Tallowwood

by N. R. Walker

  What he meant to say, what he wanted to say is I will make you right, August Shaw.

  But he couldn’t just say that. So he didn’t.

  Chapter Thirteen

  No pain. No fear. No sadness.

  That’s what Violet had said, and it literally knocked the wind out of August. If he hadn’t been in a room full of med students, a couple of professors, and Jacob, he was sure he’d have fallen to his knees.

  He’d needed air and space, and thinking room, and a few minutes to pull himself together. He hadn’t expected it to hit him that hard. He wanted to scream and sob . . .

  No pain, no fear, no sadness.

  August hoped with every fibre of his being that was true.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of any of those men feeling pain or fear or sadness. But Christopher . . .

  August had replayed Christopher’s final moments through his mind a million times, and it was like his lungs filled with hot ash each and every time. What he’d gone through, what he’d been thinking. Had he cried, had he begged? Had he thought of August with his final breath?

  Those thoughts, those nightmares had plagued August relentlessly. And to be told, if it was the drug in question that was used, Christopher wouldn’t have felt anything? It was a relief August wasn’t prepared for. Could he dare to hope it was true?

  No pain. No fear. No sadness.

  The wind was bitterly cold, and it felt good against the heat of his emotions. He didn’t want to cry in front of Jacob. He didn’t want to open a vault of memories and grief while he was working with a partner. A partner he’d not initially wanted, but he’d gotten used to Jacob in such a short amount of time.

  But then Jacob was there, and he was warmth and strength. He was reassurance and acceptance. The simple gesture of his hand on August’s arm had felt like a full embrace, soaking into his skin. And then Jacob put his hand to August’s chest, and he could feel the heat of it through his shirt. It made August ache with longing, as though his soul needed the connection.

  Jacob.

  Those deep brown eyes and goddamn freckles.

  August was so overwhelmed. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything for anyone else ever again. The light in his life had been extinguished years ago, and he’d welcomed the darkness and the isolation. Until a little flickering beacon came into view, of hope and human contact, in the shape of Jacob.

  And now this information about Christopher . . .

  It was all just a bit too much.

  “We’ll make this right,” Jacob said, his hand still pressed to August’s chest.

  August closed his eyes and breathed in Jacob’s warmth. And for a single moment, there in the freezing cold car park, he felt life seeping back into his heart.

  Then Jacob slid his hand up to August’s neck and he was standing a little too close, and his eyes were a darker shade of brown, his lips slightly parted, and his cheeks were tinged pink, and that spray of freckles across his nose lit up, and Christ . . . August’s mind splintered. He thought, for a crazy second that Jacob was going to kiss him.

  And the terrifying part was, he wouldn’t have stopped him. In fact, he wanted it to happen.

  Jacob’s phone beeped, startling them both.

  Jacob dropped his hand and stepped back, and August breathed for the first time in what felt like forever. He almost had to put his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “We’ve got a DNA match,” he said. He looked from his phone to August and smiled. “The second body, with the lemon tree. We’ve got a match.”

  August took a deep breath in and gave a nod. “Let’s go see what we can find.”

  Two hours later, they sat in the car in a quiet suburban street in Cronulla. They had a name, the case file, and the address of the parents and were about to drop a bombshell on the guy’s family.

  Tristan Kurtz was twenty-six years old when he was reported missing by his mother, when he never arrived home in Sydney from an LGBTQIA+ music festival in Byron Bay. He’d reportedly hitchhiked from Byron Bay to Coffs Harbour, having travelled with some local residents whom he’d met at the festival and who had given him a lift. The missing person’s report had said Kurtz was dropped off in the main street and had waved them off. He was later seen on CCTV footage walking toward the highway, at 8:11 pm.

  He never arrived at his parents’ house, and he never contacted them to say his plans had changed, which was out of character for him. His parents had called everyone he knew—friends, workmates, old boyfriends—to no avail, and twenty-four hours later he was reported as a missing person.

  Well, he wasn’t missing anymore.

  He was only twenty-six. A kid, August thought, with his whole life in front of him. A life stolen, stripped away, and thrown away like garbage.

  August stared at the house and sighed. He was spread too thin, stretched as far as his skin would allow. Another murder, another gay man slaughtered for no other reason than pure bigotry and disregard for human life. “I hate this. I hate everything about it.”

  Jacob was quiet for so long, August looked over at him. “Yeah, me too,” he said flatly. He was reading through Tristan’s file. He finally closed the folder and met August’s gaze. “We need to find this bastard.”

  “We do.”

  “We need to see his parents and tell them.” Jacob looked over at the house and frowned. “Fuck, I hate this part.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Neither of them made a move to get out of the car. “Is it better to know?” Jacob asked quietly. “Is it better to find out what happened, for closure? Or is it worse, because when you don’t know you still have hope?”

  August was pretty sure it was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but it was one he knew the answer to. “It’s better to know. In the long run.” He cleared his throat. “Hope can break your heart every day for years, and living with false hope is hell on earth.”

  Jacob stared at him, and August wondered if he’d said too much. But Jacob nodded and unclipped his seatbelt. “Then we shouldn’t wait another minute.”

