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“Oh?” Pat leaned forward, cupped his chin in his hands, sang, “Tell me more, tell me more, tell me more.”

Tess held Max’s gaze. Those calm hazel eyes. “Nine people died.”

“Anything else?”

“Eighty people were injured.”

“Do tell. Where was this?”

“Tahoma Station.”

The waitress came over with their food. “You playin’ that game again, Pat? I’m sure this girl is tired of bein’ your one-trick pony.”

Max said to Tess, “Someone you knew died in the wreck?”

“Permit me,” Pat said to the deputy, then turned to Max. “She didn’t know any of them. As a matter of fact, I doubt she even knew there was a Tahoma station.”

A loud beep emanated from Pat’s belt. He shifted away from them and called in, his voice low. Closed his battered flip phone and looked at the deputy. “We gotta go. Somebody fighting over a goat—I kid you not. Knowing those two mean-ass lesbians, it could turn into a homo-cide for sure.”

Deputy McCrae was already on her feet.

Pat stood up, guzzled the rest of his coffee, and tossed a few bills on the table. “See you around, Max .”

Chapter Three

WHEN THE WOMAN spotted the turnoff for Joshua Tree National Park, she exited the freeway and took the road under the overpass.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked the boy.

“I think you should see this.”

“See what? It’s just a bunch of rocks and cactus.”

The woman said nothing, just followed the road to the Cottonwood Visitor Center, and parked out front.

“We haven’t made it very far,” the boy said as they got out of the car.

“We’re in no hurry.”

“Jesus, it’s hot out here!”

“Mouth,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah. OK.” He started up the walkway to the visitor center, turned back. “You coming?”

She motioned to her mobile phone, which was vibrating. “In a minute.”

The number on the readout belonged to Gordon White Eagle. When she answered he said, “Dammit! I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday afternoon!”

“What time in the afternoon?”

“How should I know?” He paused. “Around five o’clock, six at the latest.”

“I don’t answer after five. You didn’t leave a message, did you, Gordon?”

Gordon ignored this. “Where are you now?”

“Joshua Tree National Park. I think we’re going to camp here.”

“No you’re not. There’s been a change of plans.” Gordon paused. The woman had never known Gordon to pause.

There was no ambiguity to Gordon. He was certain of things. In fact, he was a know-it-all. She’d seen him intimidate people—he was big, with a shiny bald head like Mr. Clean. She knew it was all calculated to get the upper hand, but no one got the upper hand with her. Right now, surprisingly, she heard indecision in his voice like play in a steering wheel. “Our, er… resident went out on his own yesterday and hasn’t come back. I’ve had a couple of my men looking for him since early yesterday evening. I need you here.”

The woman looked at the new black pavement and the desert beyond. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get here ASAP! This isn’t a scenic trip. How long will it take you to get here?”

Shaun estimated: Yucca Valley to Blythe, Blythe to Quartzite, Quartzite to Phoenix. Phoenix up I-17 to Cottonwood, then to Desert Oasis. “Late.”

“Late? What does that mean?”

“Night.”

“I’ll send a jet. Where’s the nearest airport? Indio, right?”

After the arrangements were made, Shaun closed the phone and walked to the visitor center. The road trip, the national parks and scenic vistas and campgrounds, would have to wait. It was something kids should have in their childhood. Her best friend from elementary school, Lisa Ann Davenport, had traveled all over the country with her parents every summer, and it had set her up for life. Lisa Ann was married to a handsome, successful businessman. She ran her own business, and they had two children, a boy and a girl. No doubt, she and her husband took them to national parks, where they made s’mores and told ghost stories around the campfire. Shaun wanted those kinds of experiences for Jimmy.

He was far too obsessed with killing.

She found him pawing through the Joshua Tree hats. There were plenty of souvenirs at the Cottonwood Visitor Center, and she let him pick out half a dozen. Paid for them in cash without complaint.

They took a short loop drive, photographed a couple of Joshua trees, then drove back to Indio to wait for Gordon’s jet.

AFTER THE DEPUTY and the detective left him alone at the table, the waitress kept looking at him. He knew she was wondering where she’d seen him before.

Time to get out of here. He shifted in his seat to reach for his wallet.

It wasn’t there.

From her place by the lunch counter, the waitress watched him like a hawk watches a weasel.

Where was his wallet?

She started in his direction.

He looked at the money Pat had thrown on the table. Not enough to cover the bill. Cheap son of a bitch.

The waitress was standing over him.

He tried the other back pocket of his jeans. Her voice assaulted his ears, shutting out all thought. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t hear anything but the band-saw shriek.

He squinted up at her, tried to read her lips.

“Don’t worry about that. Deputy has it covered.”

She was looking at him quizzically, as if wondering why Tess would bring a stinking bum into her place.

“Thanks.”

“Thank her.”

He kept his eyes down. In his years of going out in public, Max had noticed people didn’t really see you if you looked like a kicked dog. But he had to ask. “What was that about the train crash? What the deputy was talking about?”

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand. “She’s got some weird kind of memory. Perfect recall or something like that—she remembers every little thing.” She added, “Since you’re all paid up, you can go now.”

And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

He went outside and turned into the alley beside the diner. He was only exposed on the main street for a few seconds, but his heart pounded so hard he thought it would explode. He stopped in the shade of the diner. The building opposite him was windowless; a few cars were parked nose-in. Nothing stirred. The town drowsed in the heat and the flies.

No limo.

No wallet either. He shoved his hand into in his jeans pocket, thinking he might at least have some change. Instead, his fingers closed around a tight wad of bills. Somewhere along the line—he couldn’t remember exactly when—he’d stuffed cash in both pockets, plenty of it. Max had no idea when that had happened; his space-time continuum was completely disrupted.

Then he remembered. When the deputy processed him into the jail, she’d taken cash from his pockets. He’d signed for it with the name of one of his lesser-known characters. Here in the alley, he pictured the cash falling onto the desk, loose change and a wad of crinkled bills. The deputy had him count it.

There were holes in his memory. Max had become accustomed to that in the last week or so.

But what had happened to his wallet?

Relax. Don’t think about it and it will come to you.

MAX REMEMBERED MOST of the day before—his escape from the Desert Oasis Healing Center in the laundry truck, the guy letting him out on I-17, thumbing rides. Just wanting to get away from the paparazzi and be a nobody for a while. He remembered taking shelter from the thunderstorm inside a Texaco mini-mart in some town along the freeway. He’d just come from a thrift store down the street, having tried to hire on there. But the owner recognized him and called in his buddies to look at him like he was an animal in a zoo. The owner said, “Job? You serious? What is this? Is this a reality show? Like Candid Camera ?”