Freefall, Part 17
17 – Imitation of Life
Roan sank down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that it seemed you could only find in hospitals or DMVs, and asked, “Found what exactly?”
“I did some digging, just for the hell of it, and it turned out Roland Chesney’s uncle, Michael Chesney, owned a big piece of land out around the Sun Valley build. Roland lived there for a few years, supposedly taking care of the place while his Uncle died of cancer. The place went to Mike’s daughter after his death and Roland found himself kicked out, but the place has been abandoned ever since.”
“That’s coincidental. It’s just a confirmation of Rocco’s story.”
“Here’s the interesting bit. A year ago, a dog in the area apparently unearthed a Human arm bone. They never discovered where the dog dug it up, but the sheriff of the town really didn’t like it. He was sure there was a body out there that they were somehow missing. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Does my opinion matter here? You talk to the sheriff?”
“Yeah, I did. He talked to Mike Chesney’s daughter about looking around the place, and she told him he could burn it down if he wanted. She doesn’t give a fuck what they do with it. She can’t sell it because it’s downwind from Sun Valley.”
He lolled back in the chair, his throat still raw from last night’s stomach pumping, the weariness settling on him like a heavy wet blanket. “That’s not exactly finding something. I thought you were talking about a dead body or something.”
“We’re workin’ on it. Jesus, Mr. Impatient.” After huffing an irritated sigh, she added, “I’m getting a feeling about this, Roan. I think you’ve stumbled upon something.”
His stomach growled, reminding him he still felt empty. He wasn’t going to scoff at her intuition, because it was something that good detectives developed along the way, and Murphy was a good detective. “I usually only stumble on things lately.”
“Hey, no self-pitying bullshit right now. I’m in no mood for it. I’m feelin’ too good.”
He was glad for her, so he thought he ought to go as soon as possible before he got her down. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“Sure. How’s Dylan?”
“Conscious and talking. I think he’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m glad. You keep him safe now, yeah? There’s been a resurgence in gay bashing for no apparent reason. Get him a taser and teach him how to use it.”
“He’s a Buddhist. He’s opposed to violence.”
“Tell him the bad guys aren’t. Gotta go. Don’t kill anyone unless you hafta.”
“I won’t, mother,” he replied, stressing the last word sarcastically. He heard her laughing as she hung up.
He slumped down in the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes for a moment, as his eyes were hot and itchy for no obvious reason. He must have fallen asleep, though, as he woke up to find Dee leaning over him, looking down at him with an equal mix of curiosity and sternness. “You haven’t returned a single one of my phone calls,” he pointed out.
Luckily, Dee was on duty, and was now inclined to be kind to him. He took him to the café across the street from the hospital – he was on a break – and bought him lunch. He didn’t lecture him, just told him if ever did anything as stupid as overdose again, he’d get some muscle queens he knew to wrap him in a straightjacket and throw him in an aggressively Christian rehab center, where he would undoubtedly kill and eat at least half the staff and end up in prison. That was a devious plan, and he respected him for it. Having a steady boyfriend was doing him a world of good.
Even though Dee warned him his digestive system might revolt so soon after having his stomach pumped, Roan was ravenous and ended up eating two bacon cheeseburgers (fuck the calories and cholesterol; transition burned lots of calories, and he’d probably lost two pounds since yesterday – his pants actually felt looser) and a plate of chili cheese fries, which led Dee to proclaim him a “closet straight” since no self-respecting gay man would actually eat chili cheese fries. Roan accused him of trafficking in stereotypes since he would eat chili fries, and in fact had actually eaten poutine up in Canada. (He wasn’t sure he would eat it again, but at least he had tried them.)
To be fair, the chili fries were gross, but he was so hungry he didn’t care.
As soon as Dee left to go back to work, Roan returned some phone calls. Fiona had called to check in on him and Dylan, and he let her know they’d both survived. She offered to find the culprits and give them the bullwhipping of a lifetime – again, she reminded him she could take the skin off a grape with her whips (and she had a selection of them – god, he was starting to feel like the John Waters of the detective set, surrounding himself with this cadre of the strangest people you could ever meet. But was that so bad? He actually liked John … ) – but he had been truthful when he said the cops had gotten Dylan’s assailants. After getting the one at the scene, he caved pretty quickly and named his partner, showing that Dave hadn’t found volunteers known for their smarts or loyalty. What a shock.
He left a message for Holden, thanking him for last night. He wanted to ask again what he had done to Dave, but he knew he’d never get a straight answer, and besides, he was probably better off not knowing. If he knew, he was an accessory after the fact. He had done enough bad things that he didn’t need to add one more thing to it.
