Banishing Evan from himself.
With the bloody flannel mopped around his fist, Evan runs. He runs for the darkness, because only darkness can cover the nakedness of his shame.
Only in darkness can he be alone.
* * *
He came to in silk.
Liquid sheets caressing his skin, a sea of rumpled purple darker than eggplant, a bed fit for a maharaja.
At first he thought he was still in the dream.
And then the pain hit.
8
His Own Dollhouse
When Evan lifted his head from the pillow, his ribs gave a complaint that set his teeth on edge. He took a moment to remember how to breathe. Then he threw back the silk-soft sheets and sat up with a groan. Facts pinged in at him like june bugs hitting a windshield.
He was naked.
Wine-red bruises splotched his right side—thigh, stomach, chest.
His room was as spacious and luxurious as the sleigh bed unfurled beneath him.
Through a groggy haze, he assembled his surroundings in pieces. Vaulted ceiling, exposed beams. Insulated curtains on a wrought-iron rod. Distressed-leather chair and ottoman with whipstitched edges and hammered nailheads. Mahogany counter and built-in desk without a chair. Crackling logs in a travertine-faced fireplace. The design seemed as un–Los Angeles as one could get, Ralph Lauren sprucing up the von Trapp family lodge.
Evan allowed himself one great big moment of What The Fuck.
Then he stood, wincing. His head swam from the drugs or too much time spent horizontal—or, most likely, both. Rustic oak plank floorboards, cool and smooth beneath his soles, brought welcome relief from the toasty hearth. He stretched, taking stock. His hands were fine. Likely a cracked rib—nothing to do there. The bruising, pyrotechnic but harmless, looked to be at least a few days along.
All things considered, the beanbag rounds had lived up to their billing.
He crossed to the walk-in closet. Inside hung five button-up shirts, slotted like dominoes. Jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters, folded and placed neatly in stacks, took up very little space on the long shelves. No belt. Beside the stacks he found underwear, socks, and two new pairs of high-top hiking boots in ten and a half. His size.
What he’d been wearing prior to his collision with the wildlife-capture net was missing, his boxer briefs as long gone as his gun and folding knife.
Well, then. First things first.
He pulled on a pair of jeans, the denim scraping across his bruised thigh. Then he yanked a shirt from the rod, the hanger pulling out of shape. Bizarre. Freeing it, he turned it over in his hands. It was made of pipe cleaner, a pliable chenille stem twisted into the rough shape of a hanger. It took his brain a second to process this oddity.
A normal plastic or wooden hanger could be fashioned into a weapon. And they—whoever they were—wanted to make sure he had no weapons.
However lovely the decor, Evan was no guest here.
His gaze traced the length of the nearest laminate shelf. Bolted to the wall. He reached under it, felt the cool of the steel beneath. The hanging rod was welded in place. To get anything loose, he’d need a socket wrench or a plasma torch.
Turning his attention to the shirt, he examined the stitching, the collar, the taper from chest to waist. The fabric slid like velvet across his skin. The fit confirmed what he’d suspected—the shirt was custom-tailored. Which raised further questions.
He’d add them to the list.
In the main room, he took note of the huge screws securing the leather chair and ottoman to the floor, the curtain rod welded to the wall, the drawerless face of the chairless desk. Crouching by the fireplace, he dipped his head and checked the flue. The metal hatch looked wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, but the robust flames would roast him on the way up. Just for the hell of it, he tried the suite’s main door, an oversize block of mahogany that matched the counter and desk. It was locked—surprise, surprise—but he was impressed by how little it budged in the frame.
Next he trudged over to the bathroom. The door swung open to a new design ecosystem. Asian grays and soothing cobalts. Big interlocking bamboo tiles, as hard as stone, lined the walls. A rain showerhead protruded from the wall, unencumbered by a stall. Beneath it the floor sloped to a drain. Resting beside the drain, a single bar of unwrapped soap and a fluffy bamboo-shoot-patterned towel with scalloped edges befitting a fine hotel. No cabinets, no drawers. On the floor next to the lidless and tankless metal toilet, a trash-can liner rested in the spot where a bin might go.
