Fight

by Sarah Masters

  “You'd better fuckin’ answer me, or so help me God...”

  Carl lunged forward. The blade whipped 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 sunk 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, 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. Tossing the knife into the back seat, he started the truck and 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 on imagining 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.

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  * * *

  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 paper work and things.”

  “Process me.” We were mounting the stairs by then, and the building loomed, dark and slightly rundown. “You'll process me.” One thing I was beginning to understand about my life; it was just easier to call it what it was.

  “It has to be done.”

  I nodded. “Then I want you to do it.”

  He pulled open the door then and manoeuvred 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, Chewy.”

  I stifled a hysterical giggle. The guy was slightly more hairy 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 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 the big cop 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 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 own 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 have. 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 have been bothering me at that point.

  I suppose I knew it was only a matter of time before someone else took an interest. Still, 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. “Sanders?” His partner 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 from him, Sanders nodded then shot me a dark look. I slouched a little lower. The murmurs that drifted around the room turned 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. He glanced my way, his look brief but easy to understand. Stay still. Be quiet. Don't draw attention.

  I could do that.

  “Comin', Cap.” He headed off, twisting with supple grace through the maze of desks and skewed chairs, fielding curious looks 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 looking 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 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 in the room, 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 looked like a punk by anyone's standards. Did I really look like someone who could have killed a cop? Or anyone for that matter? And the way it 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, asshol
e. 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 actually risked it. I knew I must have looked like complete shit, though, because his partner beside me shuffled some papers and grunted.

  “You can ignore that jerk-off. He's got it in for just about everyone,” Sanders said.

  “Something specific with Vic?” I asked, trying to keep my voice conversational and not shaking, and failing miserably.

  Sander's eyes narrowed, but after a minute, he just answered the question. “He's an asshole. He's just a homo-fuckin'-phobic asshole.” The words took on a deeper threat growled out through his thick beard, and 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 waif-like, big-eyed hip sawyers.”

  “What?”

  Sanders leaned forward, letting his eyes rove down over me and 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 onto 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 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 was just broken. Freaked out over a dead partner and not thinking straight.” Sanders 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 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 closer 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.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Questioning.” Dull, flat, the word fell between us, and my insides fell with it.

  “I didn't...” Tell me you believe me.

  This time, he didn't read my mind. His brows came down; he tugged at me again. “Come on.”

  “Victor?” Sanders’ voice rumbled quietly under the hubbub of the room. “What's going on?”

  “Questioning now. They're railroading.” He didn't look at me. “I'm to bring him. They won't let me stay.”

  Sanders nodded. “Figured as much.” He rose and yanked me up by one arm along with him. “Let's get this done, then.”

  They hauled me out of the room, along a grungy corridor where doors opened off each side at intervals. The floor tiles were coming up, and the paint was dull. Halfway down, they both stopped, and I was wedged between them.

  “Who's doing it?” Sanders asked.

  “Captain's looking for a volunteer. I expect he'll get more than a few.”

  “He will. I'll get us in there.” Sanders looked from him to me and back again. “Not that I think this is a good idea, but you had better not be wrong about this, Victor.”

  “I'm not wrong. Go.”

  Sanders was most of the way back to the squad room when Vic spoke again. “Jim.”

  Sanders turned, shook his head, and said, “You're welcome.” Then he disappeared back into the milling officers gathering around their captain.

  “What did you say to him?” Vic turned me around to face him.

  “Nothing. I—” His frown was so dark it stopped me speaking. “He asked...where I was, what I did last night. He asked where Carl was.”

  “What did you tell him?” He enunciated every word, like I was to slow to understand.

  “I don't know where Carl is. I was at home. Carl left, Brian came by later, picked me up—”

  “How much later?”

  I remembered the feeling of my arms slowly going numb, tied above my head, the sharp sting of the belt across my chest, the force, the fists. It was a long minute before I answered. “I don't know how much later. It was dark. Lil hadn't gone in for the night shift yet. He was at home when Bri and I got there. He bandaged me up.” I held up my wrists as evidence. “Then it was a while before he left for work.”

  “How long?”

  “I don't know!”

  He shook his head. “Why doesn't anyone ever look at a clock?”

  “Everything would be so much easier for you,” I muttered.

  His eyebrows went up in surprise. He actually chuckled. “It fucking would be.”

  I followed his quick glance down the hall, then back the way we'd come to the door Jim Sanders had closed behind him. We were alone.

  Vic rested a hand on my shoulder. “You listen to me, Paul. Whatever they ask, you stick to facts. Tell the truth.”

  “But—” I weighed the humiliation of telling him against the chance they would see reason without my ever divulging all the gory details. “I don't remember the time. I don't even know if I actually slept at Bri's after Lil left, I don't know what time I got up this morning. I don't. You said you'd be there.”

  “But I have to follow orders, and right now orders say no.”

  “What? In the interests of a fair trial?” I scoffed.

  “In the interests of clearing this up without more scandal to the de
partment.”

  “That's not good for me.”

  Vic's face went grim again. I didn't like that dark look on his features. It didn't suit him.

  “No. That's not good for you. But lying, holding back, will only make it seem like you've got something to hide, and that will be worse for you.”

  I nodded. I'd gone a little numb to the shock of what was happening to me. I couldn't even contemplate how long I'd been sleeping with a murderer. How many times after Jason died had I taken Carl back when I knew he was bad for me? Bad for a whole lot of people, it turned out. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Believe me, Paul, if I knew where he was, he would be here and not you.”

  “No. I mean before. Do you know why? Why is he...the way he is?”

  “Who knows? Because he was younger than you when his abuse started? His father was more vicious than yours? He didn't have a Brian in his life?” Vic shook his head. “Who knows why people do what they do. Fall for the wrong people.” He turned me so I couldn't help but look at him, and once again find myself and simultaneously lose myself in those eyes. “Or the right ones.”

  My gut clenched and this time, it had nothing to do with fear. This sensation was wholly different than being sick over Carl. “Vic?”

  “You listen to me.” His hand moved from my shoulder to the back of my neck where it rested, warm and strong. I could feel a callous on his palm, the pads of his fingers resting just behind my ear. “Even if they don't let me in, I will be right on the other side of the glass. Chewy will be in there with you. We won't let them manipulate you. Whatever happens.” He pulled, and I stumbled.

  It wasn't odd to rest my head against his chest. It should have been. My cuffed hands were pressed between us, trapped against the firm muscle of his thigh. His thumb ran little circles against the side of my neck.

  “Your partner says I'm not really your type.” I couldn't think of anything else to say in that fantastic moment, so divorced from reality.

  Vic's rumble vibrated right through me. “I don't know what happened, Paul. I don't even know you except what I've observed watching Carl, what Brian and Lil have told me.”