When It Rains: Accidental Roots 8

by Elle Keaton

  From where he was standing, Beto couldn’t tell if the victim was male or female, young or old. At least it wasn’t small enough to be a child. He hoped.

  It wasn’t.

  “We’ll have to do an autopsy before we know how she died. Hard to tell if it was drowning or something else.” They’d loaded the body onto a gurney and covered it with a sheet. As small as she’d seemed caught against the big tree, she seemed even smaller wrapped in a body bag.

  The girl-woman victim appeared underweight to Beto. All she was wearing after being in the river was a pair of jeans, the rest of her exposed to the elements. There were obvious scratches and bruising all over. Beto put money on the bruises being there before death, not after.

  After the county coroner’s van left with the body, Beto dragged his undercaffeinated self toward the SkPD station and his meeting with Nguyen. Standing out in the rain for hours had not improved his mood. All he wanted was to be at home for once, enjoying coffee and maybe reading a book or watching a mindless TV program.

  Aw, are you getting all domesticated? I knew that’s what you always wanted.

  Beto mentally rolled his eyes at his Jerry voice, because it was true. While he hadn’t thought it would happen for him, he did want to have a partner to come home to, to share the good and the bad with. All things he didn’t get with Jerry. The entirety of their relationship consisted of Jerry “staying the night” and discussion whether he would or wouldn’t; what they’d say if they ran into anyone at the Saturday farmers market or the rare times they went out for dinner.

  About a mile from the station, he thought he saw a familiar figure walking along the sidewalk, hunched against the rain. Slowing, he confirmed it was Carsten Quinn. Without thinking about it, he pulled over to the curb, waiting with the passenger window rolled down.

  “Carsten!”

  Carsten stopped, startled, and looked around, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. Beto opened his door and got out.

  “Oh, hi.” Carsten looked wary, as well as cold and wet.

  “What are you doing walking in the rain?”

  “Being a fool. Now, if you don’t mind letting me continue, that would be great. Thanks.” He started walking again, away from Beto.

  “Hop in. Let me give you a ride.”

  Carsten stopped. “Why would you do that? And what will it do to my reputation if I’m seen in a cop’s car?”

  “I’d do it because I’m not a terrible person. I can’t help you with your reputation.” He paused. “Much.”

  A broad smile spread across Quinn’s handsome face. “You’re right, my reputation’s already in tatters. You’re sure?”

  Once they were both in the car, Beto asked, “Where to?”

  “Can you drop me off at the library?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled out into traffic again, turning at the next block and heading toward the only public library in Skagit. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but Beto wanted to know more about Quinn. Research.

  “What’s up at the library?”

  “Oh, uh, a group I help run meets there. But I forgot to put gas in my car or charge it. Plus it’s doing this weird thing where the headlights turn on and off randomly. And I have an irrational fear of being electrocuted by an electric car in the rain.”

  Beto laughed.

  “Hey, I’m serious! Electricity and water don’t mix. I have an artist’s imagination.”

  Beto chuckled again. “I don’t think your car will electrocute you, but I’m not an expert,. What kind of group is it?”

  They were getting close to the library. Beto considered taking a wrong turn so he’d have more time to talk to Quinn.

  What are you thinking?

  He was thinking that, regardless of the investigation, Carsten Quinn was the first person he’d been interested in since Jerry died.

  “I help a friend facilitate a rainbow reading group. We use one of their rooms and talk about queer books.”

  “There’s enough queer books out there for a book club?”

  Quinn’s eyes went wide with excitement. He turned toward Beto in his seat. “There’s so many. It’s great. I didn’t get to read much growing up, and the fact that LGBTQA characters are the heroes—and villains—is empowering.”

  Beto imagined it was. Even though he’d been aware of the LGBTQA population—and knew he was gay from so early he never questioned his sexuality—he would have loved to read about people like himself. It would have made the dark days a little easier to bear. The Carnegie-built library loomed in front of them. Beto pulled into the load-and-unload.

