She tore the price tag off of a new vinyl purse and stowed the brush inside. Then she opened a bottle of acetaminophen 500s, removed the cotton padding, shook three capsules into the palm of her hand, and downed them with a swallow of grape juice. She capped the bottle and tossed it in the purse, then went over and shoved the handgun between the mattresses.

Just then the white van pulled up and parked near the Sands Motel office. The thugs got out and went inside.

Doolin stared at Ashley's picture, tracing the lines of her body with his eyes and imagining himself there in her arms. He would have sold his soul for a copy. "Oh, I'd remember her," he said, picturing Ashley as she walked out the door in her see-through nightwear. "But the truth is, we don't get a lot of visitors out here these days a not since the freeway bypa.s.s anyways."

The thugs looked at each other. There was no freeway bypa.s.s.

Needles laid a $50 on the counter. "Take a closer look," he said. "She's four or five years older, now."

Doolin scooped up the money and clutched it tightly in his fist. Then he took another long look at the photo. "Like I said ... I never seen a"

Beeks s.n.a.t.c.hed the $50, and with one powerful hand he grabbed Doolin by his pajama collar and lifted him off his feet. "You're a lying sack-of-s.h.i.t," he said, his huge face within inches of Doolin's.

Doolin couldn't make a sound. Blood backed up in his veins like a web of tiny stopped-up sewer drains, turning his complexion three shades darker than its usual alcohol-induced rouge.

Needles noticed only one key missing from its hook on the board a number 107. "Put him down, Beeks," he said calmly.

Beeks gave Needles a puzzled look and held Doolin even higher. "What'd you say?"

"I said 'Let the man go.'"

"Brother, I don't get you sometimes," Beeks said, shaking his head. He gave Doolin a toss that sent him sprawling.

Doolin gasped and wheezed and then climbed to his feet and held onto the counter while the excess blood drained from his head. He looked at Needles through watering eyes and straightened his pajama collar. "Ahem," he coughed. "As I was a"

"Shut up, a.s.shole," Needles said, "and thank the good Lord you're still breathing." He slipped Ashley's picture back into his pocket and glanced at Beeks. "Let's go," he said, and they turned and walked out.

Ashley pulled back the shower curtain, turned on the water, and adjusted the cracked-porcelain k.n.o.bs until she arrived at a comfortable temperature. Then she dropped her filthy robe and slipped out of her tattered nightgown and stepped into the tub. She flipped the water flow to the shower head and stood for a while, watching the water circle the drain, letting the soothing warmth flow over her neck and shoulders. She poured a generous dab of body wash into her hand and slowly lathered her aching body. Then she turned up the hot water and as the bathroom fill with steam, she began to cry.

The rain had eased a bit outside Room 107, and the thugs could hear the shower running. Beeks deftly picked the lock then opened the door slightly. Needles used bolt-cutters to dispatch the security chain, and then he and Beeks stepped inside.

Beeks watched the bathroom door while Needles removed something from his pocket and laid it on Ashley's pillow; then the two thugs stepped outside and quietly closed the door.

Chapter 23.

Sandwiches Ashley returned from her shower wrapped in a towel. She sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the bottle of gin sitting on the night table. She picked it up and unscrewed the cap, but as she raised it to her lips she hesitated.

What the h.e.l.l are you doing? she thought, disgusted with herself. What possible good will getting s.h.i.t-faced do? You're not a drinker! Aaron needs you sober, you stupid cow!

She stepped into the bathroom and poured the gin down the toilet.

There was a loud knock that sent a chill down her spine. She set the empty gin bottle on the sink, retrieved the .22 from between the mattresses, and stepped cautiously over to peer through the peep-hole. A grotesque fish-eye image of Doolin Mars stared up at her; he appeared to be carrying a tray. She raised her pistol and took a deep breath; then, failing to notice that the security chain had been cut, she opened the door a crack.

Doolin had dressed for the occasion (if a lime-green sweatsuit could be considered dressed). He held up the tray and said proudly, "I made sandwiches."

Ashley was struck speechless. She was starving, but she would eat the socks off an NFL lineman after a big game before she'd touch anything from Doolin's tray. "I a uh ... I-I'm not really hungry," she said.

"But you said a"

"I lost my appet.i.te." She started to close the door, but Doolin jammed it with his foot.

"Some men came looking for you tonight, Arlene," he said, trying to get a look at her through the door.

Ashley froze. "What? When? What did you tell them?"

Doolin was surprised and hurt by the question. "Why, I didn't tell them nothin'," he said. "You should know your secret's safe with me, Miss Arlene." He withdrew his foot and looked up at her hopefully.

"Goodnight, Doolin," Ashley said. Then she closed the door and locked it.

As she leaned back against the door, she saw the cut security chain hanging limp next to her ear. "Oh my G.o.d," she cried. Then with the gun aimed at the peep-hole, she stepped back and sat down on the edge of the bed.

