The Golden Ratio

by Cole McCade

  Fuck, his face almost hurt from smiling.

  “Forty years,” he said, and he couldn’t help his throat closing, the perfect feeling of it. “Forty years together, and I’d just…fallen out of my own marriage, and seeing the way they looked at each other after forty goddamned years…it made me feel like beautiful things were still possible again. My mother standing there with flowers in her hair, and my father looking at her like he’s never been in love with anyone else all this time.”

  He trailed off. He couldn’t breathe, and yet it wasn’t so very terrible, not when…that remembered feeling had something new to it, now.

  Something that was all his own.

  Something that said he could believe in beautiful things again, because…

  Because there was a beautiful thing in his arms right now, looking at him with dark, intense eyes that absorbed every word he said as if Seong-Jae cared.

  And after a few moments of silence, Seong-Jae pushed himself up to kiss his cheek, lingering with a warm imprint against his skin. “Thank you,” he said softly. “For telling me that.”

  “It’s…hey, it’s nothing.”

  It wasn’t nothing, when Malcolm felt like in some quiet way he’d poured out a little piece of his heart he hadn’t realized was even there—a desperate longing to say, in twenty and thirty and forty more years, that he was still Seong-Jae’s and Seong-Jae was still his. To stand hand in hand with the weight of rings they’d worn so long they’d left marks on their fingers and the shine of the polish was the shine of age and decades of friction, and they’d tease each other about having to get Malcolm’s suit adjusted for a growing belly while Seong-Jae was still lean and trim and mock-scowling about having to wear a suit at all.

  They’d been dating for four months.

  He was moving too fast, and needing too much.

  Maybe right now, after seeing the worst of humanity…

  He was just desperate for a bright thing of his own, to light his way in the dark.

  He pushed down the knotted feeling in his throat, and tightened his grip on Seong-Jae in a small squeeze. “Hey,” he said. “We’re going apartment-hunting when we get back. What kind of place do you like? Anything special?”

  Seong-Jae considered, as he settled against Malcolm again. Then said, “…I like…old spaces. Spaces with history. Concrete floors, the feeling that once there were many people there.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “So that’s why you were in that converted warehouse apartment?”

  “Yes. That, and the rent was exceedingly low for the size,” Seong-Jae added. “Apparently it is very difficult to heat in winter, and that makes it extremely hard to keep tenants.”

  “…what would you have done in winter if you hadn’t started sleeping at my place?”

  Seong-Jae shrugged nonchalantly. “Bought many blankets.”

  Malcolm let out a helpless laugh. “So we want somewhere industrial, but warm. Anything else?”

  With a thoughtful sound, Seong-Jae added, “…a skylight in our bedroom.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” And Seong-Jae gifted Malcolm one of those rare sweet smiles, small and yet unguarded, soft. “So that you can count constellations with me as we fall asleep.”

  Fucking hell.

  Seong-Jae was going to kill him with the wild and needy beating of Malcolm’s heart.

  Seong-Jae was going to kill him, and Malcolm would willingly die.

  “I’ll do what I can to find that, then,” he said.

  Because I love you.

  It sat on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say it.

  Not tonight.

  Not when Seong-Jae’s nerves were so raw, so on edge, and Malcolm didn’t want to push him past this sweet and quiet place into defensiveness.

  Seong-Jae studied him quietly, then asked, “What about you? What would you prefer?”

  “Mm?” Malcolm tilted his head, idly playing his fingers against the trim line of Seong-Jae’s waist, his hip. “Open spaces. That’s why I liked the loft. One space, terraced…it feels less closed-in than individual rooms. We’d just need more space for both of us, more storage…and an in-unit washer and dryer.”

  Seong-Jae made an amused sound. “You are a snob, you know.”

  “I am not.” Malcolm huffed. “What makes you think I’m a snob?”

  “You do not even wear clothing that has to be washed in a machine. You wear custom-tailored suits that are dry clean only.” Seong-Jae tweaked the lapel of his suit coat. “And yet you will not share a communal washing machine. You drink wines older than I am with dinner every night. And I am quite certain you will be very fussy about the kitchen in the new apartment; particularly the oven.”

