Bloodbath, Part 15
15 – Wish
Roan wouldn’t have minded talking to Hatcher this time, but of course he got the bastard’s answering machine instead. He ended up calling him three times that day, only to get nothing but machine. Was he off on holiday or something? No client technically had to let him know when they were jaunting off to Vegas, but it was common courtesy, especially if you were looking for their son. But he was wondering a lot about Hatcher right now.
When they got home from the bakery, he checked his email, and while almost thoroughly entranced by the spam message with the header “Become a porkmaster general” (there was the new title of his autobiography, displacing Tanning Salon Pervert), he realized Luis had emailed him. It was a very simple email, with only a name in the message: Sander Lewis. The man Dylan got into a fight with at Panic, the one who seemed to have baited him for unknown but possibly sinister reasons.
He called Kevin, but got his machine. (Was it his day for machines?) He asked him to run this guy through the system, see if he had a record or if he could in any way be connected to Charles Crosby, the guy who tried to stab him in Panic. It was a long shot in theory, but he was beginning to sense a pattern. He wished whoever was after him would show themselves, make themselves known, but that was the strategy, wasn’t it? They knew they couldn’t take him on directly, so they hid. It was a good strategy, but already it was starting to unravel.
He took phone calls from a concerned Fiona and Dropkick, assured them he was okay, and while he was itching to get out and do a bit more pavement pounding, he backed off for Dylan’s sake. He wanted him to take it easy, so, damn it, he supposed he owed him that much.
He shaved off his beard (god, that was a relief), caught up on some backed up television, and made spaghetti for dinner, as he could make spaghetti without fucking it up too much. By this time, he got a call back from Kevin. He couldn’t officially link him with Crosby, but Lewis was definitely known in the system. He did time for assault in Idaho, and had a handful of arrests for various minor things, from public drunkenness to disturbing the peace to vandalism. He was what Kevin called a “little shit”, a guy who would probably spend his life in and out of the system, but most likely never for anything major unless he escalated. Right now, he just appeared to be a middle echelon douchebag. Maybe that should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Hadn’t Crosby done time for assault too? He asked Kevin to double check where they had done time, but no, they’d done time in different states – Crosby in California and Lewis in Idaho. Still, wasn’t that odd? Two men, known for their violence, attack him and Dylan on different days in the same place. There was something off about this, but he couldn’t nail it down, couldn’t name the equation that would make this make sense.
Dylan’s black eye was getting better too; the bruise had mellowed to a reddish color with undertones of green and yellow, which Dylan described as a “fruit salad throwing up on my face”. Roan assured him that all black eyes seemed to go through that phase, as he was intimately familiar with black eyes (and an entire variety of bruises, contusions, and cuts). At least it didn’t hurt as much as it had before.
While Dylan did his yoga, Roan worked the heavy bag in his office, challenging himself with two tasks: not to knock the damn thing off the chain rig, and not to let the lion out the least little bit. Dylan said next time he’d work the heavy bag if Roan did the yoga. He agreed, but wasn’t serious.
They had time to discuss over dinner whether or not they should tell anybody about the domestic partnership bullshit. It wasn’t like they were getting married or anything – it was just for legal purposes. It was a business transaction, more or less, a relationship boiled down to its most base form: I have stuff, you may share my stuff, a judge can’t say you can’t have my stuff if I die. That’s all marriage was too, even if the fundies wouldn’t admit it. (Nope, nothing to do with having kids either; marriage was, at its root, a way of inheriting real estate, and no born again could obliterate its capitalist foundation if they tried.) He didn’t think it mattered one way or another, Dylan figured they could probably tell close friends without making a big deal about it, but then he wondered if anyone would try to get them a gift, and how awkward that would be. Although stuff was always nice, neither of them actually wanted to deal with the bullshit of a “fake wedding” present. And although neither intended to dress up for what was basically going to a government office to sign papers, Dylan still made him promise he wouldn’t wear his “Stabby McKnife” t-shirt (the one which had a cartoon knife with feet happily exclaiming “Hey Kids! Put me in your enemies!”) or his Murder City Devils one. Dylan would have preferred all his rock t-shirts stay at home, but he realized some of those were the least silly ones Roan had.
