Into the Fire

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “I beg your pardon—”

  Evan said, “Talk.”

  Clark pulled back his head, clearly unaccustomed to receiving a directive. He started to object, then seemed to notice something in Evan’s stare. Something unsettling.

  “Do you have a daughter?” Clark asked.

  Evan thought of Joey sitting next to him in the car, spinning through radio stations at warp speed in search of a favorite song. Her endearing aggravation over fine points of arcane hacker etiquette or the incivility of texting “kay” with a lowercase k. How she’d wept against him once when a dam of memories had broken loose, her frail body shuddering as if trying to come apart. The smell of her soap, lilac and vanilla. She owned a piece of Evan as Evan owned a piece of her, and there was no undoing that, not now or ever.

  He said, “No.”

  “If you did, what would you be willing to do for her? To protect her?”

  Evan pictured the faulty latch on the flimsy, single-pane window at Joey’s apartment. The broken light above the call box downstairs. The loose guard plate on the front door. The feeling it engendered inside him, an unease inching up his spinal cord toward imagined scenarios.

  “This doesn’t interest me,” Evan said.

  “Then I’ll tell you,” Clark said. “You’d do anything. If you thought something wasn’t right for your daughter, that she was going down the wrong path.” He wet his lips, his eyes glassy with some memory. “She was failing. My baby girl. And if you had resources, you’d do anything to—” He caught himself.

  “To what?”

  “To get her the help she needed. To save her.” Clark’s shoulders broadened with self-righteousness. “With this guy. Max. He could hardly … I mean, just look what happened.”

  “Have you ever lost a child?” Evan said.

  Clark pulled at his mouth with the cup of his hand. “No.”

  Evan’s head throbbed, and he was tired and nauseous and had been in jail not eight hours ago. He wondered why he cared to have this argument, and then an image flickered through his mind—Mia with her bulging satchel briefcase, Batman lunch box, and her travel coffee mug. Her wild hair and the insistent sharpness behind her eyes. Peter at her side, vibrating with energy and the undying optimism of youth, because every moment held an adventure if you weren’t old enough to look past it.

  Because of who Evan was, there was so much he’d never have, but that didn’t mean that Max couldn’t have it. Or Violet.

  “He was a hardworking guy,” Evan said. “And he saw something in your daughter. Who he wanted to be for her. Something better. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to see in each other?”

  “He saw money.” At this, Clark’s lips tightened in a snarl.

  “When he agreed to your terms, did you offer a payout?”

  “Of course. Of course we did.”

  “Did he take it?”

  Clark didn’t answer.

  “Does your daughter know?” Evan asked. “Or did you not show her that respect?”

  Clark pawed his mouth once more and gazed through the windshield at the sagging garage door ahead. “Her mother was adamant,” he said.

  “You mean your wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “That absolves you of the decision?”

  “Of course not,” Clark snapped. “That’s not what I’m implying.”

  “People who proselytize about accountability are usually blind to the circumstances that exempt them from it.”

  “So you don’t believe in accountability.”

  From beneath his thumbnail, Evan dug out a fleck of ash remaining from the jailhouse fire. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You might think your friend is some kind of saint—”

  “I don’t think anyone’s a saint,” Evan said. “But I’ve seen his apartment. I’ve seen how he was willing to live to see that she got whatever the hell you could offer her. Maybe you need to rethink your assumptions.”

  Clark set his hands on the padded leather steering wheel. A $120,000 car going nowhere. “This is why I prefer business,” he said. “It’s so … transactional.” For a moment he looked unguarded, even vulnerable. His blue eyes watery, his clean-shaven cheeks chapped. “Relationships—real relationships—are a goddamned mess. What you want. What they want. What you want for them. What you want them to see.”

  “What’s right,” Evan said.

  Clark laughed.

  “What?” Evan said.

  “It’s cute,” Clark said. “That you think that’s a thing.”

  Evan took his money clip from his pocket, peeled off a hundred, and dropped it in Clark’s lap. “For the water bill,” he said. “You can keep the change.”

  He left Clark behind the wheel staring at the wrecked house.

  52

  Last Resort

  First thing in the morning and here Fitz was, sitting in his Lexus in a school parking lot, sipping coffee laced with Jack Daniel’s. He didn’t like to drink this early, but he needed something to work up his nerve.

  What had the Steel Woman called it? Contingency plans to our contingency plans.

  Just a last resort. Theoretical groundwork.

  Stella Hardwick deserved her nickname, that was for sure. She was more like a robot than a woman. The bitch probably skipped breakfast every morning, poured motor oil in her ear instead.

  A few parent volunteers in orange reflective vests worked the drop-off line, waving the vehicles in, unclogging the lanes, shepherding the children from car to curb. The kids streamed into the elementary school with their massive backpacks. Kindergartners held hands with their mommies and the occasional stubbled dad in a hoodie. Boys threw footballs and jumped from benches, doing their best to show off. The girls paid them no mind, clustered in groups, bent over their iPhone screens.

  He thought of Jimmy and Danica, now lost to college and grad school, respectively. When they were young, their mother usually drove them to school, but he’d made a point of dropping them off once a week, even early in his career when he was still working his way up.

