by Elle Keaton
Though the man was old, he was big and probably still strong. He was loud, seemingly unhinged. Karol Abrahams was cowering and shaking her head, her eyes full of a desperate plea. They wouldn’t get information about Jessica from her family today.
Standing next to his car, Adam wondered aloud if there was a time when the Mr. wasn’t home. Any information about the girl was going to come from her mother and not from a crazed old man. Washed-out sunlight glanced obliquely off the hood of his Subaru. In the distance, another car honked its horn, the sound sharp against the soft afternoon murmurs. Late snow geese swirled upward from an adjacent field, forming a V behind their anointed leader. Another car pulled into the Abrahams’ driveway. Unfortunately, Adam recognized the driver.
“Well, now, how interesting.” Jack Summers’ obnoxious drawl oozed malicious intent. “I kept telling Parks here that we needed to follow up with you, and here you are.”
Just as Parks was getting out of the car, the front door of the house flew open with a jarring bang. Micah startled and twisted around, staring with fear at the angry man starting to come down the steps.
“This is private property; you all need to get back in your cars and go back wherever you came from.” Spittle was again flying from the old man’s lips, and his face was dark with fury. Adam was concerned Mr. Abrahams might have a stroke while they were watching. Karol Abrahams rushed out after her husband, pulling on his arm to get him back inside, but he resisted her, struggling to confront the interlopers. Adam saw it happen; there was nothing any of them could have done to stop his momentum. None of them could have moved fast enough to stop the old man from jerking away from his wife, stumbling backward off the top step, and tumbling down to land in a disturbingly still heap at the bottom of the stairs.
There was a frozen moment when all five of them, Adam, Micah, Jack, Parks, and Mrs. Abrahams, stared at each other, wondering what had just happened. Mr. Abrahams lay quiet. Micah reached him first.
“Don’t touch him; he could have a neck injury,” Adam said.
Micah knelt on the damp asphalt. He put a finger to the man’s neck and frowned at Adam.
“Call 911,” he said quietly. Adam could see blood seeping from where Abrahams’s head had smacked the cement step.
Mrs. Abrahams shakily made her way down the steep steps. She was ashen.
“Summers, grab her, or we’re going to have another casualty,” Adam commanded. Mrs. Abrahams didn’t faint, but she did fall against Jack for support. Sirens screamed in the distance, and they all turned to watch as the ambulance rushed toward them along the rural roadway, visible one minute and dipping down a short hill the next. Mr. Abrahams still had not moved.
By the time the EMTs had carted Abrahams away, Mrs. Abrahams with him, with the local cops following, the day had gone. Micah was waiting in the car, doing something on his laptop. Adam wanted nothing more than to talk to him. Adam’s fascination had grown deeper as he watched Micah take care of Mrs. Abrahams until the EMTs arrived. He was gentle and kind, even with someone who clearly did not like him.
Abrahams had hit the back of his head on that last concrete step, hard. They’d all heard the smack. And yeah, head wounds bled, they bled a lot. But he had not regained consciousness by the time the ambulance pulled out of the driveway. Adam had a very bad feeling.
Mrs. Abrahams had disappeared into the back of the ambulance with her husband. She was quiet and pale but not hysterical, thank god.
He knocked on the car window and Micah’s green eyes caught his, a bee to honey. Just like that, a little frisson of anticipation ran up his spine.
TYPICALLY, people either judged Adam for being a gay cop in a culture that still struggled with sexual identity (mostly he raised his inner middle finger to them) or, if they found out who his father was, they expected Adam to be a secret subversive, a counterculture spy. This faction was also disappointed with Adam’s life choices.
In reality, he was just a gay guy with little to no artistic talent who at one point in his life believed he had an obligation to speak for and protect those who were unable to do that for themselves. Now he was a jaded asshole.
Yet here was Micah. A beautiful, shy man who took Adam’s breath away and seemed to want him back. Which scared the living crap out of him. Adam had no idea what the hell he’d thought he was doing by going back to Micah’s house with him. Again. The man was kind, but that wasn’t all.
