee?” She had a chirpy little voice.

“Just some orange juice,” Gabriel said.

Maya stood up. “Where’s the restroom?”

“You got to walk outside to the back. Plus, it’s locked. Come on. I’ll take you there.”

The waitress-whose name tag read “Kathy”-led Maya around the diner to an unmarked door fastened with a padlock and latch. She kept chattering as she searched through her pockets for the key. “Daddy’s worried about people coming in and stealing all his toilet paper. He’s the cook and the dishwasher and everything else around here.”

Kathy unlocked the door and switched on the light. The room was filled with cardboard boxes of canned food and other supplies. She bustled around, checking the paper-towel dispenser and wiping out the sink.

“You got a real cute boyfriend,” Kathy said. “I’d like to drive around with a good-looking man like that, but I’m stuck at the Paradise until Daddy sells this place.”

“You’re a bit isolated here.”

“Nothing but us and that ol’ coyote. Plus a few people driving down from Vegas. You been to Vegas?”

“No.”

“I’ve been six times.”

When she finally left the room, Maya locked the door and sat on a stack of cardboard boxes. It bothered her that she might feel any kind of attachment to Gabriel. Harlequins weren’t allowed to become friends with the Travelers they protected. The proper attitude was to feel somewhat superior to the Travelers, as if they were little children who were innocent of the wolves in the forest. Her father always said there was a practical reason for this emotional distance. Surgeons rarely operated on family members. It might cloud their judgment. The same rules applied to Harlequins.

Maya stood in front of the sink and stared into the cracked mirror. Look at yourself, she thought. Tangled hair. Bloodshot eyes. Dark, drab clothing. Thorn had turned her into a killer without attachments, someone who lacked the drone desire for comfort and the citizen desire for security. Travelers might be weak and confused, but they could cross over and escape from this worldly prison. Harlequins were trapped in the Fourth Realm until they died.

When Maya returned to the diner, the two Mexicans had finished their meals and driven away. She and Gabriel ordered breakfast, then he leaned back in the booth and watched her carefully.

“Let’s assume that people really can cross over into other realms. What’s it like there? Is it dangerous?”

“I don’t know that much about it. That’s why you need a Pathfinder to help you. My father did tell me about two possible dangers. When you cross over, your shell-your body-stays here.”

“And what’s the second danger?”

“Your Light, your spirit, whatever you want to call it, can be killed or injured in another realm. If that happens, then you’re trapped there forever.”

Voices. Laughter. Maya watched the door as four young men entered the restaurant. Out in the parking lot, the desert sun gleamed on their dark blue SUV. Maya evaluated each person in the group and gave them nicknames. Big Arms, Shaved Head, and Fat Boy all wore a mixture of sports team jerseys and workout pants. They looked as if they had just run from an athletic club fire and had grabbed their clothes randomly from different lockers. Their leader-the smallest man, but the one with the loudest voice-wore cowboy boots to make himself look taller. Call him Mustache, she thought. No. Silver Buckle. The buckle was part of an elaborate cowboy belt.

“Sit anywhere you want,” Kathy said.

“Hell yes,” Silver Buckle told her. “We were going to do that anyway.”