Hellbent--An Orphan X Novel Read online

  Evan said, “Yes, please.”

  * * *

  Evan and Joey sat facing each other in the loft. After Operation Getting Dressed for Dinner, he figured he needed to meditate more than she did. He’d thrown his clothes back on hastily and headed up to meet her in the loft.

  She assumed an erect yogi’s posture. “Back in Richmond you told David Smith, ‘You can’t help people more than they want to help themselves.’”

  Evan said, “Yes.”

  He could see that it was taking everything she had to get the words out.

  “I want to help myself,” she said. “I want to wind up better.”

  “Okay.”

  “Clearly I suck at meditation.”

  “That’s not clear. It might be doing exactly what it should be doing.”

  “Walk me through how to do it again?”

  Jack had taught Evan proper procedures for everything from fieldstripping a pistol to readying for meditation. He started to haul out the directives now when he caught himself and thought of the new Commandment he’d invented for himself—and for Joey.

  Don’t fall in love with Plan A.

  She was waiting on him, puzzled by his delay.

  “You know what?” he said. “Maybe we’ve been approaching this wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sit however’s comfortable. However makes you feel safe.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know.”

  “Then figure it out.”

  She looked around. Then she rolled her shoulders. Cracked her jaw. She crossed her legs and uncrossed them. “Can I go to my couch?”

  “You can do anything you want.”

  She got up on the couch, hugged her pillow, pulled her knees in to her chest. She took a cushion and pressed it against her shins. She put another against her exposed side, building a burrow. “Is this weird?”

  “There’s no such thing as weird.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Does that feel all right?”

  She nodded, two quick jerks of her head.

  “Just focus on your breath now, and let your body talk to you.”

  He closed his eyes. As the first minute passed, he acquainted himself with the silence. He barely had time to narrow his focus when she broke. The first shuddering breath and then the storm.

  She stayed hugging her knees, curled into herself, sobbing. He waited for her to get up and stomp out like before. She didn’t. She rocked herself and cried until the pillow was dark with tears, until her hair stuck to her face, until he thought she’d never stop.

  He sat still, being with her without being with her. After a time it occurred to him that might not be enough.

  He said, “May I sit by you?”

  She shoved tears off her cheeks with the heels of her hands, gave a nod.

  He took a seat on the couch at a respectful distance, but she nudged the cushion aside and leaned into him.

  He was surprised, caught off guard, unsure of what was expected of him.

  At first his arms floated above her stiffly. She was shuddering, hands curled beneath her chin. He thought about what Jack might do and then realized that Jack might never have found himself in a situation like this.

  So instead Evan asked himself what he might do.

  He lowered his arms to comfort her.

  He wasn’t sure if his touch would elicit anger or flight, but she stayed there, her face buried in his chest.

  She felt like an anchor to him, not dragging him down but mooring him to this spot, to this moment, locking his location for once on the grid. For the first time in his life, he felt the tug as something not unpleasant but precious.

  Her legs flexed, jogging her back and forth ever so slightly. He held her, rocking her, as she wept. He brushed her hair from his mouth. Cleared his throat.

  “You’re okay,” he said.

  “You’re gonna be fine,” he said.

  “You’re worth it,” he said.

  * * *

  Downstairs in his bedroom, he called Mia. When she answered, he took a deep breath.

  “Hi, Mia. It’s Evan. I know I was supposed to be there twenty minutes ago. But I can’t come over for dinner with you and Peter. I’m sorry.”

  Joey had finally pried herself off the couch to wash her face, and Evan had told her he’d be right back up. He had to head to Pico-Union in an hour and change, and he wasn’t willing to leave her alone until he had to. The imperative was as much for him as for her, the protective impulse spilling over into something more intimate, paternal.

  It felt threatening and out of control, and he could afford neither at the moment. But he knew that if he left that sixteen-year-old girl alone after what she’d just gone through, he wouldn’t forgive himself for it.

