No. He’s not going to affect me like this. Fucking jerk.
He prowled the house, noting everything remained the same. The kitchen still bore evidence of neglect, of a man who didn’t know how to keep house. Teabags, dried and yellowed, sat in a pile on the countertop. Sugar grains from an obvious spill hadn’t been wiped up. Dirty dishes stood piled in the sink, and the tap dripped, just like it always had, a steady plop-plip-plop, although those droplets seemed fatter now.
A damn washer change, that’s all it’d take. Jesus.
Carl shook his head and turned from the squalor, making his way through the living room. Newspapers in a haphazard pile looked on the verge of slewing off the coffee table, down onto a floor in sore need of vacuuming. Dirt, food particles, and dust bunnies covered the beige carpet. The sofa sagged in the middle—the old spring that used to jab Carl’s ass was a little more exposed now. A thick layer of dust covered the wooden sideboard, a circle of less-thick dust showing something had been recently moved. A cup, maybe.
Nothing’s changed. Not a goddamn thing.
Upstairs, he pushed open his bedroom door, steeling himself for what he’d see.
Jesus Christ!
His bed remained exactly as he’d left it, the quilt bunched into a ball, the sheet and pillow bearing the shape of his body and head. A musky scent lingered, one of filth and corruption, of a kid growing up with no mother to clean the house or stroke a fevered brow. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked several times, determined to remain focused. His mind had other ideas, though. Where was his mother now? Did she ever think of the little boy she’d abandoned to a life of depravity and unhappiness? Had she moved on to a new relationship, with kids she’d baked cookies with and ensured were clean and well-fed? If she had, how did he feel about that? He didn’t know, didn’t want to entertain the thought of discovering half-siblings that reveled in the care he’d missed out on. It wasn’t their fault, but shit, they were lucky bastards.
A phlegm-filled cough sounded, as though out in the back yard, and Carl moved to the window. He gazed down on the sandy, grotty area, at the old beige hammock he used to swing on with his eyes closed, the summer breeze tickling his tear-stained face. At Kevin, who now swung on that seat, hand-rolled cigarette between two fingers, smoke oozing out of his mouth.
What the fuck is he doing out there in this weather?
Though the sun shone, it was hardly warm enough to be outside, especially not in jogging bottoms and his customary stained vest. Carl studied his father. Not everything had remained the same, then. The old man had aged, his stubble tinted with gray, his hair peppered with it at the temples. He looked haggard and weak, and Carl smiled, pleased at the bastard’s decline.
Taking in a deep breath, Carl left his bedroom to walk downstairs to the kitchen, standing at the closed back door. He regarded Kevin again through the dirty square of glass, the wrinkles on the old man’s face evident at this closer vantage point. Did the guy have any remorse? Was he sitting there now, thinking of what he should have done? What he could have done differently? Would it matter if he was sorry for the past?
No. It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.
Carl swung open the door, the hinges giving their familiar whine, and stood on the threshold. Kevin sat upright, the hammock stilling as he planted his feet firmly on the ground. His eyes widened as he peered at Carl, then he shot out of his seat and threw down his smoke.
“What the fuck are you doing here, kid?” Kevin adopted his usual pose—hands on hips, legs at ease—and expanded his chest.
Carl almost laughed. “Came back like I said I would.”
Kevin chuckled. “Let me see now. What was it you said? That you were gonna apply the same thing to me as I’d done to you.” He chuckled again and moved toward Carl, hands by his sides, fists bunched. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
Turning, Carl went back into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer, taking out a sturdy knife and holding it behind him. Kevin entered the room a moment later and slammed the back door, his ruddy face belying his anger. He flicked his head in an attempt to shift the lank lock of hair that had streaked across his face, but it didn’t budge. With a huff, he brushed it back with his hand then took two paces toward Carl.
“You got a belt, kid?”
“Nope.”
“Well? Don’t you need one?”
“Nope.”
“So how you gonna apply shit on me?” His laugh puffed out of that stinking mouth with its stained teeth and tongue yellowed from years of tobacco. Kevin stood like a wrestler, his arm muscles now soft from lack of exercise.
Amazing how a man can stay in shape from using a belt too often.
Carl gritted his teeth.
“You not gonna answer me, kid?”
Carl stared at him, at the bulging eyes that indicated Kevin teetered on the precipice, anger about ready to boil over.
“You’d better fuckin’ answer me, or so help me God—”
Carl lunged forward and whipped the blade across Kevin’s throat before the old man had a chance to register Carl’s movement. Blood arced from the knife, splattering the filthy cream wall and the fingerprint-smudged fridge to their right. Kevin’s eyes widened, and he staggered against the back door, hands raised to a gaping, blood-filled throat. His fingertips sank into the wound, and he slid down the door, his chest and vest front crimson. Gargles issued from the old man’s throat, those ugly teeth bared in a grimace of pain. Carl watched, fascinated as the blood went from spewing to oozing with the stopping of Kevin’s heart. He stepped toward his father and drew the knife back and forth over the unsullied, lower half of the vest to clean it, then turned and calmly exited the house. Knife still in hand, he strode across the road and unlocked the pickup, getting inside as though what had occurred…hadn’t. After tossing the knife into the back seat, he started the truck then pulled away, intent on finding an out-of-the-way motel.
