by Gregory Ashe
Suddenly the darkness and the whir of the air conditioner were too much. North bolted upright, kicking at the sheets, trying to breathe. He shuffled across the room, his movement hampered by the ache between his legs, and found his jeans and his tee, with the puppy curled up in a nest he had made of North’s clothes. The puppy whined, nuzzling at his hand as North gently moved him aside, and North tugged on the clothes. He couldn’t find his socks. Fuck the socks. He shoved his feet into the Red Wings and didn’t bother with the laces, and then he scooped up the puppy and tucked him under his arm. The dog whined again, licking at the soft skin on the inside of North’s arm, and North had to bite back a shout.
Shaw’s head came up suddenly, just another shape in the darkness. He mumbled something. Face and words were totally unrecognizable to North in the darkness; maybe it was someone else in the bed. It had a kind of nightmarish logic, like something out of a horror flick. North had seen a movie once where a woman had sex with her boyfriend, only halfway through it wasn’t her boyfriend, but it was something else. A vampire, maybe. North vaguely remembered a vampire.
Shaw spoke again, and this time, after a moment, North understood.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’ve got to go.”
Shaw propped himself up higher. His voice was clearer. “What? Where? Why?”
North didn’t know. The thought of driving back to the duplex in Southampton, of lying in his own bed, staring up at the darkness, made him itch for one of the American Spirits he had stashed under the GTO’s seat. The answer came before he’d even realized he had decided. “I’ve got to talk to my dad. About Ronnie.”
“Right now? What time is it?”
“I should have gone earlier.”
“This is weird. You’re being weird. Come back to bed; we’ll go talk to your dad in the morning.”
“No, I think I better go over there right now. I’ll call you.”
“What?”
But North was already heading for the stairs, his boots clapping against the wood floor like thunder.
“North, hold on—”
It was easier to pretend he hadn’t heard; he took the steps two at a time, and then he barreled toward the garage and backed into the alley so fast the tires screeched. He drove west on autopilot. It wasn’t until he had exited at Elm and turned onto the tree-lined streets of Webster Groves, where moon-shadows were thick on the asphalt, that he realized he hadn’t been driving to his dad’s. He’d been driving home. To Tucker.
He continued past the house once. It was set back on the lot, behind old oaks and elms and a Japanese maple, and at night, with all the lights put out, it was invisible. North drove past it again. He didn’t even know why he’d driven out here. Except he could think about nights when it hadn’t been quite as dark because they’d lit all the lanterns on the back patio, and he’d drunk a Schlafly while the bottle sweated in the Midwest summer and Tucker had drunk rosé and they’d laughed about, Christ, whatever, because they’d been together so long that it blurred together, all the things they’d laughed about, all the nights they’d sat in pools of lantern light and citronella and the smell of wild sage crushed under their feet when they crossed the patio.
He made himself turn at the intersection and drive back to the city, where he followed Laclede Station into Lindenwood Park, and he drove down Winona toward the blondie brick house he had grown up in. City street lights threw watery bubbles of light; in the house, the erratic strobe of a television glazed the front windows. North parked on the street and walked along the side of the house, opened the door to the sunroom, and swam into an ocean of cigar smoke. The smell of cat piss was worse tonight; Jasper and Jones must have been desperate to get out because they shot between his ankles like two graphite streaks, disappearing into the night. The Löwchen under North’s arm yipped once at the cats’ retreating backs, and then the screen door wobbled shut, and he lost interest. He gave an experimental sniff, sneezed, and looked up at North with wide, wet eyes.
“I know,” North said. “Just for tonight.”
“Who’s there?” David McKinney’s voice came from the living room.
“It’s me.”
Sounds of struggle, furniture springs creaking, grunting.
“Don’t get up,” North said. “I’m coming in there anyway.”
