18 - The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes

According to Mrs. Krause, what occurred was this: Catherine showed up on her doorstep that afternoon, seeking Dane and money in that order. She knew the drill. They had moved away from their old parish in New Hampshire because a woman Dane had an affair with was trying to blackmail them. Dane was a serial adulterer, always claiming he would change, and always not doing it. She became almost inured to the indignity of it all.

Now Catherine didn’t say she was his mistress, but she guessed, and when she claimed she needed money for an “emergency”, she assumed it was a vague attempt at extortion. She gave her the money, if only to make her go away for the meantime. She didn’t know she was an addict, one of the people in the recovery group. When Dane came home and she confronted him about it, he realized why Catherine probably wanted the money and went off to find her. According to Dane, he found her apartment door unlocked, and Holden asleep, although Zoë was up and indicated her mother was in the bathroom. That door seemed to be locked, but the more he tried it the more he realized there was just something wedged up against it. Once he shouldered it open, he found it had been Catherine slumped against the door, the tie still wrapped around her upper arm, the needle on the floor and the burnt spoon on the sink. He thought she was just really out from the heroin, but when he made to pick her up, he realized she wasn’t breathing.

He said he panicked, and called his wife, as he didn’t know what to do. She told him to call 911 as a neighbor, and then come home. Since Catherine had no family here and few friends outside the recovery group, it was a good bet the police would call them. They did.

It was decided to adopt Holden and not Zoë for the simple reason that Zoë already knew Dane, knew that he had been with her mother, and that could bring up questions they didn’t want to answer.

Holden was looking at him wide eyed this whole time, as if this movie was far too scary for him to watch, and Roan knew he’d ask him for confirmation on whether this was the truth or not. Roan fought down the urge to smirk. The mention of the burnt spoon almost seemed like too much detail, but when Mrs. Krause mentioned that Dane had panicked and called her, he watched Dane cringe more and more, head in his hands, staring down at the carpet. His body posture told him all he wanted to know: this man was a coward. Given the chance to fight or run, he would run every time. Monty Python’s Knights of the Round Table would be happy to have him. With the right circumstances, anyone could be a killer, but the circumstances to make Dane a killer would have to be pretty desperate indeed. He’d rather run.

Here was the reason that the Krauses were still together, in spite of everything. He may have been a serial cheater, an irresponsible man, but he was happy to cede all true control to his wife. Despite appearances, she probably kept their metaphorical ship sailing. So what she got in return for his disloyalty was control of everything else. It was a truly dysfunctional relationship, more like mother and son than husband and wife, and kind of creepy.

“Is this real?” Holden asked, his voice hushed, strangled.

Roan took a final look at the cringing, helpless, humiliated figure of Dane at the end of the couch. Sad, pathetic. “As real as we’ll probably ever get.”

Holden looked at the shrinking figure of his dad with eyes bright and hollow with shock. He was too stunned to cry or even rage. “You let Zoë go for that reason? Because she knew who you were?”

“He didn’t make that decision,” Roan told him, and glanced at Mrs. Krause. Her face was grim and still, and reminded him of those wooden carved women you saw on the prow of pirate ships in movies.

Holden followed his gaze, and when he saw who he was looking at, all the confusion on his face died in agony. “What? Mom …”

Roan shook his head. “Just let it go for now, Holden. I think we’ve all had enough revelations for today.”

Holden looked between him, his mother, and his dad, with conflicting looks of anger, disgust, disbelief, and defeat. He must have known of the dynamic between his mother and father, but perhaps he didn’t know it as well as he thought. Perhaps they worked hard to sustain an illusion, even with their son.

Holden opened his mouth to say something, but his voice died in his throat. He started shaking his head, like he was trying to dislodge a word from his windpipe. “Holden, c’mon,” Roan encouraged gently, using his reasonable cop voice. It was the thing he used the most, out of all his cop training, and that surprised him a bit. He gently grabbed Holden’s arm, and started steering him out of the living room. Holden was reluctant at first, but his will seemed to cave as he looked back at his mother, who was staring resolutely at the far wall, and his father, who was still a cringing bit of nothing at the end of the couch. There was more applause from the television as they left the house.

Roan slipped his hand in Holden’s pocket and took out his car keys, as he assumed he would be driving. Holden held it together until they got to the car, then lost it. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the hood of his car before bursting into tears. Roan had to help him into the passenger seat, then drove without saying a word, without doing anything. He had nothing to offer him. He was sorry, but Holden didn’t want sorry now.

They were halfway back to Holden’s place when he finally ran out of tears. “What the fuck does this mean?” he asked, his voice thick with phlegm and anger and sorrow.

