by Kim Fielding
Turned out his dick had missed him.
He fondled himself under the harsh lights in his spare, cold cell, and he thought about good men—but not too good, of course. Men with age and experience in their heads and on their bodies, who wouldn’t hesitate to tumble into bed with him, and who’d whisper filthy words in his ear while they used him a bit roughly. Men who cared about others and not just their own wealth and power. Who helped their lovers discover the best in themselves instead of the worst.
Those types of men.
If a young Des had met one of those men instead of Larry, maybe his life would have taken a better path. Des might have resumed the schooling he’d run away from at fourteen and found a job that made him feel proud. He might have taken long walks in sparkling sunshine or amidst warm rain, with grass under his bare feet and tree branches waving overhead. He might have showered every night before climbing between soft sheets on a thick mattress. He and that good man could have made love. And they could have fallen asleep pressed close, listening to the lullaby of each other’s heartbeats.
Des came soundlessly, his spend almost scorching against his palm and belly.
Then he got up and washed himself at the sink over the toilet. He buttoned his jumpsuit back up. And he reached for the book about the woman who carried the devil’s son.
Chapter Eight
The Bureau had authorized Kurt to spend another night in the motel near the prison, but the motel was a rathole and the only place to eat was a combination gas station/convenience store/burger place. Kurt was already tired of the desert. He drove straight back to LA instead, arriving home late and exhausted. He’d stopped for fast food along the way, so as soon as he was inside his house, he stripped, washed up, and sat on the edge of the bed.
His eyes were gritty, as if the desert had lodged in his body and was now creeping out. When he was a kid, his family had gone on a road trip through the West, ignoring hostile stares and muttered comments about race mixing. They’d gone to beaches, mountains, and forests, and they’d stopped at every stupid roadside attraction his father could find. One of those places had been a cobweb-festooned metal building filled with objects the outdoor sign proclaimed to be Curiosities And Oddities From Around The Globe. Kurt didn’t remember the location of that building or most of what it contained, but he did remember a glass case displaying a mummy. But not the Egyptian kind. The poor wretch had been drained by a vampire in the late nineteenth century, his body left to desiccate in the far reaches of a cattle ranch.
Although Kurt was grateful he’d never (yet) been unlucky enough to get chomped by a vamp, he felt as if he were turning into that mummy. He was drying up and hollowing out, his body stiffening. Maybe age had something to do with it—but that wasn’t all.
He rubbed his face and yawned. He needed to get some sleep and stop wallowing. Really, he had it damned good. Even though he’d once fucked things up, he’d been granted a second chance. Because of that, he had a son he was incredibly proud of and who didn’t hate him, and an ex-wife who’d forgiven him. His home was safe and comfortable, his job was interesting, and Vaughn was always up for a quick fuck when Kurt was in the mood.
And Jesus, at least he wasn’t like that bastard Hughes, locked away in a tomb with no chance of ever getting out. Hughes would probably have been better off if the Bureau had killed him when they exterminated his lover, but now he was stuck. And he didn’t even seem like a truly bad monster. He’d been a selfish young man who made really bad choices. Kurt understood how easily that could happen.
Well, no point thinking about him tonight. Tomorrow morning Kurt would have to debrief Townsend on the entire visit and let him know that he’d largely drawn a blank on the location of those fucking boxes. Shit.
“Those are all the specifics he could give?”
Townsend sat behind his desk, unlit cigarette in hand. He looked slightly worried, which terrified Kurt. The chief never looked worried, even when it seemed as if an apocalypse was due.
“That’s all I could get from him,” Kurt replied.
“Do you think he was telling the truth about not knowing where they are?”
Kurt didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I do. I get the sense Krane didn’t necessarily keep Hughes fully in the loop.”
Townsend nodded. “He used Hughes primarily as muscle. He needed someone who was big, strong, and loyal, without many outside ties. Krane wasn’t the type to consult with anyone about his plans.”
That made sense. With no real family or future, and with tendencies for nomadism and minor run-ins with the law, Hughes had been the perfect choice for Krane. In fact, Krane had probably groomed him carefully, leading him into a trap Hughes could never escape. Poor son of a bitch.
Townsend turned to face the window, where the early sunshine was turning the sky pale orange. He’d told Kurt once that he missed the old HQ downtown, with its vast marble entry and its long echoing corridors. His favorite lunchtime haunts were a longer drive now, but mostly, he said, he preferred being closer to the beating heart of the city. From another man, Kurt would have assumed this was a metaphor. From Townsend he wasn’t so sure.
“Go ahead and write up your report,” Townsend said as he turned back toward Kurt.
“Do you want me to look in some of the places Hughes described?” Not that Kurt had a chance in hell of finding anything, given the vagueness of the information. But he could try.
“No. Don’t want to waste you on that. When you get the report in, I’ll have a fresh assignment for you. How’d you like to spend some time in a haunted mental hospital in Stockton?” Townsend smiled widely, looking for all the world like a grandfather bestowing a gift on a favorite child.
