Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  Flopping back on the bed, I moaned with relief. Clean sheets — short sheets — but clean. Jake shoved one of the flat, spongy pillows my way.

  “Next vacation I’m going to … I don’t know … Brittany,” I informed him. It sounded so removed from reality. White sandy beaches, castles, and tiny fishing villages. Crepes and cider and cathedrals. What could be safer than that? “I don’t think anyone speaks English. And I don’t think they have guns.”

  “That’s right,” approved Jake. “Why stop at pissing off local law enforcement when you can get the Justice Department involved?”

  I balled the pillow behind my head. It was weird lying next to him, feeling the sheets heated by his body. He took up a lot of space. If I stretched out my leg I could run my frigid foot down his hairy calf. I studied his profile.

  Considering how long I’d waited for such an opportunity, you’d have thought I’d jump the big man’s bones, but, sad truth, I couldn’t have got it up to save my life.

  “TV bother you?”

  I shook my head and closed my eyes lulled by the slashing of a thousand swords. One thing I didn’t fear was a ninja attack. Although the way things were going ….

  Dozing, I worked Jake’s dour commentary on the movie into my nap. I was vaguely aware when he snapped out the bedside light. I opened my eyes. The TV screen flickered in the darkness with images of gore and, more frighteningly, Christopher Lambert’s slightly crossed gaze.

  Jake reached out, patting my face as though he were clumsily brailling me. I mumbled drowsily, and felt him ruffle my hair.

  “You’re not going to die in your sleep or anything, are you?”

  I slurred, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  He laughed and tugged me his way. Extraordinary. And me too exhausted to do more than wonder at the extraordinariness of it. We lay against each other, chest to chest, cock to cock. Yep, it felt pretty comfortable even with my face smooshed in his armpit.

  “Now why the hell would he?” Jake commented, his voice rumbling in his chest. He was focused on the movie once more.

  Why the hell indeed? I put my arm around him. No objection from Jake. His skin felt smooth, the blond hair crackled against my skin. He smelled of antiseptic and Jake.

  My eyelids felt weighted. Listening to the reassuring thud of his heart, I let my body go slack and fell asleep in the crook of Jake’s arm.

  * * * * *

  I woke with a boner the size of a small torpedo. For a while I lay there and watched Jake sleep in the early morning light.

  In sleep his face appeared younger, the line of his mouth soft. I studied the white gauze bandage around his muscular forearm. I remembered him telling me big arms and shoulders were a help to a cop; a deterrent to punks and drunks who thought twice about taking on someone who was obviously in great shape, who worked out regularly.

  Jake was in great shape, he worked out regularly, but one well-placed bullet last night would have ended his life. I guess until he was the one at risk I hadn’t taken the threat to us too seriously. Not that I thought I was invulnerable; just the opposite. When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness.

  Or so I had thought until last night. Now I realized that I was even more afraid of something happening to Jake. He seemed so tough, so capable, but he was human, he was vulnerable. He could be injured, he could die. Maybe it was naïve that this thought hadn’t struck me until a bullet struck Jake, but there you have it. And all the jokes in the world about being bulletproof didn’t help.

  Frowning in his sleep, Jake burrowed his face more comfortably in the pillow. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and reassure myself that he was safe and alive. Instead I edged out of the bed and headed for the shower.

  By the time I finished shaving, Jake was sprawled on his back, arms outstretched, taking up 80% of the king-sized bed, being a king-sized guy. I sat down on the edge of the mattress, rolling my socks up.

  I started as a warm hand slid down my bare back.

  “Morning,” I said, turning to inspect Jake.

  “Morning.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Sore.” He smiled faintly, ran his hand down my arm. His fingers encircled my wrist, his thumb stroking my pulse point.

  I warned myself not to get too worked up. “What did you do with your prescription? I’ll get it filled for you.”

  He tugged my supporting arm and I let myself topple on top of him. He was still smiling, but his eyes were intent.

