Unspeakable Words

by Sarah Madison

  “Thanks.” Flynn gave him what Jerry was coming to think of as his customary half smile, the polite one, as opposed to the real one. He suspected that somewhere along the way, Flynn had been told that his genuine smile made him look like a dork and that he’d probably spent hours perfecting the sexy one in the mirror. Jerry followed him as far as the kitchen door, making sure Flynn found the key card.

  Flynn laced up his track shoes by the door. “See you in a bit,” Flynn said as he was leaving.

  Jerry wondered how he could politely find out how much longer Flynn was planning to stay without making it sound like he was ready to kick him out. And whether there was any way to suggest that Flynn contribute to his share of the meals. For someone who was so lean, Flynn certainly had a healthy appetite.

  Jerry reentered the kitchen, where Oliver came galloping to join him, having reemerged as soon as he heard the outside door close. “It’s not that bad,” he said to the cat, emptying a rather smelly can of food into his dish and placing it on the mat. “And anyway, he’ll probably be gone in another day or two.” It seemed unlikely that Flynn would stay much beyond the interview tonight unless, by some miracle, the tip proved worth pursuing.

  Oliver ignored him, attacking his food as though he were a tiger at the kill, flinging little bits on the mat below. Jerry began opening cabinets, arranging ingredients on the counter.

  It had been an odd sort of day, he thought as he combined some lemon juice and cream in a bowl and set it aside to make the base for a white sauce. Today was normally a gym day for him as well, but because they’d eaten the leftovers, he was using his gym time to cook something else. Maybe he’d be able to go down after dinner. Or maybe he’d get up early and go in the morning, hard as that was to do. He seasoned and floured some boneless chicken breasts and placed them in a skillet to cook on the stovetop.

  He should have gone to the gym when they’d come back to the apartment after visiting King, he berated himself. He’d had time then, but he’d been certain Flynn was going to suggest finding another place to stay. Somehow the two of them had ended up discussing both the case and Lauren King instead.

  King had been battered and frail compared to the woman pictured in the newspaper photo. Jerry suspected that being shot was more than just a violation of flesh and bone but one of spirit as well. He could still see the underlying beauty there in the structure of her face and the dark eyes full of pain. She had the kind of beauty that would have created a stir even in Hollywood, and he wondered what would cause a woman with other options to choose the police force. She’d looked almost haggard as she lay there in the hospital bed, an IV line for fluids and a morphine pump attached to one arm. It was all too easy to picture Flynn there lying in the hospital bed instead, and Jerry wondered again about the circumstances behind his gunshot wound.

  He added broth to the browned chicken and covered the pan to simmer while he whipped up a brown sugar and orange juice glaze for some baby carrots to bake in the oven. He wondered how long it took someone to heal from the emotional wounds of being shot in the line of duty. Though she’d looked terrible there in the hospital, they’d been assured that King was going to survive her physical injuries. He wondered if she had anyone on the other side of the waiting room who cared about her and remembered what Flynn had said about the GFT case becoming an obsession for her. Still, someone that pretty… long, dark hair, angled cheekbones, a lean body. Gorgeous by anyone’s standards. She was too thin, though. Her leanness seemed more a result of disposition than of athleticism. Jerry had thought her remarkably similar to Flynn, as though they were cut from the same cloth. She’d looked exhausted when they’d entered her room, with dark circles that were almost bruises under her eyes. Her pale skin had contrasted with her dark coloring to make her look positively anemic. If anything, she’d paled even further at the sight of Flynn.

  She’d had eyes only for him. Jerry supposed he could understand it; after all, seeing Flynn meant something new with the GFT case had occurred. But it had stung just a bit how quickly she’d dismissed him, as though Flynn were the only one who’d come to see her, the only one who mattered. It wasn’t as if she’d been happy to see Flynn, though. When he’d realized that, it had sent a little inexplicable curl of satisfaction though him. No, there had been none of the usual feminine, feline appraisal in her dark eyes when she’d looked at Flynn. He’d wondered about that and thought about the kinds of cases that Flynn took on. Did he have too much a hint of death about him for King?