  August got out of the car and together they walked up to the front door and rang the bell. They’d called ahead, so they were expected, but when a tall, middle-aged man opened the door to greet them, Jacob took off his hat, and with that single gesture, the man nodded and began to cry.

  Hope was a cruel and brutal thing.

  When they left the Kurtz family home, August was drained. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car and sagged. The weather had gotten worse. A cold, bitter wind howled; low dark clouds made it feel later than it was. It had just turned three in the afternoon, though it felt like midnight. He was exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. He was so tired of it; the death, the murder, the senselessness of it all.

  Tristan Kurtz was gay. His family were Jewish, and while they weren’t exactly excited by his coming out, they’d accepted him as he was. His father was more disapproving of his hippie lifestyle, with the long dreads and bandanas, and the tie-dyed shirts and nomadic nature. He was a free spirit, his mother had said. He loved everyone, was loved by everyone. Loved music, loved the unknown. He found peace in his religion and would give you his last dollar if you asked.

  They loved him.

  Jacob sat in silence for a moment as well; they both needed to decompress after such an emotional and heartbreaking scene. But then he shook his head, and he had fire in his eyes. “He didn’t kill himself,” Jacob said. “Not to even mention the cross found with his remains was for the wrong religion.” His jaw was clenched, and he let out a cranky breath. “He was murdered and set up to look like all the others, and fuck any medical examiner who wants to say anything different. How about Nina and Bartlett start making these fucking house calls, and we’ll see how soon they change their minds.”

  August gave him a rueful smile. He didn’t need to say why they were the only two who gave a shit about these murdered men. “Well, I’d offer you some comfort food like you gave me
, but it’s probably not gonna come close to your dad’s cooking.”

  Jacob turned his head and he studied August for a while. “Burger and fries it is then.”

  August started the car and pulled out into the street. “Sounds good. And what you said about Nina and Bartlett wouldn’t matter. They’ve seen loved ones find out firsthand and it didn’t make a difference.”

  God. August remembered that day like it was yesterday . . .

  “Well, double fuck them then. How can they not be affected by seeing a parent get told their kid is dead?” He sighed and stared out the window for a long time. August couldn’t see his face, but perhaps he didn’t need to.

  “We will make this right,” August repeated Jacob’s words back to him. “We will.” August didn’t have a choice. He was going to solve these cases. He was going to right this wrong if it killed him. “We have to.”

  Jacob gave a nod but kept his face toward the window. He clearly needed some time and silence to process, so August concentrated on driving. And he knew exactly what kind of soul food Jacob needed, and it wasn’t burgers and fries.

  He drove them back to Parramatta and pulled up along the local eat street, lined with dozens of restaurants, cafés, and bars. August led the way, and Jacob didn’t even notice where he was until they were shown to a table and handed a menu. He scanned it, front and back, then looked around the restaurant. He leaned in. “Ah, August? Your detective skills are usually pretty good, but this isn’t a burger joint.”

  August smiled. “Very observant. You wanted comfort food, so here we are.”

  “I wanted a burger.”

  “You ordered for me when we were in your hometown, I’ll order for you now you’re in mine.” Jacob looked about to argue, just as a waitress came to take their order. “Can we please have two fesanjoon and a taftan to share, please.”

  The waitress obliged and Jacob looked around, looking slightly horrified. August chuckled. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  “I’ve never had Iranian food before,” he replied quietly, almost a little embarrassed.

  “You can’t come to Sydney and not eat something from a different culture. That’s not how it works.” August smiled as he took a sip of water.

  “Says the white guy to the Aboriginal Australian.”

  August snorted water out his nose, coughed and choked, and had to pat himself down with his napkin. “Christ, I’m sorry.” He was so busy trying to clean up his mess while still coughing and spluttering and dying inside because that wasn’t what he meant. “Was that insensitive? I didn’t mean to be, I was just—”

  Jacob burst out laughing. “Insensitive? Nah. Funny as hell though.”

  August stopped trying to blot everything with his napkin, and sagged. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he truly meant it. It just didn’t help that Jacob’s grin was contagious and it felt so good to laugh after the morning they’d had. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not really. That’s two shitty things I’ve said to you pertaining to your identity. I never realised how these things sounded . . . which makes it worse, and I promise to do better.”

  “August,” he said. “It’s fine. I accept your apology, and I can see that you mean it.”

  “I do. And I want you to call me out on that shit.”

  Jacob chuckled. “I call everyone out on that shit. I never used to, but then I realised by not calling people out, I was telling them it was okay. It’s a fine line. I want people to be aware, but I don’t want people to get caught up on that, ya know? It’s the first thing people see, but it’s not all that I am.”

  It certainly wasn’t, August agreed.

  “I mean, I’m a whole list of things: a person of the First Nations, Indigenous, Aboriginal. I own all those. I’m a cop, and I’m gay. That’s what people see. But what they don’t see is that I’m also an Aries, a pretty good cook, I’m an all right footballer, I’m an outdoor and rec coach for kids in the summer camp. I’m a son and a brother and an uncle.” His face contorted with something close to pain, and he sighed. “Sorry. I just . . . hearing Tristan Kurtz’s life boiled down to a list. He was more than that. They were all more than a freaking check list or case file numbers.”