He passed through the kitchen, where decades of grease enameled the backsplash and where an eternal collection of dirty dishes moldered in the sink. He got two cans of Bud Lite from the fridge, and then he tucked one under his chin so he could carry a third. He made his way into the living room, where David McKinney was sitting in his recliner. He looked even more like shit than usual: the cannula hung askew over ashen cheeks; his eyes were cloudy; his hair lank and greasy. His frame had wasted, every ounce of spare flesh rendered out of him by the cancer. On the TV tray at his side, David McKinney had his hand around a massive, ancient revolver.
“I was asleep.”
North passed him a Bud Lite. The Löwchen studied North’s father and then squirmed in North’s arm, yipping, suddenly eager to be free.
“Well, who’s this?” David McKinney asked in a voice he’d never, ever used with his son. “Hey there.” He accepted the dog with big-knuckled hands, laughing as the puppy wriggled and twisted, trying to smell his fingers and lick him all at the same time. “Well, hey,” he said, laughing again. “Aren’t you something?”
North dragged a folding chair out from the three-legged card table and sat in front of the TV next to his father. He opened a beer and drank it. Pounded it, actually. When he dropped the can and wiped his lips, David McKinney was studying him, petting the Löwchen absently while the dog gnawed on his thumb.
“You’re going to need another of those.”
North opened the second one and drained it.
More of that watchful silence from David McKinney, who had never in North’s entire life known when to open his mouth and when to shut it, who as far as North could remember had always done the wrong thing when he should have done the right one. And somehow, North thought bitterly, that didn’t change anything. Somehow North came back here again and again. You’d think, North thought, that at some point I’d finally figure it out.
“It’s not a two-beer night, is it?”
“No.”
The TV, muted, was playing an episode of The Honeymooners. The gray light was steady until it blinked at a commercial, and then the light seemed blue or red or Technicolor. When an ad came on showing a friendly neighbor grilling hot dogs, North went back to the fridge for more beer.
“What’s his name?” his father asked as North resumed his seat.
“He doesn’t have one.”
“A dog ought to have a name.” North’s father slipped into that voice he’d never used with his son. “A little guy like this ought to have a name. Isn’t that right? What’s your name?”
North drank the next two beers just as fast. On the fifth one, he slowed down. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. That ache between his legs had shrunk to a tiny ember, just a flash of heat now and then. And Shaw was completely out of his head. North was relieved; it was a relief, a total relief, not to have to think about the blindness in Shaw’s eyes. He didn’t have to feel so fucking invisible; by the fifth beer, he couldn’t have been invisible even if he tried. He was too far gone. There wasn’t enough left for him to be invisible.
“Is this instead of a kid? You guys can’t have kids, so you got a dog?”
On TV, Alice Kramden was doing something with the flatware. She was setting the table. Or maybe she was cleaning up. For all North could tell, they were playing the whole episode in reverse, running the reel backward like everything was on rewind. That made as much fucking sense as anything else in his life right then.
“Just remember a dog’s a dog. It’s not a kid. Don’t go getting him bows and costumes and all that shit. Is that what you’re going to do? Is that what he wants to d
o?”
“Ronnie came by today.”
With a gentleness North hadn’t expected his father capable of, David McKinney extracted his thumb from the puppy’s mouth. He opened the Bud Lite that North had offered him what felt like hours ago, and he took a swig and studied the can.
“Well,” he said. “You called him first.”
“Right. You’re absolutely right. You’re always right.”
“Don’t get that tone with me. You called him. You did it right here. You wanted his help. And you know, North. You know better than anybody.”
Alice Kramden had blurred, doubling, tripling in North’s vision. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.
“If you’d just do a job for him now and then, you wouldn’t have those favors hanging over your head. I don’t see why it has to be such a big deal with you. I guess your guy, he puts your nose in the air about it. Is that it? He’s been whispering in your ear since college, making you think things were different.”
“Shaw is different,” North said, but the words felt like ball bearings in his mouth, rolling and tumbling and with an oily taste. “He’s good.”
