by A. J. Thomas
“What’s wrong, Dougie?” Brubaker asked.
“My suicide’s next of kin showed up. The guy didn’t even bat an eyelash when he saw the photos of the carvings in his brother’s arms, so I got to wondering….”
“The Happy Birthday thing?” Brubaker asked.
Doug nodded. “It was his own birthday.” How could anyone maintain that damn neutral smile when faced with the knowledge that his own brother committed suicide on his birthday?
“The corpse or the next of kin?” Daniels asked.
“The next of kin.”
“And he wasn’t even surprised?”
“Ah.” Brubaker stood up and looked sheepish. “I wouldn’t read too much into him not being upset, Dougie. Pete Hayes wasn’t a good guy. If this brother of his had to come to terms with that, then he might think it’s for the best.”
“Greg, your boy’s hugging the suspect,” Daniels told him.
Brubaker turned back to the monitor. The young deputy was trying to hold his suspect upright. He’d wedged his shoulder under the man’s arm, his chest and gun belt right against the man’s side—and the man’s other hand.
“That’s what you get for letting the experienced officers train him,” Doug chided.
“Harris and Glenn?” Brubaker asked. “They’ve got nearly forty years of experience between them….”
“Forty years of sitting in their cars pretending to be police officers doesn’t count,” Daniels cut in “They taught him everything they know about the best places to get lunch during day shifts, the only place to get lunch during night shifts, and how to be slow enough in responding to a call that he doesn’t have to get out of his car.”
“They take a readiness approach,” Brubaker translated. “After all their years of service, they’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff. They like to be ready in case something big happens.”
“If something big is going to happen, it’ll happen on a regular call. If they wait to hear about something big on the radio, it’ll be over before they ever show up,” Doug pointed out.
“That’s why we’ve got all you young hotheads,” Brubaker said gleefully. “They’re old men, Dougie. They can’t play the game for real, so let them play armchair quarterback for a couple more years. Of course, don’t tell them that.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Doug looked back at the screen, where the drunk was wobbling his way off the yellow line painted across the concrete floor. He stopped halfway across the line to talk to Jackson again. “He could have a weapon.”
“He’s already had two chances to grab Jackson’s,” Daniels muttered. “And I took a four-inch hunting knife off him when the kid wasn’t looking.”
“I know the guy. He’s a good old boy who likes to drink. He won’t hurt the kid,” Brubaker insisted.
On the monitor, the man in the plaid shirt fell to the side, recovered, and began to walk along the line again. The young deputy didn’t have the slightest clue how to deal with a suspect safely. “Can I deal with this?” Doug asked, nodding to the monitor. “Please?”
“No. Your shift was over forty minutes ago. Just because you were stuck hanging out in the morgue all day doesn’t mean you get to stay and play now. He get settled in okay?”
“So far. I showed him the photos, got a confirmed ID, got everything signed, and then he broke down. He said he needed to run, so he’s been doing that since. I thought I’d be nice.” Doug held up the bottles of Gatorade.
“The man I talked to didn’t sound like the type to break down. Not flinching at the cuts on his arm is more the kind of thing I’d expect. That’s surprising.”
“I’m not sure it’s fair to call it breaking down.” Doug shrugged. “He’s down the street, running himself into a heart attack around the high school track.”
“Why?”
“He likes to run.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Daniels insisted. “Some people drink,” he said as he patted his beer gut with every sign of affection. “Running’s probably a better choice.”
Doug smirked and shook his head slowly. “Honestly, I don’t think he runs the way other people drink. I think he runs the way other people breathe.”
“Hmm.” Brubaker slid off the desk, made a show of dusting off his jeans, and glanced at Daniels. “You got this?”
“Yes. I’ll make sure Junior doesn’t get hurt. I’ll also smack some sense into him once we’ve got his suspect booked.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brubaker drawled. He clapped Doug on the shoulder and led him out through the detention-center entrance. “There's nothing wrong with being nice, either. It’d be a real mess if the next of kin died of dehydration. From the sound of it, neither of them had anybody else in the world. He got a funeral home lined up yet?”
