Page 69 of Lone Wolf

Evan could barely discern the slits of Allman’s eyes, and yet the man managed to orient himself in the labyrinth of furnishings, avoiding end tables and love seats, a wakeful zombie. Something about the nest-like mess made it seem as though Allman never left this place. With his technological capabilities there’d be little need.

“Home, sweet home,” Evan said.

“Huh?” Allman sank into a fabric couch, the cushions wheezing. “Oh. The sign. The house manager chose that for me.”

Biltmore materialized at the edge of the half wall. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Allman?”

Allman waved him off.

Biltmore hesitated before receding. “May I remind you, Dr. Leigh, that you’ve committed to a legally binding contract protecting Mr. Allman’s privacy?”

Evan said, “I understand.”

Once Biltmore withdrew, Allman said, tilting his head, “Annoying but necessary. You’d be amazed at what we’ve had to deal with.”

There were three chairs facing Allman. Evan chose the one to the left. Various ancient and exotic items of computer-hardware were scattered around, items he’d need Joey to explain to him.

Evan took out a recorder he’d bought twenty minutes ago at CVS. “May I record this?”

“No.”

He removed a legal pad. “Mind if I take notes?”

“Yes.”

Evan had been planning to do neither. But he wanted to make some concessions at the outset to put Allman at ease. Not that he seemed to require comfort. But Evan needed to get into his graces long enough to sustain a conversation; if wanted to reach the topic of Dr. Hill without setting off any alarms, he’d have to arrive there via a circuitous route.

“I’m exploring the nature of genius,” Evan said. “Particularly how it drives revolutionary technologies that change how humans will live in the world.”

“You came to the right place,” Allman said.

“My research specializes in—”

“Devine explained it to me,” Allman said. “Go.”

“Very well,” Evan said. “Your childhood—”

“Mother. Father. Me. They were fine. I’m not interested in talking about it.”

“Okay. How about present family?”

“What present family?”

“Is that something you’re interested in?”

“The thing with mate selection,” Allman said, “is you relinquish more than you get. What can a wife offer me? I don’t have a strong sex drive and there’s plenty of pornography suited to my needs. If I require more, I can pay for it and not have to give up resources or time beyond the act.”

An empty potato-chip bag was stuck between the couch cushions at Allman’s side. Evan could smell the sour cream and onion on his breath.

“Children?”

Allman said, “I considered whether I care about reproductive fitness— whether my genes survive. But I decided I don’t. When I’m gone, I’m gone. And look how illogical society has gotten around kids. I get it, you have them, you want to set them up for maximal success so you can feel good about yourself, like you matter. So we put a moral sheen over the whole enterprise to make ourselves feel worthwhile. But I can’t indulge that pretense. I’d imagine if I did have kids, they’d know how I’d view them.”

“And how would that be?”

“As a collection of genes that exist to carry out a specified parental plan. They’d resent it, I’m sure. And who needs someone around resenting you when there’s so much to do that’s so much more interesting than overseeing a parental plan?”

The door to the kitchen hinged open and a dour woman in a black housekeeper’s dress emerged carrying a plastic tray. She crossed to them, balancing the tray with one hand so she could clear a wayward T-shirt and a laptop from the cushion beside Allman. Sag lines tugged the corners of her mouth downward, and parenthetical wrinkles radiated outward from there. Her knees cracked as she crouched to lower the tray. Fork, rectangle of paper towel, breast of chicken precut into bite-size pieces, dollop of mac and cheese, brownie square, glass of orange juice.