Love Can't Conquer

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Love Can't Conquer Page 20

by Kim Fielding


  Even if Qay did do love, it was absurd to believe such a thing was possible with a man he barely knew. Except… he did know Jeremy, didn’t he? Not just because of the past couple of weeks, and not because they’d shared some classes during a previous life.

  Qay closed his eyes and listened to traffic humming on the elevated freeway. Everyone in a hurry to go home for Thanksgiving.

  Home.

  And that was it, wasn’t it? For almost thirty years, Qay had not set foot in Kansas. But then he found Jeremy, who was one of his few youthful memories not tinged with pain. Jeremy was home, but with all the bitterness and sorrow winnowed away. That was why Qay knew him so well. That was why Qay loved him.

  Qay wandered for a long time, choosing streets randomly. In a modest residential neighborhood south of Powell, he admired the front gardens that were now mostly dormant and the decorative fish-scale shingles on some of the houses. He walked through a good-sized park with sports fields and a playground, and he wondered what things Jeremy would point out to him if he were there. That thought made him smile. Then he headed north and wandered through Ladd’s Addition with its confusingly laid-out streets, expensive bungalows, and tall leafless trees. He wondered what it would be like to live in a fancy house like these and not dread going home, to feel welcomed and warm and safe.

  Fucking idiot. This time he kept the words to himself.

  It was nearly noon when he returned to his basement. He made himself a can of tomato soup, more for warmth than nourishment, and sipped it from a mug while pacing his small living room. His stroll had kept him slightly preoccupied for a time, but now his anxiety returned full force, chewing at his innards like some prehistoric beast. Sweat droplets began to form at his hairline as his heart beat a frantic salsa rhythm and his chest grew almost too heavy to move. He was dizzy, shaky on his pins, and although he was terrified, he also felt as if he were floating up near the popcorn ceiling, watching himself fall to pieces.

  He set the mug on the kitchen counter and dashed to the toilet, where he proceeded to puke his guts out. Long after everything he’d recently consumed was flushed down the plumbing, he still dry heaved. When that had run its course, he leaned nervelessly against the cold porcelain and yearned to be somebody—anybody—else.

  Like an old man, he pulled himself to his feet. He rinsed his mouth at the sink, brushed his teeth, and rinsed again, all the while carefully avoiding his reflection. He knew he’d be pale and hollow-eyed like a zombie extra in a bad horror flick. It was almost one o’clock. He needed to change.

  Dithering over clothing options was stupid, especially for a guy like him. It wasn’t as if he owned that much, and he sure as hell wasn’t a fashionisto. He dithered anyway. Eventually he settled on his nice jeans and a red sweater he’d found the week before at a thrift shop. It was soft and comfortable and looked brand-new. When he’d worn it on Saturday, Jeremy said it nicely set off his complexion and the color of his hair. And yes, apparently Qay had a bit of vanity in him after all, because the compliments had made him blush and smile.

  He was a fucking idiot: sappy thoughts of Jeremy, and Qay calmed the fuck down. Not all the way, but the pterodactyls in his stomach morphed to butterflies, and his heart decided it could stay in his chest after all.

  Qay detoured to the bathroom to attack his hair. Every time he looked at it, he saw more silver strands, but at least it wasn’t receding. He’d always wondered a bit about his hair. His mother’s was mousy brown and, when she had gone a little long between hairdresser appointments, prone to curls. His father’s, which had thinned by the time Qay hit his teens, was also brown, but with a slightly reddish tinge. Kevin’s too. But Qay’s was straight-on black. When he was little, he imagined he was a changeling abandoned among the Moores, and he’d used his hair as evidence. But when he mentioned it to his brother, Kevin rolled his eyes. “We have Indian blood in us, dummy. That’s where your stupid hair comes from.”

  Fuck. He usually couldn’t even think about Kevin without wanting to barf. Either his stomach was done with that for the day, or his pillow talk with Jeremy had been slightly cathartic.

  And speaking of Jeremy, where was he? Qay glanced at his watch. It was just a few minutes past one, but Jeremy had always been punctual. Superheroes didn’t stoop to tardiness. Thinking that maybe the SUV was waiting for him in the street because there was no place to park, Qay threw on his shoes and leather coat, hurried up the stairs, and opened the door to look outside. No black SUV. No Jeremy.

