Infected: Shift Read online

  “When can I speak with him?”

  Dee shook his head and shrugged at the same time—never a good sign. “I don’t know. Not for a couple hours at least.”

  “Shit.” He looked down at Holden’s phone, and wondered why he wanted him to have it. Flipping it open, he went through the call log—he called 9-1-1 for himself?—and found nothing illuminating, so he started going through the other features. Dee went to help a nurse who was having trouble with a surprisingly combative injured man (no, he didn’t work at the hospital, but he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing), leaving Roan and Dylan alone in the hall. Dylan was right beside him, looking over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?” Dylan wondered.

  “Whatever he wanted me to find.” Not much of an answer, but the only one he had.

  Eventually he found the pictures. The first was of a box of ammunition, the second of what looked like a box of clothing, but the third picture was interesting. It was of two men running—limping—away, slightly blurred at the edges, but only one was visible in profile. “Is that what I think it is?” Dylan asked.

  How about that—Holden got a photo of his attackers. Sly dog; they didn’t call him Fox for nothing. “I don’t know, but I know who to ask.”

  He started off, but Dylan grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Tell me this isn’t a revenge thing.”

  “It’s not. I don’t recognize these guys. I’m going to ask someone who might, though.”

  “Who?”

  Dylan didn’t trust him? Well, yeah, maybe he was right not to. It wasn’t like he was notorious for his Gandhi-like temperament. “The guy who runs the Alley Cat. I bet he saw the attack, too, but he’d be the last to report it to the cops.”

  His look was skeptical, which was fair enough, but Roan thought he was lying quite well. “And you’re just going to talk to him?”

  “Give me credit, hon. The owner of the Alley Cat must be nearly seventy by now. I don’t bully those who can’t fight back.”

  He nodded in agreement, but was only slightly mollified. Maybe because he’d already guessed that Roan might not be telling him the whole truth. “I can come with you—”

  “No, I know you have to go to work. Go, and be careful.”

  “I can take the night off.”

  “And get fired? No, go. I’ll keep you informed of any developments. And you—you feel any suspicions about anyone, you don’t feel right about a customer or someone loitering in the parking lot, you call me immediately. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s been too much violence already.”

  “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  “I know. I just… don’t get hurt, okay? You’ve gotten hurt before ’cause of one of my stupid cases, and I don’t want you hurt again.”

  That seemed to soften his wariness slightly. “I won’t be. But I don’t want you hurt either, so don’t play action hero when you don’t have to, right?”

  “I’ll do my damnedest.” Dylan embraced him, and they shared a sweet kiss before Roan pulled away and then headed out of the hospital. A woman standing near the emergency room gave him such a dirty look that Roan was half convinced she was going to yell “Faggot!”, but the dirty look he gave her in return seemed to discourage her.

  Of course, Roan wasn’t going to go see the owner of the Alley Cat. Maybe later. Right now, the man he wanted to talk to was cooling his heels in the suburbs.

  Brand’s house was dark for the night, along with every other house on the street. It didn’t stop Roan from parking in his driveway and storming toward the door, restraining the urge to knock it down. He’d give Brand a chance to open the door, then he’d knock it down.

  He pounded on the door with a closed fist, trying to swallow his rage. More violence was no answer, it wouldn’t solve anything, but damn, it would make him feel better for a little bit. Finally a light came on and the door opened a crack. A single grayish eye stared at him over a security chain. “What do… you.” His eye hardened, and Roan was sure he was going to slam the door on him.

  “I wouldn’t,” he warned Brand. “I’m not going away.”

  Brand glared at him through the crack in the door. Roan knew he could shove open the door easily, snapping the chain, but he had to play this right. He was in Eastgate jurisdiction, after all. “Are you going to shoot me if I lock you out?”

  “Are you gonna shoot your wife?” Roan snapped back.

  Brand flinched, and Roan took advantage of that weakness, holding up Holden’s phone. “Who are these men, Officer?”

  Brand was disoriented, half asleep and now deeply confused. Roan wanted him that way—truth had a tendency to spill out when your guard was down or at half mast. “What? What are you talking—”

  “Holden, my assistant, is in the hospital. These men tried to kill him. You know who they are, don’t you?”

  “What?” he sounded genuinely horrified. “No! He was just here… this evening, he came by—”

  “And he was attacked shortly after he left. He was stabbed and beaten with a bat.”

  Brand was shaking his head, his sleepy eyes now awake with horror. This was an honest shock—he didn’t know about this, and he couldn’t believe it. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m not. Now, are you going to let me in to discuss this, or do your neighbors get to hear all about it?”

  He was sweating, and had gone so pale Roan was afraid he might pass out or have a heart attack. He closed the door, but Roan heard the scrabbling of a sloppy unlocking before the door opened again, wider this time. Brand still looked like he was going to vomit while fainting. He said nothing—maybe he couldn’t speak—just motioned him in.

