Author's Note: When a writer has to explain his own writing, it's a sign some bad writing took place. Well, it seems like I botched things pretty badly in part eight. Amy's vision in the graveyard was supposed to be a big a-ha moment, but I don't think anybody got it, so here's me explaining it... Essentially, this was not a new vision. It was the same one she had back in The Music Box shortly before her rescue. Amy never saw the other woman talking clearly but assumed it was Ylva because someone called out her name (turns out it was Moore using Amy's alias). The scene was supposed to reveal that it had been Amy herself all along.

Now with that episode of crappy writing out of the way, onto the next...

***

Maxwell felt no joy of the open road.

All the driving brought back sickening memories from his youth. It was a reminder of those disastrous road trips his family took because they were too poor to afford a real vacation and Bertrand was too drunk and lazy to plan any further than get in the car and drive.

Worse still, it invoked those desperate car rides when he was older—the constant moving around he did with Bertrand to avoid the law catching up with them. Just when Maxwell was feeling comfortable somewhere, he'd come home from school and find the car packed up and that would be the end of that town. It would be the end of that life and he would have to start all over again from scratch.

It didn't matter that it was years ago or that he was no longer a child. The unspooling miles of the road always lead to disaster.

Even after they had stopped for the night and put the search for Amy on hold, Maxwell felt stuck in the car. It was still with him like poison in his blood. He lay on the bed feeling it circulating through his veins, making his arms and legs heavy and their muscles cramped up.

He was in a cheap motor lodge in the last border town of the day—how many had they passed through? Fifteen? Twenty? They all blurred together. Maxwell wasn't one to drink, not normally, and never alone. But tonight he drank tequila out of plastic cup. The place was too crumby to have real glasses, only thin, disposable ones wrapped in cellophane left beside the bathroom sink. There was no mini bar either. Luckily, it was the sort of town where you didn't have to go far to find a liquor store. Or a gun store either, not that Maxwell had been lacking in that department.

His only company for the evening was the silent TV playing an obnoxious looking comedy. It was the same movie that had played on Maxwell's last trip to headquarters in Philadelphia, when he met with Roger Crandall.

Damn his soul to hell, Maxwell thought, knowing that at that moment, the son-of-a-bitch was probably having brandy and cigars, or whatever the hell the hipster equivalent of that was. Craft wheat whiskey and a hookah pipe? He was probably sitting somewhere, gorged on locally sourced, grass fed pork and hand-milled corn flour pasta, all thoughts of manhunts and werewolves banished from his mind. Until he got into the office the next morning. Then he'd ask for a status report and tut-tut that situation wasn't resolved yet.

R.J. and the girl were still in the wind and Maxwell was happy to leave them there.

If they could just manage to stay off the Agency's radar until they got out of the country, Maxwell would gladly waste his time patrolling border towns with Annie Oakley. And if R.J. got sloppy and used a credit card or was detained by police, Maxwell just hoped it was far enough away to become some other agent's problem.

It was a cowardly attitude, hoping someone else did the dirty work when the time came. But if the dirty work had to be done, he didn't want to be anywhere near it. Going full bore after Amy didn't seem the least bit brave.

The brave thing would be to turn on the Agency. But he had never been much for taking on the Goliaths that came his way.

Maxwell poured another shot of the clear alcohol into the brittle plastic cup and drank it down.

He could hear Bertrand's advice in his head, both the memory of the voice and the talk were entirely unwelcome.

Where were they? The trailer outside of Dayton? Or the shack they rented in Knoxville? It hardly mattered. It was late on a school night and Bertrand was watching some news show, Dateline or 60 Minutes, something like that. They had done a piece on a big car company which had poisoned a town and the government had done more to help the corporation than the people.

Maxwell had made the mistake of opening his stupid mouth. "It's not right. Someone should stand up to them and make sure they don't get away with it." He muttered his outrage from the barstool at the kitchen counter, where he was supposedly reading a book. Reading was one of the few acts that Bertrand condoned in a child Maxwell's age. Although, Maxwell was probably only pretending to read something, while trying to memorize lines for an audition for the school play—an audition he would prepare for but never have the guts to go through with, knowing the wrath and hellfire that would descend on him if Bertrand found out about it.

Somehow in his stupor, Bertrand heard him and felt compelled to answer. "That's the tide of history." He leaned over the arm of the ratty easy chair to look at Maxwell. His head was backlit by the flickering cathode ray tube in the dark living room. "You hear me? There are only two types of people in this world: the powerful and their victims. And the sooner you face the fact that you're one of the victims the better."

"Why can't I be one of the powerful? I mean, one day? If I work at it?"

A malicious chuckle filled the small hovel. "Because you got to be born into it. And you clearly were not. Oh, they try and trick you. They tell you that you can be anything. Land of goddamn opportunities. But it's all a shell game. You see, son, they want you to play their game, so they tell you can win. But you can't. These sorry bastards on the TV they complained to the government and they took their problems to some fancy court because they believed in the lie. But it didn't get them what they wanted. They still got sick, they still got dead, while the powerful laughed at them from behind their phony concern."

