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by J. Carson Black

  The limo Hogart was driving when he tried to pick up Max Conroy was leased by the Desert Oasis Healing Center.

  She tried the Desert Oasis Healing Center again and asked the operator if she could be put through to the man at the top—Gordon White Eagle.

  Of course, he was unavailable.

  TESS CAUGHT PAT just as he was getting off the phone. He’d been working for months trying to get evidence on a guy suspected of battering his own father. “Yeah, what’s up?” Pat was always in a bad mood when it came to that case.

  “I told you about the woman I saw at the car wash.”

  “Yeah, you had a bad feeling about her and her kid. So?”

  Tess filled him in about the woman and the boy, how they’d bought a truck for a company called “Sandstone Adventures.”

  “Sounds like a tour, like one of those jeep or white-water tours. Where was this, Sedona?”

  “The dealership’s in Clarkdale.” Tess handed him the name and phone number for Talbot’s Chevrolet in Clarkdale.

  “You really got a thing for this gal,” Pat said. “All she did was wash her truck at Joe’s.”

  “She might be involved with those guys who tried to kidnap Max Conroy.”

  “Oh? And you came to this conclusion how?”

  “I think she works for the Desert Oasis Healing Center. They rented the limo those two guys were in.”

  He looked at her skeptically. “You have anything else besides that?”

  “Sandstone Adventures doesn’t exist. Not as a company in Sedona. And she wore a disguise when she bought the truck.”

  He leaned forward. “Now that’s interesting. What do you mean, disguise?”

  She described the woman and the boy.

  Pat said, “I think I’ve seen her around. Kind of spooky looking?”

  “That’s her. But when she bought the truck, she was dressed up. Dress, heels. She wore a wig. And the boy was with her.”

  Pat said, “Tell you what. I’ll talk to my pal at Yavapai County and see what he can find out.” He stood up. “Later, though. Right now I have to see a man about an assault and battery.”

  MAX HAD TWO cars to choose from. Sam P.’s vintage Cadillac, parked out front with a “4Sale” sign in the window, or Luther’s ride, an ancient Saturn. Max chose the Saturn. It wouldn’t attract attention like Sam P.’s car would. He’d come out through the kitchen door, which opened out onto a carport with four bays separated by spindly posts. Across the carport, he heard a washing machine running inside the storage room attached on the opposite side. The Saturn was closest to the storeroom. He stood by the driver’s side, sorting keys.

  That was when he heard a car engine. Loud, muscular—Corey’s Chevelle SS.

  Max crouched down behind the hood of the Saturn, close to the back wall of the carport. He pulled the 9 mm from behind his back and checked it. Just in case.

  The muscle car pulled into the bay closest to the kitchen door on the opposite side, engine reverberating. Max duckwalked around to the Saturn’s passenger side, keeping low. He expected Corey to get out and go into the house through the kitchen door. When Corey was inside, he’d take off in the Saturn.

  Corey let the Chevelle roar one more time before shutting down. Max eased up and peered through the windows of the Saturn as Corey’s driver’s side opened.

  After that, it all went to hell.

  Corey must have caught sight of him through the car windows, because he whirled and stared across the roofs of the Chevelle and Saturn. For a second Max froze (his mind screaming, move-move-move!) but everything stood still, and although he had the gun leveled across the roof in a two-handed grip, he could barely feel the trigger guard. He might have yelled “Freeze!” but he wasn’t sure because his throat felt locked up and there didn’t seem to be any sound. But his finger must have moved of its own volition—he realized he’d fired over the roof of the Saturn—and everything abruptly exploded in dust and noise. With the gun’s kick, adrenaline took over, cascading down through his chest. He kept his finger on the trigger and shot half the magazine.

  Corey ducked, then popped up and shot across the car so quickly that Max felt the bullet zip by his ear before he heard the sound. His reflexes were slower—it took him almost a second to get down, the sting to his ear a shock. He clapped his hand to his head. No blood. Still amazed at how quickly Corey reacted—was still reacting, because suddenly a hole blasted through the passenger window of the Saturn above him, glass flying.

