Murder House

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Fresh meat? The thought of myself hanging on display, flayed and butchered, made me vaguely queasy.

  If I was turning green, Hale took no notice of it. He said, “Most of those men would be elated to be wed to such a prime specimen. Tall. Good-humored. Stunningly fit. And a very good provider.”

  “Yeah. Bly’s great.”

  “And yet, here you sit in your marital home, penning articles on toxic heteronormative masculinity.”

  I realized he was giving me a meaningful look—one that inferred I should damn well know where he was going with all this. Since I didn’t, I replied with my standard blank expression. And I’ve had a lot of practice—I can hold that face a really long time.

  Hale broke first. He gave an exasperated sigh, then said, “It couldn’t be more obvious you’re using your platform as a way to get back at him.”

  “At who?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Miss Thing. You and I both know Jack’s attempts to pass in the straight world are ridiculous and pathetic—I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen someone overdo the man-spread every time he sat down—and you, poor dear, are left with only one avenue of retaliation: your writing. A scathing retort to the daily indignities you’re forced to endure.”

  While Bly might only be my fake husband, I felt the actual need to defend him—even as I was mentally patting him on the back for managing to come off as an overcompensating gay guy. “Look, we don’t see eye to eye on everything. No couple does. But if I had something to say, I wouldn’t word-vomit into an article and send it to a magazine nobody even reads. I’d tell him.”

  Just as I thought I’d gone too far—particularly for insulting the Douchebag Journal—Hale rocked back in his seat, clapped his hands together and crowed in delight. “My, my. Apparently, I’ve hit a nerve. You have a type, Victor, one that only serves to underscore your internalized homophobia.”

  “You don’t know shit about my so-called type.”

  “Don’t forget—I saw you ogling that brawny young man at the gym.”

  I almost denied it...until I realized the “young man” he was talking about was Jacob.

  “You lit up like a Roman candle around the musclebound brute,” Hale went on. “Lucky for you Jack is such a glutton for punishment. The more disdainfully you treat him, the harder he tries.” He indicated the new townhouse with a sweep of his liver-spotted hand. “And the more he showers you with appreciation. A match made in heaven.”

  I’ve always been one to carry my own weight, and not just financially, either. While it’s true that back at the cannery I might not handle dinner, it was only at Jacob’s not-so-subtle suggestion that I leave the cooking to him. I honestly think the frozen ravioli I tried to microwave might have been salvageable if he’d given me half a chance to reconstitute them. I still maintain that the boiling water would’ve totally rinsed off the taste of melted plastic.

  But, no. He walked my fossilized ravioli straight out to the alley and warmed up some leftover chili from the farthest recesses of the freezer. Why the plastic storage containers never melted for him in the microwave, I’ve never quite worked out. The thing was, I don’t think Jacob minded cooking—specifically, cooking for me. It gave me a chance to say, “This is good.” It also let him pretend to take the compliment graciously when, in fact, we’re both well aware that he’s quelling the words I know.

  We figured out pretty quick why we’d buried that chili so deeply. Let’s just say the yummy burn of habanero peppers feels a lot better in your mouth than it does on your dick. And soaking it in milk doesn’t really help take out the sting.

  And, apparently, neither one of us is a masochist.

  The sound of the front door opening rescued me from laying into Hale to defend my honor in a way that had nothing to do with my fake husband and everything to do with Jacob. “They had it at the MiniMart,” Bly announced with the type of self-satisfaction only a Very Good Provider would feel over a stupid box of herbal tea.

  Despite the fact that I knew damn well I wasn’t a user any more than I was a friggin’ carrot, I hopped up and intercepted him, eager to prove I wasn’t some privileged leech taking advantage of a cushy situation. It was when I snatched the tea out of Bly’s hands that I realized I’d just walked right into a PDA I didn’t particularly want to engage in. I met his eyes with a quick cringe of apology, then said, “Thanks, babe, you’re the best,” and pulled him into a rough liplock.

