Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(15)

“Which matters more?” he asked.

“Which what matters more?”

“At the end. Which matters more? The works we’ve done or the life we lead?”

“Say ‘I,’ son. First person. You’d be surprised at how powerful the change is.”

Evan took a pause. “Which matters more? The works I’ve done or the life I lead?”

The minister was right. The words felt different in Evan’s body and behind his face.

“You assume they’re different,” the minister said. “One’s works and one’s life.”

“In some cases.”

“Like yours?”

“That remains to be seen.”

The minister gave a frown and nodded profoundly. It took a good measure of dignity to manage a profound nod, but he managed it just fine. “Do you follow the Commandments, son?”

Evan nearly smiled. “Yes, Minister. Every last one.”

“Then there’s your start.”

Evan held a beat before switching tracks. “I’d imagine that few people are woven into this community as well as you are.”

“I’d say you imagine right.”

“Has there been any word about government folks coming through town, a helicopter, a fire?”

The minister arched an eyebrow. “There has not.”

“Suspicious flurry of activity down by the”—he hesitated slightly before naming his nemesis—“Peachoid?”

“No.”

“How about alien spaceships cutting crop circles?” Evan countenanced the man’s watery glare. “Kidding.”

“What’s all this hokum about?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend at the peach water tower.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“Long-lost friend. We’d arranged a meet online.”

“Hmm.” The minister mused a moment. “You sure you got the right one?”

A jolt of anticipation straightened Evan up slightly in the pew. “The right friend?”

“The right Peachoid. Same folks built a smaller one down in Clanton, Alabama.”

Evan had not in fact been following all the Commandments. He’d overlooked the first one: Assume nothing.

He rose. “Thank you, Minister. I can’t tell you how useful your guidance has been.”

“I serve with gladness.”

Evan shook the proffered sandpaper hand. “As do I.”





9

From Beyond the Grave

Five hours and thirty-eight minutes later, Evan was standing on the side of I-65 between Birmingham and Wetumpka, gazing up at a five-hundred-gallon version of the same eyesore.

Twenty-seven minutes after that, his headlights picked up Jack’s truck parked at the edge of a fire road running between two swaths of cotton that stretched into the darkness, maybe forever.

He climbed out of the Impala, unholstered his slender ARES pistol for the first time, and approached the truck tentatively. It was cold enough out to be uncomfortable, but he didn’t have any interest in being uncomfortable. He shone a key-chain Maglite through the windows and took in the damage. Slashed seat cushions, scattered papers from the glove box, holes punched through the headliner. They’d searched as well as he’d expected they would. They’d have been looking for anything that might point them to Evan.

His breath fogging the pane, Evan stared at the defaced interior and considered how many years Jack had polished this dashboard, vacuumed the seams, touched up the paint. Anger and sorrow threatened to escape the locked-down corner of his heart, and he took a moment to tamp it back into place.

He walked around the truck, searched for booby traps. None were visible.

The truck was unlocked. It was two decades old, but the hinges didn’t so much as creak when the door swung open. Jack’s hinges wouldn’t dare.

Evan sat where Jack used to sit.

Do you regret it? What I did to you?

He put his hands on the steering wheel. The pebbled vinyl was worn smooth at the ten and two. The spots where Jack’s hands used to rest.

I wanted to hear your voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Evan caught a gleam from the molded map pocket on the lower half of the door. He reached down and lifted Jack’s keys into the ambient light.

Odd.

Jack never left his keys in the truck.

He was a creature of habit. The Second Commandment had always been his favorite: How you do anything is how you do everything. He had drilled it into Evan’s cells.

There was a likelihood, of course, that Van Sciver’s men had taken Jack’s keys when they’d grabbed him so they could search his truck. But if that were the case, once they were done, wouldn’t they just have tossed the keys back on the seat or dropped them into the cup holder? Placing them in a map pocket low on the door took consideration and a bit of effort.

It’s too late for me.

Jack had known he was about to get grabbed.

This is looking to be my ninth life, son. Dollars to doughnuts they’ve got ears on me right now.

And Jack would’ve controlled the terms. Evan guessed he would’ve gotten out of the truck under his own power. Left it unlocked for the search. Placed the keys carefully for Evan to find.