“Sorry to have bothered you,” I say. “I think we have the wrong house.”
The next address is in an apartment complex. We head up three flights of stairs and knock on the door, but no one answers. Parvati rests her ear against the wooden door. “I think I hear the TV,” she says.
I press my face next to hers. Sure enough, I can make out occasional snatches of what sounds like the early morning news. I cup my hands around my eyes and try to peer through a crack in the curtains. Nothing but darkness and the slightly distorted reflection of my own face.
Parvati pulls her sleeve over her hand and tries the knob. The door is locked.
“Think we should try to break in?” she asks.
“Let’s try the other place. We can always come back.”
The last address on the list is in a neighborhood just a few blocks off the Strip. It’s a little green-and-white cottage with a mailbox shaped like a birdhouse. It isn’t the mailbox that catches my eye, though.
It’s the wall of fire, extending upward from the roof.
TWENTY-TWO
BLACK SMOKE BILLOWS FROM THE windows. Flames lick their way up the sides of the house. Fuck. I am out of the car in an instant, racing toward the front door. Parvati is right behind me. The heat scorches my skin, radiating straight through the front wall of the cottage.
Parvati grabs my arm, hauling me back just before I reach the porch. “Max, wait. You can’t go in there.”
I know she’s right, but I try to shake her off anyway. “What if Preston is inside?”
“Then we have to wait for the fire department.” She yanks me back a couple more steps until we’re standing in the middle of the tiny scrap of grass that makes up Violet Cain’s front lawn.
Sirens sing in the distance. High and shrill, low and honking. An EMS cavalry is on its way. Around us, neighbors are popping out onto their porches. Silhouettes of children peek between their parents’ legs.
“We should get out of here,” Parvati says. Her blonde wig sits crooked on her head.
I don’t want to go. I want to rush into the house. Preston is here. I know it. I can feel it.
A section of roof caves in, sending up a shower of dazzling embers. The neighbors murmur and point. Flames explode out of the gaping hole. Fingers of fire claw at the dark sky.
Parvati pulls me backward again. “Max, come on. It’s not safe.”
We both know she’s not just talking about the fire. The rescue vehicles are close now, and the cops won’t be far behind. Sirens crescendo as fire trucks and an ambulance turn the corner onto the block. Around us, the clouds of smoke blink flashing red.
We stumble through the haze, getting back to the car just as a hook-and-ladder truck roars to a stop at the curb. Firefighters leap off, dressed in heavy coats and gas masks. They huddle together in the middle of the lawn. What are they doing? Why aren’t they rescuing Preston? I hurry across the grass, intending to ask them what the holdup is.
“Max.” Parvati hollers from behind me. “Run!”
I spin around and move toward her but skid to a stop in the middle of the street. Agent McGhee has her up against the side of the Honda. Shit. How did they get here so fast? The fading moonlight glints off a pair of silver handcuffs.
“Run!” she repeats.
Leaving her feels so unnatural that it takes my body a few seconds to process my brain’s request. Gonzalez sees me just as I take off down the street.
“Stop!” he screams.
I turn toward the neon lights of the Strip. I came here once with Ben and Darla and nearly got lost in the herds of people milling up and down the sidewalk in front of the big casinos. If I get up to Las Vegas Boulevard, I know I can disappear. I race up the driveway of a little brick house and vault my lanky body over a silver chain-link fence. I cut across the darkened backyard, hurdling what looks to be a giant cactus. The fence rattles behind me as Gonzalez clambers over it. I’m already at the other side of the yard, lifting myself over the next fence. He’ll never catch me.
The next couple of yards are unfenced. I can still hear Gonzalez huffing and puffing behind me. I’m only a block from the Strip now. Adrenaline propels me. I lengthen my stride, pumping my arms and legs as I cut across the parking lot of a sleazy motel and explode out onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Left or right? I go right, toward the Bellagio and Caesar’s Palace. There seem to be more people that way. I push past a loose knot of what looks like bachelor party guys heading home after a long night. Shirts are untucked. Gelled hair is starting to droop. I dodge a couple of old men handing out advertisements for strip clubs. Somewhere, a girl screams. It’s a playful, laughing noise, but it’s enough to make me wonder what’s happening to Parvati. Did McGhee really arrest her? Is she scared? I glance quickly over my shoulder. Several sets of headlights are prowling the Strip, but I can’t make out any individual cars.
The toe of my sneaker catches a seam in the sidewalk. I fall forward, landing on my hands and knees. As I scramble back to my feet, someone tackles me from behind. The side of my face slams into the asphalt and something round and hard presses against my spine. At first I think Gonzalez actually has his gun out, but then he leans down to cuff me and I realize it’s his knee that’s planted in the small of my back. Around us, I see the clunky white sneakers and high heels of a small group of tourists. Camera flashes light up the night, like I’m just one more attraction in Vegas, something to occupy time while people wait for the Bellagio’s water show to begin.
Gonzalez’s phone rings in his pocket and he jams his knee even farther into my spine as he goes to answer it. “Yeah,” he says. “Good. I just got him.” He hangs up and bends down so I can see his face.
“Max Cantrell,” he barks, like my ear isn’t literally two inches from his lips, like maybe he’s auditioning for a role on Law & Order: Las Vegas. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice, flight to avoid prosecution, and assaulting a federal agent.”
TWENTY-THREE
December 8th
LATER THAT MORNING, I GET arraigned. My court-appointed lawyer, a mousy-haired woman in a dark suit and sensible shoes, comes to get me from my holding cell. She introduces herself but I’m not paying attention, so I don’t catch her name. I’m too busy thinking about how “holding cell” is now part of my vocabulary—how I’m back in one of those detective TV shows I never, ever wanted to be a part of.
My lawyer takes one look at my insane haircut and rumpled, stolen clothing and forbids me to speak in court. “I’ll handle entering your pleas,” she says. “I’ll handle everything. Just don’t . . . speak.”