  Qay went back into the basement to wait.

  By 1:20, Jeremy still wasn’t there, and Qay was starting to lose it again. He’d paced back and forth, he’d packed and repacked Cards Against Humanity in its plastic bag, and he’d run up and down the stairs six times.

  At one thirty, Qay called him. The phone rang for a bit before going to voice mail. Qay left a lame message. “Uh, hi, Jeremy. I thought you said one. Could you call me with an ETA?”

  Maybe there had been some kind of park-related disaster, he told himself. He turned on the TV and flipped through the channels, but if anything terrible was happening in the Portland park system, there was no coverage. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the couch.

  He would have sold his soul for a pill, a hit, a shot… anything to insulate him just a little from the claws tearing at him from the inside.

  When two o’clock came and went, Qay decided that Jeremy had obviously had enough of Qay’s bullshit and wanted nothing more to do with him. Jeremy was probably over at Rhoda’s right now, scarfing turkey and stuffing and telling Rhoda that Qay was too high maintenance and not worth the bother.

  That thought sent Qay running to the bathroom again, only this time his stomach had nothing to eject.

  He eventually steadied himself against the nausea and dizziness, and perhaps his brain decided it was time to wake up, because he realized there was no way Captain Caffeine would treat him like that. Jeremy might get sick of him, but he’d be a gentleman about it. He’d take Qay to dinner somewhere, give him an it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech, and probably even drive him home afterward. He wouldn’t ditch Qay on Thanksgiving without saying a word.

  So where the fuck was he?

  None of the possibilities flashing before his mind were good ones. Traffic accidents. Freak medical conditions. The Marriott collapsing into a giant sinkhole. Or….

  Fuck.

  Goddamn whatshisface, the guy who killed Donny. Ryan Davis.

  Qay tried Jeremy’s phone four more times in rapid succession but got nothing but voice mail. He sat on a kitchen chair, his head bent down to his knees, and tried to breathe. “A panic attack’s not going to help Jeremy, nimrod,” he told himself between panting gasps. “Man the fuck up.”

  Tackle it like a school assignment, like a calculation handed to him in statistics or an essay assignment in philosophy. Analyze the problem and logically find solutions. Dissociate his brain from the out-of-control emotions and think clearly.

  The first useful idea that came to him was Rhoda, but he quickly dismissed it. He didn’t have her phone number, he had no idea where she lived, and P-Town was closed. There was no way for him to get hold of her.

  Okay then, what about the Marriott? Qay owned an old-fashioned paper phone book, the kind that was dumped on the front sidewalk once a year. He might have been the last person in North America to use one, but he had no smartphone or Internet at home. Besides, he’d have hated to throw it away, full as it was with names and places. Now, he used it to look up the hotel.

  The perky woman he eventually spoke with told him she couldn’t tell Qay whether Mr. Cox was in his room.

  “Please. It’s an emergency,” he begged, knowing he sounded melodramatic.

  “I can try calling his room, sir.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  A few moments later, she was back on the line. “He’s not answering, sir.”

  Fuck. Not that Qay had expected Jeremy to pick up, but there had been a fain
t hope he’d simply taken a nap and not yet awakened. “Can you…. If you see him, can you give him a message? Ask him to call me. It’s urgent.”

  She agreed, and Qay left his number before hanging up.

  He knew the room number, so he could head downtown and knock on Jeremy’s door himself. But that would take time, and he had the feeling it wouldn’t get him anywhere. After a few more moments of agonizing consideration, he thought of Jeremy’s loft. Maybe that was where he was. And since Davis had already wrecked the place, he certainly knew its location.

  Feeling relieved to be doing something, Qay raced out of his apartment and toward Jeremy’s. He covered the distance in record-setting time. All the businesses he passed were closed, giving the area a slightly forlorn appearance. No lights shone through the windows at the top of Jeremy’s building either, but Qay entered by way of the parking garage, planning to take the stairwell to the apartment.

