Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  Simon walked out. There was no point pressing the server for details which he knew she wouldn’t share. But after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out his phone. His finger hovered above Vic’s name, then he sighed and hit the button.

  “Simon?” Vic didn’t sound like Simon had woken him. Was he working? Relaxing? Or maybe moving on to better company?

  “I got a line on another missing person,” Simon said. Even on the sidewalk, the booming base of the dance music made the glass windows vibrate.

  “God, Simon—where are you? Did you go clubbing?” Vic sounded irritated, but Simon figured it had more to do with reducing his homicide workload than jealousy.

  “For a good cause,” Simon replied. “Look, I think the Slitter has a new victim. Goes by ‘Cindy,’ strips for Fox and Hound. Didn’t show up tonight or call off. That’s not like her.”

  Vic was silent for so long Simon thought the call had dropped. “I didn’t think you swung like that.”

  “I don’t,” Simon snapped. “She’s an empath—she’s come by the store now and again. The point is, she wouldn’t just disappear.”

  “People do it every day, for all kinds of reasons, and they aren’t all dead,” Vic replied. “You got a phone number for her? Address? Hell, last name?”

  “No.”

  “Then until someone reports her missing, the cops can’t do anything,” Vic said, sounding worn. “And I’m homicide, so I don’t get involved until someone turns up dead, remember?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “I’d say, ‘file a report’ but you can’t without that information. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to do but wait.” Vic hesitated. “Look, I really am sorry. I hope she’s okay. Can we meet up and talk in person? I’m even worse on the phone than I am one-on-one.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Lucca Trattoria, seven p.m. tomorrow,” Vic answered. “Nice and quiet, good food, and we can talk without getting interrupted.”

  Simon couldn’t tell from Vic’s tone whether this counted as a date or meeting an informant. Deep down, he didn’t care. He hadn’t been able to get the stubborn detective out of his mind, and while he cautioned himself not to read too much into the invitation, he figured Vic didn’t usually meet his snitches in nice restaurants. “I’ll be there.”

  “Simon,” Vic said, his voice low and urgent. “It’s after midnight. Don’t walk home alone.”

  “I’m a big boy.”

  “I remember,” Vic replied, and Simon could picture his knowing smile. “But someone’s tried to kill you twice. You know what they say about the third time.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll get a rideshare—”

  “No. A real cab. Someone with a license and a photo and a dispatcher,” Vic cut him off. “Please.”

  At least it meant Vic cared a little, right? “Okay, although it isn’t very far.”

  “Humor me. I don’t want to get stood up for dinner tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry—I’d haunt your ass.”

  “Not funny.”

  Simon sobered. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. And…thanks.”

  Vic ended the call, having likely expended his conversational reserves. Simon hailed one of the cabs idling outside the club, checked the driver’s face against his license, and rode home in silence. His dreams that night were quiet.

  10

  Vic

  It’s not a date. But he wished it were. Vic had changed outfits twice, trying to decide what looked nice but not too nice, flattering yet effortlessly casual. In the end, he went with a burgundy shirt, black tie, and dark jeans over nice boots—fitting for Lucca’s dress code but not too fussy.

  He wondered what Simon would wear, whether he’d dress up, maybe try to impress him a little. Vic had been fantasizing about Simon ever since he had slipped out of Simon’s house two mornings ago, and his libido warred with his lack of self-confidence. If he had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have left without a kiss, without something to indicate his interest. Had Simon already written him off? After all, he’d been at a club last night. Vic assumed Simon had left alone, hence the cautions about travel. But maybe Simon had moved on to someone more fun, and less difficult. The thought of Simon with someone else hurt.

  Would he show up? Or call off at the last moment? Simon was too well-mannered to just not show, but “emergencies” could be invented as needed. Vic popped a mint into his mouth, checked to assure no lint from the bath towel clung to his short hair, and let out a long sigh. He hadn’t cared this much about a date—or a not-date—since high school. Even with Nate, back in Pittsburgh, things just seemed to happen without any real planning.

