Prodigal Son

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Tingling spread beneath Evan’s face, a sunburn prickling from the Hellfire’s afterglow.

  “No,” he said.

  “What, then?”

  It seemed too far-fetched and yet made perfect sense at the same time. He shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. We need to dig into this more.”

  “Where do we start?” she asked.

  “Can you run facial ID on the two from the Corvette?”

  “At this distance with grainy footage?” She shrugged. “They kept to the shadows pretty well. I don’t know if we’ll have enough sensor points.”

  “Is that a no?”

  She furrowed her brow at the challenge. “Have you heard of model-based feature extraction for GRS?”

  “No, but if you hum a few bars, I can fake it.”

  “You know the only thing missing from this social train wreck of an evening? Even more Lame Dad Humor. I mean, really, X?”

  “GRS,” he said, steering her back on track.

  “Gait-recognition software.” She was typing. “China’s been kicking ass in this arena—shocking what you can accomplish with, like, zero regard for privacy—and I might have left myself a backdoor … in case I ever…”

  She trailed off, typing in quick bursts, pulling imagery of the man and woman from one monitor to another, a virtual wire-frame encasing them as they walked. Evan admired her trancelike calm, all that brainpower churning beneath the surface.

  The screens to Evan’s right flashed up rap sheets and booking photos.

  Declan Gentner.

  Queenie Gentner.

  A brother-and-sister team out of Philly, laureled with requisite hard-bitten monikers. They’d been investigated for unlawful detention, homicide, continuing criminal enterprise. A scattering of plea deals for lesser charges like tax evasion and assault. No last-knowns, no current utility bills, no phone numbers on record.

  “They seem pleasant,” Joey said. “This thing keeps getting weirder and weirder. What the hell did your mom hook you into?”

  Mom.

  The unfamiliarity of the word hung in the air like something tangible. He didn’t have a mom. He had a woman who had given birth to him. And who’d led him into a set of circumstances seemingly designed to end the life she’d created.

  He rubbed his eyes hard, spots of light blotching the darkness. So many fronts to tackle.

  He had to locate Andre Duran as soon as possible.

  He had a prison meeting with Danny Gallo in a few hours.

  He had to sit down with Veronica and pry more details out of her.

  He had to figure out why Hargreave had been killed.

  He had to determine who the Gentner siblings were working for.

  He had to uncover who had authorized the use of a Hellfire missile on U.S. soil.

  “I’m going to head to Kern Valley Prison,” Evan said. “Can you look into Hargreave for me? I checked him out a bit, know he’s air force. I want know more about his newer postings and deployments, but they’re behind a second DoD firewall.”

  He rubbed his eyes some more.

  “X?” Joey sounded concerned. “You look tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I mean, just … watch out for yourself. This kind of stuff—I mean, your mother, childhood shit—it hits deeper than a normal mission. It breaks the Fourth.”

  The Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal.

  He said, “Just get me the stuff on Hargreave.”

  She nodded and for once didn’t offer a retort.

  He headed out. Paused outside, keeping the door cracked. Joey didn’t notice. She looked over at Dog the dog, who lifted his head, tags jangling on his fancy new collar.

  Joey said, “Who’s such a good boy? Who’s such a good, good, good boy?”

  A big warm baby voice, devoid of its usual sardonic underlay. That long ridgeback tail thwapped the luxurious bed, a steady beat of affection.

  Joey ran over and sprawled on top of him, the dog large enough to take her weight. She buried her face in his neck. “Who loves you? Who loves you the most in the world?”

  Syrupy and embarrassing. And yet Evan found himself grinning.

  He eased the door gently shut, strolled to his truck, and started the long drive to prison.

  26

  Pick Your Poison

  Terror came black and dense, an oil slick. Declan Gentner woke up into it. It filled his rib cage, compressing his heart, paralyzing his limbs. Couldn’t call out, couldn’t lift an arm to knock on the hotel wall to beckon his sister in the connecting room.

  No oxygen in his lungs.

