22 – Last Dance

Dylan wanted to be left alone, curled up in his own private bubble of pain, so Dee left him be. When he got the heads up Roan was out of surgery, he’d take him to see him, and he’d probably be in more of a mood to open up then.

Diego found himself sitting next to jock boy, Scott, the hockey player that Ro had inexplicably befriended. Well, maybe not so inexplicably – he had a hell of a profile, a long lashed boy with delicate features that could have been pretty if it wasn’t for his strong jaw and a few pale scars that gave him a more rugged appearance. He was a little flushed, but that was typical of the heavy anti-viral he gave him at the scene. There was an emergency anti-viral you could give in case of suspected exposure to the cat virus, but you needed to give it within twenty minutes of exposure, and even then, its efficacy was in question. But it was better than nothing, at least in theory, and if he wasn’t infected, the massive anti-viral dose wasn’t going to hurt him. Oh, he might get a mighty case of diarrhea later, but nothing that would kill him. “You feeling okay?” Dee asked him.

The boy, who was just Roan’s type, nodded. “Feel a little hot, but I’m okay.”

“Expected side effect. It’ll pass.”

He nodded again, remaining good natured, more Canadian than jock, at least for this moment. He looked at Dylan, and said, “I wish I could say something to him that would help. I don’t know what to say.”

“For now, I think it’s best to leave him be.” After a brief pause, he decided to distract him. “Where’d you learn to make a tourniquet like that?”

“Oh. I spent a winter break working with my Uncle, who was a ski instructor at a place up in the Canadian rockies. All us trainees were taught basic first aid, in case someone got hurt on the mountain. It might’ve been a while before the rescue teams could get there.”

“Ah, good. Ever hafta use it? Besides tonight, of course.”

“Not really. Well, once, I had to make a splint for somebody, but that was it.  You know, ski resorts are not the wild sex parties certain teen comedies would have you believe.”

“No, really? Senior Ski Trip lied to me? The bastards.”

That got a brief, pained smile out of Scott. “I know, I felt cheated too.”

They heard what sounded like a loud argument out in the lobby, and with the smallest of annoyed grunts, Grey – whom Dee couldn’t help but think of as Mongo, since he was about as big as an ox, and with all those scars on his face, if he hadn’t been a hockey player, he’d have been a serial murderer or world class thug of some stripe – stood up and went to the entryway, where he stood like a Human gate, either waiting for trouble or daring it to try and move him. Dee wished trouble loads of luck. Guy looked like he was built like a brick tackling dummy. He skated? When he was coming at you, it must have looked like a bus coming at you, not so much speedy as huge and unyielding, like a house thrown square at you.

Scott called out, “Situation?”

“Some people causin’ trouble, the cops closin’ ranks,” Grey reported, as if he was reading from a pre-printed menu. “I don’t think anyone’s getting’ through, but I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Intervene only if necessary,” Scott said, sounding like a weary general issuing knee jerk orders. In fact, that’s exactly what was going on. “Let the cops handle this shit if they can.”

“Oh, you bet. Fucking bastards shot Roan.”

“It was just one. Don’t think they’re all the same.”

Very quietly, Dee whispered, “You his commanding officer?”

Again a faint, pained smile. Oh, he was a real cutey, completely fuckable. Roan really did have good taste in men. “I’m only team captain on the ice. But it’s habit, and he’s easy going, so he doesn’t mind me being bossy.”

“He’s easy going? Him?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, since he looks like he could beat us all to death with his shoe, but he really is. He generally saves his temper for the games.”

“Really?” Looking at him standing in the doorway, tensed up as if ready to start breaking walls down with his forehead, that was hard to believe. “I’d hate to see him pissed off.”

“Yeah, it’s frightening. That’s why he’s such an effective enforcer.” Scott paused in an uncomfortable way, staring at the distant wall without actually seeing it. “When Roan went after the cats … he was so fast. It was like that parkour shit, you know, running along those cars, only he wasn’t going up the side of a building. We’re in good shape, y’know, but we couldn’t keep up. We only caught up to him by the time the cop shot him.” The kid finally looked at him, and he seemed to be struggling to put his thoughts into words. “He’s not … that’s not the way infection works in most people, right? I mean … he’s more than Human. He really is a superhero, isn’t he? His face was changing after the shooting, it looked like his jaw was shrinking somehow … it was really weird.”

Oh, this was going to be difficult to handle. Thank you, Ro. “Look, Ro’s case is unique -”

“He’s magnificent,” Scott said, looking at him with something like awe. “I wish I was him.”

What the fuck? Weird. Even Roan was wishing he wasn’t himself right now. How weird was it some kid would want to be Roan? He better not tell him, because this was weird enough as it was.

Holden came back in, sipping a can of soda, and while he sat next to Dylan, he didn’t say anything or make a move, showing an odd amount of empathy. He was just staying close to him, to let him know he was there, but not imposing himself in any way. Holden was way too smart to be what he was, so Dee just assumed he was a slacker, or got a kind of thrill from living extra legally. That made him a perfect match for Ro, who was both legal and illegal at the same time, straddling so many lines that it was impossible to say where he crossed them in the first place.

Dee was just getting over his own weird feelings. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d slept with Ro in the past, seen him naked too many times to mention – no, nothing felt quite as grotesquely intimate as reaching inside his leg and pinching an artery shut. His life was literally in his hands. All he had to do was let it go, open his fingers, and that was it. Roan would have thanked him if he could, would have asked him to let him die if he was conscious, but of course he wasn’t. Still, as they were in the back of the ambulance, Dee did consider it briefly, knowing that’s exactly what Ro would have wanted, but decided fuck him, Ro didn’t know what was best for himself half the time. Besides, Ro had never filled out an official “do not revive” form, and it wouldn’t have applied here anyways.

At least if Roan died, he could tell himself he did everything he could to save him.

****

Roan couldn’t believe how cold he was. His feet felt like they were carved out of ice. He pulled the sheets tightly around him, and said, “I blame you, you know. You picked this shitty hotel.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Paris replied, wrapping his big body around him, warming him. “Besides, isn’t it romantic to get this snuggly?”

“Slowly freezing to death isn’t romantic.”