Oddly enough, while they were watching Doctor Who, Dylan apologized for “freaking out and running off”. Roan tried to stop him, but he insisted he had to say it. He also added that he was deeply ashamed that Roan had honestly scared the shit out of him in his partially transformed state. Although it made his heart hurt a little to hear it, he had to give Dylan credit for being brave enough to say it. He got very Buddhist on him by saying, “But it’s you. I don’t care if you’re fully transformed, it’s still you, and I have to be mature enough to see that. You are not the shape of your body; you are you, with or without fur. It’s up to me to ignore the outer shell and just see who you are.”
He picked up Dylan’s tea mug and sniffed it. “LSD or ’shrooms?”
”Don’t try and make a joke out of this. I’m being profound here.”
“Profoundly full of shit?”
Luckily he’d said this just right, and Dylan laughed, giving him a gentle elbow in the ribs for being a jerk. But Dylan had no idea how close he’d come to poking him in what was for him a profound identity issue: was there a different between him and the lion? He felt like there was when he was actually wrestling with the beast, but other times he wasn’t sure. He was the lion and the lion was him, and they all lived together in a yellow submarine, or some bullshit like that. He didn’t know. He wasn’t even considering the virus in this, but maybe he should have, especially considering how the virus was altering him. (Or was he altering the virus? Fuck it, he wasn’t stoned enough to contemplate this.)
It was a peaceful night, kind of boring, and it ended with them watching the Colbert Report in bed. Dylan nodded off, half propped up against him, and he held him for a while, stroking his soft hair (always fun – how come his hair was always so silky? He must have been born with it), trying to imagine what it must have been like to be a perfectly normal person dating a person like him. He couldn’t do it. He could barely live with himself as is. Imagining himself as genuinely normal was a bridge too far.
Very carefully, he slid out of bed without waking Dylan up, and went to do some work on the computer. He’d slept for about a day, and just wasn’t tired.
The fact that Hatcher hadn’t gotten back to him about the owner of the server shouldn’t have struck him as suspicious, because Hatcher was just the type of asshole who would have given him a phony name rather than nothing at all and risk him using alternate channels if he was up to something. But Jordan being found on a website he clearly used often? That meant something. Did Jordan seek out the site location? How could he have known it was in Washington? There was no clue to location – a basement is a basement, whether in Berlin or Bellingham.
Unless Jordan recognized someone in a clip. Or investigated the site himself? How good were his computer skills? Even if he was only half as good as his dad, that put him years ahead of most people. Had Jordan discovered the location, and then when he discovered Brittney and Darren were fucking around on him, did he run off to join the snuff circus? It sounded slightly implausible, and yet, teenage boy? Definitely could have done something that stupid. Even as a teenager he might have done something that dumb, and he’d been a total nerd. All teenagers were stupid, but there was something about having a Y chromosome that added an extra level of danger to the mix, a layer of self-destruction and total immolation that most females might actually pull back from.
He went back to the flash drive Hatcher had given him when he hired him, and combed through the info again. What did he miss? He was suddenly certain there was something vital here that both he and Hatcher missed. The telephone plea from Jordan took on a chilling new significance. Did he decided he couldn’t murder someone or just didn’t like it? Either way, he didn’t think there was any quitting a snuff film set when the snuff films were genuine, and you knew who the bodies were if not where they were buried. Would they be stupid enough to kill Hatcher’s son and film it? If Jordan was dead, he kind of hoped so, just so there was ample evidence that these fuckheads deserved everything that was coming to them.
The house was dark because it was late, with only the lights outside on, and the glow from the computer monitor not visible, which probably made the house a nice target. Only because he wasn’t listening to anything on the computer or his iPod did he hear what happened.
It was a gentle noise really, glass breaking from a distance and a strange, soft “whoomp”. But the smell hit his sensitive nose almost instantly: grain alcohol, gasoline, fire. He was on his feet and headed for the window when he heard a loud pop outside, and a more immediate noise of shattering glass. A glance through the blinds showed a brief flash of muzzle fire before glass shattered again. Someone across the road, firing a gun at his house. Flames were boiling on the porch, small now but impressively bright.
He shook Dylan awake, and gave him the telephone handset. “Call 9-1-1. Someone’s thrown a Molotov cocktail at the house, and now they’re shooting at it.”
