Weejy wondered if stubborn and strong were two sides of the same coin.

  Weejy: “I can’t believe you’re thinking about that right now.”

  “You guys done?” Charles asked.

  They answered, “No!” at the same time.

  SoJo: “Just because you effed up your booty call with Bert doesn’t mean I have to miss this chance.”

  Weejy: “What are you going to do? Hump him while I’m watching?”

  SoJo: “You’re making this about you, Weejy. It’s selfish.”

  Weejy: “I’m selfish? You want to get laid while I’m stuck in the same room.”

  SoJo: “Didn’t you go to college? Never snuck a guy in while your roommate was asleep?”

  Weejy: “Never. And yuck. And I’m not asleep. Can you even wait until I’m asleep?”

  SoJo: “Won’t matter. I’m loud as hell.”

  I’m repulsed and envious at the same time.

  Why can’t I be that bold?

  Why didn’t I drag Bert to bed when I had the chance?

  Weejy: “Let’s revisit this conversation another time. Until then, mum is the word.”

  SoJo ended the hand-cupping thing. “Fine. You can come out of your corner now, Charles.”

  “That was awkward.” Charles turned around. “You both okay? I didn’t piss you guys off, did I? I know I talk too much sometimes. When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of silence, because I thought that there were germs in the air that could get inside you when it was quiet, but if I kept talking then the air coming out of my mouth would keep them away from me. I’m talking too much now, aren’t I? Shit. Are you guys tired? I’m tired. I don’t know what time it is. Time gets all screwed up when there are no clocks and you can’t see the sun. Maybe I’ll take a nap. There are two bunks, but I can take the floor. I could use a pillow, though. Or maybe I can stuff my shirt in my pants leg, rest my head on that. But not if that’s weird. Is that weird? I don’t want to take my pants off in front of you guys if that’s weird.”

  “You can sleep on my bunk,” SoJo told him. “With me.”

  Great. I’ll just shove my fingers in my ears and sing Alanis songs in my head.

  Weejy tried to emotionally prepare herself for a bad night, when the night became a helluva lot worse than she could have imagined, beginning with the outer door opening up.

  Tork and Ziggy.

  Weejy had no idea what the historical Torquemada looked like, but the clone of Sigmund Freud looked like every picture ever of Sigmund Freud, round glasses, dark suit with vest, balding, bearded, and bespectacled, his eyes delivering smug, silent disapproval.

  Ziggy held a gun. Tork had some silver police handcuffs.

  “The lady on the right. Weejy.”

  Weejy froze, her bladder shrinking to the size of a walnut.

  He’s obviously been spying to know my name.

  “Approach the bars and put your hands through the meal slot.”

  Weejy didn’t move; her feet had grown roots.

  “If I have to ask you again,” Ziggy leveled the pistol, “I’ll shoot your friend in the knee.”

  Weejy cast a frantic glance at SoJo, who somehow stood defiant. “Here’s a better deal. How about you take me… or shoot Weejy.”

  How is that a better deal? I don’t want to be shot.

  “Maybe I’ll shoot both of you.”

  “Or maybe… you just shoot Weejy. And I’ll be honest. No matter how many times you shoot her, I’m not going to go with you. Right, Weejy?”

  “How about no one gets shot?” Weejy suggested. “That sounds like the best solution.”

  “That is the best solution,” SoJo agreed. “But if someone here is going to be shot…” SoJo nodded her head and pointed at Weejy.

  Before Ziggy changed his mind, Weejy said, “Okay,” and somehow unplanted her feet and walked to the bars, offering her hands.

  “Leave them both alone.” Charles stepped up, showing that maybe he wasn’t as much of a weeny as Weejy thought.

  Ziggy unlocked the cell door with some keys on a ring and tucked them back into his vest pocket. Then Tork stepped inside. Charles faced him, defiant, and Tork backhanded him to the floor.

  Charles held his mouth, and then began to spit out blood.

  “Fine! I’ll go! No more hitting. And no shooting.” Weejy held out her hands.

  Tork approached, his grin lopsided, and handcuffs clicked onto her wrists, cold and tight and seemingly final.

