Hellbent (Orphan X #3)(55)

*

Van Sciver and Thornhill pulled the armored Chevy Tahoe through the tall chain-link gate and parked alongside the humble single-story house. Weeds had overtaken the backyard, and a BBQ grill had tipped over, rusting into the earth.

Van Sciver got out, the sun shining through his fine copper hair, and rattled the gate shut on stubborn wheels, sealing them in. Thornhill opened the back door.

They started to unload the Tahoe.

Padlocks and plywood.

Nylon ropes and boards of various lengths.

A decline bench press and jugs of water.

Mattresses and drop cloths.

Rags and a turkey baster.

Duct tape and a folding metal chair.

Thornhill whistled a tune the entire time. Van Sciver wondered what it would take to wipe that permanent smile off the guy’s face.

When they finished, Van Sciver’s cheeks and throat had gone blotchy pink from exertion. His shirt clung to the yoke of his shoulders. He had an Eastern European peasant’s build—arms that barely tapered at the wrists, thighs stretching his cargo pants, a neck too thick to encircle with both hands. In another life he would’ve been a 60 gunner, hauling the massive, belt-fed pig for a platoon, a one-man artillery unit.

But this life was better.

He grabbed the last of the supplies, closed up the Chevy, and came inside.

Thornhill was doing handstand push-ups in what passed for the kitchen, his palms pressed to the peeling linoleum. The forks of his triceps could have cracked walnuts.

Van Sciver’s phone alerted. He juggled the items he was holding and picked up. “Code.”

“‘Potluck chiaroscuro,’” Candy said. “They’re getting arty on us.”

“Is the package in hand?”

“What do you think?”

“V.” He packed the syllable with impatience.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

He walked to the chipped counter. Set down a dog collar next to a galvanized bucket.

“Good,” he said. “We’re just getting ready.”





36

Fresh Air

Joey answered the front door of the Burbank safe house. She looked like hell—swollen eyes, gray skin, her hair mussed.

Evan moved past her off the porch, swung the door shut. “Did you check the security screen before opening?”

“Nah. I figured I’d play door Russian roulette. You know, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s Van Sciver.”

“It’s increasingly hard to get a direct answer out of you,” Evan said.

“Yeah, well, sprinting the marathon means not a lot of sleep.”

He glanced immediately at the laptops, code streaming across both screens, progress bars filling in. “So nothing yet.” He failed to keep the impatience from his voice.

“I would’ve called.”

He took in the bare-bones house, wondering if it felt similar to the hangar in which Van Sciver had kept her. Or the apartment Jack had hidden her in. That familiar feeling compressed his chest again. He thought about her reading that Thanksgiving card last night, her legs tucked beneath her on the couch.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“How do you think I’m doing? I’ve been either running for my life or staring at a screen for longer than I can remember. What kind of bullshit existence is that?”

She went to the kitchen counter, cracked another Red Bull.

He had a few hours before his meeting with Benito Orellana in Pico-Union. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

“Great. A walk. Like I’m a dog. You’re gonna take me around the block?” She stopped herself, rubbed her face, heaved an exhale through her fingers. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch.”

“You’re not,” Evan said. “Come on. Fresh air.”

She gave a half smile, swept her hair to one side. “I remember fresh air.”

She followed him out. The invigorating smell of Blue Point juniper reminded him of the parking lot in Portland. They’d had a lot of close calls already, a lot of hours together in the trenches.

They turned left and headed up the street, Evan keeping alert, scanning cars, windows, rooftops. Wild parrots chattered overhead, moving from tree to tree. Their calls were loud and strident and somehow lovely, too. As Evan and Joey walked, they watched the birds clustering and bickering and flying free. Evan thought he detected some longing in Joey’s face.

“You still haven’t told me your full first name,” Evan said.

“Right. Let me think. Oh, that would be … none of your business.” She gave him a little shove on his shoulder, pushing him into the gutter.

“I’ll tell you my full first name,” he said. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“It’s not just Evan?”

“It’s Evangelique.”

“Really?”

“No.”

She laughed a big, wide laugh, covering her mouth.

A pair of guys came around the corner ahead, one riding on a hoverboard, the other a longboard, the wheels skipping across the cracks in the sidewalk. They wore hoodies with skater logos and throwback checkered Vans.

The hoverboard hit a concrete bump pushed up by a tree root and the guy fell over, skinning his hands.

Evan was about to tell Joey to keep walking when she called out, “You okay?”