  And maybe that was part of the problem. Vic knew he had to stop comparing Simon, comparing everyone, to Nate. Ross’s warnings rang in his mind, and he did his best to squelch them. The ghost tour stuff is just for entertainment, Vic thought. Just like all the other performances on the Strand. As for the readings and witchy merchandise…Simon said it was a matter of belief.

  He believes he can talk to ghosts, and that ghosts talk back. Compared to most of the stuff from my catechism class, that’s not even half-way weird. So what’s the difference? But there had been a difference, back in Pittsburgh, between what people considered to be blessed and miraculous, and suspiciously supernatural. And if Simon’s involvement—tangential as it was—with the Slitter case blew up, Vic had the feeling those old prejudices would resurface fast. If that happened, it could go badly for Simon—and burn down everything Vic had painstakingly rebuilt for himself.

  Vic adjusted his tie and refused to let anything spoil the evening. Even if they talked shop—and he felt certain Simon would—Vic intended to use the chance to get to know Simon better, less as a cop and more in a potential boyfriend. He wheeled his motorcycle out of its parking space and wondered whether Simon had remembered about the bike. The thought of having Simon pressed up against him from behind, arms tight around Vic’s waist, made him half-hard, and he adjusted his snug jeans that left little to the imagination.

  He grabbed his jacket, pushed his badge into a pocket, and holstered his gun. After what had happened on the ghost tour, Vic wasn’t taking any chances. Then he headed out, wondering if Simon felt as nervous about the evening as he did.

  “You want me to ride on that?” Simon asked skeptically, as Vic idled the motorcycle in front of his house.

  Vic grinned. “Gotta live a little. Come on; I can hardly open up the throttle on the streets around here.”

  Simon tucked his hair under the black helmet and looked at the Hayabusa as if it might bite. He had chosen a dark blue collared shirt that brought out the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes, over black casual pants and dress shoes. No tie. Vic felt a bit overdone, but he couldn’t stop staring at the hollow of Simon’s throat where his shirt opened.

  Simon gingerly swung one leg over the bike, and wrapped his arms around Vic’s waist, sliding forward as he did so until his chest pressed against Vic’s back and his knees hugged the other man’s hips. Vic shifted since the contact went straight to his dick.

  Vic eased the motorcycle into traffic, and when they started to move faster than a walking pace, Simon tightened his grip. Vic had been riding long enough that he forgot how much faster and closer traffic seemed to someone who wasn’t used to being on a bike. The short trip to Lucca’s barely let him reach twenty miles an hour, given the congestion and out-of-town drivers who didn’t know where they were going. But when they parked at the restaurant and Simon removed his visored helmet, his face was flushed and his eyes bright.

  “That’s…nice,” Simon said, managing a self-conscious smile.

  “We’ll have to take it out somewhere I can open it up and let her fly,” Vic promised.

  “I might have to work up to that.”

  Vic locked the bike and secured the helmets, then walked beside Simon to the door. He didn’t reach for Simon’s hand, just a subtle, claiming touch to his lower back, eno
ugh to let anyone watching know that they were together. Are we together? Shit, I hope so. If I don’t screw it up.

  They followed a server to their table, a quiet spot where they had some privacy, for which Vic had tipped generously. He hesitated, unsure whether to pull out Simon’s chair, and then felt awkward when Simon seated himself.

  “Come sit down,” Simon said, smoothing over the misstep. “I’ve never been here. If the food is as good as it smells, this might become a new favorite.”

  “It’s not my grandma’s cooking, but nothing is,” Vic said with a grin. “Short of dinner at nonna’s, this is pretty good.”

  Vic ordered a bottle of wine and kept the conversation light as the server brought bread. They chatted about the menu options, Vic pointed out what he’d had or what he liked from his family’s recipes, and by the time they ordered, the awkwardness had faded.

