21 –  Midnight In A Perfect World

What was he expecting? Roan didn’t know. It didn’t help that he was still woozy from meds, and from some weird nightmare where he felt like he was suffocating and was sure he wasn’t ever getting out of this fucking hospital.

Doctor Singh noticed the tray shoved aside, and asked, “You didn’t eat your breakfast? Are you nauseous?”

He poured himself another glass of water – he sweat a lot during his nightmare; he needed the water – and said, “No. I didn’t eat it because it’s hospital food. If it smells bad to you, imagine how it smells to me.” Dylan had already snuck in this morning, and after a discussion, Dylan nipped out to go buy him some decent food. He kind of hoped Singh was gone by that time, but he had a feeling Singh liked Dylan, or at least liked looking at him. (Who could blame her?)

“It smells fine to me.”

“It’s not, trust me.” He took a gulp of water, then said, “Whatever it is, break it to me. I’d like to be out of here within the hour.”

Singh frowned, her brow furrowing, but it was the worried look in her eyes that bothered him. She seemed like a cool and rather aloof doctor, a veteran with a steady poker face, but it was now breaking. That was never a good sign. “I’m not sure that’s advisable.”

“Why not? Am I dying? If so, no offense, I’d rather do it elsewhere.”

“Your headaches got worse, didn’t they?” she asked, deciding to get to the point in a roundabout way. “You had an incident you didn’t report to us.”

“Incident?”

“Severe head pain? Blurry vision? Unconsciousness? Vomiting? Any of those ring a bell, Roan?” Now she was scowling at him like an upset mother.

He sighed, and figured there was no point in denying it, as obviously she had some evidence of it. “I may have passed out for like a minute. It wasn’t a big deal. And the next day I got a pain in my head bad enough to make me stagger, which is why I took what turned out to be elephant tranqs.”

She shook her head. “Good lord. Now I really have no idea why you aren’t dead. You had an aneurysm, Roan.”

“No,” he replied reflexively. He had no idea why he was denying it.

“Yes, you did. The scans we did confirmed it.”

“Don’t people who have brain aneurysms usually drop dead?”

“Often, not always. But from what I’ve seen, you probably should have.” She looked at her clipboard aggressively, holding it like she was considering hitting him with it.”The problem is treatment. You’re an excellent candidate for another one – in fact, when your change cycle comes in, I advise you get yourself hospitalized in advance. Your boyfriend said it was due in about two weeks. Is that true?”

“Round about. You now how erratic the cycles are.” He didn’t mention he could basically shift at will, as, if she believed him, she might order him hospitalized now. “But are you gonna have a vet handy? ‘Cause I really don’t see how you can treat me in lion form if something does go wrong.”

“Doctor Rosenberg’s volunteered to be on call for you.”

”She’s not a vet.”

Singh fixed him with a look that could have blown the back of his head off. “Knock it off now. This is very serious.”

“Infecteds are prone to this kind of shit. Kills a lot of us. I’m not dead yet, so can I go now?”

He thought she was going to lose her temper at him, but she reined it back at the last minute. “Surgery is an option.”

“Brain surgery? Look, I’m not still actively bleeding in the brain, am I?”

“You’d be dead if you were.” She scowled again, but her dark eyes seemed turned inward. “The bleeding stopped on its own.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” But even as he said it, he knew that didn’t sound quite right.

She held the clipboard up like she was brandishing a sword. “This doesn’t make sense, you know. An aneurysm ruptured in your brain, and may have been bleeding for some time. This should have killed you, Roan, this should have at least laid you flat. There’s a theory that you actually overdosed on elephant tranquilizers at just the right time, as it lowered your blood pressure to an absurd degree, limiting damage and slowing bleeding until it stopped.”

It was just the way she said it that gave it away. “But you don’t think that’s it.”

“It could be. For all I know, it was as good as inducing hypothermia. But it doesn’t make sense. In all my years on the job, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I don’t know what to make of it.” This seemed to really trouble her, as if it was a failing on her part.