  There was a brief, surprised silence. And then Mia said, “Okay. Can I ask why?”

  He was torn between what he owed Mia and what he owed Joey. “Something personal came up.”

  “And you couldn’t call to let us know? I mean, before?”

  “I really couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Peter made place cards and set the table an hour ago. Wait—scratch that.” Her breaths came across the receiver. “Sorry. I don’t mean to guilt-trip you. And I don’t mind that he learns to handle disappointment. That’s part of life. But I guess I’m not sure how to handle stuff about you with him when I don’t even have any answers. And that seems to come up more and more. No answers, I mean. Which I’m not sure is gonna work, Evan. I thought it might. But I don’t think it will.”

  Something inside him crumbled away, brittle and dead. He thought about the dishes stacked on her counter, the smell of laundry, the instructive Post-its, and how they’d always seemed to be from some other life better than he deserved. Nine floors separated Evan from Mia and Peter, and yet they were out of reach. They always had been. But for a brief time, it had been lovely to pretend otherwise.

  He said, “I understand.”

  “You understand.” She made an unamused sound of amusement. “You know, I’ve never seen you upset. Never seen you get mad, flustered, lose it. At first I thought it was a kind of strength. But then I realized it’s just a kind of … nothing.”

  Her words weren’t just true. They were profoundly true. They landed on him with the tonnage of decades.

  “Look,” she said. “Even if this is our last conversation, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to play the role of the one who cares. And you get to play the role of the wanted asset. We can’t figure it out, whatever ‘it’ is. That’s fine. We’re both adults with complicated lives. But I wish you at least had the spine to say that you cared, too.”

  It exploded out from the core of him, a blinding heat, escaping before he could trap it. “You think I’m pretending, Mia? That this is some game to me? You think I don’t want to just cook linguine and chat over dinner and be with you? I don’t have the same choices you do. I lost someone very close to me, and I need to set that right, whether I’m stuck with some kid I don’t know what to do with, whether I have other jobs I have to see through, whether you want me to come to dinner. It’s what I have to do.”

  His head hummed. His vision felt loose, as if he’d had a drink. He wondered if he’d actually said the words out loud. It seemed improbable that he had.

  “Okay,” Mia said. “That’s a start. Thank you.”

  There was not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. He was as stupefied by her reaction as he was by his outburst. He had no slot for any of this, no bearings to guide him into familiar shore.

  Across the penthouse he heard the slam of his front door.

  His pistol was already drawn, aimed at the open bedroom door, a familiar calm descending over him like a drape. He welcomed it.

  “I have to go,” he said, and cut the call.

  He moved out into the hall, noted a crumpled piece of paper halfway to the great room. He eased past and emerged onto the concrete plain, swinging w
ide for the best vantage on the closed front door. The elaborate internal locks were unbolted.

  Which meant it had been opened from inside.

  He holstered the pistol, stuck his head out into the corridor. The elevator had already reached the lobby. He reversed and hustled across to the spiral staircase and up, confirming that, yes, the loft was empty. Joey’s rucksack was still there, her treasured shoe box out on the sofa.

  That was good. She’d have to come back for those.

  With increasing chagrin he padded downstairs, walked to the end of the hall, and stared at the ball of paper ten yards from his open bedroom door. From this position his words to Mia would have been clear and crisp: I’m stuck with some kid I don’t know what to do with.

  He moved forward on numb legs. Crouching over the paper, he uncrumpled it. Fragile pieces of blue and yellow fell out—the remains of a pressed iris from Joey’s maunt.

  Joey had written a note of her own on the paper.

  Thanks for being there for me. I know I’m not easy.

  L, J.

  63

  Devil Horns

  The night breeze cut straight through Evan’s shirt. Outside the abandoned church, Mara Salvatrucha members clustered loosely in front of the reinforced steel door, their shaved heads making them look sleek and feral. Here on the street, they kept their weapons hidden, but their shirts bulged in predictable places.

