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substantial raise."
"Ooh! Thank you!"
"It should come through in a few weeks. Furthermore, I think you're ready for bigger
things."
"Bigger than a popular show?"
"Bigger. Real news reporting in the grand old style! The kind of thing that sent Stanley
across Africa in search of Dr. Livingstone. The kind of thing that exposed Nixon at Watergate
or Blackstone's deeds in Geneva. Big!"
"Field reporting? What about my show?"
"Oh, Mary can fill in while you're gone. But for you the Quest for Dr. Martin Guibedo!"
"But that's a dead end! It's been years! Nobody has seen Guibedo since he broke jail."
"Wrong, Patty. Somebody's seen him because somebody broke him out. Look. A lot of stuff
passes over this desk. Most of it's solid news, but a lot of it is hints, suggestions, possibilities.
When it conies to Guibedo, those hints all point in one direction Death Valley."
"I know, boss. His nephew owns it. But look, Jim Jennings did a show on Death Valley
last fall, and his ratings were lousy."
"Yes, but Jennings only spent a day there. You'll have weeks. Jennings doesn't know Guibedo,
but you do. And Jennings had a full camera crew."
"I don't even get a camera crew?"
"When you're ready for it, we can have the L.A. crew there in two hours flat. But at first you're
better off without it."
"At first? Just how long do you expect me to spend in the boonies?"
"Whatever it takes, Patty. You'll have an open expense account and all the time you'll need."
"And come back to what? With Mary running it, my ratings will be a shambles! I might not even
have a show."
"Mary can handle it, and it will still be your show. Officially, you'll just be on vacation."
"What happens if Guibedo's not in Death Valley?"
"Then go where he is. Open expense account, remember? Patty, I want you to do this. Enough
said?"
Patty took a deep breath. "Okay. But don't be surprised if I go looking for him in London, Paris,
and the Riviera."
"Whatever you feel is best."
"You really mean that?"
"I trust you, Patty. Just be on a plane this afternoon."
"This afternoon! But my show "
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"Mary can handle it. Now get moving. I have work to do."
"Yes, sir."
"And Patty, keep in touch!"
When Cambridge had left his office, Boswell unlocked his lower desk drawer, removed a dusty
bottle of Glen Livet, and poured himself a very stiff drink.
The next morning, he received a telegram canceling his call-up orders.
Patricia drove her rented Lincoln along I-15, heading northeast across the Mohave Desert. Going
full blast, the air conditioner was barely able to cope with the desert heat. She took the cutoff north
toward Death Valley and within an hour was driving past sand dunes and baked desert flats.
Topping a rise, she found herself driving through an immense parking lot. There were cars,
trucks, and vans of every description scattered over the plain. There were thousands of them,
maybe hundreds of thousands. Some were covered with canvas tarps, others with tailored dust
jackets, but most were just sitting there with the wind and sand scouring paint and glass. There
were no traffic lanes or painted lines. Each vehicle was simply left in some random spot that
its owner thought was good enough. Many were obviously abandoned, with tires missing and
doors ajar.
Patricia slowed down. Beyond the lot, she saw a solid wall of tree houses. On the front porch
of one, a man sat in shorts and sandals, a tall drink in his hand.
Patricia stopped and lowered the passenger window. "I'm looking for Life Valley!"
"This is good," the man said in a relaxed, friendly voice. "Because that's exactly what
you've found."
"Well, how do I drive in there?"
"You don't ma'am. Would you care for some lemonade?"
"Uh. Yes. Thank you." The dry heat hit her as she left the Lincoln and walked to the porch.
"What do you mean, I don't? Do I need some kind of permission?"
"No, ma'am. I mean you don't drive. This is as far as the roads go. Beyond here, it's
footpaths and shank's mare." He handed her a tall frosted glass. "Pardon my saying it, ma'am,
but you look a lot like that television lady, Patricia Cambridge."
So much for playing the supersleuth, Patricia thought. "I guess that's because I'm her. But I'm
just on vacation now."
"Well, I'll be. It's surely a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I'm Harold Dobrinski, but most
folks just call me Hank."
Patricia smiled. "My pleasure, Hank, and call me Patty."
"Thank you, Patty. My wife is a big fan of yours and she is going to be sore unhappy about
not being here. Would you believe that this very afternoon, the batteries in the TV went dead in
the middle of your show, and Meg, that's my wife, went out to buy some new ones. She'll be back in
an hour or so, if you'd care to wait. You surely do look like a cool shower would be welcome, or
maybe a dip in the pool?"
"Thank you, but I really have to get settled in. Is there a good hotel around here?"
"Fraid not, ma'am, no hotels, good, bad, or middl'n. There's been some talk about some being
designed, but nothing's grown up yet."
"There's no place to stay at all?"
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"Now, I didn't say that. Most of these tree houses have a guest room or three. I'd lend you one of
mine, but both are full up. I think Barb Anderson has an empty. We'll put you up there."
"Uh. Well, thank you. But I can't impose on..."
"That's right, ma'am. You can't impose, 'cause it's no imposition. What do you think the guest
rooms are for? It's not like you'll be living in the same room with another family. Guest rooms all
have a private entrance, and a kitchen and a bath. You won't have to see the Andersons unless
you're of a mind to pay a social call. It's just that you'll be living in the same plant as them. Has to
be that way, you know."
"Has to?"
"A tree house has to have somebody living in to stay healthy. Guest rooms sometimes go empty
for months, so they have to be part of a home that's lived in, you know."
"Oh. I remember Dr. Guibedo saying saying something about that. Have you seen him recently?"
"Seen him? No, ma'am, I can't say that I've ever met the gentleman. Heard about him, of
course."
"How long have you lived here, Hank?"
"About two years, ma'am."
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