  What would his young self—fit, trim, and fresh out of the academy—think of him now? Slouched over his expanding gut in the front seat, slurping coffee-flavored bourbon, the air-conditioning on high to blow the panic sweat off his forehead. Preparing to—

  To nothing, he reminded himself, taking another long pull.

  Last resort.

  Theoretical groundwork.

  The first contingency plan was in full effect already, and if that worked, there’d be no need for this. No one would ever have to know that he’d considered it. Maybe after a time, even he could forget.

  He climbed out, nodding affably at the parents as he passed. There were plenty of older dads around, so he fit right in.

  The familiar scene in the front office gave him a bittersweet twinge in his chest. Kids and parents milling around, turning in field-trip paperwork, nursing twisted ankles, organizing group projects. The secretary was being pulled in a half dozen directions, so distracted that she barely noticed when he flashed his creds.

  “Just following up on the security protocols,” he said. “Someone should’ve called last week.”

  She waved him past onto school grounds.

  He cut through the quad, dodging kids and teachers as he searched out the best intrusion points. The playground fences were too high, protected by privacy slats. The vehicle gate by the handball courts was locked and in full view of a wing of classrooms. He reversed course past the cafeteria.

  A small alley led to a chain-link service gate.

  Promising.

  Heaving a sigh, he walked up to the gate. Twined his fingers through it. It let out onto the side of the school, hidden from the drop-off lanes and most of the cars. A van could back right up to it. The rear doors could swing open, blocking everyone and everything from sight.

  Then it was just a few strides up the alley to the nearest row of classrooms. Stealth in, stealth out, and no one would be the wi
ser.

  Not that it would ever need to happen.

  He reached down and tugged at the padlock securing the gate.

  He’d tell the men to bring bolt cutters.

  “Hey!” A high-pitched voice from behind him. “What’re you doing?”

  He turned to see a slender black kid standing at the mouth of the alley, a soccer ball tucked under his arm as if he’d just retrieved it. Fourth grade, or maybe he was in third and big for his size the way Jimmy had been.

  Fitz released the padlock, did his best to look unsuspicious, though he knew it was already too late. “C’mere and I’ll tell you.” He started walking toward the boy, but the boy took a step back. Smart kid.

  “You look sneaky,” the boy said. “All hiding back here.”

  Fitz held up his hands. “No, it’s okay,” he said, feeling as low as he’d ever felt in his fifty-seven years on the planet. “I’m a police officer.”

  He reached for his creds out of habit before thinking to flip his leather billfold over to show off the more impressive badge. Holding it out, he approached.

  The kid didn’t retreat any further. But he didn’t come closer either.

  “What are you doing back here?” he asked.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Just asking the question made Fitz’s stomach roil. In his long and distinguished career, he’d learned how pedophiles groomed their victims, how abusive parents inculcated loyalty in their kids. That he was employing these tactics now made him want to puke.

  “Depends.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Miles.”

  “I’m doing a super-secret security check on the school.” Fitz crouched to bring himself to eye level, another predatory trick. “To keep you safe. And to keep all your classmates safe.”

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “And I need to know you’re on my team, Miles. That you have my back.” He kept the shiny badge visible, glinting in the morning light. “Are you willing to help? To be an honorary junior police officer?”

  Miles studied him, and Fitz worked to keep his face relaxed, the situation threatening to tilt either way. His lower back ached from squatting, but he made no move to rise.

  “Sure,” Miles finally said. “What do I gotta do?”

  “This security check is top secret. Because if the bad guys find out, they’ll know I was already here. So they’ll figure that it’s safe to come now.”

  “Come and do what?”

  “You never know.” Fitz pocketed the badge and offered his hand. “Can I count on you?”

  Miles reached out and took his hand. It was a limp shake, but Fitz firmed it and looked the kid in the eye. “I’m counting on you.” He was dismayed to hear the edge of a threat beneath his words.

  Miles slipped his hand free, stepped away a few paces, then turned and ran back to the kids on the playground.

  Fitz rose with a groan, threaded past the picnic tables, and cut through the front office. It was so busy that the secretary didn’t even look up to see him go.

  Back in his Lexus, he gulped the last of his laced coffee and pulled out into traffic.

  Last resort, he told himself.

  Last resort.

  53

  Fallout

  The morning sun wrapped the pickup in brightness. Evan and Max drove toward Culver City. Evan had promised to search Max’s apartment and then shadow him for a few days until it was evident that there’d be no fallout from Bedrosov’s death, that the way ahead was clear. They’d had a terse exchange about Clark as they left Lincoln Heights and had driven in silence ever since.

  Finally Max said, “Eighteen thousand dollars a week.”

  Evan keep driving. He could tell that the words were hard for Max to coax out and that he needed room to arrive at them on his own time.

  “That’s how much it cost. Some treatment facility in Malibu. It had a name like a spa, Fresh Journey or Recovery Road or something.” Max gave a bitter laugh. “It took me six months to make that kind of money. And they recommended a ten-week inpatient plan. Clark and Gwendolyn said if she didn’t go, she’d try’n kill herself again. And she’d be successful the next time.” He chewed his lower lip, bit down as if holding back a flood. “They said they’d only pay for it if I left her. And that I could never tell her why.”