  He stopped in his tracks when he saw the SUV.

  For a few seconds, relief flooded him. Jeremy was here! But that emotion was short-lived, because as Qay drew closer to the vehicle, he spied two things on the concrete beside it: a key fob and a cell phone. The phone was crushed.

  LATER—MUCH later—what astonished Qay most was what he did after finding Jeremy’s keys and ruined phone. Or rather, what he didn’t do. He didn’t vomit up the nothing in his stomach or collapse in a quivering heap on the cold concrete floor. He also didn’t go running out to find the one bar open on Thanksgiving or the one dealer who hadn’t taken the holiday off. Those were all fucking miracles.

  What he did do was stand for what felt like hours but was probably less than a minute, assessing his options. He needed to call the cops. And not some beat cop who knew nothing about Jeremy and Ryan Davis, who was pissed off about working this afternoon, and who would either dismiss Qay’s concerns or just drag things out until it was… fuck, until it was too late. Qay needed to talk to Captain Frankl. And that required a phone.

  Just about any other day of the year, he could have run to a nearby business for help, but of course that wouldn’t work now. He could run home and use his landline, but that would take too long. Seconds counted. He could—

  His attention was caught by the door to the stairwell. Those stairs led not just to Jeremy’s loft but to the offices below it. They’d have a phone.

  Qay sprinted up the stairs. He tried the door to the spa and found it securely locked. One floor up, the door to the office suite was also locked, but it was a cruddy hollow-core model. Thankful for heavy boots with thick soles, Qay drew back his leg and kicked as hard as he could. The door cracked satisfyingly but didn’t give. Two more solid blows and then, ignoring the shards and splinters, he rushed inside. Finding a phone was easy.

  The 911 operator was skeptical, and Qay had to fight hard to maintain his cool, but he explained as calmly as possible. He didn’t mention the breaking and entering; he could deal with that later. Finally the dispatcher said she’d have Frankl call him back. Qay gave her the number printed on the phone.

  Waiting for that call proved the longest minutes of his life. He almost sank to his knees in gratitude when the phone rang.

  “Frankl. Who’s this?”

  Qay’s answer tumbled out in a rush. “Qay Hill we met at McDonald’s that fucker’s kidnapped him!”

  “Say that again. Slower.”

  Better to get to the point. “Jeremy’s gone. Kidnapped.” Please, please kidnapped and not simply dead.

  Frankl swore loudly and colorfully. “You’re his boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hang on.”

  Qay bounced from foot to foot as he waited another eternity. He’d never in his life prayed, not even when he was little and his parents dragged him to church. Now he wished he knew how. All he could manage was a simple mental plea: Please, God. Please, God. Please, God. Over and over until Frankl picked up again.

  “We’re on it,” Frankl said, sounding breathless. “Where are you? I’m gonna have some of the guys come meet you.”

  “Jeremy’s building. It’s at—”

  “I know where it’s at. Sit tight.” Frankl disconnected the call.

  Qay hung up too. And then he threw up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JEREMY WOKE up groggy and freezing, every muscle in his body aching and the mother of all headaches pounding through his skull. His mouth tasted burnt and bitter, and—

  Fuck!

  He was standing, but ropes held him securely against something hard and heavy. Blinking to clear his vision, he struggled to get loose. He was rewarded with a blow to the head that almost threw him back into unconsciousness, but he fought desperately to remain aware.

  “Fuck!” he bellowed.

  “Shut up or I’ll hit you again.”

  It took a few more minutes before he was calm enough and alert enough to more fully assess his situation. He was inside a cavernous space that contained machinery, tall shelving, and long worktables. The huge room seemed to contain only four other people, all of them men. One wore a security guard uniform, but judging by the deferential way he positioned himself, he wasn’t in charge.

  “You’re Ryan Davis?” Jeremy asked, thick-tongued. The boss of this little crew was young—definitely not past thirty—with a full beard and a goddamn waxed mustache. He was considerably shorter than Jeremy’s six-four, had a slightly stocky build, and was stylishly clothed. His skin looked sallow in the overhead fluorescent lights. He held a handgun pointed casually at the floor.

