When It Rains: Accidental Roots 8

by Elle Keaton

  Best-laid plans and all. It was worse than he could have imagined.

  Handshaking, condolences, pats on the back, “Oh, nice to meet you, Jerry spoke highly of you”—it was all Beto could do to keep himself from screaming. An hour or so in, Jerry’s father, Donald, caught his eye, nodding for Beto to follow him outside.

  The house and grounds were full of mourners, but somehow Beto and Donald ended up alone in the pool house out back. Donald set the bottle Beto had brought on the counter. He cracked it open and poured them both generous shots in water glasses he pulled from the cabinet.

  “You’re a good man, Hernández,” Donald said. “Jerry always talked highly of you.” Donald didn’t look much like Jerry, Beto thought. Donald had been in construction his whole life and had the build of someone who’d used his body for work on a daily basis.

  Donald held his glass out. A little belatedly, Beto realized he was supposed to do the same. Their glasses chinked together, the sound odd in the small kitchen.

  Simultaneously they raised their glasses and emptied them. Beto could blame the tears that leaked from his eyes on the unfamiliar burn of the alcohol as it hit his throat.

  “Damn, that’s strong,” he rasped.

  Donald thumped him on the back. “Good, though. Let’s have another.”

  Before Beto could protest, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to, Donald poured them each a second drink.

  “Your turn to make a toast.”

  Donald’s voice was rough, and Beto wondered how many drinks the man had already downed.

  “Putting my own son in the ground. That’s not how life is supposed to work.” He shook his head, tears in his eyes.

  “Jerry always had my back. He was a great partner—” Beto had to force the words out “—and friend.”

  By the time Nancy found them, they’d finished most of the bottle. Donald (“Don, call me Don”) was regaling Beto with stories of Jerry’s misspent youth, how proud they’d been when he’d been accepted at the academy, how much they’d hoped for grandchildren.

  Don shook his head again. “Jerry just never found the right woman.”

  * * *

  Instead of following Nancy and Donald back inside Jerry’s childhood home, Beto made his way around the side of the property to where he’d parked earlier. There were cars parked everywhere, but by some miracle he wasn’t blocked in.

  He’d definitely had too much to drink, though he didn’t feel drunk. His surroundings had an unnatural clarity to them.

  The inside of his car was uncomfortably warm, and the world lost a little of its sharpness. He knew he shouldn’t drive. He plucked his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket. The screen was filled with unread notifications, none of which he was ready to read now, or maybe ever.

  Entering his password, Beto typed in a name.

  “Where are you?” Sammy Ferreira’s voice was filled with concern.

  “At Jerry’s wake, or whatever this is.” Jerry wasn’t Catholic, Beto knew that. Hadn’t been Catholic.

  “Beto, really?”

  “I know. Can you come get me? Take a cab or an Uber, I’ll pay for it.” He didn’t want to ask for help, but he didn’t want a DUI either.

  There was a deep sigh. Sammy would say yes. He was a fellow agent and a good friend, maybe the only one Beto had, as well as the only other person who knew the truth about Jerry and Beto’s partnership.

  He needed a change.

  3

  Carsten

  Present day

  * * *

  Carsten pushed against the heavy wooden door. It popped open, and he glanced around as he stepped inside. He didn’t see anyone he knew. This was one of the older bars in Skagit, the owner proudly declaring he catered to whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

  It was possible Carsten was early. Not likely, but possible. The place was about half full, busy enough that two guys meeting would not attract anyone’s attention, which was why they generally chose late evening. He tried not to worry; it wasn’t unusual that Troy didn’t make their meet-ups, but this would be the second time in a row.

  Sliding nimbly between the tables, Carsten snagged an empty stool at the bar and sat. If Troy showed, they could grab a table. He peeled off his damp hoodie but left his knit cap on; his hair made him self-conscious, but he hadn’t cut it. Sometimes he was a fool. He should just cut it off. Instead he remained stuck in a world of indecision: didn’t want to go back, but forward was terrifying.