From the driver's seat in the white van, Needles could see Doolin in his green outfit scuttling back to the motel office. He made a call and Souther answered from his office.

"We have our girl," Needles said.

"Did you make the plant?"

"That's affirmative."

They ended the call, and Needles drove slowly out of the motel parking lot.

Ashley watched the door for several minutes. Then as she started to lie back on the bed she saw something on her pillow. She bolted upright, eyes wide, and stared at it for a moment, her hand to her throat. Someone had been in her room!

She tried to think rationally, fighting the urge to panic. She set the gun aside, and with trembling hands, picked up the small digital recorder and pressed PLAY.

Souther's recorded voice was tinny and distorted, but recognizable: "Bravo for following my instructions, Ashley. You were smart not to call the police. Do us all a favor and stay where you are. I've taken care of things at your apartment, and I'll contact you when I'm ready."

Ashley shook the player, as if to coax more from it. "What about Aaron?" she cried. "I want to see my baby!" She shook the player again then heaved it at the wall where it shattered to pieces.

Chapter 24.

Applause Aaron held the gasoline lantern high, searching his bas.e.m.e.nt cell for a way out, but the four concrete-block walls offered little encouragement. He climbed the stairs and tried the door. But as he expected, it was locked.

From the stair landing he had a different perspective on the s.p.a.ce. He could see that the block walls only went about half way up a eight feet maybe a with wood-framing continuing the rest of the way to the joists high above. He noticed what appeared to be a small cas.e.m.e.nt window on the far side of the room cut into the wood-framed portion of the wall about ten feet off the floor a it had been blacked out with spray paint. He felt a pang of hope as the window appeared to be reachable via a narrow ledge that ran along the tops of the concrete walls where the wood framing met the block. He set the lantern down on the landing and stepped out onto the precarious ledge.

He had to take care not to lose his footing, as every few inches a foundation bolt tried to trip him up, and a thick coating of gritty dust made the going even more treacherous. He used the exposed wooden 2x6 wall studs as handholds and dodged protruding nails that jabbed at his face and sticky cobwebs that tugged his hair.

He looked down, and he was higher than he thought a a fall from here would make the headlines. He continued on until at last he reached the small window, then flipped the latch and cranked it open.

The window opened outward at about three feet above ground level. The skies had cleared, and a cold wind blew through his hair and chilled his face as he stuck his head out to take a look. The moon was full, and he was able to see out across the ruins of the cannery's shipping yard.

The yard was a rectangular s.p.a.ce about half a football field in area, bordered on two sides by the towering walls of the L-shaped cannery. The bas.e.m.e.nt window where Aaron stood was beneath the east wing a the short leg of the L a that formed the eastern boundary of the yard; the main warehouse a the long leg of the L a formed the southern boundary. To Aaron's right, parallel to the main warehouse, an abandoned railroad spur fronted by a concrete loading dock made up the third, or northern boundary of the yard; while on the far side, straight across from Aaron, a ma.s.sive, iron-banded, wooden water-tower overlooked the whole yard from the western boundary.

A tall, chain-link, prison-security style fence, which Aaron estimated to be fifteen feet high, ran under the water tower to the west and along the length of the dock to the north, enclosing the yard. It was fitted with three gates: a pair of large gates providing access to the dock and railway spur, and a single smaller gate near the water tower. Aaron could see that the two large gates were chained and padlocked, but the small gate was too far away to tell.

He leaned through the small opening, managing an arm and a shoulder before his feet slipped off the ledge and flailed through the air. His cheeks puffed out as the breath squeezed from his chest, and he struggled desperately to regain a foothold. Finally his toe caught on a wood stud and he was able to push hard with his leg and get his other shoulder through.

He paused to catch his breath, his upper body chilling in the wind, then grit his teeth, twisted and wiggled, and with an enormous final effort, popped through and flopped out onto the cold ground.

He jumped to his feet and tucked into the shadows against the high wall of cannery's north-east wing. Sweat stung his eyes and he couldn't help imagining he was playing a level in a first-person-shooter with the difficulty rating set on insane a mercenary soldiers hiding everywhere, ready to blast him with AK-47s. Except this game was real.

He worked his way down the wall of the east wing then turned and hugged the south wall. As he rounded the boiler house, which protruded from the main warehouse about two-thirds of the way down its length, he noticed a lantern burning in one of the second floor windows. He judged it to be the one in Souther's office, the window next to his desk.

d.a.m.n it, he thought, why'd he have to choose tonight to work late ...