  “Hey,” Malcolm sputtered. “Liking nice clothing, good wine, and being able to bake is not being a snob. It’s just called being a man of good taste.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Seong-Jae asked pointedly. “Good taste. And yet you have chosen to date a man who wears nearly identical clothing every day, drives a motorcycle, and leaves tracks from his motorcycle boots on your floor.”

  “Our. Our floor. And I make you sweep them up, too.” Malcolm nudged Seong-Jae with his thigh. “Since we have housekeeping to do that for us today, though…maybe we should get ready for bed.”

  That stiffness came back—instantly, sharply, and Malcolm winced.

  Maybe reminding Seong-Jae of the dark, the nightmares waiting, when they’d just found their way to laughter again…

  Hadn’t been the best idea for either of them.

  But “Yes,” Seong-Jae murmured, and pulled slowly away from Malcolm, that warm palm sliding from inside his coat, slipping across his chest before drawing back. Seong-Jae stood, his weight rising off the bed, making that annoying overly soft mattress dip and bounce. “Aanga will want us in early in the morning.”

  Malcolm stood as well, shrugging out of his coat and then tugging his tie the rest of the way off, tossing them both over the back of a chair. “I’ll bet Garza will be happy to see us at it bright and early, too. She seems to want us off her turf pretty fast.”

  Seong-Jae paused, shirt half-lifted over the tight, tapered sculpture of his abdomen, fingers curled in the black cotton. “I think she simply wishes this had happened anywhere but in her jurisdiction.”

  “Yeah,” Malcolm said. “And I can’t blame her.”

  They finished undressing in silence, stripping down to underwear before slipping back into bed together in almost tandem motions, practiced and easy even though this wasn’t normally how they found themselves falling into the sheets, save for on nights when Seong-Jae said he simply didn’t want to be touched that way and Malcolm said then let me hold you, and goodnight.

  This would be one of those nights for both of them.

  Malcolm never seemed to stop desiring Seong-Jae, but…

  This was a night when his blood was too heavy to stir.

  And he wouldn’t even think about putting that kind of expectation on Seong-Jae.

  So he simply gathered him close, and settled against the pillows, and tried to arrange a few of the too damned many things so he wouldn’t wake up in the morning with his back on fire and his spine in knots; Seong-Jae fit just right against him, the heat of his legs tangled with Malcolm’s and his head resting to Malcolm’s shoulder, the shape of his palm imprinted on Malcolm’s chest and long fingers threaded lightly into Malcolm’s chest hair.

  He thought, maybe…

  He could sleep without falling apart, like this.

  Seong-Jae anchoring him.

  He only hoped he could anchor his omr-an in return, and keep Seong-Jae safe from the things that haunted his darkness.

  As Malcolm reached up to palm the touchplate on the ornate wall lamp over the headboard, though, Seong-Jae murmured, “Malcolm?”

  “Yeah?” Malcolm asked, as the room plunged into blue-tinted darkness where outside, the strongest stars dotted the city skyline in haloes of artificial light.

>   “…will we survive this?”

  “Yes, Seong-Jae.” Malcolm had to believe that, and he pressed the words into Seong-Jae’s hair with a kiss. “I promise. One way or another…we will.”

  Seong-Jae said nothing, and Malcolm let him have his silence, closing his eyes.

  Maybe with silence, they could both escape nightmares of stalking dark corridors with a blood-dripping blade.

  The blade in my hand.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He stared up at the hotel ceiling, flicking back through memories again and again, replaying videos, the ancillary crime scenes, the main scene in the warden’s office. His breaths sucked in.

  “Seong-Jae…”

  Seong-Jae made a tired sound. “…ah?”

  “…we never saw the weapon.”

  The sudden bolt of stiffness that made Seong-Jae go rigid against him said more than words ever could for the moment it sank in.

  “The knife.” Seong-Jae pushed himself up sharply, staring down at Malcolm, his eyes just gleams in the dark, beneath the messy fall of his hair. “He murdered them with a baton, but then…”

  “We never saw the knife,” Malcolm finished.

