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The couple stood by the side of the road, looking scared. The man was staring at him. “You look familiar. Aren’t you the guy in those movies? The ones with the vampires?” His face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Max Conroy, that’s it! Lou, it’s Max Conroy.” He turned to Max and said, “Didn’t I read you were staying around here somewhere? I could swear I read something about it. So what is this? Part of a movie? Are we going to be in the final cut?”

Max said, “No, no. I’m not Max Conroy. But I get that a lot.”

The wife looked at her husband, then glanced around the empty parking lot. She touched his arm. “Bob, I don’t see any cameras.”

But Bob shook her hand away. “Are you certain you’re not Max Conroy? You sure look like him…Can I have your autograph? I’ll give you my address and you can let us know where we can pick up the car.”

His wife glared at him as he reached in, rummaged through his glove compartment, and came up with an owner’s manual for the car. “Just put the old John Hancock anywhere,” he said, fishing around for a pen.

Max said, “I’m just his stunt double. We don’t even look that much alike.”

“That’s good too. I never met a stunt double before. What’s Max like?”

“He’s OK. Made some bad choices with women. You know…movie stars.”

The husband said, “Yeah, not a whole lot of brains there, you know? What a way to make a living.”

Max signed the manual, “Best wishes—Dave Finley, stunt double for Max Conroy.”

As he drove away, they stood there in the rain. Both of them waved, although Lou’s wave was less enthusiastic.

Max vowed that when he was done with Gordon, he’d leave the car, a late ’80s Chrysler LeBaron, where they’d find it.

He drove on 260 past the little airport and took 89A toward the mining-turned-tourist town of Jerome. The road laddered up the mountain, full of switchbacks and hairpin turns. The Desert Oasis was on the same road. Jerry had told Max that Gordon had bought the land cheap, since the property prices in the nearby upscale resort town of Sedona were sky-high. A Sedona address was a necessity for a holistic-themed celebrity dry-out center. But apparently, the Verde Valley was close enough.

Mine tailings notwithstanding.

Max was holding it together, but only barely. His clothes were wet and he was shivering in them. The old car’s heater didn’t help much. He thought about Tess McCrae, left in the lurch at Jeepers Creepers, but knew she’d get back on track soon enough. And he had no doubt she’d look for him. But by then he would have concluded his business with Gordon, and Gordon would have fixed him.

Fix him. Did he really believe that?

Max guessed that, given the choice of dying on his Two Red Hills Navajo carpet, Gordon might choose to fix him.

If he could.

The rain had turned to a steady drizzle. It was dark. Max could see the lights up ahead, knew they belonged to the ramshackle houses of Jerome clinging to the mountain.

The Desert Oasis was three or four miles from the first switchback to Jerome, hidden by a stand of aleppo pines and a bushlike tree that grew like a weed around here. Max peered past the slashing windshield wipers, trying to make out pines in the darkness. Gordon had wanted the place to look and feel exclusive, so there was no sign, just a rolling gate behind the pines and a tall fence to keep the inmates inside. The good old DO.

He turned off and drove up to the rolling gate. He’d managed to get the touchpad number from the laundry truck guy, but when he punched in the numbers, the gate didn’t roll back. He tried combinations of the numbers, but he hadn’t written down the information and now it was lost.

There was an intercom. He thought about talking into the speaker, but then Gordon would know he was coming and would prepare for him. He sized up the fence and the gate. The fence was tall chain link. He could scale it easily. Or he could go over the gate, which was solid and lower. He backed up and drove the LeBaron under the pines to the right of the gate so he wouldn’t block access.

Behind him a car flashed by on the road, followed by a motorcycle.

He got out of the LeBaron and walked toward the gate.

Max stared at the gate. Should he climb the fence, or go over the gate? Two cars flashed by on the road behind him. It occurred to him how vulnerable he was out here—he’d left his gun in the car. He heard the crunch of tires on dirt. A truck turned in behind him, its big diesel engine sounding rough. In the moment it took for him to look around, the massive truck was right there. He squinted into the blinding light, the needles of hard rain like a shiny curtain. He was pinned to the gate by headlights under a gleaming, crimped-up hood.

The truck revved, growling like a mad pit bull, then launched forward, as if it had thrust itself from massive hind legs, hurtling toward him. It accelerated at an unbelievable rate, the engine switching from a roar to a catamount shriek. For all of a second, he couldn’t move. The headlights bloomed yellow behind his eyelids, and the square grille seemed to grin at him, the gleaming Chevy logo askew, filling his vision as fear buzzed in his ears.

He hit the ground hard and rolled just as the truck rammed the iron slats of the gate with a clang that shook his teeth. The smell of burning rubber, hot oil, and exhaust told him how close he was to being squashed like a bug. He rolled more, thinking if he could just get to the fence, if he could get over—

Impossible.

It was her. The killer.

Max didn’t stick around to look. He scaled the chain-link fence and launched himself over just as the truck backed up for another run. Behind him, he heard the truck bull through, flipping the chain link up. Max didn’t have time to get to his feet so he wriggled away, just as the tires bit into the wet ground near his face. The truck’s momentum carried it past him, the chain link enmeshed in the grille like a hockey mask. Max skittered down into the gully. The truck had come to a halt thirty yards away. Stuck. Tires spun in the dirt. The engine screamed. Max thought about flagging down someone on the road, but he would only endanger someone else. The rain was coming down, hard, as he ran for cover. The truck’s big engine shrieked. Max ran along the gully, aiming for the LeBaron. The gully was already filling up with water. He kept to the path along the gully, which was overgrown with weedy trees and some kind of vine that grabbed at him.

He heard a snap above him, slashing through the trees.

Realized it was a bullet. He dove to the dirt, half in the churning water.

Had to get up and run. If he could make it through the hole in the fence and get to the LeBaron—it seemed impossible to do.

He wished he had a gun. He’d shoot her, no question. And he wouldn’t wait for her to start shooting at him.

He squinted back at the truck, amazed at how much ground he’d put between himself and the vehicle. The truck idled, exhaust burbling out of its tailpipe. The taillights were bright red. But she was after him. He couldn’t see her, but she was following in the rain. He heard another snap, and a twig shattered near his head.

He had to make a break for it. He couldn’t just hunker down here and wait for her to reach him. He was maybe ten yards from the car now, and it was his only chance.

He dashed, zigzagging, which made the yards he had to cover longer but made him less of a target. Dirt kicked up at his feet, and a bullet clipped his ear. His heart was bursting. Adrenaline shoved him forward; he stepped onto the flattened chain-link fence lying on the ground, snagging his boot on a sheared-off corner of the mesh. He managed to extricate himself and reached the car, fumbling for the door latch. His fingers slipped in the rain.