  It wasn’t Bly’s first undercover rodeo, and he slipped his arms around me like it was the most natural thing in the world—even though his lips met mine with all the passion of a CPR dummy at first aid training. He was just about the same stature as Jacob, but more sinewy—harder and leaner. Through the padding of the cashmere coat, though, with the crisp winter scent of the outdoors briefly masking what he actually smelled like, I had a disturbing flash of something that felt like a wonky deja vu. It was nothing esoteric. Just my body’s confusion at being clasped against some broad, strapping guy who wasn’t Jacob.

  “Well, would you look at the time,” Hale announced. His cane thumped on the thin berber carpet as he headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked. “You just got here.”

  “One should always endeavor to leave his audience wanting more.”

  “But…we have tea.”

  Hale ignored the box I was brandishing and flung his orange afghan around his shoulders.

  “If you can’t stay for tea,” I said, “at least come to dinner.”

  Hale paused by the front door and cut his eyes to the kitchen. “When you’ve been here a week and you haven’t unpacked a single piece of cookware?”

  “We order a mean takeout,” Bly said.

  “I shall have to consult my social calendar before I make any promises.” Hale hauled open the front door dramatically. “So, for now, I bid you both adieu.”

  23

  Once the front door shut behind Hale, Bly’s hand dropped from my waist. He said, “That was weird.” Whatever panic he’d felt back at the gym, he’d evidently walked it off. Either that, or the yoga had worn off enough for him to put a convincing lid on his actual emotions. “So, what was our charming neighbor burning to tell you in private?”

  “It sounded like he just wanted to gloat about the sorry state of our relationship.”

  “Yours and Hale’s?” Bly asked.

  “Yours and mine. Apparently you’re a masochist and I’m an entitled dick.”

  “Listen. Whatever line you’re feeding him, I don’t think he’s buying it.”

  “Why do you say that?” I thought I’d been doing at least a passable job. Other than my writing sample, anyhow.

  “Ambivalence—one of the hardest vibes for me to get a grip on. Your persona should be really attractive to him. It was designed to push all the right buttons. And yet, you keep managing to piss him off.”

  I truly did seem to have a talent for that. Even when I wasn’t trying.

  Bly tore open the tea box and gave it a sniff, scanned the nutrition label, then set about nuking two mugs of water. I figured I should check the psyactive properties of hibiscus before I threw it down my gullet. I scowled open my phone and said, “Ask Crash….” Uh oh. “Never mind.”

  “Never mind,” the phone repeated cheerfully. “Ready to send?”

  “Hit the red X,” Bly called from the microwave, where he was watching the mugs do their warmup do-si-do.

  “But he’s blocked,” I said, alarmed. “Would that have gone through?”

  “It would have—but don’t sweat it.” Look how close I’d come to contacting Crash while I was on undercover assignment. What if this were a real gig and not just a glorified trial run? What if calling him put me in danger? Hell, what if it put him in danger? Dropping into character might be more convincing when I let bits and pieces of my real self bleed through—even parts I don’t normally admit to—but I couldn’t let myself get sloppy. Texting Crash a quick question was basica
lly muscle memory, and letting my vigilance drop had me slipping into old habits.

  “You caught yourself,” Bly said. “It’s fine.”

  Maybe. But it was disturbing.

  I shot some covert glances at Bly as he dunked the tagless teabags, gingerly holding them by the corners as the concoction turned a startling shade of magenta. No way had he calmed down to that extent, not after the shitshow back at the gym. Not unless he’d turned his empathic commands on himself…though I doubted the talent worked that way. If anyone can relate to the desire to keep my private thoughts private, though, it’s me. I’d be a hypocrite if I tried to force him to talk about the yoga incident.

  Still. I couldn’t help but feel curious.

  I hadn’t thought much about what it would take to inhabit a new personality until now. And I had no clue how Bly managed to live with the continual fear of getting made.