  Choices: get into the storeroom and close the door, crawl under the car, or shoot back through the window. He shot through the window. Indiscriminately.

  Blind.

  Corey screamed.

  Max heard a bang and a thump.

  Max didn’t wait to see if Corey was hit or faking. He was running on pure instinct now, and that instinct was screaming for him to get away. He threw himself headfirst into the storage room and scrambled behind the wood frame. And that was when his brain hit the slow-motion button. He flashed on a hot afternoon eating Sonoran hot dogs in a Tucson eatery with a cop who had worked with him on a picture, the cop saying that if you were in a firefight you looked for three things: cover, concealment, and an escape route. The flimsy plywood of the storeroom would offer no such cover, but it would conceal him.

  Close enough.

  He crouched by the edge of the door. The cop had also told him always to stay low when hiding. Most people emptied their weapons at the face or the upper body.

  The last thing the cop had told him: shoot first, and shoot to kill. Max followed that advice, shooting at the cars, a good three or four shots. Had to resist emptying the weapon from pure adrenaline overload.

  Then he got down again.

  Nothing.

  Nothing since the scream.

  Had he killed Corey? Was Corey lying out there dead, or injured? Max remained in place. It was unbearable in here. The washing machine ground on. Wished he could stop it, wished he could listen to the silence. For the sound of movement. But with the washing machine he could hear nothing.

  Wait. Tried to get his mind to work, and finally was able to go through the possible scenarios. Corey could be wounded. Or dead. The neighbors could be calling the police even now. He listened for sirens, but heard nothing but the damn washing machine cycling on and on.

  Corey could be playing dead, waiting for him. When Max was a kid, they had a cat like that. The cat would sit near a ground squirrel hole. Just sat back and waited. Eventually, the ground squirrel would get curious and pop its head out—and then, snap!

  Max didn’t want to be like the ground squirrel. So he waited.

  The washing machine finally stopped.

  The heat was unbearable.

  He was dripping with sweat.

  He listened.

  Finally, he got down on his stomach and inched along the storeroom floor. Craned his head around the door frame.

  Nothing.

  The place felt empty.

  The only sound was the tick of the Chevelle’s cooling engine. Glass littered the carport’s concrete surface.

  If he moved forward, he would crunch on the glass or at least scrape on it and give himself away.

  And so he withdrew, back into the storeroom.

  Gun in both hands.

  Shaking with adrenaline.

  A HALF HOUR went by, maybe more. Max was beginning to relax, and he knew that wasn’t good. He’d been around enough cops, taken enough courses to know he shouldn’t take anything for granted. He’d done the Citizen’s Academy, the FBI course, a slew of them, just to get a feel for his character in Gawker—had been around them long enough to know that you had to remain alert and plan for trouble.

  Corey might be dead. Or perhaps he’d made it inside the house. Maybe he’d found Luther and Sam and gotten them out of the bomb shelter…

  No movement. No sound.

  Max could call and get help; he had both Luther’s and Sam P.’s phones. The sheriff’s deputy—she might
come. His mind stuttered again, and stuck on the vision of the deputy setting her fingers on the place mat. Something about that small movement got to him. That was the moment he thought about, not her mental gymnastics and encyclopedic memory. Not even the way she’d handled those guys in the limo.

  He could call 911.

  But what if Corey was dead? Max knew he’d be arrested. Even if it was self-defense, he’d still end up in jail—at least until they sorted it out. He could see the headline now.

  Max sat cross-legged on the floor of the storeroom, weapon still in both hands, resting on his lap. Tried to decide. Sometimes his mind just wouldn’t cooperate, and he’d be frozen, unable to do anything at all. Another parting gift from Gordon White Eagle—

  The son of a bitch.

  Max heard a scrape. He held tight to his gun and peered around the door.

  The man in the shower cap and pink sunglasses stood back a couple of paces, close to the Saturn. He grinned. Max noticed he had few teeth. “What do you want?” Max asked him.

  The man pointed to the car tires.

