Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

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 headboard. 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.

27Lost 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.