18 – Lucifer

MRI machines sucked. They really honestly sucked.

You laid motionless inside a cramped metal tube that made you feel like a torpedo waiting for launch, and weird noises went off around you as you fought off claustrophobia you’d never had before for an hour that seemed to last approximately one thousand years. He asked to bring a book in the tube, but oh no, they wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t bring in his mp3 player either. (Not that he had it, but it was the principal of the thing.) And the worst indignity of all, he had to continue to wear the stupid paper hospital gown. If they wanted to have a look at his ass, they just could have asked.

So Roan spent his time in the tube composing complaint letters in his head. He wrote one to the inventor of the MRI machine, to the technicians staffing it, to the head administrator of the hospital, to the local paper for not telling readers the real truth about the Illuminati conspiracy to cause brain damage using super sonic frequencies during American Idol (okay, this was when he started losing his mind). Worse yet, he swore the sounds were giving him a headache. At least he didn’t have the catheter stuck up his dick anymore.

Finally he was released from the captivity of the MRI machine, and the Doctor in charge was right there, saying, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He was a needlessly enthusiastic Japanese man who looked exactly like that guy on Heroes if you aged him ten years and gave him a receding hairline. His name seemed to be Stuart Senzaki, which sounded like a Witness Protection name if he’d ever heard one.

Roan glared at him. “Yes, it was. And now you’ve given me a headache, so thanks a lot.”

“Really? When did it start? Where does it hurt?”

“Like I have any concept of time in a tube. And it hurts all over.”

Senzaki pulled out a penlight and shined it in his eyes, making him wince. “Jesus, are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry, I’m just trying to -”

And this was when things got weird.

It was like time jumped, like a poor editor had suddenly been assigned to the film that was his life. Because next thing Roan knew, he was on his back looking up at Senzaki, Velez, and a woman he didn’t recognize. His head pain wasn’t so bad anymore, but it felt like he had a cloud of something vaguely toxic still fogging up his neurons. “What the hell am I doing down here?”

All three exchanged a troubled glance as Velez looked back down at him and said, “I think you had a bit of a seizure, dude.”

“No I didn’t,” Roan snapped, and tried sitting up. But Velez put a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back down, and the woman, who had brown-blonde hair so short it could only be called a buzz cut, produced a rather long looking needle and said, “Please hold still.”

“You drugging me?”

Velez shook his head. “Trying to make you feel better. Your head still hurt?”

“Not really. “

“That’s not a no,” Velez replied, as the woman shot Roan in the hip. He didn’t really feel the needle, and he didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“What the fuck’s wrong with me?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Doctor Enthusiasm told him, with – guess what? - a little too much enthusiasm.

Roan wondered if he was ever getting out of this bloody fucking hospital.

****

Dylan rubbed his eyes, and felt inexplicably tired. Oh, right, he hadn’t slept well last night. Still, that was no excuse; he was a night shift worker, he was supposed to be used to odd hours. “How do you know, Holden?”

“’Cause I’ve been watching the DVD I got from Colt’s apartment on Ahmed’s laptop, and you won’t believe who the third part of the Newberry sandwich is.”

Dylan sighed, and tried to sort all of it out in his mind. There was the dull “beep” of the call messaging system telling him someone else was calling, but he decided to just let it go to message. Probably wasn’t important anyways. “Colt just gave you the DVD?”

“Um, no, he was … indisposed.”

“So you stole it?”

“Um, basically, yeah, but he’s not going to miss it.”

Oh crap. Did Holden want to get arrested? “Do you know what Roan’s gonna say?”

He clicked his tongue dismissively. “He’s used to me by now. Anyways, third person – wanna hear it or not?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. The guy looked kinda familiar but I couldn’t place him, so I started going through some recent pictures, and I found him: Jessie Newberry.”

Dylan thought perhaps he’d misheard something. “Who, exactly?”

“Jessie Newberry, John Newberry’s oldest son. It’s a digital file of Colt fucking not just Kyle but Jessie. Fucking cousins – how scandalous would that be? Not only gay, but incestuous. No wonder John wanted to kill every person who might know about it.”

That was pretty icky. But Dylan wasn’t sure he made the connection. “Why would John kill his own brother over that, though?”

“’Cause he probably blamed him. He had the detective follow him and figured out he was gay, right? Well, bi, but John sees no distinction because he’s a fucking philistine. I knew when I had John he was a fucking liar, but goddamn it, I had no idea of the scope. I had that fucking murderer and I let him get away! Not again.”

“I don’t know, Holden. I mean, I can see why someone might kill to keep that quiet, but I don’t see why he’d kill his own brother over it.”

“This is one fucked up family.”

“I’m sure, but …” he just shook his head. “I don’t know where I’m going with this. Just don’t do anything rash, okay? Wait.”

“Well, I’m still in Oregon, so it’s gonna hafta wait a bit, but I’m right about this bastard, Dyl. I’ll show you.”

“Okay,” he sighed, and hung up. He wasn’t a detective, he wouldn’t claim to get this, but he wasn’t sure Holden’s supposition was the correct one. It felt off somehow. He really wanted to talk it over with Roan – he’d know what the flaw was, he’d figure it out.

