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, “Listen 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?”