Page 108 of The Evening Wolves

“Motherfucker shot me in the back,” Emery said, wincing as he rolled onto his hands and knees. “I suppose it wasn’t enough for him to have stabbed me in the back once already. Jesus Christ, John, you’re going to have to help me up.”

“I guess I was correct about our family only owning one stab vest.”

Emery’s answering smile was surprisingly boyish as he held up a hand.

John-Henry helped his husband to his feet. Emery’s face tightened with pain, and he grunted as he leaned heavily on John-Henry. They stayed like that a moment. Cassidy’s choking gurgles alternated with Koby’s shallow breaths. The smell of blood filled the air, mixing with the stink of gunpowder and loose bowels. The stink clung to skin, and John-Henry was aware of sweat and body oil and the new, urgent desire for fresh air and hot water and, piercing with its intensity, a beer.

Then Emery set his forehead against John-Henry’s, and his hand curled around John-Henry’s nape. For a heartbeat, it was just the two of them. And then sirens sang in the distance, and Emery whispered, “Colt.”

“Go on,” John-Henry said. “I’ll keep an eye on them.” Cassidy’s face was ashy, his eyes peppered with red. “Is he going to die?”

“Most likely,” Emery said. “I doubt the paramedics will arrive in time to administer an emergency tracheotomy.”

“But.”

“But,” Emery said grudgingly, “I’ll see what I can do.” He appraised the fallen man for a moment. Cassidy’s sneakers scraped across the carpet. “After I find our son.”

John-Henry nodded, pulled the cuffs from his belt, and turned his attention to Koby. Once he had the smaller man secure, he made a makeshift bandage out of his shirt and used it to compress the gunshot wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. Koby screamed as John-Henry bore down on the bullet hole, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out.

Emery made his way down the hall, hammering on doors, calling, “Colt! Colt!”

A door at the end of the hall opened, and Colt stuck his head out. His eyes were wide, and even from a distance, his terror had an almost physical presence. His gaze fell on Emery, and then he sprinted into the hall and crashed into his dad. He wrapped Emery in an embrace, and Emery’s pained grunt suggested the strength of his hold. But Emery didn’t pull back. He hugged Colt to him, and he didn’t let go. More kids began to emerge from their rooms, faces teary and frightened. Ashley crept out of the same room where Colt had been. He was dressed in pajama pants printed with reindeer, and his sleep shirt showed a stylized Santa face with sunglasses. Emery looped him into the hug too, and a shudder ran through Ashley as he started to cry. And John-Henry realized, as Koby’s blood soaked through his t-shirt, warm and staining his hands, that it was Christmas Eve.

25

The day that followed was long. The interviews, which were really more like interrogations. The unending hours in impersonal, institutional settings: the back of an ambulance, the hospital, and then the Metropolitan police station.

The most important thing Emery learned was that the kids were fine. Until the fire alarm and the shooting, they’d all thought it had just been a fun trip made slightly inconvenient because Koby had taken their phones.

The second most important thing was that both Koby and Cassidy were going to survive. John had kept Koby from bleeding out, and Emery had administered an emergency tracheotomy (pocketknife and the empty tube of a ballpoint pen), which meant Cassidy would make a total, albeit uncomfortable, recovery. He took that as good news. Emery didn’t know much about this Koby character, but he knew Jonas Cassidy, and Cassidy was a coward. He’d flip as soon as anyone so much as breathed the word deal. If they were lucky, Koby might flip too. Farah, the woman who had helped coordinate the trip, was also under arrest. It was unclear to Emery what her role in all of it had been, but he guessed that she, like the kids at GLAM, had been headed for a terrible fate.

Vermilya had escaped. For now. But he’d been hospitalized and fingerprinted. He was in the system now, and that meant he couldn’t stay invisible forever. Or at least, that’s what Emery hoped.

It was midafternoon before they drove home. And then, in the wake of everything that had happened, total exhaustion caught up with all three of them. Biscuit, of course, was oblivious, but after her first spurt of zoomies, she seemed content to climb on Colt, and Colt practically had a death grip on the dog. Too tired for anything else, they ate frozen pizzas and stayed close to one another, and they didn’t say much. The TV droned in the background. That was enough.

For the first time in Emery didn’t know how many years, John-Henry Somerset didn’t celebrate his birthday with a brunch. No friends filled their home. No one called, as far as he knew. He watched the dark settle like snow. And when he turned on the lights on the Christmas tree, he discovered that his son and husband both had fallen asleep on the couch.

He covered them with blankets. And then he made a call and got into the minivan.

A little less than an hour later, he passed a truck stop called The Big Muddy. It was a massive operation: dozens of fuel pumps, a meandering convenience store-slash-restaurant with a timber veneer and picture windows, and a flashing sign near the interstate that said THE BIG MUDDY – CHEAP GAS – HOT SHOWERS – CLEAN ROOMS – DINA’S GRUB. Even on Christmas Eve, the truck stop had steady traffic. He slowed and eased onto the shoulder of the road a quarter mile later and walked back. Because you never knew about cameras.

He started at the back of the lot, where one wing of the truck stop offered rooms for rent, and walked slowly down the lot. He stopped when he found the passenger van. The plates were different, but he recognized it anyway. He bent and removed the tracker that Shaw had placed beneath the trailer hitch, wiped the spot with his sleeve to remove any incidental prints, and moved up the walk to wait. He produced a vape pen confiscated from Colt and turned it on. The pen glowed, and from time to time, Emery raised it to his mouth and blew out a stream of breath to create the illusion that he’d stepped outside to vape. Like smoking, it was one of those simple things that gave you an excuse to wait anywhere.

Emery didn’t have to wait long. He stood there, listening to the sound of cars whipping past on the interstate, to Christmas music playing on the fuel island speakers, to a girl calling for her mom to wait up, to life—because that’s what it was. All these people going about their lives. The cold stung his cheeks. Judy Garland came on, and she sang about the promise of next year, and muddling through. After about fifteen minutes, his phone buzzed. He checked the message and resumed his waiting.

The unsteady slap of feet was the first sign, and then a darkened shape came around the corner of the Big Muddy. The shape resolved itself into a man. His blond hair was now a brown so dark it was almost black, and he wore a ball cap and a bulky coat that made it hard to tell his build. He’d even added glasses—wire frames that changed the shape of his face. Jace Vermilya, or whatever his real name was, didn’t look good. But that was the risk you took when you left the hospital early.

He didn’t even look at Emery as he stumbled to one of the motel room doors. He wobbled and braced himself with one hand on the jamb as he produced a key, and then he began the process of trying to unlock the door. As he tried to line up the key, another shadow appeared from around the corner of the building. It resolved itself into Shaw: black jeans, an unremarkable jacket hanging open over a t-shirt that said THE BIG MUDDY, only a hint of his auburn hair showing under the dark beanie. His face was pale, his eyes bruised. But clear, Emery thought. No hint of doubt or wavering. He pocketed the vape and walked down the sidewalk toward Vermilya.

Shaw met him, and they both looked at Vermilya, who was still fumbling with his key.

“He has enough oxy in him to put down a horse,” Shaw said. “And that’s not even taking into consideration the beers.”

Emery nodded. “Did anyone see you?”

“Of course.” Shaw pointed at the t-shirt and shrugged. “They saw helpful wait staff bringing someone a fresh beer while he was in the bathroom.”

“The cameras—”

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