September 2011—The white van crawled down Hollywood Boulevard. Streetlights and gated storefronts reflected off the tinted windows, like a never-ending silent film. The countless dents and scratches read like battle scars around the vehicle’s battered body. All four hubcaps were missing, but somebody had spray-painted the rims a splotchy silver. Faded stickers covered both back doors where the brake lights blinked like the eyes of Satan himself. It looked like any other indie-rock tour van at three in the morning, but the only gear inside was some rope and a couple of cameras.
The driver scanned the street for cops. The passenger searched for junkies and runaways. It wasn’t easy to pick them out scattered among the homeless and streetwalking whores. Desperation trumped good decisions at this time of night, blurring lines that seemed so clear in the light of day. The two men in the van were counting on it.
They had almost reached the western end of the strip when they saw her: tall and thin with greasy brown hair that shifted and swung as she scratched at her arm. She walked fast, like there was somewhere to be, but they all knew she was just killing time—burning away the hours while she waited for dealers to come out of their apartments in the morning, keeping herself awake until she could find somewhere safe to sleep when the sun came up. She didn’t seem surprised when the van pulled alongside her and the passenger window came down.
“You cold?”
The girl kept walking. The van kept pace.
“Can we give you a ride? We have party favors.”
A hand emerged through the window, shaking a small baggie.
“I’m not working. Try the parking lot behind the library.”
“Slow down, honey. We aren’t looking for a date. Just want to help a few of you street kids out.”
She eased her pace a little, considering their offer. Adults always told her to avoid getting into cars with strangers. They also warned her never to get strung out on drugs. But here she was, twenty-one years old, weighing the options between getting well and getting killed. The same decision she was forced to make daily.
“You two aren’t cops, are you?”
The passenger laughed. The driver didn’t. The girl was somewhere in between.
“Axe murderers?”
“Stop being silly and get in. It’s cold out tonight.”
She opened the side door, leaning in to take a look. The warm blast of heated air felt good against her face. It almost made her forget about her aching muscles and itchy skin, never mind the desperate hunger that coursed through her veins.
There was nobody else in the van that she could see—just a couple of bags of chips on the back seat, and a six-pack of beer.
“Got anything stronger than that?”
“Start by smoking this.”
She climbed in and slammed the door shut, taking the small pipe and lighter in her hand as she sat.
“What is it?”
“A little relief.”
She brought the pipe up to her lips and let the flame dance across the top. The driver turned the blinker on and merged across two lanes. It would be a shame to get pulled over now that they’d found the girl they’d been searching for.
The passenger turned around to watch her take a deep pull from the pipe. She wouldn’t be awake much longer.
“What’s your name?”
She knew to lie, but couldn’t. Her vision began to narrow and pulse.
“Mary.”
“Good night, Mary.”
Chapter One
The kid in the blue cap stood in the alley in Virgil Heights. His older brother, Manny, was right beside him. They both brought their guns up in slow-motion. Greg Salem reached for his weapon, but came up empty handed. The shots rang out, reverberating off the brick walls all around them. Greg tried to duck for cover, but there was nowhere to hide. Two bullets struck his chest. The impact sent him backward onto the pavement. He could hear the brothers laughing as they fired again…and again…
“Wake up, bro!”
Marco shook Greg by both shoulders. His stringy blond hair brushed across Greg’s terror-stricken face. Greg’s fingers dug into the twisted sheets, his teeth gnashing. The murky depths of his rattled mind kept pulling him back under. He clung to the terror and inched himself upward, afraid he might drown if he screamed.
His eyes shot open. Marco was staring down at him.
“You’re kinda freaking me out, bro.”
Greg’s pounding heart brought the real world into sharp focus. He heard birds chirping in the trees outside of the cabin now. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen. It was starting to seem like everything might be all right.
Marco stood up and went for the door.
“Happy birthday, old man. Breakfast will be ready pronto.”
Greg sat up and rubbed the wetness from around his eyes. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears. It was always hard to tell on mornings like these.
He jumped out of bed like somebody fleeing the scene of a crime. He and Marco weren’t anywhere near the ocean, but Greg always felt better when he wore board shorts. He slipped them on and went into the bathroom.
Greg checked himself in the mirror, running a hand over his fresh buzz cut. His hair was still more blond than gray, but not by much. He massaged his sunburned scalp and studied the bags under his eyes. The tattoos on his arms peeked out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt as he stretched and twisted. He splashed a handful of cold water onto his face and headed for the living room. It had only been a few minutes, but so far his fortieth birthday wasn’t agreeing with him.
Flames danced in the fireplace as Greg took a seat at the table. Marco set a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon down in front of him. He left a syrupy thumbprint behind on the edge of the plate. Marco didn’t seem to notice, but Greg definitely did. It might have killed his appetite if he’d had one to start with.
“Thanks. Did you make coffee?”
“Cool your jets, bro. I’m on it.”
Marco went back to the stove to deal with the boiling water. He’d become a pretty good cook since they started living off the grid in the Angeles National Forest. It gave him something to do with all the manic energy he had after getting sober. His wiry, shirtless body darting around
