Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  Shit, a moron and apparently a fan of bad gangster movies. “Don’t want to do it at all,” Jeremy said through chattering teeth.

  “We’ll start simple.” Davis closed the distance between them and pressed the burning end of his cigarette into the center of Jeremy’s chest.

  Jeremy bellowed. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the searing pain or the stench of his own scorched flesh. He didn’t really have time to think about it, because Davis pushed the cigarette against him again and again, and when that one burned out, he lit another. After a while, the small wounds coalesced into one excruciating agony that grew with every heartbeat.

  How could he be burning and freezing at the same time?

  When Davis ran out of cigarettes, he stood behind Jeremy and broke his fingers. One by one, starting with the pinky on Jeremy’s left hand. He stopped before he got to the thumb, and he walked around to face Jeremy, who slumped in his bonds. Davis roughly lifted Jeremy’s chin. “I want a drink. Give you time to think about the upside of talking. Otherwise, when I come back, we’ll try something new. Maybe… see how hard I can squeeze your balls before they burst.” He gave a small, evil smile before kneeing Jeremy in the crotch.

  This time, Jeremy grayed out. He was vaguely aware of Davis walking away and the sound of conversation, but his mind couldn’t track it. Didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered except the cold and the pain and…. Oh God. Qay.

  What if this sick fucker knew about Qay and decided that was where the thumb drive was?

  Moaning deep in his throat, Jeremy pulled at the ropes. He’d been scared since he woke up in this place, but the realization that Qay might be in danger was enough to ramp him up to full-blown terror. Despite the pain, exhaustion, and cold, adrenaline surged through him. He was strong, dammit! He wasn’t that fat little loser who got bullied in school, whose parents didn’t find him worth their attention, who never reached out in friendship to the handsome, lonely boy who shared the back row of his classrooms.

  He wrenched his body with all his might, but the ropes held.

  And then he did the only thing that remained to him—he opened his mouth and screamed his frustration and anger and fear. And his despair over having failed Qay.

  His cry sounded ragged and hoarse even as it echoed around the vast room.

  Davis walked slowly toward him with a beer in his hand and a snarl of a smile. “Had a good think, fag? Decided whether you want to end your life as a eunuch?”

  “Fuck you,” Jeremy rasped through a sandpaper throat.

  Although Davis opened his mouth, his no doubt witty reply was lost to eternity when two doors crashed open with resounding bangs.

  Davis dropped the bottle and whirled around. His thugs took off running in separate directions. Commanding shouts rang out. Jeremy yelled, “They have guns!”

  And as if to prove his point, that fucker Davis pulled out his gun and shot him.

  Jeremy didn’t even scream when the bullet tore through the front of his left shoulder. He already hurt so much that he merely grunted and gritted his teeth, then endured the heated drip of his blood as it flowed down his chest.

  The rest came to him in flashes. More gunshots. Lots of yelling. Someone standing in front of him, saying something Jeremy couldn’t begin to process. And then he was falling—

  No. Several arms caught him, laid him on a stretcher, covered him with a thermal blanket.

  “Qay?” he whispered. But if anyone answered, he was too far gone to tell.

  Chapter Twenty

  JEREMY’S BUILDING swarmed with patrol officers, every damned one of whom had a million questions for Qay. He didn’t want to answer any of them—he just wanted to know what the hell was going on with Jeremy. But if these cops knew, they wouldn’t tell him. They just kept badgering him until he sank down onto the cold floor of the parking garage and fought to breathe.

  “Mother Mary’s tits, you flaming pricks! This guy didn’t hurt anyone. Give him a moment of fucking peace!” Qay glanced up. The yelling came from a small, handsome man in a natty suit. A detective, Qay supposed vaguely.

  “He broke into the offices,” said one of the uniforms, pointing up at the ceiling.

  “So he could call 911, fuckwad. Go. Do your job. Write up an assload of useless reports.” The detective made a shooing motion before turning to Qay and crouching on his haunches. “Your name’s Qay Hill?” he asked in a considerably softer tone.

  Qay nodded mutely.