“Depends on what you’re doing while freezing to death.” He kissed his ear, arms wrapped around his chest, and Paris said, not unkindly, “You know that’s not why you’re so cold.”

It took him a moment to figure out what he meant. Yes, it was this shitty Vancouver hotel, where the heating system seemed to break down the instant they checked in, and of course it was an unseasonably cold night tonight. All of this figured, as that’s how it worked.

He ached. He had a funny pain in his leg, a dull, throbbing pain that his icy coldness didn’t seem to be helping, and he didn’t know why until he started thinking about it. And as he thought about it, he remembered fighting cats and being shot. Oh shit. “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

“What if I said you were dead and this was heaven?”

“I’d say this isn’t The Lovely Bones, and cram it with walnuts.”

Paris laughed, a sound he realized he missed terribly. It made his chest ache and feel hollow. “Mister Cynical. That’s just never gonna change with you, is it?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“I kind of wish I was,” he admitted, repositioning one of Paris’s arms so it was just under his throat. He felt warm and good, but not nearly warm enough; he felt like he had an icy core, like his insides had been replaced by liquid nitrogen. He recalled losing lots of blood, reddish-black blood spurting as if from a hose. “I miss you so much.”

“What did Dylan tell you once? People die, love doesn’t.”

“How cheesy is that? I’m sure he probably got that from a fortune cookie.”

“Maybe. But you still love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“But you love Dylan too, yes?”

“It’s not the same.” It wasn’t. How could it be? He gave everything he had to Paris, and his death had killed a part of him that had never come back. He did love Dylan, but it wasn’t the same, nor could it ever be. Sad but true.

Paris kissed him on the back of his head. “You need him. You know you do.”

“Yes.” This wasn’t really Paris, this was himself, so what was the point of a lie?

“So treat him better. Treat everyone better. You need to stop being a self-pitying bastard and get your shit together, because seriously, I’d have kicked your ass by now.”

He sighed, settling his head in the crook of Paris’s arm. Yeah, okay, it was a dream, or more likely some hallucination kicked up by his blood and oxygen starved brain in an attempt to comfort or rally him, or whatever the autonomic response of the brain was in situations like this. So he wasn’t dead, just dying. Good to know. Although why wasn’t he dead yet?

“Now that’s something else you have to get past, this stupid death wish of yours.”

“It’s not stupid. I’m tired.”

“So? Take a vacation, stop doing what you’re doing, change your life, but don’t give up entirely like some pansy ass coward.” Paris turned him onto his back so he was  facing him, looking down at him with his long hair brushing his face. God, he was beautiful. “You are a pain in the ass, and frankly you probably deserved to get your fool ass shot, but you are not a coward. Okay, becoming a drug addict was cowardly, but you always were an emotion dodger, so that makes sense. But you have to stop the rest of this shit. You promised to live for me, remember? Stop living to die. I’m already dead, and that’s no fucking fun.” He put his hand flat on his chest, as if holding him down, but he didn’t need to. If he had one more minute with Paris, even a fake one that lived in his head, he wasn’t going anywhere. “So you’re not perfectly Human – so fucking what? Humans are hardly a gift, are they? People suck and you know it. You’re better than them; start acting like it.”

Roan looked up at him in disbelief. “You would never say I was better than anyone else.”

“No? C’mon, I used to be purely Human, I know first hand we suck. You know it too. Having a less than Human element is surely a boon.”

He eyed him warily. “This is me bleeding into you.”

“I could be as cynical as you.”

“Not often. How much of this is me telling myself what I want to hear?”

Paris smiled down at him sadly. “You’re gonna hafta tell me, hon.”

He wished he could, but he honestly didn’t know anymore. All he knew was he’d be lucky to die, so he never had to find out.

****

Holden watched the continuing tableau with interest, letting his anger ebb as he realized the cop’s name would probably be in the papers. All he needed to do was wait a couple of hours, and he’d know everything about the guy.

Not that he was going to do anything right now. It was best to wait, see what happened. Maybe the cops would go hard on him, maybe not, but the publicity would keep him in a bubble for a while. He could wait. Sometimes having patience was difficult, but he could bide his time, aware that when the publicity died down, the shock of revenge would have that much more impact.

Kevin Robinson arrived, the vice cop that he knew by his nickname “Karo” (sort of a contraction of his name, also a reference to corn syrup, since some of the kids on the street found him corny), the guy Roan and Dylan had been crashing with recently. The burly, somewhat overweight cop surveyed the room, and upon seeing him, gave him the guarded but familiar nod that passed between any cop who was trying to keep his street informant options open and the potential informant. Holden filled the potential informant part of the bargain by giving him the slightest of nods in return, although with no enthusiasm. He had nothing against Karo, he just pitied him. It was well known amongst the hustlers he was a closet case, as gay as a unicorn in hot pants, but not one of the bad ones who overcompensated by beating up any suspected fags as viciously as possible, or by coercing blow jobs out of hustlers he busted. It was known he’d bought services once or twice, but that was the point: he bought, and never identified himself as a cop. It was a straight (no pun intended) transaction, purely business, and that was fantastic. Most people with positions of power abused it, and Karo was known to be the exact opposite of that.  So he was respected and pitied in equal measure, because, damn, if you had that power, why not use it to your advantage? There wasn’t a hustler around who wouldn’t have had a bit of fun abusing any authority they got. What was wrong with Karo that he wouldn’t?

Maybe that was the true horror of the world. When someone didn’t abuse their position, something was assumed to be wrong with them.

Kevin approached Dylan but stopped, as his grief was apparent in his hunched over body, as if he was trying to curl in on himself, and he seemed almost grateful when the cop Roan always called Dropkick returned. She was talking to Grey, but as soon as she saw Kevin she included him too. He couldn’t help but smirk at the inclusion of Grey in the talk, but why not? If you had Frankenstein, you wanted him to be ready to spring into the fight if things got bad. And while Grey seemed more clever and tolerant than Holden would have ever given him credit for (considering who he was), he was built like Frankenstein, and probably wouldn’t be discouraged from a fight unless you waved a great big torch in his face. He would probably even growl, “Fire bad!”