  Max slithered out a little farther, so he was level with the floor, and stared at the tires. He could see all the way to the kitchen door.

  Were those legs? They were legs, attired in jeans and desert boots, stretched out on the ground near the kitchen door. The rest of the body was hidden by the Chevelle’s tires.

  Max looked at the man in the shower cap. “Is that Corey? Is he dead?”

  The man in the shower cap touched a finger to his lips. Then he stepped carefully into his rowboat, which had magically appeared, hovering a foot off the ground, and rowed down the driveway. He waved back, grinning, his toothless gums catching the light.

  Max realized he had to know. If Corey was hurt, he’d have to help him. He made his way as carefully and quietly as he could over to the Chevelle. Trying to avoid the broken glass. Gun at the ready, clasped in both hands, pointed down in front of his body. Everything moving in slow motion—and he was at the center of the storm. His mind clear, his thoughts crystalline.

  Corey lay with his head propped against the kitchen wall. There was a bloody hole in the shoulder of his black tee, but not a whole lot of blood had seeped out. Didn’t look like Max had hit an artery, which was fortunate. It looked as if the bullet had gone through flesh and muscle, and very little else. The gun had fallen out of Corey’s hand.

  Max thought Corey must have hit his head when he fell. Otherwise, he’d still be conscious.

  But Max wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Corey!” he shouted, aiming at the man’s chest. “Corey! Look at me!”

  No movement.

  Was he playing dead? Was he actually dead?

  “I have my gun on you. If you move at all, I will shoot you. You got that?”

  He moved forward slowly, keeping dead aim on Corey’s chest. He kicked Corey’s gun under the Chevelle and closed the ground between them quickly. Felt for a pulse. There was one.

  Corey’s chest moved up and down, but he was out cold. Max went through his pockets, got his keys but left the baggie of pot on Corey’s person. Ducked in through the open window of the Chevelle. On the seat was a bag with the two prepaid mobile phones, still in their boxes. Max ripped one box open, used Luther’s phone to activate the prepaid mobile. It was precharged, which made things a whole hell of a lot easier.

  He didn’t want to use Luther’s or Sam’s phones too much, since they could be traced.

  Max grabbed hold of Corey’s boots and dragged him into the kitchen. Rested. Pulled him to the door of the pantry. Rested some more. Corey had to weigh 170, all of it dead weight. Each time he dropped Corey, Max checked his pulse. He dragged him along the pantry floor to the outer door to the bomb shelter, and then to the trapdoor. He took the key off the hook, opened the padlock, and pulled the door up. Stood back and aimed his gun into the bunker. Swept it back and forth.

  “Either of you try anything, and I’ll shoot you. You make one move toward those steps and I promise you, I will kill you.”

  Luther and Sam P. stared at him. They looked like fat, frightened rodents.

  “Catch!”

  Max gave Corey a push and sent him tumbling down. Corey hit Luther and Sam P. like a bowling ball hitting pins.

  “You might want to hold something to the wound to make sure he doesn’t bleed anymore,” Max hollered down.

  Sam P. said, “Max, my boy, let us reason together—”

  Max closed the door and padlocked it, then put the key back on the hook.

  He went through the closets in the house, looking for something he could carry the phones and the weapon in. He found a medium-sized duffel that would do just fine.

  As Max headed for the Chevelle, he glanced at the driveway and saw the man in the shower cap smiling. After waving an oar in salute, Shower Cap rowed away.

  MAX GOT INTO the Chevelle and started her up. The sound was deep-throated and beautiful—sweet. He placed the duffel holding the phones, video camera, keys, and the semiautomatic on the bucket seat beside him. The engine settled to a masculine rumble. He depressed the clutch and grabbed the Hurst shifter. Glanced at the bucket seat.

  One of the other phones was sticking out of the bag, just one corner. He sat there, foot depressed on the clutch, looking at it.

  You need to think about this. He grabbed the duffel and went inside the house. The air conditioner was still on full blast—it felt good against his sweating body.

  Max dumped the contents of the bag on the kitchen table and uploaded the video of his capture to Luther’s phone, playing it once. It looked authentic. Real.

