Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  The real question, though, the question that Hazard’s mind darted back to again and again, nipping at the answer and then darting away, was the identity of the killer. Was it Somers? Hazard’s breath knotted, and his big knuckles popped and whitened around the steering wheel. It made sense, in some ways. Somers had some sort of weird closet-case syndrome going on—it was obvious that he was bi, at least, from the way he’d reacted to Hazard’s kisses. And Somers also had a history of hate crimes. Involuntarily, Hazard’s mind flashed back to the high school stairs, to the shock when Somers’s hand flattened on his chest, to the brief, instant-long flush of arousal at the feel of Somers’s touch, at the memory of what had passed between them in the locker room, before Hazard had realized that something was wrong, something was very wrong, and the force of Somers’s shove sent Hazard off the landing and tumbling down the steps.

  Yes, Hazard thought, his breathing knotting tighter and tighter in his chest, yes, it was very possible that Somers was the killer. And there were other things, too. Somers had told Hazard that Lady Mabbe had seen two men, one with a tattoo on his neck and one with a tattoo on his arm. They’d found the man with the neck tattoo. Could John-Henry, with his tattoo sleeves, be the other man? It seemed possible. After all, Lady Mabbe had been standing on the other side of the street. It would have been easy to assume that the tattoos on Somers’s arms were the markings of the Ozark Volunteers.

  Market Street and Warhedua’s semblance at an urban center dropped behind Hazard. He was still speeding, going almost fifty down residential streets, tree-lined, shady streets, where he should have done thirty max. But his fingers had turned to pins and needles, and he was thinking about the past and the present, thinking about what it would feel like to pull his gun on Somers, thinking that he had to find the man now, right now.

  As he turned onto Upchurch’s street, Hazard saw the Impala parked up ahead. Doubt suddenly gnawed at Hazard’s mind. There were things that didn’t make sense. Things that didn’t fit with Somers being the killer. Deep in Hazard’s gut, deep where he couldn’t ignore it, he felt unstable. Had Somers been there when they hurt Jeff or hadn’t he? Had Somers killed Chendo Cervantes and Chuckie Armistead, or hadn’t he?

  Hazard parked his car behind the Impala. The familiar, arctic cold was blowing through him again, carrying away doubt and certainty and hope and fear, leaving behind only control and resolve. Drawing the .38 from its holster, Hazard got out of the car and started towards the back of the house.

  UPCHURCH KEPT THE GUN STEADY on Somers. Sweat still shone under his thinning hair and drew circles under his arms. But the nerves—if he was nervous—didn’t show in his hands. His hands were rock-steady, which was just Somers’s luck.

  “No,” Upchurch said as Somers tried to reach for the Glock. “Put your hands up real slow. I know where you keep the gun, John-Henry. We were partners for a few good years, and you don’t strike me as someone who likes change.”

  “You did this.”

  “Did what? I said slow, John-Henry. Arms big and wide. That’s right, good boy.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “C’mon, let’s not end it like this.” Upchurch shuffled sideways, the gun still trained on Somers. “Get down on the floor.”

  “You shoot me here, and everybody will know it was you. They all knew I was coming here.”

  Upchurch snorted. “Swinney and Lender? They couldn’t catch a cold if they were naked at the South Pole.”

  “Hazard knows, and he’s a hell of a lot better detective than any of us.”

  “John-Henry, please don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m an idiot. The best thing that could ever happen to Hazard is if you disappeared. Now get down on the floor.”

  Somers shook his head and began to edge towards the door, which Upchurch had abandoned. “No. Any blood, even just a drop, and it’ll show up like it’s the fucking noonday sun. You don’t want that, not with your cushy new job.”

  “You’re right.” Upchurch bent and, from behind the steps that led up into the house, he pulled a foot-long wrecking bar. “Now this can happen one of two ways. That door is locked, and I’ll get to you before you can break it down. And then I’ll break your legs and your arms and I might just go to town on your ribs. I can spend a long time hurting you before I get anywhere close to drawing blood. I can make this last a really long time, John-Henry, and I don’t want to do that. Not to a friend.”

  “A friend? Jesus Christ, you’re insane.”