A wall mirror floated above two sinks scooped from a single slab of floating granite. Evan drew closer, eyeing not his reflection but the mirror itself. It was recessed, set behind a plate of armored glass.
He took advantage of the mirror to check his bruised ribs more thoroughly. The needle prick at his neck looked to be healed and gone, but a crimson dot in the crook of his elbow showed where a line had been inserted. They’d kept him out, all right, feeding who knew what drugs into his system.
A prison toothbrush rested between the sinks. Prepasted, with a stubby handle made of flexible rubber. The mint tasted chalky but did the trick, scrubbing the medicinal coating from his teeth.
He splashed cold water over his face and then leaned against the jamb, regarding the well-appointed bedroom. His own holding pen in his own dollhouse.
It struck him that this was precisely the kind of situation that other people called him for.
The inconvenience of this mystery detour made him angry. It was costing him time better spent tracking down Alison Siegler, who was currently trapped inside Container 78653-B812, as terrified as it was possible for a seventeen-year-old girl to be.
He strode across the room and threw back the heavy curtains. The sight beyond the balcony made the breath snag in his throat. The view, segmented by welded steel bars at the balustrade, showed mountains blanketed with white pines.
It took a moment for the shock to subside. When he twisted the lock and shoved open the sliding glass door, cold air cut straight through his clothes. Rain turned to snow at around thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the temperature was flirting with that now, the flitting drops hard and angry, hungry for transformation.
He wasn’t just “not in L.A.” He was nowhere near L.A.
Wherever he was, it was on the floor of a valley. The sun, a blurred splotch of gold, hovered above a ridge to the left. Dusk? Dawn?
He stepped out toward the bars that were celling in his balcony, the view yawning wider. Standing here gave him a vantage, however slight, to see part of the massive building in which he was imprisoned. From what he could make out, it looked to be a rambling stone-and-wood chalet. Above one of the visible A-frames to his right, black smoke poured from a stone chimney. Gauging the distance to the ground and then to the eaves, he guessed he was on the third of four floors.
Movement caught his eye below. Two men wearing night-vision goggles jogged into view, hunched against the cold, Doberman pinschers at their sides. Evan made a mental note of each man’s build, posture, and gait before they disappeared into a bright red barn a quarter mile away from the house.
He thought, Two dogs, two guards, and counting.
The rolling barn door boomed shut, and then the gray diorama beyond the balcony reclaimed the same desolate quality it had before. Evan swept his gaze up the looming rise of the valley but saw only trees and more trees, not a single other residence in sight.
Who wanted him badly enough to stage such an elaborate snatch? Who had the resources, the operational skill?
Charles Van Sciver and the remaining Orphans, certainly, but this didn’t seem to match their modus operandi. Van Sciver would have little interest in keeping Evan comfortable, let alone in luxury.
Over the years Evan had killed a lot of people, disrupted innumerable operations, and left behind countless mourning relatives. Was this the work of a tribal warlord bent on vengeance? A Saudi billionaire with a jihadi son whom Evan had disp
atched? Or maybe a foreign agency wanting to come to terms with a lost U.S. asset?
Judging by the accommodations, they planned for him to be kept.
For what?
It dawned on him that he was shivering, so he stepped back inside and secured the door. He gave the walls and ceiling beams a quick scan, deciding where he would place security cameras if the equation were flipped. He walked around so he could watch the light strike the surfaces at different angles. A dot-size glint caught his eye in a heating vent out of reach on the sloped ceiling. Okay, then. That gave them a view of roughly half the room, including the door leading to the hallway. He searched for where additional pinpoint cameras might fill out the picture. A crack in the doorframe above the bathroom looked promising. If it were up to him, he’d have sunk something in the caulking between the travertine tiles of the hearth as well.
He was just starting to consider how the bathroom might be wired when he heard the knock at the door.
