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“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?”

“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.

Gordon sounded shaken. “Max? Max? Where are you?”

“You gotta come for me, Gordon. I’m in a town called Paradox. And they said come alone—no police. If there are any police they’ll slit my throat. They want a million dollars by sunset.”

“I can’t come up with that kind of money!”

Max muffled the phone again. Begging, pleading with himself. Clapping his hands together once, twice—simulating hard slaps to the face. (He used to get high with a Foley artist. The guy was a real bore except when he was ripped, when he would perform his best sound effects.)

More barked orders. A kitchen chair thrown across the room. When Max spoke again he was almost hyperventilating from all the activity. Max was able to summon tears at the drop of a hat (even though as a leading man, he was never allowed to do so) and so he let tears seep into his voice. “They’re serious about killing me, Gordon. They want one million dollars in small bills.”

“But I can’t—”

“If you don’t bring the money…please, oh God, no, Jesus !”

“OK, OK, just tell them to stop. Tell them I’ll be there!”

“Someone will call you in a little while and give you the address. Please, Gordon, no cops. They said they’ll kill me, and they’ll kill you.” Max hit End. The phone rang again but this time he didn’t answer.