“No, but whoever is associated with that church on the north side will probably work. The minister there came by, volunteered to take possession of the remains if Hayes’s family didn’t show up.”
“Mission Mountains?”
“Huh?”
“The Mission Mountains Evangelical Church.” Brubaker chuckled. “Reverend Liedes, was it?”
“Yeah. I guess Peter Hayes worked for him. Probably under the table, but it doesn’t really matter now. I’ll pass on his contact info, I’m sure he’ll help sort it out.”
“You don’t look happy about that,” Brubaker observed.
Doug shrugged. “The guy just came across a bit too…. No, there’s no nice way to say it. He seemed like a manipulative bastard.”
“Did he now? Well, mind if I tag along? I spoke to this Detective Hayes on the phone, but I’d like a chance to introduce myself to him in person.”
“Sure. He’s something else. Hard to believe he’s actually related to Hayes at all.” They hurried down the quiet street and into the football stadium. Doug didn’t return to his spot on the bleachers, but instead went to the track as Christopher sped around toward them. Doug tucked one of the bottles under his arm, twisted the cap off the other, and held it out as Christopher slowed down. His momentum carried him a few extra steps beyond Doug and Brubaker, but he was already gulping down half the bottle when he turned around.
“Thanks,” he panted.
“Eh, I owed you one anyway. This is the sheriff, Greg Brubaker,” said Doug.
“Hi.” Christopher smiled that same infectious smile that had stunned Doug when they’d first met. He took the older man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Nice to meet you. I appreciate you taking the time to track me down for this.”
“Glad to meet you, Chris,” said Brubaker. “Dougie here said he could hardly believe you and your brother were related, but I’ve got to say, you look like him.”
“It’s Christopher. Or Hayes is fine.”
“Huh. Your brother always called you Chris.”
Christopher stared at the sheriff, not commenting.
“You knew Peter Hayes, Sheriff?” Doug asked, surprised.
“I kept track of him,” said Brubaker.
When he didn’t seem willing to elaborate, Doug glanced at Christopher.
“I imagine you kept track of all of the sex offenders in your jurisdiction, given the size of the town,” Christopher offered.
Brubaker nodded, and his smile looked more sheepish than open. “Not the kind of thing I had planned on bringing up, given the circumstances. As one police officer to another, though, I guess there’s no point in pussy-footing around it. I want you to know, regardless of my own feelings about him, I’m still sorry for your loss. I’m sorry as hell that I had to tell you over the phone. You need any help getting squared away with a funeral home, or anything else, you let me know.”
“That’s all right.” Christopher waved the offer off. “Detective Heavy Runner said that Peter worked for a local church, so I think I’ll start there. If he has any friends in town, I suspect they’ll be there. Any funeral will be more for them than for me. As for the rest….” Christopher shrugged. “I didn’t even know that there wa
s a will or any property until I arrived tonight. I haven’t even read his will yet, much less thought about a lawyer.”
Brubaker nodded thoughtfully.
“I would rather fight off a mob of debt collectors than deal with a lawyer, or that house. The mess and clutter alone are going to take a week or more to sort through, if I can get the house aired out.” Christopher finished the rest of the bottle of Gatorade.
“You’ve already been in the house?” Brubaker asked, glancing sideways at Doug.
Christopher shrugged. “I’m hoping to get it ready to sell by the time the probate stuff is done,” he explained. “Or at least get it aired out enough that I can walk through the front door without getting sick.”
Doug took the empty bottle, put the cap back on, and chucked it into a recycling bin about twenty feet behind them.
Christopher’s gaze followed the bottle as it hit the bin and tumbled inside. “Nice.”
Doug didn’t worry about hiding his blush in the yellow glow. He should have been worried about why a little compliment from Christopher was enough to make him blush. But there would be enough time to worry about that, and to forget about it, once Christopher was gone. For now, Doug let himself just enjoy the soft glow that one stupid word caused him to feel.
