by Josh Lanyon
He raised his brows at my lack of response.
“Of course you are. Anyone would be. It’s another mystery, and you love mysteries. You’ve wondered about this secret world, the world of exquisite pain shared between men who trust each other -- trust each other beyond what any outsider can possibly understand. Men who share…everything.”
“Including consecutive prison terms,” I said.
He smiled and, oddly enough, that suave smile reminded me of the illustration of Foxy Loxy in my childhood copy of Chicken Little -- and why the hell that thought was in my mind, beat me. I was probably in shock.
“Don’t be so bloody ungrateful, Adrien. I’m offering to initiate you into such pleasures of the flesh as you can’t possibly imagine. There’s a room below deck.” He glanced down at the teak deck beneath our feet. “A very special room for very special guests. We’re going to spend hours down there, you and I, and I’ll show you everything -- teach you everything -- or as much as your heart can stand.”
“I’ll pass,” I said. It seemed like an unfortunate turn of phrase, once the words were out.
“You won’t want to pass. Not when you learn who’s waiting below deck for us.”
I swallowed. “How many guesses do I get?” I asked. I was amazed at how calm I sounded. I didn’t feel calm. I felt dead. I probably was dead -- even if I got off this boat alive. Something had died inside me the instant I realized Jake had told Paul Kane what I planned.
I thought of that painstaking letter I had written to my lawyer -- doing my very best to keep Jake out of it as much as possible. That was actually kind of funny.
“Well, it was going to be a surprise,” Paul said regretfully, “but I can see you’re going to need a little persuasion.”
He rose in a graceful, lithe movement and rang the brass ship’s bell hanging behind us. There was motion above. I looked up. The captain appeared on the bridge above us. Paul waved him the all clear and he ducked away again.
I wondered idly how much Paul Kane paid him; how desperately did he want to keep his job?
There were footsteps behind us; the deck boards vibrated. I turned and watched Jake step onto the deck.
“I’m afraid the joke’s on you,” Paul said, watching my face. “Jake rang me last night after you called him with your wild scheme to entrap me. You do have a taste for the dramatic, Adrien. I give you credit.”
I made myself look at Jake. His face was…harrowed. He glanced at me briefly, looked away. All his focus was on Paul Kane.
“I do have to say though, that although this kind of thing works in books or on the small screen, I’d never in reality have confided a single word to you if Jake and I hadn’t worked it all out ahead of time. As it was, I admit, I did enjoy playing out this little scene. You were being so clever. It was sheer delight to watch you in action.”
I said, “My scheme is unrealistic? You honest to God think you’re going to sail into port with yet another victim of a fatal accide --”
“Shut up, Adrien,” Jake said flatly.
“Fuck. You,” I said.
“You’re missing the point,” Paul informed me. “We’re going to fuck you. We’re going to take turns over and over and over again. I think with a bit of cooperation from you we’ll be able to present the authorities with a perfectly legitimate case of heart failure. It’s going to be rather a scandal, but I like scandal.” He winked at Jake. “And I have a friend on the force who’ll help me navigate the legal waters, as it were.”
My heart was pounding so hard I wasn’t sure I could get the words out. I said, “If that’s your plan, then you’re a total lunatic. Did you ever hear of DNA? Did you ever hear of --” I broke off as Jake pulled out a pair of handcuffs. I stood up, rocking the battened-down table. “Jake,” I said, and to my horror my voice shook. Not with fear -- with grief, with disbelief. I was beyond anger. I think I felt something close to horror for what he had come to.
He never looked at me. He said in a dead, mechanical voice, “Paul Kane, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, attempted rape, attempted murder --”
Paul laughed.
And something seemed to snap inside Jake. He said, “For Christ’s sake, Paul! Did you honest to God think I would be okay with murder? I’m a cop. I’ve spent my entire adult life upholding and enforcing the law.”
Into the silence that followed those anguished words, another gull swooped down, jeering.
“You’re not serious.” Paul looked…stricken. “James…”
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Jake said. “I couldn’t believe it. But it’s true. Every goddamn thing he accused you of is true.”
“My darling --” Paul reached out a shaking hand. It was stagy and melodramatic -- and yet I thought it was absolutely genuine. He had been struck to the heart. Or whatever he used for that organ.
Jake grabbed him, turned him, preparing to snap the cuffs on. “Don’t say anything else, Paul. Wait for your lawyer.”
Paul ducked away, sliding out from under Jake’s hand. He turned and he was holding something small and metallic, glinting in the fitful sunshine. A gun. A little gun. A derringer.
He pointed it straight at me and fired.
And at the same moment Jake stepped in front of me. I felt him rock back as the bullet hit him, a tiny metal projectile burrowing into warm living flesh, heard the shot -- like a clap of doom -- and something kicked me hard in the left shoulder. My left arm went heavy and numb.
Fast. So fast. Bang and it was done.
Paul Kane stood there gaping at us, and the astonished horror on his face would have been comical in other circumstances. “James,” he whispered.
“Jake!” I said. There was blood soaking his right shoulder. “Jake?”
