by Paula Stokes
“You should talk. You look like a librarian.” I glance down at her hoodie and baggy jeans. “Masquerading as a middle school boy. Are those your mom’s glasses too?”
Parvati ignores me. She gestures to the fuel gauge. “We’ve got enough gas to get to Vegas. I mapped all three addresses for Violet Cain.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before Colonel Dad notices your absence?”
She looks at her watch. “About five or six hours.” She turns onto a bigger road.
“How long until we get to Vegas?”
“Four hours.”
“We’ll have to work fast.”
“That’s the plan,” she says grimly. She bears down on the accelerator and then punches the buttons on the steering wheel to activate the cruise control. Trees quickly become desert, and before I know it we’re on Interstate 15, the only highway into Las Vegas.
“So did McGhee and Gonzalez get you to give up my hiding place or what?”
Parvati shakes her head, and fake blonde hair swishes back and forth. “Of course not. But they grilled me about my relationship with you and Preston. Some of our wiseass classmates seem to think we have threesomes.”
The videos on Pres’s hard drive of Parvati and me having sex flood my mind. I swallow hard. Now is not the time to bring those up. “What’d you tell them?” I ask finally.
“My parents were listening, Max. I told them that you and I broke up and that the three of us are all just friends who hang out together, mostly in school.”
“I guess they didn’t buy it.”
“Guess not.” Parvati jabs at the radio’s power button. “When they were done interrogating me they asked to speak to my mom and dad alone. I tried to call you to warn you, but you didn’t pick up the phone.”
The ringing sound from my dream—it was Parvati trying to call. I swear it felt like McGhee and Gonzalez busted in just seconds later.
“Still no ransom note?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Parvati makes a face as she flips through her mother’s presets. She mashes the tuning arrow with her finger until she finds a station playing something she knows we’ll both like.
Miles of dark highway fly by. In the moonlight, I can just barely make out the mountains of sand and rock on either side of us.
“Are you tired?” Parvati asks me suddenly, tweaking the volume down on the radio just a hair.
I shake my head. It feels weird not having my bangs flop in front of my eyes when I do it. “I crashed out in the woods for a while today.”
“You look exhausted. You should sleep more,” she says. “I know the way to Vegas. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
“Really. I’m fine,” I tell her, but I take off my hat and settle back against the seat anyway.
“Oh my God. Your hair,” Parvati says. “It looks ridiculous. I love it.”
You would, I think, letting my eyes fall shut. Parvati loves anything that most people consider weird. Something about the way the Honda purrs its way across the desert lulls me to sleep. The next time I open my eyes I see a line of bright lights in the distance.
TWENTY-ONE
THE CLOCK ON THE DASHBOARD reads 4:11. Less than two hours before the Colonel wakes up, notices Parvati and the Honda are missing, and calls the cops. By now McGhee and Gonzalez have me on obstruction charges and whatever crime it is to point a loaded gun at two FBI agents, not to mention what they might have tacked on to the list if they found my car and the blood in my trunk. I’m seriously screwed if we don’t find Preston in a hurry.
“We made it?” I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“Almost.” Parvati tosses me a Megaburger from the Burger Barn.
My mouth waters on cue. “You are the best girlfriend ever.”
That makes her smile. “It’s a couple hours old. I went through the drive-through right before they closed. You didn’t even wake up.”
I sit up in the seat and start to unwrap my burger as Parvati takes the exit for North Las Vegas. The burger is gone in about five bites. Time to check out our three Violet Cains.
The first listing is for a simple brick home in a lower-middle-class neighborhood. These people are going to think we’re crazy waking them up so early, but there’s no time for skulking around. I head straight up the driveway to the porch and bang on the front door. A wreath made of tiny green bells jingles each time my knuckles meet wood. No one answers. I knock again. I see the curtains flutter out of the corner of my eye.
“What do you want?” a female voice yells through the front door. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Sorry,” I say loudly. “It’s an emergency.”
Parvati stands beside me, one hand resting on my lower back. She transfers her weight from one foot to the other as we wait to see if the woman will open the door.
The door opens a crack. A woman peeks out. She’s got brown hair instead of blonde, but she looks about the right age. “Yeah?” she asks sleepily.
“Are you Violet Cain?” I ask.
“I was. It’s Violet Armstead now.”
“Are you friends with Preston?” I ask.
“I don’t know no Preston.” She rubs her eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?”
I take a closer look at her. Her face is the wrong shape, and even in baggy pajama bottoms and a T-shirt I can tell she doesn’t have the same body as the girl in the pictures.
Parvati comes to the same conclusion. “It’s not her,” she says.
“Not who?” the woman asks.
“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 clos
e 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.”
The courtroom is smaller than what you see on television and is set up like a church—vaulted ceiling, rows of long wooden pews, and a raised platform at the front. The judge is a white-haired black guy who looks like he might have had a long career as a drill instructor. With my luck, he’s friends with Parvati’s dad. There are only a few other people here, and I don’t recognize any of them. My lawyer and I take a seat at a wooden table in front of the pews. Across from us, at another wooden table, sit a man and a woman I’ve never seen before. They’re both wearing the same eyeglass frames and sharp expressions.