  When they noted Evan’s approach, their skulls pivoted in unison. It was hard to distinguish their eyes from the ink spotting their faces. They flicked their cigarettes aside, shoved off the pillars fronting the church entrance, and presented a unified front that called to mind an NFL defensive line.

  As Evan drew within reach, they tugged up their shirts to expose gleaming handguns.

  A man with devil-horn tattoos rolled his head back, regarded Evan down the length of his nose. “I think you in the wrong neighborhood.”

  Evan said, “I want to talk to Freeway.”

  The men laughed. “A lotta folks want to talk to Freeway.”

  Evan let the breeze blow.

  “Do you have any idea who we are, gringo culero? We are Mara Salvatrucha. I translate it for you. Mara means ‘gang.’ Trucha means ‘fear us.’”

  Evan stepped forward. The men drew their pistols but did not aim them. “Your tattoos are designed to elicit fear. You’re probably used to scaring people when you walk down the street, into a store, a restaurant. Because you’ve written right on your face how little you care about how you’re perceived. And that signals that you’re capable of anything. I’m sure you’re used to that working. So look at me. Look at me very closely. And ask yourself: Do I look scared?”

  For a moment there was nothing but the white-noise hum of traffic in the distance. Devil Horns sniffed, rolled his lower lip between his teeth.

  Evan said again, “Tell Freeway I’m here to see him.”

  The men cast nervous looks between them. Then Devil Horns said, “You packing?”

  “Yes. One pistol. And I’m not giving it up. Ask your leader if he’s afraid to meet me inside his own headquarters with fifty armed men.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, cabrón.” He turned to his compatriots. “Watch this hijo de puta.”

  The steel door creaked open and shut heavily behind him.

  Evan waited, keeping a level stare on the remaining men. They returned it, shifting on their blue-and-white Nikes.

  At last the door opened again, and Devil Horns emerged. He held the door ajar for Evan. When Evan walked inside, he caught a whiff of incense and body odor.

  Dozens of men waited in the nave, holding pistols and submachine guns. They folded behind Evan, encircling him. Freeway sat on the broad carpeted steps beneath the altar like a demon god, his hands clasped.

  Tables rimmed the room, covered with baggies and electronic scales. Most of the pallets of boxed TVs had been moved out, but plenty of shoplifted iPhones, Xboxes, and Armani jackets remained. The smaller goods spilled out of booster bags—duffels lined with aluminum foil to thwart stores’ electronic security detectors.

  From the corner of his eye, Evan noted Xavier in the shadowed phalanx, but he made sure not to look at him directly. Evan walked up the aisle between the shoved-aside pews and stopped ten yards shy of Freeway. The man did not rise. Now that Evan was closer, he could discern the features beneath the ink. A pit-bull face—broad cheeks, near-invisible eyebrows, a snub nose that smeared the nostrils into ovals. He had a round head, a bowling ball set on the ledge of his powerful torso. The MS tattoo banded his forehead, an honor and a distinction.

  Freeway spread his hands, clasped them again. An unspoken question. Ambient light glimmered off the steel studs embedded in his cheeks and lips.

  “I have business with one of your men,” Evan said. “I want to buy him out.”

  Freeway’s eyes flickered in a blink. It was hard to tell, the tattooed lids blending with the tattooed sclera. “Which man?”

  “That’s between me and him. Once you agree.”

  “And if I lie to find out?”

  Evan said, “I trust you’re a man of your word.”

  Looking into those black eyes was like looking into death itself.

  “Nobody takes what’s mine,” Freeway said. “I own these men. As much as I own the putas I run in the streets. Drugs and guns are good, sí. But with those? Everything is a onetime sale. A woman? I can sell ten, fifteen times a day. A man I can use a hundred different ways in the same week.” He rose, and the stairs creaked beneath his weight. “There will be no sale. My men are my most valuable possessions.”

  “I understand. That’s why I’m offering to pay you for him.”

