An image from a homemade video frozen in the frame.
A man sat in the murky turquoise gloom of what Pat knew instantly to be the bomb shelter. He sat on a chair, trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. His head hung low but he stared upward, into the camera. Blood clotted his forehead and dripped into his eyes.
It took a moment for Pat to recognize the man.
When he did, he felt the thrill of a job well done.
When a case came together, it came together with the solid thunk of a car door closing. Final, like that.
Now Pat knew who had killed the three men in the bomb shelter.
He knew, because he’d met him yesterday at the Round Up Diner.
The actor, Max Conroy.
MAX MADE IT into town without being seen. It helped that he went cross-country through the desert. No water, in July, the humidity pulling any juices he had out of him. He stopped outside a little homestead, another small ramada, this one occupied by two horses. There were algae in their tank, but he wasn’t particular; he drank. Waited for the water to sink in, and drank again. He didn’t want to drink too quickly, or he’d get a stomachache and possibly eject the water. He’d learned that when he had done the remake of Hondo a few years ago.
He encountered no one on the couple of occasions he had to cross a road. He guessed the sheriff’s office had sent everyone they had to the scene of the crime.
His mind kept returning to the house, to the bomb shelter.
The first deputy must have come across the woman and the boy.
Either that, or the woman and the boy had found the bomb shelter, which meant they’d found Luther, Sam, and Corey.
But they wouldn’t call anyone. He knew that in his bones. They would continue doing what they were doing. They were looking for him. And they’d almost found him.
He could see it: the deputy pulling up to check out the house, seeing the shattered glass, the shot-out windows, and he would investigate.
And the woman and the boy would shoot him. Max pictured him falling, talking into his radio. And they would…what? Finish him off.
Yes, if he could identify them.
He was glad the deputy who showed up wasn’t Tess. He was very glad about that. But he needed to find out what happened. He needed a TV, or at least a radio.
Max formulated a loose plan as he skirted the main section of town. He’d go to the Subway by the freeway and see if he could get a trucker to drive him to Sedona.
But then he saw the white truck in the parking lot—the new Chevy truck.
They were here.
He went into the convenience store inside the Pizza Hut across from the Subway instead. Glanced around and saw a couple of men eating lunch, who might be truckers. He thought about approaching them when they finished. And so he kept a low profile, looking through the magazines. Fortunately, his face wasn’t on any of the tabloid or celebrity mag covers, and neither was Talia’s. Lindsay Lohan was in trouble again. Thanks, Lindsay. He blended in, with his cheap shorts and Arizona tee. With the sunglasses, people didn’t give him a second look. He kept one eye on the plate glass window, until he saw the woman and the boy come out, get into the truck, and drive away.
They headed down the road he’d come in on—maybe they were retracing their steps, looking for him.
Max walked over to the tables in back where the truckers were. He chose the black guy. He wasn’t sure why.
He approached the black trucker and asked him if he was heading north on 17. The guy gave him a weird look, then shook his head.
OK, it was the white guy.
He went up to him and asked the same question. The guy nodded.
“Would you take a passenger? I’ve got money.”
The guy eyed him. He looked mildly suspicious but not overly so. “I’m not supposed to carry passengers,” he said at last.
Max pulled the money out of his jeans. “Here’s a hundred-dollar bill. All I want is to get to the Verde Valley. That’s not very far, is it?”
“That’s a good way.”
“A dollar a mile,” Max said. “Can’t do better than that.”
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
Max said, “I just need to get to Clarkdale. My ride broke down.”
“You’re a little ripe, you want to know the truth.”
“OK,” Max said. He laid down another hundred. “Does that make me smell any sweeter?”
He hoped it did, because after that he had a ten, a five, and three ones.
The guy took the money and stuck it in his jeans. “I guess I can put up with it for a while.”
“Good.”
“See that rig out there, the third one, parked at the edge of the lot? The blue cab? That’s mine. You go sit out there and wait till I finish my pizza.”
Max did.
The guy called out behind him, “You look familiar. I seen you before?”
“Not around here,” Max said, and went out to wait by the truck.
IT WAS HOT and muggy and his hair dripped with sweat. He sat in the shade of the semi truck, hands clasped around his knees, the asphalt burning through his cheap, thin shorts. About ten minutes in, he heard another big truck start up and cruise out of the parking lot, changing through the gears as it drove onto the on-ramp.
Twenty minutes went by. The guy had to be finished with his pizza by now. How long did it take to wash his hands and clean up a little bit, if he had to?
Max opened the glass door into the convenience store and almost bumped heads with the black trucker. He scanned the booths—his trucker was gone. “Hey,” he said. “You know that trucker who was sitting with me?”
“Uh-uh.”
Max went into the bathroom. Nobody there. He came back out and found himself watching the black trucker walk to his rig and get in.
His rig with the blue cab.
Max knew he’d been conned. Max realized that having everything taken care of for him all this time, he’d lost his street smarts.
He was left with eighteen dollars, no credit card, a couple of cheap prepaid phones, and a stolen semiautomatic pistol.
Then it occurred to him: Dave.
Dave Finley, his buddy. Dave said he was coming. Sometimes it was hard to know if he was serious. Dave was a fountain of ideas—he put words to any stray thought that drifted through his transom—but he wasn’t big on follow-through. Max hadn’t taken Dave seriously when he’d suggested they meet and then ride back. More than likely, Dave had forgotten all about it.
Still…
Max went over his other options. He could go to the sheriff’s office and tell them the whole story. About how he was kidnapped by Sam, Luther, and Corey. About the woman and the boy. He doubted they’d believe him, though. They’d see him with blood on his shirt and jeans, and ask to look in his duffel bag. The guns, the phones…
By the time he’d explained everything—if he was able to convince them of his innocence—he would have lost half a day. He wanted to get to Gordon and he wanted to get to him now.
Max recalled seeing a TV set hanging from the ceiling at the Subway. It would be good to know just what he was up against. The deputy had spotted him and his fingerprints were all over the stolen truck. He needed to know what had happened in that house.
Head lowered, looking downtrodden and homeless, he shambled over to the Subway. He certainly was ripe enough now. No one looked at him; as a matter of fact, they looked at anything but him. He went to stand in front of the TV set. A game show was on. He waited. No one came up to ask him to get out of the way. He looked at a family sitting in one of the booths, and caught the eye of the mother. Her gaze slid away immediately, and she concentrated on her sandwich.