  “So tell me about Dr. Sebastian Kincaide,” Vic prompted, letting his right hand brush Simon’s fingers on the table. He did his best to keep his voice light, not to sound like a cop, and since Simon didn’t flinch or pull away, Vic figured he might have done all right.

  “It’s a pretty boring story,” Simon said with a shrug, but for the first time that evening, he refused to meet Vic’s gaze, suggesting the tale was anything but. “I spent far too much time in college studying the myths and folktales people have been telling around the campfire since campfires were invented. I taught classes, wrote tedious scholarly articles to impress my colleagues, and researched regional ghost stories for some books I wanted to write that the department thought were too ‘trivial’ for a ‘serious academic.’” His voice gained an edge, but mostly Vic thought Simon just sounded resigned and a little sad.

  “Did you like it? The teaching part.”

  “Mostly,” he replied. “It was safe. Steady paycheck. My parents could brag that I had a Ph.D. But always neglected to mention in what,” he added with a dry chuckle. He took a sip of his wine. “The university had its perks. I was comfortable.”

  “Kind of a big shift, moving down here and opening the shop.”

  Simon’s mouth tightened, and for a moment Vic feared he’d ruined things again. Then Simon shook himself out of his thoughts and managed a self-conscious half-smile. “The father of one of my students was afraid I was luring young minds to the dark side and had enough money and influence to get me fired.”

  “You should have known that the Defense Against Dark Arts position never works out.”

  Simon burst out laughing, a sound as musical as it was unexpected. “That…that’s perfect!” He said, and all the tension drained away. Vic grinned back and held his gaze. This time, Simon edged his fingers close enough to touch Vic’s hand, and neither man pulled away.

  Simon caught his breath. “I’ll have to remember that. Wow—didn’t expect you to be a Potterhead.”

  Vic smiled. “Kinda hard to overlook the books and movies, unless you spent your formative years under a rock.”

  Simon leaned back, removing his hand just long enough to tear off a piece of warm bread and dip it in olive oil while Vic did the same. “Anyhow, I wanted a change, and I came down here to get my head together, then my aunt offered me a good deal on the house, and I realized I could do just what I wanted, and be me. All of me.”

  “And what is, ‘all of you’?” Vic asked, his eyes serious even if he tried for a light tone.

  “A gay psychic medium with a nerd-on for ghost stories and a flair for storytelling,” Simon said, without a hint of challenge. Vic envied that utter conviction and the balls to claim what mattered to him. Simon watched Vic as if wondering what he might say.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Vic replied, covering Simon’s hand with his own. “And I’d like to get to know you better. All of you.” He knew from the slight blush that came to Simon’s cheeks that the double meaning registered.

  “That might be arranged,” Simon replied. “How about you? You’re not local.”

  Turnabout was fair play, Vic thought, although his heart rate spiked and he wondered whether he would be able to tell his story nearly as gracefully.

  “I’m a cop, from a family of cops. Lived in Pittsburgh all my life, and liked it—snow and all,” he added with a rueful smile. “Then I saw something I couldn’t explain when a bust went wrong, and a civilian got killed. My story was a little too woo-woo for the brass to believe, but I got cleared, only I knew it wouldn’t ever be the same.” He looked down.

  Unlike Simon, who had told his story without seeming to be embarrassed or ashamed, Vic couldn’t escape the sense that he had, somehow, fucked the whole thing up.

  “What happened?” Simon asked quietly, and when Vic met his gaze, he saw only concern and sincere interest.

  Vic glanced around them, but no other diners were seated nearby. He wet his dry mouth with a swallow of wine. “I’d been chasing a guy who had shot up a convenience store and took a hostage into a basement. I went in after them, and shot the guy dead, but then…” His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes. Here’s the part where Simon decides I’m too damaged to be worth the trouble.

  Simon waited, attentive but not pushing, fingers light against Vic’s knuckles. “Then I saw a green, glowing fog come out of the shooter’s mouth and it zoomed over and into the hostage—a civilian—and she grabbed his gun and aimed it at me. I shot her,” he said, looking down again. “And the fog came out of her and disappeared.” He waited for Simon’s outrage, for the condemnation he heard every night in his own mind.

