13
On the Reservation
No big surprise that I had a hard time sleeping that night. The P.I. had done enough poking around that eventually he found someone who admitted that an Andre Begonie was living a few miles outside Cameron. I’d asked Connor where Cameron was, and he said, “It’s a wide spot in the road about fifty miles due north of Flagstaff. There’s a trading post — kind of a tourist trap, but they have good food.”
At the time I’d thought that was a good sign. Even if we drove out there and it was the wrong Andre Begonie, or it turned out no one with that name lived there at all, we could at least get a decent meal to assuage our disappointment.
Now, though, I lay in the unfamiliar bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, hearing the exotic night sounds of the forest outside. In