  Seong-Jae shook his head. “Perhaps forensics will find it on the scene.”

  “Or…” Malcolm frowned. “He’s a dark triad. Unmistakably so. He needs a trophy, but unless he took a body part from the scene…”

  “He will have the knife on him,” Seong-Jae answered in a hush.

  But there was nothing more to say, for now.

  Only that dread realization, following them into sleep.

  [9: DIE FOR ME]

  SEONG-JAE DID NOT REMEMBER DREAMING.

  But he woke feeling as if he had fought a thousand wars in his sleep, and returned from them with his body bruised and beaten and battered by battles he could not recall.

  His hands hurt.

  His hands hurt when he woke up clutching at Malcolm so hard he must have dug bruises into Malcolm’s shoulders, and yet the old wolf had not pulled away from him in the night.

  The soreness in Seong-Jae’s palms, though, felt like something else.

  As if he had been gripping at the haft of a blade all night, until the patterned wood or metal cut into his palm to the point of tenderness.

  “…you’re moving,” Malcolm groaned groggily, not opening his eyes, his face almost lost in the tangle of hair spilling around him and over him and messily thrown everywhere in tumbles of grizzled silver and iron and hints of rich chestnut brown still clinging here and there. “That must mean it’s time to get up.”

  “Mmph,” Seong-Jae confirmed.

  And promptly buried his face against Malcolm’s chest, breathing in his old wolf’s scent and letting the stony, smoky warmth of him ease the sick anxious feeling fluttering in Seong-Jae’s chest.

  He felt as if he lived in dread, lately.

  Just two days ago, he had been stacking his boxes in Malcolm’s apartment. The night before that, they had made love against the kitchen counter; Malcolm had been so hungry he had not even been able to wait for the bed, pausing only for Seong-Jae’s consent and willing participation before he had pushed him hard against the unvarnished wood, dragged his jeans and boxer-briefs down around his hips, left him sore and gasping and grasping at the counter to withstand the strength of Malcolm’s need.

  He had felt so full.

  His body, his life, his heart.

  Now…

  Now he felt as if he had been punctured, and everything he had grasped so close to fill the broken spaces inside him had been drained away with alarming speed.

  Yet he could cling on to that feeling for a few moments more, right now.

  This was not their home, not their bed.

  But they were both here, and that was something.

  “…Seong-Jae?” Malcolm mumbled.

  “Nnh…?”

  “………you’re drooling on my chest.”

  Seong-Jae let out a soft snort that almost felt like a laugh, as if he still could laugh, as if it had not broken inside him and been left in tiny crumbles; only waiting dormant, until it was safe again.

  “Jot,” he muttered, and braced his hands to push himself up, leaning down to find Malcolm’s lips somewhere in that mess of beard and kiss him. “Come. The sooner we survive this day, the sooner we can hide from it again.”

  C

  SEONG-JAE TOOK A SIP OF bitter coffee—only half creamer, when the coffee station at the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office on the floor Garza had marked off for them was barely stocked with clumpy powder. No liquid creamer, hardly any sugar.

  Not exactly the best breakfast, but he doubted he could stomach anything else.

  Malcolm seemed just as unsettled, as he stirred his own coffee cup and settled into one of the rolling chairs that had been dragged into the room reserved for them, all dingy tile that had once been white but now looked perpetually worn and dirty. Aanga had already been there since much earlier, it seemed—or perhaps working late into the night, considering he still wore the same suit as the day before, creased into wrinkles and with subtle sweat stains around the arms.

  He looked as if he had not slept.

  Stubble dotted his jaw, and his normally slicked hair was disarrayed and dull in the dusty light streaming through the blinds, his glasses almost drooping on his nose.

  But he moved with the same sense of easy, calm energy that he always had, as he finished pinning the last of seven mug shots and printed out name plates up on the massive cork board that took up one side of the room.