  August swallowed thickly. “They were. People with lives and dreams, friends and families who loved them.”

  Jacob nodded, and when his eyes met August’s, there was something there. A bond, of sorts, and an agreement that in that moment, all differences aside, they were the same. They were two gay men who would fight for those who no longer could.

  The waitress brought their meals and slid a bowl of the sweet curry stew in front of them and a plate of flatbread to share. It was a much-needed distraction, and the heavy mood at the table seemed to lift a little.

  “Oh wow,” Jacob murmured. “Smells good.”

  August took a forkful and sighed at the familiar taste; then Jacob tried a small amount as well. He tilted his head and stared at his plate, then he shot August a look. “Oh my God.”

  August laughed, and Jacob shoved in another mouthful. August tore the flatbread apart and slid some onto Jacob’s plate, and Jacob devoured it in no time.

  “So . . .” August hedged. “You’re an Aries. That explains a lot.”

  Jacob swallowed so he could speak. “Explains what?”

  “You’re bossy, headstrong, and fiery.”

  His smile became a grin. “What you mean is that I’m a strong leader, determined, and passionate.” He chuckled. “Didn’t have you pegged as a guy who knew astrology.”

  “I don’t really. Just a few traits.”

  “Should I take a guess at yours?”

  August smiled. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, you’re analytical, practical, rather critical of yourself, but you’re also kind and loyal,” he said. The way he stared at August made him feel transparent. “I’ll go with a Virgo.”

  August could feel his cheeks heat under Jacob’s scrutiny, but it was his accuracy that hit the hardest. How could someone he met just days ago know him so well?

  “Um . . .”

  “I got it right, didn’t I?” Jacob laughed. “Shit, I’m good.”

  “And there’s that arrogance that Aries are known for.”

  He scoffed, still smiling. “I think you mean confidence.”

  “Hmm, tomayto tomahto.”

  Jacob laughed, and they finished their lunch in better spirits than when they’d started. The thing about being surrounded by death and murder was to take happiness and humour wherever you could find it. It helped to keep the insanity at bay.

  When they were finished and as they walked back out into the wintery cold, Jacob pulled his coat collar up against the wind and shoved his hands in his pockets. And he somehow managed to make himself even better looking. “Thank you,” he said. “I was feeling pretty low before, but I’m better now.”

  August smiled at that. He liked knowing he’d improved someone’s day, even if it was momentarily. “Just returning the favour.”

  He smiled and was quiet for the rest of the drive back to HQ. When they were back in August’s office, Jacob took his jacket off and slung it over the back of his chair. August concentrated on his computer screen and absolutely did not appreciate Jacob’s physique in his police uniform. Jacob spread the files out, open, with the victims’ photographs on display.

  August very deliberately didn’t look at Christopher’s photo.

  “What do you think links all the victims? Besides their sexuality?”

  “What?” August was too busy trying not to look at Jacob or the photos that he didn’t quite understand.

  “Well, not really why the killer approached them, but how?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that,” August admitted. “The cases where he chose his victims when they weren’t at home, not so much, but there are four cases where the victim died in their own house.”

  “Right,” Jacob stated. �
��So, how did he do that? Each case states there was no sign of break-in, no sign of forced entry. The victim knew the killer?”

  “I don’t know if they knew him, exactly,” August hedged. “But trusted, yes.”

  “Like how?”

  “They had to trust him or offer to help them. Something for them to agree to speak to him. Or to open a door. Or to go with him. I don’t know.” August sighed. He felt bad for not telling Jacob about Christopher—that he knew one of the victims—but he didn’t want to change Jacob’s mind or his perception of how the case should proceed. “There was a case in the States a few years back where a guy wore a utilities outfit. Like someone from the water or gas company. He’d knock on their door, of course they’d open and let him in. If he’s dressed in the right gear, you don’t think twice. Even a pizza delivery guy, or a parcel delivery guy.”

  Jacob nodded. “Or a home security company or a pest control guy or locksmith or the air conditioning maintenance guy. The pay TV guy.” He shook his head. “Christ. There could be a thousand possibilities.”

  “I checked phone records and asked their families,” August said. “No one had requested any home maintenance. No cable, no plumbers, nothing. Neighbours never saw any vans or trucks, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Jacob slumped back in his seat, scowled at the open files, then looked around the room. “I need a whiteboard.” He stood up. “Where can I find one?”

  August was about to offer to go track one down when he realised that Jacob would probably have better luck. If he asked any of the officers in the building, he’d get gawped at. If Jacob asked, with that smile and charm, they’d trip over themselves to help him.

  “Down the hall, second door on your right. Someone in there will know.”

  Jacob was gone in a flash, and August’s eyes fell on the photo of Christopher. He was laughing at something August had said, his eyes alight with life and promise; his smile was wide and he was wearing the sweater August had given him the Christmas before. August had taken that photo a few months before Christopher died . . . Most of the other victim photos were work placement photos or driver’s licences, but August had wanted Christopher’s to be personal.