Cabin Fever

by Roe Horvat

  By the time the phone beeped in my hand, my face was drenched with tears and sweat, my lungs burned, and my headache was so intense I continued to dry-heave in waves. Frantic, I opened the message, trying to decipher the blurred letters.

  All is well, Mikey. You’re safe.

  The message filled me with terror. It sounded… final.

  I love you, Vincent. I typed and hit Send. I swallowed another sob.

  Finally, muted voices outside broke the silence, then the engine of a vehicle. And another. A whooshing, humming noise shook the walls subtly around me—a helicopter?

  My phone vibrated again, this time with a call.

  “Yes?”

  “Panic room seven nine six five zero zero.”

  “Yes.”

  “The area is secure, sir. You can leave the panic room. Federal Agent Madsen is waiting for you outside.”

  “Th-thanks,” I rasped.

  “No problem, sir. Thank you for staying calm.”

  Finding Vincent was the only thing on my mind when I crept out of the damned panic room.

  The cabin was crawling with people. Uniforms, suits. It was so strange to see so many bodies and hear so many sounds polluting our small refuge. It was supposed to be only Vincent and me. All these other people were just shadows to me, blurred figures and muted, buzzing sounds. The feeling of utter dread was growing and growing until I was drowning in it. Vincent.

  “Sir! Mr. Bourgeon!”

  I ignored the vaguely familiar voice. Where was Vincent?

  The mist had lifted, and the morning sun shone outside.

  More people, more uniforms. I didn’t notice faces. None of them were Vincent. A body lay on the gravel, small and slim, dressed in dark green and black, blood seeping into the ground. The uniforms obscured my view further. A chill ran down my spine, and I moved forward, away from that.

  “Mr. Bourgeon!”

  Where is Vincent?

  “Sir. Stop!”

  The helicopter was hovering above the pier, the water spiraling underneath, creating a small storm on the quiet lake. Three medics were tying a man to a stretcher.

  I couldn’t see his face through the throng of moving limbs, but I knew.

  Vincent.

  I began running, but hands grabbed my upper arms, my shoulders.

  “Vincent!” I yelled, a helpless cry of pure agony.

  I broke free, only to see the helicopter rise.

  I fell on my knees on the pier, watching Vincent being taken farther away from me, just like in my nightmares. God, I wished it had been just a nightmare, but the damp wood under my knees felt too real.

  “Mr. Bourgeon.”

  I shook my head. I needed help. I needed to call Uncle Bart. The phone I had from Vincent was useless. It was blocked for calls except for the emergency contact and Vincent’s own device.

  “I need to call my uncle. Get me a phone,” I growled.

  “Mr. Bourgeon, I’m Agent Andrew Madsen. We met once at your uncle’s house. Do you remember me?”

  “Give. Me. A. Phone!”

  Miracle of miracles, the agent listened. He unlocked a cell phone and offered it to me.

  I typed in Uncle Bart’s number, one of the three I knew by heart.

  “Bartholomew Bourgeon speaking,” his formal voice came.

  “Uncle Bart.”

  “Oh my god, Michael!”

  “Vincent is hurt. They took him away in a helicopter. I need to know where they’re taking him.”

  “But how…”

  “I think Vincent has taken out the killer. I’m fine, but Vincent’s been hurt. I need your help.”

  “Vincent killed …? But who was it?”

  “I don’t care. Listen to me!” I yelled. “I need your help. Vincent has been shot, okay? You must find out where they’re taking him and make sure he gets the best care possible.”

  “Of course, Michael, of course. Vincent is…”

  “No, Uncle Bart. You don’t understand. I need you to pull all the strings. All of them!”

  Finally, it sank in. He was quiet for a few seconds.

  “Sure, Michael. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

  “I don’t know when the FBI will let me go. You must help me. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him.” My voice broke on the last sentence. “You need to make sure he’s okay.” I wiped at the useless tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “I’ll do everything in my power, Michael.”