9
Our Lady of Holy Death
Standing in the middle of the room, Evan squared to the sound of the knock and braced himself. There came a click as the door unlocked.
An honest-to-God room-service cart wheeled in. White linen, stainless-steel dome plate covers, basket of bread, French press. The only thing that didn’t match the Ritz-Carlton presentation was the guy pushing it.
Aside from the tattoo high on his neck, a missing incisor, and a general air of menace, he seemed pleasant enough. As the cart rattled into the room, two near-matching gentlemen entered at his heels and fanned out. Each carried an AK-47, a mistake in such tight quarters, though no one had asked Evan’s opinion. A pistol or an FN P90 would’ve been preferable, but both lacked the big-dick factor beloved by narcotraficantes, and these boys seemed to be cartel muscle through and through. Narcos generally called the Kalashnikovs cuernos de chivo—goat’s horns—due to the curved magazines. Choosing their spots, they brandished the AKs with a fetishistic air, posing as if Evan were about to snap their portrait.
Two dogs, five guards, and counting.
The tattoo on the side of each man’s neck featured Santa Muerte. A folk saint favored by narcos, Our Lady of Holy Death resembled Mother Mary, if you ignored the grinning skull. Additional ink classing up eyebrows, cheekbones, and forearms indicated that the men had worked for the Sinaloa Cartel, responsible for at least half the drugs migrating across the border into the U.S. every year.
They’d cleared space at the front door, making way for someone’s dramatic entrance. Evan anticipated a cartel leader, strong of jaw and mustache, but the man who appeared defied any expectations.
He was Caucasian, with coffee-colored eyes that sloped down at the outer corners and a face ratcheted taut and shiny from too much plastic surgery. The lids seemed tight across his eyes, as if he were wearing another man’s face. Though the surgeries made his age hard to peg, he seemed to be softening into his late fifties, swells bulging the sides of his suit. His tie, vest, and shirt were all patterned, paisleys and plaids orchestrated in a way that eluded Evan’s sensibilities and yet conveyed an undeniable elegance. Somehow they clashed and didn’t clash at the same time.
At his back hovered a refrigerator of a man, pale as the moon, with a shaved skull and soft, rounded features that made it look as though someone had Photoshopped the head of a newborn onto Lou Ferrigno’s body. Evan would have expected him to hum with steroidal rage, and yet he seemed calm, almost placid, as if fully aware that his heft gave him the advantage of not having to get worked up over anything. His enormous form tugged at a memory—was he the one who’d fired the wildlife-capture net? Unlike the narcos, he sported no obvious tattoos, though Evan caught flashes of color on the backs of his hands, as if he’d rolled them on a painter’s palette.
“Your accommodations are good?” the man with the suit said, flaring a hand. His fingernails were slightly too long, buffed to a high shine. “I’m a touch OCD, so I wanted everything to be perfect.”
Evan had long thought that people who announced themselves as OCD should be subjected to death by paper cuts, but this guy, with his elaborate yet understated suit, manicured nails, and done-to-a-turn jail cell-cum-bedroom guest suite, seemed the genuine article.
Evan wondered at the kind of money it took to hire muscle away from the cartel.
“Where are your manners, Chuy?” the man said. “Prepare the tray for our guest.”
The narco who’d delivered the cart lifted the stainless-steel domes off the plates to reveal eggs, bacon, and hotcakes, then stood at attention with a mix of aggression and embarrassment, like a pit bull made to wear a dog sweater.
The breakfast offerings provided an answer to one of Evan’s questions. Moments before, he’d been looking at the sunrise, not the sunset.
He moved his gaze past Chuy at the well-dressed man. “Who are you?” he asked.
“René,” the man said. “I know, a faggot name. I can’t help but feel that my parents might have gone with something with a bit more spine to it.”
“Last name?” Evan said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, please…” As he gestured for Evan to sit, he smiled, though his face did not fully obey. “I’d imagine you’re starving. You haven’t eaten anything not from an IV bag in three days.”
Three days, then.
Evan had been taken on Friday, October 14. Which meant it was Monday, October 17.