Ghosts. Kurt didn’t mind them. “Sure, Chief. I’ll have the report to you by Thursday.” He stood and walked toward the door but paused before opening it. “Sir? Can I ask you a favor?”
“What’s that, boy?”
“Can you have some more books sent to Hughes?”
Townsend regarded him expressionlessly. “Books?”
“He only has a few. They’re pretty much all he has, you know? I’m aware of the harm he caused, but after all these years, maybe he’s due a crumb of mercy.”
“Hmm.” Townsend took a moment to light his cigarette and cast a quick longing glance at the file cabinet where he kept his liquor. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
For no particular reason that he could ascertain, the weight in Kurt’s chest felt a little lighter for the rest of the day.
The reports had been correct—the mental hospital was haunted. Infested would be a better word for it really, with ghosts lurking in nighttime corridors and flitting across courtyards. Kurt could hardly blame them. Most of them had traveled a rough road while alive and had then died behind bars, forgotten. A hospital administrator admitted that nobody knew where all of the inmates were buried; the place had been in operation since the gold rush, the grounds were extensive, and record-keeping was often sloppy at best.
Anyway, most of the ghosts were harmless, and Kurt let them be, hoping they’d eventually find their way to peace. One haunt, however, had been terrorizing staff and patients so badly that an entire wing had been cordoned off. One orderly had been severely injured when the ghost cornered him in a bathroom and manifested enough physicality to wrench a sink out of the wall and strike the man on the head.
The Bureau had a protocol for getting rid of troublesome spirits. Kurt smudged the area with burning sage, scattered copious amounts of salt, and played “It’s a Small World” on endless loop. It didn’t have to be that particular song. One of his colleagues preferred Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You,” and another swore by “Disco Inferno,” but Disney always did the trick for Kurt.
Sure enough, the ghost spent thirty minutes moaning and throwing itself against the walls before it focused on Kurt’s repeated firm commands for it to go away. Then it was gone, probably for good. Just in case it
did make a reappearance, Kurt had a little gadget—dreamed up by some of the tech gurus at the Bureau—that looked like an electrical plug with no cord attached. He had no idea exactly how the thing worked, but he knew from experience that if he stuck it in an unobtrusive outlet, the ghost couldn’t return.
When he was done in Stockton, he decided to take the long way home. Instead of driving down the Central Valley, he cut west to Highway 1 and took his time hugging the coast through Big Sur. He even made a little vacation out of it, spending the night in a hotel near Cambria before returning home the next day.
The next few weeks were busy with the usual things. He, Jason, and Maryann took a tour of UC San Diego, a pretty campus located enviably close to the ocean. Eager for independence, Jason liked the idea of going to school outside of LA. The fact that he wouldn’t be that far—less than three hours—pleased Kurt and Maryann, who also felt as if the upscale community of La Jolla would be a safe place for their son to fledge.
Kurt ran twice a day at work, often accompanied by Edge and Terry. Even Edge seemed relaxed and almost merry as a result of their extended romp in the woods. Kurt handled the usual assortment of minor assignments and worked with some other senior agents on developing training modules for recruits. On some weekends, he and Vaughn met up at Vaughn’s place to watch football on TV and screw. Kurt’s kitchen sink developed a leak, and he spent a sweaty Saturday running to the hardware store and swearing at plumbing.
On an overcast November morning that hinted at possible rain, Kurt and Edge ran some particularly swift laps, leaving Terry cussing cheerfully in their wake. Back in the locker room, Kurt politely managed not to ogle their beautiful physiques. Terry could easily have been a model, and Edge had exactly the kind of muscular body that always got Kurt’s gears going. But perving on your coworkers was not acceptable, and those two were so deeply in love with each other that even thinking about them sexually felt like a major transgression.
Kurt had dried off, put on his underwear, and was just slipping into his shirt when an agent burst into the locker room. He was new to the Bureau, only a handful of years older than Jason, and Kurt didn’t know his name. When the new guy saw the other men in their various stages of undress, his cheeks flamed, making Terry chuckle.
“Um, Agent Powell?” The kid trained his gaze toward the ceiling.
“Yes.”
“The chief wants to see you. Right away.”
Terry chuckled again when Kurt heaved a sigh. “Looks like you’re in demand, Kurt.”
“Great.”
The kid scurried away, still blushing, and Kurt finished getting dressed.
Mrs. Kirschenheiter gave her usual glower when he arrived at the chief’s office. “He’s not here.”
“But he sent for me. The kid said he wanted to see me immediately.”
“That was fifteen minutes ago.”
“I was in the locker room. Next time I’ll just walk up here naked, okay?”
Her face pinched tight, and Kurt struggled not to smile. “Is he still in the building, Mrs. Kirschenheiter?”
“He’s in the tower.” She seemed reluctant to say more, but she clearly forced herself. “Today’s code is 3857.”
“Thank you.”
Nobody entered the tower unless Townsend invited them—and Kurt didn’t know anyone who’d been invited. There were plenty of rumors about what that space contained. A huge bar. A torture chamber. A library. A laboratory. A private zoo. Of course, all of these were pure speculation, but Kurt was about to discover the truth. He grinned as he made his way to the elevator at the center of the building.