  “Thanks for the ride!” Carsten was out of the car, dashing up the stairs. Beto watched until he disappeared inside before continuing to the station.

  He was in trouble.

  7

  Carsten

  * * *

  Regardless of the happy face Carsten’d tried to put on for Detective Hernández and his friend AJ, who was the person really in charge of the rainbow readers, he was freaking out. He couldn’t sleep, eat, or focus on anything. He’d barely been able to get off the couch where he’d been huddled since Hernández dropped his bomb about Troy.

  At least his boss was understanding—and since he really did have the occasional migraine, he wasn’t exactly lying—but he hated missing the reading club, and he’d forgotten to gas or power up Troy’s car. So he’d walked in the pouring rain, figuring it was a kind of punishment. It had been, until Sexy Detective had picked him up.

  All he could think about was Troy lying helpless in a hospital bed, close to death if the cop was to be believed. He had to find out; he needed to see Troy for himself. If Troy was alive, he could be in as much danger in the hospital as if he were still out masquerading as one of Skagit’s boy toys.

  Another tenant walked by outside the front door of the apartment, their footsteps echoing. Every out-of-place sound, squeak, odd shadow made him jump. He and Troy hadn’t exactly been hiding from anyone, but it was in Carsten’s nature to lay low. He didn’t crave attention. The reason the apartment was in Troy’s name was because there was no legal Carsten Quinn—after all these years, he still asked to be paid cash when he worked, and Skagit was the kind of town where cash payment wasn’t unusual—but also, he liked being a sort of ghost.

  Hiding had become a habit. As far as Carsten knew, no one from his life with Garrett or his childhood had searched for him. Garrett’s friends probably assumed Carsten had been killed in the cabin fire. His bio family members weren’t people he cared to find. Instead he chose to remember the kind moments, the nice moments before.

  So now here he was alone, and one of the only people in Skagit who he could talk to was in the hospital, maybe dying, maybe dead. He wished he’d asked the cop more questions instead of trying to hide how upset he was. He thought about making himself a cup of coffee, or even tea, but the thought of leaving the couch made him edgy. The old, worn-out couch had become an island of safety, like when he was a kid and monsters had been hiding under his bed.

  The problem was, the real monsters didn’t hide under the bed. They walked around Skagit in daylight, wearing human faces, covering their foulness and depravity. The real monsters believed human beings were theirs to buy and sell, that some lives were worth more than others. Believed they were superior and everything was theirs for the taking. Instead of tea or coffee, he pulled the ugly crocheted throw more tightly around himself and huddled more fiercely into the back of the couch.

  The cop, Beto Hernández … maybe it was the suit; maybe it was the way he’d actually listened to Carsten instead of undressing him with his eyes. Carsten supposed he hadn’t had to, since Carsten had answered the door nearly naked. It had thrown him off to see the sexy suited man from the bar standing there.

  Carsten had intended to ditch the business card, burn it or flush it down the toilet. Instead he’d left it on the kitchen counter next to the coffee pot. He’d accidentally dribbled coffee on i
t, but the name and phone numbers printed on the cheap card stock were still legible. If he wanted to call the cop, the card was maybe fifteen feet away in the kitchen. He could’ve talked to him in the car earlier, but fear stopped him.

  Hernández’s visit to the apartment had been professional. He’d asked questions about Troy and Carsten … Carsten hated questions, as they almost always led to something he didn’t want to answer, but the cop’s questions had been reasonable, measured, thought out. He hadn’t looked around the apartment and judged. In fact, he’d seemed … sincere about the photographs. After a lifetime where survival depended on it, Carsten trusted his ability to read emotions. Hernández seemed genuine.

  What if he was wrong, though? His stomach cramped and twisted. He hadn’t been able to eat, really, since Hernández had visited. Sometimes, when things were really bad, he wished he were still at Garrett’s cabin in the woods. At least there he hadn’t been able to make the wrong choice: He hadn’t had any. Troy got angry with him when he voiced thoughts like that, but sometimes they snuck up on him.