Also, he seemed to be really torqued at the cops for having shot Roan. It was best to keep him on whatever sliver of good side they could eek out.  Because she was Roan’s friend, Holden didn’t think she’d try and talk Grey out of making his statement that the shooter had lied, mainly because Frankenstein couldn’t be intimidated, not unless they brought out the flaming torches early.

Fiona came over and sat beside him with a sigh. “Have you ever felt more useless?”

“Not particularly.” He held out his can of Pepsi towards her, and after a moment, she took it and had a swig. When she handed it back, he asked, “Is it wrong that I always assumed Roan would get himself taken down in a hail of bullets?”

She shrugged. “There was a certain inevitability to it.”

The commotion out in the waiting room got worse, and everyone, save for Dylan, noticed. Kevin, Dropkick, and Frankenstein all stiffened and then headed out as someone in the lobby shouted, “Gun!” Dee was immediately on his feet, along with Jeff and Scott. Holden wasn’t sure if they were going to join the rush, or were planning to build a barricade.

He wished he had his gun. The only weapon he had was his butterfly knife, and only Roan could bring a knife to a gun fight and survive it. Well, he could pass it off to Frankenstein, but Frankie probably did well enough with his fists to never need it.

The most bizarre thing of all? Holden had a feeling Roan would have thrived in this chaos. There was nothing he liked more than a good, hopeless fight.

21 – Die Slow

The strange thing was, it was very peaceful.

Roan sort of felt distant, removed from the scene, as he heard Grey in his hockey goon voice, shouting, “You shot a cop! He was one of you!” It was a voice of pure homicide, and he could just imagine that poor cop shitting his pants or worse, aiming his weapon at Grey. And he was factually incorrect! He wasn’t a cop, just a “special investigator”, and he was never one of anyone. But he couldn’t articulate any of this. He felt like he was turning to ice, freezing in place, becoming gum on the sidewalk.

His vision was fading, slowing going out like someone had a dimmer switch, and a shadow fell over him, came beside him. “Hold on, Roan,” Scott said, taking off his belt. It struck him as a hilarious time to put the moves on him, but that wasn’t it. Scott looped his belt around his leg, just above the wound, and said, “Sorry, this is gonna hurt.” He then yanked up tight, like he was trying to saw his leg off, and the pain made him growl. The pressure was unbelievable, unbearable, and he wasn’t sure what Scott was trying to accomplish exactly. Hurting a dying man was hardly sporting, was it?

There were sirens and lights, but they were all far away and irrelevant. Nothing mattered, nothing was important; he was just cold, and now his leg hurt. “Roan, you hafta stay with me,” Scott said, looming over him. He had blood flecks on his face, blood on his hands, and suddenly alarm kicked in – he was infected. His blood was deadly, toxic, he had to stay away from it. But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Damn it, Scott, this wasn’t his fault. Why did he have to run in like that? “Talk to me, Roan. C’mon, don’t give up now.”

But it wasn’t giving up. It was just letting go, falling backwards into a black abyss of peace. It was good to fall, nice.

In an odd way, he was relieved. Maybe now, it was all over.

*****
Maybe he was a closet sadist, but Dylan found himself missing Panic.

Oh, only sometimes, but he honestly felt he didn’t belong here. Silver was a marvelously orderly, sane world full of tinkly piano music and people requesting vodka martinis, and god it was boring. Although the clientèle obviously had more money, the tips weren’t any better, and he actually missed the hassle of making drinks with stupid names that he had to Google on Luis’s phone to find out how to make ( the Muppet, for example, or the Luxor Boom Boom). And times like this, when it was a diner dead zone, he was so bored he hardly knew what to do with himself. For now, he was sitting on a stool and doodling on a napkin. He was sketching out some ideas on what he wanted to paint on Roan. He wasn’t going to plan, he was just going to go with the moment, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted to highlight the tattoos Roan already had, incorporate them into the overall design. Thinking about it, he realized he’d love to paint a heart on his face, a broken heart, his nose the dividing point, his eyes within the halves of the heart. Because Roan was grief, and all those tattoos he had were symbolic of that. There were always three people in this relationship, him, Roan, and the ghost of Paris, and that hadn’t changed. Sometimes he thought Roan thought it had, that he had gotten beyond it, but all those tattoos, even if they weren’t directly symbolic of Paris, were all about him. He was branding memories into his skin, wearing the body armor of his mourning, and he probably thought he wasn’t. He felt like incorporating that into the artistic theme. He wondered what he’d tell Roan about what he was doing, and decided to worry about it later.

He was trying to decide if a wing would work draped across the torso or if he’d have to put it across the stomach when Robin the Maitre’d suddenly came up to the bar and said, “There’s a call for you at my station.”

That surprised him, for more reasons than one. The boss didn’t like anyone getting personal calls ever, especially during your shift, even though it was almost over. As bosses went, he was anal and a complete prick, a body part two-fer. Robin usually kissed his ass too, so he was probably in for a lecture. But Robin looked oddly grim as he said, “You’re gonna want to take this call.” What the hell ..? Oh shit, now he knew it was bad news.

He quietly walked out from behind the bar and followed Robin to the Maitre’d's area, where the phone sat on top of the small dais with the receiver off to one side. He picked it up, his stomach knotting in anxiety. “Yeah?”

“Dylan, get down to Saint Joe’s,” Dee said. “Roan’s been shot.”

“What?” Oh, he dreaded these calls. It wasn’t the first he had received, and it probably wasn’t the last.

“Long story, but a stupid cop fucked up, and … he’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t wanna worry you, but … hurry.”

Now the bottom dropped out of the world. Dee sounded concerned – mostly pissed off, but a bit concerned – and that really worried him. Dee would only sound concerned if there was a real problem. “Where was he shot? How is he?”

“Can’t explain now, just get down here,” Dee said curtly, and hung up.

Oh god. It was so bad he didn’t want to tell him.

Robin was right there, a well dressed raven, and said, “Go ahead and take off early.” Gee, a whole five minutes early? Could the place possibly spare him? Dylan thought that, but kept it to himself. He went and gathered his coat from the employee’s “lounge” (a tiny room that was probably a converted closet), and as he was leaving, Robin said, “I hope your friend’s all right.”

