Page 76 of Into the Fire

Max nodded.

The first thing Evan would do was remove the dried-out contact lens and climb into bed. He’d rest until his head stopped throbbing, the nausea receded, and his vision stopped playing hallucinogenic games with the world. He thought about the row of bottles in his freezer drawer, the world’s best vodkas chilled and waiting. Once the symptoms were gone, he’d go with something smooth and nuanced, like CLIX. Shake it so hard that crystals would mist the surface off the pour. A sprig of basil from the living wall. Maybe a stainless-steel martini glass to retain the cold. He wanted the first sip to make his teeth ache.

A nice reward after a long three days’ work.

But Petro flashed into Evan’s mind once more, interrupting his vodka reverie.

For a dying grin, it had looked awfully smug. As though Petro knew something Evan didn’t.

As if he had a secret.

Evan replayed the conversation they’d had, how readily Petro had deployed his braggadocio: The world, my world, is a much bigger place than you think.

Max said, “Would you mind driving me to my truck?”

Evan resisted a temptation to clench his jaw. He wanted to squeeze the bridge of his nose, dig his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids to stave off that incipient headache. He wanted to put a check next to the mission, deliver Max back to his life, and then—for the first time—start his own. A life of his own making.

But yet. That smile.

“I don’t want you to go back to your truck just yet,” Evan said. “I’ll take you to a random street corner and call you a cab.”

“I thought you said it was safe.”

“It is,” Evan said. But I don’t like how a guy smiled right before I shot him. And my paranoia has no limits when it comes to interrupting a long rest and a good drink.

Was it paranoia? Or was he reluctant to let go? Because once he admitted it was over, then the Nowhere Man was over, too. And without the Nowhere Man, who the hell was Evan Smoak?

Max was squinting at him impatiently.

“We’ll destroy your disposable phone, and I’ll give you a fresh one,” Evan said. “Don’t turn it on unless you’re in trouble or until you’re done talking to the cops. Then call me again. I’ll go with you to your truck. And then to your apartment.”

“Why? Is this over or not?”

“It’s over,” Evan said. “But no one ever got killed by being too careful.”

32

Awful Shit

Alone in the backseat of the cab halfway to the police station, Max had a change of mind. “Hang on,” he told the driver. “Make a U-turn. I need to take a quick detour.”

“Your wish is my command,” the driver said, spinning the steering wheel with the heel of his hand like he was turning around a big rig.

Twenty minutes later they were coasting up a broad street, palm trees nodding overhead. The block was lined with parked cars.

“Looks like someone’s having a party,” the driver said.

“Could you slow down, please?”

As they passed the house, Max spotted the catering vans in the driveway and felt a familiar hollowness at his core. “Pull up here on the right,” he said. “Up a little farther. A little farther.”

The cab crept beside a tall hedge at the neighbor’s house. “If I didn’t know better,” the driver said, “I’d think we were trying to hide.”

Max opened the door, set one foot on the curb. “Would you mind waiting for me?”

“Your dollar, your desire.”

Leaving the idling taxi behind, Max eased out from behind the hedge, the Spanish-style mansion edging into view. On either side of the porch, immense concrete pots held artfully spiraled lilies, a tornado of white buds.