  “I’m Nevin Ng, and I’m Jeremy’s friend.” He stood and held out a hand. “Let’s blow this shithole, okay? Where’s your car?”

  “No car. I walked.”

  “Then I’ll give you a ride home. C’mon.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Qay took the offered hand and used it to haul himself up. Ng was strong and took Qay’s weight easily. Then Ng glared and swore at a few of his colleagues, who parted like the Red Sea and cleared a path to the garage exit.

  Under different circumstances, Qay would have laughed when he saw Ng’s car: a classic GTO in a purple so dark it was almost black. Ng unlocked it and waved him to the passenger side. The upholstery was black and absolutely pristine, and the car smelled a little like Old Spice.

  Ng reached to turn the ignition, but Qay stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Have they found him?”

  “Don’t know yet. But I got friends who promised me an update as soon as they know anything.”

  Qay’s sigh was more like a groan as he fell back against the plush seat.

  “Are you his speculatively positive outcome?” Ng asked.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Are you and Germy Cox doing the nasty?”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  Ng grinned slightly. “You are. And you give a damn about the big dolt.” His smile faded and he shook his head. “I told that asshole to be careful. Thinks he’s a goddamn superhero.”

  “Captain Caffeine,” Qay agreed, slumping forward with exhaustion. He’d burned all the energy from his body.

  “Ha! Captain Caffeine! I like it. Where to, princess?”

  Ng didn’t comment on Qay’s shitty apartment. Instead, he settled Qay on the couch and made them both some tea. Which was a hell of an achievement, because Qay could have sworn he didn’t have any tea. But Ng handed him a steaming mug and sat next to him with a sigh. “Hell of a fucking mess,” Ng muttered.

  Qay nodded numbly. His hands were the only parts of his body he felt connected to as they gathered heat from the cup. The rest of him floated weightlessly in a deep black hole.

  Ng must have felt obligated to fill the silence. “This isn’t even my beat, you know? I catch the whoresons who beat up grannies or rape people they think can’t tell on ’em. Kidnapping, murder, drugs… those are for the fuckheads in vice and homicide. And if they’d done their jobs, we wouldn’t be here right now.” He barked a laugh. “I guess I should be thankful. This shit saved me from the most painful Thanksgiving ever.”

  Thanksgiving. Even the thought of food turned Qay’s stomach. He had forgotten all about their plans. “Rhoda,” he said, his voice flat despite his concern. “She was expecting us. I don’t have her number.”

  “God damn it,” Ng swore, but not at Qay. “Drink your tea, man. I’ll be right back.” He took his tea into the kitchenette and talked quietly into his phone for a while. Qay didn’t bother trying to listen.

  Ng returned and plopped down beside him. “I talked to Rhoda. She wants to know if you’re holding it together.”

  Qay gave him a bleak look, and Ng shook his head. “You got some booze around here? Couple shots might chill you a little.”

  “I’m an addict. Clean seven years, but….”

  Instead of looking disgusted, Ng clicked his tongue. “That sucks balls. Good for you, though. Seven years is like moving a fucking mountain with a teaspoon.”

  There was no way to respond to that except with a nod.

  A thought formed in Qay’s sluggish brain. “If they’re so
eager to find that thumb drive, how come they didn’t touch Jeremy’s SUV? It was right there in the garage, and Donny could have stashed it there.”

  “Dunno, man. Douchecanoes like Davis don’t think logically.”

  Qay nodded slightly. He used to know douche canoes like that.

  They sipped their tea.

  When Ng’s phone rang, Qay startled so badly he sloshed the contents of his mug. He chewed his lip bloody as he watched Ng talk, but the detective’s grave face gave nothing away. Then Ng ended the call, tucked his phone away, and gave Qay a long look. “He’s alive,” he finally said.

  Qay moaned.

  “He’s alive but he’s in shitty shape, and they’ve got him in the ER right now.”

  Qay jumped to his feet, ignoring the remains of his tea. “Where?”

  “I can take you, man, but—”

  “Please!” If Ng refused, Qay would find out which hospital and get there himself, holiday bus schedule or not. He’d run if he had to.

