Chapter Nineteen

The Stranger

“WHY?”

“He saw our faces,” James said, as if that explained it.

Vincent waited for more details, but James didn’t elaborate. “Which is why we need to go to a news agency. Get the police to lock up him and the others for life. End this.”

James stared at the wall. “What if they don’t go to jail? Or they get out? They will know who put them there.”

Vincent was going to tell him there was no way those fuckers were getting out anytime soon after attacking him and James and probably killing two other men, but the more he thought about it, his certainty wavered. They’d watched enough news over the last few days to know that justice wasn’t as straightforward as it appeared on hour-long police procedurals. Furthermore, their attackers could have other friends who’d be more than happy to take care of him and James. “We could move away—like you wanted.”

James’s gaze fell to the floor. “They could track us down.”

A brief glimpse of a future where they were always looking over their shoulders, using cash for purchases, and living out of seedy motels filled Vincent’s mind. Hardly a life after all they’d been through. “Well, what do you think we should do?”

More silence.

Finally, James said, “When someone is diagnosed with cancer, you have to get rid of it before it has the chance to spread.”

The matter-of-fact way he said it, like he was spouting off an answer to one of his board exam prep questions, and the implications that hung on his words sent chills crawling across Vincent’s body. Get rid of it. He waited for some explanation that would assure him he’d somehow misconstrued the point James was trying to make. None came. James wouldn’t even make eye contact with him.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Vincent went to rub his back, but the dried blood made him think better of it. James was in shock. He was afraid. Mad. He’d feel differently in the morning.

James looked up at him, his heart-shaped lips disappearing in a thin, grave line. “They wouldn’t hesitate if it were the other way around.”

“We aren’t them. And I know you want this to be over as much as I do, but we don’t know that our plan isn’t going to work.”

“But he saw our faces.”

He’d already made that point, and Vincent was about to remind him of that until the full meaning of James’s words hit him, and it tore holes in his plan that seemed so perfect only moments before.

He saw our faces.

His and James’s. He knew James was alive. If the police were compelled to arrest the stocky man because of a news agency, then the bastard’s report of their interaction in his backyard would surely raise suspicions, which was only more troubling considering they didn’t know who they could trust in law enforcement. That was, of course, presuming that any reputable news organization would believe them in the first place.

“He saw our faces.” Panic filled Vincent as he spoke. Those fuckers had already killed Damien and probably Todd. And they’d keep killing others until someone stopped them. They weren’t innocent men. They were monsters. Cancers to society. And with them gone, Vincent and James could figure out what else had happened that night without fearing every car in the rearview mirror harbored men who were determined to end their lives.

“No,” Vincent said to put a stop to the train of thought that was far too intoxicating and terrible to entertain. They’d both been through a lot tonight—and he was too tired and afraid to think straight. “We aren’t killers.”

James took his hand. “We will never be safe while they’re still alive.”

Vincent turned away from him. He didn’t want to see him or consider his words. He focused on James’s desk, which hadn’t been touched since before the attack. Books and papers stacked in neat piles.

How many nights did Vincent lie in bed and watch him study and know that if he fell asleep before James turned in for the night, he’d wake up in his lover’s arms? When was the last time he’d gone to bed without worrying about who might try to kill them in their sleep? Vincent had been holding his breath since the attack, and if those fuckers were gone, then he might be able to exhale. Figure out the rest and return to their old lives where death was a lifetime away.

“We aren’t killers,” he said again, more to himself than James. “And even if we could cross that line, we’d just get ourselves killed. I mean, look at us. We barely made it out of there alive tonight.”

“We weren’t prepared. We could—”

“We should get cleaned up,” Vincent said, cutting him off. He couldn’t handle any more tonight. “I’m exhausted. Let’s sleep on it. Talk in the morning after we’ve rested.”

Without another word, James got up and helped him to the bathroom. Once Vincent peeled off his ruined clothes, he stepped into the shower. The water pressure was too strong for his raw skin. He pressed down the divider and filled the tub with steaming water. James didn’t join him. Vincent pulled back the shower curtain to see what was taking him so long, but the bathroom was empty. James must’ve realized he could use some space.

The water grew opaque as he wiped away the worst of the gore. His skin was varying shades of pink and purple along with deep-red cuts, which seemed particularly vibrant in the brown water. How many paints would an artist have to mix to match these shades? Would they ever be as vibrant as they were now? Stupid questions that didn’t serve their sole purpose of stopping him from replaying their conversation in his mind.