  Troy dead or severely injured meant Carsten was the final hope in their attempt to expose the underground of human trafficking and slavery in Skagit and help the survivors, those still trapped in hell and those like him who had by one means or another escaped that life. The last time he and Troy talked—they hadn’t seen each other, it had been on the phone—Troy had been nervous, worry clear in his voice.

  “Stay safe, Carsten, stay aware. Don’t get distracted. I think someone might be on to me, or at least suspicious.”

  Troy refused to name names, claiming it kept Carsten safer, but Carsten had his suspicions. Especially after a big bust happened a couple years ago and, even though there was an arrest at SkPD and a few people had been taken down, the stream of people being victimized remained constant. It seemed obvious to Carsten and Troy that the traffickers had connections in SkPD and the city government.

  “Come home now. We can figure out another way.”

  “We can’t,” Troy whispered fiercely. “There isn’t another way. If there was, the police would’ve stopped them years ago. What did we say? Not one more person would disappear if we could help it. Right? You’re my safety net; I can’t do it without you.”

  “Right,” Carsten had repeated, wishing Troy weren’t speaking the truth. Wishing everything were different.

  The apartment had a chill to it and seemed emptier than usual. Faces stared down at him from the walls. Many of the guys were friends; some aspiring models, some people he’d seen on the street. Any of them could’ve found themselves in the same place Carsten had. People like him, throwaways, and they didn’t have anyone but Carsten looking out for them now. He threw aside the blanket and swung his feet around to the floor. He could do this.

  In his bedroom, Carsten rummaged through his chest of drawers, trying to find something that would be a disguise. He could pass himself off as Troy’s brother—they’d actually done that a few times as a joke.

  Did he want to show up as Troy’s brother? What if someone asked questions Carsten couldn’t answer? What if the hospital was being watched and someone, the wrong someone, saw him? The what-ifs were drowning his resolve. He couldn’t think about them; he had to go, or he was never leaving the apartment.

  After pulling on worn jeans, one of Troy’s old sweatshirts, and socks, he searched around for his Dr. Martens. He found them under his bed and dragged them out. He tugged a black knit beanie on and then pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over that, hiding his hair.

  A quick check in the bathroom mirror confirmed he looked like he might be headed out to rob the corner store—but there was nothing he could do about that.

  He grabbed the key to Troy’s car and headed outside.

  The refueled Prius—AJ ran his van out of gas often enough he carried a gas can, and he’d helped Carsten fill the tank after giving him a ride home from the library—was parked where it always was, but the walk between the apartment and the car seemed twice as long as usual. Carsten breathed out a sigh of relief when he slid behind the wheel and clicked the locks shut.

  * * *

  Rain was still coming down hard. The windshield wipers were going full blast, and Carsten swerved to miss several small lakes building up where storm drains were blocked or overloaded. The cloud cover made it feel later than it was; if he didn’t have a dashboard clock to check, he would’ve thought it was late evening.

  Due to the rain, the streets were fairly empty, but that didn’t keep him from checking over his shoulder as he drove. He had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. As he got closer to the hospital, the feeling intensified, and he almost turned around. Instead, he wound around the neighborhood surrounding St. Joseph’s Hospital, trying to see if anyone was following him. Finally he decided he was being ridiculous and pulled into the visitor lot.

  His bravado held up until the automatic doors slid open. Was it his imagination, or had every pair of eyes in the lobby turned to look at him? Instinctively he raised his hand to make sure his hood and hat were still covering his head.

  St. Joseph’s wasn’t a huge facility, and the information desk was located not far from the front entrance. Carsten was about three steps in when he spotted Detective Hernández. It was unnerving how quickly he recognized him, as if some part of Carsten had taken the time to memorize as much as it could about the cop.

