Rocky mountain peaks glowed lonely and austere under the nearly full moon. But the trail that led to God’s Seat, a throne-shaped outcropping high atop Backbone Trail, wound darkly under thick canopies of branches and overhanging boulders. One false step on that narrow path meant a thousand-foot drop and certain death, but the two lone figures walking single file up the trail moved at a heedless pace.
The night was still except for the crunch of their footsteps on sun-baked earth: one confident and driving, the other stumbling gracelessly forward, blinded by terror, steps punctuated by weeping, a nearly inaudible murmuring-This can’t be happening…Can’t…No, no, no, no. Please, let me wake up. Please, please. This is just a dream. At the top of the ridge, beside a waist-high boulder, the larger figure stopped and threw a shovel to the ground, the clang of metal hitting rock.
“Dig.”
The smaller figure stared at the shovel, then abruptly doubled over, stomach heaving convulsively as the vomit rose up too fast to control. The larger figure watched for a moment, then, with cold disdain, flashed a vicious-looking blade. “You hear me? Pick up the fucking shovel and-”
“Okay, okay,” came the reply, as clammy, trembling hands took the shovel and thrust it into the earth. Okay, okay…okay, okay…repeating it over and over, mantra-like-wheezing with the effort to breathe through a fear-constricted throat.
“Faster.”
Slowly, the hole grew deeper and longer. Okay, okay…This will be okay. Someone will come. Someone will come. Okay, okay…
And then, miraculously, someone did come. A soft rustling, the sound of slow, tentative steps approaching. And, as if in a dream, a moonlit face emerged from the darkness.
Three Nights Earlier
Hayley and Mackenzie spilled out of the chauffeur-driven Escalade and into the throng of twenty-somethings in front of Teddy’s, the “it” club in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Long sparkling earrings and sequined minidresses on spray-tanned body beautifuls, well-toned pretty boys in carefully torn jeans and three-hundred-dollar T-shirts-the air heavy with the tension of feigned indifference, as though each and every one of them wasn’t desperate to gain entrée into the exclusive club. Hayley led the way through the crowd, her blonde head thrown back, stiletto heels hitting the ground with confidence. Mackenzie trailed behind, nervously pulling down her tube skirt as she instinctively reached for Hayley’s hand. Her eyes focused on the ground to avoid the angry glares of the waiting crowd. The jackhammering of her heart made her breath come in short, shallow gulps.
When they reached the door, the bouncer, slender and sinewy, a spider tattoo wrapped around his neck, raised a skeptical eyebrow from beneath the worn brim of a black hat. Mackenzie wiped a nervous palm on her thigh before relinquishing her license. But Hayley, with a sexy-lazy smile, smoothly dipped into the cleavage of her leopard-print halter top and flipped her license out between two fingers. As always, Mackenzie watched with awe and envy, knowing she’d never master that kind of breezy nonchalance.
The bouncer briefly scanned their IDs, then handed them back with a dismissive head shake. “Not even close.”
Mackenzie’s heart stopped. Busted. But then Hayley stepped in and shoved a card under his nose. She looked him straight in the eye. “You sure?”
The bouncer frowned and peered at the card, then took back Hayley’s license and gave it a second look. Suddenly, his face broke into a lopsided grin. “Your dad know you’re here?”
Mackenzie felt giddy with relief-and foolish. After all this time she should surely know better. Clubs, private parties, restaurants-hell, even the Vanity Fair after-party on Oscar night-all happily opened their doors to the daughter of megastar director Russell Antonovich.
“My dad sent me,” Hayley joked, with an intimate look that brought him in on it.
Chuckling, the bouncer lifted the rope, then reached back and opened the door, unleashing a blast of music. “Have a nice night, ladies,” he said.
Hayley grabbed Mackenzie’s hand and led the way through a wall of dancers whose bodies glowed under pulsing multicolored lights, their only guide through the near-impenetrable velvet darkness. A hand shot up and waved to them from a crowded horseshoe booth next to the DJ-the sweetest spot in the house. They inched their way over and squeezed in, Mackenzie practically sitting in Hayley’s lap. The walls seemed to vibrate with the thunderous bass, making conversation impossible. But it didn’t matter. They weren’t there to talk and they wouldn’t need to place orders: hors d’oeuvres were served continuously, and they always had bottle service. Tonight’s offering was Patrón Silver, and she and Hayley had doubles in their hands by the time they sat down. A cute curly-haired guy-was his name Adrian?-moved forward with a sexy smile and pulled Mackenzie out onto the dance floor. She didn’t sit down again till unknown hours later when she and Hayley collapsed into the back of the Escalade.
