by Andrea Speed
“Of course not,” Holden agreed, all too aware he was lying. He was dying to ask if they gave him roofies laced with Viagra (the special kind that didn’t make your face flush) since he was so visibly hard and obviously came, but he wasn’t here to provoke a fight. He was here simply to dispense a little justice. “In fact, what I caught on the recording might be actionable.”
Big word, too big for a muscle head like Jessie. He scowled, making a vein throb in his forehead. “What?”
“There’s a part where Kyle and Colt say something to each other, and you’re not visible. They’re whispering, but it does seem like Kyle is setting you up, from what I can hear.”
Holden was counting on ’roid rage’s bastard cousin, paranoia, to step in here, and it did. The expression on his face was as naked as any child’s. He was buying it. “Setting me up for what? What did he say?”
“Advance to time code 18:23 and see for yourself,” Holden replied, pulling the jump drive out of his pocket.
Jessie glanced at it briefly before ripping it out of his hand and stalking over to his computer, plugging it into the USB port and waiting for his computer to acknowledge it. He was muttering to himself angrily, “Fucking Kyle, I fucking knew he was up to something. He’s always fucking me over, egotistical bastard—”
While he ranted, Holden pulled the hypodermic syringe out of the velvet bag, and since it seemed Jessie was left-handed, he adjusted his target to his right arm.
Jessie had pulled up the file and was advancing to the time code. “I see what you mean about poor lighting.” A brief pause. The living room had hardwood floors, but the center of the room was taken up by a large, fluffy white carpet that Holden couldn’t imagine owning because it would have been hell to clean. But since Jessie probably cleaned up none of his own messes, he could probably afford it. It muffled footsteps very nicely. “Hey, this isn’t us.”
The good thing about a muscle head? Veins were visible at all times. Holden jammed the needle in one in his right upper arm and depressed the plunger. Jessie reacted, a yelp and a smack that sent Holden flying across the room until he hit the brown leather sofa, but it was too late. “What the fuck?” he roared, getting out of his chair so fast it tilted and hit the floor. “What’d you do to me, you fucking faggot?”
He was coming for him, but Holden was barely dazed. He used to be a street kid. He’d been beaten by bigger guys than him, and in greater numbers too. He reached behind him and pulled out his gun, leveling it at him. “One more step and we go for violent suicide, Jessie.”
Jessie stopped, clearly trying to figure out if he had a chance of taking him before he could fire, and he realized the needle was still in his arm. He pulled it out, helpfully getting his prints on the syringe, and the drugs must have been starting to take effect, as Jessie got this funny look on his face. “What—what is this? Did Kyle—”
“You know when the penny dropped for me? Today I was looking into both Kyle and you, and I came across an article that mentioned Kyle was living at the family estate—you know, dad’s house. Joel’s house. The buyout had nothing to do with any of this, did it? It was personal. You meant to kill Kyle, but somehow Joel ended up taking the hit. I assume you drugged some juice, water, booze? Something you thought only Kyle would drink, but Joel ended up drinking it instead.”
He was starting to breathe harder now, and he was shaking his head as sweat left slime trails down his face. “I don’t—no, no—”
“I have friends in the drug trade, Jessie. I also have friends amongst the gym rats, and they always have the best drugs, as well as the best questionable nutritional supplements. You know, the kind never approved by the FDA, the kind that might be toxic in certain doses. Such as ones really high in potassium. And I’m sure you know some people who can get ahold of some really bitchin’ elephant tranquilizers.”
“I don’t—you’re making this up. I don’t—” Jessie dropped to his knees and grabbed his head. “What the fuck did you give to me?”
“You wanna live? You’d better start confessing now. You’re running out of time.”
“Kyle’s a motherfucking asshole!” he suddenly shouted, falling back onto his butt. He looked really dazed now. Holden probably could have put the gun away, but he decided not to. Let Jessie still think he had a chance. “He—it was his idea. I was just a kid… I didn’t know what we were doing….”
