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Gordon had planted this—the girl, the car, the command telling Max to freeze. He’d planted it in Max’s subconscious. Gordon had plenty of tools available—hypnosis, drugs, therapy sessions. Therapies that seemed normal on the surface, but who knew how his psyche could be manipulated? He thought about the people who went to self-help seminars and ended up jumping to their deaths.

And those were just self-help seminars.

What could Gordon do if he had an uninterrupted three weeks?

But the question was: why? Why try to Gaslight him like this? What was the point?

He couldn’t think of a reason, but there had to be one.

The answers might be in the screenplay.

He turned the page.

And then he knew.

A knock came on the door.

“Come in,” Max said.

It was Gordon White Eagle’s assistant. “Gordon will see you now.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

MAX WAS LED to a room off the spa.

Gordon lay on his stomach, naked to the waist, the rest of him wrapped in a fluffy white towel. A masseuse hammered his back with swift, lethal-looking hands.

It was difficult talking to a prone, half-naked guru being tenderized by a large black man in a Speedo. Max knew that Gordon had thought this through, that he wanted to keep Max off balance and, if possible, uncomfortable and even subjugated.

Max thought about telling Gordon it wasn’t working, but instead said, “We need to talk.”

“So talk.”

Max slid his semiautomatic out of the waistband of his jeans and glared at the masseuse. The masseuse ducked out. Max put the gun muzzle to Gordon’s head. “Sit up. Now.”

Gordon sat up.

Max noticed the smattering of gray hair on Gordon’s sagging breasts. The man was crying out for a fitness regimen.

“Max,” Gordon said warmly. “It’s so good to see you, but if you’ll forgive me, I don’t particularly like having a gun to my head. What say we talk this out like the friends we are?”

“Fine,” Max said, pulling back. “Take the towel off.”

“What? Don’t you think it’s a little undignified—”

“Off!”

Gordon did as he was told.

“Now, I’m going to lock the door, and we’ll have a nice little talk.”

“You’re not going to—?”

“How can you ask that, Gordo? I’ve slept with the most beautiful women in the world. Why the hell would I want to fuck you?”

He made sure the doors were locked, then said, “Smile.” He took a couple of candid shots of Gordon with his phone. “A few pics to remember you by.”

“Have you been watching the news? Every law enforcement agency in the country is on your tail.”

“Really?” Max looked around. “I don’t see any.”

“You will—I’ve already called the police. They should be here with a SWAT team any minute.

“Right. It’s been, what? Almost two hours since I got here? I don’t think any SWAT teams are on their way.”

Gordon was silent. Fuming. Max enjoyed the fuming part. “Gordon, I wouldn’t bother you, except I’m going to need your help.”

“I’m not interested in helping you.”

Max jammed the gun muzzle against Gordon’s jugular. “Are you interested now?”

Gordon mumbled something. Max took it as a yes. But he kept the muzzle firmly against Gordon’s neck anyway. “You know what I want, don’t you, Gordon? I want you to fix me. I think they call it the Pottery Barn Rule. You breakie, you fixie.”

“Fmmoo.”

“‘Fuck you?’ Gordon, that’s not a nice thing to say. Especially since I’m the wronged party.” He jammed the muzzle harder into Gordon White Eagle’s neck, denting the flesh. “Here’s the deal. You put me back the way I was, and I’ll go away and never bother you again. And I’ll definitely leave your carotid intact. How’s that?”

“Mmmffffooer.”

“Yes, I know what I am. But that doesn’t change anything.”

A beat. Then: “Mmmkay.”

“Good.” Max withdrew the Smith & Wesson. “Now, fix me.”

“I’ll have to hypnotize you to do it. And even then, I can’t promise anything.”

“I’m worried,” Max said. “I get the feeling you aren’t taking me seriously. You think you can snow me, don’t you, Gordon?” Max looked at the ring on Gordon’s finger. “Is that Zuni?”

“Zuni? What are you talking about?”

“The ring. Is it Zuni?”

“Yes, it’s Zuni. You’ve got a good eye.”

Max lifted Gordon’s hand, admiring the Zuni ring on the stubby fingers, the Navajo sand-cast bracelets, and the Rolex watch. “Take off the jewelry, Gord.”

“Why?”

Max motioned with the gun. “Take it off.”

Gordon did as he was told and set them on the massage table. Max lifted Gordon’s hand again and placed it on the cushioned leather surface by Gordon’s thigh. Not optimal. The table had a little give, but what the hell—he smashed the gun butt down hard on Gordon’s Zuni bracelet.

The scream would have put a banshee to shame. You’d think Max had brought the hammer down on Gordon’s knuckles instead of the bracelet. Which, believe it or not, bounced back without a scratch. But Gordon was whimpering.

“OK, Gord, we now understand each other. First, we’re going to have a sit-down and you’re going to tell me exactly what you did to me. Everything you did to me. Then we’re going to scroll through your virtual Rolodex for a psychologist who’s good. The best. Someone who can unscrew me as good as you screwed me. And you’re going to get me to him and he’s going to fix me. When we get to where we’re going, the paparazzi will be there, and you’re going to escort me in and they’re going to see you. And if this guy isn’t as good as he should be, if it doesn’t work out, I will come back here and smash every single finger on both your hands. Do you hear me?” Gordon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He seemed to be in shock.

“OK, here’s what we’re going to do. I don’t care how you do it. You must know somebody who’s good. Are you going to find me the right person? Are you?”

Gordon nodded.

“Are you sure you’re going to find the right person? Because if you aren’t going to try, you might as well tell me now.”

He nodded again. For a minute Max was worried the man’s head might fall off his neck.

There were tears in White Eagle’s eyes. But there was also a light in them—he knew Gordon was trying to figure out how to get the upper hand.

“Don’t say another word, Gord. You’re going to tell me exactly what you did to me, how you did it, and you’re not gonna leave anything out. Then we go find the right guy to fix me. We’re going to your office now, where it will be nice and private. If that’s OK with you, nod, OK?”

Gordon nodded. For the first time since Max had met him, Gordon looked cowed.

The fastest way to Gordon’s office was across the parking lot. Max pushed open the fire door to the outside. “Let’s go.”

“Just let me put some clothes on—I’ll go with you. You don’t have to point that gun at me.”

Max ignored him. “And when your pal has me all straightened out,” he said, “We’re going to have a conversation about why you want me dead.”

Gordon stopped in his tracks. For a second, he was as immobile as a giant redwood. “Dear God, Max. Kill you? You can’t mean that! I wouldn’t—”

“Shut up. I read the script. All I want to know—”

Gordon glanced to the side just as Max heard the scrape of a shoe on pavement.

Gordon said, “Freeze!”

Max froze, although he recovered quickly.

Not quickly enough—a giant, hairy forearm and elbow came up around his throat, and he was pulled backward through the side door of the Desert Oasis Healing Center.