Infected Freefall

by Andrea Speed

  That in itself was bad news, and Dylan was torn between being angry and just being upset. He settled on splitting the difference. “What did you find? What’s wrong with him?”

  The nurse shook his head. “Results aren’t in yet.” As Dylan let out a sigh of disgust, he added, “I need you to do me a favor. Convince him to stay put until the results come through, okay?”

  “Is he free to leave?”

  “No, he hasn’t been discharged, but I can’t help but note that’s never stopped him before. He’s a Houdini of a patient. Or should that be David Blaine now?”

  “Roan doesn’t do stupid-ass stunts for publicity.”

  “Houdini it is. If you could talk him into staying for now, it might prevent another incident. Please.”

  “I’ll try,” Dylan said, aware he was probably only being allowed to see Roan for this very reason. But fuck it, he’d take it.

  Velez led him to Roan’s room but only opened the door for him. He didn’t follow him in; he didn’t say anything else. He just gave him a somewhat apologetic look. Was he one of Dee’s friends? Dylan wondered, mainly because he was one of the more helpful nurses he’d encountered.

  Roan was propped up in bed, reading a Scientific American, presumably stolen from somewhere in the hospital. (Maybe Velez brought it to him to keep him from wandering.) There was a TV in the high, far corner, but it was off, which was not a surprise to Dylan. If they didn’t get BBC America, Roan might never turn the set on.

  Roan glanced over the magazine, and as soon as he saw it was him, he set it aside. “Dylan.”

  “Roan,” he replied, his voice almost cracking. Roan did look a bit groggy. His eyes were glazed, and he seemed pale, his reddish-brown hair extra vivid against the whiteness of his skin. Dylan hugged him fiercely and kissed him on the forehead, the bridge of the nose, his dry, cracked lips. He was so happy to see him awake he could have cried.

  “If you get weepy on me, I swear I’m gonna punch you in the kidneys,” Roan said, his voice muffled since his face was now buried in his chest.

  Dylan laughed and hid a sob that threatened to give the game away. He held it back, got ahold of his rampaging emotions. “So, you’re an invalid now. Should I smother you with a pillow?”

  “I’m not ready for you to go all One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on me. Yet. But keep the pillow handy, Chief.”

  Dylan looked down at him and tried on a wan smile that felt tissue-paper thin. He touched Roan’s forehead and realized, “You’re cold.”

  “I think it’s the meds they gave me. I don’t know what they were, but it feels like the beginning of a carbonite freeze.”

  “Oh, stop with all these geeky references. People might think we’re straight.”

  “Horrors.”

  “Scootch over,” Dylan said and climbed into bed with him. It was a small, uncomfortable bed, but as long as Dylan stayed on his side, he fit. Roan turned on his side to face him, and they put their arms around each other, mostly for warmth, but a bit for comfort. “So, am I a dead man?” Roan asked him.

  He gave him his evilest scowl. “I won’t hear talk like that. You are not a quitter.”

  “No, I’m not, but I’m not sure about the lion.”

  “Knock it off, or I swear, I’m kicking you out onto the floor.”

  “It might be more comfortable,” he replied, then snuggled in against his chest. Dylan held him tight, glad Roan couldn’t see his face right now. He didn’t know if he could do this. He could do the Zen thing, but doing the stoic thing was so much harder. He breathed in the scent of his hair and felt a little bit better.

  “So what’s been going on since I’ve been in the elephant’s graveyard?” Roan asked.

  Terrific, an out. So he told him about the attempt he, Fiona, and Holden (with some assistance from Dee) had made to become detectives in his stead, and how Holden felt he had figured out who the killer was, since he’d found the sex tape and determined who the third member of the ménage à trois was. Roan listened, and despite the drugs, his mind was still as sharp as ever. “No, he’s wrong,” Roan said, not a bit of doubt in his voice. “John has a gambling problem, and I believe some drinking issues. He’s an impulsive person, and while I can see him being angry enough to both blame and kill his own brother over this, he’d have done so in an impulsive manner: bludgeoning with a golf club, stabbing with a decorative sword. Potassium poisoning is not only odd but deliberate; someone planned that. They had to, since potassium overdosing is difficult. John couldn’t have thought that out.”

