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Hard to believe.

He drove back to the Desert Oasis Healing Center and piloted the LeBaron across the flattened section of chain-link fence, careful to stay out of the gully.

Why tell them he was coming?

Lucky for him, the guardhouse a half mile up the road was empty. No rent-a-cop was going to sit out there on a night like this.

THERE WERE PLENTY of expensive cars in the lot. The richest of the rich. The fucked-uppest of the fucked-up. Max reached the glass front doors to the main wing and walked in. Nobody in the foyer—a long glass tunnel between the front entrance with its cactus garden and the pool and cabanas on the other side. A massive, generic chandelier, the kind you’d find at Marriotts everywhere, cast a dim orange light. He walked in the direction of Gordon’s office. His footsteps echoed on the Saltillo tile.

Everyone locked up for the night.

He got to the door to Gord’s office. What now? Knock?

No.

He aimed a kick under the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door flew open.

No one there.

The anticlimax almost buried him. He’d been planning so long for the confrontation, now he felt lost.

“Sir?”

He spun around. It was Gordon’s assistant, Drew.

“Good to see you, uh, Max,” the assistant said. “You look like you could use freshening up. Would you like to go to your room?”

“So you can lock me in?”

“That wasn’t my intention, sir. I thought you might want a hot shower and some fresh clothes.”

Max pictured the clothes. The trademark white drawstring yoga pants and blousy white pirate shirt. Add Birkenstocks, and you could join an ashram.

“Your leg, sir. You’re bleeding. I could call the nurse.”

“Just, let’s…” He felt a little dizzy. “I want to talk to Gordon. You get me? He’s gonna want to hear what I have to say.”

“Of course, sir.”

And Max was ushered through the right wing to his room.

Right back where he’d started. He thought about fighting, but you couldn’t fight all the time. He was tired, wounded. The adrenaline that had fueled him was beginning to dissipate.

He still believed that Gordon needed him more than he needed Gordon. He was still Max Conroy, the star of the V.A.M.Pyre series. The golden goose, for want of a better term. He truly believed they needed him more than he needed them .

And so he took a shower. A nurse practitioner dressed his wound and gave him antibiotics. He felt better. When she was gone, he looked out at his reflection, mirrored against the lighted pool. Trying to nail down what he would say to Gordon, but unable to hold onto his thoughts.

A light knock.

“Come in.”

It was Shower Cap.

Max thought: I’m hallucinating again.

Shower Cap put his finger to his lips and crept into the room, his movements exaggerated and low, like Groucho Marx. It helped that he wore a doctor’s white smock and a doctor’s head mirror instead of the shower cap.

Am I hallucinating again?

Max closed the door behind them.

Shower Cap drew the curtains closed.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.

“It’s like I never left.” Max was beginning to remember now. How could he have forgotten Shower Cap? Only Shower Cap’s real name was Darren. Darren Fitch-Wender.

Shower Cap was the mascot here. Max knew that Gordon’s silent partner in the DO was Darren’s father, Thaddeus B. Fitch-Wender.

Yes, that Thaddeus B. Fitch-Wender.

How could he have forgotten ?

Max had holes in his memory, but how could he have forgotten Darren?

Darren was in his midforties and had lived here for at least fifteen years—since shortly after the place was built. Darren was a drummer in a semifamous heavy metal band twenty years ago. He’d done a lot of drugs, and eventually they’d taken their toll. Max had heard the story of Darren’s life from Serena, his masseuse, after Darren had popped in one day and sat cross-legged on the table opposite. He’d worn only a sari and his shower cap.

Max stared at Darren, who was checking the bathroom for intruders. He crabbed around, checking the windows and doors, then looked at Max and put his finger to his lips. “Checking for bugs,” he whispered.

Max assumed there were bugs. Whether or not this nutcase could find them, he didn’t know.

“What’s going on?” Max asked.

“I brought your script back. Remember?”

Max didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember much at all.

“I thought you’d want it, now that you’re back.”

“What script?”

“ The script. Shhhh! The walls have ears.”

“How’d you find out I was here?”

“Everybody knows you’re here. The Maxter is back !” he hooted.

Suddenly Max knew why he always saw Shower Cap in a boat. “Man in the Boat,” he said.

Darren turned around. “Shhhhhhhhh!”

“Sorry,” Max whispered. “That was the name of your hit record: Man in the Boat . Wasn’t it?”

Darren nodded. “I did the drums!” He started with a flurry of hands, and Max remembered that too. Shower Cap—Darren—was always playing drums in the air.

Darren’s band, Phonetic, had had the one mildly dirty hit, “Man in the Boat,” which had inspired Max’s hallucination. Max associated Darren with a boat because of the song. Max said, “What script?”

“ Your script, of course. It has your name on it. I found it one time when I was waiting for my dad in the office. It’s a secret.”

Finally, someone crazier than he was.

“Should I check your pulse and respiration?” Darren asked.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. But I could use your help.”

“I’m all ears.”

Max whispered, “Where’s Gordon?”

“Gordon’s waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“He said something about cooling your heels.”

“You heard him say that?”

“I used my stethoscope.”

OK.

“On the door.”

Max wondered how much he could rely on any information he got from Darren. But he guessed that Darren had overheard Gordon talking about cooling his heels. That sounded like Gordon. It sounded like a trick Gordon would pull. Gordon loved to play psychological games. So this was why the wait.

Let Max stew.

Max had built himself up for this confrontation. He was ready to roll. But now here he was, cooling his heels , waiting for Gordon to make his grand entrance.

Two could play at that game. “So you have the script?”

Darren pulled it out from under his doctor’s jacket. “Ta-daaaa!”

Max sat down on the bed and looked at the title page.

There was nothing on it except a stamp that said, “Final Draft.”

Darren said, “I’d better go.”

“Yes,” Max said. “Thanks. Thanks a lot for finding my script.”

Darren beamed. “I thought you would like it. Don’t let the bedbugs bite—if you know what I mean.” And he pointed at the ceiling tiles. Then he danced over to the door, wriggled his fingers good-bye, and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

JERRY LOOKED OUT the plate glass windows of Gordon’s suite at the pool. “So he walked right in?”

Gordon said, “When you think about it, that was his only choice. He needs me. I’m the only one who can bring him back to full mental health.”

Pompous ass , Jerry thought.

Talia spoke for all of them: “So now what?”

“All the world is a stage, and all the players are…on it,” Gordon finished. Shakespeare had never been his subject of choice.

“Oh, puleeese.” Talia crossed her legs sexily.