Page 24 of The Evening Wolves

Emery said nothing. He could taste the artificial flavoring of the vapor on every breath. He thought he could feel it, like a film that the vape had left on his face.

“How is he?” Dulac asked.

Somewhere in the building, a radio crackled with static.

“How do you think?”

In the darkness, it was impossible to make out the expression on Dulac’s face. And maybe it wasn’t even an expression. Maybe it was a shadow.

“Poor John-Henry,” Dulac said softly. “His perfect little world in smithereens.”

The shadow was there again. A trick of the light. Or, as it were, a trick of the dark. The warmth of the station seemed oppressive now, Emery’s coat too heavy, his shirt clumping under his arms.

“And how are you?” Dulac asked.

“Busy.”

Dulac craned his head, considering Emery from a new angle. It brought a sliver of his face into the light: a triangle of brow and nose and cheek. The scars were red and raised, his injured eye shot through with blood, even all these months later. He was smiling, and it made Emery think of ridiculous comparisons, the kind of overblown descriptions in the novels John favored. A cat and a mouse. His voice lilted mockingly as he said, “Emery.”

One moment, and then another. Dulac didn’t move. He didn’t draw a gun. He didn’t shout. He didn’t do anything but stand there, smiling, that panel of thin, pale light cutting a triangle out of his face. But Emery found his mind racing, mapping possibilities, probabilities. If he takes a swing. If he tries to draw. Hand on his wrist, foot behind his ankle. The odds were good that Emery was faster than Dulac; he was certainly bigger, and the advantage of strength in a close encounter was significant. But all it would take was a single noise to bring someone else running, and then it would be over.

“It is...difficult.”

“You can do better than that.”

His heart beat louder, the sound trapped inside his head. He wanted to press a hand against his chest, to bear down on the pain there. But he kept his hands at his side, and he kept his voice on a tightrope. “You know John. This is an attack on who he is, and even though he’s trying not to let it get to him, he’s struggling. To be shoved out of your place in the universe. To be cut off, alone. To have everyone look at you like you’re worse than nothing, like you’re less than human. To learn that all the things you relied on are smoke.”

“I’m not asking about him. I’m asking about you.”

And I’m telling you, Emery thought, a hint of disorientation, as though somehow one of them had slipped into a foreign language. Confused because it was obvious. And a sense, too, that perhaps he was the one who was confused. I’m telling you because it’s happening to me, he thought with that same dazed uncertainty. Because they already did it to me.

Then the moment passed, and the shadowed length of the hallway resolved in his vision. Dulac was still waiting, one blood-dark eye fixed on him.

“How is it? I want to take my family away from here and burn this fucking town to the ground.”

The corner of Dulac’s mouth canted into an unfamiliar smile. “How about that?”

“Gray, I don’t have time for this. The clock’s running, and you’ve got a decision to make. Are you going to help John? Or are you going to sit back and let these people destroy him?”

Dulac settled back on his heels. Darkness covered his face again like a caul. That hooked smile might have still been there. Or not. But finally he said, “What are you looking for?”

“Anything. You know how it works. It’s the first rule of an investigation: every contact leaves a trace. Someone managed to plant those files on John’s computer, and I’m willing to bet they had to do it from inside the station. That means someone was here, in this building. Contact. Multiple points of contact. So, I’m going to look. And I’m going to keep looking until I find a trace that leads me back to these sons of bitches.”

“Or until the night watch rolls in and finds you digging through their lockers. Why not file an official request? Get whatever you want the right way.”

“Because things are moving quickly, and because whatever I want, I think there’s a good chance it will disappear if I file an official request.” Emery paused. “I understand your bitterness. And I understand your anger. But I don’t understand how you could let someone do this to John. He’s always been your friend.”

“He’s always everyone’s friend! That’s the whole problem!”

The words weren’t a shout—they were too low for that. But they were furious, and filled with an intensity that broke them into syllables.

“Never mind,” Emery said, angling his body to twist past Dulac.

Dulac’s hand snaked out and caught his arm. For a moment, Dulac seemed to be struggling with something—like he couldn’t catch his breath, like maybe he was having a panic attack, and his body was telling his brain he couldn’t get enough air. And then, for one horrible moment, Emery thought he was laughing. Dulac’s fingers tightened until they bit into Emery’s biceps. And then, slowly, Dulac seemed to take control of himself. He released Emery, shifted to let him pass, and then, when Emery took another step, said, “Peterson changed the codes.”

Emery stopped. He had counted on institutional inertia. He had counted on small-town laziness.

“Didn’t think about that, did you?” Dulac didn’t sound gleeful or amused, though. He sounded tired. “Come on.”

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