“No one knows what to make of me,” he told her, trying to comfort her. He wasn’t sure why. “I’m a puzzle that can’t be solved. Kind of like the virus.”

She shook her head, and slapped her clipboard against her other arm. “Everything can be solved. It might take decades, but there’s a solution to everything.”

“Spoken like a true scientist. Or maybe House. I don’t have decades, do I?”

She threw up her hands (and clipboard) helplessly. “I don’t know. You could die tomorrow, Roan. You could live another twenty years. But once you have one aneurysm – and this one was out of the blue; your blood pressure wasn’t high, which is the most common aneurysm trigger – you are likely to have another one. This is the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Like the virus. Look, I get it, and you’re absolved. Release me. I want to go, and there’s nothing you can do for me here. If I die, I die. Maybe I’ll get lucky and my whole head will exploded, ala Scanners. I always wanted to die in a way that would leave people cleaning up after me for days, so I’m good with that.”

“Can you be serious for one second? We’re talking about your mortality here.”

“And I’ve lived with death all my life, and I’m kind of bored with it now. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. About twenty years overdue, according to most estimates, so at least I beat the warranty. Not many people can say that.” It sounded comforting, it sounded true, but he didn’t honestly know what he was feeling at this point. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the fact that he’d been pronounced to be on death’s door a million times, or maybe it was the fact that the virus somehow ended the bleeding. That was it, wasn’t it? No, it didn’t make sense, viruses didn’t work like that and they certainly didn’t have intelligence or direction, but viruses did have the innate drive to survive. If he was half virus or whatever the fuck, maybe that was enough.

It struck him then that that was what they meant when they called him a hybrid. Not a hybrid of man and lion, but man and virus, DNA strands locked mercilessly in a struggle that neither would ultimately win. In the meantime, that left him … what? A walking disease?

Probably. Was he surprised? He needed to wear that bell around his neck and randomly intone, “Unclean” to warn people.

“I still think you’re taking this too lightly. We’d like to keep you for observation -”

“Trust me, there’s nothing to see. I’m amazingly boring.”

“Would you stop being an asshole for one fucking second?” she snapped. “We think we spotted another potential aneurysm in your CT scan. Do you even care?”

“I care, but what can you do about it? Is brain surgery actually the answer here?”

She grimaced, scowled, glared at him as if he’d caught her in a lie. In a way, he had. “It’s not in a part of the brain I’d advise operating on. There’s few who’d attempt it.”

“Okay, that answers that question. I’m gonna get dressed now.” Dylan had brought him some clothes, like he asked, even though he wasn’t sure he should leave the hospital if the doctors didn’t advise it. He appreciated his concern, it was always touching, but he was sure Dylan didn’t yet understand his abiding hatred of being cooped up in hospitals. He’d have preferred prison, and they felt roughly the same.

“God, you are really going to be this much of a dick, huh?”

“This is your bedside manner?” he asked, slipping the boxer shorts on under his paper gown. Only then did he happily take the damn thing off and put a proper t-shirt on.

“I’ve given up with you,” she replied.

He could only shrug. “Fair enough.” He wiggled into his jeans – made infinitely harder since he was laying down – but he didn’t want to stand just yet, because he was afraid the drugs would make him woozy, and his almost falling over would be all she needed to get him re-admitted. He just wasn’t staying here, no matter how bad he was.

“There’s a new drug that might help. Will you at least try that?”

“Won’t make me a zombie, will it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Fine, I’ll give it a go. You know I’m not adverse to pills.”

She sighed and her shoulders slumped, like she was beyond tired. Or perhaps he simply drove her to the brink. She wouldn’t be the first. “This is your life, Roan. You shouldn’t be so cavalier about it.”

“Trust me, I’m not being that way. It’s just hard to work up energy about it when I’ve been told I’m about to die so often that I always felt they should just make a card of it and flash it at me every time I see a doctor.”

“Will you arrange to come here by your next cycle?”