What it was, he couldn’t catalog. It was more than Micah’s looks, though they didn’t hurt, especially the soft, dark hair that curled every which way and fell across his eyes when he ducked his head. Klutzy as hell, and damn funny when he finally relaxed.
Micah padded into the living room, a cup of coffee in each hand. He looked sheepish. “I know it’s ridiculous that I spend so much time and money at the Booking Room when I have a machine here.” Adam realized he was being handed an actual latte. “But I work from home, and the walls tend to get pretty close. Go ahead and sit on the couch, it’s clean.” He reddened. “I mean, the cat sleeps there, but I vacuumed it, so no cat hair.” There was no good reason for that simple statement to make Adam imagine Micah naked on the couch. And yet. Shit.
The cat in question had left the room the minute Adam arrived, still not a fan. Micah sat across from him in a big overstuffed chair. He balanced his latte on the extra-wide arm, tucking his feet under himself. Adam knew Micah had zero idea how sexy he was. It was just a thing that seemed to happen.
“What did you want to ask me?” Micah’s voice cut over Adam’s imagination.
“Right.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his thighs. He wanted to know how much Micah remembered about his dad’s cases.
At that moment, his phone started to vibrate in his back pocket. He looked at the incoming phone number and grimaced.
“I need to take this; it’s Jack Summers.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but then again, it was Jack. He watched Micah sip his coffee as Jack informed him that Mr. Abrahams had died in the ambulance. He’d gone into cardiac arrest, and they had not been able to revive him. Well, fuck. Also, Jack and Parks had been at the house to inform Mr. and Mrs. Abrahams that the most recent body had been identified as Jessica Abrahams. Fuck even more.
Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Micah claimed he had actual work to do the next day; websites didn’t build and maintain themselves. Adam needed some space to think about the Abrahams family, about why creeps were breaking into Micah’s house, and a little bit about the case he’d left behind, because as far as he could tell, Weir and whoever else was on it weren’t getting anywhere with the scant evidence they had collected in Ringling. Adam felt they were missing something from the initial investigation; something small, maybe, but crucial.
They both needed a break from the gruesome events of the day. By mutual agreement, Adam had driven them to the Beaver for dinner and a couple drinks after hanging up with Summers. The news about Jessica hadn’t surprised Micah as much as Adam expected.
“I tried to report her missing a few days ago. Obviously, I didn’t try hard enough, but the officer at the desk said I couldn’t report an adult who wasn’t a family member. That I couldn’t prove she was endangered,” Micah muttered after a long sip of cider.
“If it makes any difference, I’m reasonably certain she’s been dead since sometime last week,” Adam told him.
“I guess. I’m trying hard not to feel like I failed her. After so many years, she finally made contact. On the other hand, she was ten years younger than me, was Shona’s irritating friend . . . maybe she didn’t feel she could until it was too late. I mean, like, maybe coming to me was some sort of Hail Mary? I’m not making sense.”
Adam left Micah half asleep on the couch in the early hours of the morning with his laptop open to his email. The man needed some uninterrupted sleep, and the only way he was going to get it was if Adam wasn’t in his bed.
In his mo-hell room, Adam showered and tried not to think
about Micah. Failed. Tried not to think about sex with Micah. Failed. Not to think about how it felt waking up in the same bed with Micah. Failed. Having coffee with Micah. Micah thoughts were wearing a groove in what was left of his brain. With the shower water flowing across his shoulders and lack of sleep fogging his common sense, he couldn’t keep images of Micah at bay.
Trying to simultaneously soap up and ignore his semi-arousal proved to be impossible. He gave in and began to stroke himself. He hadn’t been this sexually aware of someone since he was sixteen and figured out what sex was supposed to be like for him. In his mind’s eye he saw Micah’s green eyes, lids heavy, dark with desire. He was looking at Adam, watching him from the other side of the shower curtain as he pleasured himself. His cock jerked in his hand, and he could feel his balls start to tighten.
