Whiskey and Wry

by Rhys Ford

  “A cab? He can’t drive? We’re drunk as shit, okay, I am. You, boyo, are a shit drinking partner, but yeah, we can’t stay here. Your mum won’t give us a moment’s peace.” Sionn had a bit of trouble finding his feet, but a hand against the roof slope proved helpful. “Damie’s out. He doesn’t have a license.”

  “Oh, Miki can mostly drive.” Kane winced slightly as he opened the door. “He used to have a very nice GTO.”

  “Used to?” Sionn drew up short. “Damie remembered giving him that GTO. Told me all about it. Don’t know who I was more jealous of… Miki or the car.”

  “Oh, he’s still got the GTO.” Sionn caught Kane’s pained grimace. “It’s just going to be a little bit longer before it’s nice again.”

  PARKER stepped back, critically regarding his work.

  He’d found a spool of copper wire in the kitchen, and the thick strands went a long way in keeping the woman’s flabby legs upright on Murphy’s treadmill. The bright wire was strong enough to wrap around the sawed-off trunks, although he had to cut deep into the thighs’ meat to stabilize the limbs. It was as good as anything he’d seen in that stupid modern art museum. Maybe even better, if he took into account the splatter of old blood seeping from the gashes in the torn skin.

  Parker didn’t think he had much time. Not until he’d checked the blinking answering machine, where someone left a message for Murphy to hurry up and get to dinner. With a dinner in the offing, that gave Parker more than enough time to engrave an invitation to Murphy’s downfall.

  Everything he used on the woman’s corpse he’d found in Murphy’s apartment. He’d been careful to keep his gloves on, not risking leaving a print on anything he touched. The hacksaw had been a great find. It’d been sharp enough to take care of most of the woman’s joints, cleanly slicing through the tendons and ligaments holding her bones together.

  He’d left her head on the bedroom pillows, spreading out her brittle hair into a fan around her shock-white face. Disgusted at the smell of sex lingering in the linens, he’d rubbed the urine-soiled trash bags on the sheets, smearing the flaking mess he’d found there.

  “Probably the first time that faggot had a woman in his bed,” Parker muttered as he checked the loft one last time.

  The dining room table held her arms, her garishly painted fingers wrapped around wineglasses he’d found in the kitchen. He’d wanted to fill them with her blood, but she’d been too far gone to get more than a few dribbles into one of the bowls. Other parts of the blonde were scattered about the apartment. Her torso lay on the coffee table, lengths of intestines trailing from her sliced-open abdomen to the sofa cushions.

  “That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just enough for them to keep him under wraps for a while,” Parker reassured himself as he removed the poncho, balled it up, and shoved it into the trash bag he’d brought in with him. He’d dump all of it into the bay, weighting it down with rocks so nothing floated up to the surface. “Okay, Murphy, fun time’s over. Let’s drop a dime and get someone knocking on your door.”

  Chapter 12

  I hate you for teaching me how to fly

  And then you burnt my wings

  There’s nothing left of me

  But wax, feathers and grief

  I can’t put myself together

  And I can’t see the fucking sky

  —Burning Sky

  “THIS is a sick fucking son of a bitch.” Kel Sanchez shook his head, scanning the apartment crawling with forensics techs.

  His partner’s younger brother, Riley, nodded once and checked his phone again, then pressed his mouth into a thin line. The disgust on Riley’s face was clear. They’d both called Kane in, and other than a promise to be there soon, there’d been no further contact, and forensics was making quick work of the mess.

  The apartment stank of blood and smoke, a hazy, ashen cloud lingering from the kindling fire set on the hearth. The flames had scorched the living room floor, hindered by the wet towels placed around an area rug, but the damage was extensive. Several of the curtains were wispy charred threads, and the plaster walls were blackened, crumbling when touched.

  Peering out at the busy Chinatown street below, Kel asked, “Where’d Murphy get the money for this place?”

  “Our families have a shipping business back home. His gran bought properties here like my dad and mum did. How else do you think they fed and clothed eight kids?”