  Dylan sighed, feeling so much better. He couldn’t put his reservations into words, but Roan had. “You have any thoughts on suspects?”

  Roan leaned his head back into the thin pillow and looked up at the ceiling as he thought. His eyes were still too brilliantly bottle-green to be Human, but Dylan would never tell him that.

  “I’m not sure, but someone should really keep an eye on Kyle Newberry. He’s the fulcrum of this crime.”

  “Meaning?” Who the fuck used “fulcrum” in an everyday sentence? Seriously. But Roan had a ridiculous vocabulary, and Dylan had learned to just let it go. Apparently the other cops used to make fun of his pedantic tendencies. What a shock.

  “Meaning he’s either our killer or the next potential victim. Someone should look into Jessie Newberry too. I never did work up a background on him. But he wasn’t even on my radar.”

  He said someone, but Dylan was fairly certain he meant him, or at least would by default. “What would we look for?”

  He shrugged. “The basics. If he has a criminal record—unlikely, he’s the son of a rich man and they get away with lots of shit—where he works, if he works at all, if he’s in a relationship, what his status within the family is, if he gets along with his dad or uncle, where he was the morning his uncle was killed, if he has any hobbies or vices… well, beyond fucking his own cousin and third-rate porn stars.”

  “You have to admit, that would probably take up a lot of time.”

  “Probably. Still, he must have some downtime, or periods where he has to stop and replenish his fluids, so there’s gotta be something there.”

  “How awfully cynical are we that we’re joking about this?”

  Roan gave him a crooked half grin that was always magnificently endearing. He could get away with so much with a smile like that. It was probably a good thing he didn’t know. “You either laugh or cry, or get so disgusted with the Human race you decide to kill them all. This is really the lesser of the evils.”

  “And you know all about that, I’m sure,” Dylan teased. He then got serious. “I think you’ve created a monster in Holden.”

  “Why? Because he’s jumping into this detective thing?”

  “Yes. Clearly he likes it, although he probably wouldn’t admit that he likes it as much as he does.”

  “Well, unlike Matt, I really think he could do the job well. He’s a terrific liar.”

  That made Dylan raise an eyebrow at him. “And that’s all it takes to be a good detective?”

  “A good undercover detective, yeah. Well, knowledge-gathering capabilities help. Being a street kid and a sex worker, he’s had to hone his instincts. They were probably all that stood between him and a guy with an urge to kill, and since he’s still alive, I’d say he’s probably got a knack for it. But I don’t see him ever taking over my job.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause’s he’s in the rarefied position of a high-class prostitute. He probably makes more in a day than I do in a week. This job is a lot of effort for little money, and he could make more where he is. I can see him becoming a detective when he loses his looks, though.”

  “It is the job of choice for the ugly.”

  “Why you—” Roan said in mock anger, and gave him a brief love bite on the bridge of his nose. He barely felt it, although it did occur to Dylan that, if he’d really wanted to, he could have bitten his nose clean off. Roan leaned back and said, “Whatever you have to do
, get Holden off John’s case. Get him on Kyle, get him on Jessie, get him on someone else, I don’t really care who. We can’t have him screwing the investigation because he’s focused on the wrong guy.”

  Considering this was Holden they were talking about, Dylan knew it was much easier said than done.

  19

  Between the Bars

  AS DYLAN suspected, what to do with Grant was a more troublesome issue.

  Roan hated to turn a fellow infected over to the police, but he didn’t have much choice. Grant needed help, and probably needed to be locked away for his own good right now. Roan instructed him to call Seb and arrange for him to come and quietly take Grant in. Seb knew this had to be handled delicately, and whatever they did, the press couldn’t be tipped off. Otherwise it would be a madhouse. And Seb wouldn’t mistreat an infected, unlike some other cops. It was the safest course. Roan still hated doing it, but he didn’t see another way.