  While the tea steeped, Bly double-checked the FPMP’s database, where a few reputable-looking studies that said hibiscus had traditional magical associations of divination, but clinical studies had been unable to demonstrate any psyactive or antipsyactive properties.

  At least it was safe to drink.

  Purportedly.

  “Tart,” I said in a strangled voice.

  Bly took a sip, screwed up his face, and forced out the words, “I know you are, but what am I?” He dumped in three artificial sweeteners and tried again, with no success. “This is worse than decaf coffee with fat-free creamer.”

  The mention of coffee sparked a thought. Maybe the tea would’ve been better with a bear claw chaser—a pastry that Bly had failed to procure. A delicacy that a crabby old man might well have put himself in the mood for. “I can turn this thing around with Hale. I just need to take another stab at him, and I’d bet good money that we’ll be able to corner him at the cafe.”

  Maybe it was cruel to drag Bly to a shop full of droolworthy muffins and cookies and cupcakes and pies. But, heck, maybe it would take his mind off whatever happened back at the gym. We might not have been carrying ourselves like law enforcement, but we sure did pick out our seats like cops. The door, the counter, even the table by the drafty window. Between the two of us, we had a panoramic view of everything.

  We grabbed a couple of coffees, no dessert—I’m not mean enough to gorge right in front of the guy—and settled in to wait for Hale. It was surprisingly difficult to stop myself from talking shop, and so I did what came naturally: I drank my coffee. I downed one cup, then another. Bly pulled out his phone and shot me a text.

  Relax. It’s normal for an established couple to run out of things to talk about.

  Was that true?

  I’d hardly characterize myself as chatty, but Jacob and I had a natural flow to the rhythm of our conversation. You could hardly hear the news through our running smart-assed commentary. And yet, we were equally as apt to communicate with nothing but a touch on the arm and a meaningful look, since no amount of reassurance would convince either of us that some nefarious secret organization wasn’t listening in.

  I glanced across the table at Bly. His hands were clasped loosely around his mug. They weren’t quite shaped like Jacob’s hands. And the way he rested them on the mug was unfamiliar, too, as if he was worried someone might take it away from him—or maybe he needed to warm himself, since dieting off too much of his body fat left him perpetually chilled. Jacob didn’t hover over his mugs like that. He drank a few sips, then abandoned them, three-quarters of the way full, all over the cannery. When I called him on it, he’d make it impossible for me to stay annoyed with him by getting down on his knees and insisting on doing “penance.”

  Bly glanced up at me.

  “Uh…just thinking about Jacob.”

  That was safe to say in public. Right? For all anyone knew, this Jacob person could be anyone. My brother. My boss. My childhood nemesis (even though that title technically went to the fictitious Jack Wang).

  Bly didn’t just receive my words, though. He felt the emotion behind them. He took stock of our surroundings—judging by the way the gay guy at the next table kept glancing over to check us out, we weren’t exactly going unnoticed—and cocked his head toward the far end of the counter.

  While the shop’s decor was new, the paint job was fresh and the fixtures were all gleaming, the building itself was an old, rambling thing. We brought our empty mugs to the plastic tub tucked around the corner from a kitschy magnet-and-knick-knack display, which shielded us pretty effectively from the other patrons. Bly glanced around, determined we had adequate privacy, and said, “Look, I know you’re not into me. Okay?”

  “This whole thing…” I gestured between the two of us. “I really didn’t know what I was signing up for.”

  “Are you saying you want to call it quits?”

  “No.” In my startlement, I slopped a splash of espresso onto my sleeve. I found a wad of mostly-unused napkins among the dirty dishes and used it to try and blot up the stain. “I need to see it through.”

  “No one would blame you for bailing.”

  That was a bald-faced lie. The big-shot federal agent who exorcised dead people couldn’t handle sitting on his duff, drinking coffee in a stupid hat for a couple of weeks? No, I wasn’t about to tank my own career by throwing in the towel so easily.

  Besides, I had to have that extra security clearance.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I insisted.