For some reason, that really pissed him off. Maybe it was the last straw, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “He’s my husband,” he snapped, shrugging on his jacket and heading outside, into the cool, slightly smoggy air. If any of the remaining customers were appalled that a gay had served them drinks, fuck them.

He didn’t remember the drive to the hospital. He was reasonably sure it felt longer than it should have, but otherwise it was a blur. He was numb, cold down to his toes, and wondered if this is what it felt like to be a zombie.  Except zombies wouldn’t feel cold, would they? This was exactly the kind of stupid, nonsensical discussion that Roan would love. He couldn’t think of that now.

The emergency room was madness, as it usually was, but it was the sheer amount of cops that drew Dylan in the right direction, and while a cop stepped in his way to stop him, a big arm shoved the cop aside like he was a cardboard stand up, and said, “He’s the fucking boyfriend, okay? Jesus.” It was Grey, who had half a foot and seventy pounds of muscle on the hapless cop, who could do nothing but stand aside and watch as Grey escorted him through the mob. He had to admit, in situations like this, it was good Roan had weird hockey player friends. Grey was a mountain, and even if you were as tall or muscular as he was, he clearly had lots of confidence in his innate ability to kick your ass. It was clear some of the cops wanted to say something, maybe stop him, but nobody dared.

Grey escorted him to a side room, a private waiting room, where everyone seemed to be waiting: Fiona, Dee, a bloodied Scott, a frazzled looking Jeff, and a coffee drinking Shep, Dee’s EMT partner. Dee stood as soon as he saw it was Dylan, but Dylan just went ahead and asked, “What the fuck happened? Where is he? Can I see him?”

Dee assumed his calm paramedic demeanor, that seemed to get more placid the worse the situation was. Right now, he seemed ice cold. “No, he’s in surgery right now. He was shot in the chest and the leg, but the leg caused the critical injury.”

“Yeah, that was funny,” Shep said, his Southern drawl barely noticeable. “The chest wound was like nothin’. Usually chest wounds are real messes, but it may as well have been a paper cut.”

Dee went on like he hadn’t been interrupted. “His femoral artery was hit. He easily lost half his blood volume by the time we got to the scene.”

Dylan just let the words wash over him, not really thinking about any of it. If he did, he would break down, and he didn’t want to do that in front of so many people.

“I know this sounds bad, but it’s not nearly as bad as it could have been. I found the artery and was able to pinch it off, although I guess hockey boy over there deserves some credit,” Dee said, gesturing at Scott. “He put a tourniquet on his leg, slowed the blood down, bought him some time.”

Scott simply shrugged, but the frazzled Jeff said, “And may have been infected for it! Jesus man, what were you fuckin’ thinkin’?”

“I was thinking of saving his fucking life, Jeff, and I’m not infected,” Scott insisted, giving him a harsh look. “Testing’s just a precaution. I’m fine.” Dylan knew the look in Scott’s eyes. He was trying defiantly not to feel anything so he couldn’t lose it, and that was exactly what Dylan was doing right now. His heart suddenly went out to the bi closet case – he was trying so hard to fit into a world that was far from friendly to his kind, and he was doing surprisingly well. It took a kind of courage to remain numb when what you really wanted to do was freak the hell out.

Dylan looked at Dee, keeping his own non-freak out mask in place. “He’s going to be okay though, right?”

Dee grimaced. “I’m sure he’ll get through surgery fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dee gave him a hard scowl. “What, did Ro give you a handbook on me? Fine – after a great deal of blood loss, it’s not unusual for the internal organs to just shut down. Sudden, massive blood loss is just an incredible shock to the system, and many people don’t survive it.”

He nodded, feeling that pit open up in his stomach. If he allowed himself to feel something, he would probably be barfing his guts out by now.

“Now Ro has an edge on most people, in that his body undergoes a terrible shock on a monthly – fuck, daily at this rate – basis, a shock many don’t survive. So if he can survive that, he has a decent chance of surviving this. We’ll know within the next twelve hours if he will or won’t.”

Oh, terrific. He had twelve hours to go insane with anxiety. “His transformations doesn’t involve his organs shutting down.”

“True, which is why there’s some doubt. But his odds are still better than average.”

“Ah.” There was an empty chair, and he sat down in it before he collapsed. “What’s with all the cops?”

Grey scoffed. “That’s what I was wonderin’ too.”

Suddenly Holden charged into the waiting room, nearly breathless. “Okay, who did this? Give me a name.” His hair was well coiffed, and he was wearing the hustler “uniform” of a tight white t-shirt and slightly baggy but well worn and attractive jeans, suggesting he’d just come from an assignation.

They all looked at him in various expressions of surprise, but Dee was the first to recover. “It was a cop.”

Holden nodded curtly. “I know. Give me a name.”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you now, a hooker vigilante?”

Jeff looked confused. “Is that a reference I don’t get?”

Holden didn’t react to anything anyone said. “Given enough time, I can get to anyone. Give me a name.”

Dee looked skeptical, but after the other night, Dylan had no problem believing this. Holden was a predator who disguised himself as prey, acting like a victim until it suited him not to. He wasn’t a psychopath, but he was two steps and one mental shift away from it. He would never have believed that a hooker could be muscle, but Holden had taught him otherwise. Dylan wondered what possible story he could have had that led him to be this way, but decided he was better off not knowing. “The cops take care of their own. Let them punish him. Besides, what would you do? And better yet, why?”

“That’s just street one oh one, Dee. They hurt one of yours, you hurt one of theirs. Haven’t you ever seen The Wire?”

“Okay, I get that reference,” Jeff said.

Dee looked skeptical, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have delusions of grandeur, or
is there something about you we don’t know?”

“I don’t think the cops will do anything to the guy,” Grey said.

Dee gave him a sharp look. “Don’t you fuel the fire, Hansen brother.”

“I got that reference too,” Jeff commented to no one.

Grey sat back and glared at Dee. “He’s lyin’ already. I heard that cop say he shot Roan because he thought he was lungin’ towards him, but that’s not what he said to me after I told him he shot a cop. He said to me, “He didn’t look Human”. He shot him ’cause he was scared he just met the boogeyman. Can’t we nail him on a hate crime?”

Jeff looked confused. “He didn’t shoot him ’cause he was gay.”