  Neither did Dylan. But at least Grant would get help, and you couldn’t be convicted of first-degree murder in your cat form, as with one or two exceptions (one of them right next to him), no one had ever been seen to have any sort of Human consciousness in cat form. You were just a big, angry cat.

  But people did have a hard time accepting that, and it wasn’t difficult to empathize with them. When your boyfriend/girlfriend /family member was eaten or mauled to death by a cat, it was hard to swallow the reason that boiled down to “shit happens” or “wrong place, wrong time.” You wanted it to be more, to have some greater meaning or intent. The problem with life—with a lot of things—was randomness was responsible for so many things. Karma may or may not have come into it, depending on your belief system, but it was hard to believe someone could have done something so bad that it would end in them being eaten by a leopard. It was easy to understand why so many people were so angry. Dylan couldn’t help but think how angry he had been after Jason died, and that basically boiled down to “wrong place, wrong time, wrong intersection, wrong side of the car.”

  After a long moment of silence, Roan said, “If you don’t wanna move in with me, I totally understand. In fact, I’d support you not doing it.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Roan looked really tired. He had deep-set eyes anyways, so when he got tired, it seemed like his eyes started to submerge into his face, dark crescents beneath the sockets only intensifying the effect. The meds he was on gave his eyes a glassy sheen. “I think I’ve fucked up your life enough, Dylan. I’m really sorry about that.”

  Dylan leaned back slightly, if only to glare at him. Yes, he was serious. “Are you insane? Do you have any fucking idea how boring my life was before you? Okay, there are times I miss the peace, but I think I was going quietly nuts. De’Andra warned me about you right off the bat. She said you were a macho drama queen and I would be very sorry if I hooked up with you on a serious basis, but—”

  “Macho drama queen?” Roan interrupted, puzzled. “Is that a contradiction, or a new category?”

  “Oh, hell if I know. And she’s wrong, because you don’t really fit the queen mode. Macho and drama are other stories.”

  “Cute.”

  “Look, I’m gonna get all soppy and weepy on you if you keep pressing. So shut up and consider yourself lucky to have me, or I’m gonna cry all over you.”

  “You bastard. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Roan sighed heavily. “I’d make a Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? reference, but that’s too gay even for me.”

  “Oh, so we’ve found a level?”

  “You’re cruising for a bruising, smart-ass,” he growled in an affectionate manner. If anything could ever be said to be growled in affectionate manner, but this was all teasing. Listeners who didn’t know them would be horrified, but Dylan knew Roan would never hurt him, just like he knew he’d never hurt Roan. Although Dylan sort of hoped he’d never hurt anybody at any time, ever. It kind of went with being a Buddhist.

  Roan was finally succumbing to the drugs. He was dozing off, and Dylan was kind of tired too. His arm was half asleep, but oh hell, he hated to move it and wake him. But there was a brief rap on the door, and Velez stuck his head in. “Gotta clear out. They’ll be doing rounds in a couple of minutes.”

  Dylan nodded, and only then noticed as the door shut that the inside of it was covered with metal. This was indeed the cat room.

  Dylan slipped his half-numb arm out from beneath Roan and slid off the bed, almost falling because he was very clumsy at avoiding machines. Roan was asleep, though, so he couldn’t make a smart-ass comment about it.

  Dylan pulled the thin blanket over him and kissed Roan on the forehead. His skin still seemed cooler than normal, although not quite as cool as before. It was still troublesome.

  Dylan was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize he was being followed until he made it to the elevator and became aware there was an elderly woman right beside him who had been beside him almost since he’d left the room.

  “You’re Dylan, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice slightly husky from years of smoking.

  He had to look down at her, as she was perhaps five feet, and he guessed her age to be somewhere in the mid-sixties. She wasn’t bad looking for her age. Her hair was dark and curly, neatly styled, and she had a round face that was probably too round when she was younger but now seemed just right. Her hazel eyes were just bright enough to suggest she was probably something of a looker back in the day.

