The Same End (The Lamb and the Lion Book 3)

by Gregory Ashe

  By that point, though, Jem had finished stripping him out of the jeans. He wadded them up and held them over the trash can. “We talked about this.”

  “They were $1.99. For two!”

  “Where is the other pair?”

  Tean didn’t answer, but he threw one guilty look at his suitcase.

  Jem found them, ignoring Tean’s protests, and threw both pairs away. He stood over the trash can, stabbed a finger at the jeans, and said, “A lot of great things came out of the 90s. And a few evil things. Let the evil things go.”

  “That’s what you say when you don’t like the things I like.”

  “Those jeans are an offense against God.”

  “You’re dodging the issue. You just pick my things you don’t like and claim they were the only bad thing from the 90s.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Name one other thing out of the 90s you don’t like.”

  Jem put his hands on his hips. “It’s not like I keep a list.”

  “That’s my whole point.”

  “I mean, the crack epidemic wasn’t good.”

  “I’m getting my clothes out of the trash now.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare. I’ll be right back.”

  Jem darted next door and came back with a plastic bag. Tean was studying himself in the mirror, adjusting the repaired glasses. They sat cockeyed, and no matter what Tean tried, he couldn’t get them level.

  “I’m sorry,” Jem said. “I need more tape.”

  “More tape is definitely not the problem.”

  “What was that?”

  Tean smiled from under the crooked glasses. “What’s in the bag?”

  Jem pulled out a pair of khaki-colored pants and a green t-shirt. “Pants first,” he said, tossing them to Tean.

  “What are these?” Tean asked.

  “They’re pants. You’re currently not wearing any, and we need to go, remember? Your legs go inside. First one, then the other, unless you want to show me a new trick.”

  “They’re . . . soft,” Tean said as he pulled them on.

  “They’re outrageously fucking comfortable is what they are.”

  “But—” Tean buttoned the waistband and scratched the fabric. “This feels like canvas.”

  “They’re tech pants, some sort of blend of materials that’s tougher than work pants and feels like you’re wearing sweatpants. Plus they’re stylish while still being simple, and that’s a good look for you.”

  “How did you know my size?”

  Jem snorted. “I’ve picked through enough clearance racks with you by this point. Change shirts. More green. Less brown.”

  “I like brown,” Tean said as he wiggled into the shirt.

  “I know.”

  “Brown goes with everything.”

  “Oh my God, this is the whole problem.”

  Tean looked down at the tee and smiled. It had a retro graphic with the National Park Service logo and the words JUNIOR RANGER.

  “I don’t know if that shirt is a legally binding contract,” Jem said. “You might be obligated to perform various junior ranger services now.”

  “I love it. Jem, when did you buy this stuff? And how much did it cost? I’ll pay you—”

  “The only payment I need is to never have to see carpenter jeans again.” Then, flushing, Jem said, “I got them yesterday; I had this great game running. I was a tourist who’d had his luggage stolen, and this old lady—” Something on Tean’s face made him talk faster as he said, “—gave me some words of advice and I decided to straighten up and fly right. Then I got an hourly job and bought that stuff with my hard-earned money.”

  “I can’t wear this.”

  “It looks so good on you. Please don’t take it off. I like clothes, and you’re so handsome, and I like finding things that make you look even more handsome. And sometimes when you wear those plaid shorts, I feel like I’m witnessing a human rights violation, so if you think about it, I’m the real victim here.”

  Tean stared at himself in the mirror. He touched the shirt.

  “I promise I’ll only buy you presents with money I’ve earned from now on. Please. This is one of the three things I’m good at, and I want to do it for you. It’s fun, and it makes me happy, and I think it makes you happy because I will never believe in my heart that anyone can be happy wearing all brown.”

  “It makes me very happy.” Tean zipped in for a kiss, pulling back immediately. “Thank you.”

  Jem smiled.

  “Just on general principles, though, please don’t steal from old women in the future.”

  “She was loaded, and she was happy to—ok, ok, stop grinding your teeth. I have learned my lesson.”

  After a moment of waffling, Tean kissed him again.