  Muscles strained to the breaking point.

  A graininess in the dead-of-night air, pixelated with hyperclarity.

  Eyes bulging to pop.

  Sheets already kicked down, briefs clinging to him, air hot-cold on his bare chest.

  He felt the vein squiggling across the front of his neck surge with his heartbeat—still alive, still alive—and the heat of his face purpling.

  He strained and strained but couldn’t produce a twitch of a single muscle.

  Like being buried alive inside his own body.

  And then it began.

  Someone scraping on the locked door.

  It bulged inward like rubber, fingernails splintering through, lifting the paint.

  The door opened, hinges moaning.

  She was there as always, framed in the doorway. Those long nails silhouetted at her sides, manicured to bitter-housewife perfection.

  Still couldn’t move.

  But blood was shoving through his veins—still alive, still alive.

  Not real. Not. Real.

  Now she was over the bed, looking down at him. She didn’t move, just teleported here when he blinked.

  A pure-black cutout. A-line dress and hair done up in a bob, even her curves somehow anachronistic. She reached out, fingers splayed. Didn’t even have to touch him. She just mimed the clawing.

  Gouges rose on his arms, his neck.

  No air. Lungs nothing more than deflated bags. Muscles knotted, the arches of his feet crocheted into stitches.

  Her head cocked, that neat bob bobbing, the Virginia Slims–sanded voice, deep and sexy and rageful: Not going to raise you to be like him.

  Cigarette burns sizzled to life on the insides of his thighs.

  Running around to prove he’s still a man, and all I get left over is that little-boy temper.

  She leaned closer yet, those womanly cheekbones, eyes glowing white as bone.

  No matter how spotless a house I keep.

  Fingernail scrapes flared to life on his chest—

  No money, two kids underfoot, and still looking like I do.

  —drifting down the hollow of his sucked-tight belly, lower, lower, lower—

  Teach you what he won’t learn.

  At last breath came in a screech.

  “Queenie!”

  Declan choked out the word and then curled up, fetal and shuddering.

  He heard his big sister’s feet hitting the carpet one room over, the connecting door flying open, the heel of her hand striking the light switch.

  And then he was back in the world, unclouded, the apparition gone. Panic sweat cooled across his ribs.

  Queenie was on the bed, cradling him, his head limp in her lap. She wore a red silk chemise, and his cheek was against her bare thigh, her breasts pressed to the top of his head, but it wasn’t fucked up and weird, it was just comforting, and she was rocking him, rocking him, her lips pursed as she shushed him like shushing a child.

  They were Irish twins, Declan born eleven months after her, and sometimes it seemed they could communicate telepathically.

  Like now: I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

  The warmth of her flesh, like his own. The sway of her arms.

  Breathing. Oxygen catching up to his head, his bloodstream. Transforming him from child to adult.

  He kick-shoved himself so he was leaning against the upholstered h
eadboard. She moved to sit at his side, both of them staring straight ahead. Her fingertips gently traced up and down the underside of his arm, calming him.

  The Four Seasons on Doheny was one of his favorites, with its plush furnishings and Beverly Hills–obsequious service. He stared at the fringed throw pillows, the textured cream walls, the plush bath sheets visible on the warming rack through the bathroom door and let the luxury soothe him. Let it seep into his bones and warm him back to life.

  He could taste his breath, sleep-stale and hot. His inhalations still came in jerks. He willed them to slow, to steady out, and finally they did.

  They sat in silence, breathing.

  After a time Queenie said, “Mom?”

  He nodded.

  “You caught all of that,” she said softly. “And I caught none.”

  “Thank God for that.” Sweat beaded on his chest. He smeared it across his slick skin. “She wanted to make me different than him. And she did. Can’t take the blessing without the curse, right?”

  Queenie nodded. She smelled like sugar, a candied overlay to her nightly lip gloss. “Mom did adore me.”

  Declan said, “Dad, too, when we saw him.”

