Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  “Why’d you kill Logan?” he croaked. It wasn’t the wisest move, but he was curious. Besides, these two weren’t likely to untie him and send him on his merry way, no matter what he said.

  It was Leo’s turn to kick him. Wes grunted but didn’t cry out.

  “Who sent you here?” Curtis demanded.

  “Nobody.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

  Wes laughed with the stupidity of it all—or maybe because his head was more addled than he thought. “I’m not. I came here of my own accord.”

  “I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  “Then you’ll never know, will you?”

  That seemed to stymie the Cavellis. Wes was beginning to suspect they weren’t the brightest bulbs in the pack. He didn’t know whether idiot criminals were more or less dangerous than genius ones.

  The Cavellis had another brief whispered conversation, after which Leo stomped up the stairs. Curtis scowled at Wes and lowered the gun but didn’t put it away, and shortly after, Leo returned with Wes’s phone in hand.

  “How do we unlock it?” asked Curtis.

  Wes didn’t want that, because then they’d see Parker’s texts. Logan’s suspect suicide letter suggested the Cavellis already knew who Parker was. Wes didn’t want them to track him down.

  “You can’t. I have to swipe a particular pattern with my finger.” A partial untruth because anybody’s finger would do. He hoped the Cavellis wouldn’t know that.

  And apparently they didn’t, because after another whispered exchange, Leo approached him again. “I’m gonna free your hands. Don’t try anything funny.”

  Wes rolled his eyes. Did they expect him to bust out some kung fu moves? Leo pulled open a pocketknife and began to cut the rope at his wrists.

  Okay, that hurt too. Wes’s arms and legs had been in the same position for Christ knew how long, and they protested movement. He had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from shouting. After a few moments, though, he slowly straightened his legs and used his arms to raise himself to a sitting position. The room seemed to sway and rock as if he were on a ship at sea, causing him to turn his head and vomit profusely. Leo didn’t leap away fast enough, and his shoes got splashed. Good.

  “God damn it!” Leo pulled his foot back for another good kick, but Curtis pushed him hard, sending him off-balance.

  “Knock it off! Just give him the fucking phone.”

  Swearing, Leo handed it over. “Unlock it,” he snarled.

  Wes looked down at the phone in his shaking hands. He took a deep breath. And then he hurled the phone to the floor with all his strength—and stomped on it with his bound feet for good measure. The glass and plastic crunched satisfyingly.

  Curtis clomped closer, gun upraised, but didn’t pull the trigger. Instead he thumped it against the sore spot on Wes’s head.

  Wes collapsed.

  HE WOKE up shivering. The world was blurry, even after he tried to blink his eyes clear, and for several minutes he couldn’t remember anything. Who he was, or where he was, or why he was cold and in pain. He was tempted to close his eyes again and sink into oblivion. The void would be so much easier than struggling. But the image of a man with cobalt blue hair appeared in front of him, urging him to stay in the here and now. To keep on fighting.

  “Parker,” Wes tried to say. He was gagged again, and all that came out was a low groan. But even thinking the name was enough to bring him back to himself.

  He wasn’t hogtied any longer, which he supposed was an improvement. Instead someone had sat him against a support post, his hands tied behind the post and his legs straight in front of him and bound at the ankles. His ass and crotch felt clammy, and a moment later the reek of urine registered. Fantastic. Well, at least his bladder wasn’t complaining anymore.

  As for his skull, he now had a newly enhanced headache, twice as strong as before.

  The Cavellis had left the lights on, two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Although Wes could look around, there wasn’t much to see except for the usual crap that tended to accumulate in basements. Off in a corner, the furnace rumbled. Wes had no sense of what time it was. The basement’s single window was obscured by black fabric, except for one top corner that hung down an inch or so and let in weak light. He thought it was sunlight but couldn’t judge its angle.

  He leaned his poor head against the post and tried to picture what Parker was doing right now. Had he eaten yet? If so, was he angry Wes had never shown up? Wes hoped his absence hadn’t hurt Parker, who seemed so genuinely eager for his company. He hoped Parker would still give Rhoda the shelf Wes had made. He’d put a lot of time and thought into it.