Bertrand stood up, warming to his subject. In some alternate reality, Bertrand was destined to be a great teacher—some sick plane of reality where people were taught to be sociopathic-fucks. "Now people—most people—they keep their head down and they follow all the rules believing that they will be rewarded. They believe there is some kind of karma to it all. You do everything they tell you and good things will come to you, like manna from heaven. Well, it doesn't work that way. These people at the top, they take and take until there's nothing left. That's all there is to it."

He paced, crossing the small space two or three times. "Now, I don't blame the people in power for acting like wolves or these victims who act like sheep. They're just following their natures. That's all." Bertrand made a gesture with his hands that would have been perfect on the stage. They fluttered out and stopped abruptly to show how all was both everything and constricted. "The only people I blame are the victims that cozy up to the powerful. You see, in this case, the bad guys aren't the corporate executives. It's the lawyers and the government officials. Even in the days of plantations, there were always those slaves willing to beat other slaves to curry favor with their masters. That's what those folk are. That's what all those tax men and federal agents are—the worst of the worst—betrayers of their own kind. Don't you ever let me catch you becoming one of those." Bertrand wagged his finger at him before heading back to his chair and retrieving his glass. All the talking was drying his throat and he needed more of the alcohol to fuel his craziness.

"Now, son, can you guess what type I am?" He held his arms apart putting his sagging, wasted body on display.

Maxwell kept quiet. He already said he wasn't one of the powerful and putting him in with the sheep or the betrayers seemed like a good way to get a smack in the chops. Better to act confused and dimwitted—better to be someone else altogether, if he could.

"No guesses? I always said you were dumb, but don't be so quick to prove me right all the time. Well, I suppose I should enlighten you. I'm none of those. You see there is another option. You know what that is?"

To be low-life bum who everyone hates and wishes was dead.

"I'm a non-player." At this, his little pacing routine became a strut. "I don't play by their rules. I opt out. And that's why they have no power over me."

Maxwell spilled some of his tequila on the bed while pouring another glass. He was more upset at the loss than the damage. The bedspread seemed to have been plasticized to deal with all the spilt liquor that came its way.

Before he could fuss over it too much, the door to his room opened and Katie came in. From the look on her face, he could tell that she was hoping he'd ask how she did it. But if she wasn't able to bypass that electronic lock, he'd be worried about her qualifications for the job.

"Can I help you?"

"Actually," she said. "I came here because I'm about to help you. Can I get one of those?" Katie pointed at his glass.

She fetched the last of the disposable cups and brought it to him to pour out a couple of ounces, which she sniffed at warily. "You got any pineapple juice or something?"

He shook his head both to signal that he didn't and that he thought it was sad she'd asked.

Despite her initial trepidation, Katie drank most of it in one gulp. With a big smile she said, "I have good news."

Of the many things he had grown to dislike about Katie, the way she always fished to get him to ask questions was by far the most recent. Why couldn't she just say what she had to say?

"Have you been reassigned?" he asked dryly.

"No, silly. Galveston." She let that word hang like its value was immeasurable, while she took another sip.

"I don't suppose you're referring to the Glen Campbell song."

"Who?" She waved Maxwell's statement away. "No. They're heading to it. To the town."

"How do you know that?"

"I just got off the phone with Roger."

There was a crack as Maxwell's grip split open his empty glass.

"An old friend of Blass's charters boats there," Katie continued. "NSA just broke the encryption on an email from a dummy account making arrangements for him to take R.J. and an unnamed passenger to Mexico tomorrow."

Katie held up her last few drops for a toast. "We're back in the game."

Maxwell felt like he was losing this game in every way imaginable. He wasn't used to being so deep in the hole. With each roll of the dice, he ended up backed further into a corner. Roger Crandall and Katie were running the board on him. It was time to change that. It was time to stop taking a back seat and become a player again.

He had spent too long underestimating her. She looked harmless but everything about Katie Wexler was weaponized. Right down to her daisy belly ring and butterfly tattoo. It was all set dressing wrapped around a landmine. Since they had been paired up, He had been on the defensive. He needed to put her on her heels for a change.

Any aggression would backfire. She'd just go running to Roger. He needed to cut her off from him and wedge himself in between.

Maxwell stood up burying the wooziness he felt at the sudden verticality and drawing his spine straight. This crumby hotel was the least likely location of the performance of his life but it only fueled his resolve to put everything he had into it.

"That's great news. This calls for a celebration."

She shook her empty cup. "It looks like you need another glass."

"Actually I had something else in mind." In the cramped room, it didn't take many steps to get inside her personal space. She took a step back and was caught between Maxwell and the dresser. He grabbed her upper arms and the muscles tensed, ready to act. He leaned in and kissed her, deeply and passionately.

Her muscles relaxed and her arms encircled his neck. "Oh, Mr. Wiley..." she said breathlessly.

Maxwell spun her around and brought her to the bed.