  She’d been appreciative of the books, taking up the Daughter of Time and thumbing the cover briefly before replacing it on the nightstand, as though that had taken all her strength. Jerry had felt a little spurt of anger when she thanked Flynn for them. He’d wanted to say, “Hey, they were my idea,” but he’d just remained silent in the background as she and Flynn discussed the case. The room was filled with so many flower arrangements that it resembled a funeral parlor, which had made Jerry uncomfortable.

  “And your partner?” Flynn had asked as they were getting ready to leave.

  King had smiled, though it had looked as though she were trying not to cry. “He’s going to make it,” she’d said. There’d been a moment of solidarity between the two of them then, something shared that Jerry did not understand, and he’d felt shut out once more.

  Flynn had promised to keep her posted, and they’d returned to the bureau. Jerry had gone back to his stack of papers and the requests for information in his inbox. He’d had no idea how Flynn had spent the remainder of the day until he showed up around 5:00 p.m. looking restless and bored. Since they had to come back in a few hours, leaving for some dinner had seemed like a good idea.

  Jerry removed the chicken from the pan and set it aside while he turned up the heat and reduced the remaining broth to about a quarter cup. He began adding the lemon-cream mixture and then the white sauce base and some thawed green peas, whisking it in a little at a time as he thought about Flynn, the case, and the meeting tonight. He replaced the chicken in the pan of sauce and let it simmer through, adding just a touch of tarragon before covering the saucepan.

  He glanced at his watch again and began to wash up. He was surprised at how much time had passed, but it was one of the main reasons he enjoyed cooking. The focus on the food somehow allowed his mind to wander and process the events of the day, letting him set them aside for the evening. Because they were headed out again, he hadn’t changed clothes when they’d come home. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and had been careful not to spill anything on his dress shirt. He’d foregone his usual glass of wine, so he was pleased at how relaxed he felt. Well, it had been an easy day so far. It had done him good to get out of the building for part of the day. Besides, it was entirely possible that he was getting just a little too set in his ways.

  He heard the sound of the apartment door opening, and he automatically looked for Oliver, noting that the cat had already disappeared. After he dried his hands on a towel hanging in the cabinet under the sink, he entered the living room to tell Flynn that dinner would be ready soon.

  He stopped as he saw Flynn leaning over for his bag on the floor, only to wince and press the heel of his hand into his shoulder. The neck of Flynn’s T-shirt was ringed with sweat, and his hair curled into little damp spikes at his nape. Flynn opened his eyes to see Jerry staring at him, and Jerry met an expression both antagonistic and threatening before it was wiped away by weariness once more.

  “Dinner’s almost ready. You’ve got time for a shower if you don’t take all day about it,” Jerry said abruptly.

  He was rewarded with the half smile. It shouldn’t have felt so good.

  JERRY was just depressing the button on his key ring to lock the car when a noise that sounded suspiciously like a Star Trek communicator went off nearby. Flynn pulled out his phone and then stood frowning at it.

  “Problems?” Jerry asked.

  Flynn pocketed the phone. “Text from Ms. Marsden. She said to go a
round to the back entrance. The door will be unlocked. She’s downstairs working in the catalog room.”

  Jerry found himself frowning as well. “Not the sort of neighborhood where one leaves a door open at night, especially a public place like a museum.”

  “Maybe she’s more trusting than you are.” Flynn shrugged. Jerry was getting to know him well enough by now to know it didn’t make him happy either.

  “Then she’s an idiot,” Jerry grumped as they went past the main entrance and down into the narrow alley alongside the building. It was dark in the alley, and it smelled of cat piss and rotting garbage.

  “Tell me something, Parker,” Flynn said as they reached the door lit from above by an anemic light bulb in a wire cage. “Have you ever met anyone you didn’t think was an idiot?”

  “Once, but I was wrong,” Jerry snapped. He couldn’t help it; he smiled briefly at Flynn’s chuckle.

