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by J. Carson Black

  Sitting there in the squalid room of the Rat Motel, Max knew he needed help. He needed to talk to his closest friend.

  When he dialed the number to the motorcycle shop, Dave’s wife, Karen, answered.

  He almost hung up. Instead, he asked, “Is Dave there?”

  “Max?”

  “Yeah. Is Dave around?”

  Her voice sounded tinny—distant. She avoided him when she could. “Dave’s gone all day. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “We heard you left rehab.”

  “Where’d you hear that? Is it all over the media?”

  “No, there’s been nothing on TV. Jerry called Dave this morning, hoping he’d know where you were.”

  Earlier this morning Max had turned on the television. He hadn’t seen anything either. They’d somehow managed to keep his escape from the rehab center quiet—Jerry was good at that kind of thing. Max knew Jerry would find a way to keep it quiet until he could woo him back.

  But Jerry didn’t know Max was unwooable.

  Karen was talking again. “Where are you?”

  “Here and there.” He laughed, but it came out forced. The guy in the rowboat was back. He was right outside Max’s window.

  “Max? Did you hear me? Once Dave gets off, he could come for you. All you have to do is tell us where you are.”

  The guy in the rowboat looked the same as he had the last time Max had seen him—the same shower cap and granny glasses, tinted pink like the specs in that famous picture of Janis Joplin. He rowed past and waved.

  What did they do to him?

  “Max? Just tell us where. Dave will come and get you. We’re worried.”

  Max didn’t buy the “we’re worried” part. Dave would be worried—no doubt about that—but Karen would just as soon never see Max again after what had happened in Nautilus Canyon.

  The canyon, which the three of them had hiked in southern Utah last summer, wasn’t named for the nautilus shell without reason. The trail ran through an intricate labyrinth of red-rock chambers. Dave had gone off ahead—he was always an adventurous sort. Max and Karen followed at a slower pace, taking in the stunning play of light and shadow. Then Karen found an offshoot chamber that glowed like St. Patrick’s Cathedral at Christmas. She eased through a narrow passage in the rock to take a photograph—and her leg got stuck up to the thigh. Max worked assiduously to get her out; he used sunscreen on her leg to help it slide.

  And Max being Max, it didn’t stop there.

  Afterward, Max and Karen agreed. As long as Dave didn’t know what happened, things would be fine. What was done was done. Why go out of their way to hurt him?

  And so Max and Karen stayed away from each other as much as possible, their dislike for each other growing along with the residual self-loathing.

  Max felt bad about the whole thing, but the damage was done. It would only hurt Dave to know the truth. He and Dave had been best friends since high school. One mistake wasn’t going to sabotage that.

  And Max knew without a doubt that Dave would help him now. He would come and get him and together they’d work something out. Dave was the ultimate wingman. He would keep his secret.

  And Karen—she was good at keeping secrets too.

  Max suddenly felt small. He looked out the window. The guy in the rowboat rested his oars in the locks and held a conversation with a middle-aged couple in matching Sun Devils T-shirts.

  Max looked away. He needed to make a decision here.

  Then Karen said, “Jerry’s fit to be tied. He needs to know what you’re going to do.”

  “Do?”

  “About V.A.M.Pyre. It’s not fair to the cast and crew…to everybody. We’re depending on, well, you know. It’s hard for everybody, not knowing if we’re going to have that job.”

  He knew then that Karen wouldn’t let it go. She’d keep pushing. She’d try to get him to go back. It was economics to her, and rightfully so. She and Dave had to make a living. The motorcycle shop was more of a hobby than anything else, and while Dave had plenty of other stunt work, their bottom line depended on Max.

  Everyone depended on Max.

  He should do the right thing. He should think of somebody else besides himself. But right now he just…couldn’t.

  “Just tell him I’m all right, OK? Just tell him that.” He set the phone in the cradle and stared out the window.

  Mercifully, the man in the rowboat was gone.