Because Dylan had asked him, he dropped by his apartment to water his plants. (He had two bonsai trees, a juniper and a cypress, both in glazed ceramic pots with gravel and sand bases like little Zen gardens, and a passion fruit vine that he had started from a seed packet but was now about ten feet tall and sprawled all over an impromptu trellis. It was in the living room beside the window, where he had replaced the blinds with curtains because the passion fruit kept sending out tendrils and tangling itself in the blind slats). While there, D’Andra, the bald lesbian from downstairs who still looked at him like he might explode at any second, came upstairs to ask how Dylan was doing. He invited her in, but she just stood in the doorway, giving him a look that suggested she knew damn well that Dylan was way too good for his pasty ass.
Roan had seen that the picture Dylan had painted of him with his half Human, half lion face was still in the living room on an easel, covered with a drop cloth. He asked if she knew the people running the gallery show Dylan was doing – it was a hunch – and she said yes, which was no shock at all. He said that Dylan had wanted to add a painting, but since he was now in the hospital he couldn’t. Could she make sure it got in? Of course she could, so he handed her the lion painting, still concealed by the drop cloth, and thanked her for doing this for him. He wondered if she would be retroactively mad at him for making her an accessory, assuming Dylan ever told her that he’d never put the painting in his show.
After watering his plants, Roan sat down on his couch and just absorbed the silence and the scent of Dylan – and paint, paint thinner, charcoal – that permeated the place. He vowed to treat him better, and learn to allow himself to feel like a real person again. It just terrified him. Physical pain he could take – he’d better be able to by now. But emotional pain … there was no building up a tolerance to that.
God, he was such a pussy. And not the cat kind either.
He called Chris to let him know that he had made some progress, although he was careful not to mention the police investigation into Roland Chesney. There was no sense in getting his hopes up when it could turn out to be nothing. He’d had enough heartbreak in his life.
Because he found he didn’t notice the urge for pills if he was doing something, he decided to go home and catch up on everything he was neglecting: laundry, paperwork, facing all his pain pills and not taking them. After everything he had been through in his life, Roan was sure he was strong enough to face that.
Considering how things had been going, he wasn’t too surprised to find an unmarked police car parked out in front of his house. He also wasn’t surprised to see Gordo get out of it as Roan parked in the driveway. Seb was in the car and waved at him, but didn’t get out of the car. He just put in his earbuds and started bobbing his head to music only he could hear. As soon as Roan was out of the car, he only needed to point to Seb to get an answer from Gordo. Gordo rolled his eyes, and said, “His daughter got him an iPod for his birthday, and he’s determined to prove he’s not an old fogy. The problem is, all he listens to is REM.”
“REM?” Roan chuckled, looking back at Seb. Yes, he was completely ignoring them. “Really? I’d never have picked him as an REM type of guy.”
Gordo both nodded and shrugged, not getting it and agreeing with him at the same time. It was obvious he wanted to talk to him alone, so Roan simply went to unlock his door, and Gordo followed. “Yeah, well, you like that punk rock shit, right?” Gordo said, once they were inside. “Takes all kinds.”
“Not only punk. I try to keep my mind open, although I never appreciated electronica quite like Paris did.”
“Electronica? Is that that “thump thump thump” dance music?”
“Yep. It sounds best when you’re really high.” He tucked his keys in his pocket and hung up his coat on the coat rack before going to the kitchen and grabbing a Diet Pepsi out of the fridge. He tacitly offered Gordo one by holding up the can, but he shook his head.
“Is that true of rap?” he wondered.
Roan shrugged. “Depends on the rap. So what can I help you with, Gordo?”
He took a seat at the breakfast bar, a pensive look on his weathered face, and Roan just knew he was in for something. “How are you doing, Ro?”
A cop asking you “how are you doing” was always a bad sign. “Well I got ninety nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one.”
He grinned at his own joke, but Gordo just glowered. “Now even I know that’s a rap reference. Are you going to take me seriously?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t had enough caffeine today.”
“Try. I know it was you who caused havoc at the church last night.”
“Couldn’t have been me. I was at the hospital with Dylan last night.” He then took a swig of his pop so he didn’t accidentally smile.
The caustic glare Gordo was giving him let him know that he wasn’t buying that. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Roan met his look with a stare of his own. “Do you think I am?”
Gordo huffed a sigh through his nose and shook his head like a disapproving father. “Fine, don’t admit anything and incriminate yourself, but I’m not here to arrest you. If I was, I’d have brought a SWAT team.”
“’Cause I’m Batman?”
“Will you cut the bullshit? You did some real damage. Are you even aware you almost ripped a guy’s arm off? I mean off, Roan, and not even from a joint. From what I understand, the strength needed to do something like that is inhuman.”
“And so am I, is that it?”
His caterpillar eyebrows furrowed, dropping low over the bloodshot hollows of his pale blue eyes. “You know goddamn well I’d never say that. But I don’t know many people capable of that kind of strength. Hell, I actually don’t believe you’re that strong, but then again, I never would have guessed you were a long jumper either. I worked with you for years, but now I have to admit I don’t know you at all. You know how shitty that makes me feel as a detective?”
