The warped fence had plenty of cracks and crevices that provided a ready vantage across the target house’s backyard. On what was left of the lawn, an old-fashioned round barbecue grill melted into a puddle of rust. The reddish tinge on the earth brought a host of associations to Evan, which he pushed aside, focusing instead on the house beyond.
Plywood covered two of the living room’s three windows. One sheet had been removed and set to the side, presumably to let in light. The high kitchen window over the sink had been left exposed, and the rear door was laid open.
Paul Delmonico and Shane Shea, Van Sciver’s freelancers, stood at semi-attention, focused on someone in one of the blind spots. Evan assumed the other two freelancers were holding down the front of the house. In the kitchen window, Thornhill’s head was visible. A moment later a woman stepped beside him, facing mostly away from Evan.
Midlength hair, confident posture, athletic shoulders that tapered to a slender but not-too-slender waist — Evan would recognize her bearing anywhere.
Orphan V turned around.
In the shaft of light falling through the kitchen window, she looked quite striking. As she murmured something to Thornhill, she reached over her shoulder and scratched at a spot on her back. Evan thought of the burned flesh beneath her shirt and felt a jagged edge twist inside him.
Palms pressed to the splintering fence, he breathed the rot of the wood and watched the freelancers watching whoever was in that blind spot, two attack dogs waiting for a command. Beside him Joey shifted her weight uncomfortably, rolling one sneaker onto its outer edge. She was humming with nervousness.
The person in the blind spot stepped out of the blind spot and into view.
That broad form, the thin copper hair, the muscular forearms and blocky wrists. But it wasn’t just Van Sciver who made Joey’s breath hitch audibly in her throat; it was what he was carrying.
David Smith’s frail form draped across his arms.
Van Sciver dumped the body onto a tarp on the floor. His arms were swollen with exertion, bowed at his sides. The lines on the right side of his face caught the shadows differently — perhaps scarring, perhaps a trick of the light. Evan hadn’t laid eyes on him, not directly, since they’d shared a tense drink in Oslo nearly a decade ago.
Seeing him now in the stark light of day, Evan felt emotions shifting along old fault lines. They’d spent so many years circling each other from the shadows that some small piece of Evan wondered from time to time if he’d conjured Charles Van Sciver entirely.
But there he was, in the flesh.
And the body of the boy who used to be David Smith.
“He’s dead,” Joey said. Despite the cool December air, sweat sparkled across her temple, emotion flushing her cheeks.
Staring at the motionless, slender form on the tarp, Evan felt heat pulse in his windpipe, fired by a red-hot coal lodged in his chest.
He pushed away from the fence, looked down at the tips of his boots. He pictured the crowded bunks of Room 14 at McClair Children’s Mental Health Center. A Lego rebel riding a Snowspeeder across a rusting radiator. Jorell, too smart for his own good. In another life Jorell would be a lawyer, a philosophy professor, a stand-up comedian. In another life David Smith would be sitting down to dinner with a real family. In another life Jack was still alive and he and Evan had plans on the books to share a meal in a two-story farmhouse in Arlington.
“Wait,” Joey said. “Evan — he’s breathing.”
Evan’s head snapped back up. He watched as the boy stirred and rolled onto his side.
Evan’s jaw had tightened. That red-hot coal singed the inside of his throat, fanned with each breath. “We have to get him.”
“There are three Orphans and four muscleheads in that house,” Joey said. “Armed to the teeth. And we’re out here in the weeds with your girly gun.”
“Yes.”
“So how do you plan on getting to him?”
Evan fished the Samsung Galaxy from his pocket. “By telling Van Sciver where we are.”
He thumbed the Signal application.
A moment later a xylophone chime of a ringtone carried to them on the breeze. Evan put his eye to a knothole and peered into the house.
Van Sciver lifted the phone from his pocket and looked down at the screen. Candy and Thornhill alerted to his expression and went to him, the three of them standing in a loose huddle by the kid’s body.
They were in close enough proximity that a tight grouping of nine-millimeter rounds could take them down.
If they weren’t Orphans, Evan might consider hurdling the fence and rushing the house to get within range. But he knew he wouldn’t get three steps past the rusting barbecue before they alerted to him.
Van Sciver’s thumb pulsed over the screen, and he lifted the phone to his face. Evan watched his lips move, the familiar voice coming across the line on a half-second delay; there was a lot of encryption to squeeze the single syllable through. “X.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“I suppose you’re calling about the boy.”
From the remove of one backyard and a disintegrating fence, Evan watched Van Sciver turn. Through the phone he heard the rustle of the big man’s boots on the tarp. Candy had one hip cocked, directing the two freelancers to keep eyes up. Thornhill’s muscles coiled, thrumming with energy, ready to go kinetic. He walked to the front of the house to alert the others.
Van Sciver said, “You took one of mine…”
Joey must’ve heard the words from the receiver, because she stiffened at the mention of herself.
“… so I took one of Jack’s,” Van Sciver continued. “But he doesn’t have Joey’s weaknesses. He’s like you and me. Tabula rasa. Jack found him and tucked him away somewhere safe. Now we have him. Like a gun without a serial number.”
“Disposable,” Evan said. “You’ll train him up, spend him when you need to.”
“That’s what we’re for, Evan, remember?”
“Orphan J. Orphan C. Orphan L. Jack. Joey. And now this boy. All to get to me.”
“That’s right.”
Candy was close at hand, hanging on Van Sciver’s words, her lips pursed into a shape evocative of a kiss. But the eyes told a different story, of dark appetites unsatiated.
Van Sciver’s stare picked across the backyard and snagged on the rear fence. His eyes looked lopsided even from this distance, and it took Evan a moment to realize that it was because the right pupil was larger. Evan could have sworn Van Sciver was looking through the knothole right at him. It was impossible, of course, and yet Evan still pulled back a few inches from the wood.
He knew that look, the same one Van Sciver used to issue when they gathered on the cracked asphalt of the basketball courts across from Pride House, a group of punk-ass kids with nothing to do and nowhere to go.
A look like he was trying to see inside you.
Evan took a breath, eased it out. “How ’bout you get around to telling me what makes me so special?”
Again he watched Van Sciver’s lips move, the dubbing off from the voice coming through the line. “You really haven’t put it together?”
Evan didn’t reply.
Van Sciver laughed. “You don’t really think this is just personal?”
Evan didn’t indulge him. Their earlier conversation played back in his head. You have no idea, do you? How high it goes?
“It’s amazing,” Van Sciver said. “You don’t even know how valuable you are.”
He pivoted slightly, meeting Candy’s loaded gaze. She was clearly read in on whatever reason had escalated the hunt for Evan.
Van Sciver’s shoulders rose, his neck corded with muscle, his blocky hand firming around the phone. “They sent me to the Sandpit a few times, needed to pick another name off that deck of playing cards. I caught up to him in Tikrit. Shitty little compound in Qadisiyah, jungle-gym bars and rusty Russian munitions. We’d already rained down with aerial munitions, but Habeeb’s still strolling around his little fenced-in yard, lord of his domain. I was set up with my .300 Win Mag on a rooftop at twelve hundred meters, ready to shoot the dick off a mosquito. And Habeeb comes around the yard into sight. I have the head shot, clear as day. But at the last minute, I move the crosshairs from his face to his arm, take it off at the shoulder.” His breath came as a rush of static across the receiver. “He’ll bleed out, right? But I wanted it to be slow. Guess why.”