  I tried to think of something clever to say.

  His mouth touched mine and it went through my mind that it was his first man-to-man kiss. I seemed to experience that kiss through Jake’s virgin senses: the queerness of a man’s hard jaw, a man’s bare lips, the texture of a man’s smooth shaven cheek, so different from a woman’s soft skin. The taste of a man’s mouth.

  It was a tentative kiss, a first kiss. Surprisingly soft, surprisingly sweet.

  The second kiss was not tentative, and I did not experience it through Jake’s senses because my own were swimming.

  Deep and slow, searching …. His hand cradled the back of my head, drawing me closer, tasting me. I tasted him back. We breathed in gentle unison, filling each other’s lungs with our quiet exhalations.

  Coming up for air, I said, “Man!”

  He brushed his knuckles against my cheek. “How long have you been up?”

  “Now there’s a leading question.”

  His mouth twitched, but he corrected, “Awake.”

  I squinted at the radio clock. “About forty-five minutes. The game’s afoot, Watson.”

  “Oh, I’m Watson, am I?”

  “Well ...” I was hard pressed to be my usual witty self because Jake was tracing my bottom lip with his thumb, something I found distracting. My mouth tingled. How crazy was that?

  “How do you like being a detective now, Mr. Holmes?”

  Regretfully I shook my head.

  “Scared?”

  “You got that straight.”

  “Nice to know I got something straight.” He kissed me again as I started to laugh. My mouth being open, he slipped his tongue in. I heard myself make some soft acquiescent sound. He was exploring, still gentle but not tentative. Tasting, testing. His tongue touched mine. I touched back. One of those blood-hot, dark-as-night kisses that usually leads to hot-blooded, dark-of-night acts — but did not this time.

  Jake broke away and tumbled me off him, his hand grazing my ribs and bare back in final caress. I let the motion carry me, rolling off the bed onto my feet. Hunting for my shoes, I pretended not to watch as he strode off to the bathroom, his heavy cock bulging against the soft cotton of his briefs.

  He locked the door behind him; maybe he thought I might attack him in the shower.

  I sat down to make a couple of phone calls, starting with Mr. Gracen the family lawyer. I explained the situation at Spaniard’s Hollow. Between the stunned silences, Mr. Gracen cleared his throat and murmured, “I see.” When I had finished outlining my latest adventures he cleared his throat a final time and said, “Mr. English, I shall have to consult my — ahem — associates. I shall have to consult the — ahem — penal and the health-and-welfare codes.”

  He promised to get back to me. I figured he intended to change his phone number the minute we said goodbye.

  I called Angus but there was no answer at the shop. Mid-morning on a weekday, this was not a good sign. I needed to return to LA; Jake was right about that.

  I tried the shop again, gave it up and phoned Lisa.

  My mother was home prepping for one of her endless charity do’s.

  “Darling, why haven’t you answered my calls? I’ve left simply dozens of messages with Andrew.”

  “Angus?”

  “Angus, that’s it. And Adrien, I know you don’t like
me to say so, but I do believe that boy is taking drugs.”

  I scowled at my reflection in the dark TV screen. “Lisa, I’m at the ranch.”

  “What ranch, darling? Oh, d’you mean that health farm I told you about?”

  “What health — never mind. Lisa, I’m at Pine Shadow.”

  She gasped. “Why? Why on earth would you want to go back to that dreadful place?”

  “I’m writing. Lisa, I just wanted you to know —” I stopped. I wanted her to know where I was in case anything happened to me. After last night I knew that something could happen. But I could hardly tell her that; she already believed I was heading the Endangered Species list. I finished, “In case you need to get hold of me.”

  “Darling, I do wish you wouldn’t stay there. It’s not very sanitary. And it’s so far from … well, everywhere. What if something were to happen to you?”

  “It’s all right. I’m not on my own.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “A … er … friend.”

  “What friend, Adrien?”

