Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re brave. And you’re smart. And you’re kind.” Tucker’s hand drifted up. His thumb skated along the back of North’s neck, and again, North felt that touch climb his skin, lifting hairs. “You’ve worked so hard to be who you are, to be where you are. You’re incredible.” Tucker’s voice was closer. That cat’s breath, hot and tickling, was on North’s ear now. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to turn his head. He wanted not to feel like shit anymore.

  “Why’d I do it, Tuck? Why?”

  “You said it yourself: you were scared. You were hurting.” Tucker’s voice changed again. A little sting in it. Honey, but a little sting at the end. A secret sting that also felt strangely good, that made North’s skin contract, that made him feel the way it had in college. “He doesn’t understand you, love. I told you. I didn’t want it to be this way for you, I didn’t, but I warned you. All you wanted to do was help him, keep him safe, but he’s crazy. He’s out of his mind. You know that. You’ve known him as long as I have. He’s out of his damn mind. And he can never understand you, never understand how good you are, how kind, how you only want what’s best—”

  North shook his head. He stepped back just as Tucker’s lips found his cheek, and then he stepped back again, the sting in the words, the sting in the kiss, all of it kicking his heart into a sprint.

  “Love,” Tucker said. “Come with me. Come back with me tonight. You’re wasted, and you need a place to sleep. We’ll put you in the guest room, and in the morning, you’ll feel better.”

  North shook his head. He was staring out at the failing circuitry of the city, at the black spot carved into the center. He still felt like he was falling.

  “We can talk about this some more. About what you did. I’ll tell you what you need to hear: you were doing the right thing, he just can’t understand you. And . . . and we can talk about us, North. About how I messed up. How I want to be better. How I will be better. For us.”

  North shook his head again; the whole world was sliding now, like every time he moved his head he shook everything a little more to pieces. “No.” The world skidded a few inches to the left, and North had to grab the balcony door to keep from toppling into the dark. “Too much talking.”

  “You can’t drive, North,” Tuck said, his voice changing again. “We don’t have to talk. We don’t have to talk about anything. But let’s just get you somewhere safe for tonight, somewhere you can sleep this off. That’s all. If you don’t want to talk anymore, we won’t talk.”

  But they would talk. North clutched at the balcony door, his fingers streaking the glass, and he knew they would talk. If he went back with Tucker, they would talk. And then they would fuck. And it would be like falling: North just had to let gravity take over, didn’t have to do anything, and things would go back the way they had been. Not the hitting; North was done with that. But the rest could be the way it had been. Safe. Easy.

  His legs trembled like he’d been running, and he wedged himself against the door, the hinges biting into his spine. The thing with Tucker, North thought. The thing was that North had never woken up in the middle of the night because of a dream, panicked, terrified that something might have happened to Tucker. The thing was that on late nights when Tucker went to dinner with the boys, when they went out after dinner, when Tucker didn’t call or text and for all North knew, the Beamer had gone hurtling off the Eades Bridge and slid under the Mississippi’s dark waters, North could read a book and have a beer and turn off the light and sleep like a baby. And if he woke up and Tuck wasn’t there, he might think about the blue briefs he found under the bed, he might think about what a divorce would cost or a trip to Acapulco, but at least he’d be able to breathe. He wouldn’t wake up to the darkness settled on his chest, unable to pull in air, unable to escape the images of Shaw mutilated by a lunatic’s knife, unable to think what the world would be like without Shaw—not even able to picture it, just a gray-out static in his brain that sounded like a scream.

  Easy. Just like falling.

  “Come on,” Tucker said, sliding an arm around North. “Let’s get you home.”

  North pushed away, warding off Tucker’s arm when Tucker came after him.

  “North, you’re being silly. You can’t drive like this.”

  “No.”

  “North, stop it.”

  “No.” The word was muzzy in his throat. “No, Tuck. No. I need—I need to go.”