  “Good, thank you. I’ll call you when I can.”

  “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  I couldn’t reply to that. I choked.

  A hand pressed on my shoulder. “Mr. Bourgeon,” Agent Madsen said. “Can we talk, or do you need a moment?”

  “Yeah.” I brushed my face with my sleeve. “Let’s get this over with.”

  It took forty hours. Forty fucking hours away from Vincent. Uncle Bart was sending me updates, which was the only thing that kept me from lashing out at Madsen and getting myself locked up for attacking a federal employee.

  Vincent had been shot in his upper chest, by his left shoulder. The bullet had fractured his collarbone. He lost a lot of blood and spent hours on the operating table while they dug the bone splinters out of his chest.

  The contract killer was dead. Vincent had taken him out himself after he’d been shot, which made my stomach heave whenever I thought of it. He’d hunted the guy down while he bled.

  After identifying the killer, it took the FBI only three hours to arrest the contractor.

  Ian Hannity.

  Thanks to Vincent’s earlier inquiry, they got him just as he was about to enter a cab to the airport.

  “His assets are frozen. Considering what he’s arrested for, he won’t be able to get out on bail. You’re safe, Mr. Bourgeon.” Agent Madsen smiled as if he was congratulating me on my birthday.

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, you’ll need to deal with the investigation and court, of course. I won’t lie to you. It won’t be pretty. But there is no immediate threat to your life anymore, Michael. That’s a wonderful thing. Go out and celebrate. Or just go for a walk in the city. Enjoy your freedom.” During the whole gruesome process, I’d failed to notice Madsen was actually a nice guy.

  “Do you know something about his motive?”

  “I doubt I know more than you do at this point. It’s very likely Mr. Hannity will undergo a psychiatric evaluation soon.”

  Walking out of the federal building, I took a deep breath, smelling the city. Faint hints of cigarette smoke, gas, a hot dog stand around a corner… Enjoy freedom. I missed the scent of pines and moss, the quiet hum of the lake.

  I only wanted to be back by Vincent’s side.

  I tried to reconcile myself with my new reality, to find the relief I knew I was supposed to feel. The knowledge a guy who’d fucked me also hired someone to kill me still made me sick. The memory of the dead body on the gravel. The muted sounds of gunshots… It would take me a long time before I’d be able to remember any of it with rational calm. However, on some level, I was relieved it had been Ian. I felt… redeemed. Ian was a psycho, batshit crazy. His obsession with me hadn’t been my fault.

  I tried to let the thought permeate my whole being. Not my fault.

  You don’t deserve this, Mikey, Vincent had told me—fuck, it felt like such a long time ago. He had been right. I hadn’t deserved any of it, and neither had Vincent.

  When I finally made it back to New Haven after endless interrogations and meetings, I headed straight for the hospital. Pushing through the double door, I entered Vincent’s room. It was spacious, a wide window with a view over the park, and only one comfortable bed. Uncle Bart had come through.

  Vincent was asleep. They’d told me he’d woken up twice after the surgery, only for a few minutes at a time. The loss of blood had been the main problem, and now he was exhausted.

  He’d live, though. He’d recover.

  I smiled through the tears as I too
k in his calm, pale face, lips parted. He snored softly. My chest warmed at that undeniable sign of life.

  A small armchair stood against the wall. I pushed it closer to the bed and sat on the edge. I laid my head by his hand, where it rested on the bed and nuzzled his fingers. They twitched in his sleep.

  “I love you, Vincent,” I said softly. “I’m yours. You need to get well so you can take care of me. You promised, and I promise to take care of you too.”

  He didn’t move, nor did he wake up.

  19

  His voice

  Vincent

  “You snore, Vincent.”

  It was Michael. Michael’s voice.

  “It’s cute, but now it’s time for you to wake up. I’m bored.”

  “Mikey?” I tried, but my throat was so dry I only croaked.

  “Vincent?”