  “You’ll be okay, Weejy.” SoJo moved next to Charles, tousling his hair.

  If she has sex while I’m being tortured, our friendship is over.

  Tork put a meaty hand on Weejy’s neck, and it was so big and rough she actually feared he could yank out her spine.

  Torquemada. One of the most reviled sadists in history.

  He has me completely at his mercy. And he famously has no mercy.

  A hood went over Weejy’s head, dark enough to block out most of the light.

  But not all. I can still see faint glimmers of the lights hanging from the ceiling.

  I can still count my steps.

  I can still hear the creak of doors.

  He marched her through a dark, cool hallway, lit with old, dim, incandescent bulbs that gave off minimal heat. Every so often, a bulb was broken, which gave each corridor a unique pattern. Like Morse code.

  A left turn. Ten steps. A right turn. Twelve steps. A sound of machinery and a smell of ozone. A door. Six steps. A left turn. Eight steps. Then they stopped.

  “Take off her hood,” Ziggy ordered. “Let her see.”

  Tork tugged off the head covering, and Weejy faced a heavy, oppressive metal door that looked like it came out of a 1940s German bunker.

  “This is the room where you’ll tell me everything,” Ziggy stroked his goatee. “Every secret you’ve ever kept. Every shame and guilt and regret. I will know you better than your parents do. Better than any lover you’ve ever had. It will be painful for you, in more ways than one. But in the end, you’ll be a whole new person. You’ll even thank me.”

  Tork opened the door with his free hand, and Weejy saw what was in the room and her whole body went rigid.

  Front and center, dominating the space like a sacrificial altar.

  A body-sized metal table.

  The kind used for autopsies, with steel gutters on all four sides. Leather straps bolted to the surface, with shackles for arms, legs, and torso.

  Hell no.

  During her teen years, Weejy had taken a self-defense course, and three takeaways had permanently been lodged in her head.

  First, her instructor had a weird mole on his face that had sort of a broccoli/state of Wisconsin shape. Random, but she just couldn’t forget it.

  Second, if you are confronted by an assailant, always resist with everything you have. Don’t let him get you into the car, or pull you into an alley, or tie you to a torture table. Run if you can, scream for help, bite and scratch, become dead weight; anything to avoid being restrained. Because no matter how much you can be hurt fighting back, he’s going to do worse to you once you’re fully incapacitated.

  Third, when held from behind, drive your heel down on the top of your attacker’s foot, follow with a punch between the legs, and if you still aren’t free then snap your head back to connect with his chin or nose.

  Weejy let the old muscle memory take control. With an adrenaline surge so sudden it felt like an electric shock, she raised her knee to her chest and smashed her heel onto Tork’s toes. As it landed, she raised her right hand over her head and snapped it down, between his legs, connecting with her fist. Tork grunted, pressing against her, and she popped her head back, hitting his face so hard she saw stars.

  Suddenly free, Weejy dropped into a crouch, half spun, and shoved a recoiling, off-balance Tork into Ziggy.

  Gun or run?

  Her best chance against two grown men was to get a weapon, so she sprang up, darting around Tork, latching onto Ziggy’s arm.

  Weejy’s teeth met his bare wrist and she bit hard as she could while prying the weapon from his fingers, pulling it sideways, and landing solidly on her ass while bringing the gun to bear on the clone of Sigmund Freud.

  It was a semi-automatic, a brand she didn’t know, but the safety was where it always was—on the right side below the slide—and she thumbed it off and quickly assessed the threat.

  Tork was the scarier, bigger, meaner one. And as historical figures went, they didn’t get much worse than the Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition.

  Too freaked out to contemplate the weighty ethics of taking a life, Weejy shot Tork twice in the center of his black leather apron, and the big man groaned and dropped to his knees.

  Then she trained the barrel on Ziggy, who immediately raised his hands.

  “Where’s the exit!” she yelled above the ringing in her ears.

  “Harming me won’t do any good. You can’t get away, Weejy.”

  My ass. I know exactly where to go.