There was something on call messaging, so he called into their machine to hear it, and just about hit himself when he heard the first syllable escape from the stranger’s voice. It was the hospital – Roan was awake.

His first impulse was to slam down the phone and race over there, but he could hear the hiss of the water in the shower, and he remembered he still had Grant to deal with. He could hardly leave him on his own here, could he?

Roan would probably tell him to stay here, to keep an eye on him, but there was no way in hell he was going to do that. Did he have a choice?

He hung up the phone, and then quickly punched up a familiar number. “Randi? Tell me you’re not busy. Because there’s someone here you’re gonna want to see.”

****

He barely waited for Randi to come over before he took off. Randi still seemed stunned, but he just pointed back towards the house and got in the car. The urge to see Roan now was almost overwhelming. It probably didn’t help that the mysterious “something” was forefront in his mind. But Roan was stronger than him, right? Stronger than anyone. He would survive it, no matter what it was. He had to believe that, because up to this point, it had been true.

It was a crowded mess in the hospital lobby, so he was able to avoided everyone and duck up the fire stairs, taking them to Roan’s floor. He was aware this was a form of cheating, but he honestly didn’t give a shit.

Once he came out on the floor, he only took a few steps before he heard, “Hey, the boyfriend.” Dylan turned and saw a nurse coming towards him, black with nice braids and a Puerto Rican accent.

“I do have a name.”

“I know. Sorry man, forgot it. It’s not Bob, is it?”

“No, it’s Dylan.”

“Ah, so that’s why I was thinking of Bob Dylan.” He grinned, showing off impressive teeth. “It’s kinda against the rules, but I’m gonna go let you see Roan now. Just don’t be alarmed that he’s a little groggy.”

“Why’s he groggy?”

“We had to medicate him after an incident with the MRI. But my god, what a stubborn smart ass, he’s fighting the meds.”

“He will fight anything, up to and including an angry torch wielding mob. What incident? He didn’t punch someone, did he?”

“No, but I’m sure he would have if given the chance.” He paused briefly. “He had a small seizure.”

“What?!” That was like saying a “small brain hemorrhage”, wasn’t it?

The nurse, whose security badge read Velez, made a “calm down” gesture with his hands, like a mime shoving an invisible creature into an invisible box. “It really isn’t that big of a deal. Getting an MRI can be very stressful, and he was in a weakened condition to begin with. We’ve had lots of seizures, panic attacks, even a tearful breakdown or two. It probably shouldn’t have been done this soon, but the doctor felt it was imperative.”

That itself was bad news, and Dylan was torn between being angry and just being upset. He settled on splitting the difference. “What did you find? What’s wrong with him?”

The nurse shook his head. “Results aren’t in yet.” As Dylan let out a sigh of disgust, he added, “I need you to do me a favor. Convince him to stay put until the results come through, okay?”

“Is he free to leave?”

“No, he hasn’t been discharged, but I can’t help but note that’s never stopped him before. He’s a Houdini of a patient. Or should that be David Blaine now?”

“Roan doesn’t do stupid ass stunts for publicity.”

“Houdini it is. If you could talk him into staying for now, it might prevent another incident. Please.”

“I’ll try,” Dylan said, aware he was probably only being allowed to see him for this very reason. But fuck it, he’d take it.

Velez led him to Roan’s room, but only opened the door for him; he didn’t follow him in, he didn’t say anything else. He just gave him a somewhat apologetic look. Was he one of Dee’s friends? He wondered, mainly because he was one of the more helpful nurses he’d encountered.

Roan was propped up in bed, reading a Scientific American, presumably stolen from somewhere in the hospital. (Maybe Velez brought it to him to keep him from wandering.) There was a TV in the high, far corner, but it was off, which was not a surprise to Dylan. If they didn’t get BBC America,  Roan might never turn the set on.

Roan glanced over the magazine, and as soon as he saw it was him, he set it aside. “Dylan.”

“Roan,” he replied, his voice almost cracking. He did look a bit groggy, his eyes were glazed, and he seemed pale, his reddish-brown hair extra vivid against the whiteness of his skin. Dylan hugged him fiercely and kissed him on the forehead, the bridge of the nose, his dry, cracked lips. He was so happy to see him awake he could have cried.

“If you get weepy on me I swear I’m gonna punch you in the kidneys,” Roan said, his voice muffled since his face was now buried in his chest.

Dylan laughed, and hid a sob that threatened to give the game away. He held it back, got a hold of his rampaging emotions. “So, you’re an invalid now. Should I smother you with a pillow?”

“I’m not ready for you to go all One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest on me. Yet. But keep the pillow handy, Chief.”

Dylan looked down at him and tried on a wan smile that felt tissue paper thin. He touched his forehead, and realized, “You’re cold.”

“I think it’s the meds they gave me. I don’t know what they were, but it feels like the beginning of a carbonite freeze.”

“Oh, stop with all these geeky references. People might think we’re straight.”

