Shift, Part 11
11 – Orestes
It had been a pretty strange day.
Lunch with much of the defensive line up of the Falcons had led to them all but insisting he attend the game that night, so he called Dylan and asked if he wanted to attend a game with him that night. Dylan thought it was an odd request to come straight out of the blue, but he’d never been to a hockey game and had no plans, so he figured why not.
The comped seats he got put them right behind the Falcons’ bench, and the players could see them through the Plexiglas. During the warm up skate, Grey gave him a thumb’s up, and Tank waved his hockey stick at them as he skated out to the goal. Dylan asked, somewhat jokingly (and somewhat not) if he was the adopted gay of the team. Perhaps. For a bunch of jock boy straight guys, they were all right. They were certainly the guys you wanted at your back when you were jumped by a bunch of skinheads.
Roan told Dylan all about the time Paris took him to his first hockey game, a Canucks game. The audience was almost more entertaining than the game itself, as three men became so drunk and rowdy they were escorted out during the course of the game. Paris said it was the Canadian way. Dylan gave him a funny look, but turned towards the rink so he didn’t see it. “What?”
Dylan shrugged, and said, “That’s the first time you ever told me a Paris story without tearing up.”
Was it? Oh shit. Roan didn’t know what to say or how to react to his own general stupidity. It was rather painful to even think his name, nonetheless say it. But he felt so good today, right now, it just sort of got away from him. He was going to apologize, but that seemed weird, and the loud music over the arena speakers spared him from any further conversation.
It was a good game, the Falcons won easily – Grey got a goal and even Tank got an assist, which was kind of rare for a goalie. After the game, as the team was filtering back into the backstage area, Scott pressed a towel against the Plexiglas, with the words written on it hastily with a Magic Marker: Meet us around back. Roan nodded and gave him the high sign, letting him know he got the message.
“We being invited to an orgy?” Dylan asked on their way out.
“Think we’d be welcome at one of their orgies?”
“Well, all sports seem to have an air of homoeroticism to them.”
“True. But it’s acceptable homoeroticism, nothing overt.”
“Technically, yeah. But I betcha there’s at least one gay guy on the team.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised really. But he asked, smiling, “What you wanna bet?”
Dylan grinned right back at him. “What’re you offering?”
They discussed possibilities as they went around to the back of the arena and loitered. The guard at the door was the one with the egg shaped head, and he acknowledged Roan with a nod.
Some other people loitered, but not many; it wasn’t like a Broadway show or a rock concert. Some of them were kids with hockey gear, wanting them signed. The players started filtering out, and some signed stuff for the kids, chatted with them a bit, and then Scott came out. After talking to a couple of kids, he came over to them, and Roan introduced Dylan to him. They shook hand and exchanged pleasant smiles, but they both seemed to be sizing each other up. Why? Did Dylan think Scott was going to punch him? Conversely, did Scott think Dylan was going to kiss him?
Whatever that was, it came and went quickly, and Scott told them that because they had a couple of days before their next game, some of the guys were going out drinking tonight, and he was wondering if they wanted to come along. Roan was tempted to ask if they just wanted them along in hopes of getting in a fight, but since Roan hadn’t mentioned the fight to Dylan yet, he kept it to himself.
Instead, he exchanged a questioning glance with Dylan. He knew Dylan would beg out, as he had work in two hours, but Dylan was curious if he’d accept the invitation without him. Roan was wondering that himself when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He held up a finger, indicating they should wait, and pulled out his phone. He thought it might be Holden, but it was Dee. “What’s up?” he wondered.
Dee exhaled, and that was a bad sign. “Holden’s been attacked, Ro. We just brought him in to County.”
Why did he never expect these sorts of phone calls? “What? How is he? What happened?” Roan turned away from them, not to be rude but just to focus more on what Dee was saying, but he saw the alarmed look that flashed on Dylan’s face – he knew something had gone wrong.
“He’s stable. He was stabbed in the abdomen and hit with a bat, but I know why you’ve made him an assistant, Ro – I think he’s the world toughest whore. He fought them off, and from the amount of blood at the scene, one of them is going to need medical treatment immediately. Hospitals and emergency clinics are being alerted now.”
Yeah, Holden never struck him as an easy target. Good for him. “Stable doesn’t tell me a lot. How’s the prognosis?”
“Pretty good. He lost a bit of blood, but it looks like nothing major was hit. He has a concussion, though, possibly broken bones in his hand.”
“Shit.”
“Look, he gave me some stuff to give you. He was conscious when we got to the scene, which just adds to his tough whore reputation. He told me to tell you that Brand lied, and you’d know what he meant. He means Brand as in a person’s name, doesn’t he? Otherwise I don’t get that sentence at all.”
“Yeah, he does.” Roan rubbed his eyes, trying to think dispassionately. So he went to talk to Brand and felt he was lying – about what? “He didn’t identify his attackers, did he?”
“No. But one has a ruptured testicle and the other has a serious leg wound, so they’ll be identified soon enough.”