  Carsten froze midstep, fight-or-flight dueling with wishing he was invisible. Hernández was standing at the information desk with his back to Carsten; he hadn’t seen him—yet. Carsten stayed where he was, trying to pretend something important was happening on his phone. He didn’t think it was an Oscar performance.

  Once the sixth recorded ice age ended and Hernández finally finished up his conversation with the attendant, he turned and headed toward the bank of elevators on the other side of the desk. There was no indication he’d seen Carsten standing thirty feet behind him.

  Hernández was at the hospital to check on Troy; why else would he be there? How many people did the cop have to visit in the hospital?

  Hoping no one noticed, Carsten trailed after him, pretending he was talking to someone on his phone. The elevators were tucked around a corner. Carsten slowed as he got closer; the last thing he needed was for Hernández to see him.

  The elevator doors were shutting as he approached. He pushed the up button and waited to see where the car stopped. Maybe Hernández wasn’t the only one in the elevator; that was a risk Carsten would have to take. The elevator stopped at the third floor, so when the next car arrived, that’s where Carsten headed.

  The doors opened on three, and Carsten hesitated a second before taking a deep breath and stepping out into the hallway. Before he decided which way to turn, a voice that shouldn’t have been familiar stopped him in his tracks.

  “What the hell are you up to?”

  Even though the elevator doors were closing, Carsten instinctively stepped backward, and he bounced off them, lurching closer to Detective Hernández instead of away. As with the first time they’d met, Hernández was wearing a well-cut suit. Carsten didn’t think cops made enough to wear what Hernández did. The idea that maybe the man was on the take like so many other cops in this town bothered him.

  “Um.”

  “Do us all a favor? Don’t try to sneak around.” The detective gave him a slow once-over. “You’re about as subtle as a brick.”

  Hernández’s voice, low and growly, sent a shiver down Carsten’s spine. He felt his cheeks heat and hoped Hernández didn’t notice. It was bad enough he’d been caught following him.

  “You wanna tell me what you’re doing here, why you’re sneaking around like—” Hernández snapped his mouth shut, apparently unable to come up with a reasonable description of what Carsten was doing.

  Carsten opened his mouth to answer, and then changed his mind as well. He had nothing he wanted to share. They stared at each other, Carsten wishing he knew what the detective was thinking
; if he could be trusted. Carsten wanted to trust him.

  The corridor they stood in was busy. The beeping of various machines echoed off the tiled walls in a quiet cacophony. Several nurses brushed past them, talking while they walked; people in street clothes got off the elevator, while others moved around them to get on. Hernández grabbed Carsten’s sleeve, tugging him out of the way.

  “Well?”

  Again Carsten tried to say something, anything, but before he could come up with the right words, he got a good look at the two men coming their direction from the elevator. Both faces were acid-etched with scorn and hate. He would never be able to forget them—he’d dreamed about them for years, their laughter ringing in his ears while their footsteps burst into flames behind them. They hadn’t seen him then or since. He reminded himself they didn’t know about him, and if they did, they believed him dead in the fire. It was pure instinct that had him turning to hide his face, bringing himself very close to Detective Hernández.

  To give the man credit, he didn’t turn to see what had unnerved Carsten. Instead he put his arm around Carsten’s shoulder, tucking him to his side as if comforting him. Crooning in nonsense Spanish, he brought his mouth very close to Carsten’s ear.

  “What is it?”

  Carsten pressed against him. Even if comfort wasn’t truly being offered, he needed it. He felt shaky, as if flying into a million pieces was within the realm of possibility. Seeing those men made what he and Troy were trying to do more real—and far more dangerous.

  After all the years, after surviving and starting his own life again … the fear had not gone away, it had only been hiding under the surface of his skin. Hernández’s hot breath against his ear helped him focus on the present; helped him know he wasn’t trapped, being kept prisoner any longer.

  “Those men, I recognize … they aren’t good people. Don’t let them hurt Troy.”

  8