He drained the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist, and limped out of the bathroom. James sat on the couch, looking at the blank TV screen. Vincent stopped behind him. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

He’d just gotten to the bed when he heard the shower turn on. It wasn’t long before James crawled into bed beside him. Vincent felt like he could sleep for a decade, but the gears in his mind refused to stop turning. Snippets of their conversation filled the silent room.

He saw our faces.

Get rid of it.

We aren’t killers.

We will never be safe while they’re still alive.

He wrapped his pillow around his ears, but that didn’t stop them. Get rid of it. The room was so warm. He saw our faces. The air thick. We will never be safe while they’re still alive. He couldn’t breathe. He got up and stumbled out of the room. While the swelling in his ankle had gone down a little, he could barely walk on it without pain shooting up his leg. But the living room was just as suffocating. He opened the window and stuck his head outside, over the fire escape.

Cold wind whipped at his face and whooshed past his ears. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The crisp air filled his lungs. He wanted to take a deeper breath, but his ribs warned against it. He was just happy to be out of that room. It was starting to feel more like a casket than a sanctuary. He took another breath, and smoke filled his nostrils.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. An old memory from when he’d first tried to quit smoking and occasionally snuck a cigarette on the fire escape. But when he looked down, a pale face stared up at him. He almost screamed until he realized it was Sam, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the steps below with a cigarette in hand.

She forced a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He tried to think of an explanation for what he was doing. Nothing came to mind.

“You, ah, want a smoke?”

Vincent should say no. Go back inside. Try to get at least a few hours of sleep before their big talk in the morning. But he didn’t think he could bring himself to go back to bed so soon. The cold air was far too inviting. And after the night he’d had, he could use a fucking cigarette. “Yeah, I do.”

Sam tapped the empty space beside her on the stairs. “Come sit.”

Easier said than done. Vincent swung his good leg out of the window, grabbed the railing, and pulled out the other. The cold metal soothed his aching feet. He’d only dragged himself down a few steps when Sam appeared to realize he wasn’t exactly in fighting shape. She set her cigarette down in an ashtray on the step above her and rushed up the stairs. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Vincent said through short breaths. “Just twisted my ankle earlier. Makes stairs a little bit of a hassle.”

“You should’ve said something. Let’s just sit here.” Sam helped him down and went back to retrieve her ashtray. She wasn’t in a particular hurry, but she moved so effortlessly down the steps that he burned with envy. No cracked ribs or twisted ankles or who knew what else. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a breath, much less a step, without hurting. He should’ve appreciated the ability to run as fast and as far as he wanted while he still could do it. He’d give anything to rush down the steps and just keep running until he couldn’t breathe and all his worries melted away in the euphoria of exhaustion.

“I’m such a bad premed student.” Sam plopped down on the step below him. She relit her cigarette, which had gone out, with a small pink lighter. In the light spilling out from the window above, he could make out the dark bags under her eyes. She must not be sleeping well either.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Well, to ensure your silence, please accept this cancer-inducing bribe.” She offered him the pack of Camel Crush Menthol and the lighter.

“If you insist.” He took the pack. A smile broke across his face at their pointless banter—it seemed like it belonged in a life that was separate from the one he’d soon have to return to inside his apartment. He slid out a cigarette, crushed the butt to release the menthol, and lit it. He inhaled slowly and blew out the smoke as soon as his chest started to hurt. He hated how much he missed smoking. He took another smaller puff and handed the pack and lighter back to her. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” She looked him over. “Aren’t you freezing?”

Vincent wore an old T-shirt and gym shorts, but the cold soothed his warm, wounded skin. “I’m fine.”

“So, how’d you twist your ankle?”

Vincent took another drag to give him a moment to think. “Oh, it was stupid. We, ah, went for a walk. I fell.”

Sam exhaled smoke through her nostrils. “Must have been a pretty bad fall to get all those cuts and bruises.”

“Yeah.” Vincent looked down at the empty street to avoid her gaze.

“You know, you can tell me to mind my own business if you don’t want to tell me what you and James are up to at all hours of the night, but at least respect me enough to make up a better lie.”

His mouth went dry. It had nothing to do with the cigarette. He coughed, and his chest seared with pain. “Sorry, we were actually searching for the Holy Grail. We made it past the beheading blade trap and the false floor trap, but I fell on the leap of faith trap, so here I am.”

“Isn’t that from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade?”

“Pure coincidence.”

“I’ll accept it, then.” Sam stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and lit another.

Vincent took a drag. “What brings you out on this lovely spring night?”

“Passing time. Tyler and I—I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m just killing time so I can pretend I’m asleep when he gets home.”

“Oh,” Vincent said, trying to sound surprised. Tyler must not have gotten a chance to tell her about their little talk earlier.

“I should be studying for finals, but here I am, brooding. Can’t concentrate.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Sure don’t. How’s James doing?”