  “I dunno. Guess I thought your mom grew veggies or something. Baked bread. Sewed all your clothes.” He shrugged. “Kane doesn’t talk about shit like that. Mostly he just busts my chops for getting shitty cars from motor pool.”

  “Yeah, my mom sewing clothes is hilarious. Where the fuck is Kane? It’s been over an hour,” Riley muttered as the elevator doors slid open behind him.

  “He was trying to get sobered up after tanking half a bottle of Dad’s best with Sionn.” Kane prowled into the loft, tugging a pair of latex gloves over his large hands. “I wasn’t on call today. Wasn’t expecting a 911 from you both.”

  “So you get shit-faced at Mom’s?” His brother turned, lip curled in a slight snarl. “Really?”

  “Shit happened. I only had a couple of mouthfuls. Sionn sucked down nearly all of it. I wanted to get some coffee in us before we headed over. Okay, let’s play catch up.” Kane nodded at his partner. “You want to get me up to speed? Who called it in?”

  “Looks like the killer did. From inside here, using the landline.” Sanchez popped open his notebook and skimmed what he’d written down. “Said there was a fire and it was getting out of control. Fire responded in three minutes, forced their way up and found this.”

  This was almost awe-inspiring in its horror. From the scattered body parts to the ichor trailing over the floor, Kane felt like he was caught in a nightmare battle between Pollock and Dali. He whistled and said the only thing that came to mind.

  “Fuck me.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty much what I thought,” Kel agreed.

  “Any idea on who this all is?” Kane waved his hand around. The squeak of a gurney behind him warned them of the coroner’s arrival, and the three detectives moved out of the way, allowing the man through.

  “Horan ran the prints, but we’ve got clothes and a purse.” Riley dodged out of the way of the gurney as it trundled past him. “You’re not going to like who it is.”

  “I’m not going to like who it is no matter who it is,” Kane grumbled. “Someone’s dead here, kid. And from the looks of it, it wasn’t a go-peacefully-into-the-night.”

  “Did you bring Sionn back with you?” Riley pressed his brother. “And… that other guy?”

  “Damien Mitchell?” Kane frowned. “Yeah, he’s downstairs. I figured we could question him about everything all at once. Why?”

  “Because Horan’s prelim came back, and it jibes up with the identification we found.” Kel flipped out the driver’s license and showed Kane their victim’s information. “The woman we found here? She’s Damien Mitchell’s mother.”

  DAMIEN couldn’t remember when he’d been so tired.

  He wanted to cry. Needed to cry. But nothing came.

  The shock of what the cops were telling him had finally sunk in after an hour of sitting in the small room they’d put him in. As interrogation chambers went, it was comfortable. A matching threesome of plush chairs around a small rectangular table that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a conference room. Still, the off-putting drab green walls and the large one-way mirror reflecting his drawn, pale face left him with no doubt he was in a cop house.

  Especially with the smell of burned coffee and antiseptic perfuming the cold air blowing through the metal vent above him.

  If his life depended on it, he couldn’t have told anyone the time. It had been late when they’d finally gone through the station’s doors. They separated before Damien even had time to think and he found himself in a beige-green box of a room with a one-way mirror and uncomfortable chairs. After that, came
the questions, followed by more questions, all driven at him by stern-faced cops who’d first given him condolences over the loss of his mother.

  His mother.

  He couldn’t think about her. Not if he wanted to hold himself together. Everything they’d asked him was a blur of sound, then a round of swabs in his mouth, and finally, a scanner sucked up his fingerprints, the passing light turning his palms green when he’d placed his hands on the glass.

  The results came back, affirming what he’d already known.

  Damien Mitchell, lead guitarist of Sinner’s Gin, was alive and well.

  And sitting in a police station after being told his mother was dead and her decimated corpse had been littered all over his lover’s apartment.

  “Welcome back from the dead, Damie.” He saluted his reflection in the mirror. Resting his head on his folded arms, he began to stare at the wall, counting off the seconds between blinks to force himself to stay awake.