“What?” he asked, muzzy but awake enough to be startled. Another booming gunshot – rifle? Definitely rifle – woke him up even more, and he sat up straight. “You’re serious?”
“Sadly.”
As he darted out the bedroom door, Dylan called out, “Where are you going?”
“To shove that rifle up his ass.” He ran down the stairs and went out the back door into the backyard, which was eerily peaceful, although smoke and cordite tainted the air, giving it a sharp tang. He hopped the fence and crept around the side of the house, letting the lion come out enough to give him everything he needed: better night vision, sharper senses, power infusing his limbs as his muscles twitched and hardened, changing shape and flooding him with adrenaline to counter the pain. He could already taste blood in his mouth.
The asshole was in a Ford pickup, a beater that wasn’t a rental. Part of him that was still Human enough marveled at the stupidity, but maybe he thought they were gone, or so deeply asleep that even this wouldn’t wake them in time to catch a glimpse of the truck or the plate. Roan made no mental note of the plate, because the lion wasn’t any good at number recall, and besides, he wasn’t letting him get away. The guy must have realized he had pressed his luck, because he stomped on the gas and wrenched the steering wheel, pulling him off the soft shoulder with a squeal of burning rubber.
But Roan was already running, across the lawn and onto the edge of the road, and that’s where he lunged, jumping for the truck as it did a U-turn and started back the way it had come.
He landed feet first in the flatbed, with a big enough of a noise that the driver turned, startled, and glanced out the window in time for Roan to kick it in, sending safety glass flying around the cabin. The man fishtailed the truck but Roan hung on, a growl in his throat as the man tried to swing his rifle around one handed, and Roan grabbed the stock and made the man eat it, smashing it brutally into his face. His nose snapped and blood spurted as he let out an aborted cry of pain and the truck slewed off the road, slamming into a thick tangle of blackberry bushes as tall as the truck itself. If Roan had been standing he might have been thrown forward off the truck, except he was already wedged in the window, trying to crawl into the cab.
The man had realized the danger as soon as he was unable to yank the rifle out of Roan’s hand, and as soon as the truck came to a jolting halt, he blindly scrabbled for the door handle and all but fell out of his truck. He attempted to run, but Roan quickly pulled out of the cab and pounced on him with an angry roar, tackling him and throwing him to the gravel berm.
He was a nothing man, doughy with thinning brown hair on an almost comically round scalp, a full face that probably turned beet red when he was drunk, an anonymous sack of meat in a world full of anonymous sacks of meat, cigarette smelling dirtbag. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty, with fifty ruled out simply because he wouldn’t have been physically capable of doing this.
He struggled and attempted to pull out a handgun, but Roan grabbed his wrist and with a simple squeeze crushed all the tiny bones in it; he could feel them popping under the skin like bubble wrap. Now he screamed, and since he was on his back, partially choked on his own blood from his broken nose.
Roan meant to question him, ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, but all that came out was a loud roar, and he squirmed beneath him, trying to both buck him off and avoid the blood dribbling from Roan’s mouth, but he had his knees dug firmly into his ribs, pressing his full weight into the base of his spine and his pelvis. “Freak motherfucking faggot get offa me!” he shouted, and the several words almost blurred into one. The fear stink coming off of him almost blended in with the gasoline.
Roan concentrated until he could speak, but he still did so while growling, unable to suppress that much rage. “I should infect you,” he snarled, the words like gravel in his mouth. The man’s eyes widened in fear, bloodshot blue, as pale a smog choked sky. “Make you what you hate.”
“N-no-”
“You come to my house, attack me at my house, attack my boyfriend -” the growl drowned out the final words, so he had to have a second pass. “ – you better hope the cops show up before I rip your throat out.”
He let the blood dripping from his mouth splash dangerously close to the sluice of blood from the man’s broken nose, the one currently pouring into his mouth, and he continued to writhe, trying to get away from him but unable to. He gave off a strong scent of urine as he pissed himself.
“Roan, get off him,” Dylan said. He heard his footsteps slapping on the asphalt as he walked up the street.
“No.”