  “Give me the keys. Handcuff keys and cell keys.”

  “No.”

  “Do you not see this gun? You think psychoanalysis will stop lead?”

  “Those are wax bullets. No jailer would ever be stupid enough to use real ammunition when there is always a chance the prisoner can commandeer the weapon.”

  Weejy glanced quickly at Tork, still on his knees.

  No blood. But he seems pissed.

  “Fine. You want a wax bullet in the face, asshole?”

  “There is no need for name-calling. It’s a sign of immaturity.”

  “Keys or I’ll blind you.”

  Ziggy quickly put his hands over his eyes. “Why don’t we talk about this?”

  “Keys, or I’m shooting you in your tiny little balls.”

  “What a juvenile thing to say. My testicles are perfectly average-sized.”

  “They’re going to be swollen up like grapefruits if you don’t give me the damn keys in three seconds.”

  Ziggy lowered one hand to protect his junk.

  “Three…”

  “Tork, take care of our prisoner.”

  Tork’s eyes narrowed, his face blossoming bright pink with obvious rage.

  “Two…”

  “Don’t kill her. But it will be fine if you break a limb or two.”

  Ziggy wasn’t going to give up the keys, and Tork seemed ready to spring.

  The hell with this. I’ll go with Plan B.

  Weejy shot Tork in the head, then shot Ziggy in the ear as he tried to duck, and then she rushed at him, shoving him to the floor while digging the key ring from his vest pocket. When he tried to grab her wrist, she put the barrel against his balls and fired twice.

  Ziggy screamed falsetto.

  Then she freed the keys, turned, and ran like hell.

  TOM

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “I bet the electric bill in this town is insane.”

  When Abe hadn’t shown up at the airport, Tom and Roy had taken an Uber to the Strip, and the town was lit up like…

  Well, like Las Vegas.

  It was bright enough for Tom to read a book in the back seat, even though it was 2am, and the streets were packed, even though it was 2am, and the sound of the city came in through the closed windows and droned above the air-conditioning, even though—

  “Damn loud for 2am,” Roy said.

  “I was just thinking that.”

  “And too damn bright. Which one of these blinking eyesores is Abe staying at?”

  “Heaven’s End. End of the strip.”

  “It was recently rebranded the Heaven Hotel, Casino, and SkyTower,” offered Marge, their helpful Uber driver, who was filled with fun Vegas facts and wouldn’t shut up about them.

  Roy pointed. “That big, white, dick-looking building that’s about a thousand feet tall?”

  “It’s actually twelve hundred and seventy feet high. Tallest building west of the Mississippi River. There’s a bar and restaurant on top, and several thrill rides. You can even jump off the edge on a deceleration line. They won’t let you do that in the Grand Canyon. Are you seeing the Canyon during your stay?”

  “We wanted to go tonight,” Roy lamented. “But they closed it.”

  “Closed it?” Marge seemed confused.

  “They pulled a big plastic cover over the top. Like a swimming pool.”

  “I wasn’t aware they did anything like that.”

  “They do it every night.” Roy continued. “It’s a big-ass tarp. Heard it takes them two years to fold it back up.”

  “If it takes two years to fold it, how do they put it back on every night?”

  “They got a bunch of them.” Roy nodded knowingly. “Use a new one every day.”

  “Where do they store them?”

  “They dug another canyon next to the first one,” Roy told her.

  Marge giggled, and Tom realized she was high as balls.

  Makes sense. Legal weed in Vegas.

  Maybe I should pick some up. My broken finger is killing me.

  “So that Leo guy.” Roy nudged Tom. “You think he seems into Joan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before we got off the plane, he was paying a lot of attention to her.”

  “Didn’t notice.”

  “You an idiot? That guy has more cuts than Terminator X.”

  “From the Schwarzenegger movie?”

  “Terminator X is the DJ for the hip-hop group Public Enemy,” Marge offered. “His cuts are dope.”

  “How does our sixty-year-old Uber driver know this and my partner don’t? And how come you don’t notice when a dude is drooling all over your lady?”

  Tom shrugged. “Jealousy is petty.”

