Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  But the locker room was sixteen years ago, and that night in the apartment Somers had been wasted. The night before had been different. It had been different because Somers and Hazard had been adults, had been sober. It had been different, that small, insistent voice repeated, because Somers had tried to seduce Hazard. Who had he been trying to fool with that stupid massage?

  Somers wrapped the towel around his waist, slipped out of bed, and shivered in the freezing cold. Whatever attractions Windsor offered, decent heating and insulation obviously weren’t part of them. The radiator rattled and clanked, but it couldn’t seem to keep up with the winter outside. He padded downstairs to the laundry room and tumbled the clothes until they were warm, gathered them up in a ball, and carried them back to the attic room. On his way, still shivering in the drafty hall, he was surprised to notice the light under Thomas Strong’s door. Had the man been working all night? Somers paused a moment, listened, and heard nothing. Another shiver overtook him, and Somers hurried towards the stairs. The house was cold, yes, but there was something strange about the people here, and it was setting Somers on edge.

  When he got back to the attic room, Somers forgot about Thomas Strong and the other guests. Hazard was propped up in bed, the sheets gathered high on his chest, his huge hands—

  —his callused thumb brushing Somers’s nipple, making him cry out—

  —clasping his knees. For once, Hazard’s long hair was messy, and it made him look younger and, in an odd way, dangerous. Dangerously attractive, that was for sure.

  “You didn’t fold them?” Hazard asked.

  Somers dropped the clothes on the bed and began sorting through them. Trust Hazard to ruin a moment just by opening his mouth. Snagging his clothes, Somers dropped the towel and dressed. He pretended not to notice Hazard ogling him, but it was hard not to like it. It was high school all over again; there was nothing that had ever made Somers feel the way he did when he saw the raw desire in Emery Hazard’s face.

  Hazard finally managed to tear his eyes away and, in a rough voice, say, “They’re all wrinkled.”

  “You’re a big boy. You’ll be fine. Anyway, there wasn’t an iron.”

  Hazard had gathered up his clothing and was making his way to the bathroom. Evidently, he had more concern for modesty—or maybe he was trying to hide something else. “Like you’d know what to do with an iron. I’ve seen your closet.”

  “I resent that,” Somers called after him as the door shut. “Call me when you need help buttoning your shirt.”

  An antique mirror hung on the wall, and Somers ran a hand through his hair. The blond locks fell into their usual controlled mess without much effort and Somers, dressed and ready to go, rapped on the bathroom door.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re trying to do them up with one hand, aren’t you?”

  “Go to hell, Somers.”

  “That’s a nice way to talk to your partner. Especially after what happened—”

  The bathroom door flew open. Hazard stood there, twin red slashes standing out on his pale cheeks, his shirt misbuttoned and hanging halfway open.

  “Say one more word,” Hazard said in that low, gravelly voice that raised the hairs on the back of Somers’s neck, “and I’ll kill you.”

  “What?” Somers said, eyes wide. “I was just going to say especially after what happened the last time we had an argument. Remember? You ended up buying me a burrito.”

  Hazard’s eyes narrowed, and Somers felt a prickle of fear. He was treading on dangerous ground, but he knew that if they didn’t move past what had happened last night—and if they didn’t do it quickly—it would poison their partnership.

  “I bought you two burritos,” Hazard finally said. “You’re starting to get fat. Now, will you help me with this shirt or not?”

  Somers’s hands were trembling, very slightly, as he did up the buttons, and he hoped Hazard didn’t notice. It was hard, being this close to him, smelling the laundry soap on the clothes, the slight musk of Hazard’s skin, with the stiff black hairs on Hazard’s chest grazing the back of Somers’s fingers. When he’d finished, he did Hazard’s tie and stepped back.

  “Something’s off.”

  “Nothing’s off.”

  “You look weird.”

  “Screw you.”

  “No, I just—”

  “What?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “What is it, Somers?” Hazard turned, studying himself in the mirror, craning his head to glimpse different angles.

