fighting with DeShawn upstairs.’
Miles kept walking toward the car.
‘You don’t seriously think you’re driving, do you?’
Miles stopped. Andy danced ahead, jumped atop the hood of DeShawn’s car, did an improvised twist. ‘I better be careful, I might set the fucker off!’
He’s not there, there’s not a bomb. It’s perfectly safe. You’re just adding theft to your crime load today.
‘Too scared to drive.’ Andy dropped down to the hood, rested his feet on the bumpers.
Miles ran, unlocked the car, sweat pouring down his back. His hand trembled as he shoved the key into the ignition, twisted it.
‘Ka-boom!’ Andy screamed from the other side of the windshield, twisting his face into a contortion, pressing hands and lips against the glass.
But the engine didn’t explode; it just started.
Miles gripped the wheel.
‘Better stop!’ Andy said. ‘Better stop. Right now.’
Miles shot him the finger, gritted his teeth, and jerked the car forward. Andy fell off the hood and then started his low whisper again from behind Miles. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ Andy said in a low hiss.
All I need, he thought, a backseat driver.
‘You killed me, and now you’ve killed Allison,’ Andy said. ‘Who will die next for your sins, Miles?’
The scar on his chest burned, he closed his eyes, slipped into the steam of a Miami morning. Andy smiling at him and then a shocked Andy pulling his gun in sudden resolve, aiming it, the bullet hitting Miles, and then he was in a hospital, under heavy security, the government telling him he couldn’t be Miles Kendrick anymore.
Why was there this blot of snow in his memory, in his head? The sting went wrong – Andy reached for his gun, Andy knowing that Miles had gone government. A blot where he couldn’t see the past. He could hear the voices of the two undercover agents, saying, You did the right thing, man, you’re a hero.
But he didn’t know why.
Now. Focus on now. The cache of money and a gun at the Santa Fe bus station in case he needed it. He rooted in the duffel’s side pocket and found the locker key.
He drove over to the bus terminal on St. Michael, slowly circled it twice.
If WITSEC knows I rented the locker… would they routinely check on such things when they settled a witness in a new city? See if he rented a mailbox or a locker or a storage unit?
Would WITSEC look for me here?
Worse – would the shooter? No major airport in Santa Fe, you want out of town quick and got no car, you take the bus. He would have to risk it. The shooter wouldn’t know or guess he didn’t have a car.
Unless he spotted you on the bike.
Plan B. He drove back to Paseo de Peralta, searching for homeless Joe. He’d give him a twenty to retrieve the duffel; the shooter would ignore Joe, and the feds, if they knew about and surveilled the locker, would grab Joe but let him go when it was clear he knew nothing. But no sign of his friend on the streets, so Miles reluctantly wheeled back to the station.
He had to take the risk.
He walked inside. The terminal was busy on a late afternoon, a departure to Albuquerque and El Paso booming over the loudspeakers. He glanced around; no sign of the shooter, no one who stood with the iron spine of a federal officer. He grabbed the green duffel out of the locker, shouldered it, hurried back down the street to his car.
Miles opened the duffel. His worldly possessions now, in addition to his few clothes, consisted of the ID and credit card in his deceased father’s name, a loaded Beretta, and a thousand in cash, hidden in the duffel’s false bottom.
‘Think you’re smart,’ Andy said next to him.
Miles stopped. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, in a whisper barely above a breath, ‘I do. I’m smarter than you. You’re dead and I’m not.’
Andy went silent.
Miles needed a place to hide. He drove fast, sticking to side roads, until he got to Blaine the Pain’s house off Old Santa Fe Trail. He parked DeShawn’s car behind the house, next to Blaine’s car, and knocked on the door. No answer. Blaine the Pain was still in Marfa with his friend, reigniting his painter’s inspiration.
He fished around in the flower pots on the porch of the adobe and in the third one his fingers found the shape of a key. He slid it home in the lock, unlocked the door, praying Blaine was still gone, praying there was no beeping chime of an alarm system.
He slipped inside, closed the door, listened to the silence.
Home sweet home. For now.
TWENTY-ONE
Thursday morning Miles watched, from behind a heavy curtain, Blaine’s neighbors driving off to work. Then he drove DeShawn’s car to a grocery parking lot and abandoned it, unlocked and keys dangling in the ignition, and hiked the mile back to Blaine’s house.
He had slept atop the covers on Blaine’s bed, his mind cracked with exhaustion. And when he woke, he realized trying to find Nathan Ruiz was the wrong tack.
He’d sooner be able to find Celeste Brent, who had left that strange message on Allison’s recorder about keeping her secret.
Blaine the Pain apparently had taken his laptop with him to Texas. Miles found a Santa Fe phone book, scrambled through the alphabet, ran a finger down the listings. No Celeste Brent. No C. Brent.
Okay. She was a TV star. Fame was a critical currency in Santa Fe. He’d seen several celebrities who stopped by Joy’s gallery on their jaunts through town.
It gave him an idea. He dug into his bag and searched the pockets of pants he’d worn Tuesday – he still had Blaine the Pain’s cell-phone number, scribbled on a note. He picked up the phone and set it down. Blaine’s cell would likely show him calling from Blaine’s house. Using his own cell phone was a risk – the feds could trace your location if the phone was on, he’d heard. But he couldn’t use Blaine’s phone. So he took the risk.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed.
‘Yeah?’ Blaine answered, sounding his usual grumpy self.
‘Hi, Mr. Blaine. It’s Michael Raymond at the gallery. I may have found a buyer for Emilia.’
‘Oh, man, Mike, that’s great.’ Blaine sounded happier than he ever had, and Miles’s chest twisted in guilt.
‘Well, sir, nothing’s set. I have a woman who indicated serious interest, but she didn’t leave a phone number – I guess she forgot. She’s local, and she’s famous, so I thought you might know her. Her name’s Celeste Brent.’
‘Yeah. I don’t know her, no one knows her, but I know who she is.’
‘I guess I don’t.’
‘Well, I never watched Castaway. I prefer PBS.’
‘What’s Castaway?’
‘That reality show where they dump a dozen people on a godforsaken island and they compete to be the last one standing for five million dollars.’ He snorted in disgust. ‘A popularity contest on steroids.’
Miles now recognized the show’s title. Most of his work for the Barradas had been done at night, so he didn’t follow many television programs. But her name had sounded familiar and a drop of the show’s incessant coverage must have seeped into his brain. ‘She was on this game show?’
‘Won the five million. A couple years back. Fifteen minutes of fame for running around in a lime-green bikini. A vicious, backstabbing game and she was the Queen Bee on the island. I’d be surprised to know how she saw the Emilia. She’s a total recluse. She makes a hermit look like a social butterfly.’
‘Why?’
