Icon by J. Carson Black

back. The dots Gordon White Eagle had given him as a parting gift.
    He swayed a little, then his head cleared.
    He remembered Gordon White Eagle telling him he would solve all his problems. He would cure him of his drugging and alcohol abuse.
    “We’ll see about that, Gordy,” Max said. “Drugs and alcohol are the least of my problems right now.”
    He shoved the gun into the snug of his back. Then he went looking for Sam P.

    I T WAS EASY.
    Maybe it was too easy. Sam P. was watching a video. It wasn’t just any video. It was a sex video.
    Max had seen a lot of disgusting sex, some of it on the highest levels and in the best Jacuzzis at the best addresses with the best sluts and cabana boys and the richest jaded old farts in the world, but this stuff was worse. It pitted arousal against the gag reflex, but Max had a highly developed gag reflex—he could turn it on and off like a spigot. The worst thing, Sam P. liked freak shows starring the desecration of innocents—be they animal, vegetable, mineral, or altar boy.
    So Max didn’t mind jabbing the gun muzzle into the base of Sam P.’s testicles, even though, for one dizzying moment, he thought he’d lost the barrel in a funhouse mirror of wrinkles and folds.
    Sam P. froze—not a jiggle. For a moment, the Other Max, the Max who played a Nietzsche-spouting nihilist in Dystopia: The Second Epoch (not his best performance; the whole thing depressed him for months afterward) took over and he felt his finger itch. He knew one squeeze would do it, blow this pathetic balloon of a man to kingdom come, send Sam P. zipping up into the atmosphere on a fart and a cry, and he stopped himself just in time.
    “You’d better tell me everything,” Max said. “And if you don’t, I’ll shoot off one part at a time.”
    Sam P. understood immediately.
    When Max was done, he shoved Sam P. down into the dungeon with his nephew.
    He kindly left them two bottles of water.
    And the last of the Lunchables.

    T HE TRAPDOOR HAD been modified—it could be locked shut with a padlock. Max wondered if Luther and Sam P. had kidnapped someone else before this. The idea sent a chill up his spine. Wouldn’t put it past them. He had found the key to the padlock easily enough—it hung from a hook on the wall just inside the outer door, which was unlocked. Next, Max went through the house—car keys, the video camera, Sam P.’s phone, what little cash they had, and their credit cards. He’d ditch the credit cards and use the money. He checked the video, and it looked good. He could upload it to one of the cell phones any time. Next, he needed transportation. He knew Corey would be back soon. He’d call out to his buddies, and when they didn’t answer, he’d think they were in the bomb shelter with Max. If a car was missing, they wouldn’t call the police. No, Corey would come looking for him.
    Max had a choice: walk the three miles back to town and risk being seen, or take one of the cars, hit the freeway, and hope he had a good enough head start. From there, he could hide anywhere.
    The first thing Max wanted to do was get to Gordon White Eagle. He wanted to find out exactly what White Eagle had done to him, how he’d screwed him up. He wanted the man to reverse what he’d done, if that was even possible. Then he’d settle with Jerry and Talia.
    He took the gun from the small of his back and hefted it. He’d never been into weapons all that much, but had to admit this one felt good. He pictured pressing the muzzle into Gordon’s handsome tanned temple. Imagined suggesting Gordon find a way to restore him to the person he was before.
    And he would ask Gordon who the guy in the shower cap was.

Chapter Seventeen
    T ESS HAD THE Bajada County Sheriff’s Office break room to herself. No one was using the computer, so she sat down at the desk and looked up the Desert Oasis Healing Center again. The first time Tess had looked at the website, she’d seen references to “sandstone