  “Oh, this is perfect.” Tuck crossed his arms, leaning up against the doorway now, the perfect, WASPy lines of his body taut. “This is so fucking classic. Vintage North McKinney right here. You need to go? Jesus Christ, North, can you even hear yourself? Look around you. You’re so wasted you showed up to a party you weren’t invited to, knocked down one of the hosts, ruined everybody’s night, and now you’re going to, what? Go crawling back to Shaw?” He put so much hate into the name that North barely recognized the word. “Beg Shaw to take you back? Ask Shaw if he’ll be nice enough to let you lick his asshole clean for him? Do you even know how pathetic you are? Saint Shaw.” North was vaguely aware of the stillness settling over the room, the shocked silence, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Tucker, couldn’t even move. “I’m doing you a favor here, North. I’m doing you a fucking kindness. Everybody else just wants your ass out of here. Where’s Saint Shaw tonight? Where’s Saint-fucking-Shaw? I’m the one who’s here tonight. I’m the one who’s got to worry about you crashing your fucking car and breaking your fucking neck or killing some fucking kid because you’re a fucking drunk. I’m the one—”

  Clarity filtered in through the haze in North’s head. It wasn’t real clarity, not even close, but it was like sunlight refracting on water. He could see a little better. He could see Tucker a little better. Shaking his head, he backed toward the elevator.

  “I’m not done talking to you, North. Get the fuck back here. North! Jesus Christ, North McKinney, get your ass back here right this fucking minute. North!”

  Peter was standing next to the elevator, a bloody cloth wrapped around his hand, and North felt a pang when he saw that. The elevator door was open; Peter was holding it open.

  “I’m sorry,” North said as he stumbled into the elevator. “I’m really sorry I ruined your party.”

  Peter just released the button, and the elevator doors slid shut.

  And then the elevator car began to move, and North dropped down with it, into darkness.

  Chapter 32

  RUN AWAY.

  Shaw found a cab two blocks away at the Union Station Hotel, and the guy swiped his Visa and drove Shaw back to Benton Park. Shaw let himself into the darkness; he could smell pound cake and chai latte and the musty water and Pine-Sol that Pari had left in the sink again. He leaned against the door for a while, shaking, and then he went into the inner office and locked the tape player with its cassette in his desk. He stood there too. Still shaking. And then he reached out and pushed over North’s chair. It hit the floor with a crash that echoed through the building, and Shaw blushed and felt childish and still, somehow, a little bit better.

  Upstairs, he lay on his bed, his eyes closed. North’s words spun up at him again and again, a carousel of the horrible things North had said. Run away. I feel like a monster. Run away. When we’re together. Run away. No more bullshit about the Slasher. Run away. Hate me; at least that’s honest.

  He got up, found the bottle of red yeast supplements where he had stashed his Ambien, and shook out two capsules. Then a third. He swallowed them dry and splashed cold water on his face and then he crashed on the bed. He thought of all the things he could say to North. He listed them out. Lined them up. And then he remembered it was North’s birthday and started crying so hard that he could barely breathe, crying so hard that, at the edge of consciousness, he was frightened, worried that he had turned on something that he didn’t know how to turn off.

  But the Ambien worked, eventually, and he f
elt himself sliding down a gray chute, disappearing into a fog. Sleep that wasn’t restful or easy or dark. Vague snatches of waking, of sweat sticking the sheets to his back, of a crick in his neck from all the twisting and flopping. When he woke, day painted tiger stripes through the windows, and his mouth felt like it was full of old socks.

  He smelled coffee. Groaning, Shaw tried to bury his face in the pillow. But now he could hear movement below. Soft steps, not North’s. And then a yip. Tiny claws clicked on the stairs, followed by the same soft steps. The puppy snuffled at the closed door.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “I’m dead,” Shaw said, still hiding his face in the pillow.

  The door creaked open.

  Soft steps came across the room. The bed sank under new weight.

