He is scheduled to stay at the Furnace Creek Inn through the weekend, four more days. Finding desirable game in isolated places where they are vulnerable requires patience. After taking dinner in his room, however, he checks out at eight o’clock, telling the man at the front desk that a dear friend in San Diego is terminal and wants to see him before the cancer wins. In fact, Palmer has no friends. No one does. Friendship is an illusion, like love and compassion. Palmer’s true identity is Death, Death incarnate, and Death has no illusions.
