Home.
Evan nudged the big Ford pickup into his spot between two concrete pillars, killed the engine, and released a sigh. Castle Heights’ subterranean parking level was vast and gloomy and more pristine than any garage had a right to be. A pleasing whiff of oil and gasoline lingered beneath the aggressive lemon scent of environmentally friendly floor cleaner. The cleaning agent, part of the HOA’s “go green” initiative, had passed by a narrow margin after a heated debate at the monthly meeting, a debate that Evan—as the resident industrial-cleaning-supply expert—had been roped into. His tie-breaking vote for the more expensive ecological product had drawn the ire of some of the older, fixed-income residents.
That was life in the big bad city.
At times he found the inner workings of Castle Heights—the rivalries, squabbles, and bureaucratic maneuverings—to be more exhausting than eluding teams of hit men.
He stayed in the truck. It was so quiet here in the garage.
He took a moment to inventory his body. His broken nose looked passable but still ached across the bridge. The cut in his gums from the exploded windshield had mostly healed, but it gave an angry throb when he ran his tongue across it. Lower back, still stiff from the collisions with police cruisers on the road outside Hillsboro. A sharp pain under his armpit, maybe a cracked rib. His hands, scuffed from swinging off the metal overhang on the train platform. His shoulder injury, exacerbated by the recoil of the Benelli shotgun. All of which he could cover up.
But his eyes were still sufficiently bruised to elicit inquiries.
Turning on the dome light, he took out the concealer wand and dabbed a bit of beige makeup on his lower eyelids. As he smudged it with his fingertip, he couldn’t help but grin a bit.
He’d let down his guard and a sixteen-year-old had broken his nose. Joey had played him perfectly. Crouched against the wall to hide her combat knife, that wounded-bird glance over her shoulder. Can you help me?
He got out of the truck and climbed the steps to the lobby. As he passed the mail slots and headed to the elevators, he spotted Lorilee outside in the porte cochere, waiting for the valet to bring around her car. She was arguing with her boyfriend, a fit man with long hair who looked to be in his late forties. He grasped her biceps, making a point. Evan’s focus narrowed to the fingers curled around Lorilee’s arm. He didn’t like the laying on of hands in a dispute.
But this was none of his business.
Joaquin sat cocked back in an Aeron at his security desk. He was pretending to monitor the bank of security screens, but his eyes were glazed and Evan saw that he had one earbud in, hidden beneath his cap.
Evan said, “Twenty-one, please, Joaquin.”
The guard bounced forward in his chair, tapping the control to summon the elevator and specify its destination, an old-timey Castle Heights security convention. “Got you, Mr. Smoak. How was your business trip?”
“Another day, another airport lounge. But I got a lot done.”
“That’s good.”
“What’s the score?”
Joaquin colored slightly. “Twenty-six–fourteen. Golden State.”
“Sorry.”
“’Member when the Lakers used to be good?”
Before Evan could respond, Joaquin pulled out his earbud and straightened up abruptly. Ida Rosenbaum, 6G, walked through the front door, shuffling along. She was bent forward, oversize purse pinned beneath one elbow as if it were at risk of fluttering away.
Evan turned to face the elevator, praying it would arrive before she made it across the lobby. In the dated brass doors, his reflection came clear.
Thanks to the unforgiving light of the lobby, he saw now that his nose was still out of alignment. Not much, but it was shifted a few millimeters to the left, noticeable enough for the sharp eyes of Ida Rosenbaum.
As she neared, presaged by the smell of old-lady violet perfume, he reached up and cracked his nose to center.
It stung enough to make his eyes water.
“You again,” she said, sounding less than delighted.
He stayed facing forward, blinking back the moisture; if he made his concealer run, that would provoke another conversation entirely. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“Again with the ‘ma’am,’” she said. “Call me Ida, already.”
“Okay,” Evan said.
The elevator arrived, and he got on, holding the door for Mrs. Rosenbaum. He felt heat building up in his sinuses and prayed his nose wouldn’t start bleeding. The pain of the rebreak radiated out beneath his cheekbones.
“This weather,” Ida said as the elevator started to rise. “It’s playing games with my allergies. You wouldn’t believe the aggravation. Feels like I’m snuffling through hay.”
The blood was coming now—he could feel the warmth inside his nose. He didn’t want to reach up and pinch it, so he tilted his head back slightly and gave a sharp inhale. The floor numbers ticked by in slow motion. His eyes no longer watered, but moisture still welled at his bottom lids, threatening to spill and wreak havoc with the concealer.
“And my hip. Don’t even get me started.” Ida waved a dismissive hand at him. “What would you know about it? My Herb, may he rest in peace, always said that no one in your generation learned how to handle pain. Everyone’s off to get a massage or smoke medical marijuana.”
He tried to compress his nostrils. “Yes, ma’am.”
The elevator at last reached the sixth floor, and she stepped out, casting a final look back at him. “Slow learning curve, too,” she observed.
As the doors glided shut, the bumpers blocking out Mrs. Rosenbaum, Evan tilted his face into his hand just in time to catch the blood.
*
In Evan’s freezer drawer, one bottle of vodka had remained untouched for several years.
Stoli Elit: Himalayan Edition.
Evan opened the walnut chest and beheld the Bohemian hand-blown glass bottle.
Made with the finest variety of winter wheat from the Tambov region and water tapped from reservoirs buried beneath the famed mountain range, the vodka underwent a sophisticated distillation process, after which it was frozen to minus-eighteen degrees Celsius to segregate any additives or impurities. It came accompanied by a gold-plated ice pick. Given the price of the bottle, the best use for the pick was presumably to defend oneself against would-be vodka bandits.
Evan cracked the seal and poured two fingers over a spherical ice cube.
He lifted the tumbler to admire the clarity of the liquid. It smelled of ice and nothing more. The mouth feel was velvety, and the aftertaste carried a surprising hint of fruit.
Vodka’s original purpose was to cleanse the palate after eating fatty foods. But Evan loved it for its quiet ambition. At first glance it looks as plain as water. And yet it strives to be the purest version of what it is.
He set the tumbler on the poured-concrete surface of the kitchen island, leaned over it, and exhaled.
An image came to him unbidden, the wind tearing through the Black Hawk, fluttering Jack’s shirt, his hair. He’d taken a wide stance, steady against the elements.
Always steady against the elements.
Evan lifted the glass halfway to his mouth, set it back down.
His cheeks were wet.
“Goddamn it, Jack,” he said.
He closed his eyes and dropped into his body. Became aware of its shape from the inside. Felt the pressure of the floor against the soles of his boots. The coolness of the counter beneath his palms. He stayed with his breath, feeling it at his nostrils, in his windpipe, his chest. Drew it into his stomach, belly-breathing a count of ten.
Right now, in this moment, there was no Nowhere Man mission, no Van Sciver, no sixteen-year-old stashed in a safe house. There was no past or imagined future, no bone-deep ache of grief, no figuring out how to live in a world without Jack.
There was only the breath. Inhale, exhale. His body doing what it did twenty thousand times a day, except this time he was mindful of it.
And this time.