“He molested you?”
“Yes! And he… I didn’t… he just tossed me aside like I was nothing. He’s my brother, y’know? The closest thing I have to a brother, and he treats me like that. He’s a fucking pig. He deserves to die.”
Oh god—did this crime spree boil down to a jilted lover? “Do you love him?”
“Yeah. But not like that! Not in some sick, perverted—” Jessie fell on his back, making little choking noises, his arms spasming slightly like he was trying to get up but couldn’t control his limbs.
“Gay way? No, I’m sure it’s more of a family way, since you are family, and that’s what makes it truly icky. You thought the gay thing was what was wrong with it? Please.”
Holden tucked the gun back into his jeans and stood up. “Just so you know, this wasn’t about Joel. He was a client, a client who tipped really well, but he didn’t mean anything to me. It was business, nothing more. This is about Roan. See, if he was here, he’d tell you that people only get one shot to kill him, but he’s not here, not because you killed him, but because there’s something wrong with him. Which is fine, because it gave me the chance to even the score. You had your shot, you failed. And ultimately, you tried to kill the wrong man. Roan would have turned you over to the authorities. He would have let your cadre of lawyers fight it out with the state’s lawyers. But I don’t trust the justice system. I don’t trust cops. I just knew I wasn’t going to give you the chance to hurt him again.” Holden retrieved the jump drive from the computer and shut it down, pulling the chair back upright. He went over to Jessie’s stereo system and turned it on. “If you killed yourself, you’d be listening to music, right? I would be, I think. Did you know steroid abusers are statistically more likely to commit suicide? Too much of that shit alters your brain chemistry. Drugs are bad, Jessie. But then again, that’s your preferred method of murder, so you know that.”
He picked up the needle and moved closer to Jessie. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but it wasn’t clear if he was dead yet. “But drugs have their good points. For instance, I’m going straight home, and I’m dosing myself with roofies, so when I wake up tomorrow I’ll have no memory of killing you. I will pass every lie detector test in the world, because I will genuinely not know what the hell I did. You won’t even be on my conscience, Jessie. But don’t worry about Kyle. I’m sure his fall from grace will be spectacular when the sex tape hits YouTube in, oh, about five minutes ago. The world we live in, huh? Well, I live in. I think you’re gone.” Holden closed Jessie’s eyelids and then put the needle in his left hand, curling his sausagelike fingers around it like it was the last thing he held on this Earth. Which it was.
Holden gave the room a visual once-over, just making sure there were no signs of a struggle or anyone else being here. There wasn’t. His lower lip was mashed from Jessie’s hit, but the only bleeding seemed to be inside the lip where it hit his teeth. He licked the blood away, the copper taste of it lingering in his mouth as he left the house. He was glad he hadn’t eaten for a while, because he was pretty sure he’d have puked if he had. He had a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The night air was cool and refreshing, and Holden took in lungfuls of it, ridding himself of the horrible shit smell of death. So he’d added murderer to his list of sins now. He honestly wished it bothered him more than it actually did.
Not that he had long to worry about it—he hadn’t been lying about the roofies. He had a client who was a war vet, an amputee with a leg missing below the knee and extensive scarring on his intact leg, and he liked to do roofies and Ecstasy be
cause otherwise he couldn’t get it up. He felt so ugly sober, so mutilated, he couldn’t even take off his clothes. Nothing Holden told him helped. Only the drugs helped.
And now they were going to help him forget how violent he actually was. He wondered what he’d think happened to him tomorrow afternoon, and realized he didn’t actually care.
The case was closed.
21
Midnight in a Perfect World
WHAT was he expecting? Roan didn’t know. It didn’t help that he was still woozy from meds, and from some weird nightmare where he felt like he was suffocating and was sure he wasn’t ever getting out of this fucking hospital.
Doctor Singh noticed the tray shoved aside and asked, “You didn’t eat your breakfast? Are you nauseous?”