  “But Mom, she really tucked me under her wing. Flesh of her flesh. Shaped me right down to the thoughts in my head. She’s still in there.” Queenie rolled her lips. “Sometimes the blessing is the curse.”

  She was right. There was no way to get through a household like theirs without damage. Pick your poison. Pick your medicine. And bury it beneath a polished-clean veneer.

  Queenie’s hand slid down to clasp his, and they squeezed their palms together like they’d been doing for twenty-eight years, their knuckles aligned to form a single big fist, two halves of one whole as they’d always been and would always be. They’d gotten each other through their childhood, day after terrible day.

  The burner phone rattled loudly against the nightstand, making him start.

  Never a good sign at 3:42 A.M.

  He and Queenie exchanged a look.

  Late-night call. We haven’t performed adequately. The doctor is unhappy.

  He picked up the phone, rested it on his bare stomach, clicked to speaker. “Yes?”

  “Because of your inability to handle the situation,” the doctor said, “I had to take more drastic measures. A high-visibility strike.”

  Declan cleared his throat. “Did you get him?”

  Andrew Duran had to be killed by Declan or Queenie’s hand, or they wouldn’t get the back half of the payment.

  “We couldn’t determine in the immediate aftermath,” the doctor said. “Too much detritus for visibility and too hot for thermal imaging. But the news reported no human remains.”

  Declan exhaled. His jaw ached.

  “I can’t risk another strike like that,” the doctor said. “Too much exposure. We missed our chance.”

  Declan felt Queenie’s hand warm in his. Why didn’t you call us in instead? We could’ve handled it.

  “Why didn’t you call us in instead?” Declan said. “We could’ve handled it.”

  “Why weren’t you staking out the house?”

  “We’re laying pipe to get to the other name you tasked us with,” Declan said. “There are two of us. We can’t cover every base.”

  “Why not? I do. You demanded a premium to get the job done. Can you deliver the cleanup we negotiated, or do I need to find another contractor?”

  Queenie rustled at his side. We’ll need more operators.

  “We’ll need more operators,” Declan said. “We’ll have to keep eyes on the wife’s place, the kid’s school, the site of his old house—”

  The impound lot.

  “—the impound lot and any other prior places of employment. We’ve already questioned a few of his former associates, and nothing’s yielding. We need to sit on every location we can think of till he pops up. And that’s gonna take manpower.”

  “You’ll have whatever you need to end this,” the doctor said, and severed the line.

  27

  Lost Boys

  Security procedures at Kern Valley State Prison were understandably rigid. Government ID at the towering front gate. No chewing gum, no cell phones, no medications, no wallet, no cash, coins, or credit cards. To avoid being mistaken for a prisoner, no blue, gray, or orange clothes, no denim of any shade or monochromatic outfits. To avoid being mistaken for a correctional officer, no green or camouflage. To avoid exciting any of the inmates, no shorts, tank tops, or V-necked shirts. To avoid getting an eyeball gouged out, no jewelry with sharp edges, nonprescription glasses, or clothes with metal snaps. To avoid getting strangled, no belts or sweatpants with drawstrings.

  Make no promises to inmates. Never run on prison grounds. Don’t deliver any messages.

  Only car keys, a valid picture ID, and a foldable umbrella that collapsed to no more than eighteen inches were allowed inside. The lack of rain cut the item count by a third.

  At 6:57 A.M. Evan entered the front building, gave a driver’s license in the name of Frank Kassel, and signed in. Joey had scheduled the appointment outside normal visiting hours, part of the reason for the vigorous guidelines.

  Hours ahead of the family visitation period, relatives were lined up. Evan took a seat between an ancient Hispanic matriarch with sagging, grief-battered eyes and a hefty single mother with two toddlers at her ankles and a wailing baby in her arms. Within seconds his fake name was called, and he advanced with a correctional officer through a series of security doors and metal detectors, emerging into a sally-port pen composed of concertina-topped fences stretching thirty feet high.

  The solid-metal door locked behind him with an electronic thump.

  About thirty seconds passed.