  I glanced at the closed bathroom door. I could hear the shower running.

  “Lisa —”

  “What friend?” she persisted. And then, astonishingly, “Adrien, please tell me it’s not that awful policeman?”

  “Where the hell would you —”

  “That boy told me he was at your shop asking about you. That big gruff one who kept trying to have you thrown jail.” She was still indignant at her version of past events. “I hope you’re not staying with him, Adrien. He’s not at all our sort of person.”

  I opened my mouth but she wasn’t letting up.

  “And even if he were someone you could rely on, neither of you should stay there. The place is haunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  “Oh, you know that silly Indian legend about the monsters in the caves.”

  “What monsters in which caves?”

  Lisa laughed her silvery laugh. “Don’t tell me Mother Anna never told you? Now that I think of it, she probably made the whole thing up to frighten me. That dreadful old woman always loathed me.”

  Jake came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. Definitely distracting. I made myself focus.

  “What legend, Lisa?”

  “Oh, heavens, darling. Every time a cow gets mutilated or a hiker disappears people always claim it’s UFOs or the Wolfen or whatever they called them.”

  “The Guardian?” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jake shaking his head.

  “Was that it?” she mused to herself.

  “Did Granna tell you that story, Lisa?”

  “It may have been your father. He did like to tease.” Lisa sighed, a sad, little heartfelt sound.

  “But someone told you, right? It’s a real legend?”

  “A real legend? What does that mean, darling? Once upon a time someone told me a story. Your dreadful grandmama, I believe. It doesn’t make it true.”

  She has her moments, does me mum.

  When I put the receiver down at last I said to Jake, “Melissa didn’t make up the story about The Devouring. There really is such a legend.”

  Jake had already caught the gist of my phone conversation. He retrieved his gun from under the bed pillow — something that gave me a moment’s pause — saying, “Ghosts did not open fire on us last night, Adrien.”

  “I know that, but it proves Melissa is telling the truth.”

  “Which means zipola. So what if she didn’t make up the story about The Devouring? Say she does believe it. Say she believes it with all her heart and feels obliged to act it out.”

  “What about the dog?”

  “What dog?”

  “Kevin’s dog. Marquez confirmed the story that the dog was torn to pieces.”

  “Apples and oranges. A dog is killed by coyotes. That has nothing to do with someone shooting at us. Or with murdering Livingston — if he is — was — the stiff in the barn.”

  “It might.”

  Jake put his hands on his hips. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you believe Livingston was killed by ancient Indian spirits using rifles?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Coyotes using rifles?”

  “Come on, Jake.”

  “No, you come on, Adrien.” He unlocked the chain and opened the hotel room door. “Come on,” he repeated.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to eat breakfast and then we’re going to file a report with the sheriff.”

  * * * * *

  Leaving Jake at Granny Parker’s Pantry, I darted across the street to get my own prescription filled on the pretext of filling his. No harm in providing a little backup for the happy, positive thoughts, but the last thing I wanted was Jake thinking I was a liability.

  A few minutes later, watching Jake perform his own version of The Devouring I said, “If someone is up to something at the site, Professor Shoup gets my vote.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I told him Mel’s story. Jake listened and at last said, “Mel Davis. Why’s that name familiar?”

  “I doubt if he has a record.”

  Jake looked unconvinced. At last he said, “Davis. Wasn’t he the guy you were shacked up with?”

  When I was suspected of being a serial killer Jake had investigated my background with the attention usually reserved for Supreme Court nominees by opposing political parties.

  I said, “How romantic you make that sound.”

  “You stayed friends.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Jake went back to shoveling through his eggs and bacon. He said finally, “So what happened?”

  “Mel didn’t know. The university may have released Shoup or he may have left on his own.”

  “No. Between you and Davis.”

