Page 44 of The Evening Wolves

When Emery followed Masouda to the counter to pay, John-Henry rubbed his head and tried to think. As his body went to work digesting the food, exhaustion swamped him; he’d burned through his final reserves, and now it felt like all he could do to keep his head off the table. He tried to make sense of what he’d seen: Vermilya and Brey, the pantomimed argument, Brey’s fear. They had already known that Brey and Vermilya were each individually connected to the Cottonmouth Club. Now, they had something linking them together. Like the woman from the meth lab, John-Henry thought. She’d been at the Cottonmouth Club too—Auggie and Jem had both seen her. And they had a link between Vermilya and her as well, now. Three people with ties to the Cottonmouth Club. One was dead, and one was seriously injured. That meant they needed to talk to Eric Brey.

Lost in his thoughts, John-Henry didn’t catch the timbre of Emery’s voice until alarm bells started going off. As he dragged his mind back to the present, he realized two things: Emery was talking on the phone, and angry red slashes marked his cheekbones.

“We’ll be right there,” Emery said and disconnected.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Colt.” Emery stormed toward the door. “Vandalism, destruction of school property, and trespass.”

10

Wahredua High School was a sprawl of low buildings and athletic fields, evidence of the construction and growth that had happened in stages over the years. Blank-faced cement walls. Narrow windows. Covered walkways joined some of the buildings, where—before vaping—students and staff had gone to sneak a smoke. The school’s colors, red and gold, provided the only adornment to all the institutional gray. As John pulled into the parking lot, Emery was remembering the senior prank the year before he’d graduated. The jackasses had trashed the building—literally. They’d brought in garbage over the weekend and left it everywhere. They’d urinated on the walls. They’d taken a sledgehammer to the newly refinished gym floor. One gem of a human being had dropped a deuce on the principal’s desk. And they’d done it all on camera.

“Breathe, please,” John said as he shifted into park.

“I’ll breathe after I murder him.”

“Emery Hazard, stop and take a breath.”

Emery shook his head and reached for the door handle.

John caught his arm.

Neither of them said anything; their bodies said all of it, the firmness of John’s grip, Emery’s balancing act between yanking free and settling back into his seat. Then Emery shook off John’s grip and dropped his head back. A moment later, John’s hand returned to rub his leg.

“What the fuck was he thinking?”

“I don’t know. Before we jump to any conclusions, why don’t we go inside and see what happened?”

“What happened is he got himself arrested by the police, John. What happened is that while I’m trying to keep my husband out of jail, my son has apparently decided to get himself locked up instead.”

He could only see John out of the corner of his eye, but he saw the way John shifted his weight, the way he drew back.

“That came out wrong.”

John’s laugh was surprisingly bitter. “No, I think you pretty much nailed it.”

“John.”

“Forget it.” For a moment, it seemed like John might say more—like he was on the cusp of it. Then he shook his head. “Come on.”

Officer Samuel Yarmark was waiting by the door. He was winter pale, his dark hair mussed in what Emery had decided, over the last year, fell somewhere between adorable and insane in its imitation of John’s. He filled out his uniform in a way he hadn’t when he’d been hired. Some of that was Yarmark’s ‘coincidental’ timing at the gym; John had eventually given up and started helping the younger man with a workout plan. But some of it had to do with how Yarmark carried himself: shoulders back, chest out, head high. It helped, Emery thought a little uncharitably, that Yarmark was also less of a pimply-faced goon these days.

“Chief Somerset.” He nodded. “Hello, Mr. Hazard.”

“Why don’t we go with John-Henry today?”

Holding the door for them, Yarmark shook his head. “Sorry, Chief. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still chief until they fire you. Um, not that they’re going to. Fire you, I mean.”

“What if he orders you, as chief, not to call him chief until the suspension is lifted?” Emery asked.

Yarmark’s forehead furrowed. Then he brightened. “It wouldn’t count because he can’t give orders while he’s suspended.”

“Touché,” Emery said as he passed into the school. He shot a look at John, hoping to see something there—the familiar mixture of amusement and exasperation would have been nice, but he would have settled for annoyance, even anger. Instead, he got emptiness, everything in John’s face shut down and closed off. The worst part was how natural it looked—if you didn’t know him well, you’d see the perfect symmetry of his face, the lack of expression there, and you might believe he was just thinking about something else.

As though sensing Emery’s attention, John brought his eyes up. The tropical blue skimmed toward Emery and then away. The only sign, if it was a sign, was that the set of his shoulders hardened.

Yarmark led them through the school, their steps loud on the linoleum, the smell of floor wax and new rubber filling the air. After the first few minutes, as his body adjusted to the temperature, Emery realized the building was rather cool. Warm compared to the frozen clarity outside, but not by much. Saving money, he decided, while school wasn’t in session.

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