  The bartender, someone he’d seen enough around town to be familiar with but not actually know, stopped in front of him.

  “Beer? Cocktail?”

  Carsten contemplated his choices. He didn’t go out much, and drinking alone was no fun, but what the heck. “Ah, how about a—jeez,” he glanced up at the specials menu hanging across from the bar, “a Lone Wolf.”

  “One Lone Wolf coming up.”

  “That sounds completely ridiculous,” Carsten muttered.

  The bartender smirked before making his way down to the other end of the bar where the drink station was located. While Carsten waited, his attention was caught by the TV hanging above and behind the bar. Instead of a basketball game or some other sport, it was on a travel channel: sweeping views of colorful houses perched impossibly on steep hillsides, vineyards, sparkling blue seas in the distance. Carsten wanted to travel, but some things were just dreams.

  Minutes later, the drink landed in front of him. Carsten gratefully wrapped his chilly fingers around the warm mug. He sipped at the drink, waiting and watching people enter and leave the bar. None of them was Troy.

  The travel show finished and another started. The theme of this one was Ireland. Carsten half watched smiling men and women drink Guinness and play musical instruments in a dark pub. A banner popped up along the bottom of the TV, a county warning that the Skagit and Skykomish Rivers were near flood level from constant rainfall: Citizens were asked to be careful, stay away from low-lying areas, etc.

  It had been raining heavily for over a week. While it rained quite a bit in Western Washington, the volume they’d received recently was more than the rivers and streams could handle. If it didn’t stop, the rivers would overflow their banks.

  Someone sat down on the stool next to him. Carsten ignored them; he didn’t want to engage in meaningless conversation. He tugged his cap down a little farther and dug the phone Troy had given him out of his pocket, peering at the screen. Nothing. No text, no missed call, nothing. He set it down and took another sip of his drink, only to realize his glass was empty.

  “Another?” asked the attentive bartender.

  “Sure.” The drink had relaxed him a little; he felt his shoulders release. Instead of worrying, he focused on the cheesy ’70s ballad currently playing over the sound system, tapping his fingers on the bar top. Then he eavesdropped on the conversation the bartender and the stranger next to him were having.

  “Long day?” The bartender did that thing where he kept his hands busy like he was only half paying attention, wiping down the bar, straightening glasses.

  “Long cold day after a long cold night. Does it always rain like this?”

  The other man’s voice was low and smooth. Carsten liked it. He turned his head so he could see what the guy looked like.

  Holeee moly, he was Carsten’s walking wet dream. The stranger wore a dark suit. It had to be tailor-made for him; the jacket stretched perfectly across his shoulders. It was paired with (from what Carsten could see at his angle) a crisp white shirt that made his electric-blue tie pop.

  “See something you like?”

  Carsten blinked, belatedly realizing the man was speaking to him, intense gaze pinning him to his seat. Carsten’s sneaky glance had not been sneaky at all; the Lone Wolf had gone to his head.

  “I, ah, we don’t see a lot of suits and ties here. In Skagit, I mean, not this bar, but I don’t come here that often, so I wouldn’t know about that. Do you?”

  The stranger was sex on a stick: glo
ssy black hair cut short against his skull, sharp cheekbones and plush—plump lips. Lips that had a half smile gracing them at the moment.

  The man chuckled. “Did you just ask if I come here often?”

  Carsten rewound what he’d said. “Oh crap, no, I just meant … Shit, this drink”—he motioned at the half-empty second Lone Wolf—“is stronger than I realized.”

  “Well, when they let twelve-year-olds drink …”

  “I’m twenty-four,” Carsten protested.

  “I’m the pope.”

  “I am! How old are you?”

  “I’m old enough and had a long enough day that I don’t actually care if you are underage.”

  Suit took a sip of the drink in front of him. It looked like bourbon or whiskey; Carsten knew nothing about drinks, good or bad.