  Inside the building, the air had that hushed quality that Jerry associated with museums and libraries, as if some gray-haired old woman in glasses was going to jump out any second and scold him for making too much noise. The sound of their footfalls on the tiled floor sounded unnaturally loud to him, and it made him unaccountably uneasy. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed dim, as though they were about to burn out.

  “So, where’s this cataloging room?” Jerry asked as they moved down the corridor toward the stairwell.

  “Why are you whispering?” Flynn asked, tipping his head back slightly and raising an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know. It just feels like we should.” Jerry tried to shrug off the feeling.

  At least Flynn didn’t make fun of him, though he did roll his eyes and shake his head. “She didn’t say, but that sounds like something they’d keep in the basement, right?” He indicated the down portion of the staircase, and Jerry sighed. Right. Down it was.

  If anything, it was even darker in the basement. The stairwell dead-ended at a door, which opened up into a huge, warehouse-like space where boxes and crates were haphazardly stacked along large workbenches. Along a few such workstations, there seemed to be some restoration being done. There were desk lamps and magnifying lenses mounted on stands, and the smells of mold and paint and glue were noticeable. A couple of lamps were still on, but the little glow of light they produced hardly made a dent in the dimness of the large room.

  “Bet you’re just dying to put this mess into some kind of order,” Flynn said as they made their way toward the far end of the room, a lighted corridor visible just beyond. “I’m sure they have a system that works for them, buddy.”

  “Funny,” Jerry said sourly. “But for your information, I worked one summer at a natural history museum when I was in college. Order and method are crucial to the documentation and presentation of artifacts.”

  “You worked at a museum,” Flynn said, looking back over his shoulder as he spoke. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Hey, look out!”

  Flynn’s elbow had brushed a pile of speckled composition notebooks hanging off the edge of one of the tables, and the stack shifted perilously. He turned his head sharply at Jerry’s words and grabbed at the notebooks before they slithered off onto the floor. Jerry had to admire his dexterity; he almost caught them all, but they were unwieldy and starting to slip out of his hands. When Jerry jumped forward to help stabilize them, he ended up bumping Flynn and forcing him backward against the opposite table. A small gray artifact with geometric designs wobbled on a stand and began to tip over.

  “Shit!” Flynn cursed, dropping the notebooks and making a grab for the more fragile item. He caught it midair as it was falling off the workstation.

  The artifact lit up with a brilliant blue-green glow that pulsed outward from it in great beams of light. Flynn stood with his mouth open in shock, his hands cradling the piece as some sort of energy wave danced up his arms like wildfire in a dry forest and enveloped him. He jerked backward, arching his neck and back, quivering as though receiving an electrical charge, only to collapse in a heap.

  The artifact went dark, plunging the room into its former gloom.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jerry chanted as he dropped to his knees beside Flynn. Using the edge of a notebook, he flicked the artifact out of Flynn’s lax hand and knelt beside him.

  Flynn was lying on his back, sprawled in an awkward spill on the floor. He wasn’t moving. Jerry hurriedly reached up for one of the desk lamps, drawing it to the edge of the table so he could see better. For a brief instant, he thought he saw a blue-green flash of energy within Flynn’s eyes, but then it disappeared, and he assumed that it was a trick of the light. In the glow cast by the lamp, he could see that Flynn’s eyes were half-open but seemed blank. Jesus.

  He’d never actually had to give CPR before, but the information from the certification course came to him automatically, the way it had been drilled into him. First, determine if the patient was capable of responding. Jerry quickly located Flynn’s breastbone through his shirt, pushing aside his tie. He gave Flynn a nasty noogie with his knuckle and shouted at him at the same time. “Flynn! Can you hear me? Wake up!”

  Flynn flinched, curling up slightly with a groan. Okay, maybe he’d tapped him a little hard, but hey, Jerry was old-school. At least he knew now that Flynn was responsive and that CPR was unnecessary. Pity, his mind suggested drily, before a sudden flare of self-loathing swept over him. This wasn’t some goddamned Harlequin romance, for crying out loud. CPR wasn’t a convenient excuse for kissing someone in the real world. Flynn’s eyelids fluttered, and he moved slightly.