  The door opened, and he looked up, bleary-eyed and fatigued. This time, he knew the man who’d come into the room, and for a few seconds, the outside bled into the quiet he’d marinated in, a loud, raucous noise made of voices and chittering machines. Kane set a cold can of Coke down in front of Damie. A mug of hot chicken noodle soup joined it, and Kane pushed that closer until it was nearly under Damien’s nose.

  “How’re you doing, D?” Kane pulled a chair around, angling it on the corner of the table so he could sit next to Damien. He slid a folder out from under his arm and placed it on the table beside him.

  “Like I’m fucking dying.” He sniffed at the soup, wondering if his stomach could handle the salty broth. “I just want this day to be over. And I want Sionn… and Miki. I just want to go… fuck, anywhere but here. I want to go home. Someone’s home.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I dunno.” He had to strain to think. “I can’t remember if Sionn fed me. Shit, I have no damned clue.”

  “Well, drink that while we talk. We’re almost done here,” Kane reassured him. “I’m the last one you’re going to have to face today.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “It’s already tomorrow.” The man jiggled the mug’s handle. “Drink some of this, and we’ll get this over as quickly as we can, okay?”

  “Just don’t… tell me you’re sorry about my mom.” Damien pulled a plastic spoon out of the soup, letting the broth dribble back in. “I don’t know… how I feel about that just yet. It’s just been… it’s been too much today, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Kane consoled. “We’re trying to get a hold of your father, but so far, no one’s had any luck reaching him.”

  “I sure as fuck don’t know where he is.” He snorted under his breath, spooned up some soup, and slid the almost-too-hot liquid into his mouth. Huffing at the heat, he swallowed, then shook his head.

  “When we find him, do you want to talk to him?” The cop held up his hands in mock surrender when Damien shot him a cold look over the mug’s rim. “It’s your call. Shit’s going to start to get very real for you over the next couple of days. Too many people saw you come in, and after being printed, a lot of people know you’re alive now. It’s going to be crazy. When you’re done, we’re going to take you out to the back of the station. My brother Connor’s just bought a Hummer—big black thing with dark windows, so we’re going to sneak you out in that. He’ll take you, Miki, and Sionn to our house. I’ll be home as soon as I can. There’s a gate—”

  “Your house?” Damien cocked his head. “Miki didn’t tell me you lived there with him. Okay, no… wait, he did. With the dog.”

  “Yeah, I moved in about a month ago.” Kane smiled. “It seemed stupid to pay for an apartment when I was there most of the time, and the workshop space I rent is just next door. Besides, with me around, he gets some food into him. Well, food that’s not made out of chemicals. I’m not surprised you forgot. You guys had a lot to catch up on.”

  “Some. Mostly we were just… being us.” It was odd, having to explain to another man the rightness of Miki. Kane probably had to work around the minefield, probably blew himself up a few times before he knew the way in, but Damien could fly right through. He didn’t need to think about it. Shit, he’d more than likely laid a few of those mines himself. Miki probably laid down a few of Damie’s. Anything to protect one another. Anything to protect themselves.

  Then Kane said something Damien never imagined he’d hear the man admit.

  “I’m really fucking happy you’re here. That you’re alive. He loves you a lot. It nearly killed him when you died. I came after that, and I could see it. I love him, and I know I’m good for him, but having you here is going to go a long way in healing those broken bits inside of him.”

  “You okay with all this shit?” He stirred the soup, releasing the heat onto his face. Damien stared down at the swirling noodles, carrots, and broth, wondering if he’d ever begin to feel something other than dead inside. “I mean… me coming back. I’d figured you’d be… pissed. Maybe jealous. You’ve had him to yourself for so long….”

  “When I hooked up with Miki, he didn’t ask me to give up Connor or Quinn. Or any of the others.” The cop leaned forward until Damie could feel the heat of the man’s body against his side. “I’m not going to ask him to give you up. Hell, I’m fucking ecstatic that you’re here. There’s enough room for both of us in his heart. Shit, it gets pretty crowded sometimes. ’Course we’re going to have to share him with Dude and my dad. Those two are fucking tight. He and Dad. Dude, you can bribe him with a cookie.”

