Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,26
and hear nothing from inside. He stares at the tinted windshield as if it might magically turn transparent.
“But he’s too small.” The Mystery Man is doing his best to keep his voice hushed. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, notices Evan watching, and lowers his hand. “You want to waste two years waiting on him to grow? I can get you dozens who are better than him. Why’s this one worth it?” A pause, and then he draws his head back sharply. “Maybe he did, but I still would’ve beat the shit out of him after.” He listens intently for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s your life.”
The Mystery Man walks over, passing Evan without slowing. “Well,” he says, without looking behind him. “You coming?”
Evan keeps at his heels across the handball courts.
“You wanna go home, say good-bye to your friends, your Papa Z?”
Evan pictures Van Sciver dragging himself along the wall to the bathroom, his hands balled into fists. “Nah,” he says.
“You got stuff?”
“Nuthin’ I need.”
A few blocks away, they reach a beige Crown Victoria, and the Mystery Man says, “Get in.”
Evan obeys. The heavy door shuts behind him. He reminds himself to keep breathing.
The engine shudders to life, and they loop back through the neighborhood, passing Mr. Wong’s dry cleaner that has the dish of Tootsie Pops the boys plunder with regularity. Mystery Man cuts around the corner, and Evan realizes with a stab of fear that they’re going to pass right by Pride House and its big front window. And sure enough there they are, crowding against the pane just as Evan himself has done so many times.
Even though they are partially lost in the reflection, Evan identifies them by posture and silhouette. Ramón looming tall like a stick figure, bony arms poking out from his knockoff Timberland shirt. Tyrell stooped in that way of his, eyes lowered, hand swiping the wisps on his chin. Andre’s head craning as he watches the Crown Vic coast by, looking lost, left behind, as far from those “California Dreamin’” roller-skating girls as ever.
Evan slumps down in his seat. The Mystery Man looks over with a sadistic smile, eases his foot off the gas a bit more to prolong the torture.
Evan risks one last glance before the row house slides out of view, just in time for him to make out Charles Van Sciver staggering to the glass, elbowing the others aside. He looks pale and sickly, his Redskins jersey askew, as if he’d pulled it on hastily. While Evan stares back in horror, Charles slams his palm against the window hard enough to make Evan wince inside the air-conditioned sedan.
At last the Crown Victoria drifts away. Charles’s face, twisted in anger, remains like an imprint on the backs of Evan’s eyelids.
His lips pursed with contentment, the Mystery Man focuses on the business of steering. They drive out of the city, heading north, passing drab concrete overpasses and interstate exits Evan has never seen. His excitement morphs into terror and then back again. The line between opportunity and ruin seems wafer thin.
They pull off the interstate. Evan can no longer hold his mouth. “Where are we going?”
The Mystery Man earns his moniker. He keeps his fist atop the wheel, a cigarette protruding from his knuckles, an endless ribbon of smoke sucked out the crack of the window.
They pull in to a gas station, but rather than head toward the pumps the Mystery Man idles behind the convenience mart near the air hoses. Evan eyes the meter, notes that the tank is still three-quarters full.
Mystery Man reaches for Evan, and Evan jerks back, but the hand continues past his thighs to the glove box. The lid thuds open. Inside, a gleaming handgun. The man removes it, the barrel jogging loosely toward Evan. He has gone board-stiff in the passenger seat, his hamstrings and calf muscles turned to piano wire. He tells himself to exhale, and a moment later he does.
The man smirks, enjoying this, then reverses the gun in his hand with an expert flip. Offering it to Evan. “Take it.”
Evan does.
“Go inside,” the Mystery Man says. “Aim it at the checkout clerk.”
“Then what?”
“Oh,” he says with knowing amusement. “That’s all you’ll need to do.”
Evan feels the heft of the gun, this neat metal contraption that contains the power of the universe. This is a test—it must be—but for what, he does not know. Is it a test he even wants to pass? If he does, will that make him the