“Horrors.”

“Scootch over,” he said, and climbed into bed with him. It was a small, uncomfortable bed, but as long as Dylan stayed on his side, he fit. Roan turned on his side to face him, and they put their arms around each other, mostly for warmth, but a bit for comfort. “So, am I a dead man?” Roan asked him.

He gave him his evilest scowl. “I won’t hear talk like that. You are not a quitter.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m not sure about the lion.”

“Knock it off, or I swear, I’m kicking you out onto the floor.”

“It might be more comfortable,” he replied, then snuggled in against his chest. Dylan held him tight, glad Roan couldn’t see his face right now. He didn’t know if he could do this. He could do the Zen thing, but doing the stoic thing was so much harder. He breathed in the scent of his hair, and felt a little bit better.

“So what’s been going on since I’ve been in the elephant’s graveyard?” Roan asked.

Terrific, an out. So he told him about the attempt he, Fiona, and Holden (with some assistance from Dee) had made to become detectives in his stead, and how Holden felt he had figured out who the killer was, since he found the sex tape and determined who the third member of the menage a trois was. Roan listened, and despite the drugs, his mind was still as sharp as ever. “No, he’s wrong,” he said, not a bit of doubt in his voice. “John has a gambling problem, and I believe some drinking issues. He’s an impulsive person, and while I can see him being angry enough to both blame and kill his own brother over this, he’d have done so in an impulsive manner: bludgeoning with a golf club, stabbing with a decorative sword. Potassium poisoning is not only odd but deliberate; someone planned that. They had to, since potassium overdosing is difficult. John couldn’t have thought that out.”

Dylan sighed, feeling so much better. He couldn’t put his reservations into words, but Roan had. “You have any thoughts on suspects?”

Roan leaned his head back into the thin pillow and looked up at the ceiling as he thought. His eyes were still too brilliantly bottle green to be Human, but he would never tell him that. “I’m not sure, but someone should really keep an eye on Kyle Newberry. He’s the fulcrum of this crime.”

“Meaning?” Who the fuck used “fulcrum” in an every day sentence? Seriously. But Roan had a ridiculous vocabulary, and he’d learned to just let it go. Apparently the other cops used to make fun of his pedantic tendencies. What a shock.

“Meaning he’s either our killer or the next potential victim. Someone should look into Jessie Newberry too; I never did work up a background on him. But he wasn’t even on my radar.”

He said someone, but Dylan was fairly certain he meant him, or at least would by default. “What would we look for?”

He shrugged. “The basics. If he has a criminal record – unlikely, he’s the son of a rich man and they get away with lots of shit – where he works, if he works at all, if he’s in a relationship, what his status within the family is, if he gets along with his dad or uncle, where he was the morning his uncle was killed, if he has any hobbies or vices … well, beyond fucking his own cousin and third rate porn stars.”

“You have to admit, that would probably take up a lot of time.”

“Probably. Still, he must have some down time, or periods where he has to stop and replenish his fluids, so there’s gotta be something there.”

“How awfully cynical are we that we’re joking about this?”

Roan gave him a crooked half grin that was always magnificently endearing. He could get away with so much with a smile like that. It was probably a good thing he didn’t know. “You either laugh or cry, or get so disgusted with the Human race you decide to kill them all. This is really the lesser of the evils.”

“And you know all about that, I’m sure,” he teased. He then got serious. “I think you’ve created a monster in Holden.”

“Why? Because he’s jumping into this detective thing?”

“Yes. Clearly he likes it, although he probably wouldn’t admit that he likes it as much as he does.”

“Well, unlike Matt, I really think he could do the job well. He’s a terrific liar.”

That made Dylan raise an eyebrow at him. “And that’s all it takes to be a good detective?”

“A good undercover detective, yeah. Well, knowledge gathering capabilities help. Being a street kid and a sex worker, he’s had to hone his instincts, they were probably all that stood between him and a guy with an urge to kill, and since he’s still alive, I’d say he’s probably got a knack for it. But I don’t see him ever taking over my job.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause’s he’s in the rarefied position of a high class prostitute. He probably makes more in a day than I do in a week. This job is a lot of effort for little money, and he could make more where he is. I can see him becoming a detective when he loses his looks, though.”

“It is the job of choice for the ugly.”

“Why you -” Roan said in mock anger, and gave him a brief love bite on the bridge of his nose. He barely felt it, although it did occur to Dylan that, if he really wanted to, he could have bitten his nose clean off. Roan leaned back, and said, “Whatever you have to do, get Holden off John ’s case. Get him on Kyle, get him on Jessie, get him on someone else, I don’t really care who. We can’t have him screwing the investigation because he’s focused on the wrong guy.”

Considering this was Holden they were talking about, he knew it was much easier said than done.