  “Listen, I’ll make it so it doesn’t hurt at all. I’ve got some pills in the car. You take a couple handfuls, you’ll go to sleep, I’ll leave you in your car somewhere you like. Out by the bluffs, maybe. That’s better than what most people get.”

  “Most people don’t get murdered by their partner. Why’d you do it? Armistead, I understand that part. He helped you—you probably told him you’d made a mistake, you needed him, you’d be in his debt. Armistead probably got a boner just thinking about having state police in his pocket, so he said yes. And as soon as he’d helped you get the paint thinner into the trailer, you shot him, dragged him out to the country, and did your best to make sure we’d never know who he was.”

  “Get down on the floor, John-Henry.”

  “You probably hoped no one would ever find the body—the best thing for you was when we had no idea who the first victim even was—but you had a backup plan. Chendo’s phone. You used it to make it look like Chendo had killed Armistead. The second body, that was just supposed to be the other Volunteer, the one Lady Mabbe saw. You figured we’d assume two Volunteers were dead and Chendo Cervantes was gone, vanished, in the wind.”

  “Get down on the floor.”

  “Did you use henna on your arm? I bet if I look real close, I can still see where you painted on the tattoo. And I bet there’s a bald cap in a bag of garbage somewhere. You did everything right. You made it look like there were two bald Volunteers at the trailer, and Armistead went along with the plan because—what? Did he take some pictures of you? He must have wanted some kind of evidence so he could blackmail you.”

  “Get down on the floor. Right now.”

  “But what I don’t understand, what I don’t get, is the kid. Did he blow you and you freaked out? You don’t act real macho, but it’s always the quiet ones who surprise you. Was that it? Couldn’t stand the fact that you liked your pecker in a guy’s mouth?”

  “That mother-fucker wanted me to leave Eldora,” Upchurch shouted, waving the pistol in rage. “He thought we were in love. He thought this was some kind of fairytale. That sick little fucker is the one who liked putting that swastika on my arm. It got him hot, made him do stuff you wouldn’t believe, just pretending that he was getting banged by a Volunteer. And when I told him to take it easy, he threatened me. He said he had pictures. He said he was going to take it all to Eldora, show her what I really wanted, and then I’d be forced to take him because he’d be all I had left, and I—”

  Whatever else Upchurch might have said was lost when the door behind him—the door into the house—swung open. Upchurch began to swing around, the pistol coming up, but Hazard was there, the .38 in his hand already drawing a bead on Upchurch. Somers seized Upchurch’s momentary distraction and whipped the Glock from the small of his back.

  “Slow,” Hazard said. “Both of you take it real slow.”

  Relief painted Upchurch’s face. “Detective Hazard, thank God.” Upchurch pivoted slowly and carefully to face Somers. “Your partner, he’s gone completely crazy. He’s trying to frame me for the murder, and he would have killed me if I hadn’t been carrying my gun.”

  “Bullshit,” Somers said. “Upchurch, don’t move. Don’t even fucking blink. Hazard, take his gun.”

  Hazard’s eyes closed slowly, and when they widened, they were filled with rage. Somers felt his mouth dry up, and he forgot the rest of what he was going to say.

  “Detective Hazard, he’s crazy,” Upchurch was saying. “You can’t let him—”

&
nbsp; Hazard spoke over Upchurch, directing his words to Somers. “Drop the gun.”

  “What?” Somers said. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Take his gun, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Drop the gun right now, Somers. I won’t ask you again.” The .38 in Hazard’s hand moved with uncanny precision towards Somers. “Do it.”

  Somers knew death when he saw it, and right then he was seeing it in Emery Hazard’s face. “Fine. But take Upchurch’s gun too. We’ll go to the station and figure this out.”

  Hazard nodded. He held out a hand to Upchurch, and with a sigh, Upchurch slapped his pistol into Hazard’s hand. Somers exhaled in relief.

  “Now you,” Hazard said.

  “You’ve got to be the worst partner in the history of crime. Or in the history of the world. I don’t know, whichever is longer. There.” Somers set his Glock on the ground. “Happy?”

  “Kick it away.”

  “Come on, you’re—”

  “Now, Somers.”

