by A. J. Thomas
“All right.” Jackson grinned. “We’re just not all that formal up here. You doing okay?”
Christopher thought about lying, but decided it wasn’t worth it. He settled for saying, “I’m sure things are worse for you guys. I’m just sitting here wondering how much more shit from my asshole brother’s life is going to come out before this is over. This is my partner, by the way. Raymond Delgado. Delgado, this is Jackson.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jackson took Delgado’s hand. He called several of the other officers over and introduced them. “You guys should come throw some darts with us, since Dougie’s still in the hospital.”
“I’m not going to be able to hold the darts any better today than I could last week,” Christopher reminded him.
“What?” Ray looked at Christopher.
Christopher waved Ray’s question aside. “Why is Heavy Runner still in the hospital? I thought he was going to be discharged yesterday.”
An older deputy snorted out a laugh. “Dougie’s always got to be the tough guy. He decided to try to get out of bed while he was still hooked up to an IV and everything. Him and Brittney got into a big fight right there in the hospital. No one’s talking about it, of course, but security escorted her out and now he has a concussion on top of a shot-up arm. Greg’s already taking bets on how long they’re going to last this time.”
“Enough with the cop gossip!” one of the firemen Christopher had played basketball with called out. “Blood pressure drops when you try to stand up fast after you get hurt. He fell. He should have known better. How’s it going, Hayes?”
Christopher was relieved nobody in the bar, at least, seemed to share Brittney McAllister’s opinions about him. He introduced Ray to the men he could remember, insisted he didn’t want to embarrass himself by trying to play darts or pool again, and waved Ray off when he said he’d play.
It was weird, realizing that the men around him seemed to know him better after a week than many of his coworkers ever did. Life in the city was very different. He lived in a building with hundreds of other people, but he somehow managed to feel completely alone. If Doug had been serious about Montana having a grand total of four people per square mile, he was far more isolated here, but it didn’t feel like it. He wondered if every small town was like that, or if it was just this one. The only other place where he had been accepted instantly and without any apparent reservations was among the small community of runners who showed up at the same long-distances races year in and year out. That welcoming acceptance was one of the reasons he liked to run.
Today, though, the last thing he wanted was to feel like a part of the crowd. He tried to sink deeper into the booth. He eyed Ray’s light beer enviously, wishing he hadn’t volunteered to drive.
He managed a whole fifteen minutes before his body processed enough of the food to make his energy level rebound to its normal twitchy heights. He kept sitting still for as long as he could, but he knew it was a losing battle. He flagged the waitress down and ordered a cup of coffee.
“You’re not up for a beer?” a gruff voice asked. Christopher shot up from his seat. Brubaker, having gotten rid of the crisp uniform in favor of blue jeans and a red T-shirt, was standing beside his booth. Christopher hadn’t even seen the man approach, much less noticed him among the other officers in the bar.
“No. When I want a drink this bad, usually I want enough to knock me out for the night. I’m okay to drive after one beer, but the mood I’m in, it wouldn’t stop at one.” He sighed miserably. “I’d like to get back to my hotel in one piece.”
“Well, at least you’re man enough to admit it. I like that about you—no bullshit.”
“Men in our line of work have to spend enough time trying to interpret other people’s bullshit. I figure the least we can do is be straight with each other.”
Brubaker slapped the table and chuckled. “Damn right, especially with those feds hanging around. I’m going to show those tight-lipped sons of bitches, though. I’m going to get a warrant out for Liedes before they do.”
“I thought he was out of town.” Christopher felt like cursing. He might end up canceling Peter’s memorial and chucking his ashes in a dumpster after all. If the minister who was supposed to perform the service was in jail, there wasn’t much point. He smiled.
Brubaker snorted. “Micah Donovan talked to the paramedics. He didn’t give us anything solid, but it’s enough to arrest Liedes. He sold your brother his house real cheap, and the way that man caters to the kids in his church…. What kind of minister puts a skate park in a church?”
Christopher shrugged. Thanks to his own views on religion, he really didn’t have much experience with churches. “It didn’t look that bad when I drove by. There were no kids actually using it.”
“Oh, that’s the one outside. He has a half-pipe, ramps, and all kinds of crap set up inside the church! Parents love it, of course. Figure that even getting their kids inside the door is a step in the right direction, but it’s damn weird.”
“I suppose so.”
“Which is why you’re just the man I was hoping to run into. You were right there when Micah Donovan died.”
It wasn’t a question. If Brubaker really was as much of an old school police officer as he appeared, the man wasn’t going to ask any questions he didn’t already know the answer to.
“Yes. The FBI guy dragged me along with him.”
Brubaker practically growled. “I cannot wait to see the end of them. I don’t see why that interfering fruit can’t just stick to digging through ashes. I can’t believe that moron would drop you right in the middle of it like that. Did Micah say anything to you, before he died?”
“He was bleeding to death,” said Christopher quietly.
“I am aware of that. Did he say anything?”
He wouldn’t ask a question he didn’t already know the answer to. Christopher had been surrounded by paramedics, but he had been forced to lean close to hear what Micah had to say, so Brubaker might not actually know what the boy had told him. “He said I looked like my brother. Been hearing that a lot, lately. He also said, ‘Pete tried, that ought to count for something, right?’ and then he started coughing up blood.”