  He wondered what would become of his bus—which he realized he loved very much—and his tools and the bits of wood and pieces of hardware he’d collected over the years. And what about his five acres? He hoped whoever ended up owning it didn’t drain the pond and displace the ducks.

  Oh, and Morrison. The city would certainly tow the van eventually, and it would molder in a yard until they scrapped it or sold it at auction. He felt bad that he hadn’t treated Morrison a little better. More frequent oil changes. Car washes. Nice covers for the seats.

  Jesus, didn’t he have anything left but regrets? That was a hell of a way to leave the world, and he’d been trying to die without them.

  But no, he was also proud he’d made beautiful furniture that people might treasure for generations to come. And he’d apologized to Nevin and Jeremy, making amends as best he could. He was glad of that. And he’d had that short, glorious time with Parker. Wes didn’t regret that at all, not even if it had led him to this basement.

  He couldn’t smile with the gag and duct tape, but at least his heart settled more peacefully in his chest. He hummed the Beach Boys.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor above him, probably boots and likely more than one person. He assumed he was beneath the tattoo parlor, and since the shop was closed for the holiday, Cavelli feet must be making all that noise. He tried to imagine what they were doing up there but didn’t really have the foggiest idea, and anyway, such conjuring did nothing good for his mental health.

  He let his mind wander for a while and was surprised when it settled on a childhood memory, a pleasant one involving his parents. He didn’t realize he had any of those. He’d been five or six, and their marriage was already irreparably damaged, although they hadn’t acknowledged it yet. They spent a lot of time screaming at each other. And screaming at Wes, when they weren’t ignoring him entirely.

  But on this particular day, nobody yelled, and everyone was smiling. His mom had filled a cooler with sandwiches, potato chips, apples, and cans of pop, and the three of them piled into his dad’s Chevy truck. Along the route, his dad told funny stories about things that had happened at work, like the time somebody called the sheriff because they saw a camel wandering past their house. Wes’s mom laughed and ruffled Wes’s hair.

  They’d driven over the Coast Range and parked at a beach, and for once the sun shone warmly and the sky was clear. They ate their lunch while sitting on chunks of driftwood and then poked around in tide pools, marveling at starfish and watching tiny fish dart around. They found hermit crabs and had races with them. And then they’d simply sat together, all in a row, watching the sun sink into the Pacific. Wes told his parents that when he grew up, he’d be a sailor and take his boat all over the ocean. By the time they left, he was so exhausted that his dad had to carry him back to the truck, and Wes fell asleep on the ride home, tucked between the warm, comforting bodies of his mom and dad.

  He was grateful now to have rediscovered that memory.

  THE CAVELLIS came slowly down the stairs, as if fearful that Wes had gotten loose and might attack them. But he remained tethered to the pole, trying to ignore how dry his gagged mouth felt.

  “You’re gonna answer our questions now.” Curtis brandished a blade bigger than the little pocketknife Leo had used earlier. He gestured at L
eo, who again tore the tape off Wes’s face with unnecessary force. This time it felt as if he ripped off some skin. Wes coughed once the gag was out of his mouth.

  “Okay, now,” Curtis said. “Who sent you here?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Wrong answer.” Curtis bent down and thrust the tip of the knife into Wes’s left thigh.

  Wes didn’t quite scream—it was more of a grunt—and when he instinctively jerked his body away, the blade only cut more deeply. He grunted again when Curtis yanked the knife free, and immediately hot blood soaked through his jeans and trickled to the underside of his leg.

  “Who sent you here?” The blade, now streaked red, shook slightly in Curtis’s hand.

  Frantic to keep from being stabbed again, Wes blurted, “Logan’s parents.”

  “What?”

  “Logan’s parents asked me to come check things out.” Okay, maybe he was throwing them under the bus, but right now he didn’t give a shit. They lived too far away to be in immediate danger.

  Leo came closer and crouched near him, narrow-eyed. “Why?”

  “Th-the suicide note. They thought it sounded fishy.”