  Max felt himself drifting and pulled himself back to the present. Why didn’t he take the Chevelle and hightail it out of here? Where was he going and what was he going to do?

  I’m gonna break his sorry ass.

  Gordon White Eagle’s ass. He was going to make Gordon White Eagle put him back the way he was before. Gordon had screwed with his mind, and he could damn well unscrew with his mind.

  At least that was his hope.

  He pictured himself driving up there. Saw himself brazenly walking into Gordon White Eagle’s territory, past his hired help, past the big guys—Gordon’s “attendants.” He pictured getting in Gordon’s face, demanding Gordon fix him.

  And then what?

  The big guys would take him away. Back to his room, or back to the sensory deprivation tank. And they would screw him up even worse. “Isn’t that right?” he asked a dwarf who was combing his beard at the kitchen table.

  The dwarf shrugged.

  Max was about to say something to the dwarf, that he was just a figment of Max’s imagination, when the voice spoke loudly in his ear: “Freeze!”

  For a second, maybe two, his muscles locked up and he couldn’t move—his body was frozen in place.

  Then the echo of the command faded and he went limp. He felt as if he’d run a marathon—weak, tired.

  The dwarf was gone.

  He closed his eyes. His temple throbbed. He didn’t know what was happening—why he hallucinated, why he heard the command “Freeze,” or why he obeyed it.

  Max knew it was something Gordon had done to him, either by mistake or on purpose.

  He had to get to Gordon. He had to get Gordon to fix him—to put him back to the way he was before.

  And he needed to know why.

  MAX SEARCHED FOR the Desert Oasis Healing Center website. He knew what to do. He used Luther’s phone, because he wanted Gordon to come looking for him. He found the website. Ignored the beautiful vistas, the palms, the happy people gathered in the garden—a picture-perfect support group. The beaming maître d’s, the starlight dinners, the seafood bar, the pool, the stone massages. He looked past all that to the phone number and punched it into the smartphone.

  Of course, he got an automated message with a series of options. He asked to be transferred to the fitness center. A young man answered.

  Max gave his name and said, “Lis
ten carefully. I have to talk to Gordon White Eagle, OK? He’s going to want to talk to me.”

  “Oh, yes sir, I remember you. I spotted you on the bench press a couple of times, remember? I loved you in V.A.M.Pyre. I’ll make sure he gets the message, ASAP.”

  “Good. Tell him I’m in trouble. Tell him I’ve been kidnapped, and am being held for ransom.” And he gave the man the phone number.

  The man repeated the number, then said, “I’ll do that, sir.”

  And the phone disconnected.

  THE PHONE CHEEPED out “Like a Virgin”—an interesting, if retro, choice. Max let it ring a few times before he answered without speaking. It was Gordon.

  “Is this Max? Max, are you there? Max? Whoever you are, let me talk to Max. I know we can work something out—”

  Max covered his mouth and made a noise somewhere between a bleating sheep and a grunting weight lifter.

  “Max? Max? Are you all right? Jerry told me they called Talia…Can they hear us?”

  “They’re holding me for ransom. You’ve got to help me, Gordon.” Then he cried out. “Please don’t hurt me! Please!”

  “They’re hurting you? Are you all right? Talk to me, Max!”

  “You need to…Oh, please, just come and get me.”

  “Don’t worry, Max, we’ll send someone—”

  “No, they want you, just you! If you don’t come, they’re going to kill me.”

  “That’s outrageous! They can’t kill you—you’re a star. Let me talk to them!”

  Max covered the phone and mumbled a few words to himself. Barked an order like a sergeant major. Screeched like a spider monkey.

  And waited. Gordon never did like to wait. Finally, voice trembling, Max spoke into the phone. “They said—they said they don’t want to talk to you. They’re sending you the video so you know they’re serious.”

  “Max—”

  “Nooo! Please! Oh, God. No!”

  He sent the video and hit End.

  A FEW MINUTES passed, and the phone rang again. Max let it ring four times before answering.