“Get off him so I can get a clear shot,” he said, and Roan looked up to see Dylan standing there, still dressed in nothing but his boxer shorts, but now aiming Roan’s Sig Sauer down at them. This surprised Roan enough that the growling died down in his throat. Dylan pulled back the slide casually, as if he’d been handling guns all his life, racking a bullet in the chamber, and he recalled that Dylan fled to Buddhism for peace away from his own violent tendencies. He was a cop’s son – he knew how to handle guns. And the look in his black eyes was one he’d never seen before, hot and hard as slivers of volcanic rocks, burning like they were going to destroy the world.
He came closer, aiming the gun down at the man beneath him. “If I kill you will you finally leave us the fuck alone?” he asked, his voice low and cold. “Is death the only thing that stops your kind?”
The man’s eyes had a wild look, like a cornered animal, and he still kept squirming, trying to get out from under Roan. “Get him offa me.”
Dylan knelt down, and planted the gun barrel on his forehead. The man instantly fell still, his eyes as wide and shiny as new silver dollars. “A plea for mercy? Really? Oh yeah, I’m a fag, I’m supposed to be wimpy and let you off, huh? Piece of shit motherfucker, you won’t leave him alone, will you? You won’t be happy until he’s dead. I’ll kill you first.”
This startled Roan enough that he came back to himself a bit more. “Dyl,” he said, without growling, even though his jaw didn’t feel quite right. “I’ve got him. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. He tried to burn down our house. These fuckers aren’t going to leave you alone.”
The police siren he thought he heard moments before was now growing louder, as was the even louder fire engine siren. He watched a muscle in Dylan’s jaw jump, saw the slightest tremor in his arm as he tried to get a hold of his own voluminous rage. Roan thought he had a corner on the market? Not at all.
“It’s my gun, I’m licensed to carry it. Give it to me before the cops get here.”
“I really want to kill him,” Dylan admitted, half angry, half despairing. Not a threat, but a simple statement of fact. This was when the guy shit himself; Roan could sadly smell it. “Why don’t they leave you alone?”
He had managed to shove the lion almost completely down now. Everybody had a breaking point, and it was kind of startling to learn that he was Dylan’s. “Because they don’t. But we have to be stronger than they are. Hon, give me the gun.”
His arm was really trembling now, and it seemed he was fighting himself not to pull the trigger. Unshed tears made his eyes glisten. Roan gently put his hand on his, and slipped it around the gun. The sirens were almost on top of them.
Dylan slid his hand out from under his, ceding the gun to Roan, but as he stood up he kicked the guy in the side of the head just as tires crunched gravel behind them. “This the moron?” A familiar voice, dripping with cop authority, asked. It was Thompson, and Roan figured he should be glad it was a cop he knew.
The lion was gone from his face; he felt it. He wiped the blood off his mouth and stood up, tucking the gun in the back of his sweatpants (the only clothes he was wearing; he’d almost forgotten he was barefoot until he stepped on a sharp piece of gravel). “He threw a Molotov cocktail on my front porch and then fired several rounds into my house, breaking windows. The rifle’s in the truck.”
“How smart was that?” Thompson asked, looming over the man. He already had his cuffs out, but hadn’t bothered with drawing his weapon, maybe because he saw how injured he already was. He flipped him over onto his stomach and pulled his hands behind his back. “Fuckin’ with Batman at his own house. Man, you’re just askin’ to get your ass beat.”
“He isn’t Human!” The guy yelled, the police being here actually giving him his courage back. “He couldn’t ‘ve reached my truck, but he did! And that faggot put a gun to my head! He -”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Thompson interjected, firmly and loudly. “I suggest you start usin’ it right now, dumbass.”
The fire truck roared up, but it was unnecessary, because he could see for himself the fire was out, and could smell water in the gasoline smoke. Dylan must have put out the blaze with the garden hose before joining them with the gun.
Roan turned to see Dylan with his back to all of them, his posture unnaturally rigid. Roan went up to him and took him in his arms. “Dylan -”
He turned and clung to him desperately, burying his face in the side of his neck. Roan felt tears on his skin. “What did I almost do?” he asked, sounding like he was in agony.
“It’s okay,” he reassured him, stroking his neck. But it wasn’t, although not for the reason Dylan would have guessed.
He’d never seen him so angry. And while he was sure now he should get Dylan to leave him for the sake of his own mental health, Roan was also fairly sure he couldn’t possibly love him more.
What did you do with a dichotomy like that?