“Your Dad’s a happy pants, and your Mom knows all about it and lets it happen. He never wants to take any responsibility, so she takes all the responsibility and he lets her do whatever she wants as long as he never has to deal with shit. He has no spine, and she has nothing but.”

“But she’s … she chose me over Zoë?”

“Because you were young enough to be a blank slate. Zoë not only knew your Dad, she knew her mother. Your mother decided she didn’t want to deal with that. Your Dad went along with it, probably because he really didn‘t care much either way.”

Holden looked at him hollowly, the thousand yard stare of someone who had just lost everything. “They knew all along. They were never gonna tell me, were they?”

“Probably not.”

Holden was quiet for a long moment. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I’ve seen too many fucked up people in my life, Holden. And it takes one to know one.” Once they stopped at a light, he asked Holden if he thought he could drive. That seemed to stun him even more, but he said he could. Roan told him he had to pick up his motorcycle, and Holden heard him without really hearing him, face blotchy from crying. He looked like a normal Human being now, not a fantasy given form, and Roan felt bad for him to be so stripped down. This may have been the very first time he had ever been so truly naked. It seemed like an awful thing.

They stopped near the parking garage where he’d left the bike, and Holden slid over into the driver’s seat as Roan got out. Holden looked at him desolately, as if he wanted to ask him to stay but knew he shouldn’t. In the end, he simply asked, “You’re gonna find Zoë for me?”

He nodded. “I’ll find her.” Roan knew he would eventually. He just didn’t know how long it would take.
Holden nodded, looking ahead grimly, unconsciously mimicking his mother.

Maybe he shouldn’t leave him alone. But Roan knew if he was in Holden’s place, he’d have rather have been left alone. Most wallowing in self-pity was best done on your own.

Once Holden drove off, he ventured into the underground garage and found his bike, which was parked where he left it. He needed to stop being so careless, though. One of these days it’d get ripped off, and he’d be sorry.

Roan sat astride his bike for a while, listening to the curious echoes voices and noises made in this low ceilinged, yellow lit place. There wasn’t a single parking garage in existence that wouldn’t have made a great setting in a horror movie. They seemed like dingy little tombs already, just ones for cars; auto graveyards, where they all gathered in mutual suicide pacts.

Okay, yeah, his mind was taking trips to some weird places right now. None of them good.

He took off, and considering the time, he headed for Panic. Mighty Mouse - the huge bouncer with the tiny voice - recognized him and waved him on, ahead of a group of guys who looked a bit too young to be here. Once he stepped into the main club, he was bludgeoned by music, Paul Oakenfold most likely, and his eyes needed to adjust to the stark contrasts of dim light and bright gel spots that painted shadows in lurid colors. It was crowded enough that he had to elbow his way up to the bar, although the closest bartender to him was Luis (real name: Rhett), the slim Hispanic guy with the perfectly tan and perfectly hairless chest. He looked barely twenty one, but was in actuality thirty. He recognized him and came over with a cheerful, “Roan! How you doin’, my man? You want Toby?”

“If possible.”

Luis whistled sharply, and yelled down at the opposite end of the bar, “Hey, Toby, switch up!”

Dylan was at the opposite end of the bar, setting some guys up with martinis. He looked down, probably curious why Luis wanted to switch ends of the bar with him, and then noticed him. Roan gave him his best beauty queen wave.

Dylan lit up upon seeing him, a grin splitting his handsome face, and Roan had no idea why, although it was sweet to see. He had no idea anyone was ever happy to see him. Well, bill collectors, but that was a different story.

Dylan came down to him and leaned over the bar as if he might kiss him, but remembered at the last moment he was at work and in front of a crowd of guys who lusted after him (and as a result, gave him big tips), and settled instead for leaning on the bar and giving him a sexy smile. “Hey there, stranger. What brings you here? Not business, I hope.”

“Nope, I just wanted to see you.”

That deepened his smile, made his dimples appear. He reached up and touched his hair. “Wow, you got it cut. I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” He forgot that he’d gotten his hair cut today. Good lord, had this all been just one day? One shitty day. He’d have blamed the codeine for warping his sense of time, but it wasn’t that. He’d had too many days like this off codeine to believe that.

He watched the sly light in Dylan’s brown eyes slowly die, his smile fading in increments as he looked into his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he wondered. “What happened?”

Was he that easy to “read”? Or was it just Dylan, capable of seeing right through him? Roan wasn’t sure which explanation he liked better. “Nothing. I’ve just had a shitty day.”

Dylan just stared at him a moment, his jaw tensing as he weighed whether or not to believe him. Finally, he shouted to Luis, “I’m gonna take a break.”

Luis shook his head as he poured what seemed like a needlessly colorful Long Island ice tea. “Hurry it up. This is prime time.”