17 – Arriving Somewhere, But Not Here

In the manner of dreams of everywhere, Roan was aware he was in what was supposed to be his house, but wasn’t his house. It was a big, nearly empty room of plain white walls, save for a huge floor to ceiling picture window. He’d never seen a room like this, and it surely didn’t exist in his house. But in his dream mind, this was home. And he was looking out the window on an expansive green lawn where a tiger lolled, its tail flicking lazily as it surveyed its surroundings with what seemed to be boredom. Once again knowing without knowing, he knew he was looking at Paris’s tiger. Not Paris in tiger form – Paris’s tiger, the one that hid inside of him. “So, you finally got out,” Roan said, even though there was no way the tiger could hear him through the glass. It still looked at him anyways, as if it could.

Did that mean Paris was around here, free of his infection? He looked around, but the room was empty, save for him. There was a strange noise, though, a kind of scritching, and he turned back to see it was now scratching on the glass, as if wanting to come in. But it was no longer a tiger but a lion, a lion with a mane shot through with deep reddish brown fur the color of half dried blood. His lion. The tiger was nowhere to be seen. “You can’t come in ’til I let you in,” Roan told it. Wow, his dreams weren’t subtle at all, were they? Very in your face with its supposedly veiled messages. He almost didn’t trust how desperately it wanted to come in.

He was aware enough to wake up, hearing small, random noises before he decided to open his eyes. There was a black male nurse in a sea green uniform checking his IV bag, and almost offhandedly he noticed him. “Hey there, back to the world of the living, huh?” he asked, picking up a clipboard and looking at it. He had a Puerto Rican accent.

“Guess so.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and wondered why he still felt so incredibly groggy.

“Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

Roan looked up at him in disbelief. “Did someone drop me on the floor? Did I get a concussion?”

“Not that I know of, but it’s always a good thing to be sure. How many?”

This was annoying. He glanced at his hand, and said, “Four. Did I pass the vision portion of the test?”

He marked something down on the clipboard, and said, “Yes, you did. What do you want to do for the talent portion?”

Oh good, a funny nurse. Was Robin Williams not available? “Punch people in the head.”

That made him snicker. “Nice to know you still have your sense of humor.”

“Who’s joking?”

“Can you tell me if you’ve had headaches recently? Before now, I mean. Problems with your vision?”

“I have migraines. That should be in my records.”

“It is, but have they gotten worse?”

Okay, maybe he was still groggy and out of it, but he knew leading questions when he heard them. This was leading to something. “Why are you asking me these questions? What’s going on?”

“We just want to make sure you had no adverse reactions to the treatment. You were given some pretty heavy downers, man; your system was well overloaded. Most people wouldn’t have survived it.”

“Most people aren’t freaks. And it doesn’t make any sense that you’re asking me how I was before the treatment to determine how I took the treatment. You’re asking me for another reason.”

“Damn, you are awake, aren’t you?” He shook his head, and the tiny braids of his hair shook slightly. They were small and close to his scalp, so there was little room to move. “The notes just say I’m suppose to ask you these questions, man, it doesn’t say why.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ooh, now we’re getting personal.”

“You know why, or at least you can guess.”

He appeared to consult the clipboard once again, but Roan didn’t believe it; he was stalling for time. “I assume it’s related to your migraines.”

“You assume, and so do I, but I doubt it.”

“I also notice you’re dodging the questions.”

Roan sighed. “My migraines are always bad. It likes to get my attention. Could you excuse me? I really gotta piss.”

The nurse shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me none. Now, would you answer -”

“I’m asking you to move so I can get out of bed,” Roan asked pointedly, sitting up and gesturing towards the bathroom. “You mind?”

The nurse seemed slightly nonplussed by that. “Um, you’re hooked up to a catheter.”

“What?” Roan lifted the sheet and looked under, and either his penis had become much longer, thinner, and translucent, or … “Fucking Christ on a pogo stick,” he snapped, dropping the sheet so he didn’t get nauseous. No one really wanted something up their dick, did they? Well, maybe those with piercings didn’t mind. And of course now that he knew it was there, he was fairly sure he could feel it. “Can I get this removed? Can I also be drugged for its removal?”

The nurse grinned, his teeth movie star straight and blindingly white. “Yeah, we can remove it, but drugging isn’t really an option, not after what you’ve been through.”

God, this was humiliating. “What was I through? What’d I get dosed with?”

“Elephant tranquilizers. You were on a respirator for a while, so your throat will probably be sore for a bit.”

It did hurt a little, but he was so concerned with the feeling of a tube jammed up his dick he really didn’t notice it. “Now that I’m conscious, can I get outta here? After you remove the tubes and things.”

He shook his head, briefly pasting on a sympathetic smile. “Sorry dude, but we have to run some tests. You’re not off the hook yet.”

Somehow he figured that. But why was he asking him all these questions? It had to do with his worsening migraines, that weird pain in his head. They’d found something, and the fact that the nurse wasn’t telling him meant either they weren’t sure what it was, or it was so horrible the doctor had to break it to him. He took a calming breath, and decided to level with the nurse (whose security badge read Ethan Velez). “Look, I’ve spent a good portion of my life in hospitals. I’m an infected, so either they were poking and prodding me to see what was wrong with me, or, oftentimes, what wasn’t wrong with me, as they were often thrown by the fact that I didn’t have something wrong with me that I should have had wrong with me. You get me?”

