With a start, I realize the gun is weighing down the side pocket of my cargo pants. I don’t even remember putting it away. Hopefully, I won’t need it. Pretty sure guns aren’t made for swimming.
I let the current carry me to the opposite bank, where I hide in a tall patch of reeds and try to figure out what to do next. McGhee and Gonzalez will either call for backup from a police department around here or set up some kind of river blockade downstream. I’m not sure if I should get out of the water or use the current to float even farther away. I wish Parvati were with me. She’d know. She’d quote some military escape manual. But Parvati is gone. Unreachable. The phone she left me is back at the cabin. I still have my own phone, but even if by some miracle it works after it dries out, calling her on it isn’t safe.
That gives me an idea. I reach my hand below the surface of the murky water and pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket. The screen stays dark when I try to turn it on, but I throw it as hard as I can up onto the riverbank. Maybe it’ll buy me some extra time if it dries out and someone decides to track me by GPSing it.
I take in another big breath of air and let the water carry me farther downstream. Think, Max. Nine years ago, I was the survival expert, not Parvati. There were some seriously bad people trolling the streets and beaches where I lived, and avoiding their psychotic wrath took mad skills. Have I gotten soft since the Cantrells adopted me?
A patch of rapids appears out of nowhere and I adjust my body so that I’m heading into the whitewater feet first to protect my head. The river curves to the left and then back to the right. An owl, or maybe a bat, soars across my field of vision.
I glance up at the sky. It’s black, just like the water. I have no idea what time it is. I think I finally fell asleep around ten thirty, and it seemed like at least an hour passed before McGhee and Gonzalez found me, so now it’s probably somewhere around one in the morning. I’m hoping the feds got distracted by Preston’s phone and hard drive—the thought of them finding those sex clips almost makes me want to drown myself—before they started looking for me. But either way, they won’t stop until they find me. I need to either ride the river far enough away from the cabin that I won’t get caught in a manhunt, or get out of the water and try to hide in plain sight.
I decide to take my chances in the river for a while. It’s cold, but I feel safer in the water. And I’ll be able to see anyone coming before they get close.
My wallet is still in the back pocket of my cargo pants. Thanks to Liars, Inc. I should have enough soggy cash to buy another prepaid phone and some food. All I have to do is eventually find a safe place to get out of the river and make myself into someone other than Max Cantrell. How hard can it be?
I stay in the water for what feels like hours, curling my body into the fetal position to maximize warmth. In a couple places, the river is so shallow that I have to slither along on my elbows and knees to stay hidden beneath the surface. Soft sticky mud clings to my hands and coats the fabric of my pants.
When the current carries me past a wide stretch of gravel and sand I recognize as a canoe pullout, I work my way over to the bank. There’s a painted wooden sign here. I squint to read it in the dark: LAZY DAYS CAMPGROUND AND FLOAT TRIPPING. Score. I peel off my waterlogged hoodie and let it float downstream. Maybe someone will see it, and McGhee and Gonzalez will think I went farther than I did. Maybe they’ll think I drowned. Even better.
I follow a winding path through a dense grove of trees and emerge into a campground. Most of the tents are still zipped closed for the night, which is good. Even in the “anything goes” atmosphere of most campgrounds, I’d probably raise a few eyebrows strolling up from the riverbank soaking wet and covered in mud.
I find what I’m looking for along the far side of the clearing, where a few RVs sit in asphalt parking spaces—a clothesline tied between two trees. Unfortunately, all I see is girls’ clothing. Impossibly skinny jeans and ruffled tank tops. Not going to work. But then I see a plain oversized T-shirt advertising last year’s Sacramento Fun Run. Good enough. It’s a little damp, but not soaked. Either it didn’t rain here last night or the trees’ dense branches protected the clothes on the line.
I head toward the middle of the campground, past a smaller wooden sign pointing to the shower area. Is it stupid to take a shower when you’re being chased by the FBI? Probably, but then being covered in mud is pretty conspicuous. Besides, when I lived on the streets, I sometimes found useful stuff lying around in bathrooms. Since I left all my belongings at the cabin, I should at least check it out.
Unfortunately, this bathroom doesn’t have anything to offer except for a vending machine that spits out various toiletries. There’s a two-pack of razors I can use to shave my head. It isn’t much as far as disguises go, but it’s a start.
I slip into one of the showers and decide to rinse myself off, even if I have to put my soggy pants back on. Wet hair will be easier to cut, or so I think.
After all that time in the river, the warm water feels amazing. I have to keep reminding myself that McGhee and Gonzalez could be closing in, because otherwise I’ll stand under the steamy jets all day. I hack at my hair and give up on going bald almost immediately. The flimsy razors are not made for cutting through five inches of tangled mess. I fight through my knots as best as I can, stopping frequently to rinse out the blade. When I finally give up, my hair seems to be several different lengths, but all of it is shorter than it was before. My trademark long bangs are lying on the tile floor of the shower, surrounded by other irregular messy brown clumps.
I start to slide my wet pants back over my legs when I hear footsteps. I hold my breath as a pair of muddy tennis shoes moves past my stall. There are a few beats of silence, and then the shower next to me starts up with a creak of pipes and a whoosh of water.
I exhale hard. What kind of weirdo goes camping and gets up before sunrise to take a shower? I peek out the side of my stall door. Bonus. My shower neighbor has left a towel and a pair of khaki pants hanging on a hook. I’ve never stolen clothes before, not even when I was homeless, but I’m pretty sure I need these khakis more than he does. I give myself a quick pat-down with the towel before slipping into my new clothing.