Page 123 of Antihero

In light of DeGrado’s choices? The scrotum was fair game.

47Celebration

No one was home at 12B.

Of course not. Evan had come downstairs during working hours and no one worked harder than Mia Hall.

He’d washed the Columbia Law sweatshirt, hung it dry, and then stitched up the boxer rip at the throat with a short length of paracord.

It was folded in a neat rectangle, corners military tight, like a steel plate stamped out of an industrial press.

He left it on her front mat.

Adjusting his rucksack on his shoulder, he started for the elevator. Time to head to the airport, back to New York to run down the men who had terrorized Anca Dumitrescu. Last night, Candy had passed on the news that Anca had agreed to issue a statement to Deputy Assistant Director Templeton, and Evan had texted Naomi to arrange a meet ASAP and to fill in the particulars.

Nearing the elevator, he hesitated.

Then he went back and stood before Mia’s door.

Removing a pen and pad from his rucksack, he wrote out a note.

Thank you.

It seemed insufficient.

But what was he supposed to write?

He got onto the elevator, rode down to the lobby.

The doors opened. He stayed inside. Joaquin stared at him from behind the security desk, eyebrows raised. The doors closed again.

Evan rode back up to the twelfth floor.

He walked back to Mia’s condo. Crouched to pick up the note.

He read it again. Then added: For your help.

Then he left for real.

Dog the dog keyed to Evan as he approached at the park, erect posture, high stiff tail. Assessing the threat.

Then the wind shifted, Evan’s scent reaching him, and he ducked his head and his tail dropped to give a low, quick wag of submission.

Evan said, “Good boy,” and Dog’s head popped up, tail rising out and away from his body, describing big rough arcs of delight in the air. He pranced in place, shifting his weight from front paw to front paw as Evan neared.

Then Dog looked imploringly up at the sitter holding his leash, a young athletic woman with a round face, dimples, and a Pepperdine sweatshirt. She unclipped him and said, “Go on.”

Dog launched into Evan, shoving his snout between his thighs, sniffing and schnuffling at his boots, smelling where Evan had been, reconstructing his movements, reading the passage of time in the concentration of scents. Whinnying, he wriggled between Evan’s legs, his rear swaying back and forth as Evan scratched his ribs.

Finally Dog backed up and made to jump up and put his paws against Evan’s chest, but Evan commanded him down with a flattened hand and crouched for the face-to-face greeting. Dog lavished him with kisses, Evan tightening his mouth against the assault.

Puppies of wild dogs lick their mother’s muzzle when she returns to the den after a hunt to cue her to regurgitate food for them. The underlying drive for the genetically coded instinct had been extinguished in Dog, the behavior transformed into the messy greeting ritual that Evan endured.

Plus he had antiseptic wipes in the first-aid kit in the truck.

Dog snouted into the grass and then let his body follow with a serpentine flop, rolling onto his back to grant Evan access to his belly. His paws swatted Evan’s shirt, leaving smudges on the facial-recognition-thwarting pattern. It bothered Evan but he let it go, not wanting to abbreviate the celebration.

He gave Dog long smooth rubs up along the curve of his belly and barrel chest.