  I couldn’t open my eyes, but I felt his fingers on my cheeks. I smiled. Even the muscles in my face were tired.

  “Hey, Vincent. You’re awake.”

  “Barely…” I rasped.

  “Wait a second. I’ll get you some water.”

  A straw tickled my lips, and I caught it. The cold water felt heavenly in my parched mouth.

  “Mikey.” My voice was still weak.

  A soft kiss on the corner of my lips. “Yes, Daddy?”

  I chuckled, but the vibration sent a shock of pain through my shoulder and chest.

  “Shh. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Vincent. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine, sweet boy. You listened to me. You went to the panic room.”

  “I did. I hated it, but I listened.”

  “Good boy.”

  “I am. I’m a very good boy.” His words were like warm honey. Oh god, I almost lost him. “You need to get well so you can reward me.”

  “Where’s your hand?”

  His fingers found mine, and I squeezed.

  “I’m here, Vincent. I’m not leaving you.”

  Michael’s hand in mine, I fell asleep again, feeling no pain.

  The second time I woke up, Michael was curled up in the armchair by my bed, asleep. Dark smudges of exhaustion dotted his cheekbones.

  He’s safe.

  I was so happy to see him I just stared at him for long minutes. However, I couldn’t be stupid and happy forever. He was safe. He didn’t need me anymore.

  Michael stretched in the chair, wincing. He must be aching all over from sleeping in an armchair. How long had he been here? What time was it anyway? Which day?

  He opened his eyes. “Vincent?” He smiled, a tired, but beautiful smile.

  “Hey, Mikey.” My throat was still sore.

  “More water?”

  I nodded.

  He brought the cup, and I drank, parched.

  “That’s enough, tough guy.” He set the cup on the nightstand. “The nice nurse told me you need to take it slow, unless you want to puke.”

  “Which day is it?”

  Michael grinned. “Tuesday, June 15, 1983.”

  “Very funny. You aren’t even born yet.”

  “True. But it’s June fifteen. You’ve been in here for four days. They say you can come home next week.”

  Home? And where will Michael go?

  Shit. I hadn’t expected to have to face this so soon. We’d need to talk, but not yet. I wasn’t ready yet. I guessed some hidden part of my brain just assumed I’d live with Michael in a cabin in the woods until the end of time. Now that part woke up and panicked. I’ll have to go home without Michael.

  “Come here.” I held out my hand.

  His smile was brilliant. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed by my side. I circled his waist with my right arm, tugging him closer. He bent over me and brushed a soft kiss on my cheek, one more on my temple, then laid his head next to mine and sighed.

  “You need to get well, so I can touch you again. I miss you so much.” Then I remembered his text message, the one I’d ignored and had gotten away with ignoring, because I’d been shot and bleeding all over the gravel road when he’d sent it.

  I love you, Vincent.

  I closed my eyes.

  It would never work. I’d known from the beginning. Relationships based on extreme experiences never lasted, did they? We had all the odds against us—our age difference, our background, our habits and interests. We had nothing in common except for one remote cabin by a lake, and a memory tainted by blood.

  He could go back to his life now—a life with no place for me. Once he’d recovered from the shock and guilt of the past few days, he’d leave. I’d find him a new chief of security, someone really good. A woman, preferably. I could make the calls tomorrow. Then I’d make myself scarce, lick my wounds, and tape my heart back together.

  “I miss you too, Mikey,” I whispered.

  I was going to miss him terribly.

  20

  It can’t be the end

  Michael

  On Friday, I came to Vincent’s hospital room with a bag.

  “I got you clean clothes for tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” His smile was so fake I almost rolled my eyes. We were still pretending nothing was the matter, though, so I didn’t roll my eyes, but smiled back, just as fake.

  We had an untold agreement between us that as long as Vincent was in the hospital, we weren’t talking about our relationship. He couldn’t hide the hesitation, the wariness in his eyes every time we spoke about him coming home. If he thought he’d be able to push me away, he’d grossly underestimated me.