That got to him and made him feel inexplicably bad. Gordo was always decent to him. Oh sure, he was uncomfortable with him being gay and being infected for a long time, but he didn’t go out of his way to give him shit about it. He was probably one of the more accepting of the old timers. He’d gone out of his way to make sure he didn’t get into trouble when he stepped over the line when helping him with cat cases; he was a decent guy. They’d never be best friends, but they weren’t enemies either, and he shouldn’t push it. He considered several possible replies, and finally decided on the truth. “Under normal circumstances, I’m not capable of that kind of strength.”
“Under normal circumstances? What qualifies as normal?”
“Not furious.”
That made him sit back on the stool, as if the response surprised him. “You’re the Hulk now? We wouldn’t like you when you’re angry?” He suddenly looked towards the front door, and said, “Hey, yeah. You punched out a deadbolt when you thought Henstridge had killed Paris. I’ve never seen anyone punch out a deadbolt without tools. Wow, how’d I forget that?”
Roan had forgotten that, and turned away so he could wince out of Gordo’s view. He went to the fridge and pretended to be looking for something to eat, just so he had a reason to turn away. “It was a long time ago.” How had he forgotten that? That was a partial transformation, a use of his warping muscles that was, in retrospect, extreme. He couldn’t even remember his hand hurting after that.
Gordo scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. I haven’t forgotten the rest of it. You don’t forget seeing a man whose throat has been ripped out in one solid piece by a tiger. That was … “ he petered off for a moment and grunted softly. “No offense to Paris, but I’m glad there aren’t many tiger strains. I think the Human race would be doomed.”
“We’ll kill ourselves off before any animal has the privilege.” Roan saw the containers of Indian food he had gotten and saved for Dylan, and his stomach twinged. Well, he could have them when he got back from the hospital. He saw a pear and grabbed it, figuring this was a good enough foodstuff to pass.
Gordo shrugged a single shoulder as he turned back to face him. “Probably. We Humans are good at that.” He slid off the stool, and pointed at him, like he was picking him out of a line up. “Keep doing this kinda shit, and everyone will know. Not only will we be unable to hide it, but people will put the clues together. I don’t even wanna imagine that media circus, Just … tone it down. And no matter what you do, stay the fuck away from those cultists. You getting in trouble or getting infamous will be just what they want.” He then gave him a small salute on his way out the door.
Roan collapsed on his couch and wondered what he was going to do about himself. Gordo was right – if he kept displaying these abilities in public, it wouldn’t be good for him. He could imagine doctors lining up for the privilege of gawking at and poking the freak, keeping him in medical quarantine “for his own good”, but really just so they could dissect him and figure out how the virus had mutated in him, become something as helpful as it was harmful. If he was religious, he could call himself blessed or damned, and both would be equally applicable.
Shit. As soon as Dylan was well enough, they were definitely going on vacation and getting the fuck away from here for a while. He really needed to get his shit together.
When he conquered his lethargy, he turned on the stereo and cranked These Arms Are Snakes as he forced himself to do what he had to do to keep his mind off the pills. He did laundry, he did paperwork until he thought the boredom was going to kill him, and then, even though he felt unusually tired, he went into his study and worked the heavy bag, not letting himself get too carried away. He focused on the rhythm of his fists hitting the bag, trying not to put too much behind the punches (because if his muscles took this as an invitation to warp, he might break the goddamn chain), and threw in a few side and snap kicks for variety, so he didn’t fall too completely into a somnambulant pattern.
He finally stopped when he was forced to pant for breath, the sweat dripping off his forehead as he bent down and put his hands on his knees. He caught his breath in increments, and watched sweat beads fall and plop onto the dark carpet, where they were quickly absorbed. His muscles felt stretched, had the post workout burn, but he hadn’t taken anything too far, hadn’t partially changed, so that was good. Sometimes small victories were all you had.
Roan had no idea how long his phone had been ringing when he finally heard it. He just barely picked up the receiver before the machine kicked in, and had to tell the person on the other end to wait a moment as he muted the stereo. “Yeah, sorry.”
“This has been one bizarre day,” Murphy said, sounding grim.
“They find something at the Chesney house?”
“I have no idea; the Sherriff hasn’t called me yet. No, this is about your client, Holly Faraday.”
It actually took him a moment. So much had happened it seemed like ages ago now. But how could he forget that she set him up for some inexplicable reason? Had him trail her cheating husband, only to murder him and flee. “You caught her?”
“No, but we’ve found her.” She paused, and Roan stood up straight, suddenly wary. What the hell had happened now? “We found her body in an old gravel pit about two miles from where Dallas Faraday’s body was found. Somebody put a bullet in her brain too.”
Roan felt honestly terrible that his first reaction was relief that she hadn’t used him. But who would want to kill Holly?
Strike that: who would want to kill the Faradays?
He had picked a bad week to stop taking pills.