  “Christ Almighty.” Somers kicked the Glock, and it skidded towards the wall. He held his hands up. “Are you going to put cuffs on me.”

  “I think that would be smart.” Hazard tucked Upchurch’s gun into his waistband and, still holding the .38 on Somers, advanced towards his partner. Worry trickled down Somers’s spine like ice-water. This was unreal. This couldn’t be happening. As Hazard crossed the room, Somers tried to think clearly. When they got to the station, they’d explain everything to Cravens. But—but maybe Somers had missed something. Maybe Upchurch had been cleverer than Somers had realized. Why else would Hazard believe that Somers could be the killer?

  When Hazard was only a step away from Somers, close enough that Somers could feel the heat pouring off the bigger man’s body and smell the starch of his shirt and the pomade in his hair, the detective grabbed Somers’s wrist. Hazard started to spin Somers toward the wall, and then Upchurch cleared his throat. “That’s a good stopping point, boys. Don’t either of you move.”

  Over Hazard’s shoulder, Somers saw what he’d missed earlier. With a fat grin on his face, Upchurch held a small handgun—something he’d concealed, Somers realized. An ankle holster, most likely.

  “He’s got a gun,” Somers said to Hazard. “Another one.”

  “I figured.” Hazard stood like a statue, but through his grip on Somers’s wrist, Somers could feel the invisible tremors running through the bigger man. Fear, or adrenaline, most likely both.

  “Kind of wish you’d trusted me. Didn’t really plan on dying today.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation,” Upchurch said, “you won’t die here. Let’s get both of you in the car. Detective Hazard, I’m afraid I just don’t trust you to behave, so you’ll have to ride in the trunk. Detective Somerset, I think you can be persuaded to be . . . peaceable.”

  Somers barely heard Upchurch. He knew the man had a gun. He knew his life was about to be smudged out. But his gaze was on Hazard, and Somers realized, with a start, that Hazard was staring back at him with a pale fire burning in his scarecrow eyes. Those eyes demanded Somers’s attention. And then, to Somers’s surprise, the eyes flicked down towards the gun at Hazard’s waist.

  “Detective Hazard,” Upchurch said. “Now it’s your turn to drop your weapon. Please do it before things get out of hand.”

  “Just like fucking high school,” Hazard said. As he dropped the gun, in the fraction of a second when Upchurch’s attention was fixed on the falling piece of metal, he brought Somers’s hand to rest on his chest. Exactly over his heart, Somers realized, feeling taut, sculpted muscle and the furious pounding of Hazard’s pulse.

  The words echoed in Somers’s ears: just like high school. Just like high school. Just like—

  Oh.

  Somers shoved, just like he’d shoved Hazard down the stairs all those years. His free hand dipped down, snagging the pistol tucked into Hazard’s waistband. Hazard hit the ground, tucking his shoulder and rolling into the fall so that he came up on both feet. Somers pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. An icy wave of panic crashed over Somers; the safety was on.

  Hazard didn’t look at Somers, but Somers could feel his surprise. They’d lost their momentary advantage. Upchurch wavered, the gun dipping towards Hazard for an instant. Somers thumbed the safety, but he knew he was going to be too late. Upchurch was already bringing his gun back towards Somers. He’d take down Somers and then kill Hazard. Two shots, that’s all it would take.

  Then Hazard roared and charged. Upchurch flinched. His gun jerked sideways, an instinctive reaction to the large, fast-moving threat. A gunshot exploded through the garage, and Hazard wobbled.

  The safety on Somers’s gun slid clear. His index finger tightened. The pistol bucked in his hands, and a second gunshot clapped.

  Upchurch’s head rocked back. Blood, bone, and brain sprayed the door to the house and the wall of the garage. After a moment, his legs quivered and then seemed to dissolve beneath him, and he slid to lie across the steps, the ruined back of his head rolling towards Somers.

  Nausea tightened Somers’s throat, but he forced down the bile. Against the far wall, Hazard slumped, barely able to keep his feet. He clamped one big hand over his shoulder, but a dark stain was already spreading across his chest.