  “Where do Logan’s parents live?”

  Shit. Parker had mentioned this, but Wes couldn’t remember the detail. Not Wyoming. Somewhere in the middle of the country. “Kansas,” he said with as much certainty as he could muster.

  “Fucking liar!” Leo stomped on the stab wound, which hurt more than the blade itself had, and as if he didn’t want his thunder stolen, Curtis plunged the knife into Wes’s other leg. Wes almost dislocated his shoulders trying to twist out of reach, even though he knew it was futile. All the squirming and struggling in the world wouldn’t save him.

  “Who?” Curtis demanded.

  Time began to pass in weird jerky movements, speeding ahead and slowing down like someone playing with a video camera. One moment Curtis was dragging the knife tip down Wes’s cheek with agonizing slowness; the next, both brothers were screaming at him so fast he couldn’t catch the words. The chill of the basement shifted to a burning heat that enveloped his body, and all the myriad pains melded together into a single agony so huge it wasn’t even a sensation anymore but rather an entity of its own.

  “Like Godzilla,” Wes slurred. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, making it hard to speak. “Like Bigfoot on the Space Needle.”

  Curtis growled inarticulately and poked his knife very close to, although not quite into, Wes’s balls.

  I haven’t told them anything. I’m stupid and useless, but I’m strong when I need to be. Wes smiled at that even as he sagged in his bonds. His eyelids had grown so heavy. But that was all right. He was going to leave this world with self-respect and with the knowledge that he’d done what he could to keep the man he loved safe.

  Loved.

  He loved Parker. Wasn’t that a miracle?

  In the shop above, something thudded, then crashed. A lot of footsteps thundered overhead. Loud voices.

  Wes gathered the dregs of his strength and took a deep breath. “Careful!” he screamed. “He has a gun!”

  This time, Curtis pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THEY HAD been waiting a thousand years for Detective Saito to call back—Parker was sure of it. Or it might have been two thousand. He’d tried pacing, but his bedroom wasn’t big enough, especially with Jeremy taking up space. He ended up back on the bed again, next to Nevin, who was shooting death glares at his phone.

  “You should go,” Parker finally blurted.

  “Go where?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to go have Thanksgiving at Colin’s parents’ house?”

  Nevin lifted his eyebrows. “Do you honestly think I’m going to go eat more goddamn pumpkin pie when you’re in crisis, Buttercup?”

  “But they’re your in-laws and—”

  “And they can fucking eat without me. I’m not sorry to miss that circus, anyway.”

  Oh good. Something to think about besides Wes. “I thought you guys got along.”

  “We do. They’re so goddamn perfect it hurts my teeth. But Collie’s sister has a new boyfriend, and he’s a turdbucket. Nowhere near good enough for her. Plus Collie’s niece is mooning over some boy at school. She’s sixteen, for fuck’s sake. Too young. But she rolls her eyes when I tell her that.”

  Despite everything, Parker gave a small smile at Nevin’s attempt to be an uncle. It was good to know that even the mighty Nevin Ng was no match for a stubborn teenager.

  Nevin’s phone beeped, and Parker nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “They got the warrant,” Nevin said. “Serving it now.”

  This time ten thousand years passed.

  Nevin’s phone finally buzzed again—several times in quick succession—and he spent so much time reading the texts that Parker almost screamed. When Nevin looked up, his expression was grave. Parker stopped breathing.

  Softly, Nevin said, “They found him. He’s… on the way to the hospital.”

  THERE WAS some kind of discussion about who would take Parker to Seattle, but Parker didn’t follow it. He could see Rhoda, Jeremy, and Nevin in his bedroom and hear the strident tone of their voices, but none of the meaning got through. All he could hear was the echo of a single word. Hospital. Hospital. Hospital.

  Finally Rhoda wrapped him in a suffocating hug. She smelled of coffee and spices and wine—all very fine scents—and she was warm and soft against him. And strong. Always so strong. “Honey?” she said when she let him go.

  “I’m okay.”

  She looked doubtful. “You can wait here until there’s more news.”