  “Your call.” Bly craned his neck and glanced down the counter as I continued to blot. If it was a good, solid flannel shirt, I wouldn’t have really fussed about it. With clothes like that, a few stains add character. But it was my persona’s wardrobe, not mine, so I had to at least attempt to treat it well.

  Bly tired of watching me mop up coffee soon enough. He cocked his head toward a towering display of pies and pastry and said, “I’ve had all I can take here. I’m heading back.”

  “Grab me a to-go on your way out.” I dabbed into some cold water from a glass half-empty and swabbed even harder at the stain....

  Then damn near dropped the rest of it on myself when a familiar voice chortled, “Never in my life have I witnessed such an outrageous display of unmitigated gall.”

  Framed in the nearby bathroom doorway, Sylvester Hale regarded me, walking stick in hand, eyes sparkling in delight. How he’d managed to slip past the two of us, I couldn’t imagine…until I saw a back room that was normally off-limits had been opened up to accommodate the weekend crowd.

  “First you break the man’s heart, then you have the nerve to make him buy you a drink? My dear boy. How delightfully mercenary.”

  “I don’t know what you think you heard,” I said…though when I thought back on it, I counted myself lucky that we hadn’t been talking firearms or psyactives.

  “The heart is such a fickle thing,” Hale said with glee. “Is it not?”

  I scrambled through my tradecraft ideas for some sort of appropriate reply, but any normal person could hardly agree with him. “It’s none of your business,” I barked, sure that I’d be destroying any tenuous relationship right then and there.

  And yet, my anger had the opposite effect I thought it would. The wrinkles around Hale’s eyes deepened as his predatory smile grew wide.

  I attempted to course-correct. “Sorry. Stressful day. Didn’t mean to get snippy. Look, why don’t you let me buy you a bear claw and make it up to you?”

  “With your own money?” he asked sweetly. “Or with Jack’s?”

  Again, like the total rookie I was, I let the question throw me into a logic loop. Sure, Bly’s character was the one with the steady job. But who’s to say the douchebag hadn’t just sold an article? And yet, if I claimed that was the case, Hale would want me to show it to him—and while I was sure I could dredge something up, whatever it might be, I didn’t want to be stuck talking about it as if I actually understood what it meant. “What difference does it make who’s paying for it, so long as you get your dessert?”

  “Why, n
one at all.” So said his mouth. But his eyes were still twinkling with glee. “Simply indulging in idle curiosity. However, I shall need to take a rain check, as I’ve already supped.”

  “But we’ve been meaning to hang out. Y’know—to be neighborly and stuff. Get to know you better.”

  “As amusing as it would be to act as your buffer so you could avoid whatever conversation you’re currently trying to escape, regretfully, I must decline. The chairs here are even worse than those in your dining room.”

  “Then at least let us walk you home.”

  “I’ve already called my cab—and, no, you may not share.”

  “Wait—before you go—I was just wondering….” I scrambled to dredge up something the medium-screening questionnaire I’d put together with Darla. “Uh…have you ever heard voices?”

  “Only your mellifluous tones keeping me from my ride. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to desist in your baffling attempt to stall me, I bid you good day.”

  24

  It was frustrating knowing my target was on the other side of a very flimsy wall, and yet I couldn’t seem to get him to answer a few simple questions. When I was rude to the guy, he wanted to stick around and spar. But when I was nice to him, he’d suddenly have somewhere else to be. I pulled up the tradecraft article on “roping” and deduced that I’d been trying too hard. If I wanted to land Hale, I’d have to play hard to get.

  I’d have to do it where he could see me, though.

  I pulled up the gym’s yoga schedule. “You’re not gonna love this,” I told Bly, “but hear me out. There’s a yoga fusion class tomorrow afternoon. No prenatal, just the fusion. That’s the one where Hale would be.”

  “Forget about the gym.”

  “Look, you don’t have to do yoga. Just walk on the treadmill while I get behind him and herd him out toward you.”

  “Really. Forget about the gym.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”