  After his talk with Karen, Max turned on the TV and clicked through the channels, looking for references to his escape the day before. He saw nothing on the cable news shows. Max figured Gordon White Eagle didn’t want it known that a high-end, exclusive dry-out center like the Desert Oasis had misplaced one of its high-profile celebrities.

  He went looking for breakfast, walking the one block to Paradox’s main drag. The place was unreal. There were boardwalks, like you’d see in the movie Tombstone. One-story buildings, streets you could drive a cattle herd through.

  He felt oily, grainy, and dirty. He was clean but his clothes weren’t. He should have washed them in the sink, but it hadn’t occurred to him until he’d put them on this morning. He kept forgetting things.

  Kept seeing things.

  He turned the corner and he was walking back to the motel when he heard someone calling his name.

  Across the street, a guy in a suit leaned against the driver’s door of a black limo, arms folded. Sunglasses, buzz cut, Bluetooth.

  Out of place in a town like this.

  “Max!” the guy called again. Max ignored him and kept walking. He didn’t look back, just kept moving, picking up the pace.

  His heart going like a jackhammer.

  Knew he was going down the moment before the guy landed on him like a pile of bricks.

  Chapter Five

  ON THE WAY over to the trailer court where the domestic over the goat had taken place, Pat said to Tess, “What’s the story with the movie star?”

  “I helped him out this morning. Did you see the stretch limo?”

  “Stretch limo? Woweeeee,” Pat said. “I told you this place was a gold mine. All those rich sons of bitches moving in to take in the desert air and prison view.”

  “There were two guys, arguing with the homeless guy.”

  “That would be Max.”

  “Right. At first I thought maybe the transient was doing the squeegee thing on their windshield, and the guy in the limo didn’t like it.”

  “Huh.” He shook his head. “Can’t see that happening around here. As many cars come down this street, it wouldn’t be worth the initial cost of the squeegee. This tough economy, you want to avoid any unnecessary startup costs. So then what happened?”

  “They were trying to load him into the back of the limo.”

  “Hope they had one of those pine tree air fresheners hangin’ from the rearview mirror.”

  Tess had stopped and asked what the trouble was. The limo driver had been annoyingly obsequious. “No trouble, Officer.”

  Tess said to the homeless man, “You want to go with them?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “His wife wants him to come to the hospital,” said the big guy with the earpiece. “She’s having a baby.”

  Tess looked at the man. “That true?”

  “No.”

  She focused on him, this piteous sight in the stinky clothes. Underneath the grime, she saw his facial structure—good health shining through. Even, white teeth. An athletic frame. She knew who he was immediately.

  “Listen, Deputy,” the big guy said. “Frank here goes on binges, forgets himself. His wife is having a baby and she wants him there. We thought we’d clean him up—”

  “You two friends of his?”

  The guy stared at her. “We’re friends of the wife.”

  “Would you mind telling me her name? His wife.”

  He glared at her. “Sally.”

  She pulled out her pad, did the officious thing. “L
ast name?”

  “Uh, Dor. Dor-man.”

  “Spell it?”

  “D.O.R.M.A.N. Dorman.” Sometime in his life, he’d participated in a spelling bee.

  “She’s at which hospital?”

  “Ma’am, if you’ll excuse us, we’re just trying to help out a friend, and we have to get going—”

  “I’m asking because if it’s an emergency, I’ll be happy to escort you.”

  “You know what? Never mind. If this jerk doesn’t give a damn about his wife, then it’s his problem.”

  The two men got in the car and drove away.

  A welcome breeze blew through, spiraling around them in the early sun. The only freshness in what would be a very hot day.

  “Thanks,” the guy said.

  “So what was that all about?”

  He shrugged. She noticed, with that shrug, he not only had a good frame, but muscle layered over it. Muscle that came from hours in the gym—lean, but sculpted. Of course he would.

