Dawn finally crested, a crack in a night that seemed by now to have lasted for days. Evan pushed the headlights toward the golden seam at the horizon, closing in on Helena. In the passenger seat, Joey had retreated into a sullenness as thick and impenetrable as the blackness still crowding the cones of the headlights.
By the time he reached the Greyhound bus station, a flat, red-roofed building aproned with patches of xeriscaping, the morning air had taken on the grainy quality of a newspaper photo. Frilly clouds fringed a London-gray sky.
He drove twice around the block, scouting for anything unusual. It looked clear. The three-state drive had served them well.
He pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine.
They stared at the bus station ahead. It looked as though it had been a fast-food restaurant in the not-too-distant past. A few buses slumbered in parallel, slotted into spots before a long, low bench. There was no one around.
Evan said, “They start leaving in twenty minutes. I’ll pick one headed far away. When you get there, contact me as we discussed. I can send you money and IDs—”
“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your IDs.”
“Think this through, Joey. We’ve got three Orphans and fifteen freelancers circling. How are you gonna make it?”
“Like I always have. On my own.” She chewed her lower lip. “These last few months with Jack? They were a daydream, okay? Now it’s back to life.”
A band of his face gazed back from the rearview. The bruises beneath his eyes had faded but still gave him the slightly wild, insomniac look of someone who’d been down on his luck for too long.
“Listen,” he said. “I have to honor Jack’s last wish—”
“I don’t give a shit. Honestly. I don’t need you.” She reached into the backseat and yanked her rucksack into her lap. “What? You think I thought you were my friend?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
She got out, and Evan followed.
She headed for the bench outside while he went in and bought her a ticket, a routine they’d established at the train station in Portland. He tucked a thousand dollars into the ticket sleeve and stepped back outside.
She was sitting on the bench, hugging her rucksack. Her jeans were torn at the knees, ovals of brown skin showing through. He handed her the ticket.
“Where am I going?” she asked.
“Milwaukee.”
She took the bulging ticket. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. I mean it.”
Evan nodded. He shifted his body weight to walk away, but his legs didn’t listen. He was still standing there.
She said, “What?”
Evan cleared his throat. “I never knew my mom,” he said. “Or my dad. Jack was the first person who ever really saw me.” He swallowed, which was harder than he would have expected. “If no one sees you, how can you know you’re real?” He had Joey’s complete attention. He would have preferred a little less of it. It took him a moment to get out the next words. “Van Sciver took that from me. I need to set it straight. Not just for Jack. But for me. And I can’t have anything or anyone in my way.”
She said, “I get it.”
He nodded and left her on the bench.
He got back into the Civic and drove off.
One distraction down.
If he stopped only for gas, he’d make it home in seventeen hours. Then he could hack into the laptop belonging to Van Sciver’s muscle and follow where it led. Tomorrow at noon he’d see about helping Benito Orellana. He still had plenty to do and an unforgiving timeline.
The Honda’s worn tires thrummed along the road. The windows started to steam up from his body heat. He pictured Jack’s writing scrawled there.
GET PACKAGE.
Jack’s final words.
His dying wish.
Evan cranked on the defroster, watched the air chase the fog from the panes.
He said, “I’m sorry.”
He’s the best part of me.
Again he remembered waking up in that dormer bedroom his first morning in Jack’s house, the crowns of oak trees unfurled beyond his window like some magical cloud cover. He remembered how trepidatious he’d been padding down the stairs, finding Jack in his armchair in his den. And Jack’s gift to him on that first morning of his new life: My wife’s maiden name was Smoak. With an a in the middle and no e on the end. Want that one?
Sure.
Evan screeched the car over onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel dust from the tires blew past the windshield. He looked for patterns in the swirling dust, saw only chaos.
He struck the steering wheel hard with the heels of his hands.
Then he made a U-turn.
He parked in the same spot, climbed out. A bus was pulling in, blocking the bench. For a moment he thought she was already gone.
But then he stepped around the bus, and there she was, sitting in precisely the same position he’d left her in, hugging the rucksack, her feet pressed to the concrete.
She sensed his approach, looked up.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She rose and followed him back to the car.