Into the Fire(20)
Evan’s ARES remained holstered, invisible beneath his shirt.
The injury he’d inflicted was a precise one. And rare.
Nursemaid’s elbow is generally seen in children because their bones are more cartilaginous than those of adults, which means that the radial head pops in and out more easily. It requires much more force, very specifically directed, to dislocate the bone in adults.
Evan had very specifically directed much more force.
Their would-be assassin would have trouble turning his wrist in either direction. His forearm would be locked in a midrange position. Grasping would be difficult.
It’s hard to be an assassin if you can’t grasp.
So he’d require medical attention.
Rare injuries are easier to track.
Which can prove useful when you’re dealing with a professional killer wearing a balaclava and latex gloves.
Max gulped a few breaths. Then stood up. He shuddered off a chill and shifted his weight, pulling up the lank hair falling across his eyes. His gaze darted over to Evan, and then he shuddered again less violently and cracked a wry almost-smile.
“Okay,” he said. “So that just happened.”
12
A Thousand Brittle Pieces
Riding across town to his apartment, Max stuck his arm out the passenger window and let his hand skim across the passing air.
The Nowhere Man—who’d given only a first name of Evan—drove the Chevy Malibu at a steady pace, the needle pointed at the speed limit. He kept his gaze ahead, but his eyes stayed on constant rotation around the rear-and sideview mirrors. The guy seemed pensive, chewing on his thoughts.
Max’s heartbeat had slowed at last, but he still sensed the afterwash of adrenaline in his veins. His skin felt dead; it felt like the color gray. He wondered if he’d ever sleep again.
Evan finally broke the silence. “What did you mean?” he said. “That Violet made you want to be more than you were?”
The cool wind buffeted Max’s arm, whipped his hair around his eyes. He realized he was using it to jar himself out of numbness.
He thought for a beat, cleared his throat. “I was from the wrong side of the tracks,” he said. “I mean, only by comparison, but still. Her parents basically disowned her. I was trying to support her on a construction worker’s salary, going to night school to finish my degree. You know the kind of pressure that puts on you?”
Evan said, “No.”
Max laughed. “Well, if you ever have a shot with someone who’s worth it, try not to fuck it up.” He looked at Evan ruefully. “Man, did I try not to fuck it up. Me, in night school.” His chuckle, even to his own ears, held no amusement. “Pulling double shifts. And then when she got—” His breath snagged. “When she got pregnant.” He shook his head. “But I wasn’t. More. I was still just me.”
They coasted along the blacktop, sliding between cars, the city flowing by indifferently.
Max said, “When I first saw her, I knew, right? I know that sounds lame, but right away, she just … She hit me in the spinal cord. She was gambling. Slots. And the seat next to her was empty.”
The scene played in his head now, polished to jewel-like clarity by a million viewings. Sensation started to prickle his skin again, warmth spreading beneath the surface.
“I sat down and hit a jackpot with my first pull.” Max smiled. “And you feel like a hero, right? Like you’re in the movie and someone’s writing your lines for you?” He paused. “You ever have that?”
Evan said, “No.”
“Well, I guess you don’t need it. I mean, with what you do, you’re already there. But for me? In that moment? All of a sudden, it was like the whole world was open to me. If you could’ve seen how she looked just sitting there, doing nothing. And I remember thinking, If I can get this right, this one thing, all the other pieces will fall into place. And I got it. But they didn’t.” Max felt the loss now—a pressure at the backs of the eyes, his throat pressing upward. “Because I’m a fuckup. Who was I kidding that one thing could make everything fall into place?”
He stared at the passing cars, the work-casual folks on the sidewalk clustered around gourmet-food trucks. The oily taste of car exhaust left a bitterness at the back of his throat.
“Everything’s a story,” Evan said. “You want that to be the story of you, it can be.”
Max shifted to look over at him. “What’s the story of you?”
“That’s not what this is,” Evan said.
“What what is?”
“This isn’t a therapy session.”
“Well,” Max said, “given what you do, it sure as hell seems like you’re working something out.”
The Nowhere Man didn’t appear to like that answer. “So what happened?” he asked. “To you and Violet?”
Max closed his eyes, breathed the pollution. The wind poured through the window, cooling the sweat on his face. Evan had refused to answer any of his questions about personal shit. So he figured he was entitled to do the same. Especially about this. But he was already back in it now.
Awakened by screaming.
Violet in the bathroom.
Red drops on white tile. Thin rivulets down the insides of her thighs. She was crying in a way that he’d never seen, sobbing and hyperventilating at once, bent over, one bloodstained hand gripping the lip of the sink. She didn’t seem to register him there at her side, but when he touched her, she crumpled into him, a dead leaf collapsing into a thousand brittle pieces.