Page 17 of Into the Fire

And then he heard it. A distinctive ring. His RoamZone.

He dug it out of his pocket. Staring at the ceiling, he lifted it to his face.

He said, “Do you need my help?”

9

Bedside Manner

Once Evan pried himself off the floor and free of the bed, the call followed the traditional course: Do you need my help?

A harried masculine voice, cracked with adrenaline: “Yes.”

“Where did you get this number?”

“Some guy who … who … Trevon something. I think he’s on the spectrum. He said … he said you could help me. What does that mean?”

“It means what it sounds like.”

In his socks Evan crossed to the window, the subdued morning light washing over his face. Across Wilshire Boulevard the buildings gleamed with the promise of a new day. He was relieved to have gotten the call, his last mission finally put into motion.

The man was talking. “I spent the night, I guess, working up my courage. Trying to figure out if this is real or some kind of hoax. I mean, an untraceable number? You gotta admit, it sounds—”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Not anymore. I slept in my truck last night. They’re after me, and—”

“Name.”

“What?”

“Your name.”

“Max Merriweather?”

“You’re not sure if that’s who you are?”

“No, I’m just a bit rattled. Um—”

“Two hours from now,” Evan said, drawing back from the window. “Tram stop at the base of Universal Studios.”

“Is that some kind of code?”

“It’s where we’ll meet.”

“Uh, okay. Is that it?”

“No.” Evan looked at his floating bed. Two boots rising from the edge. A scattering of wrinkles interrupting the rectangle of the top sheet, causing static across his mental field. He turned away from the mess of imperfection, closed his eyes to clear the mechanism, and pulled together the strands of his focus into a coherent whole. “First you need to tell me everything.”

Max Merriweather arrived at the tram station, a flustered figurine through Evan’s Steiner tactical binoculars. Evan had set up eight blocks to the north on the roof of a Mexican restaurant, gravel roof poking his belly, the scent of fresh tomatillo sauce rising through a vent to his side. Before Max could work himself into a frenzy, Evan called his cell. He watched the figurine hold a phone to his face and glance around nervously.

“Hello?”

“Walk down to Cahuenga and get on the first northbound bus.”

“Wait— What? We’re not meeting here?”

“Keep your phone on. Further directions to come.”