“Five minutes tops,” Dylan assured him, motioning for Roan to follow him around to the end of the bar, where he pressed a button and opened up the end of it, waiving Roan in impatiently. There was some depressed groans from the crowd, and some of them muttered such things as, “Why’s he the one?” That was a good question, and Roan would have happily answered it for him, except Dylan had already grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the employee door.

The room it led back to was little more than a tiny hallway that led to the employee bathroom and an emergency exit. It was dimly lit, and smelled very much of lemon scented cleansers and stale cigarette smoke. The music was muffled here, along with the smell and heat of the crowd; it seemed almost chilly. He could see goosebumps spreading out on Dylan’s bare chest.

Dylan took his face in his hands and brought his face close enough to his that he thought he’d kiss him, but once again he didn’t. “What happened?”

This close, he could smell the apple gum Dylan had been chewing. He must have ditched it before he showed up. He knew he had to tell him something, but he didn’t know what, so what fell out of his mouth kind of surprised him. “Eli collapsed in my parking lot today.”

Dylan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What?”

“He’s really sick; he’s not taking his infection well, divine or otherwise. I think it was a heart attack; Fiona and I did CPR on him until the EMTs showed up.”

“Oh god. How is he?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had my cell off, I haven’t checked my messages, and I haven’t turned on the television. Eli’s my Schrodinger’s Cat. He is both alive and dead until I answer my phone and his state is decided once and for all. I’m not really sure which state I prefer.”

He smirked crookedly. “I’ve never heard anyone use Schrodinger’s Cat in casual conversation before.”

“I don’t think I’m in a right state of mind right now.”

Dylan’s expression collapsed, and it pained him to see it. “Are you stoned?”

Roan didn’t see telling him the truth. It would only hurt him. “No. I did take some of my migraine meds, though.” It wasn’t a complete lie; codeine was generally more effective than his migraine meds.

Dylan’s eyes widened in shock and sympathy, and he cradled his face more gently, letting one hand rest on his shoulder. “What? I thought those knocked you out.”

“Generally, but I can bull my way through them if I’m stubborn.”

“Are you insane? Go home! Get some rest.”

“I don’t want to go home,” he said, and Roan was surprised to hear it. But that was why he was here, wasn’t it? He didn’t always know himself very well. “Can I go home with you tonight?”

Dylan’s expression softened. “Do you even have to ask? Of course, it’s not as nice as your place.”

“I don’t care. You’re there. I’ll live.”

Dylan kissed him softly, but when he looked at him again, Roan saw nothing but concern in his eyes. “What is it going to take to make you talk to me? You think I don’t know something’s wrong? I do, just like I know you’d rather shut down than say a word. Why won’t you talk to me?”

That was a good question. He wished he had an answer for him. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. As soon as I close this case I’m on, let’s go away for a weekend.” In Dylan’s case, a weekend was Sunday and Monday, as he worked Saturday night. “I don’t care where. We can even just check into a hotel downtown under fake names. I won’t tell anyone where I’m going, I’ll leave my cell phone at home, I’ll be totally incommunicado. Maybe then you’ll be able to pry something out of me.”

Dylan sighed, his thumb stroking his jaw. It felt nice. “There’s nothing you could say to me that would scare me away. You know that, right?”

Actually, if he was smart, he’d have run off screaming already. He bet he could tell him a lot of things that would scare him away. But he didn’t want to do that just yet. He slid his arms around him, making contact with his skin, and realized this was why he needed to be with Dylan right now. He was so vital, so alive, and not at all a part of the darkness he dealt with all the time. Roan leaned his forehead against his, just enjoying his warmth for a moment. “Yeah, I do. I’m usually not this much of a moody asshole. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re hot,” Dylan teased.

“And hung like a horse?”

“I’m not a size queen.”

“I guess this is where I say lucky me.”

“No, I think that’s my line,” Dylan replied, smiling, and then gave him a long, sweet kiss. Roan was just getting into it when Luis banged on the door, and shouted, “C’mon, Toby, get your ass out here!”

They broke off with a mutual weary sigh, Dylan running a soothing hand through his hair. “You gonna be okay?”

Roan nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t actually know if he would be, but it seemed like the thing he should say. He worried Dylan enough as it was.

****

At first, Roan wasn’t sure where he was, even though he knew not to panic because he could smell Dylan with him, feel the warmth of him curled around his body, one of his arms draped casually over his hip. Once he opened his eyes and got a good look at the place - as well as good scent - he realized he was at Dylan’s place. His memory was a bit muzzy, but he figured that was the codeine … and oh yeah, the beer he had at the bar. Dylan wouldn’t serve him alcohol because he thought he was on meds, but when he wasn’t looking, he got Luis to slip him a beer. Probably unwise, but he felt he needed something if he was going to sit through this music. The beer made him sleepy, though, which wasn’t good.