He lunged forward, knocked the gun out of Paul’s motionless hand. It skittered across the deck and fell with a clatter down the stairway. Jake shoved Paul back into one of the deck chairs. Paul collapsed without a struggle. Jake bent over him, handcuffed him. Stood up. There was blood staining the front of his shirt, spilling sluggishly from a singed hole in the fabric.
The deck tilted beneath my feet and I reached out for the gunwale. Jake reached for me.
“Take it easy,” he said. He sounded very calm.
“He shot you,” I said.
“It’s okay. He shot you too.”
I looked down and was amazed to see that there was blood welling out of a hole high in my shoulder, soaking the tweed of my sweater.
“Wow. He did.”
Jake looked behind me, and I tried to look too. “Hold still.” He felt gently over my back. “The bullet’s still in your shoulder.”
“Really?” The whole thing seemed unbelievable. I stared at his face, trying to understand. He seemed very calm. Grim, but calm. And calm was probably good, although I wouldn’t have minded a little emotion from him about then.
He eased me down into one of the deck chairs, pulled his shirt off, wincing, and shoved it against my shoulder. Taking my right hand, he pressed it against the wadded cloth. “Keep the pressure on this.”
There was blood on his hand -- his own blood streaming from his wound. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his gory shoulder. “You’re losing a lot of blood. How badly are you hit?” I asked faintly.
“I’ll live.” His eyes met mine. They looked black in his white face. “I’m okay.”
I nodded.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.
“Please don’t let your final words to me be I told you so,” I said.
He said shortly, “You’re not dying.”
He left us then, going up to the bridge. He seemed to be gone a long time.
Paul said bitterly, “You did this. You brought this on.”
I closed my eyes. I could hear the gulls and the waves and the rumble of the ship’s engines. After a bit I thought we might be turning about.
I heard footsteps on the deck, but I was very tired.
Even without opening my
eyes I felt the shadow fall across me. The scent of Le Male aftershave mingled with the smell of ocean and diesel. Warm fingers pressed against my throat.
“Listen to me. There’s still a chance for us,” Paul said urgently. “It’s not too late to salvage this. If we stay together on this.”
No response.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Paul tried again. “This is a gift from the gods. To both of us.”
“Shut up, Paul.” Fingers brushed my cheek. I opened my eyes.
“Let him die,” Paul said.
“He’s not dying.” Jake’s gaze held mine. “You’re not dying.”
I shook my head, although I was afraid that I was.
“Help is on the way. All you have to do is hold on.”
I said, “You wouldn’t happen to have a warm rock, would you?”
“What?”
“If you wrap a warm rock in a piece of cloth and then press it against the wound, it’s supposed to ease the pain.”
“The only rocks I brought are the ones in my head. I should never have agreed to this.”
“You didn’t.” I closed my eyes. My shoulder was starting to hurt. A lot. I tried to lessen the pain by analyzing it. Nausea, crushing pressure in my chest…maybe better to skip the analysis.
He crouched down beside me, gathering me against him. His hand covered mine, holding the bunched and wet shirt against my shoulder much harder than I was. I let him deal with it, rested my face in the curve of his neck. Breathed in the scent of sun warmed bare skin tinged with the sweat and gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. His heart was pounding fast on an adrenaline rush.
I don’t have to be strong, I thought. I don’t have to put a brave face on it. I’m dying. I’m entitled to a little weakness. I hid my face in his chest, smothering the cry of pain that squeezed out of me.
It could be worse. I could be dying alone.
Or he could have hesitated. Even for a moment.
The pain eased up a little.
I could hear Paul still speaking urgently, still pleading for his own life in that stagy ultraplummy voice.
“Why can’t you see what this means for both of us? This is a second chance -- our last chance. This is fate. Why are you fighting what is clearly meant to happen?”
Jake said over my head, “Paul, one more word and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Paul gave a strangled laugh. “My God, you are a fool.”
Jake shifted, and I hoped he wasn’t going to carry out his threat.
He tipped my head up.
“Okay?”
“Great.” I’d decided to live long enough to see Paul Kane put away.
His laugh sounded funny.
The pain was getting worse again.
He bent his head and said against my ear. “Hold on.”
I nodded and closed my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fuzzy…ceiling. There was something wrong with the light. Sort of eerie…
I unstuck my eyes. Blinked. I was in a hospital room and Lisa was sitting by my bedside.
She looked small and exhausted. She wore no makeup; her face was pinched and suddenly old.
My shoulder hurt. It seemed stiff, bulky with bandages. It hurt to move. My chest hurt. A lot. I became aware of tubes and wires and a soft mechanical swish and hiss. I was hooked up to a bank of machines with blinking lights -- and I didn’t seem to be breathing entirely on my own. Scary. Very.
I must have moved or made some sound because Lisa’s gaze jerked to my face. She looked more scared than I felt.
“Adrien…” Her voice -- little more than a whisper -- shook badly.
I winked at her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
That pretty much felt like a full day’s work. I closed my eyes.
* * * * *
The next time I opened my eyes there were cards and balloons. I recognized Emma’s artwork on a large folded sheet of colored construction paper. I believe I recognized that jubilant stick figure with the spiky black hair, although it had been a long time since I’d felt like jumping for joy.