Roan poured himself another glass of water—he’d sweated a lot during his nightmare; he needed the water—and said, “No. I didn’t eat it because it’s hospital food. If it smells bad to you, imagine how it smells to me.” Dylan had already snuck in this morning, and after a discussion, had nipped out to go buy Roan some decent food. He kind of hoped Singh was gone by that time, but he had a feeling Singh liked Dylan, or at least liked looking at him. (Who could blame her?)
“It smells fine to me.”
“It’s not, trust me.” He took a gulp of water, then said, “Whatever it is, break it to me. I’d like to be out of here within the hour.”
Singh frowned, her brow furrowing, but it was the worried look in her eyes that bothered him. She seemed like a cool and rather aloof doctor, a veteran with a steady poker face, but it was now breaking. That was never a good sign. “I’m not sure that’s advisable.”
“Why not? Am I dying? If so, no offense, I’d rather do it elsewhere.”
“Your headaches got worse, didn’t they?” she asked, deciding to get to the point in a roundabout way. “You had an incident you didn’t report to us.”
“Incident?”
“Severe head pain? Blurry vision? Unconsciousness? Vomiting? Any of those ring a bell, Roan?” Now she was scowling at him like an upset mother.
He sighed and figured there was no point in denying it, as obviously she had some evidence of it. “I may have passed out for like a minute. It wasn’t a big deal. And the next day I got a pain in my head bad enough to make me stagger, which is why I took what turned out to be elephant tranqs.”
She shook her head. “Good lord. Now I really have no idea why you aren’t dead. You had an aneurysm, Roan.”
“No,” he replied reflexively. He had no idea why he was denying it.
“Yes, you did. The scans we did confirmed it.”
“Don’t people who have brain aneurysms usually drop dead?”
“Often, not always. But from what I’ve seen, you probably should have.” She looked at her clipboard aggressively, holding it like she was considering hitting him with it. “The problem is treatment. You’re an excellent candidate for another one—in fact, when your change cycle comes in, I advise you get yourself hospitalized in advance. Your boyfriend said it was due in about two weeks. Is that true?”
“Round about. You know how erratic the cycles are.” He didn’t mention he could basically shift at will, as, if she believed him, she might order him institutionalized now. “But are you gonna have a vet handy? ’Cause I really don’t see how you can treat me in lion form if something does go wrong.”
“Doctor Rosenberg’s volunteered to be on call for you.”
“She’s not a vet.”
Singh fixed him with a look that could have blown the back of his head off. “Knock it off now. This is very serious.”
“Infecteds are prone to this kind of shit. Kills a lot of us. I’m not dead yet, so can I go now?”
He thought she was going to lose her temper at him, but she reined it back at the last minute. “Surgery is an option.”
“Brain surgery? Look, I’m not still actively bleeding in the brain, am I?”
“You’d be dead if you were.” She scowled again, but her dark eyes seemed turned inward. “The bleeding stopped on its own.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” But even as Roan said it, he knew that didn’t sound quite right.
She held the clipboard up like she was brandishing a sword. “This doesn’t make sense, you know. An aneurysm ruptured in your brain and may have been bleeding for some time. This should have killed you, Roan. This should have at least laid you flat. There’s a theory that you actually overdosed on elephant tranquilizers at just the right time, as it lowered your blood pressure to an absurd degree, limiting damage and slowing bleeding until it stopped.”
It was the way she said it that gave it away. “But you don’t think that’s it.”
“It could be. For all I know, it was as good as inducing hypothermia. But it doesn’t make sense. In all my years on the job, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I don’t know what to make of it.” This seemed to really trouble her, as if it was a failing on her part.
“No one knows what to make of me,” he told her, trying to comfort her. He wasn’t sure why. “I’m a puzzle that can’t be solved. Kind of like the virus.”
She shook her head and slapped her clipboard against her other arm. “Everything can be solved. It might take decades, but there’s a solution to everything.”
