by Gregory Ashe
Hazard shook his head, but then he did pull back, and he caught Somers’s eyes. “It was so terrible. It went on and on. I know I was only in there for an hour, but it felt like a lifetime. And at the end, I didn’t know if you were there. I heard something, and I thought it was you, but it was a rat, and then I thought you weren’t coming and—” The big man shook again, wiping furiously at his eyes, and cleared his throat. “And you did come, so it’s fine.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Somers said, tucking a loose strand of Hazard’s hair back into place. “I want to be angry that you took that kind of risk. But no matter how I turn it over in my head, I don’t know what you could have done. I’m so proud of you. And I’m so sorry you got hurt again.”
“My leg will be fine.”
Somers cupped Hazard’s chin and wagged his head once. “Not worried about your leg. Not much, anyway.”
“He didn’t really have chlorine gas in the sub-basement, did he?” Hazard asked, and then he cleared his throat again. “Once I realized most of the Keeper’s work had been sleight of hand, I guessed he was bluffing, but it was a guess.”
“He was bluffing. He did have one real camera above the door, one of those cable cameras, and that’s what he used to send a feed to you. But he mostly relied on scaring us—the fake cameras, the fake grenades. The building was empty because of the holiday weekend, but on Monday, somebody would have found us. It might have been too late for Nico, though. He was pretty badly dehydrated.”
“Tell me all of it.”
“You first. When did you figure it out?”
“Figure out that Mitchell was a psychopath who specialized in one-upmanship and the desperate need to be smarter, better, and in control?”
“Is that really very different from most psychopaths?”
Hazard grimaced. “The answer is: embarrassingly late. Not until I got his message at the hospital. I couldn’t figure out how he kept outsmarting me, staying one step ahead of me, until I flipped it around and realized Mitchell had never been a victim.”
“Nobody else considered that possibility,” Somers said. “I don’t know why you’d be embarrassed. He played it perfectly. Hell, he even gave himself fake freckles when he rented the truck so we’d suspect Dulac. And who would have thought somebody would hurt themselves that badly? Stabbing himself like that, before we found him with Rory and Phil, he could have died.”
“I’m not sure he saw it like that,” Hazard said. “He always thought he had everything perfectly under control. And, of course, a classic trait of psychopaths is an increasing need for stimulation; I think he found it exhilarating. I think that’s also what got him fixated on this idea of challenging me. Now you.”
Somers shrugged. “You did the hard part. Foley and Dulac did what you told them to do: they got help. First they showed up with Sheriff Engels and Yarmark to rescue me and Nico. We left Engels to take care of Nico and the crime scene at the college, and the rest of us went to the Empire Fruit building. Dulac and Yarmark and I went inside. It was pretty easy to follow your path through the building. Well, Dulac got hurt pretty badly by a spear trap, but he’s stable now.” His fingers brushed the bandage on Hazard’s arm. “I got there after Mitchell shot you. I . . . I wasn’t thinking very clearly at that point. I had been recording him, because that old building carries sound pretty well, but I didn’t know if I’d make it in time.”
“And Mitchell’s in custody?”
“Christ, yes. He’s got a lawyer out of Kansas City. Thompson wouldn’t touch him; nobody local would. Meanwhile, Engels called down just about every kind of hell getting a bomb squad out there, and they’re tearing apart the Empire Fruit building. They’re pretty sure they’ve got a few partials where Mitchell got careless.”
“Good. Nail that fucker into a coffin and bury him deep.” Hazard’s big fingers drifted through Somers’s hair, followed the curve of his ear, and scratched the nape of his neck. His eyes looked heavy. “Am I going to have to plan on conjugal visits?”
Somers raised an eyebrow. “I’m facing felony drug possession charges, and you’re worried about getting laid?”
His fingers were still scratching lightly. “I like to have a plan.”
“Daley dropped the charges. Thompson was going to head over to the county prosecutor’s office with the recording of Mitchell talking about planting everything, but apparently someone had gotten there first.”