Adam wanted to do things, more things, with Micah and to Micah. He wanted to smell him all over, rub his nose in Micah’s armpits and in the thatch of dark hair around his cock. Adam wanted so much. He chased the feeling for a few moments, stroking himself up and down, a little turn at the top, feeling the veins pulse, thinking again about how he wanted Micah to touch him back, to stroke his cock and bite his nipples hard enough to hurt a little. Imagining Micah’s soft tongue surrounding his nipples with velvet sent him over the edge. He came so hard he got come on his chin and almost slipped on the shower tiles.
Adam turned into the spray, glad he hadn’t given himself a head injury. Out of the shower, he dug around in his duffel for clean clothes: his casual uniform of jeans and a dark-green Henley. Laundry needed to be done soon; his seven days of shirts were going on eight, but the green one didn’t smell. He lifted his arm, sniffing again; it didn’t smell too bad. It was nice not to wear suits every day as he had for the past decade.
The town started to wake up. He’d hardly slept. His brain just kept churning, unwilling to let his body rest. Car doors were slamming, and he heard the clatter of feet going down the metal staircase toward the motel parking lot. Sirens in the distance again. A couple bickering as they went to their car, about who had to do the shopping that evening. Normal things.
The laptop sitting on the counter by the tiny coffeemaker pinged. No doubt he was being raked over the coals for something. When he checked, though, it was the results of background checks he had ordered. Nothing surprising; no obvious red flags.
Jack Summers: thirty-five years old. Which Adam knew because he was thirty-five as well. Divorced for a year, debts spread out reasonably evenly over three credit cards. He probably paid one down and then charged it right back up. His credit wasn’t great, but he wasn’t currently late on any bills. Looked like he still lived on the hill, probably in his parents’ old house. The house had been paid off but was now mortgaged to the gills. He’d been with SkPD for ten years, although he had been passed over for promotion several times.
Jennifer Verdugo: single, thirty-three years old. Maybe they had gone to high school together. Head facilitator at the Center House for teens. Didn’t spend beyond her means. Owned her car and had a house on the north end of town. Had previously been employed in L.A., where she also ran a teen center. Graduated from UW after getting a four-year scholarship. If she had family, it was distant relatives. No boyfriend or girlfriend. She didn’t travel or throw her money away at the tribal casinos; paid her credit-card bill each month. Very bland.
Still, Adam was curious as to why she had stopped him to have a drink.
Micah Ryan: thirty-four, single, gay. Only surviving member of his immediate family. Financially well-off, credit great. He lived in his parents’ home, which was paid off. Likely from the life-insurance payout after his parents and sister were killed. Worked freelance in web design, as well as selling articles to various online magazines. As Micah had told him, he’d never even had a parking ticket.
Jessica Abrahams: twenty-two, chronic runaway. Several food-service jobs lasting a few weeks to maybe a month or two. No known permanent address. No credit cards, no monthly bills. Almost as if she hadn’t existed.
Adam wanted to pound his head against the table. He might as well order background reports on the entirety of SkPD, or the entire city and county.
What he needed was some useful information. A scuffling sound came from the breezeway outside his room door, and then someone was pounding on it.
“Jesus Christ, I’m coming, you don’t have to knock the fucking door down!” Adam yelled at whoever was trying to batter his door in.
The door almost hit him in the face when he turned the handle. Adam stepped back barely in time to avoid a bloody nose.
Jack Summers the heavyset blond cop Sara had scolded the week before filled his entranceway his partner behind him. They were both in full gear, their uniforms bristling with every sort of weapon they were allowed to carry. Adam stepped back further, and they pushed into his space.
“What the fuck, Jack? It’s, uh, nice to see you too. Done with your paperwork?”
“Drop the act, Klay.” Jack’s face was grim.
Adam read the other guy’s badge. Jorgensen seemed to be backing Jack up, although his body language was more hesitant. Adam moved into the seating area, where the superbly ugly green couch barely fit against the wall.