Grey turned his scathing look on Jeff.  “He shot him ’cause he was infected, Jeff. Jesus.”

“Will you make a statement to that effect?” Detective Murphy said, coming in the room. Clearly she was still on the job, as she was wearing a dark suit and button down white shirt that looked like it might have been a man’s (but she wore it well), her badge and service weapon visible on her belt.  “I mean about what he said, not the hate crime charge.”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna make that hate crime charge.”

“Don’t. You could make things worse, and we don’t need that right now.”

“Make things worse how?” Holden asked, eying her like she might be a rabid cobra. “Roan is half dead, and he was shot by one of your guys.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Maybe Holden was right to be wary of her. “He wasn’t one of mine. Yeah, he’s a cop, and when I meet him I’m gonna kick his ass.” She looked at Grey. “But if he said something to you that he isn’t telling us, we need to know. Make it official. As for why the cops are here, we’re expecting trouble once the news gets out.”

Now it was Dee’s turn to look confused. “Why?”

“There’s some fear that groups of infected may turn violent, with this right after the church bombing. It might be seen as one incident too many against the church and against all infecteds.”

“I’m pretty sure church supporters hate Ro’s guts,” Dee said.

“He’s a symbol,” Dylan said, knowing how the cops were seeing this. “Many of the church’s people don’t like him, but he’s the most high profile infected you could name. He’s carved a life for himself amongst mainstream society, he’s refused to stay in a cage, so no matter how much they dislike him, he’s all they’ve got. If the cops decided to kill him – and I’m not saying they did, I’m just saying that some infecteds will see it that way – they’ll be pretty pissed off.”

Murphy nodded. “Exactly. So … who are you again?”

“Grey Williams.”

Murphy carried on smoothly, as if she hadn’t had to ask. “Grey, if you go off with the hate crimes charge, you could just inflame things. So please don’t.”

“Infecteds rioting like it’s 1968 doesn’t explain the thick blue line in the lobby,” Holden said, and Jeff made a noise like a cough as he swallowed a snicker.

It was interesting to note that Murphy and Holden seemed to take an instinctive dislike to each other. They were sizing each other up like boxers in a ring. Obviously she was a cop, but did she know he was a hooker? Her expression was professionally stony, and gave nothing away. “I suggested to the Chief that she station guys here, ’cause once word gets out that he’s in here, it isn’t just infecteds who will get a full head of steam. Roan has enemies, and he’s never been more vulnerable than he is now, and just think what a hero amongst the scumbags  you’ll be if you successfully take out McKichan.”

Even Holden couldn’t make a smart assed comment about that, because she was right and they all knew it. If one of those fuckheads who always wanted to kill him wanted to do it, now was the time. If the cop didn’t kill him, the assholes would.

Dylan covered his face by pretending to dry wash it, but grief finally overwhelmed him, and his resolve cracked. A few tears leaked out as he tried to hold them back, then he just gave up, as he knew it was a fight he couldn’t win.

Poor Roan. He deserved better than this. But the tragedy of life was you rarely got what you deserved, you only got more heartache.

20 – Shot By Both Sides

Roan watched Kevin’s TV for a bit, just to see what the local news had to say about the bombing. Not a lot, or at least not much that was substantive. Two pipe bombs went off, one didn’t, and the amount of injuries ascribed to the attack ranged from fourteen, twenty two, and twelve, depending on whether you were watching channel five, seven, or four. That one person was critical was the single constant.

If there was one or two particular suspects, they weren’t named. Perhaps because there was a plethora of suspects to choose from. It would be easier to name those not involved, or at least take less time. Kevin told him not to go to the crime scene, that he’d ask around and see what he could find out. Was it that obvious he wanted to check out the Church? Yeah, probably. He promised he wouldn’t.

He left early to pick up Dylan, ostensibly to stop by the store and pick up some Excedrin, which he used to take by the handfuls (taking so many painkillers basically killed his migraine cycle, which was a bonus of being a pill addict), but really he had remembered Cullen.

Roan had to cut through a party that had spilled out onto the stairs, and he got a variety of looks from the junior thugs holding their big plastic cups full of cheap beer, mostly of the dirty variety. The pot smoke that wreathed them made him sneeze.

There was no change of scents by Cullen’s apartment door, nor did he hear the hum of electricity when he pressed his ear against the apartment door. He hadn’t been home, had he? Had he done a runner? Did he hear of Hockney’s death, figured shit had gone south, and made a run for the border?

Maybe he was looking at this wrong. Maybe he knew of Hockney’s death before anyone else. Or maybe he was dead too.

Headed down the stairs, a big guy with a white do-rag asked, “Who you lookin’ for?”

“Joe. Don’t suppose you know him?”

“The squirrelly white dealer?” he asked, and snorted derisively. The man had linebacker’s shoulders and a matching thick neck, making Roan think that’s exactly what he was, at least for some high school or college team. He caught a very vague scent of steroids on him. “What’cha need? We know a guy.”

“Nothing from him. His supplier’s dead, I wanted to find out where he was at the time of his murder. I don’t suppose he’s come back today, has he?”

Nervous glances were exchanged between the linebacker and his slightly smaller friends (smaller in the sense that a Road Ranger is smaller than a bull elephant). “You a cop?” One of his friends casually dropped something on the ground beside the stairs. (Dumping drugs, on his behalf.)

“Just an investigator.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to the linebacker. “If you see him, tell him to call me, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said in a half-hearted way that meant he’d do no such thing. He glanced at the card and was still reading it as he cut through the remaining crowd, which parted for him with the general semi-hostile uneasiness that occurred when people breaking a variety of laws thought you were a cop.

Roan was walking out to the parking lot when the linebacker shouted, “What the hell kind of name you got?”

“A weird one,” he admitted, not looking back.

He stopped by a Safeway to pick up a bottle of Excedrin and some of Dylan’s favorite green tea, and picked himself up a type of candy bar he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t know why, but he ate it in the car as he drove to Silver. Was he even hungry?

Didn’t matter. As soon as he was done with it, he popped a couple of codeine, washing it down with the bottle of water in his glove box, and went in to pick up Dylan.