David McKinney scoffed. “If he’s so good, tell me why you’re in my house at three in the morning?”
Eyes closed, head still hanging back, North groped for the next beer.
“You could call this guy Leo,” David McKinney said before slipping back into the voice that he’d never used with his son. “You’d like that, little guy? Wouldn’t you?”
Chapter 12
WHEN SHAW WOKE, something was wrong. He lay in bed, studying the sunlight leaping against the walls, breathing in the smell of Pari’s coffee floating up the stairs, trying to figure out what it was. He had read Lovecraft. He had read stories about cities built at impossible angles, in total defiance of the laws of physics, and this morning, he felt something like that. As though the pieces of his world didn’t come together the way they had the day before. He traced the corners of the room with his gaze, studied the cracked plaster ceiling. He laid his hand flat on the floor to test the boards; they still met at the same uneven places.
In the shower, he opened the window onto the fire escape and let the still-cool air mix with the hot pounding of the water. He closed his eyes. He scrubbed his hair. Water slid across his face like a mask he couldn’t take off, and suddenly he was gasping, sputtering, sticking his head out the window so he could breathe; the tang of rust off the fire escape filled his lungs. When he could breathe again, he didn’t feel any better; he just thought he might throw up.
After a while, though, he peeled his fingers away from the rusty skeleton of the fire escape and stuck them under the spray, letting the water carry away reddish-brown flakes. He found a bar of pine-tar soap and scrubbed, not exactly enjoying the rough grain of the soap, but relishing it because it felt something like penance. He thought about last night: about how he had been with North, touching him the way he wanted to touch him, tasting him. And that had led to thoughts about the Slasher and the alley, thoughts about Matty, and then thoughts about Precinct Blue, and Troy’s hand on his scalp, holding him by his hair. And suddenly Shaw hadn’t really been thinking about North after that. He had been thinking about how he’d never be vulnerable again.
Toweling off, Shaw tried to convince himself he hadn’t hurt North last night. That was ridiculous. That was impossible. He couldn’t hurt North even if he tried. But he remembered the small hours when he had woken to find North stepping into the Red Wings, the dog tucked under his arm, and how North’s voice had sounded: not the familiar low smolder that Shaw was used to, but a thin sound, like North had been flying on a trapeze and had just let go.
Shaw dropped the towel. He wiped the mirror clean and studied himself: thin-chested, fox-faced, his hair wet and stringy. He ran his hand over the glass again. And again. It was slick and cool, but not a damn thing changed. What were you thinking, he asked himself. What in the world were you thinking?
Something wild was building inside him. A kind of pressure, a contained force that couldn’t be contained much longer. Shaw went out to the hallway and dug through the hall closet. He found what he wanted, went back into the bathroom, and made the decision. He couldn’t make himself totally different overnight. He couldn’t be stronger and smarter just by snapping his fingers. He couldn’t wish himself into the kind of person that couldn’t be hurt, that could never be hurt again. But he could change something. He could start somewhere.
When he’d finished in the bathroom, he went to the bedroom and pulled clothes out of the dresser. No more peasant blouses. No more capris. No more biking shorts or LOLcat sweaters or caftans. He found a pair of black jeans that hung low on his hips, slipped into a gray tee, then he went downstairs.
Pari was hunched over her desk, flipping through a book. Next to her sat an entire lemon pound cake, a pot of coffee, a bowl of sugar cubes, and creamer.
“No,” she said without looking up.
Shaw barely heard her. He walked to the window and looked out; the GTO wasn’t parked on the street, but he still felt a strange reluctance to go into his office.
“Have you seen North today?”
“No. And you can’t have any, Shaw. I’m studying for my first test, and the brain needs glucose to function.”
“Is he here? Did he park in the garage?”