  Today was the day. I braced myself for impact and spoke, loud and clear. “I have a room ready for you, Vincent. It’s in my house here in New Haven.”

  He sighed. The gloom surrounding him scraped on my nerves. It took him a while, but after a minute, he opened his mouth and said the stupidest, most predictable thing ever.

  “We need to talk, Mikey.”

  Blood rushed into my face. Although I’d expected something like this, I was instantly irate. I guessed a tiny part of me had hoped he’d change his mind. Well, he didn’t. Obstinate old man. “Oh no, we don’t!” I exclaimed. “You won’t we-need-to-talk me. You’re coming home with me, and you’ll let me take care of you. I’m not discussing this.”

  “Mikey…”

  Nope. Just no. “I love you, Vincent. And I’m not letting you push me away.”

  He blinked, took a deep breath, and winced as his chest lifted. “It was just cabin fever, Michael.”

  “You don’t get to decide for me what I feel!” I shouted. “You can boss me around in bed, throw slurs at me and tan my hide, but you don’t get to decide over my life. I know what I want.”

  Okay, it probably wasn’t nice of me to yell at a man who was lying in a hospital bed after he’d gotten shot, saving my life. But fucking hell, he was stubborn!

  “You’ll get bored within a month—”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up. If you have nothing sensible to say, hold your tongue. You fucking love me, you asshole. You think I don’t see that?”

  “Michael…”

  “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

  He looked at me with sad eyes, and I hated the resignation in them. He couldn’t contradict me. He loved me, but he didn’t believe I loved him, not enough. Maybe he assumed I wasn’t capable of it. The thought gutted me, and my mind seized with terror.

  “You think you’re all noble and wise by backing out, huh?” My voice rose again with anger. “You’re just a coward.” I held on to the fury. It helped me to manage my fear of losing him.

  He flinched, and I pushed on, grabbing at straws, attacking his weaknesses… whatever would work. I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t live without Vincent. It wasn’t a possibility. Just no.

  “You’re terrified. You think you can’t handle me outside of a tiny cabin in the woods. That I can’t love you when I’m not dependent on you and—”

  “And can you?” he interrupted me. “Because I can’t take care of you when I’m like this. Sure as hell can�
��t fuck you.”

  “Bullshit,” I snarled. “You’re going to pretend that’s all it was? Just fucking? Fight for me, dammit. Fight!”

  “How? Just look at me.” He gestured with his free hand to his broken body.

  “And that’s going to stop you?”

  Tears prickled in my eyes. My anger wasn’t enough to stop them. Vincent looked away, mouth pinched, and my tears spilled over. The pain in his face pierced my heart. He hurt seeing me cry for him. It served him right.

  “You promised you’d always come back for me,” I whispered.

  “You don’t need me anymore, Mikey,” he murmured.

  But I did. I needed him like I needed to breathe.

  “You fucking coward,” I spat at him, my voice breaking, taking the sting out of my words. Suddenly, I was exhausted. After sleeping in that damn hospital chair every night, after worrying myself silly, after keeping a straight face when I saw clearly, I could be losing him, I was so drained it hurt to stand upright.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I spun around and left the room. The door swung shut behind me.

  When I came home, the first thing I did was to send for a courier to deliver my sketchbook to the hospital. Then I went running around the estate—a mistake. The activity was now firmly associated with Vincent. Without anything to distract me but the rhythmical slapping of my feet on the pavement, my mind drifted. Sadness mingled with anger, fear with longing, and desire with self-deprecation, until I couldn’t distinguish them. What if Vincent was right? What if I was so sick in the head and broken, I couldn’t love him how he deserved to be loved? I was too young for him, too spoiled, too emotional, unstable, and obnoxious. I was a mess. Always had been. I’d fucked up so bad, an ex-lover had tried to kill me. What kind of headcase gets themselves into something like that?

  After a few miles, my mind was cooking, my body burning. I sensed the self-destructive spiral forming, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it.