When I got back to the Camino Real, the time was early afternoon and
the bed was freshly made, with all signs and scents of my and Steve's
torrid reunion long gone. I tried to push aside thoughts of how much I
was already missing him and focus on what I was getting myself into. I
must admit I was having serious qualms about going up to the Peten, the
part of Guatemala where Sarah had been left for dead, with my brand-new
tour director, the flaky Alan Dupre. I'd never been in a helicopter
before, much less one flying over a stormy rain forest. On the other
hand, if that was where they'd taken Sarah, the sooner I got there, the
better.
Sitting there in the room, I found myself feeling right at home:
Everything about it was so familiar to an expert on budget travel like
me. Off-brand carpet the color of decaying vegetation, the usual two
double beds (one totally unused, except as a suitcase shelf), the TV
suspended over the dresser and bolted to the wall. Funny, but it was
the first time I'd noticed half the things in the room.
Okay, I told myself, the thing to do first is call St. Vincent's and
check on Lou. Also, I wanted to tell him what was happening. I just
hoped he wouldn't launch into a lecture about the recklessness of what
I was planning. I needed support, not male advice.