“Who?”
Somers shrugged.
“You know the real problem?” Hazard said.
“Neither Dulac nor Darnell is the Keeper, so they will probably still end up being our neighbors?”
Groaning, Hazard shook his head. “Don’t remind me. No, I’m talking about the colossal fuckery of Mitchell being tied up in our social lives.”
“It’s not like we knew he was a killer.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Are you worried you won’t get invited to tea parties because you had a serial killer over for a barbeque?”
“I’m a detective,” Hazard mumbled. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
He looked like he could barely keep his eyes open, so Somers pressed his head gently down onto the pillow.
“M’alright,” Hazard mumbled.
“I know,” Somers said, scooting toward the edge of the bed.
Hazard’s arm tightened.
Sighing, Somers squirmed until he found a semi-comfortable spot, his head pillowed on Hazard’s shoulder. Within minutes, Hazard’s breathing had evened out again into sleep. The sound of those slow, even breaths, and the heat of Hazard’s body, the smell of clean linens and Hazard’s hair—they all combined to lull Somers into a doze as the exhaustion from the past few days caught up with him.
He woke to the sound of the door opening. Blinking to clear his eyes, he pressed a finger to his lips and pointed to one of the molded plastic seats.
“Pass me my book, please,” Somers whispered.
His father, the Right Honorable Glennworth Somerset, mayor of Wahredua, handed over the book and laid his briefcase on the empty chair. He crossed his legs. He had a mayoral look—the gray hair, the confident bearing, the obvious self-satisfaction. Over the last few months, Somers’s difficult relationship with his father had steadied somewhat; Somers attributed much of that to having watched Hazard lose his own father, and Somers’s renewed desire to make things right. But sometimes, Somers thought as a tiny knot of dread tightened in his gut, the past was hard to forget.
“I understand he’ll make a full recovery,” Glenn said in a quiet voice.
“You should be worried about me,” Somers said. “He’s going to have to do PT for his leg, and he’ll probably murder me when I make him go to all the required sessions.”
A faint, dry smile flickered around Glenn’s mouth.
“This is weird for you, huh,” Somers said, trying to push himself free. “I’ll get up.”
Glenn waved him back, and after a moment, Somers settled into place again. Hazard’s arms tightened once, and then he was still. The sun was going down on the July day; the sky had deepened to purple, and the first stars shone through a crown of clouds. A murmur of voices continued from the TV; on Happy Days, the Fonz was giving his signature double thumbs up, which had the live studio audience in stitches.
“You look very happy,” Glenn said.
“I look like I was on the run, raided a children’s gymnastics school, and then got trapped in a basement.”
“You even sound like him sometimes.”
“Is that really such a bad thing?”
Glenn shook his head. “It’s a couple’s thing.”
Out in the hall, someone—presumably a patient—was shouting, “And if I want to pee in a goddamn Dixie cup, I’ll pee in a goddamn Dixie cup.”
Somers met his father’s eyes. Then Somers started to giggle, shaking with the laughter, trying desperately to suppress it. His father, to Somers’s eternal surprise, s
tarted to laugh too. Glenn laughed until he was crying, biting the back of his hand to keep from making any noise. Somers gasped for air; the bed rattled.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hazard grumbled, planting a hand on Somers’s face and forcing him away. “Can’t I have five fucking minutes?”
Glenn Somerset howled with laughter, and Somers laughed right along with him.
When the laughter settled, Glenn wiped his face and pulled the briefcase onto his lap. “John-Henry, I would like to say that everything I’ve done has been in your best interests. I don’t think you’d believe me. I’m not . . . I’m not even sure I believe it myself anymore, although I believed it at one time.” He traced the briefcase’s lines. “I suppose I’m trying to say things between us are complicated. I understand that.”
“Father,” Somers said. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve fired Chief Riggle. The man’s a buffoon, and worse, he’s got absolutely no loyalty. He was useful in a specific regard; he’s certainly paved the way for his replacement to be a stellar success. Now he’s gone, John-Henry.”
