He was the next best thing to invisible.
Max knew the two kids manning the counter were talking about him behind his back. They wanted to tell him to leave. You do it. No, you do it.
Here he was, Max Conroy, whose face was on every newsstand in every grocery store in the country, and people couldn’t see past his grimy clothes, dirty complexion, and body odor.
Finally, there was the local announcer, breaking in with news.
Max watched the announcer’s lips move. The sound was turned on low. There was a shot of Sam’s house. Max watched as two people pushed a gurney holding a black body bag out of the carport toward a waiting white van.
He didn’t feel anything—he realized he’d been expecting it.
He swallowed on a dry throat.
He felt as if everyone was watching him, but of course they weren’t. His ears burned anyway. And then it hit home.
He knew all three men were dead. And he’d been the one responsible. He’d left them there—
Like fish in a barrel.
He shut his eyes, but it didn’t shut out the bad feeling.
Nothing he could do about it now. Except run.
He called Dave. “You mean what you said about coming out here?”
“I said I was. I’m on my way, man.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I said I would.”
“Where are you?”
“About two-and-a-half, three hours from Paradox.”
Max said, “When you get here, I’ll be…” He glanced over at the tamarisk tree on the corner across the street from the truck stop. He described it. The abandoned adobe house right behind it, the empty lot, the tree with shade as black as ink. You could hide a baseball team in there.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MAX SAT UNDER the tree for approximately twenty minutes before deciding to go back to the Subway and get himself a bottle of water and something to eat—at least a candy bar. He’d be waiting under the tree for a long time. And Max wanted to find out what was happening at the house on Ocotillo Road. He knew his fingerprints were all over the crime scene.
Once again, he was able to walk into the crowded sub shop and nobody recognized him. He shouldn’t be surprised.
Max and Dave used to go for long rides, stopping in at biker bars all over Southern California. Dave wasn’t his exact double, but he looked a lot like him and acted like him too. When they went to biker bars, Dave would wear Max’s Breitling watch, the diamond stud in his ear, and dress better. Max would look scruffy, cheaper. He even had a clip-on ponytail. And the bikers would buy drinks for “Max Conroy”—Dave—because they knew he rode. They’d buy drinks for Max too.
Max had learned to turn it on and off. At a certain point, Dave would be outside checking his bike, and Max would go off to the bathroom. When he came out, people in the bar would suddenly see him as Max Conroy, not the guy they’d been hanging out with playing pool. It was like a light switch—just a change in the way he saw himself, his attitude.
He also knew how to give the paparazzi the slip.
But he used them too. He went to certain parties and clubs, attended events like golf tournaments and rock concerts, and let them snap away. He did it because an actor could not just stand still. Part of the job was actively courting publicity. You had to get your name splashed across the tabloids, your photos on sites like TMZ. The constant speculation about his marriage, about the coming baby, about his potential breakups, his drug use—he fed the fire. He had to. If he didn’t keep running, the parade would pass him by. He didn’t like it, but that was the game.
There were certain paps he tipped off. Certain photo ops he went for. He would have liked to fit a narrative, but because he used and he drank, that didn’t always work out. The narrative chose him. So much of it, if not manufactured outright, was blown out of proportion. Jerry Gold was a master at this. So was his publicist, Diane.
Diane must be going nuts right about now.
So he walked into the Subway and nobody noticed him.
Then he glanced up at the TV. And saw his face.
He knew the photo—it was an arrest photo for a public drunk charge five years ago. He looked one hell of a lot better than Nick Nolte.
Max was still wearing his Arizona cap. He tilted his face downward, but looked up under the brim.
The announcer was saying that Max Conroy was a “person of interest” in the killings at the house on Ocotillo.
Panic surged, but abated quickly. He was Max Conroy. No one would believe this—it was impossible.
But still. Person of interest.
Max decided he’d err on the side of caution and get out of here. He couldn’t wait for Dave. He wanted to get to the Desert Oasis, wanted Gordon to tell him the truth. He needed to go and he needed to go now.
He walked to the door. Calm. Anonymous. He pushed the door open, held it for a girl with a stroller and a little boy. She didn’t say thank you, didn’t even look at him.
Good.
Out in the blaring sunlight, he looked around. Turned right and started for the side of the building, thinking about the long wait ahead of him.
Then he saw them—the woman and the boy. They appeared to be killing time outside the Pizza Hut. The boy looked resentful, but the woman seemed to have an air of satisfaction about her, as if she’d won a round or two. But he knew the woman’s eyes were roving behind her sunglasses, like a spotlight moving back and forth across the landscape. Restless, always probing.
Just looking at her chilled him to the bone.
He ducked back from the corner of the building.
Did they see him?
He knew—knew—they were looking for him.
Everyone was looking for him. He was a person of interest. But if the woman and the boy got him, God only knew what would happen. Look what they had done to the men in the house.
He pictured a scene out in the desert—saw it cinematically—and they were walking him to his execution. He saw his death: two to the back of the head, left for the coyotes to clean up.
A car cruised by. It was the deputy in an unmarked cop car. The car slowed to a stop. He could reach her in three strides.
He thought of the woman and the boy and came to a conclusion.
Crazy.
But so was he.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TESS WAS ALMOST to the freeway entrance when she saw the big truck blocking the on-ramp—Sunline Traders. Both of Paradox’s PD cars were parked behind it, and a Paradox PD officer was placing reflective triangles out on the road.
Tess circled the parking lot around the Subway, thinking she could use something cold to drink. Mostly she was thinking about how she’d approach Gordon White Eagle. She put the car in park, and that was when the passenger door wrenched open and she found herself staring at the famous movie star, Max Conroy. He slid into the car. “Don’t try anything. I have a gun.”
Tess looked down. He did have a gun in the waistband of his jeans, and his hand hovered near it.
She had no idea of his abilities, but he could draw the weapon and shoot her, or shoot himself, or shoot wild. Guns were unpredictable that way.
Cursing the fact that her new ride had a broken locking mechanism, Tess raised her hands. Don’t antagonize him. Play for time. All those bromides that had been scrupulously inculcated into her. Because of her “ability,” she remembered every single moment of every lesson. The problem was, Tess not only got the lesson, but every subfile of the lesson.
Don’t antagonize. Play for time. De-escalate the situation.
As if reading her mind, he said again, “Don’t try anything.”
“I won’t.”
He saw her phone on the seat between them at the same time she did. He grabbed it, buzzed his window down, and threw it out. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”
That was a cliché she’d heard in at least fifteen movies. Those exact words.
“I’m good,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Drive.”
“Drive where?”
“Up I-17.”
“OK,” she said. “Do you see that truck over there? Sunline Traders?”
He said nothing. She glanced out the corner of her eye and saw that although Conroy was nervous, he was also in control. She wondered what he had to lose. The impression she got was: nothing.
“The truck?” she said again. “It’s blocking the freeway entrance.”
“Then take the access road.”
No choice. She did.