He half expected the keypad to reject the code, but after he tapped it in, a light blinked green. A few moments later, the elevator doors slid open. The interior was nice but not spectacular. Polished wood paneling and a marble-tiled floor. There were no buttons to push, which was a little disconcerting, but the doors glided shut before he could change his mind, and then the car rose.
The elevator released him into the center of a large, nearly bare room: glass walls, shiny white floor tile, and plain circular lights set into a white ceiling. Even the exterior walls of the elevator shaft were unadorned and white. Eight white metal cafe chairs, arranged in pairs, faced each of the four directions.
“Disappointed?” The question startled Kurt. Townsend sat in one of the chairs, gazing outward but clearly addressing Kurt since there was nobody else there. Somehow Kurt had missed seeing him during his initial scan of the room, even though Townsend was really hard to miss.
“It’s, um, emptier than I thought it would be.”
“Oh, this place is full and very busy. You just can’t see the activity.” Townsend tapped the side of his own head and winked.
Kurt was used to his boss being enigmatic and decided to focus instead on the important topic. “You needed to see me?”
“Indeed. But come enjoy the view.”
Kurt crossed over to him, footsteps loud on the tile. They were facing north toward the Santa Susana Mountains, with a vista encompassing the Ventura Freeway and orderly blocks of houses. The clouds looked thicker than when he’d been outside, but they weren’t yet heavy enough to obscure the landscape. “It’s nice.”
Townsend huffed a laugh. “Nice. I guess so. It was better when we were downtown. When the Bureau insisted on moving us, I lobbied heavily for what’s left of Bunker Hill, but I lost that battle. Traffic and parking, they said. Pfft. Anyway, this tower was my consolation prize.”
“But… what’s it for?”
“Contemplation, my boy. Considering the consequences of actions.”
If Kurt hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Townsend looked wistful.
“Is that why you brought me here? To think about consequences?” Kurt searched his mind for anything he might have done wrong, any policies he’d violated; he drew a blank. However much he’d fucked up when he was younger, he’d stayed within the lines once he joined the Bureau.
“Not exactly. Tell me, what’s the distinction between good and evil?”
Kurt blinked. “Um, I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Of course you have. You can’t work for the Bureau for eleven years without cogitating on this issue. But in your case, it was a pertinent topic long before you became an agent. While marching through the jungles in Vietnam. While flying high with drugs and pickling yourself with alcohol.”
Trying not to bristle at Townsend’s mention of those uncomfortable memories, Kurt glared out at the gray skies. “I don’t know that I’m qualified to make that distinction, Chief. I never studied philosophy or theology. No college for me, remember?”
“It doesn’t take a university education to develop a sense of morality.”
True enough. But Kurt shrugged.
“Oh, come on, Powell. Let me ask you this: is a being inherently good if they’re human and inherently evil if they’re not?”
“Of course not. You know that better than I do. You’ve had plenty of nonhumans on the payroll here. I’d trust Edge with my life as quickly as I’d trust any of the homo sapiens around here.”
Townsend nodded, seemingly pleased with that response. “Yes, we can agree that humanity is not dispositive either way. So now tell me, how do we distinguish an evil man from a good one?”
Presumably this was leading somewhere, although Kurt didn’t know where. He rubbed his head, running fingers through the cropped curls as he thought. It turned out that he did, in fact, have an opinion on the matter, but putting it into words wasn’t easy. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I don’t really believe in good or evil men. I think there are some people who choose good acts and some who choose evil, and a lot who do a mixture of both. Every one of us has the capacity to go either way.”
“And can someone who has chosen one path change to the other?”
“Does this have something to do with that redemption stuff you were asking me about a few weeks ago?”
“It all has to do with redempti
on.” After a pause, Townsend pointed at the nearby chair. “Have a seat.”
Kurt did. The chair wasn’t especially comfortable.
“I have a new assignment for you, boy. Or rather, the continuation of an old one.”
“Sir?”
“You and Desmond Hughes are going on a journey.”
Chapter Nine
Des didn’t know if this particular volume had been intended as a joke, but since he was in the habit of devouring whatever books he was granted, he’d read it anyway. He could hardly spurn a book by a fellow Irishman, not even if the subject matter hit too close to home. He’d heard of Oscar Wilde before but only enough to know he was an Irish author. Now as he read the book’s foreword, a chill ran down Des’s back—and not from the cell’s cold air. Wilde had been sent to prison for being gay. He’d written this book, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, while incarcerated. It was his final work. His time in prison had broken him physically and mentally, and he’d died in self-imposed exile, in poverty, only a few years after being released.
“Yeah, but you’re not in here for being a poofter,” Des reminded himself. At least not directly. Falling for another man had put him on the path to this prison, but it was murder that got him locked up. Multiple murders.
Des pushed away the familiar despair and began to read.
His only previous experiences with poetry had been confined to dirty limericks, so this piece was slow going. But that was all right, since the words made his chest hurt and his throat feel tight. Then he reached a stanza near the end:
And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.
Des’s eyes stung and blurred and he had to stop reading.