He was a little early, and it was a slow time – the restaurant was about to close – so he sat at the end of the bar and Dylan served him a virgin pineapple margarita (he didn’t need to say it was virgin, he just knew) while he waited for him to finish closing down the bar. One of the waiters came by to gossip – he seemed very much the classic twink, with dyed blond hair in a sculpted quiff and a single diamond stud earring (surely fake) – and he mentioned the explosion down at the church, making it sound much more Michael Bay that it actually was. From the news footage, the bombs had collapsed the front porch and broke some windows, but not much beyond that. The twink kept giving him the stink eye when Dylan wasn’t looking, which just made Roan smile at him. By now, contempt just amused him. Especially when the only reason was jealousy. He wanted Dylan, and he knew that Roan was The Partner and could only cockblock him.

Dylan seemed worried about him, but he assured him he was going to let the Church handle their own shit. For some reason, that still made Dylan nervous. He didn’t believe him? Or maybe he did, and it still bothered him.

He wasn’t the only one bothered. Roan found himself wondering what was bothering him about all of this, and decided it was the timing. The drug dealer at the Church winds up dead, between an attempted drive by and a more successful bombing. Sure, lots of people hated infecteds right now, hated the Church since its inception, but damn, that was some timing. He really didn’t like coincidences, and this was a huge one. But what was the connection? That was the maddening thing. A drug war would make sense, except no drug mafia ever used pipe bombs, or at least used them so shoddily. Unless that too was deliberate.

So many possibilities. He continued mulling them over as he drove Dylan back to Kevin’s house, and while making Dylan a late dinner of scrambled eggs (he could do eggs; it was pretty much the limits of his cooking abilities). In fact, watching him cook, Dylan asked, amused, “What have you done that makes you feel so guilty that you’re cooking for me?”

“Nothing beyond the usual,” he replied. Which was true, but he wondered why Dylan put himself through the hell of being with him. He wasn’t infected; he didn’t need to do this. After all of this, if he was Dyl, he didn’t know if he’d stay. He supposed it said more about his character than anything else.

He was still trying to figure this out when they went to bed. Dylan slept peacefully while he laid awake, watching the gradations of light play across the ceiling as morning approached, and he tried to figure out why the timing of the church attacks bothered him so much.

Was that it? What if Hockney’s murder wasn’t drug related, but Church related? He wasn’t infected … but would it matter if some anti-cat extremist saw him coming and going from the Church all the time? They wouldn’t bother to investigate – they’d just assume he was an infected.

The fact that it was a weapon similar to those used in the drug hits? Coincidence, or a case of someone actually trying to make it look like a frame job? It seemed like a long shot, but his mind refused to calm down about it.

He got up and searched on his laptop for a while. Eventually he found a page where anti-cat extremists were posting photos of people seen entering and leaving the Church. There were lots, and it seems he was on there too, his name and address posted, along with the comment, “This fag is the worst of the lot.” Oh hey, was there an award? Maybe a plaque? He should collect it. He could put it on his office wall, beneath his framed “World’s Best Buttfucker” certificate.

By this time he heard Kevin up and about, getting ready for work, so he took his laptop downstairs and met him in the kitchen. “Can you find out anything for me about the owners of a website?” he asked.

Kevin, who’d been pouring himself a cup of coffee, said, “Yes. I am a geek.” He then turned, and almost did a double take. “Nice underwear.”

Oh yes. He was in his underwear. Well, frankly, he was so involved in this he forgot to get dressed. No help for it now. He turned the laptop screen towards him, and said, “I have a theory.”

“My god, those are famous last words from you,” he said. “You’re like a gay, mutant House.” He paused briefly. “Since when have you gotten all these tattoos? Jesus, I knew you had some ink, but man.”

“Just count it as lucky I never got that face tattoo.”

“Yeah, I think Mike Tyson took that off the market for everyone.” Kevin glanced at the screen, and almost choked on his coffee. “What the fuck ..? An infected hate site?”

“A hate site with photos. And look at number seventy two.”

Kevin dutifully took the laptop and scrolled down. He frowned at what he saw. “Who am I looking at?”

“Pierce Hockney.”

Roan saw the tumblers click behind his eyes. “The drug dealer who just got murdered?”

“Who else has such a shitty name? Besides me.”

“That was a drug related homicide.”

“Was it?”

He sighed explosively and put the laptop on his kitchen table. “Damn you, House, putting these thoughts in my head.”

“Can you find who owns this website? Beyond the anonymous Save Humanity Now.”

Kevin was still scrolling through the site, and he nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem – holy fuck, this is you! They have your address and everything.”

“My house got vandalized, somebody attempted a drive by of the Church, Hockney was murdered, and now someone bombs the Church. The Church is having a bad time of it, aren’t they?”

Kevin gave him a deeply concerned look. “Where does the burn fit into this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it does at all. But I think there’s a pattern forming here independent of that, but someone is smart enough to vary it, just enough that we don’t consider this one continuing crime but many separate ones. And they’re escalating in violence.”

Another sigh, leading to Kevin saying, “Darinda and Seb are totally gonna kick your ass for givin’ ‘em more work.”

“I could be wrong.”

He snorted in disgust. “Don’t insult us both, Ro. You’re the best natural investigator I’ve ever met. If you think there’s something here we’re missing, there’s somethin’ here.”

That was a nice vote of confidence, one he honestly felt he needed, although he wasn’t sure why.

Sure he had passed off his hunch to the right person, he went back upstairs and called Rosenberg, leaving a message on her machine, requesting a therapist reference without any additional commentary. There was a message waiting for him, from Scott. The viewing party was at five tonight at a downtown address; he told him he was free to bring Dylan and to skip bringing the beer if he wanted. Since Dylan would be working tonight, there was no way he could make it, and he could be fair to Jeff and bring some beer. He was right, diets sucked, even if it was in support of his career choice.

Finally exhausted, he went to bed, cuddling up against Dylan’s warm body, and immediately fell into a deep, dark sleep. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember any of them.

When he woke up, it was the afternoon. Dylan was gone, and had left him a note. He was at the temple right now, but said if he was up to it he’d meet him for lunch at the Taj Mahal restaurant at two. Since it was just past one, Roan figured he could make it if he hurried.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he made it to the restaurant just in time. He checked his messages in the car, so he was able to tell Dylan Rosenberg had given him the name of a therapist, and he intended to make an appointment. This pleased him, like he thought it would. He also mentioned the viewing party, which got an ironic smile from Dylan. “You and Tank. I’m sorta glad he’s gone. You two could get into so much trouble together.” Which was a fair point. Hadn’t they already?