A couple guys hit on him, tried to buy him drinks, but when one recognized him - “Hey, you’re that cat guy, aren’t you!” - he decided to go to the bookstore down the street and kill some time. He stayed until closing, picking up twenty dollars in used books and being constantly followed by the store cat, which made him feel terribly self-conscious. Even the cat recognized him as the cat guy.

He didn’t have to stay too much longer at the bar before it closed, mainly because he stopped at a Jack In The Box on his way back and had something to eat in an attempt to wake himself up and feel less drugged. He also looked at all the people who wandered through, catching something to eat at one in the morning, and there was a kind of sad solidarity between them all. Night owls - more than a few of them wasted - drifting in a twilight world that seemed so far removed from daytime that it was like a different universe entirely. For no reason he could name, he thought of these daylight refugees as “his” people.

The rest of the night was a blur; he only barely remembered coming home with Dylan. He did know that the codeine and the beer didn’t prevent him from having sex, which he thought it might. All those downers could make you a little soft.

He laid there for a while, feeling Dylan’s breath on the back of his neck, warm underneath the blankets, eying Dylan’s small apartment as sunlight through sheer but opaque curtains started filling it with butter yellow light.

Dylan’s place was small, as you would expect the home of a bartender/starving artist to be. The bedroom was a tiny room off the living room/kitchenette, and the only other one that existed beyond the bathroom. All together, the place was the size of his living room and kitchen combined, so no wonder Dylan thought his place was huge. His furniture all looked like thrift store stuff - nothing matched - but it all seemed to work and appeared like a deliberate choice, which probably reflected Dylan’s artistic eye. Certainly the walls did, as each one was painted a different color. The bedroom was a sky blue, the living room was a warm cinnamon reddish brown, the kitchen was a bright sunshiny orange yellow, and the bathroom was a cool, minty green. He admitted his landlord hadn’t seen it, and he had no idea how she’d react when she discovered that her permission to paint his apartment had been abused in such a fashion. Roan figured the woman should thank him for making such a cramped little place look more interesting.

The need to piss eventually became overwhelming, so he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Dylan up, and in his minty green bathroom he looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. He didn’t look hungover, which was good, as he wasn’t - but he looked like he hadn’t sleep very well or very much. According to the clock, he had; it was noon. He should have felt bad about the indulgence of sleeping in so late, except they didn’t get back here until after two in the morning. So he’d had less than eight hours sleep really. Fuck.

He found his boxers and pulled them back on, noticing that his coat had ended up upside down over the back of the couch, and his cell had fallen out and was just sitting there on the cushion. He eyed it like a viper, something that was on the verge of uncoiling and attacking him. Had he dodged this bullet long enough? Was it time to face reality?

He was lucky to have avoided it this long and he knew it. He grabbed the phone and turned it on as he padded to the kitchen to see what Dylan had that he could throw together for breakfast (okay, lunch at this hour). He felt compelled to make Dylan breakfast, even though he wasn’t a very good cook, because he knew he’d eventually break his heart. He was apologizing in advance.

His phone rang almost five seconds after he’d turned it on. He checked the screen to see who was calling, and couldn’t believe what the display said. He rubbed his eyes and checked it again. No, same thing. He answered the phone out of gnawing curiosity. “Do you ever turn on your fucking phone?” Stovak, Eli’s kiss ass lawyer, snarled the second the connection went through.

“Not if it’s you calling,” he snapped. “Why the fuck are you calling me? Are you gonna sue me ‘cause I broke some of Eli’s ribs while doing CPR?”

Stovak was quiet for a long moment, which was unusual for this sneering homophobe. When he got his voice back, he said flatly, “You really don’t know, do you?”

Roan peered into Dylan’s fridge to see what he had. Lots of fruit and Indian take out food cartons. “Know what?”

Stovak hissed a breath through his teeth. “He’s dead, McKichan. It’s been all over the local news since last night. You haven’t even turned on a fucking TV?”

So much for his Schrodinger’s Cat. Poor kitty. “I’ve been busy. So why are you calling me? I didn’t kill him. I actually tried to save his ass, although I’m not sure why.”

“I know.” Again a heavy pause, suggesting he hated having this conversation as much as he did. “Look, we may need your help. Since his death was announced … some people are totally losing their shit …”

“I know someone who runs a security company. I’ll call him for you.”

“And walk away?”

“Absolutely. I’m not affiliated with you nut jobs. I’m sorry his followers are freaking out, but that’s not my problem.”

“You stubborn -” he began, but before he could slap a slur on that he stopped himself. “Jesus, you’re a bastard. I have no idea why he put you in his will.”

Roan paused, reaching for a bottle of water. What did he just say?