“Have a seat. What’s going on?” He hoped, for once, his laptop had gone into sleep mode so they wouldn’t see the background checks.
“We’re not sitting, Klay. We’re taking you to the station. If you don’t come voluntarily, well, that’s why I brought Jorgensen.” Jorgensen had the grace to look embarrassed.
“What the hell for?” He was incredulous.
“We’ll talk details at the station. At this point you’re coming in voluntarily or in cuffs.”
Adam wasn’t pleased to learn he was right: Jack Summers enjoyed throwing his weight around. This was going to end now; then he would figure out what the hell was going on.
“How about I call my boss for you?” He grabbed his phone from the coffee table before Jack could stop him. Glancing at it, he saw he had missed three phone calls and several texts since seven thirty. Which was about when he recovered from his shower and began working.
He quickly hit redial. Jack reached over to try to grab his phone, but Jorgensen stopped him with a hand on his arm. Jack was shaking with rage. The phone only rang once on the other end before Mohammad picked up.
“Adam.”
“Situation here. Seems like someone has the bright idea to take me down to the station.” He was furious. Jack made another move toward him. As if Adam would let Jack touch him.
“Go. I will have it sorted out. You really couldn’t keep your nose out of things, could you?” Mohammad said.
“Moham—”
“Adam, please do not further antagonize the local police.” After their aggressive entrance into his room, Summers and Jorgensen now just stood waiting for Adam to get his coat and shoes on. Jack looked angry and overdressed; his face was red, and there was a vein pulsing at his temple. If nothing else, the guy needed a lifestyle change to help lower his blood pressure. The other guy, Jorgensen, still looked uncomfortable and wary. Seemed like someone maybe had more brains than Adam gave him credit for.
Jack’s phone rang, and Adam heard a high-pitched voice through the speaker. Adam was so glad not to be on the receiving end of whatever Jack was hearing. He sniggered. That vein started to pulse even harder. It was kind of gross. Jack hung up and left as abruptly as he had barged in, leaving the door wide open and Jorgensen staring after him.
“I’m sorry, Klay. I didn’t know he was going to go postal like that.”
“Stop, you’re giving postal workers a bad rep comparing them to Summers.” Adam smiled to show no hard feelings.
The kid’s phone rang. After he answered, he listened silently and then handed the phone to Adam.
“Mr. Klay, this is Lieutenant Nguyen. Let me make this quick. I apologize on behalf of my department about what just happened. Mohammad Azaya just got off the phone with me,
and I understand you are not a suspect but in fact federal law enforcement. I also understand and appreciate why you are in Skagit right now; my condolences. In light of everything, would you be willing to come and talk with me in my office?”
“Yes. I’ll come by.” Adam was wondering what “everything” was, but he knew she wouldn’t elaborate over the phone. He wished he could have heard what had to have been the world’s shortest phone call between her and his boss.
“Sooner, rather than later.” Her voice was clipped.
“Is now soon enough? Your guys have already interrupted what I was working on.” He heard a tiny sigh.
“Thank you.” She hung up.
He looked at Jorgensen, who had been staring at the door pretending not to listen to Adam’s half of the conversation.
“Lemme get my stuff together. You can ride back to the station with me.” They both heard the squeal of tires as Jack gunned it out of the parking lot.
Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Thick, acrid smoke from the flame-engulfed minivan had Micah’s eyes watering profusely. He tried covering his mouth and nose with his sweatshirt, but the smoke still made him cough. Breathing was difficult. He understood, now, how they had died. Doctors and emergency responders had tried to tell him it had been quick, painless. They had lied.
This dream hadn’t happened in a while, even his dreaming self knew. The minivan had caught fire; he remembered that. He frantically tried running toward the flames, toward his family. He needed to put the fire out, but the heat and smoke prevented him from getting to them. Faces he didn’t recognize pressed against the minivan windows, mouths open with silent screams. He thrashed, forcing his feet to move, to run. He was the only witness, the only hope. Tears streamed down his face.