Brubaker stared at the table between them, his expression unreadable. “That’s all he said? No kind of explanation?”
Christopher shrugged. It was easier than an outright denial. “He was coughing blood up into the ventilator mask. I’m surprised he managed to say that much.”
Christopher didn’t know why he held back, but something in the back of his head stopped him from saying more. He had related the entire conversation to Belkamp, and if Brubaker had read the man’s report, he would know that Christopher was lying.
“Well, damn. I was hoping he might have said something.” Brubaker rubbed his eyes. “I really thought there wasn’t a pulse. Fifteen minutes we were sitting there, waiting for the EMTs to respond. I checked three times…. This whole thing has gotten so screwed up that I hardly know where to go from here….”
“Interview Liedes,” Christopher supplied. “But you’ve already got that covered. Sometimes waiting overnight to sort things out is the hardest part.”
“Yes, it is,” Brubaker said.
“Have you heard anything about Heavy Runner?” asked Christopher. He kept telling himself that asking about Doug wouldn’t make him sound like a jilted lover. Anybody would ask.
Brubaker shook his head. “He was supposed to be released today. He lives all alone in the middle of nowhere, way down on the reservation, so they might have decided to hold on to him until he can show them he can take care of himself.”
“Seemed like his girlfriend was going to take care of him.”
Brubaker didn’t try to hide his chuckle. “That was my mistake. She’s not his girlfriend, at the moment. They’re one of those couples who break up and gets back together again a dozen times over the years. But when she heard about him getting shot on the news, well, I figured she was
the closest thing he’s got to a wife.”
“It’s got to be hard on him, being all alone.”
“You don’t know the half of it. It’s one thing not to have any family, but that boy is stuck between two worlds. He has to run around like he’s got a stick up his ass for anybody here to trust him, and all of his own folks treat him like an outsider. They’re clannish down there. They don’t like outsiders, they don’t trust anyone with an education, and they honestly don’t see any value in putting in an honest day’s work.”
Christopher nodded slowly, just to encourage him to keep talking. Most of what Brubaker was spewing had the air of prejudiced gossip, but you could tell a lot about a man from the type of stereotypes he repeated. Between the blank expression and the good-old-boy attitude, Christopher was having trouble figuring out if what he was seeing was an act or if Brubaker really believed the garbage pouring out of his mouth. His brain kept trying to tell him he should speak up, he should say something, call the man on the racial slurs and stereotypes. He wondered how often Doug had to listen to his own coworkers talk about his entire race like they were worthless. How often had he heard the same crap in high school? Often enough he had come to believe it was true.
Suddenly, he found that he didn’t really care if there was a more sadistic version of Peter lurking in Northwestern Montana. He should care that out of all of Peter’s potential victims, the only kid who could have easily talked was dead. He should care that the FBI was dragging their feet analyzing the prints found on those CDs. He should care about his job and his future. However, after two days of not knowing if Doug was all right, two days without him, all Christopher wanted was to work his way through this fucked-up little town and smack everyone who had ever made Doug feel like he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t white enough, to be a part of their town. If he could defend Doug, if he could beat the shit out of everyone who hurt him, maybe he could still feel some connection with the other man. But sitting here in Doug’s bar, listening to Doug’s boss gossip about him, was all Christopher could have.
After an hour of listening to stories about Doug, Brubaker tried to ask him about Micah Donovan again, but Christopher already felt like he’d sat still too long.
“You aren’t going running in the middle of the night again, are you?” Brubaker asked.
Christopher shook his head. “No, I learned that lesson. I just feel like I need to move. I haven’t been running in almost four days, though, and that’s usually about the time I start going through withdrawal symptoms. I keep getting lost whenever I go for a run off the highway, but it’s better than sitting still.”
Brubaker smiled at him and shook his head. “I can’t even pretend I understand. But if you’re worried about getting lost, there’s a fourteen-mile-long walking path that the county put in along the old Northern Pacific railroad line. It runs along the north edge of town, and there’s parking at a couple of different parks along the trail.”
“Yeah? That sounds just about perfect. Heavy Runner managed to scare me out of going up into the mountains on my own, but I’m not crazy about running next to cars going seventy miles per hour, either. I think I’ll check it out in the morning.”
“Well, glad I could help,” Brubaker said with a half smile.
Christopher knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. He had slept the entire day away yesterday, and with a huge dinner recharging his blood-sugar levels, he was bouncing off the walls by four in the morning. Having Ray in the room with him made it worse. Ray could sleep through anything, but Christopher didn’t feel right leaving the TV on. He finished sorting through all of his backed-up voice mail, then stared at the ceiling for an hour. He lasted until five o’clock before the walls began closing in around him and he had to move.
He put on his running clothes, grabbed his keys, and slipped out quietly. He loved running in the mornings, and even if it was too cold to run before the sun came up, it wasn’t too cold to explore. He was so distracted by the way the first soft hint of light filled the world around him that he didn’t notice the headlights that followed him out of the hotel parking lot.