Roan felt a hand on his back and knew it was Dylan, because there was no way Scott would touch him such a familiar way. “I’m on my way. Tell him to hang on.” He closed up his phone and said to Dylan, “Holden’s been attacked. Dee and Shep ended up picking him up.”
“Oh shit. But he’s going to be okay, right?”
“I hope.” He turned back and faced Scott. “We gotta go. Sorry. Raincheck?”
He nodded, looking vaguely concerned. “Can we help?”
That struck Roan as funny. What, he had back up now? Was he going to saunter coolly into a room and say, “Have you met my hockey team?” The idea was amusing, but he wasn’t really in a laughing mood right now. “Thanks, but no.”
He and Dylan headed out, and in the car he told him everything that Dee had told him. Otherwise they drove to the hospital in complete silence. There wasn’t much to say, was there? Dylan had a hand on his shoulder the whole way, and that was comforting enough.
The traffic was bad, but not quite as bad as in the hospital lobby, where the victims from a four car pile up were being brought in. Still, Roan easily spotted svelte Dee, half swallowed by his big paramedics jacket, and they met in a corridor beyond the ER, so they were theoretically out of the way.
Dee gave him what Holden gave him: a cell phone and a key. The phone was clearly Holden’s – he could even smell a tinge of his blood on it – but he had no idea about the key. “What’s this?”
Dee shrugged helplessly. “He said he found it and thought you might want it.”
“Found it where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Where was he attacked?”
“The Alley Cat Motel.”
“That dive?” Talk about the worst of the worst. He was probably lucky he didn’t get an STD along with a stab wound. “What was he doing there?”
Dee gave him that look, that one that lets you know you’re an asshole without a single curse being uttered. “I’m not really the one to ask, am I? All I know is what I’ve already told you.”
“Can we see him?”
Just the way he grimaced told Roan all he needed to know. They didn’t date for long – just a few weeks – but long enough that they could communicate an awful lot with just looks. “They’re still working on him. No.”
“Why are they still working on him?” Dylan asked suspiciously. “How hurt is he?”
Dee took a deep breath before continuing, settling down into his professionally calm paramedic voice. “They want to make sure he doesn’t have a spinal injury, and they have to be careful with him, as he has a broken rib and they don’t want to accidentally puncture his lung. So things are going rather slowly at the moment.”
“Motherfuckers,” Roan fumed, his hands clenching into fists. Somebody was going to pay for this. Maybe he had cause to bring his hockey team along now.
Dylan put a hand on his back, not trying to be comforting this time but trying to will some calm into him. He must have known he was ready to go bash some heads in, whether it would help or not. Then again, anyone who knew him would have guessed that.
“Don’t fly off the handle,” Dee said, obviously knowing him too well. “Yeah, he’s hurt, but considering he was jumped by two guys, he’s in remarkable shape. Again, the dude is the toughest whore in the world. I know why you work with him now.”
“When can I speak with him?”
Dee shook his head and shrugged at the same time – never a good sign. “I don’t know. Not for a couple hours at least.”
“Shit.” He looked down at Holden’s phone, and wondered why he wanted him to have it. Flipping it open, he went through the call log – he called 9-1-1 for himself? – and found nothing illuminating, so he started going through the other features. Dee went to help a nurse who was having trouble with a surprisingly combative injured man (no, he didn’t work at the hospital, but he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing), leaving Roan and Dylan alone in the hall. Dylan was right beside him, looking over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?” Dylan wondered.
“Whatever he wanted me to find.” Not much of an answer, but the only one he had.
Eventually he found the pictures. The first was of a box of ammunition, the second of what looked like a box of clothing, but the third picture was interesting. It was of two men running – limping – away, slightly blurred at the edges, but only one was visible in profile. “Is that what I think it is?” Dylan asked.
How about that – Holden got a photo of his attackers. Sly dog; they didn’t call him Fox for nothing. “I don’t know, but I know who to ask.”
He started off, but Dylan grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Tell me this isn’t a revenge thing.”
“It’s not. I don’t recognize these guys. I’m going to ask someone who might, though.”
“Who?”
Dylan didn’t trust him? Well, yeah, maybe he was right not to. It wasn’t like he was notorious for his Gandhi like temperament. “The guy who runs the Alley Cat. I bet he saw the attack too, but he’d be the last to report it to the cops.”
His look was skeptical, which was fair enough, but Roan thought he was lying quite well. “And you’re just going to talk to him?”
“Give me credit, hon. The owner of the Alley Cat must be nearly seventy by now. I don’t bully those who can’t fight back.”
He nodded in agreement, but was only slightly mollified. Maybe because he’d already guessed that Roan might not be telling him the whole truth. “I can come with you -”
“No, I know you have to go to work. Go, and be careful.”
“I can take the night off.”
“And get fired? No, go. I’ll keep you informed of any developments. And you – you feel any suspicions about anyone, you don’t feel right about a customer or someone loitering in the parking lot, you call me immediately. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s been too much violence already.”
“I can take care of myself, you know.”
“I know. I just … don’t get hurt, okay? You’ve gotten hurt before due to one of my stupid cases, and I don’t want you hurt again.”