Vincent shrugged, taking a long drag despite the pain.

“I tried talking to him earlier. I don’t know if you were there or not or if he mentioned it to you, but he didn’t really say much.”

Vincent had almost forgotten she’d come to the door. Somehow, this was the same, never-ending night. “He’s had a lot on his mind lately.”

Something moved below them, and he dropped his cigarette. It fell to the cement between their building and the one beside it. A raccoon scurried out from behind their garbage cans along the side of the house with something in its mouth and made a beeline for the backyard.

Sam handed him the pack and lighter. “You both seem to have a lot on your minds lately.”

“A lot has happened recently.” Vincent lit another cigarette and gave them back to her.

They smoked in silence for a while.

Sam eventually said, “It’s just strange…not talking to him. Before, I had to turn my phone on Do Not Disturb in class because he texted me so much. Now, he acts so…different.”

Vincent looked at her, but she was focused on the ashtray. “What do you mean by different?”

“I don’t know. Out of it. The lights are on, but nobody’s home, you know?”

Vincent knew more than he could ever tell her. “Yeah.”

When someone is diagnosed with cancer, you have to get rid of it before it has the chance to spread.

“I guess I just miss him.” Sam flicked the ashes from the tip of her cigarette. “I miss you both. And I have so many questions. And I’m trying to give you two space. But I went to his funeral, and now he’s back, and, like, do the police even know he’s alive? What have you two been doing? Who gave you those cuts and bruises?”

“We’re just trying to figure out what happened. Same as you.” The most honest answer Vincent could give without involving her.

Sam stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “I used to know him better than anyone, even Tyler. Now, he’s a stranger.”

Her face fell into her hands, and Vincent couldn’t tell if she was crying. No comforting words came to mind, so he just rubbed her back.

“Thanks. I’m just tired. I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll deal with Tyler in the morning.” She stood up. Her face was dry. “Need anything before I go?”

“No. Thanks for the smoke.”

“No problem.” Sam retreated to her apartment.

A stranger.

The word lingered in the air like the smoke emanating from the tip of his cigarette. He wanted to refute her words. Chalk it up to her limited interactions with James. But he’d been by James’s side since the night in the graveyard, and James was different. Before the attack, he’d been working toward becoming an ER doctor and prolonging the lives of as many assholes as he could. He never would’ve suggested killing someone, even a person as disgusting as the stocky man. What happened to them had clearly changed James, but had he become someone else, a stranger? And if so, what was this stranger capable of?

Even after Vincent finished his cigarette, went back inside, shut and locked the window, and returned to bed, he wasn’t any closer to answering those questions. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what either of them was willing to do to end this nightmare.

 

VINCENT STOOD IN front of a well. Behind him, down a long, tree-lined path, a dark figure ran toward him in the moonlight. He didn’t know who it was until he heard the hoarse, mischievous laugh. He could run around the well and continue down the path, but something told him he couldn’t outrun his assailant. Down the well, stones jutted out from the walls, spiraling down like stairs into the darkness. There was no time to think it through. He started down them.

The farther he descended, the more spaced out the stones became and the harder they were to see in the dwindling light from above. He kept going until the next stone disappeared beneath dark water. All of a sudden, everything was dark. Above, the silhouette of a man leaned over the top of the well and obscured the light. There was no way to know who it was for sure, but the spiky hair assured him it wasn’t the stocky man.

“Help!” came a familiar voice below him.

Vincent looked down, and a black hand reached up from the water. Wait. It wasn’t water. It was mud. Dark, shining mud encasing the hand. Whoever was down there, the poor bastard was far beyond any help that Vincent could provide. He started back up the steps, but another hand shot up from the mud and grabbed his ankle.

He screamed. Stumbled back. Somehow, his outstretched hands managed to grab hold of the stone wall for support. They were trying to pull him under. Drown him in the mud. Another hand took hold of his other ankle—the fingernails of whoever or whatever it belonged to cut into his flesh. Another latched onto his thigh. His cries filled the well. He kicked and punched and tried to break free, but it was no use. They had him. They pulled him down into the mud, and the last thing he saw before he was dragged below the surface was the dark figure watching him overhead.

 

VINCENT WOKE UP and grabbed his pocketknife from under his pillow to cut away at the hands. But no one was touching him. And he wasn’t covered in mud. Just sweat. He was in bed. James stirred beside him. You’re safe. Just another nightmare. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the scream came again, louder this time, from somewhere below.

“Help!”

For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. Awakened from one nightmare into another, but then he recognized the voice. He had never heard her so distressed, so terrified, but there was no doubt it was her.

Sam.