Infected: Lesser Evils Page 27

  Dylan had said he wanted to “show him off,” but considering everything going on, Roan thought it was best he escape and let Dylan have the spotlight. It was his night, and he should enjoy it.

  Then, exactly what Roan didn’t want to happen did happen. Someone sat on the bench next to him, a slip of a woman in a spangly silver skirt and semisheer black blouse that almost matched her smoky eye makeup and casually upswept raven hair. She looked about twenty, but he judged her to be twenty-five or so. “That’s you in the picture down there, isn’t it?” She nodded her head down the hall, where the edge of the picture was just visible.

  It was a photo collage of Roan’s painted body, although Dylan was kind enough to crop out his face or any truly distinguishing feature (although if you knew his tattoos, you’d see them in the photos). Dylan had decided to go with a cat theme on him, painting big cats, tiger stripes, spots, paw prints, bloody scratches, all sorts of odd cat-related things, in some strange bid for cats’ rights. “My shapely calves give me away?” Roan wondered. Since he was wearing baggy jeans, a loose T-shirt, and a loose leather jacket (he was loose tonight, inside and out), this was an obvious joke.

  She laughed, and it didn’t sound forced. Roan noticed she had stick-thin legs, mottled beneath pearl-hued hose, ending in heels that looked like some kind of torture device. The fruity drink she had was Kool-Aid cherry red, and smelled like Hawaiian Punch spiked with turpentine. “You a professional model?”

  That made him snicker. Why the fuck was she flirting with him? Even if he was straight, she could do so much better. “Yeah, right. These scars are painted on. I’m his husband.” He didn’t like saying partner, because it sounded like they belonged to the same law firm.

  “Oh!” She said it in a way that suggested she was surprised, but trying not to be. “I knew he was gay, but you didn’t—I mean—”

  “I don’t look gay?” Roan guessed. Well, no, not in this crowd. Even the straight boys were all emo; the gallery stunk of guyliner, high-end cologne, and mousse. There were probably more scarves on display here than in Elton John’s closet. While he wasn’t the only one wearing jeans, he was the only one not wearing designer jeans, just pants he’d bought at the mall a couple of years ago on sale (that managed not to get ruined by bloodstains). He suddenly noticed he was wearing his steel-toed boots, and those were so scuffed you expected there to be holes in the soles (there weren’t, but you couldn’t be blamed for thinking it).

  “No offense. I mean—you just… um….”

  “I look like part of the after-hours janitorial staff.”

  She smiled faintly, not agreeing, but it was implicit. Her lipstick was almost the color of her drink, making her lips flush and shiny. “Aren’t you supposed to have fashion sense?”

  “So the stereotype goes.”

  She studied the side of his face, while he resolutely stared down at the floor. The floor was some kind of contrasting marble—white and black, with veins of gold—and the more he stared, the more it looked like the veins were throbbing. Wow, how fucked-up was he? “You look familiar,” she finally said. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “Doubt it. I don’t get out of the crawlspace much.”

  She laughed, but it was a forced, breathless kind of chuckle. “Oh! I know where I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you beating up people on TV.”

  “That’s what I do. I beat up people on TV.”

  She attempted to smile. He supposed he should give her credit for that, but he couldn’t, because she was starting to smell nervous. “You’re that infected cop, right?”

  “Not really a cop anymore. More of an independent contractor.”

  She didn’t seem mollified or interested. “Does that mean that he—erm, Dylan, is, um—”

  “Infected? No. Condoms save lives, honey, use them.” Why had he said that? The problem with being totally wasted sometimes was things just fell out of your mouth and you didn’t even know they were coming.

  She seemed uncomfortable, like she wanted to move away but didn’t know how to do it without being obvious about it. Was he interesting until she realized he was infected, or was he a fun gay guy until he reminded her he was a sexual being? Maybe a little bit of both. “Well, umm, that’s good.”

  “You an artist?” Roan asked, if just to cut the tension. He couldn’t actually give a shit, which probably showed in his voice.

  “Well, kinda, but I’m really just here to look, you know? He’s a great artist.”

