Hellbent

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.