Icon

by J. Carson Black

They were sticking to the plan.

  Showtime.

  MAX COULD HEAR Jerry, Gordon, and Talia talking as if he wasn’t here. It could be because he just stood there like a dumb ox. He made sure he looked cowed and bewildered. Weak. And so their words drifted into him, and the more he listened, the more clear the words became.

  “Where’s Dave?” Jerry.

  “Don’t worry, he knows he’s got to be here by seven.” Gordon.

  Talia: “Can he even speak? He looks like a zombie.”

  “Try Dave again.” Jerry.

  “He’ll be here,” Gordon said. “Do you have to worry everything to death?”

  Talia said, “God, I can’t wait until this is over!”

  Max pictured their words, like hard gunshot pellets, cold and shiny. So much for true love.

  He saw Gordon walk away from Jerry and Talia, phone to his ear. Gordon cursed, came back to the little group.

  Then his phone sounded—New Age music. Gordon answered, impatient. “Yes?”

  Gordon had been pacing, but now he stopped. He stared intently at the floor. Pressed the phone harder into his ear. “Are you sure?”

  He listened. Max watched him listen. It was like watching a movie.

  Surreal.

  He needed to stay alert, ready. He needed to hold onto his anger, let it build.

  Gordon was pacing now, talking into the phone in a harsh whisper. Max couldn’t make out the words. But he felt the tension. He could feel that something had changed. Something had changed in a definitive way.

  Gordon held the phone away from himself, looking at it in dismay. His face was gray in the fluorescents. He looked ten years older.

  “There’s a problem?” Jerry asked.

  Gordon’s gaze wandered to Jerry. “Yes, there’s a problem. Somebody walked in and shot Jared.”

  “Jared?”

  “The front desk man.”

  “At the Desert Oasis?”

  “Yes! Where else would he be? The police are on their way.”

  “Holy—”

  Gordon spoke over him. “He was shot by a twenty-two. Two to the heart. You know what this means?”

  Jerry and Talia stared at him, openmouthed.

  Max knew.

  “Shaun,” Gordon said. “One of my employees overheard what she asked him.”

  “What?” Talia demanded.

  “She asked him where I was. She asked him if Max was here too. She’s coming.”

  For a moment, everyone was quiet. Then Talia said, “This is getting too weird. I’m outta here.” She shouldered her purse and started toward the back door, her boots clacking across the floor.

  Jerry ignored her. “Maybe this is still salvageable.”

  Gordon turned to him. “Where’s the Cadillac, Jerry? Where’s Dave? We don’t have a shooter. Somebody’s been shot at my facility. You honestly think this can still work? Really?”

  Again, Max watched the action unfold. Just like a movie. And he realized he felt nothing for these people—not even hatred.

  “So what now?”

  “What now? We abort the mission, Jerry. We get the hell outta here!”

  “But what about Max? He knows!”

  Gordon didn’t spare Max a glance. “He’s a druggie. An alcoholic. A nutcase. Who’s going to believe him? And anyway, it’s time to fold the tent. I don’t know about you, but there are options. I’m part owner of the rehab center in Switzerland—”

  Then Max heard it. A knock on the door.

  “Who’s that?” Gordon said.

  “It’s probably Talia,” Jerry said, striding to the door. “Locked out.”

  He opened the door and a woman and a girl—she had to be all of eight years old—walked in.

  “You’re early,” Gordon shouted.

  The woman stopped, shocked. The girl stared at him.

  Gordon stood over a small-caliber gun sitting on a rolling table. Max didn’t like the way Gordon was eying the gun. He had the look of a cornered animal, and Max knew cornered animals were dangerous.

  Max decided it was time to move.

  He shoved the rolling table across the floor of the soundstage, then went for the woman and the kid.

  He reached them in six steps. Jerry jumped back, terrified. He yelled to Gordon, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

  Gordon looked at Jerry.

  “The gun! On the table,” screamed Jerry.

  Gordon scurried over to the table and picked up the .22. He aimed it at Max.