Everything still hurt but I was breathing on my own again. My mother sat beside my bed reading Vogue. She looked immaculately groomed as always, so all was apparently right with the universe once more.
I croaked, “I think Em should have her own horse.”
Lisa looked up from the magazine. For a moment she seemed to struggle for composure, then she said, “Oh, Adrien! She’ll just fall and break her neck.” She wiped hastily at her eyes.
* * * * *
Bizarre though it may be, it took awhile to remember that I’d been shot aboard Paul Kane’s ship. I was so doped up that for a day or two I thought I was still in the hospital with pneumonia. My chest hurt like hell and breathing was painful in the extreme. Everything was an effort. Even thinking was exhausting. So I didn’t. I hid out in a cocoon of painkillers and refused to let myself worry about how ill I was and what the future might be.
Apparently there was going to be a future, and that was the good news, but I’d apparently had a couple of cardiac events. Everyone seemed a little vague about these “events.” I gathered they were not cause for celebration -- despite the cards and flowers and balloons that accumulated.
“Did someone pick my cat up?” I asked…well, apparently I asked everyone.
“Darling, Natalie is taking care of that cre -- your cat,” Lisa assured me for the fourth time.
I closed my eyes…but I knew there was something I needed to remember. Something I had forgotten…
And that’s when it came flooding back: my own personal voyage of the damned which had ended with Paul Kane shooting me. And I remembered Jake.
I opened my eyes again.
“Is Jake all right?”
Lisa’s delicate jaw gritted against all the things she wanted to say. “As far as I know,” she got out every bit as tersely as Jake.
“Can you find out?”
She huffed out a little sigh. “Yes. I’ll find out.” I watched her steel herself to ask, “Do you want to see him?”
It was a reasonable question but I felt a kind of internal flinch. I did want to see him. And I didn’t. Not like this, looking like Emma’s science project with wires and tubes and IVs and catheter and an oxygen tube up my nose.
Watching me, my mother said with that uncanny perspicuity, “Maybe when you’re feeling a little more in control.”
I assented, closed my eyes, drifted.
* * * * *
“What the hell is tapioca,” I asked, studying it on my spoon. “Is it some kind of rice?”
“I don’t know,” Guy said, “but if you don’t intend to spend the rest of your life on an IV, you’d better eat it.”
“You usually don’t get threatened for not eating dessert. Not that I really count this as dessert.”
I took a spoonful.
Watching me, Guy said, “I’ve got some good news. That screenwriter, Al January, recovered consciousness. They think he’s going to be all right.”
The relief was like a weight off my chest. “Thank God. Thanks for telling me.”
He opened his mouth but restrained himself from saying the things he had been longing to say since I regained consciousness -- the things he had already said when I told him my plan to trap Paul Kane. He said instead, “When you’re up to it, the police want to take your statement.”
“Oh.”
His smile was a little grim in response to my tone. “Lisa has been holding them at bay with the threat of court orders and injunctions and curses upon them and all their progeny.”
“Does she think…what does she think?”
Guy raised one shoulder.
“What did Jake tell them?”
“I have no idea.”
“But he is all right?”
Guy’s black brows arched. “Is Jake okay? I never thought to ask.” After a few beats he added reluctantly, “He was released from the hospital yes
terday.”
My heart did a little lurch, and it felt different. Weird. Although I couldn’t have explained how; I wasn’t even sure I didn’t imagine it.
“Did he -- what happened to Paul Kane?” In some of my drug-induced dreams Jake had shot Paul Kane to keep him quiet. In some of my dreams he had shot me.
“You mean the psychotic murdering bastard who shot you? He’s currently in jail busy planning a lawsuit against the LAPD and claiming that you framed him.”
I laughed, and Guy said, “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”
“Not funny, no.” I grimaced. “I had all these grandiose ideas of bringing Kane to justice. Now I’m just grateful to be alive. Grateful Jake didn’t…”
I didn’t want to remember those long minutes when I had believed Jake had set me up, that his fear and paranoia had led him finally to murder.
“You mean because you were asking him to betray his lover?”
I shook my head. “I was asking him -- insisting -- that he come out. There was no way he could arrest Paul Kane that his relationship with him wouldn’t be revealed. It didn’t matter if I got Kane to confess or not. However Paul Kane went down, Jake was going down with him.” I closed my eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”
I was aware of Guy removing my meal tray, sitting back down next to the bed.
“How’s Peter?” I asked after a bit, still resting my eyes.
“Young.”
I smiled faintly. “He’ll get it over it.” After a while I said, “Maybe I wasn’t fair to Jake.”
And Guy said dryly, “No?”
“I couldn’t understand why…”
“He wanted to be friends if you weren’t going to be together?”
That was the thing about Guy. He always seemed to know what I was thinking before I did myself. I nodded and moved my hand on the coverlet. His hand slipped under mine, fingers closing warmly about my own.
He said, “Maybe you weren’t unfair. Maybe it was just harder for you to let go of your dreams.” His thumb lightly traced the pulse beat in my wrist. He added softly, “Harder than it was for me.”