It was the closest major town near the Reservation. And by “major” I mean about six thousand people, give or take. I loved that this tiny little down in the middle of nowhere had been named after the exotic Indian city. Who knew they were so cosmopolitan back in 1903? I loved the early twentieth-century buildings that lined the main street downtown. It gave the town atmosphere. Still, the fact was, it was a nowhere town. What on earth had Daniel Vega been doing here? It wasn’t like Madras was a hot bed of supernatural activity. I’d have known if it was. We followed Trevor’s car to a small run-down motel on the other side of town. He pulled into the gravel parking lot and stopped in front of the door marked with a rusted number five. “You’d think they’d pay their agents better,” Inigo said with a nod toward the peeling paint and dirty windows. “There’s not much to choose from in this town, but there are better hotels, all of them cheap. Why choose the crummiest motel?