“You’re not staying in the house, are you?” Brubaker asked.
“No. I’m going to go get a hotel. I just needed to blow off some steam.”
Brubaker looked at the empty track. “I suppose that’s one way to do it. If you want, most of the boys in the department stop off at the Hay Loft for a beer after the shift change. You should come by.”
“Sounds fun,” Christopher agreed. “I want to get in a few more miles, though.”
“More?” Brubaker squeaked. “Son, you’re already soaked with sweat. You’re gonna end up frozen, now that the sun is down.”
Christopher shrugged. “I admit it’s cold. I guess I should hurry.” Then he was gone again. He took off at a speed that would have been close to a sprint for Doug.
“Shit,” Brubaker whispered, his gaze never leaving Christopher.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Doug said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Right. Did you give him the key to the house?”
“Not yet. He needed this. I got him to sign paperwork for possession of the remains and personal articles, but I left everything on my desk. He’s better now than he was an hour ago. Eh….” Doug looked at his watch. “Two hours ago.”
“I’m off, then. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he gets to a hotel in one piece.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good boy, Dougie.”
“Good night,” said Doug.
Doug resisted the urge to glare as the older man walked away. No matter how much the patronizing attitude annoyed him, Doug wasn’t about to fuck himself over by snapping about it. Brubaker meant well, and that alone was enough to defuse whatever anger Doug might have felt. Doug knew that the main reason Brubaker did it was to try to get Doug himself to let some of the formality go. He was the only detective who showed up for work in a suit, and he was the only one who bothered to add the occasional “sir” or “ma’am” to the end of a sentence. Doug wasn’t going to stop, though, no matter how over the top Brubaker got with the nicknames. It was better to act like a formal asshole than a shifty Indian. There was no middle ground.
It was easily another hour before Christopher staggered to a stop in front of Doug, breathing so hard that he could only manage a few half words. Doug moved toward him with the other bottle already open. “You all right?” he asked.
Christopher was standing with his hands on his knees. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but he’d decided talking was too much effort. He fell forward onto his knees. As his breathing slowed down, he finally seemed to notice that his breath was crystallizing in the air. He wasn’t shivering yet, but there were goose bumps on his bare, sweat-slicked arms.
Doug pressed the Gatorade toward him. Christopher took it with a grateful look and drained the whole bottle while Doug turned off the lights and closed the control box
“Thank you,” said Christopher. “You didn’t have to stay.”
Doug wanted to joke about hanging around hoping to get laid, but he thought better of it. “Did it help?”
Christopher slumped back to sit on the track and grinned. “I feel good. I’m cold, though. Fuck, if it gets this bad in the spring, I don’t think I’d survive a winter up here.”
“It’s not like there aren’t heaters. Come on.” Doug slipped an arm under Christopher’s and hauled the larger man to his feet. “I’ll give you a ride back to your car.”
The look of exhausted euphoria on Christopher’s face reminded Doug of just how adorable the man looked after sex. When Christopher pulled up his fake smile, Doug stopped cold. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Christopher, not meeting his eyes.
Doug held him back. He let his hand slide over Christopher’s stomach and chest, even though they were in public. “You’ve got that smile on your face.”
“I can’t smile?”
“It’s not a real smile,” said Doug. “I’m not quite sure what it is, but it is not a real smile.”
“Of course it’s a real smile. You’re weird.” Christopher slipped out of Doug’s arms and strolled toward the sidewalk, swaying his hips with each languid step.
Doug watched him walk away. Christopher’s ass really was incredible. Watching him run was incredible. Doug didn't know any other way to describe it. The man’s powerful body moved with a speed and grace born of years of physical training. He was absolutely beautiful when he was in motion. Even though Doug had just spent roughly two and half hours watching Christopher run, he would have been perfectly happy to just keep on watching. Doug shook his head sadly, and then he jogged to catch up. They walked back toward the station quietly, both of them stealing glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking.