“The prosecution,” my lawyer whispers. The next fifteen minutes are a blur of incomprehensible legal jargon. I do my best not to piss off the judge, standing when my lawyer stands and sitting when she sits. The only words that stick out to me are my lawyer’s name when she introduces herself for the court reporter—it’s Kathleen—and the word “murder” tossed around repeatedly by the prosecution and always quickly slapped with an objection by my lawyer. Later, as things seem to be coming to an end, I hear five more words that I understand: “flight risk” and “bail is denied.”
Kathleen leaps from her seat, but puts a hand on my shoulder when I go to do the same. “Your Honor, may I approach?”
The judge nods.
“Stay,” she tells me.
She and the prosecutors approach the bench. A heated conversation takes place, complete with head tossing and hand waving by the prosecution. I’m not close enough to hear any of it.
She returns to our table a few minutes later wearing a cocky grin.
“What happened?” I ask in a low voice.
“Bail happened,” she says.
“Bail set at two hundred thousand dollars.” The judge sounds bored, like he’s ready to move on to a more interesting case.
“Two hundred grand?” I hiss. “That’s your big coup? My parents could sell everything they owned and not come up with that money.”
She starts to answer, but then the judge clears his throat and then bangs his gavel twice.
And just like that, I’m officially a criminal.
I don’t get much time to think about it, though, because instead of going back to my cell, I get to go back to the interrogation room.
It’s another fun session with my two favorite FBI agents. McGhee is wearing the same unreadable expression as always. Gonzalez’s smirk can only be described as triumphant. I don’t know if it’s because McGhee is actually letting him do something besides fetch water or because he’s daydreaming about my trial.
“Nice hair,” Gonzalez says.
“Where’s Parvati?” I’ve asked this question to anyone who would listen since Gonzalez hauled me up off the Vegas pavement and packed me into the backseat of McGhee’s unmarked sedan. The FBI opted to take me straight back to Vista Palisades, since my alleged crimes were committed in California and I was a “person of interest” in Preston’s disappearance. I have no idea what happened to Parvati. All I know is that they didn’t let her ride back to Vista Palisades with me.
“We’re the ones asking the questions, Max,” Gonzalez informs me. He’s actually being nicer now that I’ve been arrested. I swear his smile couldn’t get any bigger, not even if my lawyer hopped up on the table and started doing a striptease.
“I’ll answer whatever you want if you tell me what happened to Parvati.”
“He doesn’t mean that,” Kathleen interjects. “He’s speaking under psychological duress.”
I turn to her. “No, really. I don’t have anything to hide. I just want to know if my girlfriend is okay.”
“Thought she was your ex-girlfriend,” Gonzalez says. “Just one more lie?”
“Her parents forbade us from seeing each other, so we pretended to be broken up. You didn’t arrest her, did you?”
“You answer our questions and we’ll tell you what hap
pened to Ms. Amos,” Gonzalez says.
I glance at McGhee. “Do you promise?”
McGhee nods. “We’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Kathleen clears her throat. “Max, I can’t help you if you make these kinds of deals with them. You do know that anything you say to them can be used—”
“Yeah, yeah. Court of law. I got it.”
Kathleen sighs deeply and makes notes on her yellow legal pad.
“Tell me about the time you assaulted an eleven-year-old,” Gonzalez says. “How old were you again? Sixteen?”
“Fuck you,” I say. My lawyer puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shake her off. “That kid was picking on—”
Gonzalez doesn’t let me finish. “Pretty violent tendencies. Was Ms. Amos part of it? Or did she just come pick you up after you set the fire?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” I say. “She was with me the whole time I was in Vegas. She’ll tell you I didn’t burn anyone’s house down.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t find either of you to be the most credible of witnesses,” Gonzalez says. “Why don’t you tell us about Liars, Inc.?”
Kathleen raises an eyebrow but then quickly says, “You don’t have to answer that.”
My first instinct is to tell Gonzalez to go fuck himself again, but suddenly it feels like every decision I’ve made in my whole life is coming back to haunt me all at once. Maybe I should go against my gut and tell him the truth. “It was just a stupid thing we were doing at school to make money,” I say. “Forging permission slips. Covering for kids so they could get away from their parents. That kind of thing.”
McGhee nods. “Kids like Preston.”
Kathleen sighs deeply and makes some notes on her pad. “Let’s not talk about that anymore until after you and I have met in private,” she says. I can almost hear her writing my case off as hopeless.
Gonzalez clears his throat. “I figure it like this. You find out your best pal has been hooking up with your girlfriend. You attack him on top of Ravens’ Cliff, but he gets away. He knows you’re crazy, so he decides to skip town for a few days until you cool off. Only instead of cooling off you make a plan to find him and finish the job.”