“Maybe. Let’s see if I live that long, huh?” Maybe was actually a no, but since he was preparing for an argument with Dylan later, he didn’t feel like fighting with her any longer.

She must have felt the same way, because she shook her head in disgust and turned away, saying, “I’ll go get you the meds.”

As soon as she was gone, he collapsed on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Shouldn’t he have been upset? Why wasn’t he upset? Did he really not care if he lived or died? He had no religion, believed in no gods and no afterlife, and yet maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he still held out some vain hope he’d see Paris again. Maybe. He could be an idiot as much as anyone else.

He was putting on his sneakers when Dylan came back, holding a fast food bag and a paper cup. “You are so lucky I’m such a nice guy.”

He didn’t have to ask why. The smell hit his nose, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. “Oh, you beautiful man. You got me a steak breakfast burrito.”

“I can’t believe you even eat breakfast burritos. They’re disgusting.”

“Many are disgusting, yes. But ever now and then, you find one that’s pure ecstasy in a tortilla. And this one is, thanks to the chipotle sauce.” Roan got up, and found it easy with such impetus behind the movement. He went over to Dylan and kissed him before taking the bag and the cold cup from him.

Dylan shook his head, his lips thinning, but it was an affectionate sort of exasperation. “I’m glad I can’t have my vegetarian status revoked, because this would do it.”

“You’re doing it for love. People would understand. Well, maybe not PETA.” Even though he was eager to leave, he was ravenous, so he sat on the edge of the bed and opened the bag, pulling out the hot, paper wrapped burrito, which he peeled open eagerly. It was probably still too hot to eat, but as soon as he sunk his teeth into it, he didn’t care. Before the spicy sauce kicked in, he could taste all the hot fat and salty calories, the meat and the eggs and the crispy bit of hash browned potatoes they threw in as well. Bliss. He might have had an orgasm if Dylan had gotten him a pumpkin pie shake too, but he’d gotten him a Pepsi, which he had admittedly requested. (He needed the sugar and caffeine.)

He ate greedily, gulping half of it down in little over a minute, and Dylan sat down in the room’s only chair. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pry it out of you?”

He finished chewing, washed it down with a gulp of soda so sweet and ice cold it made his teeth hurt, and said, “You’re gonna want me to stay here. But I want you to know I’m not going to. I’m doing this my own way, and I hope you’ll support me even if you think I’m the biggest idiot in the world.”

Dylan stared at him in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do: punch him or laugh. “You should get that printed on a card and hand it out to potential boyfriends. By the time most of us figure that part out, we’re in too deep.”

“I probably deserved that.”

“Look, I know you, okay? Something was wrong and you hid it from me, because you didn’t want to admit weakness. And you’re terrified of hospitals, so you want to get out of here as fast as possible, even if it hastens your death. How am I doing?”

He let a pause linger. “I wouldn’t say terrified.”

He rolled his eyes. “You also use humor to try and defuse situations and change the subject, or alternately you use it as a weapon. You do it a lot. You’re a closet comedian.”

“I make you laugh.”

“All the time. But that isn’t the point. The point is I just found you, you selfish bastard, and you can’t die on me now.” He tried to blink away nascent tears, then gave up and just ran the back of his hand across his eyes.

A weight seemed to settle in his stomach, unrelated to the food, and it seemed to want to clog his throat. Roan didn’t let it. “I promise you, Dylan, I’m not gonna die. Not without a fight.  You know how I love to fight. That hasn’t changed.”

“It better not.”

Roan sat there, wondering how far ahead Paris had planned. He discovered only after he met Dylan that Paris had actively singled Dylan out and all but groomed him to take his place; he selected Roan’s next boyfriend for him, which was exactly like Par, so much so that he didn’t know why it shocked him that he had. Like he’d let him find someone that Par didn’t judge worthy? As if. But was this part of the reason why? Paris knew he’d be eager to join him in the nothingness of death, sweet oblivion, so he made sure there was something that would pull him back, make him want to stay alive even if only by sheer guilt. Was that the entire intent?