  “It’s nothing. It’s just, your hair. You always have it so . . . proper. Combed. I didn’t know it was curly.”

  “It’s not curly.”

  “You have a big fat curl on your forehead.”

  “It’s wavy, asshole.” Hazard shoved a hand through his hair; wavy was probably the right word, Somers decided as he tracked the curling edges of the long, dark hair. “And I don’t have any product because I wasn’t planning on you getting us stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s not the middle of—”

  Hazard started to growl.

  “Fine,” Somers said, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s the middle of nowhere. Now, I’m going to see what the river looks like. You coming?”

  “Of course I’m coming. Don’t be stupid.”

  As they started down the stairs, Somers said, “There was a nicer way to say that, you know.”

  “I know.”

  When they opened the doors that led outside, Somers stopped. Hazard shook his head, spat, and said, “God damn it, Somers.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Of course it’s your fault.”

  Somers stared out at the grounds of Windsor, which now lay under a heavy blanket of snow. At some point during the night, the rain must have changed, and to judge by the thick drifts piled against the hedges and the side of the house, it had been a hell of a storm. The cold swatted Somers in the face, and he sucked in an icy lungful. The overcast sky was still spilling snow, but now just a few flurries at a time, and a stiff breeze raised veils of drifting snow that looked, in the gray light, like blowing sand.

  Hazard, grumbling under his breath, marched into the drift. It came almost halfway up his shins, and he swore with every step. Somers, pulling the doors shut, trotted after him, using the holes made by the bigger man to ease his passage. They walked that way to the banks of the Petty Philadelph, and again Somers felt his heart drop.

  The river was flowing higher than ever. Against the far shore, where the Impala had drifted to a stop, only a sliver of the car’s roof still showed. Ice cluttered the water closest to the riverbanks, but it snapped and swirled away when Hazard tossed a rock into the water.

  Hazard shook his head again. It was hard to tell if the red in his pale cheeks was from the cold or from anger. Somers would have put money that it was both. Wordlessly, Hazard spun away and began tromping back towards the house.

  “Ree, wait up.”

  Hazard stopped. Then, stiffly, he turned to face Somers. “This is fucking ridiculous. This is a joke. I cannot believe you put us in the middle of this frozen shit. It’s Thanksgiving, Somers. Happy Thanksgiving. I could have had a nice dinner with Nico last night. I could be spending my holiday relaxing and enjoying myself. Instead, I’m here, and you—you—” He threw up his hands and stalked towards Windsor.

  Somers watched him walk for about five feet. Then he scooped up a handful of snow, packed it down, and launched it at the back of Hazard’s head. It splattered against Hazard’s hair, spraying snow across his neck and shoulders. Hazard’s head rocked forward, and then he lumbered around to face Somers.

  “Just what the hell—”

  He never had a chance to finish. Somers was already running, and he hit Hazard in a flying tackle that sent both of them to the ground. They landed hard, and Somers heard the air explode out of Hazard’s lungs. For a foot, then two, they slid through the snow, and then they stopped with Somers on top
of Hazard. He wriggled forward, pinning the bigger man and staring down at him.

  “All right. Enough already. I know you’re pissed at me. I know I screwed up. But for God’s sake, let it go. I apologized—for getting us into this mess and for last night. If you’re still mad, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Hazard was breathing wildly, and his scarecrow eyes looked like shattered sunlight. In a strained voice, he managed to say, “My shoulder.”

  “Oh Christ, Ree, I didn’t even think.” Somers reared back, reaching for Hazard’s shirt. “I’m so sorry—”

  Hazard bucked his hips, tossing Somers into the snow, and then he rolled sideways and clambered on top of him. Somers gawked up at him, unable to process what had just happened, and then Hazard rubbed a pawful of snow in his face. The cold cracked against Somers’s brain, and he sucked in a mouthful of snowmelt.

  “You bastard,” he said, struggling to get free and suddenly aware of Hazard’s weight on his chest, of Hazard’s big hands pinning his. “I thought I’d hurt you, you stinking cheat.”