  “I’ll ask you the same question: Does it always rain like this?” Suit asked.

  “This is bad,” Carsten agreed. “I heard somewhere that fish were swimming across roads. That’s some serious rain.”

  Suit frowned as he took another sip of his drink. Carsten was intrigued; he wanted to ask why he was wearing a suit when not many people in Skagit did. “This is nothing like LA.”

  “I’ve never been there. I mean, it’s way warmer there, of course.”

  “It’s the dark and gloom here, then add weeks of rain. I’m starting to feel moldy.”

  “You sure don’t look moldy.” The words were out before Carsten could stop them.

  Suit didn’t smile, but he also didn’t punch Carsten.

  Carsten motioned to the TV. “At least there’s TV we can watch and know there are sunny places out there.” The TV host was talking silently about some exotic dish she was about to try. Carsten’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Where would you go if you weren’t here?” The drink, on top of the lack of dinner, was making him bold. Carsten wasn’t shy, but he usually kept quiet and in the background as much as possible.

  Suit glanced up at the TV. “I’ve never thought about it. My job keeps me busy.”

  “Come on, there’s got to be someplace. Not in the US. Quick, pick one.”

  Suit looked up.

  “Don’t think about where, just say it.”

  “Ireland or Iceland. I’ve always been fascinated by their mythologies, and it would be interesting to visit the land they came from.”

  “Both those places are cold,” Carsten pointed out.

  “Italy. Happy now?”

  Carsten nodded. “All I’s …”

  “Dios, it’s your turn, smart guy.”

  It was foolish of him to dream about leaving Skagit … but something about the stranger had him dreaming about where he would go if he could. They spent the next half hour or so comparing places they’d rather be. It was fun and distracted Carsten from the fact that Troy never showed up.

  Eventually Suit drained his glass and set it back on the bar. “Adiós, stay dry.”

  Carsten was disappointed. He’d been having fun escaping his real life, but he needed to leave too; there was no point in waiting any longer. “Bye.”

  Yes, he glanced into the mirror behind the bar and watched the man leave. A tailored suit was not to be disrespected. It fit the man perfectly—everywhere. The bartender busted him gawking and grinned. Carsten shrugged. What was a guy to do when the perfect man walked into and back out of his life?

  Tugging his still-damp hoodie back on, he slid off the barstool, taking one last look around; maybe Troy had snuck in while Carsten’d been distracted. But the bar was even emptier than it had been, and Troy was nowhere to be seen.

  This mission he and Troy had embarked on was beginning to feel less like a grand plan to stop some very bad people and bring them to justice and more frightening and dangerous. It wasn’t that Carsten hadn’t known about the danger involved, but he’d been distanced from it. And now Troy had missed a second meet-up.

  4

  Beto

  * * *

  The rain was coming down so hard drops were bouncing back upward from the pavement. Beto was concentrating on staying on the road, not on what his current partner was saying. Admittedly he didn’t listen to much of what Dickson had to say. He was thinking—again—about the sexy stranger he’d sat next to at the bar the week before.

  Beto hadn’t planned to stop and have a drink, but as he was driving home in the dark and rain, suddenly his empty house was the last place he wanted to be. He didn’t do clubs or scenes, so sometimes he went to one of the two gay-friendly bars he’d heard about since he moved to Skagit.

  Since he didn’t date, wasn’t a member of a book club—or any club—and didn’t like to exercise with others, he hadn’t met anyone in Skagit except the men and women he worked directly with. And he had no one but himself to blame for it.

  The other man had been younger than Beto, though it was hard for him to tell by how much, with a knit cap pulled over what looked like blond hair and the low lighting in the bar. Historically, Beto’d been attracted to men like himself: those who wore suits and had a steady income. But how well had that turned out? The conversation with the blond had been light and easy, not forced. It had been a long time since Beto’d had a relaxed conversation with a man, with someone he was drawn to. The man’s obvious approval hadn’t hurt Beto’s ego, either.