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay, dammit. Let’s go.”

  If Ng spoke during the drive, Qay didn’t register it. He had no idea what neighborhoods they passed through or which direction they were headed. He simply sat in the purple GTO and wondered if someone could die from a daylong anxiety attack.

  He seemed to lose Ng shortly after their arrival at the hospital, but Rhoda was there, and she swooped in to give Qay an unexpected and robust hug. “Sweetheart!” she said. “You look like death. Have you eaten anything today?”

  He stared vacantly at her. “Jeremy?”

  “In surgery. Serious but stable. He’ll pull through, honey.”

  Qay drew in a shuddering breath, then another, and then he couldn’t stop shaking. Rhoda sat him down on a plastic chair and waved away a nurse who assumed Qay was a patient. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably when he could speak again.

  “Don’t give me that. It’s been a terrible day and you deserve to fall apart. But Jeremy’s going to be all right, and so will you.”

  He hung his head miserably.

  Rhoda bustled away, and when she returned a few minutes later, she thrust a packaged muffin at him. “It’ll taste like crap, but you need to eat.”

  Because he didn’t have the energy to argue, he opened the plastic, broke off a piece of pastry, and stuck it in his mouth. He didn’t taste it at all. “You’re missing your dinner,” he said.

  “I had one serving, which was plenty. I like the leftovers better anyway. Parker’s holding down the fort at home, and that’s good for him. He just broke up with his latest boyfriend, so he’s feeling a little lost.”

  Qay wished he’d had the chance to meet Rhoda’s son. Jeremy had good things to say about him.

  The muffin disappeared magically into Qay’s stomach, and Rhoda brought him a Coke to wash it down. “No coffee?” he asked.

  “I’m willing to commit certain atrocities, but serving vending machine coffee isn’t one of them.” She smiled faintly. Today she wore a long-sleeved dress with a peacock-feather print and matching earrings. She’d arranged her hair in a complicated style.

  “You look really nice today, Rhoda. Um, not that you don’t usually look nice, but today you’re extra nice and those colors are great on you.” Oh good. He’d lost control of his tongue and was babbling inanely.

  But she beamed and patted his arm. “You’re a good one for sure, Qay.”

  He was still considering how to respond when Ng reappeared with Frankl at his side. Ng was tight-faced and angry, but Frankl just looked exhausted. “Are you Rhoda Levin?” Frankl asked.

  She stood and nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m Captain Frankl from the police bureau. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

  Qay remained seated as Frankl began to walk away, but Rhoda gestured impatiently. “Come on, Qay. You too.”

  “He’s not listed as an emergency contact,” Frankl said.

  “Only because Jeremy hadn’t gotten around to it. These two care about each other. Qay needs to be there.”

  Maybe Frankl would have argued, but Ng huffed. “Don’t be a prick, Frankl. Jeremy told me himself he’s got a serious thing for this dude. Qay gets to go.”

  When Frankl shrugged wearily and stalked away, Qay allowed Rhoda to tug him upright. As they walked through the hospital, Qay was stunned by what had just happened. Jeremy had said something to Ng about him—said it was serious. And both Rhoda and Ng had stood up for him. Nobody did that.

  Two floors up and several corridors away, they ended up in another waiting room. This one was smaller, with a more hushed atmosphere. The furniture was upholstered instead of plastic, carpet lined the floor, and peaceful landscapes hung on the walls. A small group of people huddled in one corner, while an older man dozed by himself near a wall. Frankl led them to a circular cluster of chairs and motioned Rhoda to sit.

  Qay sat too, but only for a few seconds. His nerves were crawling under his skin, so while the policemen spoke quietly with Rhoda, Qay paced the room, his shoulders hunched under his leather jacket. He heard bits and pieces of the conversation: burns, gunshot, broken fingers, hypothermia. He learned that Davis and one of his minions were dead, another was in surgery, and a fourth man was jailed. Frankl’s men were busily searching the factory where they’d found Jeremy as well as Davis’s house and just about every other place where the guy had stepped foot lately. At some point Qay would probably be relieved to know Davis was no longer a threat, but right now he simply paced. The silent family in the corner watched.

