Page 106 of Into the Fire

“Hey,” the deputy said. “You okay?”

Evan nodded. The deputy moved him to a bench bolted to the concrete floor. Before him was an electronic fingerprint scanner. The deputy collapsed into a computer station on the far side with an arthritic groan and said, “All ten on the glass.”

Evan pressed his hands onto the wide plate, felt the heat rising through the fingertip adhesives as the light-emitting diodes rolled underneath. The deputy’s monitor was tilted, granting Evan a slanted view of the CLETS database, waiting to spit out Paytsar Hovsepian’s criminal history once the scan results registered.

Evan waited for the impressions laid into the fingerprint films to work.

But the onscreen timer kept spinning. The deputy knocked the side of the monitor in frustration. The false prints wouldn’t register.

A sense of genuine dread descended on Evan, tightening his jaw. All it would take was a momentary computer glitch. The deputy would wipe down his fingerprints, discover the adhesives. And Orphan X, the country’s most wanted former government asset, would no longer have to be hunted and taken down. He’d already have put himself behind bars, delivered himself with a bow. Right on the eve of his retirement.

The deputy tugged a few tissues from a box and swiveled his chair toward Evan.

The computer dinged, accepting the scan.

The deputy turned away and stuffed the tissues back into the box.

Evan eased out a breath through his locked teeth.

The CLETS interface brought up Hovsepian’s prior conviction from high school. The decades-old booking photo showed a dull-eyed kid washed pale from adrenaline, a tangle of hair falling over his stoned eyes.

Evan’s appearance was close enough, especially given that it had been nineteen years since the picture was taken.

The deputy didn’t even bother looking. “You can take your hands off the scanner already.”

Evan had been so tense he’d frozen in place. As he withdrew his fingers, he felt the film on his left pinkie tug.

The adhesive peeled free and clung to the glass plate.

Transparent yet in full sight, it remained curled up from the scanner like a contact lens.

Evan forced himself not to look at it. He set his hands on the table casually. The deputy turned and rested his elbows on either side of the scanner. His breath fluttered the pinkie adhesive.

“All your possessions on the table,” he said.

Evan took out his driver’s license, a few crumpled singles, and some coins. He dropped the change about six inches above the table, trying to make it look unintentional. A nickel rolled off the edge, and the deputy leaned to catch it.

As he dipped to the side, Evan swept his hand across the fingerprint scanner, the gummy adhesive clinging to his knuckle and peeling free. Annoyed, the deputy set the nickel back down atop the sad pile of cash. “Okay. So. Two dollars and seventeen cents. Gearing up for a big night on the town, were you?”

Pretending to cough, Evan brought his fist to his mouth. Slipped the film inside. Swallowed.

Only a momentary relief. If he wanted to leave no trace behind, he’d lost the use of his pinkie finger for the duration.

He wasn’t sure what the optimal conditions were to enter jail but he imagined that they didn’t involve a concussion and a nonoperational finger.

The deputy swiveled back to the computer, logging the few items into the property-management system. He shoved a clipboard at Evan. “Review that this is all your stuff and sign.”

Evan unclipped the two-page form and took his time reading it, scrutinizing each line of text, rubbing his eyes as if hungover. He flipped back to the first page again. Then back. The whole time he was careful to hold out his pinkie like a Jane Austen heroine.

“It ain’t signing away your firstborn, high roller,” the deputy finally said. “It’s less than three bucks.”

Evan slotted the pages back into the clipboard and signed Paytsar’s name. Lowering his hand to his side, he returned the clipboard.

The deputy snapped his fingers. “Nice try.”

“Oh,” Evan said, “sorry.”

He gave back the pen.