Into the Fire(46)

“Fuckers.”

“Language. But yes.”

After his oft-broken night’s sleep, Evan was feeling somewhat better. He could still feel the aftereffects of the concussion, but the symptoms had receded significantly, the ringing in his ears faint enough to ignore. The dog had been nicely patched up, the vet suturing his wounds and treating his raw skin. At Evan’s request she’d removed the dog’s tracking device and stitched up that incision as well.

“What’s with the stripe down its back?” Joey asked. “Did it have spine surgery or something?”

“No. He’s a ridgeback. They’re lion hunters from Africa.”

At this, Joey’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter, a poker tell that she was ever so slightly impressed. She stepped back with a sigh, her shoulders sagging operatically. “Fine. You can park it here—just until it heals up. I’m not keeping it.”

“He’s a him,” Evan said. “With the requisite parts and everything. At least most of them.”

The dog padded in at his side, nosing Joey’s hand as she walked off. She flung her arm away. “It got schlop on me. So gross.”

In a fall of pale early-morning light, a half-eaten breakfast burrito rested on the kitchen counter next to the ubiquitous Big Gulp. Music pulsed from the pod of the workstation—some remixed dance number heavy on percussion.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked.

“Not with you coming over at all hours bearing dogs.”

Evan set a prescription bottle on the edge of her desk. “You’ll have to give him these antibiotics twice a day. Just mash the pill into a piece of cheese or something.”

“Great. A sick dog.”

“He’s not sick. It’s to prevent an infection from his injuries.”

She flicked a hand at the dog. “Go over there.”

The dog looked at her.

“It’s really well trained,” she said.

“He’s better trained than you.”

“That’s hysterical. And inaccurate.”

“You should name him.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If I name it, it could get attached to me.”

“Joey.”

“Fine. Didn’t you have a dog way back when? With Jack? What was its name?”

“Strider.”

“Like the knife company?”

“Yes. But that was before there was—”

“You’re such a guy.” She crossed her arms, displeased. “Fine. I’ll name it ‘Dog.’”

“Careful you don’t spoil him with too much affection.”

Dog sat, wagging his tail, staring up at her. She tugged off her sweatshirt and coiled it in the corner beneath a pull-up bar bolted to the wall. A makeshift bed. “Here. Come over here, Dog. Dog, come!”

The dog furrowed his brow, regarding her intently.

She glared at Evan. “Why’s it tilting its head at me?”

“Dogs are incredibly attuned to their owners. They want to know your mood at all times.”

“I’m not its owner.”

“They watch their owners’ mouths—their teeth—to see if they’re bared. Or smiling. His muzzle blocks his view of the lower half of your face so he’s cocking his head to clear his field of vision.”

For the first time, she didn’t have a ready answer. “It cares that much how I’m feeling?”

“He does.”

She crouched and patted the sweatshirt. The dog padded over, circled the puddled fabric a few times, and lay down, licking at the raw skin where the duct tape had stripped off his fur.

Joey rose, cracked her knuckles. “Okay. Did you need something, or were you just dropping by to complicate my life?”

“Without complications life is sterile.”

“Who said that?”

“Confucius.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Me.”

She rolled her eyes, transforming from a striking young woman to a stubborn kid. A sixteen-year-old could be either, Evan had learned. Or both at the same time.

“I need you to track an unidentified caller who dialed this phone.” He produced Terzian’s cell phone. “Which will be challenging, given the encryption.”

“Look at you, getting all tech-porny over a Turing.” She snatched it off his palm and disappeared into the circular desk, only the top of her head visible behind the monitors. “It’s built like a tank, sure, and waterproof—cool, I know—but there’s no micro USB, which is their fancypants ultra-secure move—lame, right?—and no headphone jack, like if you’re doing super-encrypted shit, you don’t wanna jam to—what do people like you listen to? Josh Groban? Michael Bolton?”

“I don’t know who they are, but I sense that’s below the belt.”

From behind the row of monitors, she leaned into sight, shot him a winning smile, then swooped back offstage. More amphetamized typing.

“It sucks for mobile gaming, too—not that you’ve ever played a game in your whole life—I know, I know, ‘Chess is a game’—and it barely achieved a twenty-five hundred rating on Geekbench 3, if you can call that ‘achieved.’” She snorted. “I get that it’s for security, not performance, so whatevs, but still, can’t these people walk and chew gum at the same time?”