He nodded. “You’re pretty remarkable. You could probably dislocate all your limbs and have ‘em popped back in without noticing.”

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He decided not to ask. “These questions you’re asking me … I know you found something you didn’t like. Would just level with me and tell me what it is? I assure you I can handle it. When I was ten, I was told I’d probably be dead in three years. I didn’t freak out then, and I’m not going to freak out now, no matter what you say.”

“Whoa, that’s harsh. They told you you were gonna die when you were ten?”

“Yes. And when I was twelve, fourteen, and every year between sixteen and twenty six. Eventually they realized how foolish they looked and stopped. So are you going to level with me or what?”

He shook his head, grimacing doubtfully. “Sorry. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Roan sighed. Fine, he wanted to be difficult? Why the hell not? Everyone else in his life was. “Is it a brain tumor?” That’s what they were always testing him for, since his migraines were so bad.

Ethan shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. “Honestly, I don’t know. All it says is I’m supposed to ask you these questions and record your responses. But, at a guess, I’d say they were worried about any after-effects of the drug overdose. Humans aren’t supposed to have those drugs, and certainly not in that quantity. How it didn’t fuck you up I don’t know.”

“I’m not completely Human.”

“Don’t say that. Just ’cause you’re infected -”

“I’m a bit more than simply infected,” he countered. “Look at that chart. Tell me what on it is normal.”

“That’s no way to think of yourself. Your readings are great: you have the heart rate and blood pressure of a nineteen year old.”

“And I’m almost forty, I have a minor pill habit, most of my diet is take out food and I spend a lot of time sitting on my ass in a car. My body is a garbage dump and it should reflect that, but it doesn’t. You know as well as I do how freakish that it.”

Nurse Velez scowled at him. “Why do you keep calling yourself a freak, man? You’re not a freak. You’re a fucking miracle. Be proud of it; I know I would be.”

He wanted to say “You’re not me, and I’m not a fucking miracle” but that sounded both bitchy and self-pitying, and he really wanted no part of either. Instead he looked away, aware of how privileged he was to have a private room, no matter how small. But infecteds were generally segregated from the other patients, especially if no one was sure of their time of the month. No one wanted the legal drama of one patient eating another. That reminded him of Grant Kim. “How long have I been out?”

“’Bout a day. Your boyfriend was in here from early this morning ’til they kicked him out. Want I should give him a call?”

Dee wasn’t just friends with every goddamn EMT on the planet, he managed to have lots of friends amongst the nurses too. Since nurses didn’t usually extend such a courtesy, he figured Dee must have spread the word that he was a friend and to be treated accordingly. Roan had no idea when he started dating Dee that he would turn out to be the most important man he would ever know in his entire life, but there it was. “Yeah, sure.” Velez was on his way out of the room when Roan asked, “Does he know?”

He had to consider that a moment, but the confusion collapsed after he figured out he wasn’t asking if he knew about the overdose, since he brought him in. He was asking if Dylan knew why they were asking these extra questions, if he knew there was possibly something else wrong with him. Velez finally just shrugged. “I dunno. I wouldn’t think so. Medical privacy and all that. You guys aren’t married, are you? I mean, maybe then, but maybe not. Kinda depends on the doctor.”

“Not all gay friendly around here, huh?”

He snorted in such a derisive way, Roan figured if he wasn’t gay, he was queer in some respect; bi maybe, or just had too many gay friends to automatically side with the straight. “Man, I don’t know how Hardwicke got through medical school with such a tiny, narrow brain, but I didn’t tell you that.”

“If I get him, I’ll make sure to hit on him relentlessly.”

Velez laughed, a big, hearty, caught off guard sort of laugh, and slapped the clipboard on his leg. “Hot damn. If you do that, I gotta come watch.”

Yeah, that was probably more entertainment than you got watching soaps in the staff lounge.

Roan took some comfort in that fact that his knee jerk asshole response was still functioning – how bad off could he be if the idea of tormenting an asshat was still his first impulse?

But he remembered his dream of the lion wanting in, and he wondered if letting it in would save his life, or end it faster.

****

There was no other word for it: Grant was hysterical.

Dylan supposed he couldn’t really blame him. If he’d killed and eaten a few people, he might be a bit freaked out himself.

He was sitting on the couch, and Dylan kept trying to get him to talk to him, but he kept sobbing, and when he did try and talk, they were broken by sobs. Dylan could hardly make out a word.

So he went into the downstairs bathroom and found Roan’s secret Percodan stash, and cut a pill in half before pulverizing it into powder. He hoped he wasn’t allergic to it, but he really need him to calm down, and Roan didn’t have any anti-depressants. (Oh, he had a bottle marked Prozac, but it was just full of codeine). Dylan mixed the pulverized pill in a cup of chamomile tea, which he all but forced Grant to drink. He told him it would calm him, and that Roan swore by it. (Roan only swore by it if the box fell out of the cupboard and hit his foot; he didn’t like chamomile tea. But again, this wasn’t anything Grant needed to know.)

