Orientation (Borealis Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  Shaw wasn’t sure how historically accurate the note was—he had the idea that Pari might need some more time studying—but the concern buried under the words made him smile.

  When Shaw reached his bedroom, he found Matty in bed, knees pulled to his chest as he read the surviving copy of Faust. Matty dropped the book and scrambled out of bed. Then he froze.

  “Oh my God. Are you ok? Is everything ok?”

  Before Shaw could answer, Matty had slammed into him, dragging him into an embrace that was tight with need and worry. And for some reason, Shaw just wanted to push Matty off him, just wanted five minutes alone—even though being alone, really alone, was what had bothered him so much about watching North drive off in the Beamer. Shaw was just tired, he told himself. He’d just had a long day.

  That was how Matty’s version of twenty questions began: he wanted to know everything. Where did Shaw go? Why hadn’t he told Matty he was leaving? Was he ok? What happened? Was he ok? Really, Regina—that was the one Shaw had mentioned before, right? What happened? Was he ok? Oh, his arm, how bad was his arm hurt. Was he ok? What about the blackmail? Was it really Regina? What happened? Was Shaw ok, was he really ok? What about the blackmail? Did Shaw find anything? Was he ok?

  That question, was he ok, burrowed under Shaw’s skin until finally he got up, shaking Matty’s hand off his elbow, and said he needed a shower. Matty just smiled up at him from under that unruly wave of blond hair, drew his lip between his teeth, and asked if Shaw wanted someone to scrub his back.

  Shaw felt like he had to laugh. Shaw felt like he had to bend and kiss Matty’s cheek as he declined. For the first time, he noticed a brittleness to the amethyst quality of Matty’s eyes, and he wondered why he had ever thought the color was that remarkable. Blue was blue, wasn’t it?

  When he got under the spray, Shaw’s head was throbbing, and he scrubbed his scalp, let the hot water pound down on his back and shoulders. A thought broke loose from deep in his brain, bubbled up toward the surface, and suddenly Shaw found himself wondering how long he had to date Matty, how many days, before he could initiate a break-up. This was all new territory. North would probably know the right protocol, although it would kill Shaw to give North the satisfaction. And then Shaw realized what he was thinking and popped that thought-bubble as fast as he could. He was just tired. He’d just had a long day.

  He tried to focus on good things. North was coming back. That was a good thing. North was going to keep working with him. That was a good thing. Pari would smile. She’d make some comment about a post-1990s Sino-Russian rapprochement, and she’d do something that would put North into the red—like the time she’d burned a hole in North’s jacket with an iron, claiming she was just trying to help. And things would go back to the way they had been.

  With Matty in the picture now. Shaw squeezed his eyes shut and turned face-first into the water. That was a good thing too. Shaw had waited so long for North, spent so much of his life in a fantasy that would never come true, and now, against all odds, he had someone in his life who cared about him, who wanted him. Matty was smart and hot and vulnerable. He needed Shaw. He’d had a horrible life, and Shaw could help make some of that, a little of it, right.

  But all of the sudden, Shaw couldn’t breathe, and he propped himself on the shower’s window sill with his elbows and worked the clasp and threw up the sash. Cold air whipped into the bathroom, catching handfuls of steam from the shower and spinning them out into the night. Benton Park was quiet; from the second-story window, Shaw could look out over the rusted fire escape at the amber bubbles generated by the streetlights. He could see Matty’s car—the boxy blue Volvo—parked right in front of the building and the houses on the other side of the street that had been subdivided into apartments and, a few streets over, the arc of Gravois stapled with the red-yellow-green traffic lights, and the soot-stained brick and the verdigris steeple of the Saint Francis de Sales oratory. St. Louis was a river city, a low sweep of city with a few needles of high-rise construction. Shaw could see a long, long way, and that’s why it didn’t make any sense why he still felt trapped, why he still felt like he couldn’t breathe.

  Forcing himself to stand upright, without resting on the sill, Shaw told himself he was being silly. But part of him was thinking about how easy it would be to slip down the fire escape—quietly, of course—and circle around to the garage, where the door could be jimmied easily, and get into the Mercedes and drive to the Chase Park Plaza and stay for a night or two until Matty cleared out. If Shaw kept the shower running, if he left right now, maybe Matty would never even notice.