  “I brought you coffee,” Pari said. “I got your favorite kind, the caramel mocha with coconut creamer and extra caramel swirl. I won’t even ask you to pay me back, even though it was almost eight dollars and my bosses barely give me minimum wage.”

  “Your bosses are assholes.”

  Her fingers touched his arm, and Shaw shivered and started to cry. Pari didn’t say anything for a while; she just ran her hand up and down his arm, and the contact was nice and warm. And then something wet scrubbed Shaw’s ear, and a warm tongue poked into his ear. He turned instinctively and got a kiss right across his eye.

  “Gross,” he said, clapping a hand over his face. “I’m going to go blind.”

  More snuffling, more wet puppy nosing and wet puppy kisses at his neck. Shaw giggled in spite of himself.

  “Stop,” he said, laughing. “I’m not—stop.”

  “This is probably as close to first base as you’ve ever gotten,” Pari said. “And I do expect to be paid extra for the dog-sitting duties I’ve acquired. You’re lucky I came by the office yesterday; this little guy was stuck here all alone.”

  “He’s North’s dog,” Shaw said, trying to burrow under the pillow again. “Tell North. No. Better idea. Mail him to North. North is never coming back here. North is never going to set foot inside this building again.”

  “Like last time?” Pari said.

  “This is different. This time is for real.”

  “Oh, Shaw,” she said.

  They sat like that for a while. The puppy climbed on Shaw’s back, turning in circles, his little nails digging into Shaw’s skin as he tried to find the perfect spot.

  “He called me. He asked me to check on you. He’s worried about you.”

  “Ha.”

  “He loves you.”

  “Double ha.”

  “And you love him.”

  Shaw pulled the pillow down to cover his ears.

  “You do,” Pari said, running her hand down Shaw’s spine. “Or you wouldn’t be hurting so bad.” From a block over, the sound of traffic filtered into the bedroom, and a leaf blower whined to life somewhere. When Pari spoke again, her voice was thick. “I ought to know. Finding out about Chuck and Nels, well,” she gave a little, wet laugh. “I’d rather get stabbed ten times than have to go through something like that again.”

  Shaw wanted to stay under the pillow, but he felt guilty. He and North had been so happy with each other, so eager to explore a new part of their relationship after so many years of waiting, that he hadn’t really thought about what Pari might be suffering. He had asked once or twice how she was doing emotionally. But he hadn’t even really thought about it: her boyfriend and girlfriend leaving her at the same time to be together. Shaw tried to imagine what it would feel like if North left him for someone else. He wormed his way out from under the pillow, and the puppy gave a discontented yip when Shaw rolled over and dislodged him.

  Pari was crying, but only a little. She wiped her face as she said, “I’m fine, Shaw. You don’t have to get that look. I only brought it up because I want you to know that . . . that it hurts. It hurts more when you love them.”

  Shaw squeezed her hand.

  “Well,” Pari said, sniffing and blinking. “Are you guys going to break up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you hate him?”

  The whine of the leaf blower filled the room. “No.”

  “Was he right?”

  The leaf blower choked, cut off, and the silence felt like it packed every inch of the room. “No.”

  “Shaw?”

  “Maybe some of it. A little.”

  “About?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he’s right that I haven’t moved on with my life. I . . . I got stuck, I guess. Stuck on figuring out the truth about the Slasher. Stuck on . . . on being hurt.” He closed his eyes again; the inside of his lids had red tiger stripes from the sun. “But he’s wrong about some of it too. He thinks . . . he thinks the problems we’re having, he thinks they’re about the Slasher.”

  “Are they?”

  “Some of them, maybe. But not really.”

  Breathing out slowly, Pari ran her hand down Shaw’s arm again, squeezing his fingers when she reached them. Then she pinched his butt. Hard.

  “Ow,” Shaw said, opening his eyes to glare.

  “I don’t get paid enough for this.” She pinched him again.

  “Pari! Cut it out!”

