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“Yep. My father used to be a sheriff.”
“I remember. Was that difficult for you?”
“Not at all. He taught me how to use a gun. He also taught me right from wrong. I always wanted to grow up and help people. Somewhere in college I decided the best way to do that was to safeguard their money.”
“That’s what you’re doing now,” Emerson said. “On a global scale.”
Riley hoped that was true.
They passed Albuquerque and Flagstaff and drove in silence. They stopped only for the occasional bathroom break or fast food drive-through, until twilight, when they saw the ambient light of Vegas in the distance.
Riley felt a stir of excitement in her chest. She loved Vegas. She loved the lights, the fountains, the size of the fakery, and the noise of the casinos. Most of all, she loved that she could soon get out from behind the wheel and into a comfy hotel room.
“We can’t walk through a crowded hotel lobby,” Emerson said. “Someone might recognize us and call us in. We need to find a motel where I can register us and you can go straight to the room.”
“Are you going to cloud the clerk’s mind when you register?”
“I doubt it will be necessary. I think I’m sufficiently disguised.”
Riley agreed. He didn’t look like the photo that was displayed by the news media. No more ponytail. No perfectly tailored tuxedo. His hair now fell across his forehead and curled over his ears, and he had a three-day beard. He looked more like a pirate than a billionaire.
A half hour later Riley pulled into a budget motel five miles from the Strip. Emerson registered and they trudged up the stairs to their second-floor room. Riley threw her backpack on one of the two queen beds, and Emerson dumped his duffel bag and rucksack on the floor.
“Home sweet home,” Riley said.
“They have complimentary coffee in the morning.”
“And television and flush toilets.”
“One really doesn’t need much more than that,” Emerson said.
“It’s not the Carlyle.”
Emerson looked around the room. “No piano.”
—
Riley fell asleep halfway through a sitcom rerun and didn’t wake up until seven the next morning.
“I smell coffee,” Riley said, sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“Interesting,” Emerson said, handing Riley a cardboard container of coffee. “You slept through the fire alarm but you woke up when I entered the room with coffee.”
“There was a fire alarm?”
“At five-thirty. I didn’t feel threatened so I ignored it. When I went down for coffee they said someone accidentally set their wastebasket on fire, but no damage was done.”
“I don’t suppose they had food down there?”
“Vending machines. Nothing suitable for breakfast. We can get something once we’re on the road.”
Riley took a fast shower and got behind the wheel with her hair still damp. The sun was bright but the air had some chill to it. She followed Interstate 15 north to U.S. Route 93, leaving Vegas behind. The road had a steady uphill climb.
“I think my ears just popped,” Riley said. “How high are we?”
“Groom Lake is a salt flat at an elevation of 4,462 feet. It’s in a high-desert environment. I believe Route 375 will be coming up shortly. You need to go left on 375.”
Riley paused when she reached the two-lane road. “The sign says EXTRATERRESTRIAL HIGHWAY.”