  Their temporary war room was mostly barren of anything except that cork board, several tables supporting boxes of file folders and evidence bags, a crate of VHS tapes, an LCD TV on a stand with a combination DVD/VCR beneath. Not much else was needed, in the end.

  The main equipment in every case was always right between their ears.

  Seong-Jae skimmed the seven faces. All men, all in their late forties or early fifties, all Caucasian. That was where the resemblance ended; they ranged anywhere from platinum blond to dark brunette to iron gray to fully silver-white, their eyes green, blue, muddy shades in between, brown, black, gray. Some were coarse-faced, some had moustaches, some were smooth, some more delicately sculpted or even closer to handsome. Nothing in their expressions gave away anything—all of them the sort of blank, unassuming emptiness that was the default for most mug shots, mandated by guards demanding they not do anything so human as smile or weep for their misfortune.

  Nothing in those dull pixelated eyes, caught in a single moment of time, hinted that behind them there might be a mind capable of such sheer atrocity.

  The face of evil was a bland one, and always had been.

  He pressed the rim of his coffee mug against his mouth and deliberately avoided looking at the crime scene photographs pinned all over the corkboard and several smaller ones flanking it, instead trailing left to right to commit the list of names to memory.

  Marvin Dorcier, 49.

  Travis Coulton, 52.

  Aleksander Normand, 51.

  Kevin Arnsford, 47.

  Neil Samson, 47.

  Dale Walters, 54.

  Karl Ecklund, 49.

  One of these men was guilty.

  One of these men had hidden that calm, ordinary face beneath a nightmare of sculpted rubber, and torn dozens of lives limb from limb.

  “So these are our seven escapees?” Malcolm asked, inclining his paper coffee cup toward the corkboard, folding his other arm against his chest and propping his elbow atop it. “Everyone else has been identified?”

  “We’re still waiting on confirmation from next of kin for a few of the security guards, but we’ve got positive ID on all the dead prisoners,” Aanga said. “Kind of the killer to leave the faces intact. But these are the only seven we can’t account for. We have to assume they all escaped, either as part of a coordinated effort or taking advantage of the chaos.”

  “And we have to assume one of them
is our suspect,” Seong-Jae added.

  Aanga nodded, and started pulling sheets of paper out of stacked files on a folding table. “I’ve got rap sheets, some small personal details, enough to start with each unique psych profile.” He started tacking up printouts beneath each picture, reading them off one at a time as he did. “Marvin Dorcier. Multiple instances of perjury in relation to another person’s case of child abuse. Travis Coulton. Compulsive shoplifting at dollar stores. Aleksander Normand. Lied to send his child to school in the wrong school district.”

  Malcolm tapped his fingertips against his cup in a little pattering sound. “Never heard that one before.”

  “Connecticut, a few years ago,” Seong-Jae answered. “An African-American woman received five years. It is technically larceny, but also an unfair sentence.”

  “This guy,” Aanga said, “did it six times in six different Phoenix school districts.”

  Seong-Jae arched a brow. “That would explain the extended sentence, yet minimum security.”

  “These are all strange cases,” Aanga said. “Kevin Arnsford, indecent exposure…with cactus plants. Multiple times. In a wildlife conservation area. Don’t ask the details. Neil Samson, obstruction of justice in a case involving ritual sacrifices of a neighboring farmer’s animals. His daughter apparently got a lighter sentence for actually sacrificing the goats and bathing in their blood than he did for destroying evidence to cover it up.” He arched a brow. “Dale Walters, forging checks in multiple names, all under one hundred dollars. And Karl Ecklund…urinating on a multimillion-dollar NASCAR racing vehicle.”

  Malcolm made an odd noise, shoulders jerking in a snort. “…huh.”

  Aanga paced before the board, folding his hands behind his back. “All of these men were incarcerated less as punishment, and more to keep them off the streets and out of minor troubles. They were nuisances to society, not dangers, but giving them longer jail sentences in a minimum security facility was easier and cheaper than rehabilitating them in any way or putting them in any state or private mental health institutions. So here we are.” Stopping, he spread his hands. “Now we have the big reveal.”