Bloodletting, Part 18
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.