  “He is.” The paintings showed off all sorts of styles, from realistic to abstract, and Dylan had a real eye for color. Not that Roan knew what any of it meant; he just knew Dylan’s art didn’t bring on an urge to smash it, nor did it look like something you might find hanging next to the ice machine in a chain hotel. So that meant it must be even better than he thought it was.

  There was a buzz in his coat pocket, his phone vibrating, and he pulled it out to check who it was. Holden. Weird. “Well, this was fun, but duty calls. Enjoy yourself, and don’t worry, you can’t get cooties from me. Fleas maybe, but I wore my collar tonight.” Roan got up before she could respond, and walked off to a quieter corner, beside one of Dylan’s abstract paintings, splashes of bright, high-intensity colors on a black background. Although there was no title given, Roan knew Dylan called it “Eat This, Mark Rothko.”

  “Yeah, Holden, what’s up?”

  “I’m calling in a favor,” he said, with no preamble. Hookers found foreplay a waste of time. “I need backup.”

  “I’m not doing a three-way.”

  “Ha, very funny. No, I may need someone to quickly and quietly knock out a couple of thugs. If you’re not interested, you got Grey’s number?”

  Roan looked around, to make sure no one who cared was listening. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Traffickers.”

  “What kind?”

  “Kids.”

  “What?”

  “No phone discussion. You in or out?”

  Human traffickers meant either some kind of indentured servitude or sex trafficking (although both could apply at the same time), neither good. And somehow, considering it was Holden, he assumed sex trafficking. “In. Where?”

  “Come by my place, but make it fast.”

  “Yeah, I’m downtown. Should be there in a few minutes.” Holden hung up shortly after the final syllable. What had Holden gotten himself into? Roan wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but if he needed help, he wasn’t going to turn him down, especially with full-caliber scumbags like that.

  He slid his way into the group that had metastasized around Dylan, and asked, “Can I talk to you alone for a moment?”

  Dylan gave him a sweet smile. “Sure.” To the group, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

  As they retreated to a distant corner, Dylan said, in a low voice, “You look fucking miserable.”

  “I’m not, sweetie, I’m just trying to stay out of your way. Speaking of which, Holden’s called and asked me for help. Would you kill me if I left?”

  “No, not at all. But I will kill you if you get shot.”

  “I will not get shot. Cross my heart, and hope to get shot.”

  Dylan shook his head and gave him a pained smile, just south of a smirk. “It’s a good thing you’re good in bed, or you’d be so out on your ass.” He kissed him on the corner of the mouth, and gave him a brief, firm squeeze. “Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll try not to be. See you at home.”

  Dylan had embraced the Zen of living with him. Mainly, he didn’t ask what trouble he was getting into if he absolutely didn’t want to know. This worked just fine for Roan, as it cut down the number of lies he had to tell in a day.

  Roan had to tell him about the YouTube video he’d made, as it would be released tonight, starting at midnight. He probably wouldn’t like the tie-in with Bolt, but he’d already told Dylan about his plan to just get arrested if the registry was passed. Dylan didn’t like the idea of him going to prison, but said,
“If you feel it’s unjust, you do what you need to do.” How awesome was it to have a Buddhist boyfriend? He was never going to kneecap you on principal; if you had a righteous cause, he would support you, even if he thought you were being a bonehead.

  There were cabs hovering around the gallery entrance, so Roan wasn’t worried about finding one. As he exited the gallery, he nodded at a shadowy black man pretending to have a smoke under the eaves of the building, and he gave him the slightest nod back. He was a “floater,” one of the guys who worked with his friend Phil’s security and detective agency. He’d asked him if he could send a guy or two to the gallery, to keep an eye on things, specifically Dylan. Roan wasn’t worried about himself, but he didn’t want those FCC dickholes finding out about Dylan just in time to hurt him.

  He hadn’t told Dylan about the floaters. There was no point; they were invisible unless trouble happened.

  The taxi drive to Holden’s was pretty quiet, possibly because the driver’s English wasn’t so good, but that was fine with him. He only realized how wasted he was as he sat there, feeling like he was floating inside his own head. Whatever was in that Windex drink had more of a kick than he’d thought. Would he be able to do the muscle thing? Well, if he absolutely had to transform, he supposed he could.