  Max wasn’t worried. The gun was small. Gordon was agitated, scared. He was yards away. Max doubted he’d be able to hit the wall, let alone a human being. “You don’t want to shoot anybody, Gordon,” Max said. “You said yourself—it’s over.”

  Gordon looked down at the gun. His hands were shaking, but he raised it. Pointed it at Max.

  The little girl shrieked. Max whipped around to look at her, and that was when the gun went off.

  Max looked down at himself. He was all right. He looked at the mother and the girl. They were all right. He looked at Gordon, who lay on his back on the soundstage floor, a look of sheer surprise on his face.

  Gordon had shot himself in the head. The .22 had done its job, bouncing around inside his skull. Gordon appeared to be dead, but Max wasn’t going to wait around to check his pulse. Jerry was screaming, and Max had no idea how he would react to his brother’s death. Max yanked the heavy door to the outside open with one hand, and shoved the mother into the girl. He pushed them through the doorway, and pulled the door closed behind them.

  The mother said, “What are you—”

  “Move!”

  He pushed them along. They stumbled across the pavement, up the ramp. “Which one’s your car?” he demanded.

  The woman stared at him, her face was white with shock. She seemed unable to move.

  Max put his hands on her shoulders, more to steady himself than to calm her. He looked in her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

  She stared at him. “You’re…you’re Max Conroy.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I…yes.”

  The child stared up at him.

  “Listen. You’ve been set up. These are bad people. They want to kill me, and they probably want to kill you. You’re witnesses. Get in your car and drive away now. Please.”

  The girl tugged at her mother’s arm. “Mom…”

  “What’s going on?” the woman demanded.

  “I don’t have time to explain. Get in your car and drive out of here and don’t stop until you get home. Do that for me.”

  She stared at him.

  “Mom,” the girl said. “We’d better do what he says.”

  The woman glanced at her daughter, uncertain. “I…”

  And that was when a piece of stucco shattered above his head and almost took off his ear.

  There she was, at the top of the ramp. Pushing past the side mirror of a big white truck, the light bouncing off the gun in her hand.

  The woman. The woman they called Shaun.

  Max shoved the door to the soundstage open. “Get inside!” he yelled, shoving the mother, shoving the girl. “There might be a bathroom. If there is, go in and hide.”

  They stumbled through the door and he pulled it closed.

  If Shaun wanted them, she’d have to get past him.

  ANOTHER SHOT, LOUD in the walled ramp area, which echoed like a vault. Max clung like a limpet to the wall and slowly eased around the side of the cargo truck.

  “You might as well come out,” the woman said. “I’ll shoot you clean.”

  Liar!

  Max resisted the urge to tell her what he thought of her.

  After that there was silence. He couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her. He had no weapon. His heart was pounding so hard he thought she could hear it. Could hear him breathing…

  He did the only thing he could think of. He dropped to his knees and crawled under the truck.

  The woman was stealth itself. But he s
aw her walk down the ramp. Saw her feet in the white athletic shoes. Whisper-quiet. There were three vehicles in line, and he saw her pause in front of the first two, crouch down, and look under. His truck was next.

  TESS HEARD TWO gunshots, spaced apart. They echoed, as if in a chamber. She came around the building, her 9 mm clasped in both hands and ready. She saw the long ramp down to the back entrance of the Diane von Furstenberg store, walled away from the parking lot, a loading dock partway down, and the two vehicles she’d seen on her first pass through: a box truck down at the end and a new Range Rover. The car closest to the top of the ramp and to her was a 1990s Nissan Stanza.

  Squatting down beside the cargo truck was the dark figure of a woman.

  Tess knew immediately who it was. What it was.

  The woman.

  As if the woman heard her, she stiffened. Her head whipped around in Tess’s direction and Tess could feel the eyes drilling into her, although of course she couldn’t see anything.

  “Drop it!” Tess yelled. “Do it now!”

  The woman laughed. She brought her weapon up and Tess fired.