  Hazard was growling, a sub-audible sound that rumbled through his chest and transmitted into Somers’s body. For the first time that morning, Somers noticed the blue-black stubble on Hazard’s jaw. A moment later, Hazard bent down, his mouth to Somers’s ear, his stubble scraping Somers’s frozen cheek raw.

  “You know how I feel about you. You’ve known how I’ve felt for a long time. If you want to be with your wife, that’s fine. But you’ve got to decide. No more games.”

  Then Hazard’s lips were pressed against Somers’s, his tongue forcing its way into Somers’s mouth, stealing the breath from Somers’s lungs. As Hazard pulled back, his teeth caught Somers’s lower lip. The flesh was numb from the cold, but the pressure was intense, and when Hazard finally let go, Somers felt a trickle of warmth on his chin. Somers reached up, and his thumb came back with a bright line of blood.

  Hazard was still looking at Somers, his scarecrow eyes locked with Somers’s. Wiping away another line of blood, Somers nodded. Hazard scooted back, gave Somers a hand, and helped him to his feet.

  “And for the record,” Hazard said, one hand going to his shoulder, “you broke the damn thing open again, so you’re going to have to tape me up when we get back to the house. And you’d better be damn ready to give me another massage tonight. Just a massage.”

  Somers, unable to find speech, just nodded. Hazard gave him a last, searching look and then headed for Windsor. Somers followed him, his brain turned to slush from the kiss, his split lip beginning to throb—and that wasn’t the only part of him.

  Choose, Hazard had said. Somers had to choose. And just how in the world was he supposed to do that? Still pondering the question, Somers stomped through the snow towards Windsor.

  That was when the screaming started.

  WITH SOMER'S TASTE STILL IN HIS MOUTH, Hazard walked fast, trying to clear his head. What had just happened? What the fuck had he said? And why in heaven’s name had he said it? Choose—Hazard shook his head, wanting to laugh. He had told John-Henry Somerset he had to choose. What kind of idiot ultimatum was that? What the hell, he wanted to know, had he just done?

  And why had it been so hot?

  Screams interrupted Hazard’s thoughts, bringing reflex and instinct to the foreground. He whipped the .38 from his shoulder holster and scanned the area. The screams were coming from the direction of Windsor, but they were loud and clear. Hazard sprinted towards the old manor. Somers, face flushed, drew up alongside him, the big Glock held in both hands.

  When they reached the doors, they moved in with clockwork precision, clearing the entry hall before pausing again. The screams were coming from upstairs, and Hazard knew, already, where they were coming from.

  As a team, he and Somers moved up the stairs, with Somers covering Hazard as they reached the landing. Outside the door to Thomas Strong’s office, Leza Weaver stood screaming. She wore her frilly black-and-white maid uniform, and both her hands were gripping the collar, her knuckles white.

  Hazard nodded to Somers and moved past the screaming woman. Inside the room, a man was dead, sprawled backward in an office chair. He was dressed in a tuxedo, with a black bow tie and a bloodstain on the front of his crisp, white shirt. Where exposed skin showed, it was bluish white.

  “Is this him?” Somers asked, touching Leza’s arm.

  Leza nodded.

  “Thomas Strong,” Somers said. “That’s his name?”

  Again, Leza nodded, still weakly screaming.

  The room was not a bedroom, as Hazard had believed. Instead, it was an office: a sleek aluminum-case laptop sat on the desk in front of Strong, and a printer and fax machine stood on a table behind him. Forest green paper covered the walls, and books lined shelves on either side of the desk. Underneath the faint smell of urine and loose stool, it even smelled like a rich man’s office: the lingering aroma of leather and expensive cigars. Behind Strong, a window stood open, and an arctic gale whipped through the room, stirring Strong’s dark hair and carrying drifts of snow into the room, where they melted on the floor. Puddles of snowmelt glistened with a rainbow sheen—leftover, Hazard assumed, from whatever cleaning agent had been used on the floor.