“Spoken like a true scientist. Or maybe House. I don’t have decades, do I?”
She threw up her hands (and clipboard) helplessly. “I don’t know. You could die tomorrow, Roan. You could live another twenty years. But once you have one aneurysm—and this one was out of the blue—your blood pressure wasn’t high, which is the most common aneurysm trigger—you are likely to have another one. This is the gift that keeps on giving.”
“Like the virus. Look, I get it, and you’re absolved. Release me. I want to go, and there’s nothing you can do for me here. If I die, I die. Maybe I’ll get lucky and my whole head will explode, à la Scanners. I always wanted to die in a way that would leave people cleaning up after me for days, so I’m good with that.”
“Can you be serious for one second? We’re talking about your mortality here.”
“And I’ve lived with death all my life, and I’m kind of bored with it now. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. About twenty years overdue, according to most estimates, so at least I beat the warranty. Not many people can say that.” It sounded comforting, it sounded true, but he didn’t honestly know what he was feeling at this point. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the fact that he’d been pronounced to be on death’s door a million times, or maybe it was the fact that the virus had somehow ended the bleeding. That was it, wasn’t it? No, it didn’t make sense. Viruses didn’t work like that, and they certainly didn’t have intelligence or direction, but viruses did have the innate drive to survive. If he was half virus or whatever the fuck, maybe that was enough.
It struck Roan then that that was what they meant when they called him a hybrid. Not a hybrid of man and lion, but man and virus, DNA strands locked mercilessly in a struggle that neither would ultimately win. In the meantime, that left him… what? A walking disease?
Probably. Was he surprised? He needed to wear that bell around his neck and randomly intone, “Unclean,” to warn people.
“I still think you’re taking this too lightly. We’d like to keep you for observation—”
“Trust me, there’s nothing to see. I’m amazingly boring.”
“Would you stop being an asshole for one fucking second?” she snapped. “We think we spotted another potential aneurysm in your CT scan. Do you even care?”
“I care, but what can you do about it? Is brain surgery actually the answer here?”
She grimaced, scowled, glared at him as if he’d caught her in a lie. In a way, he had. “It’s not in a part of the brain I’d advise operating on. There’s few who’d attempt it.”
“Okay, that answers that question. I’m gonna get dressed now.” Dylan had brought him some clothes, like he asked, even though
he wasn’t sure he should leave the hospital if the doctors didn’t advise it. Roan appreciated his concern. It was always touching, but he was sure Dylan didn’t yet understand his abiding hatred of being cooped up in hospitals. He’d have preferred prison, and they felt roughly the same.
“God, you are really going to be this much of a dick, huh?”
“This is your bedside manner?” he asked, slipping the boxer shorts on under his paper gown. Only then did he happily take the damn thing off and put a proper T-shirt on.
“I’ve given up with you,” Singh replied.
He could only shrug. “Fair enough.” He wiggled into his jeans—made infinitely harder since he was lying down—but he didn’t want to stand just yet, because he was afraid the drugs would make him woozy, and his almost falling over would be all she needed to get him readmitted. He just wasn’t staying here, no matter how bad he was.
“There’s a new drug that might help. Will you at least try that?”
“Won’t make me a zombie, will it?”
“I doubt it.”
“Fine, I’ll give it a go. You know I’m not averse to pills.”
She sighed, and her shoulders slumped, like she was beyond tired. Or perhaps he simply drove her to the brink. She wouldn’t be the first. “This is your life, Roan. You shouldn’t be so cavalier about it.”
“Trust me, I’m not being that way. It’s just hard to work up energy about it when I’ve been told I’m about to die so often that I always felt they should just make a card of it and flash it at me every time I see a doctor.”
“Will you arrange to come here by your next cycle?”
“Maybe. Let’s see if I live that long, huh?” Maybe was actually a no, but since he was preparing for an argument with Dylan later, he didn’t feel like fighting with her any longer.