  As soon as Roan came in, he almost backed out again. Brand reeked of fear; he smelled like vinegar-drenched piss. It was appalling. He couldn’t have possibly scared the man this much, not in this amount of time. Brand had been scared for a long time, long enough that it permeated the walls of his home. What the hell had been going on?

  Brand shut the door and wandered to the living room in a fog, acting as if Roan wasn’t actually here. He was wearing a worn maroon bathrobe that he cinched up tight around a doughy gut, and it didn’t help. As he shuffled to his sofa like a man twice his age, he asked, “How is he?”

  “Holden? Still alive, last time I checked. But how many people have to die here, Brand?”

  He sat down on the edge of his sofa, and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know—” he began, his voice muffled.

  “I have to admit I didn’t expect this, but you’re the crux. Hawley dies, April Switzer dies, some assholes try to kill Holden, and the only common denominator is you.”

  “I had nothing to do with April—”

  “I don’t care!” Roan snapped, exasperated. Not with him, not really—it was the smell of this place. It was putting him on edge. The lion in him wanted to come out and rampage. Animals did react to the smell of fear; they saw it as invitation. You were advertising you were weak. You were asking to be eliminated from the food chain. “I know you’re scared, and you’ve been scared for a long time. Do you need protection? I can get that for you. Just tell me what’s going on here.” He wondered briefly how Brand would feel traveling with a minor league hockey team. It would be weird, yeah, but he’d be safe as houses.

  Brand was keeping his face hidden in his hands, but Roan could see he was shaking. It wasn’t a cold shiver—it was fear trying to burst out of his skin while Brand was trying hard to hold it in. “I don’t know what you mean—”

  “Stop it now!” he shouted, and it came out a partial roar. He’d tried to keep it in, but the miasma of fear was drawing out the lion, and it was hard to rein it in. Brand must have heard it because his eyes were wide and white in his pale face, staring at him over the hands cupped around his nose and mouth. He was almost too shocked to be scared. “I want the truth, damn it! Who are these men?”

  When he remembered he could speak, that it was okay, it still took a moment for Br
and to find the words. “I—I don’t know what you want from me—”

  “Their names! Who tried to kill Holden?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Cut the bullshit! Who are you protecting?”

  He was shaking so hard it looked like he was going to fall apart. “I-I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are!” There was a growl in the back of his throat. Roan tried to swallow it, but Brand was so upset that he probably didn’t hear it anyways.

  “My brother!” he finally exclaimed, a shout that morphed into a sob at the end. “It’s my brother, Sean.”

  Oh great. More family shit.

  12

  Run Like Hell

  Even though it took more time than it should have, Roan eventually got some answers out of Brand, although not enough.

  He was completely broken down, which made him useful and useless at the same time. He didn’t know who the second man was; Brand guessed one of Sean’s friends from prison. Roan speculated that Sean had done time for assault, and this was apparently true. Brand added that he was only a half brother, but that wasn’t wildly helpful.

  By this time, Brand was sobbing like a schoolgirl, and it was hard to understand a single thing he said. Roan knew he was shitty at calming down the hysterical, so he called Fiona and told her to look up everything she could on a Sean Brand. Fiona asked him who the howling girl in the background was, and he told her he’d tell her later.

  Brand was officially useless. Roan wasn’t sure he was speaking English anymore; he was just a mess. Roan wanted to know why Sean would be so eager to protect Michael from whatever the fuck he thought he was protecting him from, but Brand was no longer coherent. At first he pressed Brand to tell him if he had some Valium or something, but there was no talking to him. So he searched his bathroom cabinet and found nothing but over-the-counter stuff, so he was stuck searching the kitchen for booze. He found an old bottle of bourbon tucked in a back cabinet, and he poured a huge measure of it into a plastic tumbler. He gave it to Brand and all but forced him to drink it, and considering how it smelled, Roan didn’t blame him for balking at drinking it. Once he did, and once he got over his coughing fit, he seemed to calm down, but he remained useless. Roan encouraged him to go to bed, and he eventually did, but Roan remained in his house. He wasn’t going to search it, not while the guy was here, but maybe there was some hint here about what the fuck was going on.

  Oh, fuck it. He needed to get info and he needed to do it now.

  He’d found Brand’s home computer and had just booted it up when his phone hummed in his pocket. Since it was Dee, he answered.

  “We got one,” Dee said immediately.

  “One of the attackers?”

  “Oh yeah. He turned up at the free clinic downtown, said he cut his leg while fixing his car, but that didn’t track with the injury, and he’d lost so much blood he was barely conscious. They gave fake names, and his friend split as soon as he got wind that they weren’t buying it. One of the nurses there said he had a black eye. They figured there’d been a fight and these guys didn’t want the cops called.”