  Shaw grinned. He wiped a wet hand over the sill, and his fingers came away reddish-orange. Matty would notice. And Shaw knew he was being silly, knew he was being stupid even. He was just falling back into old habits. He was reading too much into how things had gone with North at the hospital. He was working himself back into all those stupid fantasies. And then Shaw groaned. Jesus Christ. That kiss. Why the hell had he kissed North on the cheek? It was like . . . it was like something a grandmother would have done. Jesus. Shaw stuck his hand under the shower’s spray, letting the hot water scour the rust from his fingers. That kiss had been classic Shaw—that was what North would say. Classic, fucking Shaw.

  Reaching for the handle, Shaw splashed water across the floor of the tub. Rust swirled around the drain before the water carried it away, and Shaw froze, fingers tight around the chrome handle, as a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  The color of the bricks on the back wall of Hog Hollow Hocks. Matty asking Shaw to check his apartment to make sure it was safe. Matty’s video call, a brick wall behind him. Matty calling for help a few hours later. Shaw’s vivid, visceral certainty that he had known Matty’s whereabouts the same night Mark was killed because, of course, Matty had made sure Shaw knew where he was. And then Shaw eating ribs behind Hog Hollow Hocks, staring at the bricks under the security light, the tickle in his mind that they were familiar for some reason. Then more: Regina Rex’s fake breasts. Pari’s note about the Sino-Soviet split. And the final flare, burning like a trail of fireworks above the Arch, as Regina’s voice echoed through the Lucky’s darkened theater: You’ve got something that belongs to me.

  How much time had passed? Shaw’s fingers were stiff around the chrome handle, and his whole body was rigid, joints locked with the shock of revelation. Hot water pounded his chest, wreathed his thighs, trickled down his calves.

  He needed to get to his phone. That was the clearest thought. After that, Shaw wasn’t sure what he would do. Call North first. That seemed right. Call Jadon Reck immediately after. He left the water running and inched back the curtain, wincing every time one of the rings chimed against the rod, praying that Matty would have gone to the living room for a drink or to stretch his legs or to look for another book. And if he hadn’t, a part of Shaw’s brain queried. If he hadn’t gone to stretch his legs or pour himself a drink or look for a book? What was Shaw supposed to do?

  Smile, Shaw told himself as he dragged the shower curtain another painfully slow inch. Kiss him. Ask him about himself. Do all the stupid things you’re supposed to do on a date. And the whole time, keep moving, keep circling, keep getting closer to your phone until you have a shot, a real shot at grabbing the phone and barricading yourself in the office. The details of the plan were hazy. Shaw’s joints, no longer locked, seemed too loose now, and he felt like pieces of himself might come off, tearing away like his tendons and ligaments had all the strength of wet newsprint.

  Slipping out of the shower, water pouring off him, Shaw steadied himself on the bath mat and then froze.

  Matty stood in the doorway, a knife in one hand, rope in the other. He was smiling.

  “Hi, babe,” he said. “Forget something?”

  Chapter 34

  Shaw stared at Matty, but all he really saw was the knife.

  “Soap,” Shaw said. “Just had to grab some—”

  “That’s ok,�
�� Matty said. “I was going to get you out of the shower anyway. Come on. Let’s have a talk.” He tossed the rope at Shaw, and Shaw caught it out of instinct. “Tie that around your wrist. Good. No granny knots, you can do better than that. Ok. Now. Hands behind your back, loop it around your other wrist. Show me. Good boy.”

  For a moment, Shaw entertained the idea of a trick: leaving the rope looped loosely around his hand, pulling free, overpowering Matty. That was what North would have done. But before Shaw could put his plan into motion, Matty jerked the rope tight, and then tighter, and then it was too late because the rope was tied. Matty wheeled him out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” Matty said, indicating a chair in the living room. When Shaw dropped into the seat, Matty wound the rope around his chest—the mild discomfort of the hemp against Shaw’s wrists became a painful burn against the sensitive skin of his chest and stomach—and then Matty tied another knot. He dragged the coffee table to a spot in front of Shaw and sat, stretching out his long legs, the knife dangling from one hand. He was smiling.