Dark storefronts lined the street across from the park, each one looking much the same as it had fifty years ago. Even though the stores themselves had evolved, with bookstores giving way to coffee shops offering free Wi-Fi, the stores still maintained the same small-town facades that attracted tourists, and they still kept the same hours they always had. So, at nearly nine o’clock, Doug and Christopher had the street to themselves.
“I think I’m going to go get cleaned up and then go get a beer. And food. Lots of food,” Christopher said, trying to sound cool and casual, despite the shivering. “I don’t suppose you might want to join me?”
“For a beer? Or getting cleaned up?”
“Ah, you got me.” Christopher laughed. “How fucked up would you think I am if I said both?”
Doug thought about that seriously. “Do you think,” he said as he slowed down and looked up into Christopher’s eyes, “that I am any less fucked up, following you around hoping to get into your pants again? Given the circumstances, I mean.”
Christopher sighed and shivered. He folded his arms across his chest and bounced on the balls of his feet. “So long as I’m not the only one, it’s fine.”
Doug took Christopher back to his rental car and then followed him to a hotel just south of town. After he checked in, Christopher dropped a duffel and a garment bag on the floor, then began stripping off his clothes as he hurried to the bathroom. Doug shut the room door and followed the trail of running clothes. He picked them up as he went and hung them over the hand towel rack by the sink, so they could dry completely. They weren’t nearly as wet or as cold as Doug would have assumed, since his own experience with running clothes was limited to whatever cotton T-shirt happened to be near the top of his drawer at the time. He always ended up soaked after a jog.
Doug noticed that Christopher had left the bathroom door open, so he ducked his head inside. The shower was so hot the bathroom was already filling with thick steam. Christopher was standing under the spra
y, rubbing his left hand over his right arm to help the heat sink in faster. He held his right arm bent close to his chest, shielding it. Doug stripped off his suit and stepped into the shower behind him, pressing his chest, hips, and legs against Christopher’s body. He felt like ice. Doug wrapped his arms around Christopher, holding him close. His entire body was shaking with lingering shivers. Doug rubbed his hands up and down Christopher’s arms.
Heat slowly returned to the other man’s body, and Doug felt the muscles in Christopher’s back relax. Christopher let his head fall back, until he was leaning against Doug’s shoulder. He held onto Doug’s arms, wrapping them tighter around him. Even when the heat from the water and Doug drove the last of the chill from him, Christopher still shivered a little. Doug held him tighter, no longer focused on how hard and lean Christopher was, but on his shaking breaths. Doug held him as a single, half-choked sob escaped with those breaths. He just held him, until Christopher’s breath became calm and the water became tepid.
“I’m sorry,” Christopher whispered. “I know this is going above and beyond…. But thank you.”
Doug wasn’t sure if Christopher was talking about his job with the sheriff’s department or the role of weekend lover he was reluctant to abandon. Either way, he wasn’t going to start that conversation. If Christopher needed him to be here, he wanted to be. He didn’t know anything about the man other than that he was good in bed and was absolutely insane when it came to keeping in shape, but Doug knew that he wanted to be there for him tonight. If that meant helping him deal with the emotional roller coaster of losing family, Doug would do it.
Doug tensed and squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered the night he lost his mother. In a matter of months, colon cancer and the chemotherapy that was supposed to treat it wore her down until she was emaciated and frail. When it became clear that the radiation was doing more harm than good, she had refused all treatments except a feeding tube and painkiller, but by then she had needed more care than Doug could provide at home. He had gone to visit her every day in the nursing home as she became weaker and weaker. The night she died, he had been running late. She was dead when he walked through the door, but still warm and pink. The nurses said that they had just given her the evening dose of her medication not five minutes before. All Doug had been able to think about, at the time, was that he had been too late. Five minutes too late. Ten hours and a half a bottle of whiskey later, stuck in a house that seemed too empty to be real, Doug had stopped cursing being too late to say good-bye and instead cursed the fact he was completely alone. He knew what it was like to face that reality all too well.