  As Davis smirked, Jeremy quickly took in additional details. At least one of the goons was armed, and while Davis appeared calm, his men were twitchy. Jeremy had been stripped to nothing but socks and boxers, which accounted for his shivering. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he was fairly certain he was tied to one of the round concrete pillars that supported the ceiling.

  Time. He needed to buy time. “How’d you get a big guy like me tied up like this?” he asked as calmly as possible. “Must’ve taken all four of you.”

  Ryan frowned. “Shut up! I’m asking the questions, not you.”

  Jeremy tried another solid tug on the ropes. Nothing. God, his head hurt. “We can be civilized human beings about this, you know.”

  “Fuck you. You know what I want, asshole. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what you want because you haven’t told me.”

  “But you know who I am,” Davis spat.

  “You’re a motherfucker who’s going to rot in prison.” It wasn’t the wisest thing to say to someone with a gun, but Jeremy was cold and sore and scared, and he held a deep conviction that he wouldn’t make it through the day alive. So he wasn’t surprised when Davis whacked the side of his head with the gun barrel.

  Jeremy grunted and blinked away the black swirls in his vision.

  “Where the fuck is it?” Davis yelled, sending flecks of spittle into Jeremy’s face.

  Time for a new tactic. “If I had it, don’t you think I’d have turned it in to the cops long ago?”

  Judging by his expression, that thought had never occurred to Davis. Fantastic. In addition to being morally bankrupt, the guy was a moron. In Jeremy’s experience, stupid criminals were the most dangerous.

  Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, Jeremy tried to distract Davis further. “You know, whatever’s on that drive might have sent you to prison for a while, but now with a murder rap, you’re looking at life instead.”

  “I didn’t kill that faggot!”

  “You didn’t have to,” Jeremy said, ignoring the slur. “It’s called felony murder. If somebody gets killed in furtherance of a felony you’re participating in, you’re just as liable as the guy who pulled the trigger.”

  Davis took a moment to chew on that—possibly decoding all the big words—then turned to his buddy in the security uniform. “That true?” he demanded.

  The guard shrugged. “I don’t know, man. All I got is a GED.”

  “Dumbfuck.” Dav
is returned his attention to Jeremy. Then he raised his chin a bit. “So if I’m up for that anyway, I might as well off you. They can only sentence me to life once. It’s like buy one, get one free.”

  “Buy one get two, you mean. Remember Donny’s sister?”

  “Never met the bitch.”

  Jeremy sighed. “Look. I’m a park ranger—that’s law enforcement. You kill me and you get the death penalty.” That was a lie. A park ranger didn’t count as law enforcement because he wasn’t a sworn officer, and in any case, Oregon hadn’t executed anyone for nearly twenty years. But Jeremy figured Davis wouldn’t know that.

  When Davis hesitated, Jeremy decided to push his luck and expand the lie into full-fledged fantasy. “You know how they execute people here? Electric chair. I used to be a cop, and once I got to go down to Salem and watch them fry someone. Zhzhzh. You know those bug zappers people put on their porches? It was like that, only a man takes a lot longer to kill than a mosquito.”

  Davis’s men shifted uneasily, exchanging glances with one another. But Davis only sniffed. “There’s worse things than death anyway. We got this place to ourselves all weekend. I’ll just torture it out of you.”

  That wasn’t much of an improvement over getting shot. Jeremy tried his best to think of any way to talk himself out of this mess, but he was so fucking cold and his brains felt as if they’d been scrambled by a rototiller. “I don’t know where the goddamn drive is,” he said tiredly. “Donny never mentioned it. I never saw it. I had no idea it existed until after you wrecked my place.”

  Thud! Davis hit him with the pistol again. And this time Jeremy blacked out.

  HE CAME to consciousness gasping and spitting out water. Frigid liquid dripped down his chest, chilling him all the way to the bone. He was so cold he could barely work his jaw.

  Davis stood in front of him with a plastic bucket, looking smug. “It’s not bedtime yet. We still have some talking to do.” Slowly, he set the bucket down. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and a lighter from his expensive pants. He shook out a cigarette, lit it, and tucked the other items away. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way,” he said.

 

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