IT TURNED out twenty hours of sleep and a saline drip were what Roan needed because when he finally woke up, he felt almost Human again. Well, as Human as he ever felt.
The news awaiting him was interesting. Forbes committed suicide, leaving no note, but investigators and the media were already speculating on a connection between his sudden suicide and the still missing Campanelli. Meaning none of the survivors at Rattlesnake Ridge had gone to the cops. Which was as he expected, as he doubted that they’d be falling all over themselves to report they were at an illegal gambling site, and if they were infected, there’d be even more incentive for them to avoid the cops.
Roan spent his first half hour awake trying to remember what he’d done at the Ridge. Now it was kind of a blur. He remembered running through the trees—oh, how the lion loved that—and that odd sense that he could keep running, up the Ridge, up the mountain, the snow and the elevation no obstacle to him at all. But after that, his memory got blurry and fluid. He remembered Holden being there, and Forbes. And the cats he freed from the pit, weren’t they acting as his pride? But beyond that, he couldn’t recall anything. He couldn’t even remember getting home.
Dylan seemed both relieved he was awake and okay, and angry that he wore himself out so dangerously. It was a fair response, and all Roan could do was apologize and hope he didn’t hold it against him for too long.
While eating breakfast (which was also lunch), he checked his messages to find that Rosenberg had called and was so pissed off at him he was sure Dee had spilled the beans. Holden had also called, letting him know if he regained consciousness within a month, he was still hoping to do the whole Rico stakeout thing. As if deliberately set up, Kevin left a message afterward, chewing him out for wanting to do something so dangerous and illegal and impossible, and then said, before slamming the phone down, that he’d see what he could do. That was why he thought he could be a cop for a few minutes there: they were insane.
That actually reminded him of something. As soon as he hung up and went back to eating, he asked Dylan, who was putting away some groceries, “You know any bears I can set Kevin up with?”
Dylan threw him a skeptical look over his shoulder. “Do I make a joke here, or are you serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“But isn’t he in some kind of weird relationship with that ex-hooker?”
“Yeah, but that’s not a relationship. He needs an equal, someone who isn’t using him.”
Dylan put a package of tofu in the fridge and then turned, shaking his head. “I agree with you, but a closeted guy isn’t the world’s best boyfriend.”
“I agree. But if he can make a genuine connection with someone, maybe he won’t want to stay in the closet.”
“That’s a hell of an assumption.”
“I know. Got any better ideas?”
Dylan sighed, appearing almost too exhausted to shrug. “No. But I’ve been out so long I don’t remember what’s it’s like to be in the closet.”
“I was never in the closet.”
“Yes, well, you’re the type.”
That made Roan put down his fork. Since he was really enjoying his scrambled eggs, this was a pain. “What does that mean?”
“It means you really don’t give a fuck what people think about you, and I actually suspect you prefer to have them hate you.”
“Who, me?” Roan wondered if the truth of that should bother him. Yeah, he probably did prefer hatred, mainly because he was used to it, or at least that’s what he told himself. Was that actually true? At a certain point, it was impossible to say.
Dylan gave him a sarcastic look, but before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. They exchanged a curious glance, but Dylan went to the door, peering through the peephole. “All I see is a torso in a Falcons shirt.”
“It’s Grey.”
“Well, duh.” He opened the door, and standing there on the doorstep was indeed the huge defenseman, holding what seemed to be an equally huge cellophane-wrapped gift basket.
Grey came in and put the basket down on the kitchen counter, letting them know this was a gift that he meant to bring to the hospital when Roan was there and that included a card for Roan, which Grey told him to go ahead and read later because it was nothing.
Grey explained he was on his way to the gym and thought it was about time to drop these things off, especially since he was leaving for Philadelphia in two days. It was a nifty basket, with a six pack of microbrews and some organic chocolate and other assorted crap, but not the cheap stuff.
He knew about the fence Roan was having built around his house, and Roan wasn’t sure how he knew, but then he figured he must have mentioned it to Fiona, who probably told Holden, who must have mentioned it to Scott, who inevitably told Grey. There was something almost incestuous about the relationships between his friends and co-workers that bothered him a little, but why? None of these people were gossips, and not one of them had any evil intent.
As if to prove that, Grey said, “Send me the bill.”
Roan had been drinking pineapple juice, and he almost choked on it. “What?” he finally asked, when he could.
“Do you know how much the Flyers are payin’ me? It’s insane. Just send me the bill. I’ll call you when I know where I’m staying in Philly, you can just send it there. Or e-mail it to me, if they let you pay online.”
Roan stared at him in disbelief. He wasn’t joking. “Why the hell would you do that?”
Grey gave him a toothy grin. “’Cause I can.”