  Shaw watched that smile. It wasn’t the shy, tentative expression he had associated with Matty, but then, nothing about Matty really reminded him of Matty: his posture was different—relaxed, confident—the way he held his head was different—a cocky tilt like he was looking down his nose at the world—even the eyes seemed different. Still that stunning shade, amethyst or sapphire depending on how the light hit, but in a cheap, costume jewelry kind of way. The smile, the shoulders, the tilt of his head, the eyes. This was the truth, and all the rest of it had been a lie.

  Letting out a slow breath, Shaw tested the tension in the rope around his chest. It shifted up along the chair’s wooden frame. Part of his mind knew he should be trying to plan an escape—a distraction, something to divert Matty’s attention—but he couldn’t stay focused. Questions whirled through his head. His brain would settle on one, and then he’d try to force the question away, and they’d all spin around again. Why Shaw and North? That was one question. How long had he been planning this? That was another. And then deeper questions, the kind that had riven Shaw to the core, the kind that sounded childlike and so painfully pathetic and were still totally impossible for Shaw to escape. How could you do this to me? That was one.

  “North thinks you’re really smart,” Matty said. “Lots of guys in the city do, actually. The ones that have hired you, they all say how smart you are. Teddi talked about it a lot, and that’s how Mark heard it. That’s how I heard it—Teddi to Mark, Mark to me. Even back then, before things went wrong with Mark, I knew you’d be useful one day.”

  Matty paused. He cocked his head a little more. His smile sharpened to a grin.

  Shaw was still cycling through questions. He settled on: “Are you going to kill me?”

  “That’s not what you really care about.” Matty settled the point of the knife on Shaw’s cheek and gently forced his head to the side. “Ask me what you really want to ask me.”

  “Why? Why North and me?”

  Matty tsked and dug the point of the knife deeper. Shaw couldn’t crane his neck any farther, and he felt blood trickle down his neck. “Don’t play games with me. Ask the right question. I’ll only tell you once.”

  “Was any of it real?”

  Matty seemed to consider this. Then, nodding slowly, he withdrew the knife. “I think so. Some of it, anyway. You know those are the best cons, right? When a part of it’s true, those are the best because people will swallow a lot of shit packed around a little truth.”

  Shaw shifted, drawing in another breath, testing the rope. It was tight around his chest, but there was more of that vertical give where the fibers slid up the chair’s frame. His fingers ran along the bindings around his wrists. Somewhere down the block, someone started blasting cumbia, and then a woman screamed for quiet, and the music died as quickly as it had started.

  “You’re sweet.” Matty was turning the blade, studying the tip where Shaw’s blood made the metal matte and dark. “You’re stupid, Christ, but you’re sweet. And it was nice to pretend that a sweet guy could like me.”

  “Matty, you don’t have to do this. You’ve had a rough life. Things can be so much better, but you have to make the right choice now, this minute.”

  The smile slid off Matty’s face. “It’s not that simple.” He bit his lower lip, and then tears spilled from his eyes. “It’s not—I can’t just do that, like you said. I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.” Covering his face with one hand, he shook his head.

  “Matty, please. Listen. You can make the right choice. And you won’t have to do it alone. I’ll help you, I’ll—”

  Bursting out laughing, Matty rocked back on the coffee table. “Jesus,” he said, wiping his face. “You are a fucking soft touch, aren’t you? People said you had a thing for strays, but I figured everybody had their limits. Not you, though.” Matty’s grin hooked the corners of his mouth again. “That whole helpless routine? The poor, pretty boy who’s too innocent for the big, bad world? That’s old hat, you know. Works on men. Works on women. For you, though, you know what I did? After everything Teddi spilled about you, I did some research. I learned all about that maniac, the West End Slasher, and I learned all about how he cut you up and killed your boyfriend, and I knew, I fucking knew I could have you eating out of my hand after a few weeks. Jesus. Talk about underestimating. And the fact that you’re a virgin, that you let me pop that dried-up cherry you’ve been carrying around. I had no idea. No fucking idea.” He laughed again.