  The run-flat self-sealing tires hammered across potholes, jostling the two of them in their seats. Max wiped roughly at his cheeks, and again Evan admired how freely he could express emotion.

  “I made a choice to protect her. At any cost.” Max cleared his throat. “At any cost to me, I guess. It wasn’t what she would’ve wanted, but I think it saved her life. People talk about love, write poems, songs. But they never say how totally fucked up it is. The positions it can put you in. Doing the one thing a person would least want you to do. Because you can’t bear to not do it.”

  Evan exited the freeway. They waited at the stoplight, the click of the turning signal pronounced. The left side of Evan’s head prickled where it had smacked the wall of Cell 24, and he resisted the urge to rub it. The contact in his right eye felt like a disk of sawdust.

  “It was my fault,” Max said. “It was my fault. I didn’t make enough money.” He looked away, out the window. “I should’ve chosen a better career. I should’ve done better in school and had enough money to take care of my own wife.”

  “‘Should have’ is the enemy,” Evan said.

  “Of what?”

  “The future.”

  “I look at my family,” Max said. “Like Grant, who—sure—could be an asshole. But he took care of himself well enough to take care of everyone around him.”

  “He didn’t take care of you.”

  “I don’t count.”

  “If you believe that,” Evan said, “then it’s true.”

  “It is true. It’s how I feel. Broken. I don’t know how to fix myself so I can live an ordinary life like everyone else. Do you know how that feels?”

  Yes.

  As they neared Max’s street, he straightened up in his seat. “God, listen to me whining. I’m sorry. You told me to figure out what I want to do with my life when you get it back for me. Well, you delivered on your end. And I’m not gonna waste what you’ve done for me. I’ll honor you by being … I don’t know, better than I am. I don’t know how, but I will.”

  This was the part where Evan told them that he had one thing to ask of them. To find someone else who needed him. Someone in just as impossible a situation as they were. And to pass along his number: 1-855-2-NOWHERE.

  The words pressed at the back of his throat, fighting to come out. The old impulse twitching like a missing limb. But he said nothing, looked dead ahead at the road. It was over for Max. And it was over for the Nowhere Man. How different this was, a new pathway being carved through his gray matter.

  “Hang on,” Max said. “Stop.”

  Evan screeched the truck to a halt.

  They were in the middle of the street a half block from Max’s building. Exhaust from the tailpipe floated past their window, giving the effect that they were drifting backward.

  Evan said, “What?”

  “That white van,” Max said. “It’s in Mr. Omar’s spot. But that’s not Mr. Omar’s car.”

  Evan examined the worker’s van in the front spot. No one in the driver’s seat or the passenger seat. There wasn’t any smog leaking from the tailpipe. But as he looked more closely at the rear of the van, he could make out a visual distortion from the exhaust heat, the pavement giving the faintest mirage wobble.

  The van was running. Which meant one of two things.

  A worker had run inside to make a delivery.

  Or a team was sitting stakeout, keeping the engine on so they could use the heater.

  Evan squinted, bringing the license plate into focus. The frame sported yellow lettering: HERTZ RENTAL.

  He dropped the truck into reverse.

  Before he could stomp the gas pedal,
the side door of the van flew open and a dozen operators exploded out, wielding magazine-fed carbines.

  They opened fire.

  54

  Urgent

  Evan thought of his Ford F-150 as a war machine.

  Kevlar armor reinforced the door panels. Laminated armor glass composed the windows. He’d disarmed the safety systems, removed the air bags, and knocked out the inertia-sensing switches that shut down power to the fuel pump in a collision. A built-to-spec push-bumper assembly up front shielded the vulnerable radiator and intercooler. A special adhesive compound in the tires sealed most bullet holes, a support-ring “second tire” waiting inside the core as a backup.

  All these contingencies were required now.

  As Evan peeled backward, the tires smoking, divots spiderwebbed the windshield. Max was shouting hoarsely as lead dented the body of the Ford, a deafening series of clangs.

  Over the din Evan noted the cadence of the bullets, the muzzle flash, the operators’ SWAT-light attire—golf shirts and khakis.

  The bullet-resistant glass would last only so long when confronted with an onslaught of 5.56 rounds, so Evan locked the wheel to the left and fishtailed around in a J-turn, barely slowing momentum.

  The rear window went opaque beneath the bursts of rounds. Evan cut right hard and then right again, gunning up an alley and screeching through a red light, slewing for the on-ramp.

  He ran the freeway a few exits, Max white-knuckling the passenger seat and breathing hard. And then Evan exited, burying the truck in traffic.

  The Ford F-150 was the most common truck on the road, as well as the most stolen. People tended to look past it—when it wasn’t riddled with bullet holes. It drew a few stares now, but not as many as it might in another city, one that didn’t host countless film and TV shoots that required countless stunt vehicles. Even so, he’d have to get it off the street soon if he didn’t want to tempt fate. Pulling up an alley, he coasted to the curb and killed the engine.