How weird was it that most of the important men in his life were dead, and yet he could still feel them in his life?

Wow. His existence was so much weirder than he thought.

****

It was like stepping out into a new world. Well, no, the same old fucked up one, with a few minor changes.

The “Sex Tape Scandal!” headlines seemed to suggest that the Newberry sex video had been found and released to the world, and Roan knew instantly that Holden was responsible. He found it, and he leaked it. Why? Because that was him. Hide something from him, and he would share it just to be an ass. Not that he would do anything different, but Holden was a bit more flamboyantly nasty.

The surprising thing was Jessie Newberry apparently committed suicide. Reports had it happening shortly after the video was leaked on the web, and while he left no note (suspicious), it was assumed the video was enough to send him over the edge. He was a troubled person, it seemed. Speaking of which, Kyle Newberry had supposedly checked into rehab ahead of the P.R. shitstorm. Was there an incest rehab? Well, why not? There seemed to be a rehab for everything else.

Grant was in legal custody, and many people were rather angry about the whole thing. It was understandable, but he didn’t kill anyone on purpose. No matter, many people still wanted his head. He wondered if Randi hated him now.

On a similar note, remains had been discovered in a wooded area, and they were assumed to be Tiffany Jones, although identification was still pending. Roan hoped it wasn’t, for Grant’s sake.

Gordo was out of the hospital, but he was still on leave from the cop shop and rather unhappy about it. He was a man who defined himself by his job, so without it, he felt lost. Roan could understand, he was the same way sort of, but usually he had so much shit going on that he could only muster a half definition at best. There was also the fact that macho cops like them hated being labeled as fragile.

At least Dylan waited until they got home before they started arguing. Dylan thought the diagnosis was very serious and Roan wasn’t treating it as such. That seemed unfair, as he agreed it was serious, it just wasn’t something he could get worked up about. Why he didn’t know. It didn’t really help his side in the fight.

Roan left Dylan to stew and fume at him in private, and went down to the basement, where he sat on the stairs and looked at the cage – his cage. The door was still ajar from last time he used it, and Dylan didn’t touch the thing. It wasn’t so much that he was scared of it … okay, yeah, that was part of it. Most of it.

Why didn’t the prospect of dying in it bother him? Roan knew it should, but it didn’t. It bothered Paris, that’s why he committed suicide ahead of his final transformation. He wanted to die a Human, not a half-tiger monstrosity. He understood that totally.

But the idea of it didn’t really bother him. Maybe because the lion had as much claim to him as his Human form. He didn’t know what it was like to be just Human; he had always been something else, something caught between what he seemed to be and what he actually was. Human, lion, virus. A freak amongst freaks. He deserved to die as he lived, neither here nor there, torn between Human and other.

Dim sunlight was bleeding through the tiny rectangular window at the very top of the basement, casting a shaft of light inside the cage itself, a vivid line on the poured concrete floor. He could still catch a whiff of tiger deep down beneath the more dominant scent of lion, or at least he thought he did. It could have been psychosomatic, something he wanted to believe.

Just like he wanted to believe his death would be as simple as transforming and causing a blood vessel to burst in his brain. In a bizarre way, he thought it might be nice.

But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy. Nothing ever was.

****

(To Be Continued ..?)

19 – Between The Bars

As Dylan suspected, what to do with Grant was a more troublesome issue.

Roan hated to turn a fellow infected over to the police, but he didn’t have much choice. Grant needed help, and probably needed to be locked away for his own good right now. Roan instructed him to call Seb and arrange for him to come and quietly take Grant in. Seb knew this had to be handled delicately, and whatever they did, the press couldn’t be tipped off, otherwise it would be a madhouse. And Seb wouldn’t mistreat an infected, unlike some other cops. It was the safest course. Roan still hated doing it, but he didn’t see another way.