  Behind Hazard, Leza had stopped screaming. Somers was talking to her, his voice a low murmur, and then together they moved down the hallway. Then doors began to open, and voices mingled in confusion. Leza’s silence dissolved into tears, and everything in the hallway jumbled together.

  Hazard ignored it all as best he could. As far as the job went, he trusted Somers, and so he turned his attention to the crime scene. Nothing in the office looked like it had been disturbed. Carefully avoiding the puddled water, Hazard moved behind Strong’s chair. The bullet—or bullets—hadn’t passed through the upholstery, and when Hazard shifted Strong’s body, he saw the back of the tuxedo was undamaged. The bullet was still inside Strong, which meant it had most likely been a small caliber round.

  After easing Strong’s body back into place, Hazard examined the window. It looked out over the rear of Windsor, where snow blanketed the even lines of what Hazard assumed was a garden and, at its center, a gazebo. Farther out, with the sun steadily creeping above the horizon, a thick line of trees marked the beginning of the woodlands that surrounded the house. More white decorated their branches.

  Directly below the window, a stretch of snow-covered roof sloped down towards a gutter. Careful to keep his hands from touching the window frame or sill, Hazard leaned towards the roof. Something had slid through the snow, leaving a trail that led to the edge of the roof.

  “Hazard?”

  Somers stood in the doorway, his attention fixed on Strong’s corpse.

  “No sign of a struggle,” Hazard said.

  “We’ll have to check, but I’ll bet no one heard a shot,” Somers said. “I bet no one heard anything besides the storm.”

  “What are they doing?”

  Somers stayed in the hallway and cast a glance towards the bedrooms. He spoke in a low voice. “I’ve got them locked in their bedrooms. Nobody’s going anywhere until we’ve had a chance to talk to them.”

  “How’d they seem?”

  “Well, no one’s shedding too many tears. Even Leza dried up pretty fast once she got herself under control. They all seem scared for their own skins, but not a lot of other emotions.”

  “Statistics say the person who found the body is the most likely murderer.”

  “What about last night?”

  “What?”

  “The secretary. You saw how he treated her.”

  Hazard nodded. “Are they all here?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m calling Cravens. Give me your phone.”

  “What happened to yours? No, never mind. Here.” He swiped at the screen and slapped the unlocked phone into Hazard’s hand.

  With another nod, Hazard turned his attention back to the crime scene. Down the hall, a door opened, and Somers bark
ed an order. Hazard heard the protests and objections over the phone’s ringing as Somers corralled the guests in their rooms.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Detective Somerset.” Cravens’s voice was as even as ever. “A little early to chat, isn’t it? What’s going on?”

  “It’s Hazard. I’m looking at a murder.” He filled Cravens in on what had happened—omitting everything that had happened between him and Somers—and when he’d finished, he said, “Still no way across the river. It’s running faster and higher than ever.”

  “I’m half-inclined to send a chopper. Thomas Strong is the victim?”

  “He’s the guy.”

  “What a mess. All right, you’ll have to lock down the scene as best you can.”

  “For how long?”

  “I wasn’t kidding about the chopper. I’ll call you back when I know something.”

  The line went dead. Hazard left the office, shutting the door behind him, and joined Somers in the hall.

  “Cravens is going to try to send some people out. Helicopter.”

  “This is a nightmare. They’re already starting to complain.”

  True to Somers’s words, a door at the end of the hall popped open, and Leza stuck her head out. “Detective,” Leza said, her eyes still puffy, but her voice filled with irritation. “We’re hungry and we’re hungover and we’re not going to be treated like criminals. I insist that you—”

  “Get inside and the shut the door,” Hazard snapped. Leza blinked and looked as though he’d slapped her. “You’re all going to stay where you are until things are under control. I don’t care if you have to piss in the potted plants, you’re staying there, and you’re going to be quiet.”

  With a nod, he motioned for Somers to step towards the landing, while still keeping the length of the hallway in sight. “Cravens told us to lock down the office. Once we know a chopper is on the way, one of us can stay posted in the room while the other plays shepherd with these fools.”