  Matt Dickson muttered something he didn’t quite hear.

  “What was that?”

  They were on their way from a crime scene to a related accident scene. Beto wasn’t looking forward to hanging around while responders scraped bits off the road; since there were serious injuries with at least one fatality, it would be hours.

  “Faggot had it coming,” Dickson repeated.

  The words were just loud enough for Beto to hear over the rumble of the cruiser’s engine and the pounding rain on the roof. Some days there wasn’t enough coffee, patience, or sensitivity training in the world. Today was one of those days.

  He slammed on the sedan’s brakes, jerking the steering wheel to the right. His soon-to- be ex-partner lurched against the seat belt and knocked his head into the car window. While Dickson gasped air into his lungs, Beto unhooked the restraints, leaned across the passenger seat, unlocked the door, and shoved hard him enough that Dickson ended up sprawled half in, half out of the car, his arm caught in the seat belt. The rain hadn’t let up in over twenty-four hours. Beto was betting Dickson had landed in inch-thick mud.

  Good.

  Dickson screamed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Get out of the car before I accidentally release the brakes. Wouldn’t it be a shame if your legs got in the way.” Beto spat out the words evenly and succinctly so his loser of a partner would understand them.

  Dickson must’ve seen something in Beto’s expression. He quickly scrambled backward until he was free of the car. Beto pulled away, leaning over to tug the passenger door shut before he accelerated. Things were looking up. Leaving that homophobic prick on the side of the road was the most satisfying thing to happen in weeks.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, he arrived at the scene of the accident. Blue and red lights flashed through the pelting rain, lighting the road and meadow alongside it in alternating colors, with quick moments of black in between. He was forced to park farther away than he liked, but the road was blocked by emergency vehicles and flares. He got out of the car and flipped up the collar on his coat before dashing to the trunk and popping it open to grab his SkPD-issue raincoat. He pulled on the slicker as he began to make his way toward the single-car accident and ambulance. Almost immediately, his cell phone began vibrating in his jacket pocket. Dios.

  For a moment he considered ignoring it. Instead he pulled the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Nguyen” flashed across the screen. It hadn’t taken Dickson long to go running to the SkPD chief. Funny, ironic funny, since Dickson hated her as much as he hated Beto.

  “Hernández.”

  “I just got off the ph
one with Dickson. Don’t tell me you really pushed him out of the car and left him on the side of the road.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the connection, followed by the sound of the chief breathing in slowly through her nose. Funny, he would have thought she was used to him by now. “What did he do?”

  Beto debated for a millisecond about what to say to Nguyen, but the truth was the only thing to say. “He said the victim deserved it because of his sexual preferences.”

  “Hernández.” Nguyen ground out his name.

  “He said, ‘The faggot had it coming.’”

  Beto started walking toward the accident scene again. It was slightly surreal after the scene at the Stop-and-Go three miles away, the red of flashing emergency lights silhouetting first responders juxtaposed with the memory of bright red blood pooled on dirty white linoleum flooring. Maybe he was getting old; the blood and human gore bothered him—or rather, it wasn’t bothering him in the way it had once, and that bothered him. Being impassive in the face of death felt callous. He didn’t want to be that investigator, the one who only saw bodies as victims without considering the souls they had once housed.

  There was silence on the line, but Beto knew his chief was still there.

  “I would prefer that you didn’t push your partner into traffic.”

  “I would prefer he keep his homophobic, racist opinions at home with his shotguns, camo hats, and 4x4, but I don’t insist. If he wants to spout that kind of opinion, he’s welcome to. I will not tolerate it.”

  “He says he’s filing a complaint, hostile work environment.”

  Beto stopped in his tracks. “What the hell.”

  “He’s already called union lawyers.” Exhaustion vied with irritation in Nguyen’s tone, and Beto wondered how long she’d been up.