The drug seemed to start working on him fast, either that or he was taking Dylan’s instructions to heart. He’d been telling him to breathe, to blank his mind and focus on his own breathing, meditation techniques. Grant seemed to be sobbing through them, though, so he didn’t think they’d work.

When he calmed down a bit – or at least stopped sobbing so much – Dylan was able to coax some of his story out of him. He didn’t know how or when he got infected. Grant had been thinking about it, but was only able to think of his “lost weekend”. A couple of weeks ago he went to a party with a couple friends he only referred to as Luce and Weed, and they were doing some GHB, passing a water bottle dosed with the stuff back and forth. They went club hopping, and Grant lost most of the night after the first club. He woke up a cheap motel with a sore ass and a mouth as dry as a biscotti (his words) the next afternoon. But he wasn’t worried about it because he found a couple of used condoms. (A couple?!) Curtis thought maybe he should get checked out, he thought he had been raped, but Grant didn’t think so, mainly because he went out specifically to get laid. The only problem was, he got so wasted he couldn’t remember it. He assumed he had fun. Luce vaguely recalled him leaving with a couple of guys, maybe three, and maybe a girl was there too - her memory was equally checkered.

Dylan wished he hadn’t seen this type of shit before, but he had. More than once he’d overstepped the bounds of his job description and stopped a guy from leaving Panic with a guy so fucking wasted he could hardly stand on his own. Sometimes the wasted guy protested more vehemently than the more sober guy, but Dylan didn’t like the scenario at all. Maybe he took the drugs on his own, maybe he was dosed, Dylan didn’t know and he really didn’t care, he just didn’t want to end up as someone who stood by and did nothing when someone was in trouble. People had complained to the manager about him, but all he got was a slap on the wrist. If the customers didn’t come back, good riddance. Nobody wanted Panic to be known as date rape central.

Grant was really worried about Curt and Tiffany. He’d seen the papers, he knew Curt was dead, but he wondered if Tiffany had been found yet, if she was okay. Dylan honestly told him he didn’t know. Roan read newspapers, watched BBC World News, but Dylan avoided it all. His one concession was to watch the Daily Show and the Colbert Report with Roan, but that was it. He just got to a point where he couldn’t take it anymore. Television news was shallow and shock driven (okay, BBC World News probably not so much, but that just showed you how needlessly clever Ro was), newspapers were depressing, and he’d decided he’d had an overload of negativity in his life as it was, so he eschewed all of it. He knew enough to get by in conversation, to know what was generally happening in the world, but that was it. If anyone needed a deep conversation about some news item, he pointed them to Ro and went elsewhere. He wasn’t stupid, just burnt out on everything he wanted to change but couldn’t.

“Wow, that chamomile tea really works. Can I have some more?” Grant asked, sagging back into the sofa. He was no longer crying, but his face was still streaked with tears. He was filthy. He was wearing clothes that clearly weren’t his own - they were ill fitting, the pants too baggy, the shirt too tight - and he smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in days. The cat scent was particularly rank on him.

That made him reflect on how Roan smelled after a transformation. After dosing himself with enough painkillers to kill an ox, he went and cleaned up, but Dylan thought it was remarkable he didn’t smell that bad. Maybe to himself; he wasn’t even going to try and imagine how nuanced Roan’s sense of smell was, except the fact that he could pick up an infected in a crowd was kind of scary. But Roan’s lion scent was not “cat enclosure at the zoo”, nor was it Grant’s smell now. It was lion, yes, or at least something feline, but it was tempered by a Human smell, something not unpleasant. Although Humans stunk, yeah, often worse than any cat, but still … he couldn’t explain it. Was it because he liked him? He considered that, but no, that never stopped him from disliking the smell of another man’s sweat before, so he didn’t know what was going on here. The pheromone overload? Ro said he shed a lot of them during transformation time, as was common with all infected. Or maybe it was just that Roan had such a unique smell it was hard to dislike. He didn’t know, but he knew enough not to tell him. Roan would probably see it as another way he wasn’t quite Human.

“Why don’t you clean up?” Dylan suggested. “There’s a shower in the bathroom, and I know we have some spare clothes you could wear.” Actually, he didn’t know that. Grant was kind of short, five five, and extremely scrawny right now, maybe a hundred pounds or at least in that neighborhood, and everything they had would probably be too big and baggy for him. But Roan had to have some skinnier clothes around; during his transformation period, his weight could drop precipitously, to a scary degree. Dylan, vegetarian that he was, would encourage him to eat meat at those times, if only for its caloric and fat properties.

Grant looked at him with slightly owlish eyes, tempered by the drugs and the easing of his hysteria. “Then you’re gonna call the cops?”

“I have no idea what I’m gonna do,” he admitted. He didn’t. Yes, he’d killed people, but he also knew it wasn’t his fault. He should have got his stupid ass tested, but that was a moot point now.

Grant seemed to accept that - what choice did he have? - but as he struggled to his feet, he said, “I loved them, you know. Curt and Tiff. People wouldn’t understand, but we were a team, y’know?”