  “Come on, Flynn. Stay with me here.” He stabilized Flynn’s head with one hand and patted him on the side of his face.

  A slight sound caught his attention, and Jerry lifted his head to peer over the desktop. “Hello? Is anyone there?” he called out. “Ms. Marsden?” Silence met his query, and a sense of unease crept over him. He felt very vulnerable all of the sudden as he cradled Flynn’s head in his hands. He looked down again when Flynn licked his lips and swallowed.

  “Whuh happen?” Flynn slurred his words, filling Jerry with alarm.

  “You got electrocuted, that’s what. No, no, you lie there and don’t move. I’m calling 911.”

  Flynn ignored him and began pushing himself up on his elbows. He was frowning as he stared at the little artifact lying on its side. He reached out for it again.

  “What? No! Are you fucking insane? What part of electrocuted did you miss the first time?” Jerry grabbed at his hand just as he made contact with the device.

  Nothing happened.

  “Huh,” Flynn said, closing his eyes and looking woozy.

  Jerry removed the artifact from his hand. It was about the size of a music box, with raised angular edges. It appeared to be made out of some pewter-gray material that Jerry didn’t recognize. He replaced it on the table, noting that it didn’t seem to go with the other items from the same catalog numbers.

  Below him, Flynn was rolling to his knees and reaching up for the edge of the table to pull himself up. “Stay put,” Jerry scolded but offered a hand at the same time. “Seriously, you need an ambulance.”

  He pulled Flynn to his feet, where he swayed slightly and stared at Jerry with a look of terrible confusion on his face. He whipped his head around to look behind him, causing him to lose his balance, and Jerry grabbed him by the arm.

  “I’m all right,” Flynn said vehemently, shaking him off. “I just….” He broke off and winced, bringing the heel of his hand up to his forehead and pressing it there.

  “That’s it. Game over. You’re going to the hospital. We can interview this woman tomorrow at a reasonable hour down at the office. You’re coming with me.” He grabbed Flynn by the lapel and turned him around, pointing him in the direction of the stairs and giving him a little push. Jerry was surprised at how little resistance Flynn gave him as they headed back toward the stairs.

  In retrospect, he should have called an ambulance and had it meet them at the Weir, but Fl
ynn was ambulatory and reasonably coherent, and Jerry thought it might be faster if he just drove Flynn directly to the hospital himself. He didn’t think they would ever make it back to the car, though. Flynn sagged against him as they were climbing the stairs, and Jerry had to help him sit down on the landing. Not good.

  “You wait right there. I’m calling the rescue squad now.” Jerry was in the process of pulling his own cell phone out of its case when Flynn gripped him painfully by the arm.

  “We have to go back,” he said through gritted teeth, closing his eyes rather than looking Jerry in the face. “Ms. Marsden—”

  “Can wait. You, on the other hand, have had a severe shock, and you don’t look so hot to me.”

  Flynn opened his eyes wide at Jerry’s words, looking rather like a deer startled by headlights. He scrambled to his feet, shaking off Jerry’s offer of a hand up, and after looking around the staircase blankly for a moment, he charged up the stairs.

  “Wait! Goddamn it, Flynn!” Jerry called up after him and hurried to chase him down.

  He burst out of the building to find Flynn standing in the middle of the alley, his head tilted upward as though he were scanning the sky for rain. No, Jerry corrected his impression as he approached, more like someone who was listening to something. He strained to hear whatever it was that Flynn was focused on but heard only the normal sounds of the city at night.

  Flynn whipped his head around at Jerry’s approach. “You don’t hear that?” he asked, a level of anxiety in his voice that Jerry had never heard before.

  “Um, no. Say, how’s about we take a little drive down to the hospital now?”

  “I’m not crazy,” Flynn snapped, looking decidedly pissed.

  That’s debatable, Jerry thought, reflecting over Flynn’s career and his record so far.