He headed back toward home—his real home—and pondered on how long it would take for Kevin to be discovered. Days. Possibly a week or two. A smile touched his lips while he imagined the stink of the old man’s body as it bloated and began to decompose. Whoever found him had better have a strong stomach.
Carl laughed and picked up speed. He had the urge to fuck and fuck hard. He’d pay cash at a motel then venture into the next town in search of a clubber who needed release as much as he did.
Fuck, yeah!
Chapter Eight
I didn’t have much of a choice. Vic stepped back, putting an appropriate amount of distance between us again. Oddly, the warmth his proximity had lent remained. I glanced up, and those deep brown eyes met mine.
“Ready?”
I shook my head, knowing all my desperation showed in my eyes. Carl always said I was too easy to read.
“I know.” His voice had gone soft. “I know. I wish there was another way.” He glanced over to the door of the station house then back to me. “I’m not going to let them railroad you. Promise.” He wrapped gentle fingers around my arm, just above my elbow, and the absolute lack of force struck me as odd.
“You’ll—you’ll stay with me?”
“Right beside you. I’ll process—” He clamped his mouth shut and frowned. “I’ll do the paperwork and things.”
“Process me.”
We were mounting the stairs by then, and the building loomed, dark and slightly run-down.
“You’ll process me.” One thing I was beginning to understand about my life—it was just easier to call it how it was.
“It has to be done.”
I nodded. “Then I want you to do it.”
He pulled open the door then and maneuvered me inside ahead of him. It felt like procedure at that point. Hubbub inside made it hard to focus, and I held back, hoping for the reassurance of his bulk behind me. He grunted and gave me a light shove, just to keep me ahead of him. Was I supposed to act like a criminal? I wasn’t anything but scared shitless.
“Over there.”
He pointed past me to a desk in the far corner. Partial walls delineated the space, and as we approached I realized there were two desks, facing one another, and the other was occupied. The man sitting at it turned, stood, his eyes flashing.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Calm down, Chewie.”
I stifled a hysterical giggle. The guy was slightly hairier than average, and taller than Lil.
He made a low rumbling sound to go with his frown as he plopped back into his chair. “You should have called in. Who’s this?”
“Mind your own homework.” Vic pointed to the guy’s desk, strewn with piles of forms and reports. “I’ll put him through.”
“You bring some punk in without calling for back-up, not even me, your own partner, and I’m not supposed to ask?”
“You’re not supposed to ask,” Vic agreed.
“That’s him!” this exclamation, from behind Vic, brought Chewie back to his feet and turned Vic’s head, but not before I saw the resignation on his face.
“Sit down, Colly,” Vic snarled at the speaker. “I got it.”
“Leave him,” someone else said quietly, though the look I got from that cop scalded. “This is his collar.”
I glanced at Vic, but his back was to me. “This isn’t a collar,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Yet?” My voice might have squeaked. In fact, it did, and Vic spun back to me.
“Sit.”
He pointed to the chair by his desk, and I sat, perched on the front edge to give my shackled hands room. From there, I had a good view of Vic glaring the rest of the men in the room down. He was playing his role of partner to the dead cop right to the hilt, but I could see the strain in the set of his shoulders and his tight grip on the back of his chair.
No one spoke.
Vic shifted his stance, spun his chair around, and turned his back on them. His gaze met mine. “I got this.” Smooth, spare motions got him into his seat and the computer monitor adjusted and turned on. The questions came at me then, just as smooth. His tone was calm, cold, completely business, and he didn’t once look away from his computer screen.
The questions were of the simple, name, rank and serial number variety. I answered them in tones I’m sure Vic couldn’t hear, but he appeared to know enough about me. He didn’t ask me to repeat myself, and I found a fair amount of time to sit there and wonder why his intimate knowledge of my life didn’t disturb me as much as it should. It didn’t even seem to be the right thing to be worrying about. Then again, I’d never been arrested before, or accused of murder. I had no idea what should be bothering me at that point.
I suppose I knew it was only a matter of time before someone else took an interest. Still, that someone shouting Vic’s name across the room startled me. It only brought a resigned frown to Vic’s face.
He drew his focus from the computer screen at last to fix it on Chewie. “Connelly?”
Chewie glanced up, and Vic tilted his head at me.
“Keep an eye on him.”
“Bradley!” the shout came again, and Vic’s shoulders scrunched up a bit.
Across the desk, Chewie—Connelly—nodded then shot me a dark glare. I slouched a little lower. The murmurs that drifted around swiveled heads in my direction. The room, preoccupied a moment before, rapidly turned cold and hostile. Beside me, Vic stood. His fingers twitched in my direction. His eyes flitted my way, his glance brief but easy to understand. Stay still. Be quiet. Don’t draw attention.
I could do that.
“Comin’, Cap.” Vic headed off, twisting with supple grace through the maze of desks and skewed chairs, fielding curious stares and deflecting pointed questions.
