“I believe you so far.” Well, he didn’t disbelieve Boz. He would prefer to believe him. He hadn’t made his mind up either way.
Boz hesitated. “Because…because…then Mike accused me of stealing his collection.”
“Wait a minute…”
“I don’t know what he was trying to pull, but whoever he was working with must have known he was going to double-cross them. That’s why they killed him.”
Khan had tried to recruit Boz to help “steal” his collection. Boz had refused. Khan had then accused him of really stealing the collection in order to cover his own tracks. That was the story?
Maybe Boz believed it. Maybe he was blowing smoke up their asses. He wasn’t telling them everything, that was clear, and what he was telling them was so convoluted…
But the fact that he was talking and not killing them—that was a big point in his favor.
“Okay, let’s call this a misunderstanding,” Jason said. “Why don’t we sit down and talk about it? Because this is not helping you. And it’s not helping us.”
Boz laughed. “Right. The minute we leave here I’ll be thrown in prison and you’ll swallow the fucking key.”
Swallow the key? Wyoming must have one i
nteresting prison system.
“I really won’t. The only thing I care about is getting that missing art back.”
Boz ignored him, looking around with frantic jerks of his head.
“Boz, listen,” Jason said. “You need to make smart choices now. You don’t want to do anything that—”
“Got it,” Boz interrupted. “I got it. Both of you. Head for the clown on your left. The one with the blue hair. There’s a slide inside his mouth. Go down the slide. Hurry up!”
Jason and Dreyfus picked their way across the debris-strewn room to the large clown-shaped entrance. Sure enough, the mouth of the clown led to a small platform at the head of a very tall hardwood slide.
“Go down the slide!” Boz called.
Jason stared into the gloom. He could see about eighty feet down. Was the whole slide even there? He couldn’t tell.
“Where does that lead?” Dreyfus whispered.
Jason shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Get your asses down the fucking slide!” Boz screamed, losing patience.
“Age before beauty,” Jason muttered. He took his jacket off, gingerly sat down on it, and awkwardly pushed off. He’d hoped there might be some possibility of slowing his descent or at least controlling it. No. It was like flying. He shot down the chute like a rocket—he could hear Dreyfus shrieking as she followed a few seconds behind.
He landed hard on what felt like rotted cushions on crumbling hay bales, and rolled out of the way in time to avoid getting hit by Dreyfus.
“Are you okay?” Jason scrambled over to where he could hear Dreyfus panting. “Dreyfus?”
She moaned. “I’m okay. Where the heck are we?”
“I’m guessing the basement.” He helped her up. “I bet there’s an exit around here somewhere.”
More valuable time was lost stumbling around in the dark. There was some natural light provided by a bank of high windows, but not enough to keep them from crashing into the old concession stands and falling over broken planks in the floor.
At last they found the exit, pushing open the door. The gray daylight seemed dazzling, and the smells of car exhaust and rain were sweet compared to the smells inside the building.
Jason and Dreyfus splashed through puddles on their way around to the front of the building.
Boz was long gone. No surprise there. The surprise was that he’d left his pistol lying on the inside of the doorway. Had he dropped it and not realized?