Hellbent

He blinked a few times. Joey was like a statue, every muscle tightened, her body like an arrow pointed over the table at him. Breathless.

Evan drew in a deep inhalation. He brought the phone back to his cheek. Listened a moment longer, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Mr. Orellana?”

“¿Sí?”

“I see the location you’re calling from. I’ll be there tomorrow at noon.”

“Thank God for you—”

Evan had already hung up. He slid out of the booth, Joey walking with him to the back door. She shot glances across at him, her face unreadable.

He pushed through the chiming door into the parking lot, the predawn cold hitting him at the hands and neck. He raised the set of keys he’d lifted from the waitress’s apron and aimed at the scattered cars, clicking the auto-unlock button on the fob. Across the lot a Honda Civic with a rusting hood gave a woeful chirp.

The waitress’s shift had just started, which gave them six hours of run time. Even so, he’d steal a license plate at the first truck stop they saw, from a vehicle boondocking in an overnight lot.

He and Joey got into the Civic, their doors shutting in unison.

She was still staring at him. He hesitated, his hand on the key.

He said, “This is what I do.”

“Right, I get it,” she said. “You help people you don’t know.”

26

How Can You Know You’re Real?

Dawn finally crested, a crack in a night that seemed by now to have lasted for days. Evan pushed the headlights toward the golden seam at the horizon, closing in on Helena. In the passenger seat, Joey had retreated into a sullenness as thick and impenetrable as the blackness still crowding the cones of the headlights.

By the time he reached the Greyhound bus station, a flat, red-roofed building aproned with patches of xeriscaping, the morning air had taken on the grainy quality of a newspaper photo. Frilly clouds fringed a London-gray sky.

He drove twice around the block, scouting for anything unusual. It looked clear. The three-state drive had served them well.

He pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine.

They stared at the bus station ahead. It looked as though it had been a fast-food restaurant in the not-too-distant past. A few buses slumbered in parallel, slotted into spots before a long, low bench. There was no one around.

Evan said, “They start leaving in twenty minutes. I’ll pick one headed far away. When you get there, contact me as we discussed. I can send you money and IDs—”

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your IDs.”

“Think this through, Joey. We’ve got three Orphans and fifteen freelancers circling. How are you gonna make it?”

“Like I always have. On my own.” She chewed her lower lip. “These last few months with Jack? They were a daydream, okay? Now it’s back to life.”

A band of his face gazed back from the rearview. The bruises beneath his eyes had faded but still gave him the slightly wild, insomniac look of someone who’d been down on his luck for too long.

“Listen,” he said. “I have to honor Jack’s last wish—”

“I don’t give a shit. Honestly. I don’t need you.” She reached into the backseat and yanked her rucksack into her lap. “What? You think I thought you were my friend?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She got out, and Evan followed.

She headed for the bench outside while he went in and bought her a ticket, a routine they’d established at the train station in Portland. He tucked a thousand dollars into the ticket sleeve and stepped back outside.

She was sitting on the bench, hugging her rucksack. Her jeans were torn at the knees, ovals of brown skin showing through. He handed her the ticket.

“Where am I going?” she asked.

“Milwaukee.”

She took the bulging ticket. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. I mean it.”

Evan nodded. He shifted his body weight to walk away, but his legs didn’t listen. He was still standing there.

She said, “What?”

Evan cleared his throat. “I never knew my mom,” he said. “Or my dad. Jack was the first person who ever really saw me.” He swallowed, which was harder than he would have expected. “If no one sees you, how can you know you’re real?” He had Joey’s complete attention. He would have preferred a little less of it. It took him a moment to get out the next words. “Van Sciver took that from me. I need to set it straight. Not just for Jack. But for me. And I can’t have anything or anyone in my way.”

She said, “I get it.”

He nodded and left her on the bench.

He got back into the Civic and drove off.

One distraction down.

If he stopped only for gas, he’d make it home in seventeen hours. Then he could hack into the laptop belonging to Van Sciver’s muscle and follow where it led. Tomorrow at noon he’d see about helping Benito Orellana. He still had plenty to do and an unforgiving timeline.

The Honda’s worn tires thrummed along the road. The windows started to steam up from his body heat. He pictured Jack’s writing scrawled there.

GET PACKAGE.

Jack’s final words.

His dying wish.

Evan cranked on the defroster, watched the air chase the fog from the panes.

He said, “I’m sorry.”