  “I missed him so fucking much,” Damien admitted softly. He refused to cry. Refused to let his tired and his emotions get the best of him. Still, his eyes pricked and threatened to spill when he dared to let his mind drift over to his wide-shouldered Irishman. “Sionn… he’s… fuck, I don’t know what he is. Or what he thinks I am. But I need him. As much as I need Miki. Especially right now. This is such a fucking mess.”

  “He’s a good guy. One of the best. Really, even if he wasn’t my cousin, I’d be happy he found you.” Kane patted Damien on the back. “It’ll be okay, D. We’ll take care of you.”

  “That’s standard now for cops? Shuttling people around in Hummers? Righting their wrongs? Pulling their shit together?” He tried to sound flippant, but in his ears, it came off as pathetic.

  “No, we’re doing that because you’re family.” Kane ruffled his hair, and Damien pulled away, partially disgusted at the rough affection. “You know he’s got everything you’d left behind? From the place you guys shared? It’s all packed up and in boxes in one of the rooms. Except for some beat-ass guitar. He plays on that.”

  “So you’ve been living with a ghost? How’d that work out for you?”

  “I was living with him missing his brother.” Kane’s reproach was soft but firm. “And now you’re back, so quit being an asshole about it and let him love you. I know it’s hard right now. Too much… has happened, but he’s there for you. We all are, Damie. Okay?”

  Miki’s cop was sincere. Hell, he dripped sincerity like the bridge wept water during a heavy fog. Nodding once, Damien mumbled, “Yeah, okay.”

  “Now, tell me everything you remember about the guy who shot at you.”

  “Dude, I went over this like twelve times already.” Damie rolled his eyes. “Blond, huge, ugly, and creepy. I even did the thing with the sketch artist. He shot Jerome, the guy who was assigned to me at Skywood. Can’t run, but then I had someone shooting at me. It’s like the whole ‘you’ve got to run faster than the guy behind you, not the bear.’”

  Kane opened the folder and pulled out a pair of photos. They were headshots, professionally done to capture the best assets of the man and woman posing for them. The woman was polished and made up, draped with a tasteful string of pearls and a blonde helmet of fine hair. Classically handsome, the middle-aged man’s bright white smile and confident set of his shoulders made him the perfect choice if someone’d wanted
to cast an anchorman in a video.

  Or if someone needed a couple to pretend to be an institutionalized patient’s parents.

  “Fucking hell.” Damie pulled the man’s photo closer, tugging it out of Kane’s fingers. “That’s the guy who said he was my dad. Both of them were at Skywood. They were my fake parents. This is so fucking weird. She kept hugging me, but it was awkward, you know? Like she didn’t know how tall I was or something.”

  “They’re dead,” Kane said softly. “Both of them are actors from Seattle. As far as we know, it looks like they were hired to do some commercial work. Or at least that’s what their families said. A bank camera across the street caught an image of a man leaving the woman’s—Stacey Winter’s—apartment. When I ran an ID search on the sketch you helped give, we got a hit on their murders.” He removed another photo and slid a paper filled with a grainy image across to Damien. “Take a good look at that guy’s face and tell me what you think.”

  He studied the man in the photo, his blood chilling in his veins. The camera had captured the woman’s killer as he turned to look down the street, catching him nearly full on the face. A light gleamed from somewhere across the way, and it caught his eyes, turning them nearly feral and reflective. His short blond hair was nearly hidden beneath a beanie pulled down low on his forehead, but enough of it peeked out, the bright strands nearly a match for his pale face. With his thin mouth set hard, he was focused solely on crossing the road, his quick trot leaving a trail of smeared pixels on the camera’s data.

  Damien didn’t have to look long. He’d seen that look… on that man right after he shot Jerome. It was the look of a killer whose work wasn’t quite done and his next target was close by.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Damien shoved the paper back at Kane. “That’s the guy who tried to kill me. Now when were you going to tell me that he’s probably also the guy who murdered my mom?”