Page 6 of The Damage Man

“Come on,” Jack says. “You got R2I in twenty.”

Resistance to interrogation.

Evan groans. “R2I sucks.”

“‘That which you flee pursues you’—”

“—‘that which you embrace transforms you.’ I know, I know. But Jack, I get it already. What the hell are you transforming me into? A robot?”

“Not a robot.”

“What then?”

More guard bees spill through the slender hive entrance, throwing themselves into the shuddering blob. It rolls along the landing board, threatening to tumble off. A few buzz around Evan’s head, causing him to step back. But Jack stays right in there, hands on knees, face close.

When Evan eases forward again, Jack says, “In the Middle Ages, they put monsters on churches.”

Evan senses this might be a continuation of their previous conversation but is not sure. Jack is like that, moving in mysterious ways.

“Know what they called them?” Jack asks.

“Gargoyles?”

“That’s right. They’re hybrids. Each one is made up of two different things. Body of a lion, wings of a dragon. Know what they’re for?”

“Scare folks away?”

“Bad people,” Jack says, clarifying. “Evil spirits.”

The hum of the bees has a steadying effect now. Evan feels it as a vibration on his skin.

“Know where they put ’em?” Jack asks.

“On the roof.”

“High up on the edges. That’s where a gargoyle’s gotta be. At the threshold. A liminal space neither inside nor out.”

“Okay,” Evan says, not following where this is leading.

“That’s what a black operation is. That’s what the Orphan Program is. What I am. What you will become. You will be judged and shunned by those safe inside in the sanctuary even while you fight tooth and nail to protect them from what they do not understand. They’re too weakened by luxury and safety to comprehend what is out there. And so you, you will mediate the space between what is sanctioned and what is not. And to do that, part of you must belong to what is not. That is the sacrifice you must make. You must be half-darkness while not serving darkness.”

At last the bees begin to disperse, the balling attack over. Layer by layer, they peel away from the core, drifting lazily into the air or squirming back into the hive.

“Then what makes me different from them?” Evan asks. “Bad people? Evil spirits?”

The bees keep dispersing from the ball like a magic trick, solid matter atomizing before his eyes. The silence stretches so long that Evan is unsure if Jack will respond.

“What makes you different is what you keep your back to,” he finally says. “What you’re protecting.”

The landing board is suddenly, abruptly empty. All that remains is the shriveled husk of the yellowjacket, cooked from inside. Straightening up, Jack places a hand on Evan’s shoulder and guides him back toward the waiting hood and waterboarding table.

In the heart of Beverly Hills, there is a sparsely frequented old-fashioned corner diner. Evan sits at a booth with Rusty, who has his hands cupped around a mug of coffee.

Evan has texted Ivan’s phone number to Joey. In addition to being a mouthful, advanced forward link trilateration can take some time, so Evan has opted to sit with Rusty while he waits for Joey to track down Ivan’s location.

“I need to talk to your son.”

“I told you, Blake won’t talk to me. There’s a lot of anger. And a lot of resentment.”