Las Vegas for Vegans (24 page)

I will destroy those postcards in the morning.

It occurs to me that Candy didn't drift off to sleep—that she knows it's my birthday tomorrow, and she wants to wish me a happy birthday in the morning. She probably has a present in her handbag. The other night I looked through it while she had a shower and found pictures of her with school friends up in Portland and a licence that said her name was Candice Pennington, born 05/20/1995.

I drift off to sleep an hour or two before dawn. The squeak of leather shoes brings me back around. I open my eyes and see Joseph Macela striding across the hotel room—a gun with an extended barrel in his hand. I had already started dreaming.

Waking up doesn't clear my mind. Las Vegas and all its neon lights vanish, and it's just Joseph Macela moving through the Mojave towards me. In the dim light of the desert stars it looks like he's trailing a very long shadow from one finger.

He places that thin shadow to Candy's head and before I can raise my hand he pulls the trigger. Almost no noise. A mist of blood. The last wisp of sleep evaporates and I see smoke from the steel barrel as it turns to me. I want to tell him that killing the girl is a mistake but I don't get a chance to say another word.