  He was a little shorter in person but just as handsome, even under the five o’clock shadow. His head was big for his body—just a little. She noticed that because she’d read that celebrities’ heads were often larger than their torsos—somehow it made them more photogenic.

  In this case it was definitely true.

  Most of what Tess knew about Max Conroy came from a People article she’d read at her doctor’s office after she’d sprained her foot in April. She knew, for instance, that Conroy was what they called a “franchise” in the movie business. He’d starred in three V.A.M.Pyre films—big summer blockbusters. He had a contract to do at least two more. The films featured a “vampire version of a James Bond-like character,” who righted wrongs and drank the blood of beautiful women. Together the films grossed $2.7 billion. Tess had not seen any of them, but her friend Marcy had a teenage daughter who was obsessed with the man. Teenage girls and handsome vampires—go figure. Tess herself thought from the look of him that Max was getting a little old for that kind of thing, and when she thought about it at all, wondered why he didn’t make movies that appealed to a general audience. He was leading man material; that was for sure.

  It was a nice spread in People, and included three photos. One of Max on the set of his new film, one of him horsing around with his wife, Talia, at their Malibu mansion, and one of him posing before the vintage motorcycle shop he co-owned with his best friend and stunt double, Dave Finley.

  According to the People article, Max Conroy had married Hollywood star Talia L’Apel twice. Talia had this cute little mole under one eye. She had appeared in several chick flicks, the last one being Lemon Aid, about a woman whose child had cancer and the city that wanted to close the child’s lemonade stand down. Tess saw that movie with her cousin on February eighth, when they’d driven down to Phoenix for the day. Max and Talia divorced in January, but four months later, after reconnecting at a Hollywood party at Charlie Sheen’s house, they’d flown to Vegas and tied the knot again at the Desert Dreams Wedding Chapel. They’d grabbed tourists off the street for their witnesses. Tess knew their names and what they did—the man was grossly overweight—but she’d filed it away and didn’t feel the need to retrieve it now. That was just background stuff, and over the years she’d learned to keep some of that information out of sight.

  Some things, she relegated to footnotes.

  “Am I free to go?” Conroy asked her after the limo was gone.

  “Sure, you can go.”

  “Thanks.”

  He ambled away. Tried to act unperturbed, but Tess knew he’d been shaken by the experience.

  “THAT IT?” PAT scanned the road from the passenger side. Cataloging what he was seeing as they talked.

  “Nope,” Tess said. “Half hour later I saw the limo again by the park. I could hear somebody pounding on the windows inside.”

  She stopped the limo. The driver got out. The back window buzzed down and this time Max Conroy spoke for himself. He wanted to go with them; he was worried about his wife.

  “Why were you pounding on the window?”

  Inside the limo, he shrugged those ripped shoulders of his. “Saw someone I knew.”

  The other guy, small, stocky, a Special Forces type, sat very close to Conroy. It was a big space, the back of the limo, plenty of places to sit and stretch out, but these two were joined at the hip.

  She also thought there was a bruise on Conroy’s face. Maybe it was just grime, but Tess thought it was a bruise.

  She unsnapped the strap to her holster and kept her right hand near her weapon.

  “Out of the car. Now.”

  They complied. Conroy and the guy with him still joined at the hip. Guy’s hand on his arm.

  “License and registration?” The driver handed it to her. His name was Hogart, and the limo belonged to a leasing company in Phoenix.

  “Have we broken any laws?” Hogart asked, after she came back from her cruiser, having run the plate.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then we’ll be leaving.”

  Tess looked at the guy. Max Conroy, the movie star.

  Whatever else this was, it was a lie. There was no Sally “uh, Dorman,” she of the fictional baby and the fictional hospital.

  Tess moved fast, pulling Max around and walking him to the back fender and shoving him down against it. Secured him with cuffs. “Anything in your pockets?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. She patted him down, careful with the pockets, worried about needles. Movie stars had been known to shoot up.

  “Hey, what is this?” yelled Hogart.