After lunch, he checked his phone and found a message from Murphy, chewing him out with a variety of cusswords that would have impressed the Falcons. But she also said the gun used in the Hockney murder was similar to the ones used in the DSM cases, but the ballistics were suggesting it wasn’t the same gun. She added that she fucking hated him, but she said it with love.

He called the therapist, a woman named Doctor Lillian Sanger (what an old fashioned name; he wondered if she was as old as Rosenberg), and made an appointment with her receptionist for next week. He still wasn’t sure he could do this – he had enough of therapy as a teenager – but he had to try, if only for Dylan’s sake.

According to Kevin, the owner of the Save Humanity Now site was a guy named  Dean McFadden, who had a record of hate crimes, and had been associated with the Aryan Brotherhood as a teen. Terrific. There was no extremist like a white supremacist. Was he smart enough to be behind any of these crimes? Maybe he was just an instigator. Bad enough.

He stopped by and bought beer before arriving at the place downtown, which turned out to be the apartment of the Falcons’ goalie coach, Stephane Plamondon (the guys called him “Stevie”). A little more than half the team and supporting staff were there, filling out every available seat in the house, including floor pillows and an end table. Fiona was also there, to root on her boyfriend, and Roan found himself sitting between her and Grey on the sofa. The Falcons’ back up (currently starting) goaltender was a good Canadian boy ( he didn’t appear old enough to vote) named Ethan Richards, who made a point of introducing himself and shaking his hand, because “Tank told me you were good luck”. After he walked away and sat back on the loveseat, Grey muttered, “Goalies are so superstitious.” Roan was pretty sure all hockey players were superstitious, but he decided not to point it out.

Watching the game turned out to be a lot of fun. Everybody laughed when the TV showed Tank as Theobald Beauvais, as he hated his first name, but the commentators pointed that out, saying he preferred to go by his nickname Tank, which he got from his propensity for running over opposing players in his crease. (Ah. He hadn’t known where Tank got his nickname. Finally, TV had taught him something.)

The commentators were going on about Tank being “untested” at NHL level, and wondering how he’d handle it, pointing out he’d had just one practice skate with the team. Roan wasn’t sure if they were just trying to build the tension, or if they were genuinely curious.

Then the game began, and they shut the hell up.

Scott knew his guys, or at least he knew Tank. He put on a show, making one spectacular save after another, almost getting an assist when he played the puck off the boards and got it to a defenseman in center ice during a power play, and brutally shoving opposing players out of his crease and generally getting away with it. After one spectacular save, he clearly said something to the opposing player standing right in front of him (of course none of them could hear it), and the opposing player all but dived on him, causing Bruins players to dogpile on him, and the player to get himself a penalty for “unsportsmanlike conduct”. “It’s a good thing Tank ain’t miked, ’cause he’s laughing,” Grey said.

Scott nodded a vigorous agreement. “Whenever he goads someone into doing something stupid, he laughs like Doctor Evil.”

“Okay, who did he insult?” Grey wondered. “The guy’s mother, his wife, or his hockey playing ability?”

“Mother,” Jeff said.

“Wife,” Richie said.

“Did you see the way he lunged at him? He was definitely telling that guy he couldn’t shoot for shit,” Scott said. “That was an ego hit.”

By the first period break, all the commentators seemed to be singing Tank’s praises, talking about his spectacular saves and his “aggressive” goaltending style. One of them said Tank was playing like he’d played in the NHL for years. “What did I tell you?” Scott said, finally opening a beer himself. “Tank’s fearless. He’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Well, duh,” Fiona said. “He gets pelted with frozen pieces of rubber for a living. Willingly. That’s not a job for the sane.”

Good point.

Tank was the highlight of the game. He was continuously fun to watch, and the Boston crowd seemed to take to him, cheering when he hit the ice, and when he waved his stick at them coming off the ice at the end of the second period, that got a round of noise. Scott shouted, “Attention whore!” and got a big laugh from the room.

The end result was the Leafs were only able to score on Tank once, and that was during a five on three power play. The Bruins won three to one, and Tank made forty  seven saves, which was apparently an impressive number for any goalie, not to mention a fresh up from the AHL one. Tank was named the number one star of the game, which was apparently some kind of honor, although Roan really didn’t get it. As a result, Tank was interviewed at the bench at the end of the game, and he had his facemask up, revealing his beaming, slightly crazed face, and he was so drenched in sweat it looked like he was fresh out of the shower; sweat was just sluicing down his face. His visible hair was plastered to his scalp.

During his interview, he did a shout out to the Falcons and Fiona, which elicited a cheer, and gave his Olympic hockey player sister credit as well as Stephane for all the drills they put him through. And just as the interviewer was throwing it back to the studio, Tank quietly mouthed something: ‘Hi Roan’. This elicited a roar from the room, mostly laughter, and Grey punched him on the arm. “See? Superstitious,” he said, but he was smiling.

It was oddly fun. And he learned that Scott really knew his guys, or at least he really knew Tank. As odd as he was, when the camera caught a shot of Tank, hidden behind his mask, staring at a face off with the same crazy intensity he brought to a potential fight, Roan realized that for all his (calculated?) insanity and definitely real eccentricity, Tank was an athlete at the top of his game. Yes, he was good enough to be pro; that insane focus was just part of the training, part of the strength he needed to have to get to the top. And that’s where he was – the top. He wasn’t going to come back down for a while. Scott was right; he was gone. And good for him, he worked hard, he deserved it. Maybe the craziness helped.

As they were leaving, Fi asked him when he wanted her back at the office, and he had to admit not anytime soon, not until the cat hate calmed down. She protested it might never be over since people were assholes, but he told her enough people had been hurt due to him, so it was going to wait. She didn’t look happy about it, but she didn’t have a veto power.

They were all leaving, spilling out onto the sidewalk and trying not to get in the way of pedestrians. Stevie lived in the direct center of downtown, the building exited right onto a sidewalk that threaded down towards some high end clubs and tourist-y bars. It was probably a decent neighborhood, but Roan knew from experience that traffic noise would drive him crazy.