Under this window, sloping all the way from just beneath it to the ground fifteen feet below, Aaron was astonished to see what appeared to be a huge pile of trash a like the tailings from a vast garbage mine. The disgusting obstacle filled the entire corner, where the boiler house met the cannery, and unfortunately it stood between him and the gate to freedom. In order to stay in the shadows, he would have to climb over it a a feat he quickly determined to be impossible. His only other option, short of aborting the escape and retreating to the bas.e.m.e.nt, was to go around the pile, a route that would take him through the brightly moonlit area of the shipping yard, where avoiding detection would be next to impossible.

As he neared the moldering pile, he was nearly overwhelmed by a noxious stench and pulled his T-shirt collar up over his nose as a makeshift mask. Great black swarms of plump flies buzzed his head, and he jumped when an obese ship-rat dashed across his foot.

In the shadows it took a few seconds for him to make out any detail in the pile, but soon a chaotic sampling of Johnny Souther's favorite food groups came into view: Stomped beer cans, broken booze bottles, squashed soda cups, and crumpled paper napkins. Banana peels, smushed ketchup and mustard packets, half-eaten burgers, fermenting French fries, chunks of sub sandwiches, dried-up tacos, green-tinged beef burritos, and buckets of greasy chicken bones with furry potatoes.

He pushed on around the pile, hugging the shadows as long as possible, waving off flies as he went. He paused at the edge of the moon's shadow for a moment then stepped out into the moonlight.

Staying low, he managed a few encouraging steps. Then he stopped, shuddering, his stomach lurching.

In the bright moonlight he could see that the putrid drippings from this landfill horror show collected into a septic sludge river that flowed leisurely across the shipping yard, eventually sloughing off the edge of the concrete dock onto the deserted railroad tracks like the fermenting flesh from a rotting carca.s.s. He fought off the urge to puke and quickly chose a route across. But as he toed carefully through the ooze he was startled by a distant, but clearly audible voice.

"Nice night for a moonlight stroll. Eh, kid?"

Cold fear gripped his heart, and his gaze flew to the window high above him. Backlit by the gasoline lantern was the silhouette of Johnny Souther in his leather fedora. Aaron's luck had run out.

He made a break for the small gate under the water tower, but his feet slipped in the sludge stream and he fell hard, pain knifing through his knee, and slid on his side through the grayish goo. Up and running again, he made it to the gate, but it too was padlocked. With no time to think he began to scramble up the towering chain-link fence. His shoes, slick with muck, provided little traction, and the rough galvanized fencing pinched and sliced his muddy hands raw.

Souther took a sip from a gla.s.s of whiskey, then calmly drew his gun and took aim, sighting on Aaron as he climbed. For some reason he had taken an interest in the boy and he didn't want to kill him (at that range, with a pistol, it would be difficult not to). He hoped Aaron would simply fail to clear the fence and end the silly escape attempt on his own.

But Aaron was strong and he progressed steadily toward the top, trying desperately to ignore his bleeding hands and the gun no doubt aimed at the back of his head.

Souther steadied himself and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Just as the bullet was about to leave the chamber, Aaron encountered the coil of razor wire topping the fence, and it tore mercilessly through his clothing and into his flesh, gripping him completely. His remaining strength drained from him, and he hung from the top of the fence like a discarded stuffed animal, hopelessly entangled, expecting to be cut in two by a mercenary's AK-47 at any moment.

Souther laid down his gun, and Aaron could hear the distinct sound of applause echoing about the yard.

-THURSDAY-.

Chapter 25.

It Takes Three to Tango Aaron awoke with a start. He had slept hard and was cold and disoriented. He sat up and looked around then sighed heavily. He could see by the dim light of the lantern that he was back in his bas.e.m.e.nt cell.

A sheet of plywood had been nailed up over the cas.e.m.e.nt window, and though his instincts told him it was daylight outside, it was impossible to tell. He hauled himself up off the floor and used the coffee can to relieve himself. Then he sat on the milk crate, pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, and took a big drink of water.

His thoughts turned to the night before. He recalled seeing Tom hit by Souther's bullet, and how the dark, cold part of his soul had been comforted by it. He could see his mother's face as she huddled with him by the fire ladder. Her trembling hands. The frightened look in her eyes. He could hear the roar of the old Nova as it whisked her off into the night, and he wondered how she was, where she was, if he would ever see her again.

He held himself responsible for what had happened that night, and he knew he alone could fix it. He'd been backed against the wall multiple times in his life and had always been able to think of a way out. But this was different. His past trials paled in comparison. He had no clever plan this time. No magic beans. He was totally at a loss. He stared at the lantern's softly glowing mantles, feeling utterly helpless and alone.

He jumped as someone unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. Johnny Souther entered and walked down the steps carrying a bag of last night's fast food leftovers. He sat down at the foot of the stairs.

"Good morning," he said, offering Aaron the food.

Aaron looked at the bag, then at his shoes. "I'm not hungry," he said, and Souther set the bag aside.

"Based upon last night's escapade," Souther said, "I'd say you're dying to get out of here."

That's the understatement of the century, Aaron thought.