Roan had a feeling that’s why Grey did a lot of what he did. Not because he had any mad desire to do so, but because who was going to stop him? It was tempting, and it’d be a great help, but he still wasn’t sure he could accept it. “I don’t know—”
“Hey, what about an exchange?” Grey suddenly asked, then looked at Dylan. “That last gallery showing you had, you had a picture I wanted but it wasn’t for sale. Could we trade?”
Now Dylan looked even more bewildered than before. “What, you mean the painting for the fence?”
“Yeah! I really liked it.”
Dylan glanced at Roan, but all he did was shrug. It was up to Dylan; it was his art. “Which one was it?”
“Um, it was the one of the back with the big cuts on it, and the smoke?”
Dylan considered that a moment. “One of the photos?”
“Yeah.”
Dylan shot Roan a look, a look that said, “You’re sure this guy is straight?” Because the only photos Dylan had shown to date were the ones of Roan’s painted body. Grey wanted the photo that showed Roan’s back, painted in a somewhat grisly manner—it displayed gashes from supposedly ripped out wings, and there were painted “smoke” and vapor trails to resemble the fire this dismembered angel was surely burning in. Not one of the happier of Dylan’s body-painting exploits, but Roan sympathized with it. Also, it was very striking as opposed to truly morbid. “Um… yeah, you could have that one. It’s not framed.”
“Don’t matter. I’ll frame it.”
Dylan nodded, then left to get it. “You’re buying my back,” Roan pointed out to him.
That just made Grey grin. “It’s a manly back.”
Roan smirked at that and shook his head. “You do this on purpose, don’t you? You like to keep people guessing.”
“Guessing what?” He said that too innocently to be believed. After a moment, he asked, “So what’s the opening song of your DJ night at the game?”
He’d almost forgotten about that, but it didn’t take long for him to pluck a song out of his head. Maybe he had transient change amnesia and was up for the first time in almost two days, but he knew music. “‘Cream and Bastards Rise’ by Harvey Danger.”
“Oh God, perfect! Man, I can’t believe I’m gonna miss this. You gotta do 'Hockey Hair'.”
“I intend to.”
Dylan came back carrying the photo, stretched out on a regular-size canvas. Although he’d only made one that size, he kept the negatives, so he could make another any time. You’d think that’d cut down the value of it, but Grey probably didn’t care about that. “You know—and Ro, hon, I love you—this isn’t worth the price of the fence.”
Grey took the canvas and looked at it with what seemed to be genuine reverence. “This is awesome. You’re a good artist, man. Why aren’t you bigger?”
“You’re asking me? Ask the art world and the buying public.”
Grey just smiled, but kept looking at the photo “painting.” “You got a scar on your back, dude?”
It took Roan a moment, but he realized that was directed at him. “Yep.”
“Bullet wound,” Dylan added. Why had he told him that? Maybe to impress him as the macho guy he was.
Grey lowered the picture, still grinning. “Figured as much. But you know what I don’t get? I thought transformation healed scars and stuff. Or was Wikipedia full of shit again?”
“No, it heals most scars, but only if they’re really fresh. If you’ve had them past a certain point, you keep ’em. That’s why I’ve never gotten rid of some of them.”
“See? I didn’t know that.” Grey held the canvas up with one hand and said, “I’ll e-mail you pics when I got it framed and on the wall. Send me the bill, I mean it. A deal’s a deal.”
“You got it,” Roan replied, and Grey gave them a wave as he went out the door.
As soon as it was shut, Dylan turned to him and said, “Sometimes I love your weirdass friends.”
“They can be really helpful.” He went back to eating, figuring the drama was done for the moment, but Dylan sat on the stool beside him and put an arm around his waist before resting his head on his shoulder.
“You can’t do this to me anymore,” Dylan said softly. “More importantly, you can’t do this to yourself. I know you want to help people, especially your people, but you can’t do it if you drop dead. So promise me you’re going to take a break.”
Roan nodded carefully. He didn’t think Dylan was crying, but he felt a few warm tears soak into his T-shirt. Damn it. “I promise. I was stupid, I didn’t think… well, I can stop right there. I didn’t think.” He put the fork down—he was done with eating anyway—and kissed Dylan on the top of his head. His hair smelled good, a bit like vanilla and apples. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology, Ro. Just don’t do it again.” He sat up straight and wiped his hand across his eyes before getting up and walking back into the kitchen. He grabbed the gift basket from the other side of the counter and started undoing the cellophane. “Holy shit, I think there are vegan crackers in here. By the way, what did you mean when you told Grey he did it on purpose? Why would he?”
“Control, power. By keeping people constantly unbalanced, he always has the upper hand. Tactically, it’s brilliant. No one’s ever sure what to say around him or how he’ll react, so people are constantly shifting what they’re going to say in fear of his reaction. He loves his easygoing, big-dumb-guy persona, but fuck if he isn’t the smartest guy in the room. Size alone should give him the upper hand, but he’s not relying on just that.” Roan noticed the get-well card envelope and figured what the hell and opened it.