  Tess heard a yelp. Had she hit her? She squinted at the ramp, which was partially bathed in light and shadow.

  Where was she?

  The woman was gone.

  MAX HAD BEEN watching the woman’s feet as she walked to each vehicle, saw the way the heels came up and the soles bent as she squatted down to look underneath the cars. Then down to her hands and knees.

  Come here, you bitch! he thought. Come right over here.

  He watched as the feet approached. He could almost feel the animal strength of her, the confident, easy way she moved. He knew she was aware of everything, like a mountain lion in the wilderness is aware. Unafraid of any other animal. Scenting her prey. He’d come face-to-face with a mountain lion once in the boonies. The thing had stared him down.

  But you’re not going to get a chance to stare me down.

  He willed her to come closer. Closer…

  And she came.

  The feet paused by the truck. He would grab her by the hands when she got down to look. By now, he had slithered under the oil pan and was positioned to strike.

  Someone yelled, “Drop it! Do it now!”

  The shout came from a short distance away. Max fixated on the shoes and saw the woman pivot. She was facing away from him at this moment.

  He grabbed both ankles and yanked hard. She fell forward, landing on knees and elbows. Max felt the strength of ten men surge through him, a power line of adrenaline, his blood singing in his veins. With evil joy he dragged her effortlessly under, noting with pleasure how her head whacked the undercarriage of the truck.

  Such sweet, sweet music.

  TESS STARED AT the spot where she’d last seen the woman.

  Gone.

  No—she was down on the ground, stomach-down on the concrete. Tess watched as the woman moved, then struggled. She was being dragged under the truck. Twisting like a viper, the woman aimed her weapon at whatever had hold of her legs.

  Tess suddenly heard the bark of a tire, and then two or three loud revving engines that could only come from cop cars.

  They were here!

  And then she heard the loud bang.

  Tess strained to see. Heard the sound of a car door closing and an engine starting up, and at the same time heard several car doors open up behind her. She saw the Nissan Stanza charge up the ramp and fishtail sideways, straighten out, and race across the parking lot.

  One of the two DPS cars gave chase.

  Tess yelled at the other one, “Get an ambulance! Man down!”

  MAX HAD THE woman in his grip. he had the sweet spot. She was his. Yes, she was twisting, yes she was fighting, but he had her.

  He was so busy congratulating himself, he didn’t see it coming.

  He didn’t feel it either.

  But he heard it. The sound was a clang like a bell, only louder, as loud as the world. A massive thunderclap of sound, ringing in his ears, crumpling his eardrums. Everything got bright and then darker, like play sets shifting and expanding and retracting and dissolving, everything in motion at once, and all he could do was hang. . .on. . .to. . .her. . .shoes.

  Hang on.

  Time expanded.

  Someone speaking into his ear. “Hang on.”

  But he realized he wasn’t hanging on to her anymore. She’d already slithered away.

  He heard a car start up and lay scratch. A distant sound. His ears still rang from the gunshot.

  He’d had her. He’d held her fast in his grip, but now she was gone.

  Hang on.

  Did she shoot me?

  Was he hit? He thought she might have shot him point-blank. But he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel any pain, but his energy level wasn’t what it should be. All he could do was lie here on his side.

  Someone was under the truck with him. Pulling at the waistband of his jeans, pressing something against him. He reached down to feel where the hand was. Where his stomach was. Blood oozed from a hole in his stomach. His stomach! Max knew he was in shock.

  And then the pain came. Overwhelming, like a massive wave.

  The person pushing against his stomach took the pressure off, and then put it back on. Something soft, like a cloth or a towel? Pressed hard against his lower body. And the person was saying, “It’s OK, Max. Just don’t move, OK? Just don’t move.” He knew the voice. Tess.

  “Stay with me,” Tess was saying. Her voice calm, gentle. He could see her. He could see her placing her neat, short fingernails on the place mat at the diner…Was that just yesterday?

  “Stay with me, Max, just hold on. You’ll be fine.”