Why wouldn’t people understand you liked your roommates? That didn’t make any sense. Unless … “Were you involved with both of them?”

Grant looked down at him as if he had just revealed a developmental disability. “Duh. We were a threesome.”

A threesome. They were all in a relationship together? Why not? He’d heard of stranger set ups. But why was Grant out partying then? Was he the third wheel - the guy brought in for fun, but just an adjunct of the Curt and Tiffany relationship? It was possible.  “Was Tiffany infected? No one seemed to know.”

“I don’t think so … but maybe now. If I was infected, she could be, I guess. I hope she’s okay. I never meant to hurt anyone, y’know.”

“I know. You can’t help the change.” But he could have helped before, he could have not - no, that was being morally superior, and didn’t help anything. He shouldn’t have gotten so wasted, but if he was raped it wasn’t his fault. No one deserved to get raped just because they were an idiot; that was doubly true about getting infected.

Grant wandered off to the bathroom, and Dylan was wondering if he should go get some Febreeze to get the scent out of the couch, when it suddenly occurred to him that maybe he should call Randi.

What would that accomplish? Yes, she’d know her brother was alive and momentarily safe, but then what? He couldn’t claim to know her as well as Ro did.

What would Ro do? He was asking himself that very question when the phone rang. He picked it up almost offhandedly, and didn’t even say hello before Holden said, “I know who the killer is.”

16 – We Regret To Inform You

Holden knew he should leave and call 9-1-1, but he’d just gotten here. He checked and made sure he was dead, then put on the leather gloves he brought just in case he couldn’t pick the lock on the door.

He was here. He might as well have a look around.

What he found out right away was the guy was a slob. Besides that, he discovered that his real name was David Smith, so no wonder he decided Colt Brixton was better. It wasn’t, but who was he to judge? His real name was Holden Krause. He always thought he sounded like a foreign car.

The guy had a fridge full of Red Bull and vodka, and a silverware drawer full of glass pipes and roach clips. The guy must have medicated himself morning, noon, and night.

Further searching turned up an empty laptop case in his bedroom. Had he simply forgotten it somewhere, or had someone taken it? Considering he was dead, the answer seemed to be the latter.

The guy was really disgusting. When was the last time he’d washed his sheets? Also, he had a pile of dirty clothes in the corner that smelled like an overcrowded bus on five PM on a Friday. Now, he wasn’t the neatest guy in the world, but he never let that happen; he never had a reeking pile of clothes in his apartment, nor did he allow his sheets to get crunchy. That was just beyond the pale.

In the back of his closet he found a box of porn DVDs, many of which were movies he’d been in, and Holden had a hunch. If he was going to hide something, this would be a great place to do it. He started opening up the DVD cases, looking for a DVD that didn’t fit.

He was through the first dozen without finding anything, and he wondered if he was a far too hopeful idiot. There was some straight porn in the box too, making him wonder if David/Colt was straight. It was more than possible; lots of straight guys went into gay porn to make more money. And with his sizable drug habit, he probably needed all the money he could get.

Down near the bottom of the box, in a case for a truly scary looking Ron Jeremy film, was a DVD that wasn’t a DVD – it was a CD-ROM. “I hope this is what I think it is, and not some interactive porn game,” he said to no one. Or maybe he was talking to the dead guy in the living room. It was bad enough that he was pawing through the man’s stuff – did he have to be completely rude too?

He did a quick check of other potential hiding places, found only a half a gram of white powder taped under the toilet tank, which he flushed away. He also found, in the false bottom of the cabinet under his bathroom sink, a little black book. Literally, a small black covered address box. Probably just a collection of his tricks, but still Holden shoved it in his pocket along with the CD-ROM.

Leaving the apartment, he pulled out his cell phone and reported that he was just walking through his building, and he noticed a neighbor’s door ajar, and while he couldn’t be sure, it looked like there was a person huddled on the floor beneath a blanket, a person who didn’t move or respond when he talked to him.

Okay, an anonymous 9-1-1 call was chickenshit. But there were too many questions he didn’t want to answer, and, to be completely fair, just couldn’t.

****

Dylan knew he was in ahead of visiting hours, but he didn’t care. He barely got any sleep, and he felt he had to be here.

It wasn’t anxiety keeping him up, but nightmares. Well, one in particular. He was at Roan’s funeral. Or was it a wake? Must have been a wake; Roan had already told him when he died he wanted to be cremated and thrown in the face of his enemies. He assumed that last bit was just his dark sense of humor … but maybe it wasn’t. Actually, there was a fifty-fifty chance it was actually what he wanted and not a joke.

Dylan was getting a soda from a lobby vending machine – so much better than the industrial strength coffee they had – when a woman asked, “You’re Mr. McKichan’s partner, yes?”

He turned to see the short Indian Doctor from last night. According to what he could see of her security badge, her name was Doctor Singh. “Well, uh, I guess.” He hated that term, “partner”. Like they were business associates. He really would have preferred “butt buddy”, frankly; partner was so cold and clinical, so American Family Association. Like there was no emotional attachment whatsoever; it was all financial or bureaucratic, and seemed to indicate it was something other than a relationship that could end in bitter acrimony and clothes getting tossed out on the lawn at three in the morning. That was so unfair.