“I don’t think Cravens will come back,” Somers said. “You turned her out on her ass.”
“No,” Glenn said, and then he took a deep breath. “I don’t think she will.”
The Fonz must have done something that really slayed because the studio audience was all Somers could hear for a moment. Then he asked, “So what do you—”
Hazard slapped Somers’s leg so hard that he yelped. “For the love of fuck, he’s trying to ask you to be chief. Tell him yes so I can have my dinner and go to bed.”
“God, Ree,” Somers said, massaging his thigh. “I’m going to have a bruise—”
Then it landed, and he looked up at his father.
“You’re certainly qualified,” Glenn said. “More importantly, you’re the right person for the job.”
“No,” Somers said, shaking his head. “No, no way—ah! Ree, Christ, I’m not going to be able to walk.”
“Tell him yes,” Hazard said. “You’re dragging this out.”
“No,” Somers said, and this time, he caught Hazard’s wrist. “Look, I appreciate the offer. It means a lot, actually, and I . . . I’m grateful that you trust me. But I don’t have administrative experience, and I just got off a possession charge, and—”
“So help me Christ,” Hazard said, “if you make me miss dinner.”
“Look, I don’t want to be a puppet,” Somers said. “I watched how it went with Cravens and Newton. It was nasty, and she stopped being good police. Then Riggle came along, and he wanted to yank my strings because I’m your son. Whoever the new chief is, it’s going to be hard enough for me with you as mayor.”
“Not if you’re the chief, dumbass,” Hazard said, trying to slap his leg again.
Glenn’s face was unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was measured, “I promise you that I won’t ask you to do anything against your . . . ethics.” When Somers opened his mouth, Glenn held up a hand. “I know that, at this point in our relationship, a promise from me means very little. But even if you can’t trust me, don’t you think you can trust Emery?”
“Of course,” Somers said, “but—”
“He’ll make sure I don’t exert an undue influence on you.” After a moment, Glenn added drily, “And he’ll enjoy it a great deal, I imagine.”
Somers didn’t have to imagine; he could practically feel the smugness radiating off Hazard. It was going to take weeks to squash his ego back down to size.
“I don’t know,” Somers said.
“Say yes,” Glenn said.
“Say yes,” Hazard growled, “so I can get my pudding cup.”
Somers looked around the room: the powder-blue walls, the peeling weather stripping around the window, the broken crown of clouds drifting east, the stars.
“Yes. Yeah. I guess—if the alternative is having my fiancé break my leg, then yeah. I’ll do it.”
Glenn offered a tight smile. “Excellent.”
“No special treatment, Father. No turning a blind eye. You get the same deal as everybody else.”
“Of course.”
“Not so much as a speeding ticket.”
Glenn’s smile was more relaxed this time, a little wry. “That’s going to put a dent in the budget.”
He left with a quiet goodbye; Somers followed him with his eyes until he was out of the room, and then Hazard hooked a finger under his chin, tugging his head back, and kissed him.
“That was batshit crazy, right?” Somers said after the kiss, laughing. “I mean—”
Hazard kissed him again, longer this time.
“Totally insane,” Somers managed to say. “Not even—”
Hazard kissed his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his shoulder.
Somers was struggling to get enough air; between panting breaths, he managed to say, “This, uh, this does something for you?”
“It’s the hat,” Hazard said, working a hand inside the track pants. Somers grunted and bucked into the touch. The last few days had left him so keyed up that Hazard’s hand felt electric. He leaned heavily into Hazard, face crushed against the side of Hazard’s head, and whined. “I like a guy in a hat.”
“Hat?” Somers managed to say. He tried to clarify the question, but all he got out the second time was: “Hat?”
Hazard’s hand moved faster, and Somers came with a cry, his hips rocking frantically while Hazard kissed him through the orgasm, Somers barely aware, unable to do anything more than accept.
As Somers’s breathing returned to normal, he settled next to Hazard on the narrow bed.