  As flattering as this unusual interest was, I didn’t want to talk to Jake about Mel. And it’s not like I had a real answer; I was still working out for myself why it hadn’t worked. Mel’s version was he hadn’t been ready to make a commitment. I was pretty sure it had more to do with his fear that he might get saddled with an invalid one day. I set down my orange juice and said colorlessly, “We went in different directions, that’s all.”

  Jake snorted. “Yeah, about four hundred miles.”

  * * * * *

  When the feeding frenzy was over, we repaired to the Sheriff’s substation where I let Jake do the jawing. My popularity rating had not exactly soared since the snake-o-gram, and we all politely pretended I was not present. Jake gave the cops a brief, accurate account of the shooting the night before, which he signed in triplicate.

  I studied the wanted posters on the bulletin board above a bank of dented filing cabinets while Jake asked whether they’d had any luck identifying the DB in the County Morgue.

  No. They had not.

  Jake inquired whether they’d had anyone in from the archeologist’s camp in Spaniard’s Hollow to try and make an ID?

  A ripple of unease ran through the assembly. Sheriff Billingsly bristled. “What are you getting at, Detective?”

  “Just an idea,” Jake said off-handedly.

  It was one that had not occurred to anyone else, and they seemed disinclined to discuss it.

  Then Jake asked about the bullet that had killed John Doe. I thought for sure they would show him the door but they did not. After a moment Billingsly tossed a file across the desk. Jake told me later the report read that John Doe had been killed by a .22 caliber hollow point. He had been dead at least ten days.

  As we started for the glass doors, Jake asked in apparent afterthought, “Any word on Ted Harvey?”

  No word on Harvey.

  * * * * *

  When we got back to the ranch Jake insisted on swabbing down the Bronco. I felt queasy watching the soapy water in the bucket turn pink, and as Jake seemed disinclined to discuss “the case,” I retreated to the house. Firing up the laptop, I re-read my half-hearted efforts of the past few days.

&
nbsp; It didn’t help that my characters were as unlikable as the originals in Titus Andronicus. Even my protagonist Jason was beginning to bug me. I was trying to decide if I could possibly kill him off in the middle of the book when Jake came in to inform me he was going to hunt for shell casings.

  “Don’t trip over the Sheriff’s Department,” I warned him, dragging my attention from my magnum dopus. We’d already been informed the law would drop by later that day — apparently when they were done dealing with the important crime.

  “I won’t.” He hesitated. “Hey, don’t go wandering off, okay?”

  “Like where?”

  “Like anywhere.”

  “Oh.” I weighed this nugget. “You mean you think someone might try to…”

  Duh.

  “Roger, wilco,” I said and sketched him a salute.

  Jake shook his head like it was hopeless, and left me to the murderous intrigue of the Andronici family.

  I typed recklessly for an hour, refueled on coffee, and hit the book again.

  The sound of a truck in the front yard jolted me out of The Zone. Muttering rude things, I padded out onto the porch. Kevin was swinging down from his green truck. Briefly it went through my mind that if Kevin were a bad guy, now would be the time to make his move; after all, he had the sunny disposition and All-American good looks enjoyed by TV serial killers.

  It also occurred to me that having a truck that could pass, from a distance, as a forest ranger’s vehicle could be a handy way of getting around unseen at night.

  “All hell’s breaking loose,” Kevin informed me as he reached the porch stairs. His youthful face appeared older and strained. “They found Dr. Livingston.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say. Kevin was staring at me expectantly.

  “They found his car parked in town. It’s been sitting in the parking lot of some hotel. No one noticed.”

  Did that mean Livingston had been killed in town? Or had his killer driven the site supervisor’s car into Basking and then hitched a ride back? Pretty damn risky. Not as risky as killing Livingston in town and then transporting his body back to the ranch, though.

  Maybe the killer had had an accomplice?

  If Livingston had been killed at the site and his car moved, there had to be a reason for it. The most likely reason I could think of was that it was important to someone that it appear Livingston had left on his trip as planned. Someone was buying time.