“During a routine test this morning, Roan had an unusual pupil response, so we did some scans -”

“He’s off the respirator?” he interrupted, as this seemed vital.

She looked distracted, and then a brief look of annoyance flashed across her face before she resumed her medical poker face. “Yes, he seems to be breathing on his own now.”

Dylan let out a sigh of relief, unaware he’d even held his breath. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Anyways, we … found something. Do you know if he has a regular doctor? As an infected I imagine he does, but it’s not in the files.”

This threw him for a moment. His hand tightened around the cold can of pop, and he was glad for its indisputable reality. “You found something? What do you mean you found something? Can you be more specific?”

She shook her head, sweeping her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Not at this moment, no, and that’s why I need to talk to his doctor. Do you know who that is?”

Dylan scowled at her, wanting more answers, scouring his brain for the name of Roan’s doctor. Did he even have one? He hated doctors. But he recalled there was one he seemed to talk to on the phone, one who occasionally left messages on the machine. What was her name again? “Umm … Rosenberg. Petra Rosenberg, I think. I remember it’s an unusual name.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Rosenberg from the Institute? I didn’t even know she treated patients anymore.”

He didn’t know what the Institute was exactly, but he supposed it was infected related. “I don’t know that she does. She treated Roan as a kid, I guess, and they’ve kept in contact. He seems to trust her. He doesn’t trust too many people.”

Doctor Singh nodded. “She’s good. Her work on infecteds will probably get her a Nobel Prize one of these days.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away.

“Wait,” he said quickly. “This thing you found … can you tell me anything about it?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell at this moment. It could be an anomaly related to his condition, which is why I need to talk to his Doctor.” It felt like a dodge to him, but he wasn’t sure how to call her on it. And honestly, did he want to? His heart and stomach were both fluttering nervously. No one wanted to hear a doctor found “something” in a routine test or scan. The “something” was never a thousand dollar bill or a deed to an island in Hawaii; it was always a horrible something. “Oh, and you can see him now. We’re hoping he’ll regain consciousness soon.”

Dylan was hoping that too. Now more than ever.

****

As it turned out, Roan never woke up.

Dylan talked to him, mainly about the many twist and turns of the Newberry case, and how none of them could figure out what it meant. And how disconcerting Holden’s continued radio silence was. None of this roused him from a deep sleep that was just this side of a coma.

After a while, he just laid his head on his chest to make sure he was still alive. Yes, he was; there was a slow, almost thick thud inside his chest, nearly normal but far too slow.

Something was wrong with him previous to this, and he knew it, didn’t he? He supposed he did, but he didn’t know how to say it, or even if he should. After all, Roan knew better than he did that his migraines were getting worse. Was he supposed to tell him something he already knew?

This was what he hated about relationships. Just fucking hated. The emotional investment, and the slow, subtle death of it in one way or another.

Roan’s eventual death was a fact of life he had to grapple with the second he thought he might really like the guy. He was infected, and had lived years beyond any virus child of record; the clock was ticking. He knew this, and he wasn’t sure he could deal with it, but he also knew emotions had a tendency to carry him away no matter how he tried to be Zen about it. The moment Roan took off his shirt, showing him the scars he had so Dylan didn’t feel self-conscious about the self-inflicted scars on his arms, was the moment he fell in love with him. You just had to love someone who was so utterly fearless and yet so kind. They were rare.

Too rare to live. Just like Jason.

A nurse eventually kicked him out, which was fine by Dylan, as he knew he was getting maudlin and that Roan, if he happened to come to then, would probably just slug him for him. He wasn’t a fan of the soppy.

On the way out, he barely recognized the cute Asian guy that was Dee’s current boyfriend. He said he’d call him if Roan regained consciousness, and Dylan thanked him for that. He left feeling numb and strange, slightly disconnected from the world around him, as if he was sleepwalking and yet aware of it.

He felt that way all the way home, only realizing as soon as he parked in the driveway that he should have gone to the store. Fuck it, he wasn’t hungry. If he got hungry later, he could order a pizza.

Dylan was still in a personal fog, unlocking the front door, when someone grabbed him around the neck from behind. “Roan McKichan? Are you Roan?”

Dylan grabbed the man’s arm. He knew enough self-defense that he could have thrown the guy if he had the room, but he didn’t, so he could do nothing at the moment save keep him from strangling him. “No, I’m not. Why do you want him?”

“Where is he?” The guy sounded desperate. He also smelled, of body odor and strangely enough, a scent like wet cat.

“In the hospital. Somebody tried to kill him. Was it you?” He didn’t think so, he didn’t know Roan on sight, but he wanted to put him on the defensive.

“No! No, I didn’t do that. At least, I don’t think I did -” his voice cracked, and he made a slight keening noise as he tried to keep from crying. Results were mixed.

And that’s when it all suddenly clicked into place in his mind. “Grant Kim?” Dylan asked.