Neither did Dylan. But at least Grant would get help, and you couldn’t be convicted of first degree murder in your cat form, as with one or two exceptions (one of them right next to him), no one had ever been seen to have any sort of Human consciousness in cat form. You were just a big angry cat.

But people did have a hard time accepting that, and it wasn’t difficult to empathize with them. When your boyfriend/girlfriend/family member was eaten or mauled to death by a cat, it was hard to swallow the reason that boiled down to “shit happens” or “wrong place, wrong time”. You wanted it to be more, to have some greater meaning or intent. The problem with life – with a lot of things – was randomness was responsible for so many things. Karma may or may not have come into it, depending on your belief system, but it was hard to believe someone could have done something so bad that it would end in them being eaten by a leopard. It was easy to understand why so many people were so angry. Dylan couldn’t help but think how angry he was after Jason died, and that basically boiled down to “wrong place, wrong time, wrong intersection, wrong side of the car”.

After a long moment of silence, Roan said, “If you don’t wanna move in with me, I totally understand. In fact, I’d support you not doing it.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Roan looked really tired. He had deep set eyes anyways, so when he got tired, it seemed like his eyes started to submerge into his face, dark crescents beneath the sockets only intensifying the effect. The meds he was on gave his eyes a glassy sheen. “I think I’ve fucked up your life enough, Dylan. I’m really sorry about that.”

Dylan leaned back slightly, if only to glare at him. Yes, he was serious. “Are you insane? Do you have any fucking idea how boring my life was before you? Okay, there are times I miss the peace, but I think I was going quietly nuts. De’Andra warned me about you right off the bat, she said you were a macho drama queen and I would be very sorry if I hooked up with you on a serious basis, but -”

“Macho drama queen?” he interrupted, puzzled. “Is that a contradiction, or a new category?”

“Oh, hell if I know. And she’s wrong, because you don’t really fit the queen mode. Macho and drama are other stories.”

“Cute.”

“Look, I’m gonna get all soppy and weepy on you if you keep pressing. So shut up and consider yourself lucky to have me, or I’m gonna cry all over you.”

“You bastard. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Roan sighed heavily. “I’d make a “Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?” reference, but that’s too gay even for me.”

“Oh, so we’ve found a level?”

“You’re cruising for a bruising, smart ass,” he growled in an affectionate manner. If anything could ever be said to be growled in affectionate manner, but this was all teasing. Listeners who didn’t know them would be horrified, but Dylan knew Roan would never hurt him, just like he knew he’d never hurt him. Although Dylan sort of hoped he’d never hurt anybody at any time, ever. It kind of went with being a Buddhist.

Roan was finally succumbing to the drugs, he was dozing off, and Dylan was kind of tired too. His arm was half asleep, but oh hell, he hated to move it and wake him. But there was a brief rap on the door, and Velez stuck his head in. “Gotta clear out. They’ll be doing rounds in a couple of minutes.”

Dylan nodded, and only then noticed as the door shut that the inside of it was covered with metal. This was indeed the cat room.

Dylan slipped his half numb arm out from beneath Roan and slid off the bed, almost falling because he was very clumsy at avoiding machines. Roan was asleep, though, so he couldn’t make a smart ass comment about it.

He pulled the thin blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. His skin still seemed cooler than normal, although not quite as cool as before. It was still troublesome.

Dylan was so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t realized he was being followed until he made it to the elevator, and he became aware there was an elderly woman right beside him who had been beside him almost since he’d left the room. “You’re Dylan, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice slightly husky from years of smoking.

He had to look down at her, as she was perhaps five feet, and he guessed her age to be somewhere in the mid-sixties. She wasn’t bad looking for her age, her hair was dark and curly, neatly styled, and she had a round face that was probably too round when she was younger, but now seemed just right. Her hazel eyes were just bright enough to suggest that she was probably something of a looker back in the day. “Umm, yes?”

“I’m Petra Rosenberg,” she said in her smoky voice, and held out a dainty hand. He shook it, careful not to crush her hand.