“I told you I don’t know,” Pari snapped. “You’re like Galileo writing those never-ending letters from house arrest. If you have something to say, say it once. You don’t need to write a hundred and twenty letters about it.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I said—” She glanced up and broke off. The bindi was robin’s egg blue today. Her eyes widened.
“What?”
“Uh. Your face, you, uh. You got hit.”
“Yeah. You’ve seen me with cuts and bruises before.”
“Yes, but you—I mean. Never mind. Nothing.”
“What? It’s about North, isn’t it? He’s here? He’s in the office already?”
Pari reached blindly for the knife.
“He’s mad. He’s mad, and he said something to you.”
Pari hacked at the pound cake.
“Come on, Pari. Just tell me what he said.”
“He’s, um. He’s not here. I haven’t—Shaw, maybe, do you want some cake?”
“What?”
She held out a butchered slice of cake; her hand was trembling.
Shaw shook his head. “What’s going on with you today?”
“I just—you look like you might—” She swallowed and made an obvious effort, although her hand was still trembling and she couldn’t seem to look away. “I could go get you breakfast if you want.”
“Yeah, I guess that would be good. Hold on, I’ll grab my wallet—”
“No, no,” Pari said, lunging out of her chair, the cake still clutched in one hand. “I’ll get it.”
She shot past him, out the door, and Shaw stared after her.
At the door to the inner office, Shaw stood still for a moment, hand resting on the door. He listened. He pushed it open and stepped into the silence, wishing his next exhalation didn’t sound quite so much like relief.
At his desk, he pulled out his MacBook and sat, considering. Their discoveries yesterday—overhearing Taylor and Waggener at Jadon’s house, the announcement that Dzeko had been arrested, and then the short, brutal fight in Precinct Blue—had convinced Shaw that Jadon’s attack had been an attempted murder. The fact that Jadon had survived not only the attack but the first day in the hospital was a small miracle.
Unfortunately, nothing in their investigation had offered any answers about what Jadon might have stumbled onto or how it was linked to the Slasher. All Shaw had were his gut and his intuitions.
Tapping idly on the MacBook’s keyboard, Shaw navigated to Facebook and found Jadon’s profile. He felt a pang as he surfed the pictures, clicking through im
age after image of Jadon with a fine-boned, red-haired man who looked substantially younger than the policeman. This must be Ricky. Interestingly, Shaw didn’t feel jealous; breaking up with Jadon had been the right thing to do, and as far as Shaw was concerned, there was no one in the world he’d rather be with than North. But it still pinged in his heart, seeing pictures of Jadon with someone else, thinking that they had shared good times.
The office door opened, and North stepped into the room. He had showered and changed clothes, jeans and another tee, and he carried the puppy under one arm. But North didn’t look rested. He didn’t look like he’d slept at all, in fact. When he saw Shaw, he froze. The puppy caught sight of Shaw at the same time and began to bark wildly.
North shushed the dog, and then he came around the desks with slow, measured steps, his eyes never leaving Shaw’s face. Shaw’s cheeks heated. He shifted in his seat. He fought the urge to click wildly on the MacBook and close the browser.
When North stood in front of Shaw, Shaw reached out. North turned. Just barely. Just enough to avoid Shaw’s touch. If Shaw hadn’t been feeling so sensitive, if he hadn’t still had the lingering disorientation, as though the world had shifted slightly, he might not have noticed. But he did notice, and he noticed the way the Löwchen growled and snapped, as though Shaw were a threat. Shaw pulled his hand back and let it drop into his lap.
Slowly—still so slowly—North lowered the puppy, seemingly oblivious to the growls and warning yaps. Then he reached out, running both hands over Shaw’s close-cropped hair. Shaw could feel the bristles thrum under North’s touch.
“Shaw,” North said like his world had broken into a million pieces.
Shaw fought to keep his face still. Fought not to be the one who gave way first.
North scrubbed his thumbs back and forth over the short bristles. He blinked a few times, rapidly, and then he said, “It’s a little long, don’t you think?”