  “A little slower,” Jem said, hooking one arm around Tean’s waist. “You’re my state-licensed boyfriend now. You can kiss me whenever you want. Wherever you want. Maybe not at the dentist, I guess, when they have all those tools in my mouth.”

  So Tean did.

  “Thank God you’re a good kisser,” Jem said through heavy breaths. “If I had to deal with those hiking boots every day and a bad kisser—”

  He cut off when Tean kissed him again. Thoroughly.

  “What?” Tean said when he pulled back.

  Jem managed a bleary “Huh?”

  “What were you saying?”

  Jem shook his head, blinking.

  “About my boots?”

  “Boots?”

  With a tiny smile, Tean said, “Let’s go find Ammon. Please try to be cool about things today. It’s going to be very hard for him.”

  “Really? It’s going to be hard for an obsessive, controlling, manipulative—ok, ok, God, you’re going to crack a molar.”

  They met Ammon downstairs; Jem expected an argument, but the detective seemed to have changed his mind about them accompanying him. Except for short, necessary fragments of interaction, he ignored them, although he insisted on having the window seat when they got the truck out of the self-park garage. They drove to the University Medical Center. Like so many desert cities, much of Vegas had built out instead of up. The hospital complex was no exception, a compound of sand-colored brick and cement broken by the bright blue logo. A few scrubby pines wilted in the heat that was already shimmering above the asphalt, but most of the property was hardscaped, a concession to the environment that was very different from the Strip. Inside, the hospital reminded Tean of every hospital he’d ever been in: the chill snap of air conditioning laced with the smell of cleaner; the murmur of conversation bracketed by prerecorded announcements that repeated over the hospital speakers; a bulletin board near the elevators where someone advertised FOUND: FROZEN WEDDING CAKE - SEE PICTURE BELOW – PLEASE CLAIM BY FRIDAY OR CAKE WILL BE EATEN – TOPPER WILL BE RECYCLED.

  “Thank God they’ve got a conscience,” Jem murmured.

  Being a detective apparently meant knowing all sorts of magic words, which resulted in Ammon guiding them through the maze of halls and desks, nurses and administrators, until they found themselves talking to an officer wearing the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police patch on her uniform. Apparently this had all been cleared ahead of time because she only asked to see his badge, recorded the number on a clipboard, and then glanced at Jem and Tean.

  “Consultants,” Ammon said.

  “I don’t have them—”

  Ammon pushed open the door and went into the secure hospital room. Tean followed, and Jem gave the officer a shrug and an apologetic smile.

  It was a small room, and it had obviously been set aside for intensive-care treatment of people who needed to be either kept safe or kept secured: the window was reinforced, and the bathroom door had been removed, although Jem guessed that most of the patients who came to this room weren’t making it to the bathroom on their own. The air smelled like body odor, sweat, and something astringent and medicinal that made Jem queasy. Jag
er lay in a hospital bed, the morning sunlight raking across his legs. He looked gray and greasy, his thinning hair matted, his eyes soft and dopey from the good stuff they were giving him. He was breathing on his own, but it sounded like it took a lot of effort.

  “Damn it,” Ammon said. “There’s no way we’re going to get anything out of him.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Tean said. “Agent Jager? Can you hear me?”

  Jager released a spittle-choked cough.

  Giving Tean’s neck a soft squeeze as he passed, Jem made his way to the bed. He dropped into one of the tubular chairs. For a moment, he considered Jager. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “Hi, there,” Jem said. “How’s it hanging?

  “Good fucking Lord,” Ammon said.

  Jager stared into the middle distance. Something moved across the sky—a bird, a plane, Superman—and its shadow flitted over the white hospital bedding.

  “Guess you’re pretty far gone,” Jem said to Jager. “Guess we wasted our time.”

  A rivulet of drool escaped the corner of the agent’s mouth.

  Jem leaned forward and snatched the plastic control for the morphine pump from Jager’s hand. Jager reacted, but too slowly, his fingers twitching around empty air. Leaning back in the seat, Jem twirled the pump’s control.