  Tess ignored him and said to her prisoner, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  “Look, this is a misunderstanding,” Hogart said, coming close to invading her space.

  She drew her weapon and held it by her side. “Back up. Place your hands on your head.”

  He complied. Quickly, automatically.

  “On your knees.”

  He sank to his knees immediately. Either he had really good knees, or he was used to taking the position.

  “This man is under arrest. You are free to go.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  “Are you interfering with the lawful duties of a duly sworn sheriff’s deputy?” she said.

  He backed off, as she knew he would. The two men got back into the limo and drove away. By then, Tess had her prisoner in the backseat of her cruiser.

  And she didn’t know what to do with him.

  “So you put him in jail,” Pat said.

  “Safest place I could think of.”

  “That place has more holes than the Alamo.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think those guys were gonna come storming in.”

  “You know they’ll be back.”

  “Not much I can do about it. At least I bought him some time.”

  “You have any idea what they wanted?”

  “Nope.”

  “And Hogart?”

  “No wants or warrants. Same with the other guy.”

  “License number?”

  Here we go again, Tess thought. He never tired of the game. She reeled the plate number off.

  “What did Hogart’s license say?”

  She rattled off the info on his driver’s license: five foot nine, one sixty, brown and brown, restricted to corrective lenses, his domicile in Flagstaff. She gave him the address.

  “Wish I could get you on Jeopardy! We could split the winnings. You run Hogart?”

  She nodded. “Works for the Desert Oasis Healing Center in Sedona.”

  “Healing center? One of those fancy-dancy places where celebrities go for the cure?”

  “Maybe Max didn’t want to be there anymore.”

  “You think they’d try to make him stay?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter Six

  The Desert Oasis Healing Center

  GORDON WHITE EAGLE did
n’t spook easily. He was a master at assessing people—that was his stock in trade. But this one, the twelve-year-old kid…

  Scared him.

  Maybe it was the eyes. They were predator’s eyes, which didn’t surprise Gordon at all, because the boy’s mother was more wolf than human. Two nights ago, he’d dreamed about her, that he was trapped in a deep fissure in the earth, his body impossibly broken, and she was staring down at him behind dark glasses, her face impassive.

  Gordon White Eagle paid attention to dreams.

  Funny, but he couldn’t remember, during his interactions with Shaun over the last three years, if she’d ever mentioned a kid. He’d always assumed she was childless.

  He shrugged. She lived in LA, and had done only a few jobs for him. She kept her private life private. Maternity aside, she was here now. And he needed her.

  First thing, he gave them the tour. Gordon took every opportunity to show the place off to his visitors, even though Shaun had been there many times. But the boy, Jimmy, barely looked up from fiddling with his phone.

  “Can’t he stop texting for one minute?”

  “He’s not bothering anybody.”

  “He’s bothering me. I don’t want him texting his friends. This is a private conversation.”

  “He won’t.” She looked at Jimmy. “You won’t text your friends about where we are or what we’re doing. Do you get that?”

  He nodded dismissively, still thumbing the phone like a virtuoso.

  Gordon didn’t trust him. He bent down from his six-foot-four height and put his hands on his knees. “How’d you like to go for a swim, young man? Danny here can fix you up.” He nodded to their attendant, a burnished Adonis in white linen drawstring pants and huaraches.

  Danny, an actor studying his lines for the part of an Australian cow farmer at the Clarkdale Dinner Theatre, was still in character. He said, “Off we go, moyte,” and steered Jimmy toward the cabanas.

  The kid taken care of, Gordon led the way to a table shielded from the sun by a royal palm. “As I told you, things have changed.”

  Shaun said nothing, just stared at the vista. And why not? It was a beautiful vista. Most of the Desert Oasis was tucked away along a stream, but there was one place—it took some walking to get to—that yielded a limited view of the Verde Valley. An infinity pool, like a plane of dark glass, mirrored the massive mountains above and delineated the sheer drop-off to the valley below.