That seemed to soften his wariness slightly. “I won’t be. But I don’t want you hurt either, so don’t play action hero when you don’t have to, right?”
“I’ll do my damnedest.” Dylan embraced him, and they shared a sweet kiss before Roan pulled away, heading out of the hospital. A woman standing near the emergency room gave him such a dirty look that Roan was half convinced she was going to yell “Faggot!”, but the dirty look he gave her in return seem to discourage her.
Of course Roan wasn’t going to go see the owner of the Alley Cat. Maybe later. Right now, the man he wanted to talk to was cooling his heels in the suburbs.
Brand’s house was dark for the night, along with every other house on the street. It didn’t stop Roan from parking in his driveway and storming towards the door, restraining the urge to knock it down. He’d give him a chance to open the door, then he’d knock it down.
He pounded on the door with a closed fist, trying to swallow his rage. More violence was no answer, it wouldn’t solve anything, but damn, it would make him feel better for a little bit. Finally a light came on, and the door opened a crack. A single grayish eye stared at him over a security chain. “What do … you.” His eye hardened, and Roan was sure he was going to slam the door on him.
“I wouldn’t,” he warned him. “I’m not going away.”
Brand glared at him through the crack in the door. Roan knew he could shove open the door easily, snapping the chain, but he had to play this right. He was in Eastgate jurisdiction, after all. “Are you going to shoot me if I lock you out?”
“Are you gonna shoot your wife?” he snapped back.
Brand flinched, and Roan took advantage of that weakness, holding up Holden’s phone. “Who are these men, Officer?”
Brand was disoriented, half asleep and now deeply confused. Roan wanted him that way – truth had a tendency to spill out when your guard was down or at half-mast. “What? What are you talking -”
“Holden, my assistant, is in the hospital. These men tried to kill him. You know who they are, don’t you?”
“What?” he sounded genuinely horrified. “No! He was just here …. this evening, he came by -”
“And he was attacked shortly after he left. He was stabbed and beaten with a bat.”
Brand was shaking his head, his sleepy eyes now awake with horror. This was an honest shock – he didn’t know about this, and he couldn’t believe it. “You’re making this up.”
“I’m not. Now, are you going to let me in to discuss this, or do your neighbors get to hear all about it?”
He was sweating, and had gone so pale Roan was afraid he might pass out or have a heart attack. He closed the door, but Roan heard the scrabbling of a sloppy unlocking before the door opened again, wider this time. Brand still looked like he was going to vomit while fainting. He said nothing – maybe he couldn’t speak – he just motioned him in.
As soon as Roan came in, he almost backed out again. Brand reeked of fear; he smelled like vinegar drenched piss. It was appalling. He couldn’t have possibly scared him this much, not in this amount of time. He’d been scared for a long time, long enough that it permeated the walls of his home. What the hell had been going on?
Brand shut the door and wandered to the living room in a fog, acting as if Roan wasn’t actually here. He was wearing a worn maroon bathrobe that he cinched up tight around a doughy gut, and it didn’t help. As he shuffled to his sofa like a man twice his age, he asked, “How is he?”
“Holden? Still alive, last time I checked. But how many people have to die here, Brand?”
He sat down on the edge of his sofa, and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know -” he began, his voice muffled.
“I have to admit I didn’t expect this, but you’re the crux. Hawley dies, April Switzer dies, some assholes try to kill Holden, and the only common denominator is you.”
“I had nothing to do with April -”
“I don’t care!” Roan snapped, exasperated. Not with him, not really – it was the smell of this place. It was putting him on edge. The lion in him wanted to come out and rampage. Animals did react to the smell of fear; they saw it as invitation. You were advertising you were weak; you were asking to be eliminated from the food chain. “I know you’re scared, and you’ve been scared for a long time. Do you need protection? I can get that for you. Just tell me what’s going on here.” He wondered briefly how Brand would feel traveling with a minor league hockey team. It would be weird, yeah, but he’d be as safe as house.
Brand was keeping his face hidden in his hands, but Roan could see he was shaking. It wasn’t a cold shiver, it was fear trying to burst out of his skin while Brand was trying hard to hold it in. “I don’t know what you mean -”
“Stop it now!” he shouted, and it came out a partial roar. He’d tried to keep it in, but the miasma of fear was drawing it out, and it was hard to rein it in. Brand must have heard it, because his eyes were wide and white in his pale face, staring at him over the hands cupped around his nose and mouth. He was almost too shocked to be scared. “I want the truth, damn it! Who are these men?!”
When he remembered he could speak, that it was okay, it still took a moment for him to find the words. “I – I don’t know what you want from me -”
“Their names! Who tried to kill Holden?”
“I don’t -”
“Cut the bullshit! Who are you protecting?!”
He was shaking so hard it looked like he was going to fall apart. “I -I’m not -”
“Yes you are!” There was a growl in the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it, but Brand was so upset that he probably didn’t hear it anyways.
“My brother!” he finally exclaimed, a shout that morphed into a sob at the end. “It’s my brother Sean.”
Oh great. More family shit.