“What was it?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “But in 1997 President Bennett was the undersecretary of defense for policy at the DoD.”
“And the Orphan Program existed under the Department of Defense’s umbrella,” Joey said slowly, putting it together.
All at once the rationale for the shift of the Program’s aim under Van Sciver’s leadership came clearer. So did the sudden push to exterminate Orphans—Evan most of all.
He didn’t just know where the bodies were buried. He’d buried most of them himself.
Joey said, “So Bennett greenlit your first mission.”
“Yes. And as the leader of the free world now, he wants to clean up any trace of his involvement in nonsanctioned activities. Any trace of me.”
Joey set her elbows on the island and leaned over, her eyes wide. “Do you get what this means? You’ve got dirt on the president of the United States.”
Evan spun back in time to his twelfth year, riding in Jack’s truck, Jack describing the Program to him for the first time in that ten-grit voice: You’ll be a cutout man. Fully expendable. You’ll know only your silo. Nothing damaging. If you’re caught, you’re on your own. They will torture you to pieces, and you can give up all the information you have, because none of it is useful.
“I know the who,” Evan said. “But not the what.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know what I did in ’97. But I don’t know anything else. Or how it connects to Bennett.” He looked down at the red notebook as if it could tell him something. “But someday when this is all over, I’m gonna find out.”
“When what’s all over?”
“Come and I’ll show you.” He shouldered the camo pack, grabbed the keys, and started for the door.
*
The Vegas Strip rose from the flat desert earth like a parade, a brassy roar of faux daylight. Evan kept on the I-15, let the bombastic display fly by on the right-hand side, Joey’s head swiveling to watch it pass. For a few minutes, it was impossible to tell that it was nearly four in the morning, but as the glow faded in the rearview and the stars reasserted themselves overhead, it became clear that they were driving through deepest night.
Joey worked her speed cube without looking. Whenever Evan glanced over, he saw that she was once again spinning it into patterns from memory. The clacking of the cube carried them across the dark miles.
Once the grand boulevard was far behind them, Evan pulled over and wound his way through back roads. The pickup rumbled onto a dirt road that narrowed into a sagebrush-crowded trail. At last he pulled over at a makeshift range. Tattered targets fluttered on bales of hay beneath the moonlight, Monet gone bellicose. When they stepped out of the truck, shell casings jingled underfoot.
“What are we doing here?” Joey asked.
“Planning.”
“For what?”
“For the next time I eat something and light up the GPS in my stomach.”
“Now Van Sciver’ll know it’s a trap,” she said.
“Right.”
“So he’ll spring a trap on our trap.”
“And we’ll spring a trap on the trap he’s springing on our trap.”
She squinted at him through the darkness. He felt a flash of affection for this girl, this mission that had blown through his life like an F5 tornado. He thought of his words to Jack in their final conversation—I wouldn’t trade knowing you for anything—but he couldn’t make them come out of his mouth now, in this context. They stopped somewhere in his throat, locked down behind his expressionless stare.
Far below, a solitary set of headlights blazed through the night. Evan and Joey watched them climb the dune, disappearing at intervals on the switchbacks. Then a dually truck shuddered up beside Evan’s F-150, rocking to a halt.
The door kicked open, and Tommy Stojack slid out of the driver’s seat and landed unevenly. His ankles were shot from too many parachute jumps, as were his knees and hips. The damage gave him a loose-limbed walk that called to mind a movie cowboy.
“Shit, brother, I was way out at the ranch prepping for Shot Show when you called. Just had time to wash pits and parts and haul ass out, but here I is.”
He and Evan clasped hands in greeting, and then Tommy looked over at Joey, his biker mustache shifting as he assessed her.
“This the one you told me about?”
“It is.”
Tommy gave an approving nod. “She looks lined out.”
Joey said, “Thanks.”
“For a sixteen-year-old broad, I mean.”
Joey smiled flatly. “Thanks.”
Tommy stroked his mustache, cocked his head at Evan. “Last we broke bread, I said if you needed me, give a holler. You hit a wall, and you figured what the fuck.”
“I figured exactly that,” Evan said.
“Well, I can’t scoot like I used to, but I can still loot and shoot. I know you well enough to know if you’re calling in air support, you’re up against it.”
“Yes,” Evan said.
“Well, with what you’re asking, I’m gonna need you to make more words come out your mouth hole.”
“They’re trying to kill me. And they’re trying to kill her.”
A long pause ensued as Tommy chewed on this. “You I understand,” he said finally, his mustache arranging itself into a smirk. “But still, I suppose it’d be unsat for me to sit back and let a good piece of gear like you hit a meat grinder. So. What services of mine are required?”
Evan said, “Your research for DARPA…”
Tommy’s eyes gleamed. “Before we get to puttin’ metal on meat, I’d best know what we’re looking at so I can see if it falls within my moral purview. So if you want me to put on the big boy pants and the Houdini hat, let’s go back to the shop, I’ll drink a hot cuppa shut-the-fuck-up, and you read me in on what’s read-in-able.”
“Wait a minute,” Joey said. “DARPA?” She looked from Evan to Tommy. “What are you guys talking about?”
“What’re we talking about?” Tommy smiled, showing off the gap in his front teeth. “We’re talking about some Harry Potter shit.”
71
Bring the Thunder
A cup of yerba maté tea and a plate of fresh-sliced mango, both lovingly served, both untouched, sat before Evan on the low coffee table of the front room. Benito and Xavier Orellana occupied the lopsided couch opposite him.
Benito said, “My son and I, we don’t know how to express our—”
Evan said, “No need.”
Xavier folded his hands. The forearm tattoo he had recently started, that elaborate M for Mara Salvatrucha, had taken a new direction. Rather than spelling out the gang’s name, it now said Madre. The last four letters looked brand-new, hours old. They were interwoven with vines and flowers.
Xavier saw Evan looking and shifted self-consciously. “You said we can remake ourselves however we want. So I figured why not start here.”
Benito’s eyes welled up, and Evan was worried the old man might start to cry. Evan didn’t have time for that.
He looked over their shoulders and out the front window to the brim of the valley of the vast razed lot. Sounds of construction carried up the slope. At the edge of the lot, way down by the 10 Freeway, the fifth story of the emergent building thrust into view. It had been roughly framed out now, workers scrambling in the cross section of the visible top floors. Their union shifts would end in two hours, and then the lot would be deserted for the night.
“How can we repay you for what you’ve done?” Benito asked.
“There is one thing,” Evan said.
“Whatever you ask,” Xavier said, “I’ll do.”
Beside him his father tensed at the edge of the couch cushion.
“Find someone who needs me,” Evan said. “Like you did. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. Find someone who’s desperate, who’s got no way out, and give them my number: 1-855-2-NOWHERE.”
Both men nodded.
“You tell them about me. Tell them I’ll be there on the other end of the phone.”
Benito said, “The Nowhere Man.”
“That’s right.”