He almost had the layout of the town memorized, so it didn’t take him as long as he expected to find the trail that Brubaker mentioned. It was paved, flat, and set back from the road by five feet of grass—perfect for the long, slow miles that Christopher needed to get his head on straight. He drank six sips from a bottle of Gatorade and sat down on the hood of his rental car. He watched the sun crest above the mountains to the east, watched the dark shadows of pine trees become amber-colored silhouettes, and finally he watched the shadows melt away.
He made it about a hundred feet down the trail before he heard the roar of the diesel engine behind him, coming up fast. He didn’t move, though, since he wasn’t on the road. When the grill of the truck hit him from the right, pain exploded through his calf and thigh. He felt his feet leave the ground, knew he was spinning, and then felt pavement, dirt, and grass beneath him. For a ridiculous moment, he thought he might have been better off jogging beside the highway.
A tall, heavy-set figure loomed over him, the man’s heavy breaths crystallizing in the cold morning air. Hands grabbed him under his arms and dragged him over the dirt, scraping his shattered right leg in different directions. It hurt so much he screamed. The hands under his arms hoisted him up and tossed him, face-first, onto a cold metal surface. Christopher tried to turn his head, tried to see what was happening, but all he saw was the tailgate of the truck slamming shut by his feet. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Ah ah.” The man took the phone from his hands. A surprisingly calm, friendly face smiled down at him. Sheriff Greg Brubaker gently turned Christopher’s head toward him. “You really are just like Pete. You have the same eyes, the same face, and the same blond fucking hair. And you fidget when you lie, just like he did. It don’t matter, though. Even if you’d told me the truth about what that little whore said to you before he died, it wouldn’t have mattered. You see, I wasn’t strong enough. I admit I let your brother, and his blue fucking eyes, corrupt me, but I’m not going to let you taint one of my men.”
Doug wished he had a TV, a radio, or something else to make noise. He had always looked at his home as a place to come back to for food and a bed, rather than a place to spend time, so he had never bothered to buy a television. The swelling in his arm had gone down, and now it only hurt when he bumped it or tried to reach for something. He knew he should try to rest, but the silence of his house began to get to him within a few hours of arriving home. He couldn’t get away with going in to work, but he couldn’t stand to stay home, either.
He thought about calling Christopher, but that was almost as bad an idea as trying to go to work. He couldn’t risk the repercussions that would come from a real relationship. He couldn’t risk the emotional entanglements, either. Realizing he was falling for the other man was his cue to back out. He just wished he had realized it sooner.
He was grateful to be in his own kitchen again, at least. The hospital food he had been willing to eat had consisted of oatmeal and limp salad. Even standing up long enough to heat up a can of soup wore him out, so after he ate, he climbed the stairs to his bed. If he couldn’t handle standing up long enough to reheat soup, going for a hike was out of the question.
It only took a moment for the smell of stale sex, sweat, and Christopher to overwhelm him. He stripped off his clothes carefully and crawled into bed. He settled on his right side and forced himself to stay still, but he really wanted to burrow into the sheets and just wallow in all that was left of Christopher’s scent. He dozed off a few times, and each time he woke up to that smell, he felt the pain in his chest lighten, felt the emptiness ebb away. Each time, as his drug-addled brain surfaced from sleep, he reached out into the cold sheets around him and tried to grasp the air. When his hands closed around nothing, he woke up and had to face reality all over again. By morning, he was more exhausted than he had been the night before. He w
ished he could rewind the past two weeks, go back in time, and avoid ever going into that bar at all. Then Christopher would have stayed a handsome face that Doug could steal glances at, not someone whose mere absence made Doug feel numb.
He showered and dressed, even though it took a ridiculously long time. As he was getting dressed, the smell of coffee surprised him. His coffeepot was far too old to have a programmable timer, so that meant either someone was in his house or he was hallucinating.
The scent reminded him so much of Christopher that he squirmed back into his sling and stumbled downstairs fast, his heart racing at the prospect of finding the other man in his kitchen. He heard the clank of pans from the kitchen and hurried in. The smell of bacon and a distinctly feminine shape hovering over the stove sent a stab of ice through his chest. It wasn’t Christopher.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Brittney said with a smile. “Do you know you don’t have any food? I had to run to the grocery store before I could start on breakfast. You really should sell this old place and get a house in town. It’s such a long drive to get to a grocery store in a decent neighborhood.”
Doug collapsed into the dining nook, the disappointment hitting harder than he wanted to admit.
Brittney set a plate of sausage, bacon, eggs, and pancakes down in front of him, along with a cup of coffee. Doug stared at the plate then looked up at the short-haired woman, wondering how they had spent so much time together without actually getting to know each other. He didn’t have to wonder long. In all of his memories of their dates and nights together, she had typically done all of the talking for both of them. He’d had to interrupt her just to contribute to the conversation, and while he didn’t mind doing that when he had to deal with the public, it wasn’t how his family had talked. Christopher’s comfort with silence, despite the fact that his body defaulted to being hyper and twitchy, had given him a chance to actually share something of himself with a lover for the first time since his disastrous relationship in Miami.