  “Do you know what this is?” Jem asked. “Or are you too far off in la la land?”

  Jager didn’t move, but Jem thought he saw fresh tension in his face: a tightening around the eyes and mouth.

  “Dr. Teancum Leon is a specialist in little plastic things with buttons.” For some reason, that made Tean blush, so Jem clarified, “Not just fun, sexy-time things either. All sorts of things. Dr. Teancum Leon, what is this plastic thing with a button that I’m twirling?”

  “It’s a patient-controlled analgesia pump.”

  “Huh. I always called it a morphine pump.”

  “That’s inaccurate in two ways.”

  “Boyfriends,” Jem said, rolling his eyes at Jager. He didn’t miss the way Ammon’s posture stiffened. “Am I right?”

  “First,” Tean said, reddening even more, “because there are analgesic pumps that are activated by someone other than the patient, and second because while morphine is often the pain medicine used in the pumps, it’s not the exclusive choice.”

  “So,” Jem said, twirling the control by its cord, “you have to call it something different if the patient isn’t controlling it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In this case, for example, we couldn’t call it a patient-controlled analgesia pump.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What would a better name be?”

  “A fucktard-controlled pump,” Ammon muttered.

  “That’s got a nice ring to it,” Jem said, “but I was thinking a Jem-controlled analgesia pump. Does that sound accurate?”

  “You’re in control of it,” Tean said. “I’d say that’s accurate.”

  “Well, that’s very interesting.” On the next twirl, Jem let the control slap into his hand. “How about it, Jager? Are you feeling the pinch? Want me to press your little button for you? Again, not a sex thing.”

  This time, the shift in Jager’s face was visible: a rush of blood darkened his cheeks, and his eyes cut to the emergency call button.

  “Go ahead,” Jem said. “Then everybody will know you’re wide awake. We’ll make sure the docs know we need to dial back the meds so you can have a nice, lucid conversation. And then we’ll take our time. We might get hung up at the coffee machine. We might run into an old friend. And you’ll be up here, and the pinch will be getting worse and worse. We might get turned around. The elevator might break. God, it could take us hours before we finally make it back.”

  Panic lit up Jager’s eyes.

  “Why don’t we wait a few minutes?” Jem said. “So you see what the pinch feels like.”

  “Jem,” Tean said.

  Jem waved him to silence.

  “Ammon,” Tean said, “you’re not going to let him do this, are you? This is torture.”

  Ammon’s gaze was surprisingly cool as it flicked to Tean and then came to rest on Jem. “It’s not torture. We’re trying to find the right balance between lucidity and pain management; it’s trial and error.”

  “Jem,” Tean said again.

  Jem shot him a look; Tean’s mouth thinned out into a frown, but he didn’t say anything else.

  It took ten minutes.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jager moaned. “Give it back.”

  “Feel it?” Jem said. “That’s the pinch.”

  “I got shot. Jesus, I feel like I’m on fire.” He licked his lips, which looked as gray as the rest of his face. “Please.”

  “How about this?” Jem said. “I ask a question. You give me an answer. I push this button. If you suddenly get dozy, well, I stop pushing the button, and we’ll let the pinch catch up to you again.”

  “Aren’t you worried about this?” Tean said. “No court is going to let you enter this as evidence.”

  “You and your boyfriend fucked my case up from the beginning. This interview isn’t about evidence; this is about figuring out what the fuck is going on.”

  “Well?” Jem said.

  A sheen of flop sweat covered Jager’s forehead. He gave a shaky nod.

  “Did you shoot Antonio Hidalgo?”

  “No.”

  Jem pressed the button, and Jager let out a quiet breath. The relief in his face was transparent.

  “Who did?”

  “The rodeo kid,” Jager said. “The wonder-boy sheriff.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the beep of the heart monitor. Then Ammon said, “McEneany?”

  Jager gave a weary nod as he slumped against his pillow.

  “Why?” Tean asked.

  “He got in too deep. I tried to tell him. The minute you start this job, they already got you in the chute, don’t matter how you kick. I tried to tell him you can start this job however you want, but we all end up the same. Just running cattle down the same chute.”