Which in turn meant that he still had thirteen days before Alison Siegler was delivered to the Jacksonville Port Authority and whoever had purchased her.
Unless the man was lying about the date.
The First Commandment: Assume nothing.
Evan eyed the rifles, then sat on the bed. As René stepped forward into the room, his men floated around him in perfect Secret Service diamond formation. The big guy’s round face peered over René’s shoulder like a second head. Through a break in the bodies, Evan could see the wide tips of his fingers on the small of René’s back, cheated to the side, ready for the hook-and-grab if Evan made a move. The big man’s position and body language made clear that he was the right hand, elevated above the cartel stooges.
René shot a look back at him. “It’s fine, Dex.”
Dex removed his arm, and Evan strained to catch a glimpse of what was on the back of his hand, but it was gone too fast.
Chuy pushed the dining cart forward until it bumped lightly against the ledge of Evan’s knees. There was no knife or fork, just a flexible rubber spoon. Scents wafted up. A butter patty dissolved into the hotcake stack. Bacon beckoned. A cloth napkin was cinched in a segment of bamboo stem that acted as a ring, the fine linen bloused out on either side like butterfly wings. There was a fucking sprig of parsley.
Evan thought, You’ve got to be kidding me.
“I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here,” René said.
“You need me.”
René’s moist lips pursed with amusement that wasn’t really amusement at all. He didn’t like being correctly anticipated. “I’m sorry?”
“A bullet goes for around twenty-five cents. These arrangements cost a touch north of that. So you require me for something. Or you wouldn’t go to the trouble.”
René’s stare, lasering out from behind that Saran Wrap skin, was as unnerving as it was direct.
“Where am I?” Evan asked.
“Think of this as a private-sector rendition.”
“Where am I?” Evan asked again.
“That’s not relevant.”
“What’s relevant is relative,” Evan said.
“Good point. It’s not relevant to me for the purposes of this conversation. And what’s relevant to me is the only thing that matters anymore.”
René’s hand dipped behind a lapel and came out with Evan’s RoamZone phone. He held it aloft theatrically, then dropped it on the floor and smashed it with the heel of his dress shoe. He stomped on it again until the Gorilla Glass cracked and the innards showed. Then he pic
ked it up and tossed it into the fireplace.
Evan didn’t move his head but watched with his eyes.
René turned, a bead of perspiration carving its way down his flushed cheek. “You are in my hands. On my time. There is no help coming for you.”
“I don’t wait for help. I am the help.”
“Well, you’re doing a fine job thus far.”
“I haven’t started yet.”
“Let’s hope you’re smart enough to cooperate. If you do, everything will stay precisely this pleasant.”
“Pleasant,” Evan said.
“Pleasant is relative as well,” René said. “Do you have a name?”
Did he really not know who Evan was, or was this an act? Evan watched him closely for any tells. “I do.”
“What is it?”
“Evan.”
“Your last name?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
René remained several steps back, safely tucked behind Chuy, who was still dumbly holding the stainless-steel domes. The cart, pushed up against Evan’s legs, had the added advantage of pinning him to the bed. Evan took a croissant from the tray and set it on the bedspread beside him. He removed the napkin from the slender bamboo ring. Dex watched him carefully, flat eyes peering out from their doughy recesses.
René said, “I don’t know who you are, but we saw the wreckage you left behind at that house in Fullerton. Were you a client of Hector Contrell’s?”
His tone, Evan noted, held no judgment.
“No.”
“You had a business conflict with him?” René asked.
“No.”
The steel gaze appraised Evan. “You’re too skilled to be an angry relative or the like,” he said. “So what were you there for?”
Evan stared at him.
Realization dawned, excitement asserting itself across René’s features. “You just didn’t like him. I respect that.” He wet his lips. “Who are you?”
Evan stared at him some more.
René said, “Your driver’s license appears to be real, but it’s not. No other identification on you. Your fingerprints turned up nothing.”
The Nowhere Man--An Orphan X Novel Page 4