  Roan looked at the cell phone photo again and tried to determine which one had the leg wound and who had the broken ball. The one looking back, he seemed to be dragging the other guy—the one with the leg wound was being dragged. It was Sean with the broken ball.

  “Free clinic? The one down on Virginia?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just curious. Not that far from the Alley Cat. I wonder if there’s a blood trail.”

  “I doubt they walked in, Roan. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Where are they bringing the guy in? County General?”

  “Yeah, it sounds like it. He’s lost enough blood that he’s in danger of shock. Ro, what are you doing?”

  “Nothing, like I said. How’s Holden?”

  “Still stable. Roan—”

  “Gotta go. I’ll check in later.”

  “Roan—” Dee said warningly, but he hung up on him. Dee knew him too well; he couldn’t trust he would play along.

  On his way out to the car, he called Kevin and asked him to find the address of Sean Brand, whom he knew was in the system. Kevin wanted to know why, and he told him simply that he was desperate to find him. Kevin was understandably suspicious, but it didn’t take him long to find him, as he had also once been arrested on a vice beef (he propositioned an undercover policewoman posing as a prostitute). He lived at an apartment on Division, a pretty shitty place and not far from the free clinic either. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go home… would he? Maybe he would. He probably wasn’t a genius.

  Roan got in his car and wondered if he knew what he was doing. He took a couple of codeine from the glove compartment, hoping to keep his anger in check.

  If Michael could give him no answers, maybe Sean could.

  He went straight to West Elm, the surprisingly upscale name for a glorified tenement, and found Sean’s apartment on the second floor. The lock was easy to pick, but once inside, he knew no one had been here for hours. There was no scent of blood, and the Human smell was stale. A cursory glance showed him a sad bachelor’s place, with the living room also the bedroom, the kitchen a piece of the living room, and only the bathroom a separate room with a door. He could come back and search at his leisure—right now, he wanted to find the motherfucker. But where did he look? He was a lowlife scumbag with a hurt nut and an idea that the cops were probably looking for him. He might have friends from prison who’d be willing to hide him, at least for the moment.

  He was looking at this from the wrong angle, wasn’t he? If the fucker had gone to ground, he needed to muddy the ground.

  This was a bad part of town; in fact, it was fucking terrible. To be out on the streets when you could actually be somewhere else verged on suicidal. He'd once worked a beat down here; he believed Holden once worked a corner around here. Given that, he had an idea.

  He found the bar by looking for the darkest pool of shadows. It looked like it was trying to hide; its door was unlit, painted black, and seemed almost like an optical illusion tucked in among the rundown buildings. It was a bar that seemed to be trying very hard not to be seen, and for a very good reason. The shit that went on in here could boggle the mind.

  There used to be a gay bar a couple blocks over, called the Eagle, that had also had a dark, hidden door, but it used its secretive digs for atmosphere. It was actually a quite nice bar—cramped, a bit too small—but there wasn’t really room to dance, although you could on the upper level if you moved the tables back. Mostly, it was just a place to drink and talk to other men who were also gay. You could hook up, people did, but really it was a place to relax among like-minded people. They had really good margaritas there. He'd gone there sometimes after work when he was on the force; Connor had really been impressed with the place. Sadly, it had closed up a couple years ago, as the owner died and his family contested the will that left the bar to his partner. It was now in legal limbo, and the doors had been shut.

  Now that had been an oddly nice dive bar. This bar, technically named Chuck’s (Why? No one knew—there’d never been a Chuck associated with it) was a dive bar that gave dive bars a bad name. It was so dark inside it was like walking into a black hole, and everyone in there looked like they’d gladly step over your rotting corpse to get a second beer. You could get drugs, weapons, and a sexually transmitted disease here, often without trying.

  Roan took a moment to let his eyes adjust, and he saw a whole bunch of evil death stares coming his way. Either they knew he used to be a cop, or they just didn’t like newcomers around here. He was cruising for a bruising. He recognized someone trying very hard to hide in the shadows, and he wondered if this was proof of karma, because hadn’t they discussed this guy just a couple of days ago?

  Roan headed straight for him. “Hey Burn, how’s it going?”

  Burn was just his street name, of course, but it was what everybody but arresting officers knew him
by. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said sullenly, trying very hard to become one with his torn vinyl seat.

  Roan slid into the booth on the opposite side and felt something sticky on the rickety table between then. It smelled like beer, and he sincerely hoped that’s all it was. Burn looked fucking horrible and smelled even worse—ammonia and rot seemed to waft from his pores, his hair was lank and greasy, splattered on his head like a skinned pelt, and his face looked as pitted as the surface of the moon, his cheeks sinking in as his face slowly collapsed inward. You’d think the amount of meth this guy did would have killed him by now, but somehow he was still hanging on and still acting as an all-around wheeler dealer/weasel. “I’m not here for you, Burn. I’m here because of Fox.”