“Obviously,” Hazard said, picking up the thread again. “It’s the hat.”
CHAPTER FORTY
JULY 10
WEDNESDAY
10:59 AM
THE THERAPIST’S OFFICE occupied a small, clapboard house. It was in an older neighborhood that had slowly been commercialized, invaded by strip malls and parking lots; Somers parked the Mustang in back, where they had a little privacy. Hazard’s uninjured leg was bouncing.
When Somers put a hand on Hazard’s knee, Hazard said, “I think I left the stove on.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s just run back and check.”
Somers cocked his head and then said, “No.”
“It’s going to burn down the house.”
Somers nodded.
“Fine, if that’s what you want, fine. It’ll burn down the house. And our insurance won’t cover it, John. We’re going to be sleeping on the street.”
“I managed pretty well when I was on the run.”
“You came back wearing a panda t-shirt the size of a zeppelin.”
“Evie likes pandas. I bet we can find her a baby panda shirt. I know a place.”
“Just start the car. We’ll hurry. We can turn off the burner and be a little late for my appointment.”
Somers squeezed Hazard’s good knee, and Hazard blew out a breath.
“Yeah?” Somers said.
Hazard nodded and opened the door.
They walked inside together, and Somers was relieved to see that it wasn’t like a doctor’s office—he’d imagined a waiting room with peeling wallpaper, outdated magazines, and toys for bored children. Instead, there was something that, in a home, might have been called a mudroom: a place to ditch your coat and umbrella. Maybe it was a mini foyer. Maybe it was a vestibule. Maybe it was a cloakroom. Somers felt hot, and as he listened to his internal rambling, he realized he might be even more nervous than Hazard.
Passing through the mudroom—Somers decided on mudroom—they found themselves in what was clearly a waiting room, although not like the one Somers had pictured. A few tasteful, abstract paintings. Comfortable chairs and a sofa. Unlike the bluntly neutral color scheme that Somers remembered from the office of a therapist he and Hazard had investigated earlier that year, this room had rich, dark woods, warm leather, accentuated
here and there with pops of bright blues and yellows. A door opened, and a woman stuck her head out.
“Emery?”
Hazard’s head jerked up once.
“Come in, please.”
Hazard grabbed Somers’s hand, stood, and tugged.
“I don’t think—” Somers said.
“One more fucking word,” Hazard growled.
Somers gave the woman a smile and let Hazard drag him into the office proper. They shook hands as Pauline Dell introduced herself, and then Somers and Hazard sat together on a couch, while Pauline took an armchair at an angle to them. The office replicated the décor of the waiting room, but a bit more subdued—less to draw the eye, less to distract.
“Is that lavender?” Hazard said, scenting the air.
“Yes,” Pauline said. “Does it bother you? I can turn off the diffuser.”
“Is that a tactic to make me relax? Studies have shown that—”
Somers squeezed his hand.
Pauline straightened her skirt and then looked at them again. She was solidly built with a short bob of hair that was almost completely white. Her eyes were muddy blue and moved from Somers to Hazard to Somers again.
“I’m glad you could both come,” Pauline said. “I understand we’re working on post-traumatic stress disorder, but usually the goal with one of these intake appointments is just to get to know each other.”
Hazard’s eyebrows shot up. “All right. We’re going.”
Somers dragged on his arm to keep Hazard from rising.
“This is the same shit all over again,” Hazard said to him in a fierce, low voice. “She’s going to want to talk about my dad and think this is all because I didn’t get breast fed enough as a child or whatever bullshit is making the rounds these days.”
“For a smart guy,” Somers muttered, “you are very stupid sometimes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why don’t you ask her what she wants to know?”
“What do you want to know?” Hazard snapped.
Pauline’s serene expression hadn’t changed. “I want to know if we’re going to work well together. Therapy only really works if there’s a strong, healthy relationship between client and therapist—in other words, you have to trust me. So I like to ask a few questions, just to get a feel for your expectations of a therapist and how you build healthy interactions with the people around you.”