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“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.

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.