  And then the tall gate before him rumbled open.

  A desert-flat plain of asphalt and dirt housed a broad, sprawling throw of buildings coated in dust.

  The CO led Evan a good distance up a paved road with no vehicles, the dry wind chapping his face. He entered another building containing a scattering of bright orange picnic tables bolted to the floor, a raised stage, and little else. The lights were off, no doubt to save energy, the walls bare, lifeless. Six single-stall toilet rooms lined the east side, doors ajar, sink outside. No hiding places here.

  A few guards manned a station at the rear of the auditorium, an elevated platform that gave them ample oversight. They spoke in low voices, ignoring Evan and his escort.

  “Wait here,” the CO told him, and vanished.

  Evan sat at the nearest table. It stank of bleach.

  Ten minutes passed and then another ten.

  The double doors clanged open, and there was the CO with a man stooped to accommodate the belly-chain cuffs, one shoulder riding higher than the other, head lowered. They were backlit by the thin blue glow of morning, features masked in shadow. The CO halted there and prodded Danny forward, and he came walking that dead man’s prison walk. As the dark outline approached, Evan studied it for anything familiar—gait, posture, bearing—but came up blank.

  The man reached the picnic table and wobbled a bit as he threw one leg over the bench and then the other, his hands pinned low at his sides.

  The CO called out, “You got twenty minutes,” and withdrew.

  The doors hinged shut slowly, taking the glare with them, and Evan got his first clear look at Danny Gallo. Nothing about him was recognizable except for the pockmarks and the blue eyes, now watery and dulled. Evan scanned him for any other signs of the boy he’d once known, but there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the other five thousand inmates stored within these walls. He wore signs of poverty on his face—crooked chipped teeth, papery skin, sunken eyes that spoke to malnutrition or opiate use or both. It wasn’t just damage but overuse, ninety years of hard living forced through a forty-year-old body.

  “I don’t know no Frank Kassel,” he said.

  “Me neither,” Evan said. “I used a fake name to sneak in to see you.”
<
br />   “Well, I must be more important than I thought.” Amused, Danny rasped a hand across scraggly patches of facial hair. For an instant his eyes caught a glint of inner life, and Evan could see through all the wreckage to Danny beneath. But just as quickly he was gone. “Who are you, then?”

  “Evan,” he said. “From Pride House.”

  Danny leaned forward, pronating his hands so he could prop an elbow on the table’s ledge. “Evan?” he said. “You’d better be kidding me, now.”

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Danny rose in excitement, chains rattling, as if to greet Evan properly, but then remembered himself and sat back down. His movement sent a faint breeze across the table, carrying the sour tinge of body odor. Over on the platform, the COs had gone guard-dog stiff, suddenly on point. They assessed Danny for a moment, then relaxed and went back to chatting softly.

  “What happened to you after that guy took you?” Danny said. “Where’d you go, man? Where’d you go?”

  Evan said, “It’s a long story.”

  “Ain’t they all.”

  “How ’bout you?” It was creeping back into Evan’s voice, that street inflection. What a bizarre and unsettling subconscious shift. He reined in his diction. “Last I heard you were serving time back east.”

  “Yeah, that was some bullshit. I was just the lookout.”

  “How’d you land here?”

  “More bullshit. I couriered some stuff from KC to Visalia. Yeah, I helped rock it up, but it was less than five hundred grams. I got paid three hundred fifty bucks. You believe that shit? Three hundred fifty bucks. The supplier flipped on me, reduced sentence for him giving up low-level guys like me. Never fucking trust the sambos. Me, I had priors, judge’s hands tied ’cuz of mandatory sentencing, you know the drill. Fifteen years. It’s the little fish gets fucked, right?” He shook his head. His hair was stringy, greasy, swaying across those pockmarked cheeks. “Three hundred fifty bucks. Fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years is rough,” Evan said. “But you’ll still have enough life left after to have a third act.”

  Danny exhaled, a waft of halitosis and stale cigarettes. Evan blinked against it, held a poker face.