  “If you move on one of my men,” Freeway said, “I will kill him, his entire family, and you.”

  A wet breeze blew through the shattered stained-glass window above. Evan glanced through it at the rooftop where he’d perched just two nights before. He realized he was tired. Tired of the miles he’d put on the tread and tired for the road ahead.

  “I don’t want a war with you,” Evan said. “But I’m not afraid of one.”

  Freeway showed his teeth. “You. A war. With us.”

  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide. I’ll come back. I’ll ask again. And either you’ll let him leave. Or you will all die.”

  Some of the men laughed, but Freeway just stared at Evan.

  “What are you planning to do?” he asked.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  A rumbling stirred in the ranks.

  “Kill this bitch now, Freeway!” a man called from behind Evan.

  Freeway reached to the small of his back, came out with a straight razor. “What stops me from gutting you right here?”

  “Nothing,” Evan said. “But I assume you don’t take orders from your underlings.”

  Freeway pulled the razor open a few inches, let it snick shut. “Why don’t we handle this now?”

  “It’s inconvenient for me,” Evan said.

  “Inconvenient.”

  “Yes. I have other business to handle.”

  “You are an interesting man.”

  “Twenty-four hours. I’ll come back. You give me your decision then.” Evan stepped forward, and he heard movement behind him, guns clearing leather, slides being jacked.

  Freeway held up a hand, and the gang members silenced.

  Evan said, “Assuming you’re not afraid to face me again.”

  The black orbs, sunk in Freeway’s face, fixed on Evan.

  “I like this game,” Freeway said. “Twenty-four hours. I will look forward to this.”

  When Evan turned, he sensed Xavier somewhere in the back of the crowd. As Evan walked out, the men spread to let him through and then filled the space behind him, moving like a single living organism.

  64

  Steady as a Metronome

  Joey had left the Uber car back at the vintage merry-go-round and asked directions to the old zoo from a gr
oup of high-school kids decked out in varsity jackets. She felt like she was inside a CW show. Everything outside was beautiful and night-lit. But inside she was a jumble of raw emotion.

  Connor, the skateboarder she and Evan had bumped into outside the safe house, had said that he hung here most nights with friends. She wasn’t sure why she’d thought to come here. She just wanted to be out.

  To feel like she was normal.

  She made her way up the hill, leaving the lights of Griffith Park behind. The farther she got upslope, the sketchier the surroundings. Homeless men rustled in bushes, and tweakers swapped crumpled bills for tinfoil squares. At last she reached the brink of the abandoned zoo.

  An empty bear exhibit shoved up from the ground, a rise of Disneyesque stone slabs covered with spray-painted gang tags and fronted by a handful of splintering picnic benches. It looked haunted. She wound her way into the heart of the place, passing rows of cages, the bars vined with ivy. Stone steps led to fenced-off dead ends. A groundskeeper’s shack had been turned into a squat house, laughter echoing off the walls, a campfire stretching dancing figures up the walls. She peeked inside but saw only druggies. She kept on, peering through the darkness. Syringes and used condoms littered the narrow path between the cages.

  And then she heard the drawl of his voice.

  He was inside one of the cages with his friend, the one who’d fallen off the longboard. A few skinny girls around their age were in there, too, their eyes glazed.

  Connor looked up through the bars and saw Joey. “Hey.”

  Her smile felt forced. “Hey.”

  “Hold this, Scotty.” Connor handed off the water bong to his friend and pointed to the back of the enclosure. “Go around. There’s a hatch back here.”

  She circled in the darkness and ducked to squeeze through the narrow opening. As she entered the enclosure, Connor and Scotty held out their fists, and she bumped them.

  “This is Alicia,” Connor said. “Tammy and Priya.”

  Joey held up her fist, but the first girl just stared at it. Her lipstick was smeared. “Who’s the little girl?” she drawled.

  Her friends didn’t laugh, but they shook their shoulders as if they were, the effect creepy and detached.