  He was on his thousandth circuit of the room when Rhoda waved at him. “Why are you limping?”

  Surprised, he stopped and looked down at his right foot. It hurt. He hadn’t noticed.

  “He kicked a fucking door in,” Ng said.

  “A door? Why?”

  “To get to a phone and call for help. He’s the one who figured out Jeremy’d been snatched.”

  “Honey!” She rushed over to drag him to a chair. Then she ran off, returning shortly with a doctor who insisted on examining Qay’s foot. Bruised and mildly strained, the doctor said. He gave Qay an ice pack and told him to rest for a few days and keep the foot elevated. When the doctor seemed about to ask for paperwork and insurance information, Ng had a few quiet words with him. The doctor nodded and went away.

  Now Qay couldn’t pace anymore, and he couldn’t get his boot onto the swollen foot. He leaned back in his chair, covered his eyes with an arm, and concentrated on not going insane.

  “Here you go, hon.” The soft words and a gentle tap on his shoulder brought him back to awareness. Frankl was gone, but Ng sat across from him, balancing a paper plate heaped full of food. Rhoda held a foil-covered plate out to Qay. “This is better than a machine muffin,” she said.

  He took the plate, removed the foil, and inhaled. Turkey with all the trimmings, still fragrant and warm. “How?” he asked.

  “I had Parker come by with it. He brought you one of his slippers too. I bet you can get it on your bum foot.” She pointed at the slipper in question, which sat on the chair next to him. The slipper was furry with a monster face appliquéd on it. Qay must have looked skeptical, because Rhoda laughed. “Your dignity will survive, baby.”

  “I don’t have any dignity.” And to prove it, he eased on the foolish slipper and dug into the food with the plastic cutlery Rhoda gave him. Everything was delicious. She’d even managed to conjure a hot spiced cider—nonalcoholic—which he hadn’t tasted in years.

  Shortly after Qay and Nevin finished eating, a doctor entered the room and headed their way. She was tall and thin, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and although she looked tired, a small smile played on her lips. “You are Mr. Cox’s friends?” she asked. She had a slight accent, musical and pleasant.

  They all nodded, and Qay remained seated as Nevin and Rhoda stood.

  “I am Dr. Jalali, the surgeon. I am happy to tell you that Mr. Cox is doing quite well. He is in recovery now and should be able to receive visitors soon. Doe
s he have someone to help care for him at home?”

  “Yes,” all three of them said in unison.

  “Very good. Then he should be able to go home by Saturday. Perhaps even late tomorrow.”

  An enormous weight lifted from Qay’s chest, making him feel buoyant. “He’ll be okay?”

  “Yes. His fingers will remain splinted, and he may require physical therapy for his shoulder when the wound has healed. The burns will scar. But he will recover fully.”

  Maybe his pitiful prayer had been answered. Qay wasn’t even sure he believed in God, but he figured it didn’t hurt to be grateful. Thank you, God, he thought. Thank you so much. I owe you one.

  AFTER MAKING Rhoda promise to call if anything changed, Nevin went home—but not before he shook Qay’s hand. “You’re still fucking holding it together, man. Looks like for once, Germy chose wisely in love.”

  Qay and Rhoda sat and waited. She’d found a couple of paperbacks somewhere—maybe Parker had brought them—and she handed one to Qay. It was one of those fantasy novels with a complicated plot and impossible names. He was unable to keep track of any of it in his current state, but it was still nice to run his gaze over the sentences, even if they didn’t make much sense.

  A doctor spoke with the group of people in the corner. They looked relieved. But the outcome apparently wasn’t as good for the older man, who was led weeping into a private room. Qay’s heart ached for the guy, and he hoped that at least the man and whomever he was mourning had enjoyed a long time together.

  Rhoda brought Qay another Coke. When he hobbled to the bathroom, an exhausted-looking nurse smiled at the ridiculous monster face on the slipper, and Qay felt a little better about his footwear.

  He returned and collapsed into his chair with a sigh.