“Nice to meet you. How’d you know who I was?”

“Doctor Singh told me. Too hot to be straight, chocolate eyes to die for. Of course I could’ve guessed the first part on my own. All of Roan’s boyfriends have been absurdly gorgeous. He has great taste, in spite of what his wardrobe might lead you to believe. Goddamn, where were you boys forty years ago? I’d have gladly married one of you and been a beard as long as you agreed to sit around the house shirtless.”

Dylan wasn’t sure what to say about that, so he didn’t say anything. He did smirk, though, as it was now quite obvious why Roan liked her. She was probably one of the few women in the world who would find the descriptive “tough old bird” flattering.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and they had to step aside as a nurse came out, pushing a patient in a wheelchair. Dylan had no idea what had happened to the guy in the chair, but he had a leg in a cast, an arm in a sling, a black eye, and from the way his paper gown seemed absurdly thick around the upper part, his ribs wrapped. He was tempted to ask, “Skydiving accident?” but some people didn’t take jokes about serious injuries very well. In fact, most people. Roan could probably have a spear sticking out of his chest, and he’d probably say something like, “The dismount is always the hardest part.” His smart ass ways were rubbing off on him.

As soon as they were gone, Doctor Rosenberg stepped into the elevator and gestured for him to join her. Dylan reflected that only older women and female politicians who didn’t want to appear sexy ever wore pantsuits anymore. Rosenberg’s was a dark forest green, offset slightly by a dark navy blue blouse. “I need a smoke. Why don’t you come with me?”

The look she was giving him was deadly serious, and he knew this had nothing to do with grabbing a smoke. His stomach twisted at the thought that she was going to give him bad news about Roan, but he obeyed, mainly because it was reflex.

After the death of his parents, he was raised by his Aunt, but also most of his mother’s family – those who were in the States – chipped in as well. (He never really saw his father’s family, and after several years, he’d forgotten their names or where they lived. He probably looked more white than Hispanic, but the racially  mixed side of his family were the ones that chipped in and held together – what that meant he had no idea, but even in spite of his new, Caucasian sounding last name, he was continually startled when anyone just assumed he was white.) What this led to was a lot of time spent with his (maternal) grandmother and even for a little bit his great-grandmother, both incredibly feisty women who didn’t let a variety of physical frailties keep them from being bossy and a feared ruler with an iron fist. As a result, he now found himself unconsciously deferring to older women in general, especially if they had a strong personality. He already knew Rosenberg was a strong woman, and he was going to have to fight his own natural tendencies here.

“I don’t smoke,” he told her, as the doors slid shut, even though he knew it had nothing to do with cigarettes.

She shrugged. “Didn’t think you did. And good for you, it’s a horrible habit.”

“So why don’t you quit?”

“I have, five times.” Again, another shrug. “Nicotine is a bitch goddess.” Dylan grimaced, holding back a laugh. “Look, I’m sure you’re a smart guy, so I’ll just cut to the chase: do you love Roan?”

Wow, this came out of nowhere. He felt like he might have gotten whiplash from this conversational shift. “Uh, um, yes, I do. Why?”

“’Cause there’s probably gonna be some tough times ahead, so if you don’t, now’s the time to bail.”

He swallowed hard. Oh shit, it was bad. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good, ’cause Roan’s gonna want you to. He doesn’t like looking weak in front of anyone. He hates being vulnerable. It’s why he’s such a prickly bastard. He prefers hatred and fear over pity. Who wouldn’t?”

“You know what’s wrong with him.” It wasn’t a question, and tears threatened, making his eyes feel dry and hot.

“No, I’m not a diagnostician. I can only guess, and I wouldn’t put much stock in me there.” The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they needed to get out before everyone else came in, including at least one person on crutches. Dylan followed her, but he didn’t know why, as he was now kind of afraid of discovering the truth. Still, he did.