  “I don’t. If you have problems, you better talk to him about them. And be honest. Because trying to hide things just got you here, and I’m going to start charging a hundred and fifty dollars an hour to listen to you whine and moan about how mean North is to you.”

  “He’s not mean, he just acted like a—a hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “And I don’t accept insurance.”

  “Dr. Farr doesn’t even charge that much.”

  “And she listens to your crap? She’s an idiot.” Pari reached to pinch again, and Shaw squirmed away. “So,” she said with a small smile, “what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pari stood, catching up the puppy and ignoring its bark. “Well, the coffee was ten dollars, and I only accept cash. Also, I think someone’s trying to call you. I had to take the phone off the hook because it wouldn’t stop ringing.”

  “Pari!”

  “I’m kidding. I put the message on your desk. Oh, but I wasn’t kidding about the ten dollars.”

  “You said eight.”

  “Plus a delivery fee.”

  And then she swept out of the room.

  Shaw found a baja hoodie and a pair of linen trousers, and he crept downstairs, slinking past Pari’s desk, not quite ready for more interaction. He dropped a ten on the corner of the blotter and then rushed into the inner office.

  On the desk, he found a message slip, with a woman’s name, someone from Washington Strategic, and a number. Shaw closed the door, sat at the desk, and stared at the phone.

  The sensible thing to do would be to call her. Right now. He could catch a flight later that day and get started in Seattle, investigating Washington Strategic executives. North was right: it was over. Everything with the Slasher was over. Either he was dead, or he had escaped, and it was time for Shaw to move on with his life.

  But Shaw could remember sophomore year, recuperating from the attack at home instead of living on campus. He remembered North coming to visit every day. He remembered talking about work like this, a company like this, and how the talk had been more serious junior year, and how then, suddenly, the talk had been really serious. Cash, loans, a business model, hourly rates. But all of it, for Shaw at least, had been built on the Slasher. He had built Borealis to find out the truth of what happened that night in the alley seven years ago. And he was so close, so very close.

  He picked up the phone and, instead of calling Washington Strategic, dialed a different number.

  “Shaw?” Teddi’s voice came over the phone a little too loudly for Shaw’s Ambien headache. In the background, someone giggled. “Where have you been? I have something really exciting to tell you and,” more giggling, and then Te
ddi’s voice as he spoke to someone in the room with him, “Shush, dear, I know, I’m going to tell him.”

  “Teddi, I need you to activate satellite gaydar.”

  Another burst of giggling, this time with Teddi joining. “Stop it! That’s naughty.” He was obviously trying to make his voice normal as he said, “Shaw, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is satellite gaydar?”

  “I need you to contact everyone you know. I need to find someone.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Teddi, I just need you to do this, ok?”

  “Ok, ok.” More giggling, and Teddi’s voice to that other person. “Behave, please.” Then, to Shaw, “Who are you looking for?”

  “Truck Monaghan.”

  “Oh! Is he that horrible hustler who’s on the run?”

  “He’s on the run?”

  “Non-stop, darling.”

  “That’s probably him. Call everyone. Get Gaydar Midnight going if you have to.”

  “I don’t have any idea what Gaydar Midnight is.”

  “I just made it up. It’s all those pretty boys you string along.”

  “I don’t string them along, Shaw. They know perfectly well—”

  “Teddi, will you do it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Call me as soon as you hear something.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’ll have any luck, but—”

  Shaw disconnected. He worked his way through a mental list of names: hustlers and rentboys he had encountered in previous investigations; contacts at Ameren Electric, Spire Gas, and the city Public Service office; secretaries at law offices, businessmen who were friends with his father. He even called a few of the other local private investigation firms in the city and offered cash. He burned through favor after favor; cash, in contrast to all of that, meant very little.

  He drove to the Spa Parnassus. He drove to the Biltmore Roadside Rooms. He drove to the Affton Drive-In. He drove everywhere he had ever tracked Truck, and he found nothing.

  Shaw had just gotten back to the office, trying to think of who he might call next, when the phone rang.