  Parker shook his head. What he didn’t tell her was he didn’t really want to go to Seattle. He wanted, in fact, to run away. Very fast and very far, although he had no destination in mind. Wyoming, maybe.

  But Wes was in a hospital in Seattle, and he was…. Well, Parker didn’t know how badly he was injured, but Nevin and Jeremy looked somber. And the thing was, Wes had nobody. Nobody but Parker. And Parker couldn’t bear the thought of Wes alone, in pain, with no friends there to comfort him. No one to hold his hand and tell him he was loved.

  “I need to go, Mom.”

  “All right.”

  Nevin stepped forward. “I’ll drive you.”

  “But Colin—”

  “Is a big boy who understands priorities.”

  “I can drive myself.” He could borrow someone’s car or rent one or—

  “No, you fucking can’t. In your state you’re liable to wrap yourself around a power pole before you’ve even left the Portland city limits. Then you’ll end up in the hospital all right, but not in any shape to help your boy.” Nevin looked up at Parker, narrow-eyed. “There’s nothing weak or childish about asking for help when you need it, Smurf.”

  Parker still felt guilty about initially roping Nevin into his problem, and now drawing him in even more, but arguing would only waste time. So he shrugged off the blazer, marched to the closet, and grabbed his jacket. The new one. It was silly and touristy but also warm—and Wes had bought it for him. It would make an appropriate talisman. “Let’s go, please.”

  The good thing about having Nevin as chauffeur was he drove with complete disregard for speed limits. Traffic was heavy with people going home after Thanksgiving meals, but Nevin cut in and out as if he were competing in the Monaco Grand Prix. He did it effortlessly too, with a steady string of obscenities flowing from his mouth.

  Somewhere around Longview, red and blue lights flashed behind them. “Son of a bitch,” Nevin grumbled as he pulled to the shoulder. When the state trooper came to the window, Nevin showed his badge, then let loose a volley of words that ended with the cop apologizing for pulling him over.

  Nevin looked smug as he zoomed back into traffic.

  “You can bully your way out of anything,” Parker said admiringly.

  “It’s my talent. Be glad I use it for good instead of evil.”

  A few more miles
sped by before Parker gathered enough courage to ask the question that had tortured him since they left. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know all the details. That fuckwad tattoo artist had him. When the goons served the warrant, they heard shouting from the basement—and gunfire.”

  Parker made a small pained sound but gestured for Nevin to continue.

  “Turned out fuckwad had a buddy with him. Buddy’s dead now, courtesy of Seattle PD. Fuckwad’s in custody. And Wanker’s banged up pretty badly, plus he caught a bullet or two.”

  This time Parker made a strangled noise, and Nevin shot him a sympathetic look. “I don’t know what kind of shape he’s in now, and I’m not gonna give you any false promises. But remember, Colin got shot straight in the chest, and he bounced right back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self.”

  That reminder did help, at least enough that Parker could breathe. But his heart remained in such a tight ball it was a wonder it could beat. He wrapped his coat more firmly around himself, even though Nevin had the GTO’s heater cranked.

  He’d never felt like this before, and he hated it. The closest he’d ever come was when his dad died. But that had been a different pain, because by the time he learned of the accident, his father was already gone. Hearing the news had been like having a limb suddenly hacked off—a horrifying numbness followed by excruciating agony and a long recovery. But this thing with Wes today? It was slow torture. Like being split open and watching someone remove his organs bit by bit with a soup spoon.

  “Nevin?” He spoke quietly, having decided talking was better than fretting.

  “Yeah?”

  “When did you know you loved Colin?”

  Nevin snorted, called the guy doing seventy-five in the fast lane a crab-sucking whoreson, and then was quiet for so long that Parker thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he did speak, he kept his gaze carefully ahead. “I interrupted Collie at work to have a meltdown because my brother was getting married and I was feeling abandoned. And instead of telling me I’m a selfish piece of shit, he took me on a picnic in the Rose Gardens. In the rain. Then he took me to an old house he’d just bought and fucked me silly.”