  Bright lights. People around him. The harsh glare, rushing sound. Aware that he was being moved, just as he had been on the gurney. But Max didn’t care now. He felt himself slipping away. He knew he was shot, because before there was the towel, his fingers had skated over blood—both wet and stiff at the same time. Like sticky red paint. It was him; it was his blood.

  Sticky red paint.

  THE MOTHER AND daughter blundered into the store. Jerry barely registered their presence.

  His brother lay on the floor. He’d shot himself. How could that be?

  Gordon was dead. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Gordon. Jesus.”

  The mother and the girl looked at Gordon in horror, then scurried past them, headed toward the bathrooms. Jerry wondered what the hurry was.

  But he didn’t really care. He didn’t care about them. His brother was dead. And he was busy. He had to find the new story line.

  MAX COULD SEE the stars. There were a million of them. He was just rolling along. The pain was unrelenting, huge. People were talking around him, but that didn’t affect him. His hands were numb. They didn’t work. He felt cold. Something—blood?—pooled inside him.

  Darkness lowered. He was in a tunnel. Up ahead was a light. What was the joke? he thought. It would come to him. He had all the time in the world. Something about the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Then he had it. The light at the end of the tunnel was a train.

  He smiled. He’d remembered the joke.

  He felt as if he’d been wrapped up in the cocoon again, back when he was in the tank. But Tess, the deputy, was there. No, she was a detective now. She was talking to him in that calm way she had. She was telling him to hang on. Hang on, Max, hang on. But he didn’t feel like hanging on.

  The voices around him were loud and sharp. He’d lost Tess’s voice; it had been submerged in all the babble. Where was Tess? He couldn’t hear her anymore.

  The lights were bright, annoying. Leave me alone, he thought. I’m trying to die.

  Then the glare got brighter, and everything went white.

  Epilogue

  A TAP CAME on the door to Max’s hospital room. Dave Finley ducked his head in, holding flowers.

  “Can I come in?”

  Max nodded. He’d been expecting it. Dave had kep
t a low profile and managed to stay out of the tabloids. The big story was about the crazy woman who’d tried to kill Max. The idea that she was still at large made people in Hollywood nervous. Did she have it in for just Max, or was she after celebrities in general?

  Shaun Barron had led the Yavapai sheriff’s car on a five-mile chase before she’d ditched the car in a field and escaped. They had searched everywhere, but she was gone.

  Vanished.

  Max hoped she’d died somewhere of one of her wounds. But he doubted it. They would have found her body.

  And here Dave was, the Judas goat, holding a bunch of giant lilies from Trader Joe’s. They’d already left rust-colored spots on his shirt.

  Max would be released soon. Although he’d lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion, he’d been lucky. The bullet had gone into the muscle just to the left of his stomach, a through-and-through shot. If it had been a half inch the other way, it would have been another story. As it was, he’d been in terrible pain and in and out of consciousness the first couple of days. They’d made him walk too—unbearable.

  “Jesus, buddy, you look bad,” Dave said, standing about five feet away. “You lost a lot of weight.”

  “A week in the hospital will do that to you,” Max said, wincing. His muscles hurt like a son of a bitch. His voice was weak. He’d heard someone on some tabloid TV show comment that Max was a “shadow of his former self.” Which was easy to see from the photos that had cropped up all over. Max in a backless gown, battered, bruised, sallow, and thin. One of them had caught him shuffling along with the rolling IV pole.

  He didn’t even look like Max Conroy anymore.

  Detective Tess McCrae had been the one to tell him that Gordon White Eagle had committed suicide. Max didn’t know how to react to this, so he didn’t react at all.

  To be honest, he didn’t care.

  Arrests had been made and bond paid. The wealthy didn’t sit in jail like everybody else. A frightened woman told her story to the tabloids, citing Max as the hero who had saved her daughter and herself.

  Max’s life had been turned upside down, but he was heartened to know that Talia’s life had been turned upside down too. And Jerry’s. Instead of making millions on his estate, they were paying lawyers just to keep them out of jail.