Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

“The Nowhere Man.”

“And what exactly is he ?”

“A thing that goes bump in the night,” Declan said.

Static crackled over the line, the pause drawn out long enough that he wasn’t sure if the doctor had disconnected. “Is that trepidation I sense in your voice?”

Queenie glanced over through mascara-heavy lashes. No .

For the first time in memory, Declan didn’t heed her advice. “Maybe part of me’s scared,” he said. “But another part of me’s looking forward to it—staring into the face of something worth staring at. Something that might tell me what I am.”

The doctor’s breath rumbled across the line, a shush of white noise. “If this guy’s what they say he is, you’ll have your chance soon enough.”

It took a few moments for them to realize that the call had ended.

Declan picked a string from his sleeve, flicked it out the window. Queenie splayed her fingers at the top of the steering wheel, admired her incarnadine nails. She looked over at him and grinned, lascivious red lips against too-white teeth. Something in her face was yearning, hungry, eager. He knew exactly what she felt, because he felt it, too.

He stared at that smile, a mirror of his own.

It said, We’re not the only hunters in the game anymore .

54This Shitty Life

Limping into the empty Chinese restaurant, Evan was met with a hearty round of “Irasshaimase” s from the largely Japanese waitstaff until he indicated he was merely going upstairs. Though the swelling on his cheek had diminished, his nose was still deciding whether or not it was broken, having bled sporadically for most of the drive back to Los Angeles. He’d taped his torn cuticle and popped a handful of Advil to back off the ache along his spine; he’d been the recipient of a few kidney punches in the dogpile.

The major general had ordered him quietly removed from the base to create minimal public splash. Evan had been frog-marched outside the main gate and reunited with his crappy Civic, which had been taken apart in a search and mostly put back together again, though one hubcap remained missing and the seat cushions were all slashed. He’d driven back to Barstow to pick up his truck, stashed the beat-to-shit Honda on a side street, and headed straight here.

He paused halfway up the creaky stairs to stretch out his elbow where a nasty contusion seeped down to clutch his forearm. His RoamZone chimed, and he glanced at the text from Joey: GOOD NEWZ. WHATEVER U DID @ CREECH NORTH WORKED. I’M IN THE DATABASES NOW.

Before he could register his relief, another chime sounded: BAD NEWZ.

Beneath, a forwarded article: “Senior Airman Fatally Shot at Gun Club.” A sinking sensation overtook him, dread pulling at his insides. He didn’t have to glance at the tiny photo on the text alert to know who it was.

He pictured Rafael in his tidy room, agitated and trapped, caught between his conscience and the drive to survive. You can’t go up against this kind of power and keep breathing . They’d gaslighted him, gotten him discharged, destroyed his career, his honor. But they hadn’t been content with that.

Evan wanted to feel sadness, but the only thing that came was anger.

A crash echoed down at him through Andre’s flimsy door, and then the sound of someone bellowing.

Steeling himself, he sprinted up two stairs at a time and flew inside.

Lamp toppled, tilted shade throwing uneven light. Holes knocked through the drywall, the aftermath of a fight. A body hurled into the cramped space between the foot of the bed and the wall, legs and one arm sticking up into view, waving animatedly.

But no one else in the room.

It took a moment for Evan to construct the picture.

Upended bottle draining onto the floor. Another empty on the windowsill. Sugary scent of rum. Andre fuming into the side of the mattress. He seemed to be stuck.

Not a brawl, then.

A booze-induced tantrum.

Heeling the door shut behind him, Evan entered. He hoisted Andre up, and Andre swung at him drunkenly. “Offa me!”

Evan seized his shirt and shook him. “Knock it off.”

Andre didn’t stop so Evan shoved him onto the bed. He lay there a moment, then reached for the mostly empty bottle on the floor.

“I’m out there trying to save your ass, and this is what you’re doing.” Evan kicked the bottle away, out of reach. “You need to sober up, drink water.”

The few glasses on the card table were dirty, crusted with residue. Evan tore through the crooked cabinet. A cracked mug on its side and a plastic cup with a pub logo. Not a single thing matched in this fucking place; it was as though Andre had designed it to maximally aggravate Evan’s OCD. Evan grabbed the cup, filled it, and held it out to Andre.

Andre knocked it away, spraying droplets across Evan’s face. He tried to push himself up, losing traction in the sheets, and wound up slumped against the wall. “I told you I wanted to call my sponsor.”

“I see. It’s my fault.”

“—left me here for two days with a buncha Benjamins and nowhere to go.”

“People are dying .” Evan was angry, angrier than made sense. “All you had to do is stay here and not screw up.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” Andre threw himself up onto his feet, swaying unevenly. “You got chosen. You did.”

“What does that mean?”

“They were gonna take another kid. Van Sciver and one other kid. That shoulda been me. Me .” Inexplicably, Andre was crying. “But you jumped the line. You got yourself picked. And then they took Van Sciver. And that was it. That was it . The rest of us got left behind. So how come you got to get fixed, huh?” He swung at Evan weakly, a halfhearted fist that struck him in the chest, more imploring than violent. “How come?”

The words came heated and urgent through Evan’s clenched teeth. “I earned it.”

“No. No. You stole it.” Another loose swing connected with Evan’s torso. “I coulda been so much more. I coulda been you. I didn’t get a shot. You shoulda been here instead of me in this shitty room. In this shitty life.”

Andre was sobbing openly now, his contorted face eliciting not empathy from Evan but a deep, heated embarrassment he didn’t understand. The smell of booze and unwashed sheets, the vise grip of the four tight walls, the baleful drawing of Sofia—it all seemed to thicken the air, pressing in on him, compressing his chest, his judgment.

And then the words were pouring out of him. “You had a wife. You had a kid. A normal life. You had everything anyone could’ve wanted. And you threw it all away for what? This?” Evan plucked the empty rum bottle off the floor and shook it in Andre’s face. “How useless do you have to be? How much of a coward?”

Andre’s face hardened. He swung at Evan again, but this time with intent. Evan sidestepped the cross and punched him in the solar plexus, all fleshy gut, careful not to snap a floating rib. Andre barked out a chunk of air, fell to his knees, and vomited on the threadbare carpet. He heaved again, the hot stink of alcohol and bile rising. His lips were open, sucking for air. And then it came, screeching intakes mixed with sobs, his face shiny with tears and mucus and puke.

He dragged himself into the bathroom in shame, kicking the door shut behind him, but it hit the frame and wobbled wide to show him clinging to the toilet, fighting for breath.

Evan lowered his face, his cheeks burning. It was the first time he’d lashed out in anger since his childhood. Jack had taken that part of him and hammered it into an implement he could keep sheathed, a weapon he drew only with great focus and caution and reverence.