  “Umm, yes?”

  “I’m Petra Rosenberg,” she said in her smoky voice, and held out a dainty hand. He shook it, careful not to crush it.

  “Nice to meet you. How’d you know who I was?”

  “Doctor Singh told me. Too hot to be straight, chocolate eyes to die for. Of course I could’ve guessed the first part on my own. All of Roan’s boyfriends have been absurdly gorgeous. He has great taste, in spite of what his wardrobe might lead you to believe. Goddamn, where were you boys forty years ago? I’d have gladly married one of you and been a beard as long as you agreed to sit around the house shirtless.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure what to say about that, so he didn’t say anything. He did smirk, though, as it was now quite obvious why Roan liked her. She was probably one of the few women in the world who would find the descriptive “tough old bird” flattering.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and they had to step aside as a nurse came out, pushing a patient in a wheelchair. Dylan had no idea what had happened to the guy in the chair, but he had a leg in a cast, an arm in a sling, a black eye, and from the way his paper gown seemed absurdly thick around the upper part, his ribs wrapped. He was tempted to ask, “Skydiving accident?” but some people didn’t take jokes about serious injuries very well. In fact, most people. Roan could probably have a spear sticking out of his chest, and he’d say something like, “The dismount is always the hardest part.” His smart-ass ways were rubbing off on Dylan.

  As soon as they were gone, Doctor Rosenberg stepped into the elevator and gestured for him to join her. Dylan reflected that only older women and female politicians who didn’t want to appear sexy ever wore pantsuits anymore. Rosenberg’s was a dark forest green, offset slightly by a navy blue blouse. “I need a smoke. Why don’t you come with me?”

  The look she was giving him was deadly serious, and he knew this had nothing to do with grabbing a smoke. His stomach twisted at the thought that she was going to give him bad news about Roan, but he obeyed, mainly because it was reflex.

  After the death of his parents, Dylan was raised by his aunt, but also most of his mother’s family—those who were in the States—chipped in as well. (He never really saw his father’s family, and after several years, he’d forgotten their names or where they lived. He probably looked more white than Hispanic, but the racially mixed side of his family were the ones who chipped in and held together—what that meant he had no idea—but even in spite of his new, Caucasian-sounding
last name, he was continually startled when anyone just assumed he was white.) What this led to was a lot of time spent with his (maternal) grandmother and even for a little bit his great-grandmother, both incredibly feisty women who didn’t let a variety of physical frailties keep them from being bossy and a feared ruler with an iron fist. As a result, he now found himself unconsciously deferring to older women in general, especially if they had a strong personality. He already knew Rosenberg was a strong woman, and he was going to have to fight his natural tendencies here.

  “I don’t smoke,” he told her as the doors slid shut, even though he knew it had nothing to do with cigarettes.

  She shrugged. “Didn’t think you did. And good for you. It’s a horrible habit.”

  “So why don’t you quit?”

  “I have, five times.” Again, another shrug. “Nicotine is a bitch goddess.”

  Dylan grimaced, holding back a laugh.

  “Look, I’m sure you’re a smart guy, so I’ll just cut to the chase: do you love Roan?”

  Wow, this came out of nowhere. He felt like he might have gotten whiplash from this conversational shift. “Uh, um, yes, I do. Why?”

  “’Cause there’s probably gonna be some tough times ahead, so if you don’t, now’s the time to bail.”

  He swallowed hard. Oh shit, it was bad. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Good, ’cause Roan’s gonna want you to. He doesn’t like looking weak in front of anyone. He hates being vulnerable. It’s why he’s such a prickly bastard. He prefers hatred and fear over pity. Who wouldn’t?”

  “You know what’s wrong with him.” It wasn’t a question, and tears threatened, making his eyes feel dry and hot.

  “No, I’m not a diagnostician. I can only guess, and I wouldn’t put much stock in me there.” The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they needed to get out before everyone else came in, including at least one person on crutches. Dylan followed her, but he didn’t know why, as he was now kind of afraid of discovering the truth. Still, he did.