They were still gabbing, earning the occasional dirty look from passers by, when they all heard a very loud, metallic thud, the sound of a car crash. It was on the next block, judging by the noise, but everyone still looked around as though they could see it.

Roan headed up the block, mostly to see if it was just a parked car impact or if he could help, when he heard the screaming. He sped up to a run, aware others were following, when he first heard the roar.

He rounded the corner to chaos, people shoving past him in a panic, as he saw a car skewed in the middle of the street, wedged up against a car parked on the side, and there were three cougars crawling all over the car.

One of those cougars was motherfucking huge; about the size of a male lion. The cats must have been attracted by the smell of blood coming through the cracked windshield, but luckily it wasn’t broken in. Yet. (That big fucker could probably break it just by stepping on it enough.) Roan decided to get their attention by roaring, loud enough to hurt his throat, and they did look, roaring in kind. They weren’t the only ones who looked. People across the street were staring at him, and behind him, he heard someone ask, “What the fuck?” Another guy asked, “Did that come from him?”

Without looking behind him, he shouted, “Get people off the street!” He didn’t know how they could, there were just too many, but they could try, and it would keep them busy while he tried to corral the cats.

The big cougar jumped off the hood of the car, and Roan walked out into the street, ignoring the honking, and the cats did something rather odd: they ran. One took off using the parked cars as a high escape, while the other two took to running down the sidewalk on the opposite side, making people scream and scatter. He hoped they didn’t run, because that would just encourage the cats to follow. “No you don’t,” he muttered, and jumped up onto the hood of the smashed car before jumping onto one of the parked cars and running after the cougars. He thought he heard someone yelling something after him, but he didn’t pay any attention. He was busy hunting.

Alarms went off in the wake of his running across the cars, and the cougar ahead of him was occasionally setting them off as well. He was trying to keep the sidewalk cougars in his peripheral vision, ready to pounce should any of them pursue any of the pedestrians, but so far they seemed too interested in running. He didn’t know why, but he was glad.

He felt himself changing, the pains and sounds of his jaw cracking, blood flooding his mouth, his legs starting to ache as he ran and leaped from car to car, gaining ground on the cougar. Blood pounded in his ears, and his Human side began to recede; he could feel it ebbing away, his focus narrowing and his senses sharpening as his sense of self fall away.

One of the cougars on the sidewalk, for no obvious reason, suddenly lunged on a pedestrian who was either too scared, too drunk, or just too oblivious to move. Roan had no choice, he jumped, the recessive Human part of his mind noted it was too far, he’d never make such a jump, he was going to faceplant on the sidewalk, but that didn’t happen. Somehow he made the jump, the muscles flexing and stretching in his body as he covered the distance and came down hard on the attacking cat, sinking his teeth into its shoulder as he ripped it off the man and rolled away, the cat squalling and squirming as they tumbled across the asphalt. The cougar dug its claws in his arm, flailing like a landed shark, as blood filled Roan’s mouth. He tasted the taint of the burn, and ripped his mouth away, tearing out a chunk of the cat’s shoulder.

The cat screamed and one of its friends pounced on Roan’s back, digging its claws in and sinking its teeth into the back of his shoulder. The injured cougar squirmed out of his arms as Roan threw himself backwards, slamming the pavement, letting the cat on his back take the brunt of the hit. The cougar held on, so he threw himself down again, with force, and this time he felt something shift inside the cougar’s body, a bone breaking or an organ squishing, and the cougar let go as Roan rolled up to his feet. He felt the pain of the injury, of the warm blood crawling down his back, but it only made him angrier.

He was barely on his feet as the third cougar came back and lunged for his throat, but not fast enough. Roan got his arm up, and as it sunk its teeth into his forearm, he turned and slammed the cougar into its injured mate, which had rallied and was coming back at him. Both cats went sprawling, as the third sunk its teeth into his calf, and he kicked it off his leg, sending it flying into a parked car. It hit with a huge thud, leaving a sizable dent in the door and shattering the driver’s side window. Another went for him, but he punched it in mid air, sending it twisting through the air and right into traffic. A car attempted to stop, he heard the screech of brakes, but he subsequently heard the crunch of bones under tires as the SUV skidded straight over the cougar. Now he only had two to deal with, the big motherfucker and a female cougar, but they were both wounded, angry, and drugged.

The big fucker roared, and he roared back, taking a step towards it, making it charge him, its huge paw swiping the air as it tried to keep him back. He ignored the scratches on his leg as he kicked it, catching it right under the chin, and he heard something snap as it all but somersaulted through the air, sprawling down on the sidewalk.

The female went for his throat again, but he caught her by the throat and slammed her into the wall behind him, the brick facade of some kind of candle store. He had just done this when he heard a man shout, “Step away from the cat!”

He smelled fear, gun oil, bad cologne, and turned to a stabbing flashlight beam, and he knew this was a cop by smell alone. It was a beat cop, though, his prowler was parked at an awkward angle in the street, his rotating lights throwing flashes of red and blue in the gloom.

The big cat moved, shaking its head as it tried to regain its feet, and Roan tossed the female aside, going for the big cat before it could get the cop.

That’s when he heard the pops, little explosive noises with a gritty smell like metal and fire, and felt something invisible punch him in the chest and leg. Blood exploded from the big cat’s back, and it slumped back to the pavement, not dead but not well.

Roan realized that he felt hot liquid pouring down his leg with the strength of a river, and cold seemed to be flowing into him, filling up the space where the heat had been. He looked down to find himself standing in a comically large puddle of blood, that seemed to be growing by the second. The cougars just didn’t hurt him that badly, so he couldn’t understand it, until the Human side reasserted itself, and he saw the blood was spurting from the thigh of his left leg, where there was a good sized hole.

The cop had shot him. Not only that, but he had nicked his femoral artery. He was bleeding out.

Weakness and pain finally caught up with him and he collapsed to the sidewalk, laughing to himself.

He always thought the virus would kill him. But to die because he got shot by a cop? Sure, it was tragic, but he couldn’t help but think it was also kind of fucking hilarious.