  Shaw wasn’t aware of the drag and burn of the rope across his chest. He wasn’t aware of the ache in his shoulders, of the bristle of hemp around his wrists. He wasn’t even sure his heart was beating anymore, and he felt something carrying him away. Once, as a boy, he had swum in Bahia Honda on a moonless night, and a comber had crashed over him and plunged him to the bottom of the bay. Black water. Warm, black water, so warm that even at night he wasn’t sure where he ended and where the water began. It had been terrifying, but it had also been strangely liberating. So much easier to dissolve into black nothingness than to kick, to fight to get back to the surface. Something like that had happened in an alley seven years ago. Something like that was happening now, something like that black comber bearing down on him, eroding his grasp on here and now and self. So much easier to just dissolve than to face how terribly, fucking stupid he had been. And North had tried to warn him.

  North. North might come back. North might be in danger.

  That was enough. North was enough for Shaw to fight against the pull of that dark, warm nothing.

  “You killed Mark Sevcik.”

  Matty made a circular motion with the tip of the knife, a kind of carry on.

  “Do you want me to start at the beginning?”

  “I want to know where the flash drive is.”

  “The beginning, that’s pretty far back. You were in St. Louis already. You knew Regina—knew of her, anyway. And somehow you learned about the blackmail. That’s it, isn’t it? Somehow you learned. Somehow you found out. It was never Mark blackmailing people; it was Regina. The evidence was there—the mysterious donations supposedly to renovate the Lucky.” Shaw paused. He was fishing deep inside himself, in that quiet stillness under the crust of consciousness, that place where his mind did its best work. This would be easier, so much easier, if he could do his free association or his sketching or anything, really, except grope in that darkness. But every minute he spoke was another minute he stayed alive, and so he kept talking. “You told us you were a victim, that you were being blackmailed. But that doesn’t hold up. Regina couldn’t have blackmailed only first-timers; that’s too specific, too rare. You told me that because you knew how it would affect me. Regina targeted closeted men; she told me that much at the Lucky. She liked the power of it, sure, but she also liked the hypocrisy, the vulnerability, of someone indulging in a vice that they tried to hide from the rest of the worl
d. You were hustling years before you came to St. Louis, so you didn’t learn about Regina’s blackmail scheme because you were a victim of it.” Shaw blinked. He could see it now, and he focused on his breath moving in and out of his lungs. “You were an accomplice.”

  Matty offered a mocking, silent applause.

  “You were the perfect bait,” Shaw said, and that darkness surfed across his vision again. “Of course you were. You still are. Guys who don’t know exactly what they want, guys who might not even be able to verbalize what they’re feeling, but they remember drinking too much in college and they remember the guy in the frat that everybody knew you could fuck around with and keep it quiet. Guys who know they like guys, but they’re in politics or they’re religious and they can’t come out. Married guys. All sorts of guys that want to fuck a boy on the side, with nobody else knowing about it. And there you are, innocent, vulnerable, available. They feel powerless until they’re with you, and you make them feel like they’re in control.”

  “You did,” Matty said. “Didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Keep going. You’re doing so well.”

  “You didn’t like how Regina was running things. You . . .” For a moment, Shaw swam again in the icy blackness of his subconscious, trying to articulate. “You didn’t feel appreciated. You didn’t like someone else telling you what to do; someone else had been telling you what to do your whole life. But you didn’t know how to change it until you met Mark. Did you care about him? Or was that an act as well?”

  “He wanted to use me too. Just like the rest of them. When he got back, the night he copied all the files . . . he was ecstatic. He thought he was fucking Einstein and James Bond rolled into one. She walked in on him right as he finished. It was so close. And then he came back to the apartment and told me he didn’t like my plan.” A wild, frustrated sob caught in Matty’s throat. “It was all supposed to be so simple: copy the videos, delete Regina’s files, and ransom them back. We couldn’t be sure she didn’t have backups, but the threat of other copies floating around, that would have been enough to make the old bitch pay. But Mark thought he was so smart. Mark had to hide the flash drive. Mark had to get big ideas. He wanted to run the blackmail game. He wanted to make the money. It didn’t matter what I told him, how much I explained that it wouldn’t work like that.” Matty seemed to consider something. “You know what I called him after I realized what he was really like? The disappearing faggot. You know, like a magic trick. You could look right at Mark and not see him. The disappearing faggot. He wanted to be anybody else but who he was.” Matty shook his head, working his jaw; the point of the knife dipped in his hand, and Shaw tensed, trying again at the ropes around his wrists. Matty fixed Shaw with an eerily knowing look. “Is that all?”