“Why’s he here?” someone asked.
“Put him in the damn cell and toss the key,” came another gruff, bitter comment.
“Always by the book, ain’t ya, Bradley?” This from a weasely man in dark denim and a tight T-shirt stretched over steroid-muscled arms crossed in front of himself. He stood and blocked Vic’s way, chin thrust out, bulldog glare showing he didn’t care that he barely came to Vic’s shoulder. “We all know he did it. What’s the point of all this?”
“Bradley!” His captain’s voice cut through the thick vibe, and cops turned reluctantly back to whatever they’d been doing. All except the little man blocking Vic’s way forward.
“What’s it to you, Simpson? You never liked Jase anyway,” Vic said.
“Like cop killers even less.” The beefed-up little man turned his beady-eyed stare on me. “You think you’d get away with it, punk?”
I stared at him, mouth too dry to respond. I hardly resembled a punk by anyone’s standards. Did I really come across like someone who could have killed a cop? Or anyone, for that matter? And the way the murder had been described. I shuddered. Carl had done that. More than once. Bile rose again. It surprised me I had anything left to throw up.
“Simpson.” From a doorway somewhere to the left, a sharp female voice pinged off my awareness. “Come on, asshole. We have doors to knock on.”
Someone else snickered, and the cop named Simpson shot Vic one last, venomous glare and swaggered off across the room. Vic glanced at me over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure if I imagined the concern, or if he’d actually risked showing it. I knew I must have looked like complete shit, though, because Connelly shuffled some papers and grunted.
“You can ignore that jerk-off. He’s got it in for just about everyone,” Connelly said.
“Something specific with Vic?” I asked, trying to keep my voice conversational and not shaking, and failing miserably.
Connelly narrowed his eyes, but after a minute, he just answered the question, “He’s an asshole. He’s just a homo-fuckin’-phobic asshole.” The words, growled out through his thick beard, made me shiver. His eyes, bright blue and penetrating, didn’t waver from my face. “S’pose you’ve met your share of those.”
“I guess.” I watched him a moment, watching me, as though he was waiting for something from me. I had no idea what.
“You don’t look like what I expected.”
My breath caught. “What were you expecting?”
“He usually goes for more elfin-like, big-eyed hip sawyers.”
“What?”
Connelly leaned forward, letting his gaze rove down over me then back to my face. “You’re fit. Strong enough to take down a cop. The rest of them…” He shook his head. “Damn it if Vic isn’t right about you, though. Tough on the outside, waif on the inside, I bet. Otherwise, I don’t see why he’s looking out for you. You didn’t kill anyone.”
“No! No, I didn’t.” I latched on to the thin branch of hope he was extending. “Why is this happening?”
“Evidence.” He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Damnit, I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted this to be over.” The pen he flung onto his desk bounced end over end and landed, rolling to rest against a coffee cup on Vic’s desk with a little clink. “Would have been so much easier to talk him out of his crush than actually help him figure out a way to do this.”
“Crush? Who? Figure out a way to do what?” If only everyone would stop talking in code and just tell me what the fuck had happened to my life.
“Shit.” He was back to studying me again. “All right. Fine. We’ll do it his way. Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Carl?” I shifted uncomfortably. My arms ached. The cuffs rattled behind me. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Last night.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to tell this guy I’d lost track of time while Carl worked me over, assaulted me, and left me tied up and helpless. That I had no idea how long I lay there wheezing and frightened he’d come back before I’d decided to get myself out was not something I was eager to share with the world. “Late, I guess.”
He heaved a sigh so deep it ruffled the stiff hairs of his beard. “When I accepted this partnership, they warned me Vic w
as just broken. Freaked out over a dead partner and not thinking straight.” Connelly leaned forward, sucked up a few of his beard hairs between his teeth, and watched me thoughtfully. “No one told me he’s perfectly sane and right. No one wants to believe it.”
“But you do, right? You believe I didn’t do anything.”
“What time did your boyfriend leave?” he asked again.
I shook my head, swallowed the bitter goop rising to the back of my mouth. “I don’t know. After dark. Before the late nurse’s shift.” I shrugged helplessly. “I honestly don’t know. Brian, my friend, picked me up, brought me back to his place before Lil went to work. I don’t know what time it was.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
“I—I’m sorry. I really don’t know. Brian picked me up,” I said again, repeating myself like it would somehow make things clearer. “We went to his. Lil went to work after I’d been there a while. I wasn’t watching the clock.”
“Well, where, when, and what you were doing is going to matter. Figure it out.”
That’s when Vic came back, face grim. He didn’t speak as he reached down behind me and released my hands at last. The pins and needles in my arms were agony as I slowly moved them into a more natural position.
“Thank—”
He grunted, fastened the cuffs on my closest wrist again, and drew it in front of me, motioning for the other hand. “Just a change of venues,” he muttered, voice as dark as his expression. He pulled at the cuffs once he had them fastened, indicating I should get up and go with him. I didn’t move.
Look at me. Please.
He did, finally. I’d somehow forgotten just how deep his eyes really were. I could see in there, though. He wasn’t as sure now as he had been that it would be okay.
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