“He’s not the smartest guy in the room if you’re there.”
“You’re just saying that to get into my pants.” He opened the envelope to find a rather generic get-well card, although covered with signatures ranging from legible to potential test scribbles. Had all the Falcons signed this? He could make out several names, and perhaps not surprisingly, Scott had the most elegant signature. When he opened the card, a piece of paper fell out. He unfolded it to find a check for two thousand five hundred dollars and an unsigned note that read “Go and have a proper honeymoon.” The handwriting seemed to match Grey’s sprawling signature.
“Wow, macadamia nuts,” Dylan said, still unpacking the gift basket.
“Look at this,” Roan said, handing him the card and the note. Dylan studied them and seemed to blink a little more than usual.
After a very long moment, he said, “What the hell…? Is a minor league hockey team actually buying us a honeymoon?”
“Seems so.”
Dylan shook his head and handed the check and note back to him. “The stuff that happens to you, Roan. I swear you are a magnet for the bizarre.”
“Tell me about it,” he agreed.
But the bizarre wasn’t always bad, and Roan was kind of happy he wasn’t alone in his weirdness.
ROAN had promised Dylan that he was going to take it easy for a month or so, and he meant it, but first he had to set this Rico case to rest. He told Dylan it was just a thing with Kevin, which Dylan accepted, and it was reasonably true. He just didn’t mention there was a stakeout involved.
Kevin didn’t like this. He thought it was stupid and wrong and semilegal at the very best, but he also knew that there hadn’t been any real movement on the Rico case. This was probably their best chance to catch the guy before another prostitute disappeared or ended up dead.
Which was probably why Roan was spending his evening sitting in Kevin’s Chevy, parked down the street from the bus station, keeping an eye on a sad-looking Holden. He deliberately tried to make himself look like a cheap, ratty junkie—i.e., perfect serial-killer bait—and his black eye actually emphasized that, so he deliberately added a bit of coloring to heighten the bruise. Holden had already talked to the hookers working this strip, and they knew he was on a sting and to hang back and not get picked up by any johns, especially in a white truck.
It was possible this could be a multinight thing, so Roan had no idea how he was going to explain this to Dylan. He’d worry about that when he got there.
He and Kevin had artfully danced around certain topics. He hadn’t mentioned Roan’s latest comatose episode, and Roan hadn’t mentioned Parker, live-in friend (and possibly more) the ex-junkie hooker. But it was fairly easy to avoid these touchy topics, mainly because Kevin brought a thermos full of his gourmet coffee, which had hazelnut, vanilla, and cinnamon in it. Quite good.
After about an hour of nothing, Kevin gestured with his plastic cup (of course Kevin brought cups) at the somewhat distant figure of Holden and asked, “Is he crazy, or just suicidal?”
“He wants to nail this guy. Rico was a friend.”
Kevin grunted in understanding and, after a moment, added, “I always thought he was dangerous.”
“You ever arrest him?”
“No, but he came in to bail out one of his boys once.” Kevin sat back and sipped his lukewarm coffee, which was still good in spite of the temperature shift. “There was something about him. You know those hookers who seem like every other hooker, but then you look ’em in the eye and you see something, like a spark? The kinda spark that lets you know that they won’t be killed by a john, but they might kill one of their johns? He had that.”
“He is dangerous.”
“So why would this guy pick him up? Killers don’t want a fight, they want a mark.”
“That’s why Holden went out of his way to look more victim-y. He even had his eyes checked today.”
Kevin looked at him askance. “How does that help?”
“Got his pupils dilated. They still are. He looks completely fucking wasted.”
Kevin let out a low whistle. “Damn. Now that’s a good detail.”
“That’s why he’s so dangerous.”
They had parked close to a Burger King, so for the small problem of having to buy some fries, they got to go and use their bathroom, which was better than pissing in empty bottles. They’d come to the arbitrary decision to end the stakeout at 2:00 a.m., as they were all getting too old to stay up all night. But it was just past 1:00 a.m. when a white truck turned down the street and slowed by the bus station. Since he was standing near one of the few functional streetlights, they saw Holden saunter up to the truck, trying to be sexy and casual while also stumbling slightly, as if a bit fucked up.
“What if this isn’t our guy?” Kevin asked.
“Then we apologize and send him on his way.”
“He could sue.”
“And admit he was trying to pick up a male hooker at one in the morning?”
Kevin nodded. “Got me there.”
Holden had pressed the speed dial on the cell hidden in his pocket, so when Roan answered his phone he could distantly hear the sound of bargaining, of haggling for a price and sexual act. There was something bloody depressing about it all.
Roan really hoped this was the guy they were after. Otherwise, he was going home with a major case of blue balls.