The conversation continued once they were outside in the parking lot. Rosenberg walked around the corner of the building, which he assumed was the smoking area, and started rummaging in her small black purse. The wind came up, cold and ragged, and blew cigarette butts and assorted other detritus across the asphalt with a scraping sound like skeletal fingers. “So you’re an expert on infecteds?” Dylan asked, wanting to say something.

She shrugged again. “Who’s an expert on this virus? It’s a fucking nightmare of impossibilities. No one should be able to transform into another species, not even a facsimile of another species, but there that fucker is, doing it. We can’t even agree on how it came to be. The fucking thing is still a big mystery.” She found her pack of cigarettes and pulled them out, a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds that seemed to only have a couple of cigarettes left in it. She must have seen him looking at it, because she said, “I only allow myself two cigarettes a day, three if it’s a fucking crappy day. This is gonna be a six cigarette day, I just know it.”

He had no idea that she was so profane. But, again, it made sense that Roan would consider her a friend. “So what’s your speculation on Roan’s problem?”

She shook her head as she stuck a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “I can’t tell you even if I wanted to. A patient should hear it first, family second. But I will tell you this, although if you repeat it I’ll have to deny it, ’cause I’ll be drummed out of the medical profession. But I don’t think you need to worry about Roan. I don’t think the virus is going to let him die just yet.”

He momentarily thought that was a sick joke, but as she lit her cigarette and took what was obviously a satisfying drag, he realized she was perfectly serious.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Holden was glad to hear that Roan was okay. But he knew Dylan was lying to him about something.

It’s because he heard a sort of thickening in his voice, like he’d been crying (or possibly just eating a whole buttload of cheese, but somehow he didn’t think that was a possibility). He insisted that Roan was fine, though, conscious and awake, and that he thought Holden had the wrong end of the stick. Roan thought the answers to all of this laid with Kyle or Jessie.

For the record, Ahmed agreed with Roan. “Killin’ someone with potassium is just weird,” he said, as they crossed the Oregon border. “You need a weird person to do something like that. John doesn’t sound weird enough. He sounds kinda pathetic.”

That did have a ring of truth to it, which irritated Holden no end. Being an asshole wasn’t enough? What was the world coming to when being a major grade A asshole wasn’t enough to get you accused of murder?

They made a pit stop at a Starbucks, and they had wi-fi, so Holden did some surfing. Jessie Newberry was a bit hard to find, but eventually he tracked him down to his Facebook page, where his handle was Jessie369. Holden recognized him even with his clothes on.

Kyle was better looking in the face, although Jessie had a harder, gym toned body. A little too gym toned, actually; he’d crossed that subtle line between hot and gross. Veins stood out on muscles that had lumpen shapes, and Holden could imagine the track marks even if he didn’t seem them. Was he more of a steroid guy or a HGH guy? Maybe both.

While paging through his personal photo gallery, he came away with the idea that this was a man so in love with himself that calling him a narcissist would actually be an understatement. There he was pumping iron; there he was striking a pose in a Speedo (and having seen the sex tape, he knew he was padding it, ’cause his dick just wasn’t that big); there he was supposedly impressing a bleach blonde with huge fake tits with the bulbous muscles in his arms; there he was in his gym tank top in front of the juice bar -

Wait a fucking second.

Holden scoured his page carefully. Jessie worked in a gym? He did. He claimed he was a personal trainer, which included not just exercise but a nutritional regime of his own design. (Jessie had his whole sale pitch in the “bio” section.)

Oh shit. This was it.

As Ahmed came back to the table with his second green tea frappuchino, Holden asked, “Do you know where the Seattle Fitness Center is?”

He took a sip of his drink, then said, “Seattle?”

Holden scowled at his poor joke. “We need to get back on the road and get there now. I think I just found a huge clue.”

Ahmed sighed and shoved himself out of his chair. “Yippee skippee. You know, I’m kind of wondering what you get out of being Hawk to his Spencer.”

Holden stared up at him blankly, and asked, “What?”

Ahmed shook his head and walked away.

Actually, he knew the reference he was making. He just felt like being a jackass.