“Excuse me,” the man said.
Van Sciver kept moving, eyes forward. But he lifted the .45 and aimed it at the man’s nose. “Back inside. Call the cops and I’ll come back and rape your wife.”
Candy smiled. “Me, too.”
The man jerked back as if yanked by puppet strings, the door closing with enough force to tangle the cutesy country curtains.
As Van Sciver and Candy stepped out into the driveway, he felt his nostrils flaring, and he tried to contain the rage in his chest. Thornhill dropped from the garage and sauntered up beside them.
Candy kept her focus on Van Sciver. “You’re playing X’s game. Don’t let him trick you—”
He wheeled on her, grabbing her shirt with both hands. “Don’t try to manipulate me.”
Leaning over her, his face in hers, he was struck by just how much more powerful than her he was. If he slipped his hands up from the fabric, he could catch her chin in one palm, the back of her skull in the other, and twist her head halfway off.
Her expression remained impressively placid.
“I am trying to manipulate you,” Candy said. “But I’m also right.”
He observed the ledge of her chin, the thinness of her neck.
Then he released her and stormed for the Tahoe, his breath clouding in the night.
“I know,” he said.
59
All Fucked Up
Evan kept one hand on the wheel of the stolen rig, a Toyota pickup with a leaf blower rattling around in the bed. Joey looked out the window at the passing night. Evan hoped that Van Sciver and what remained of his crew were still on their wild-duck chase, pursuing the partially digested digital transmitter Evan had smashed into the bread rind by the fountain.
He wasn’t going to risk going out of any of the airports in neighboring states. Dulles International was too obvious, Charlotte and Nashville clear second choices. St. Louis, however, was just under twelve hours away and featured one-stop service to Ontario, California, an unlikely airport forty miles east of Los Angeles. Just before boarding time tomorrow morning at the airport, he’d purchase two tickets under their fake names for the first leg only. He’d buy the second set of tickets during the layover in Phoenix.
Joey finally broke the two-hour silence. “What do we do now?”
“Go home. Regroup.”
“How?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
The highway this time of night was virtually empty. Dark macadam rolled beneath them like a treadmill belt. The headlights were as weak and pale as an old man’s eyes.
Joey said, “You think that kid has a shot?”
“Everyone does.”
“He was so stubborn. Refusing to go with us, refusing our help. It’s like he’s locking himself in his own prison.”
Evan thought of the gunmetal grays and hard surfaces of his penthouse, such a contrast with Mia’s throw blankets and candles.
He said, “A lot of people do.”
Joey muffled a noise in her throat.
Evan said, “What did you want?”
“I don’t know.” Anger laced her voice. “To help him. More.”
“You can’t help people more than they want to help themselves.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were wet.
She turned back to the window, shook her head.
“Stupid fucking kid,” she said.
*
He and Joey sat in their parallel twin beds, Joey with her laptop across her knees, Evan sipping vodka poured over cubes from the motel ice maker. The front desk sold miniature bottles of Absolut Kurant, which Evan didn’t buy because he wasn’t a fucking savage. A twenty-four-hour liquor store five blocks away had a bottle of Glass, a silky vodka distilled from chardonnay and sauvignon blanc grapes. It had a tangy finish, unvarnished by added sugars or acids, and if he swirled it around his tongue enough, he could catch a trace of honeysuckle.
It wasn’t Stoli Elit, but at four in the morning in a less-than-tony neighborhood adjacent to St. Louis International, he’d take what he could get.
He flipped through the red notebook he’d recovered from the microwave in the Richmond house. The pages were blank.
Baffling.
Joey looked over at his glass. “Can I have some?”
“No.”
“Oh, I can help steal a shotgun from a cop car, fly on a fake ID, kidnap a kid from a safe house, but God forbid I drink alcohol.”
Evan considered this a moment. He handed her his glass. The room was small enough that he barely had to lean to reach her.
She took a sip.
The taste hit, and she screwed up her face. “This is awful. You actually like this?”
“I tried to warn you.”
She shoved the glass back at him.
“It always reminds me of my foster home,” she said. “The smell of alcohol. And hair spray. Menthol cigarettes.”
Evan set down his glass. He thought about how Jack used to leave silences for Evan to fill, room for him to figure out if he wanted to talk and what he would say if he did. He remembered Mia’s advice: At the end of the day, all they really want to hear? You’re okay. You’re gonna be fine. You’re worth it.
“She always smoked them,” Joey said after a pause. “The ‘foster mom.’” The words came with teeth in them. “We all called her Nemma. I don’t know if that was her real name, but that’s what everyone called her.”
Evan cast his mind back to Papa Z sunk in his armchair, as snug as a hermit crab in a shell, one fist clamped around a Coors, the other commanding a remote with lightsaber efficiency as the boys swirled around him, fighting and shoving and laughing. Van Sciver always reigned supreme, the king of the jungle, while Evan slunk mouselike around the periphery, trying to get by unseen. It was a lifetime ago, and yet he felt as if he were standing in that living room now.
Joey kept her gaze on her laptop screen. “She was a beast of a woman. Housedresses. Caked-on blush. And her favorite phrase.”
Evan said, “Which was?”
“This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me.” She laughed, but there was no music in it. “God, was she awful. Breath like an ashtray. Big floppy breasts. She had a lot of girls under her roof. She always had boyfriends rotating through. That’s how she kept them.”
She paused, wet her lips, worked the lower one between her teeth.
Evan remained very still.
“I don’t remember much about them,” she said. “Just the faces.” The glow of the screen turned her eyes flat, reflective. “There were a lot of faces.”
For a moment she looked lost in it, her shoulders raised in an instinctive hunch against the memories. Then she came out of it, snapped the laptop shut. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Evan said, “Okay.”
She wouldn’t look over at him.
He got up with his glass and the bottle with its elegant clear stopper. He dumped his drink in the bathroom sink and poured out the rest, the vodka glug-glugging down the drain. He dropped the empty bottle in the trash can, came back to his bed, and returned to leafing through the red notebook.
He sensed her stare on the side of his face.
“That’s why I’m all fucked up,” she said.
“You’re not any more fucked up than everyone else.”
“I’m angry,” she whispered. “All the time.”
He risked a glance over at her, and she didn’t look away.
“Those are the skills you learned to survive,” he said. “They’re what got you through.”
She didn’t reply. The thin sheets were bunched up beneath her knees, the folds like spread butter.
He said, “But you also have a choice.”
She swallowed. “Which is?”
“To ask yourself, do they still serve you? You can keep them and be angry. Or let them go and have a real life.”
“You can’t,” she said. “Let go and have a real life.”
“Not so far,” he agreed.
“I feel like I’m stuck,” she said. “I hate the Program, and I hate that I wasn’t good enough for it. And then I wonder—is that the only reason I hate it? Because I wasn’t good enough?”
“You were good enough to get out,” he said. “You know how many people have done that and are alive?”
She shook her head.
“For all we know, we’re the only two.”
She blinked a few times.