  Jem glanced over; Tean’s brow was wrinkled, but Ammon’s expression was strangely intense.

  “How was he in too deep?” Jem asked. “What was he doing?”

  “Drugs. Girls. Money. They ran him down the chute. Good guys, they start off thinking they’re doing the job. You don’t see it until it’s too late.”

  “Go back,” Ammon said. “Start from the beginning.”

  “Followed him over there. Knew he was in with them. When they started turning up dead . . . sheriff let him smash Weckesser’s face in with a rock. He was a good guy. Good deputy. Then they got the horses running.”

  “You saw someone kill Deputy Weckesser?”

  “Smashed his face in and dragged him up the canyon. Had to get the log before McEneany altered it.”

  “But you didn’t report the death. You didn’t provide the log as evidence that Weckesser had responded to a callout and been murdered to cover up another killing.”

  “McEneany. Stupid rodeo kid. Pay for what he did. Pay for it. I wasn’t going to . . . wasn’t going to let anyone else have the satisfaction. Log was proof. For after.”

  Jem hesitated and then asked, “And what happened when you got to the motel?”

  “McEneany was inside. I went in after him. Out of my mind by that point. TV on. Shower on. Music next door. He didn’t hear me. Found them in the bathroom. The Mexican, dead. Bleeding out on the shower. McEneany looking like he pissed himself. Reached for my gun.” Jager gave a wet-sounding cough. “Shot by the goddamn rodeo kid.”

  Jem remembered the strangeness of the scene, the evidence of a third person. Although light on the details, Jager’s version sounded possible. More than that, it sounded plausible.

  “What is McEneany helping them do?” Tean asked.

  “Gotta press it again,” Jager mumbled, licking chapped lips. “Pr
omised.”

  Jabbing the button, Jem said, “What is he helping them do?”

  A comber of narcotics washed in, burying Jager for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had dissolved into wisps. “Drugs. Blake told me.”

  “What did Blake tell you?” Jem asked. “Why was he helping you?”

  Jager lay very still. His eyes were mostly closed now. His drool darkened the pillow.

  “Jager, wake up.” Jem threw another glance over at Tean and Ammon, but neither of them said anything. After a moment, Jem asked, “Why did you have Blake’s necklace?”

  Jager’s face twisted; he looked like he was on the brink of tears.

  “Why did you have it?” Jem said. “Why was he helping you? Were you blackmailing him for information? Was it evidence you collected at a scene? Did Blake find out and he killed him?” Jem’s voice slipped into a shout. “Why the fuck did you have his necklace? What the fuck were those sons of bitches doing down here? Why’d you help Tanner cover up Blake’s death? Where’s that son of a bitch hiding?”

  Tean’s hand settled on Jem’s shoulder; Jem hadn’t heard him cross the room. “Take a breath.”

  It was hard, but Jem took a breath.

  “Let’s step outside for a minute.”

  Jem shook his head.

  Tean’s fingers tightened once in a silent question.

  “I’m all right,” Jem whispered. But he wasn’t all right. They had come this far. He was so close to finding Tanner. And now it was slipping away. Antonio was dead; he’d never pay for what he’d done to Jem or who knew how many others. Blake was dead; he’d never pay either. And now Tanner would walk off with millions of dollars. He’d never pay for Andi. He’d never pay for Weckesser. He’d never pay for the days and nights in Decker, when he’d broken something in Jem over and over again.

  Tean rubbed his shoulder, and after a moment, Jem opened his eyes.

  Jager was staring at them, his gaze surprisingly clear, hate and fear skinned back by the drugs. Jem understood.

  “You were in love with him,” Jem said quietly.

  Jager started to cry. “I found him after they’d already done him. Tossed him in that ravine like he was garbage. Knew I shouldn’t touch him; they’d be all over that area eventually. Had to. He was mine.” His tears slowed; the tracks on his cheeks glistened when he rolled his head. He seemed to be struggling up from somewhere impossibly deep. “Wait my whole life, hating who I am, and there he was. Smiled when I told him about the stars. Made him a ricegrass bracelet.”