  “You got a fine woman, Tom, and she’s married to a pot head who doesn’t pay her the time she needs.”

  “We’re good.”

  “Tommy, bro, get your head in the game. You’re going to lose that lady, you ain’t careful.”

  “I won’t lose her, Roy. She’s pregnant.”

  Roy blinked. “For real?”

  “We just found out today.”

  Roy smiled big and embraced him. “Day-am, Tom! Nice work!”

  “Thanks.”

  Roy pushed Tom away to arm’s length, looking serious. “You’re naming him after me, right?”

  “We’re considering it,” Tom lied.

  “When I was pregnant my hormones were insane. I was horny all the time,” Marge told them. “I would purposely back into doorknobs.”

  “Too much information, Marge.”

  “Noted. Did you guys want to buy some dank kush?” Marge asked. “I’ve got the sticky skunk hook-up.”

  Roy gave her a look. “Drive the car, Marge, and mind your business.”

  “What’s the price on the sticky skunk?” Tom asked.

  “We got shit to do, Tom. Don’t need to deal with your giggly high ass.”

  “I don’t giggle when I’m high.”

  “I do,” Marge giggled.

  “We’re aware of that, Marge,” Roy told her. “Pay attention to the road.”

  “We’re here.” She hit the brakes. “Welcome to the Heaven Hotel. You sure you gentlemen don’t want to throw five on some sick, stinky endo? You can add it to my tip.”

  Roy declined for them both—how rude—and Tom got out of the ride and stared up into the bright Vegas sky. The SkyTower was so tall it looked like it was swaying.

  And it does kind of look like a big, white dick.

  “Should have made it black,” Roy said.

  Tom stopped watching before he got dizzy, and they walked into the building.

  If the drive to the hotel had been an assault on the senses, stepping into a casino was like getting a bolus of ADHD juice. A hundred things vied for Tom’s attention all at the same time, and none of them were appealing.

  Music, announcements, talking, squealing, yelling, the fake-mechanical sounds of electronic slot machines, flashing lights, garish outfits including what seemed to be a family of trapeze artists in full sequin jumpsuits, four wiseguy gangster wannabes in matching grey pinstripe suits and fedoras, ugly guys with hot escorts, ugly women with hot escorts, movement everywhere, and an overwhelming, choking fog of cigarette smoke, so thick Tom could taste it on his tongue.

  Tom had to pause a moment.

  “You okay, Tommy?”

  “Lot to take in.”

  “Is it your PTSD?”

  “I don’t have PTSD.”

  Roy began to tick off fingers. “Constant nightmares. Depression. Weight gain. Need pot to function. Won’t leave the house.”

  “I’m out of the house right now. And I’m not high.”

  “First time in how long? Look, Tom, I know what you’re feeling. I went through it, after Butler House. You did, too. Remember how messed up you were after Torble branded you? Or when you got shot in the legs by Erinyes? This broken finger thing is a constant reminder that you can be hurt. Can be killed.”

  That all makes sense. And it seems familiar.

  I wonder if Roy told this to me before, when I was high.

  Which seems likely. Because I’ve been high a lot lately.

  “So what should I do? Get some pot?”

  “You should get some counselling. But first we need to find our boy.”

  They made their way to the lobby, and Roy went to the front desk while Tom tried his cell once more.

  Before the flight, Tom had called Abe, and the clone of Lincoln had been distracted, cagey, and paranoid. But after Tom proved he was Tom, by mentioning some things only Tom could have known, Abe admitted he was staying at the Heaven in Vegas, and then he abruptly and rudely hung up. Tom tried calling him back, but Abe had turned off his cell. Tom and Roy played a quick game of, “Is Abe really worth trying to save?” and decided since they had already come to Vegas, they might as well make a token effort.

  Also, Joan shamed them both at even considering otherwise.

  “Go get him,” she insisted.

  “He’s kind of a jerk.”

  “He’s one of us.”

  “We actually saw him steal candy from a baby in a stroller,” Tom reminded her. “You were there. You saw it too.”

  “He did that to show the parents they needed to supervise their child better.”