  “Jesus Christ,” Somers said, darting towards his partner. He caught Hazard and helped him to the ground. “Hold on. You’re going to be ok.” Somers dug through his pocket, found his phone, and dialed 911. “Officer involved shooting,” he shouted into the receiver. Then he rattled off Upchurch’s address, dropped the phone next to them, and slid out of his jacket. Wadding up the fabric, he pressed it to Hazard’s chest. “Hey. Keep your eyes open.”

  Hazard’s eyelids fluttered, and Somers noticed for the first time the long, dark lashes. Those eyes—the color of corn at the end of summer, the color of honey, the color of cats’ eyes—blinked sleepily, but when Hazard spoke, his voice was hard and full of scorn.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked. “You never held a gun before?”

  “Why the hell would you put the safety on?” Somers asked, fighting a wave of panic as he leaned into the wound to increase the pressure. There was a lot of blood, an awful lot of blood. “Why the hell didn’t you trust me and arrest Upchurch?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Hazard said. Those liquid, golden eyes fluttered again. “Had to wait for him. Besides, why the fuck would I put a loaded gun in my pants with no safety?”

  In the distance, Somers heard sirens, and he felt a laugh—or maybe a sob—break in his chest. “You’re a lunatic. You know that, right?”

  Hazard’s eyes snapped open, the gold as hot as sunlight, and he raised one hand. With a bloody thumb, he traced the line of Somers’s cheekbone. “Jesus, you’re beautiful. I’ve wanted to tell you that for twenty years.” He took a breath, coughed, and shuddered with the pain. “I’m sorry for what I said. What I did.”

  Another sob cracked inside Somers’s chest. “You think you’re going to get off easy with an apology and a compliment? No way. Not a chance.” The sirens were louder now, screaming now, screaming so that they almost drowned out the screaming inside Somers’s head. “You and I have a lot to talk about. Days and weeks and years of talking, and that’s just to start. You’ve got a hell of a lot more to do before I’m done with you. Open your eyes, God damn you. Open your eyes!”

  Hazard’s blood-stained fingers gripped Somers’s jaw the way they had that horrible night before, but now the touch was gentle, and the scarecrow eyes were buried under half-closed lids. “So beautiful,” was all Hazard managed to say before his hand dropped to his side. “And so goddamn thick sometimes.” His lips curled in a half-smile. “I’m fine, Somers. I’m not going anywhere.”

  And then the EMTs were there, pushing Somers to the side, snipping away Hazard’s shirt, wheeling in the tools of their trade and setting to work. Swinney was there, too, and Lender, and even Cravens. Somers blinked, try
ing to take it all in, not understanding a single word any of them were saying, not even Cravens. Finally, they left him alone with Swinney, who was content not to say anything until the EMTs transferred Hazard to the gurney and wheeled him towards the ambulance.

  Swinney produced a wet wipe from her purse and took Somers by the elbow. “I’ll drive you. You’ve got blood on your face.”

  Waving away the offered wipe, Somers reached up, touched the prints left by Hazard’s fingers, with the crazy thought that he’d never wash his face, never wash it again, as long as Hazard was ok. He tried to breathe. “I know.”

  AFTER HAZARD'S THIRD ATTEMPT to escape the hospital, Cravens had issued an ultimatum.

  “I can check myself out of here whenever I want,” Hazard said, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the frustrated looks of the hospital staff. The bullet had clipped his shoulder, taking out a nice sized piece of flesh, missing bone and artery. The worst of the trauma, Hazard thought, was the bruising—he looked like he’d been kicked by a mule, or maybe a whole herd of them. But he was able to stand on his own two feet. As far as Hazard was concerned, it was time he went back to the Bridal Veil Motor Court. And, more importantly, back to work. “I’m fine.”

  “If you want a job,” Cravens had said, “you’ll stay here until the doctors discharge you. Is that clear?”

  It was clear. Cravens, though, hadn’t seemed satisfied. She had insisted that someone stay with Hazard. At first, she had proposed a rotating schedule of uniformed staff. Hazard had countered with what he felt like was a fair offer: nobody. Cravens reminded him about his job and suggested he wrack his brains a little harder. After three phone calls, Hazard decided he wouldn’t mind if Nico Flores came every once in a while.