Bloodletting, Part 19
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.