  “I believe you,” Simon said simply. “There are other kinds of spirits out there besides ghosts like I mentioned before. Some nice, and some very, very bad. You’re lucky that the entity didn’t try to possess you.”

  Vic unbuttoned the second button of his shirt and withdrew a religious medallion. “Saint George. Patron saint of cops. My nonna gave it to me when I made the force. Maybe it helped.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Simon replied, without a trace of sarcasm or irony. “Belief is a powerful thing.”

  “Um, talking about belief…I sent some uniforms looking for your pal, Cindy,” he said. “Got her address from her boss. Real name is Callie Franklin, from Conway, SC. No priors. Didn’t have cause for a warrant, but the uniforms went to her apartment. From the way the mail’s stacked up, she hadn’t been around in a few days. Neighbors didn’t know anything, of course. So there you have it.”

  “Thank you.” Simon was watching Vic with a curious expression as if the few minutes he had taken to follow up on the tip mattered.

  “I hope she’s okay,” Vic said. “Gotta say I’m curious—can’t quite imagine you being buddies with a stripper.”

  “She’s one of my Skeleton Crew,” Simon admitted.

  “Your what?”

  “It’s just a name I came up with because most of them work night shift. People with minor psychic gifts. Not that the abilities aren’t important, but they don’t have a lot of strength, and most have them have no training,” Simon explained. “They like night shift, so they don’t have to sleep when it’s dark.”

  Vic gave him a look as if he were remembering Simon jolting awake with his own nightmares. “Oh yeah?”

  “It’s a bad combination, talent and no training. People write them off as crazy—hell, sometimes they think that themselves,” Simon said with a harsh, bitter laugh. “There’s a tendency to ‘self-medicate’ to make the voices and the dreams shut up.”

  “You know from experience?”

  Simon shrugged. “Some. But I was lucky. I’ve found people along the way who helped me piece together enough to gain control, create boundaries—at least, most of the time.” Vic’s dubious expression didn’t need words.

  “So…you’re running a halfway house for damaged psychics?”

  “Not really. But at one time or another, they’ve drifted into the shop with questions. I try to stay in touch, be helpful if I can. A lot of them are runaways, or come from families where having some kind of su
pernatural gift is even more suspect than being gay.”

  “Gotcha,” Vic replied. “So what made you go looking for Cindy?”

  “There’s a theory that incidents of severe emotional trauma can cause ‘psychic bursts,’” Simon replied, lapsing into lecture mode. “So if there’s a disaster or big tragedy, it sets off some kind of energy beacon, and everyone with a bit of psychic ability in range picks up on the transmission. Only it’s not a clear signal, or some people have broken radios. So they only get bits and pieces.”

  “And you wanted to see what some of your Skeleton Crew picked up from the ‘airwaves’?”

  “They won’t talk to cops,” Simon said as if he guessed Vic was about to jump on him for detecting without a license. “For good reason. They’re on the fringe. So far, I haven’t gotten much. But one of them, a telepath, picked up on really malicious, predatory thoughts from someone in her bar, and an image of glowing sea shells—like the decor at Fox and Hound.”

  “That’s kinda thin, don’t you think?” Vic asked. He knew he should shut down Simon’s Hardy Boys game, but he was intrigued. And while he’d never be able to sell the woo-woo leads to Ross, his partner would be the first to remind Vic that he had chased tips just as flimsy.

  “Got something better?”

  Vic shook his head. “No. And you know I couldn’t tell you if we did. But at this point, a lead is a lead. I hope you’re wrong about Cindy, and that she just hared off for a better job or to skip out on the bills.”

  “I hope so, too,” Simon said, although his tone suggested that he didn’t believe his words.

  “How’s your arm?” Vic asked, noting when Simon bumped against the table and winced.