Page 42 of Lone Wolf

Wandering back through the kitchen, he stared at the slice of ear floating on ice like a sashimi delicacy. If he had a flow cytometer, a decent imaging system, microtomes, a mass spectrometer, cutting-edge histology gear, pipette pullers, passable electrophysiological equipment, and a solid analytical-software suite, he could sequence the DNA.

Instead he had a jar of cocktail onions, a rind of sourdough bread, and a bottle opener made from a .50-cal bullet casing.

Plan B then.

Of anyone he’d met, Candy McClure knew the most about disposing of and processing human matter. As Orphan V, she also happened to be the most lethal woman he’d ever encountered, though based on what he’d seen today, the Wolf was in the running. Once blood-sworn nemeses, Evan and Candy had settled into an unlikely and occasional collegiality, communicating only when dire circumstances demanded it. He called her on the RoamZone and told her what he needed.

“Jesus Christ, X,” Candy said. “I’m not who you ring up when you have a severed ear. Call me when you need to break out of a Siberian prison or something befitting a murderess of my eminence.”

She hung up on him.

He grimaced at the dead phone, set it down, and took another five milligrams of meloxicam. It was above the recommended dose, but he was living life on the edge.

He trudged down the hall at the end of the great room, passing the katana sword mounted on the wall.

As soon as he settled onto his floating bed, exhaustion overtook him. He had just enough energy to text Joey.

Dr. Hill was murdered.

An instant reply: wtf?! And then: did u get loco?

It took Evan a full three seconds to process.

Sofia’s dog. Loco. Fuck.

Not yet, he typed. Be here at oh six hundred. We have a lot to dig into.

yes sir, boss-man sir. shall i bring u yr caramel macchiato

w/ 2.5 sweet n lows?

What’s a macchiato?

ur the worst, x

You’re the worst, too.

25

Too Tired

Evan stirred in the middle of the night. His calf itched but he was too tired to reach and scratch it. So he lay there and let it itch.

Soon he was asleep again.

26

The Space-Time Shit-Talking Continuum

Evan woke up with hot dog breath in his face.

From deep in his slumber he’d sensed the condo alarm give a personalized alert when Joey had entered, so he didn’t spring awake with lethal intent. Instead he opened his eyes groggily to get a fish-eye-lens view of Dog the dog’s enormous snout resting on his pillow. Dog’s nostrils were shoved up against his own nose close enough that he could feel flecks of moisture across his cheeks with each canine exhalation. The hound grinned broadly, his tail wagging forcefully enough to power a speedboat.

Joey stood behind Dog, fists on hips. From those fists protruded a Milky Way Midnight Dark, a can of Red Bull, a brownie in plastic wrap, and various other snack items. They looked like junk-food fans emerging from her sides. In a feat of incompetence, both Doc Martens were untied. Her T-shirt read: SERVICE DOGS ARE LIKE BOOBS. DO NOT TOUCH WITHOUT CONSENT.

Evan said, “Subtle.”

Joey glanced down at the block lettering. “All the old people up in here have no idea what do with that so they leave me and Dog alone.”