Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

“When he snapped my photo with the robotic bee, did my facial features go into the system?”

“No,” she said. “That’s the whole point. That shit is between you and the microdrone. It doesn’t need anything else. No records in the system, no accountability. And thank God. Your Scooby-Doo disguise—bubble gum in the lips and a hat—would’ve only gotten you so far.”

“Molleken seems to have top-secret security clearances. Looks like he’s even cleared to access sensitive compartment information.”

“Judging from the Predator drone parts littering his lab, I’d say, ‘Duh.’ He should be the poster boy for the military-technological complex, but there’s virtually no mention of his overlap anywhere. That Area 6 shit makes you fall off the map fast.”

“Next stop is Creech North. I need your help prepping.”

“’Kay. I need to get home anyway. My neighbor’s watching Dog. She’s this lonely divorced Realtor with the worst ombre hair-dye job ever who, like, binges on home-improvement shows and subsists entirely on Truffle Kerfuffle—”

“Truffle…?”

“It’s an ice cream—hel lo ?—and I told her I’d be back tomorrow for Dog.”

“Look at you, all grown up.”

“I’m sayin’. Adulting’s hard business, X. But I gotta learn for when—”

“I know, I know. For when you take over for me.”

“Glad you’re finally on board with the plan.”

“I’m not—”

“Hey, where’d you go after you left the battle lab? You shut off the feed, like, an hour ago.”

He thought of Cammy leaning on the newel post to hold herself up. I never said no. Standing in the doorway of her bathroom wearing nothing but a bra and panties, diminished and scared.

“Just had to handle something real quick.”

“’Kay. See ya here.”

She clicked off.

When Evan entered his hotel suite, the connecting door to Joey’s room was open, the TV blaring. He walked through to find her indelicately passed out, sprawled on the mattress, one arm flung over her head into the pillows, mouth ajar, drooling. Her laptop, the remote, and various plates littered the bedspread around her, the wreckage of a Caesar salad and a cheeseburger. A sole stubby french-fry survivor rested aslant on the plate next to a well-plowed mound of ketchup.

She often started when woken up, a panic reaction from her childhood, so he crossed the room as quietly as he could manage. He thumbed down the TV volume a few notches and then pulled a throw blanket gently over her.

One eye was crusted with sleep, and her whistling exhalations carried the scent of onions, but he felt no ping of his OCD initiating disgust or aversion. There was no part of her that he didn’t find endearing.

He wondered what that meant.

The realization cut him at the knees, and he lowered himself to sit on the bed to her side. He thought about Veronica looking at him, that flare of pride before she’d found out who he really was: He told me that you were chosen out of the boys’ home. To do good . He thought about that sketch Andre kept thumbtacked to his wall, his daughter lovingly rendered, each line of her face resurrected from memory. He thought about Cammy’s parents and everything they might have wished for. And then her on the stairs, blouse ripped, breast exposed.

“Damn it,” he said softly.

Joey shifted, for once waking calmly. She stretched, wiped her mouth. “Language.”

“Sorry.”

She rolled over onto her side, yawned inelegantly.

His thoughts pulled to Andre. At one time he’d had something so precious. In Sofia, a daughter with life in her eyes. Evan pictured her in the laundry room of her building, wearing her mom’s bra on her head and mugging for the other ladies. And Brianna, tough and smart enough to raise an eleven-year-old girl on her own. A kitchen table to share meals at and someone to tuck in at night.

Resentment stirred in him—no, something deeper. Envy? That Andre had all this and had thrown it away. And yet Evan was stuck with him. If he turned his back on Andre, he’d be turning his back on Veronica, and then he’d never find whatever he was looking for.

And yet he had something far more valuable right here in front of him. He watched Joey’s back rise and fall with her breaths. Crumbs on her pillowcase.

“Can I…?” Evan hesitated.

She said, “What?”

“Can I pet your hair?”

She looked up at him. “Uh, sure?”

He did.

She closed her eyes. Then opened them. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“Kind of,” Evan said. “Should I stop?”

“No.” She snuggled down into a pillow. “I might like it.”

Her head was warm, her locks glossy and smooth. Her skull felt fragile and soft.

She kept her eyes closed. “We never … I don’t know, just like get lunch. Go to a movie.”

“You want to go to a movie?”

“That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is, what are we? You’re not my dad. You’re not my uncle. You’re not my big brother.” She opened her eyes, and as always he was taken by the depth of their green. “So, like, who are we? What are we good for?”

He kept stroking her hair. He knew what he was good for. He just wanted to be good for something else.

She arched her spine, lazed back into a fetal curl. “This isn’t real life.”

Evan pictured Cammy’s dark room, the bills piling up, her chipped pink nails, the way she’d looked at him from the threshold of the bathroom.

He said, “Maybe this is better than real life.”

But Joey was already asleep.

49A Nobody

The Fresno Valley Shooting Society was sunk in a vale between two desiccated hillsides in Visalia, far enough from society and Route 216 that no one could be bothered by the snap, crackle, and pop of gunfire from the outdoor ranges. Queenie parked the Avis Corolla at the edge of the parking lot, pointing downhill.

The location was remote and discreet, features becoming to a firing range.

For once Declan was dressed down, a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and an untucked navy-blue T-shirt, the better to fit in.

They’d parked here a few minutes after sunrise, staking out the best surveillance position. Sure enough, their target had strolled in at 8:00 A.M. sharp, military punctual for his weekly outing.

They’d watched him disappear into the pro shop to check in and were waiting for him to emerge.

“The doctor’s pretty unhinged,” Queenie said. “I guess someone showed up yesterday asking questions about Hargreave.”

“You know the doctor,” Declan said. “He prefers playing offense to defense.”

Queenie laughed a throaty, womanly laugh. “Don’t we all.”

“We have to figure out who the hell is helping Duran.”

“Duran.” Queenie shook her head. “It is weird that guy could get any kind of backup. I mean who the hell is he anyway?”

Declan shrugged. “He’s a nobody.”

“A nobody with a zero in his bank account and a job at an impound lot.” Her sigh smelled of Big Red chewing gum, cinnamon and sugar. “God, what a life most people have.”

Up ahead their target emerged from the pro shop, clutching his gun case and a few fresh boxes of ammo. Nodding at the range master, he headed up the walkway toward the open-air ranges, the Padres symbol showing on his backward baseball cap.

Queenie reached across and adjusted Declan’s hair, smoothing a wayward lock down around his ear. Time to go now, little brother .

Declan got out, the firecracker fury of gunfire suddenly louder. A revolver pop-pop-popped and then was drowned out by someone unloading a semiauto. He strolled toward the shower of noise.