  He arrived at Holden’s to find him dressed as anonymously as possible: loose khakis, off-brand sneakers, Seahawks T-shirt he’d picked up in a thrift store, brown canvas jacket a size too big for him (good for concealing weapons). Holden looked at him, and asked, “How many pills have you taken? You look fucked.”

  “I was at Dylan’s gallery show.” An answer that was no answer at all.

  “Holy shit, was that tonight? God, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t put you in the doghouse, did I?”

  “No. He knows that’s not my scene, I was just there for moral support. I gave as much as I could, but you know I don’t have a lot of morality to go around.”

  “I hear ya, brother.” Holden went to his kitchen counter, and tossed him something from there. When Roan caught it, he saw it was a black watch cap and black faux leather gloves. “Had spares, figure you might want them.” Holden started putting on his own gloves.

  “What’s going on here?” He sat on the arm of the sofa, mainly because he felt a little woozy.

  “I have a friend, Jessie, you may know her. She used to work the street, she got out, and now she devotes her time to trying to rescue kids from there. But it’s paperwork and bureaucracy and budget cuts, and she often can’t help as many as she wants. Especially in a case like this. She got word a major trafficker is meeting a guy at a rest stop to sell him a thirteen-year-old girl. He’s actually going to meet me and we’re gonna get the girl, but he ain’t gonna be paid.”

  Roan was sort of glad he was completely shitfaced, because having a sense of unreality attached to it kept him from getting furious. “Is this a hit?”

  “No. Jessie wouldn’t get involved in such a thing. I’m just gonna make sure he gets arrested.” Holden paused briefly. “And maybe make him hurt a bit.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Roan scratched his head, trying to see all the angles of this story with a fogged, addled brain. “If this guy is big time—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “But this looks like a pretty simple setup. These guys don’t travel in an RV full of sex slaves from the Ukraine. It looks like the guy is gonna show up with the girl, and with a couple of foot soldiers, but no more than a car’s worth. They keep this casual, under the radar, so no one ever notices the suburban perv buying himself a little girl at a rest stop at one in the morning. They traffic on a larger scale but sell smaller.” Holden slipped something in his jacket and then zipped it up. “It sounds simple, but it probably isn’t. Do you think you could take out the guys outside before they can alert the guys inside?”

  “Yes.” Maybe he shouldn’t be so confident, especially wasted, but he wasn’t Human. Humans could outnumber him, but they could never stop being Human.

  “It would be silly of me to ask if you need a weapon, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Holden held out his arms as he came out of the kitchen. “Do I look like a perv?”

  Roan studied him, actually taking time to consider this. This was a pure vigilante hit, no pretense of detective or cop work, but he was surprisingly okay with that. “Passably. You need an ‘Official Pussy Inspector’ T-shirt.”

  “I know. I couldn’t find one on short notice.”

  Roan pulled the watch cap on, shoving his hair beneath the hat, so one of his most distinguishing features—his dried-blood, reddish-brown hair, the only warning ever given to people that they really should avoid him unless they liked pain—was gone. He still had his facial scars and unreal green eyes, but most people thought the eye color was contact lenses, and he didn’t expect the men to stay conscious long enough to notice the scars.

  And besides—when did these guys ever go to the cops?

  They didn’t go to Holden’s car, but a junky Plymouth Roan had never seen before. But that made sense, as this was a junk special, the kind you dumped after it’d been used. It would probably be parted out by sunrise. Roan sat in the passenger seat and let the rumble of the engine lull him for a while. They drove in silence, save for the radio. Holden turned it alternately between KEXP and a fainter, smaller wave station that played nothing but dance music, mainly house and trance, but some harder stuff as well. Holden had to know that kind of music drove Roan nuts, but then again, KEXP seemed to be playing lots of sensitive singer-songwriter, low-fi stuff that, while nice and pleasant, made his balls shrink. He actually preferred the dance music to some of it; at least some of it sounded like it had muscle, like everyone involved wasn’t one chord away from falling asleep. Maybe it was his punk sensibilities rearing their ancient head, but Roan felt there was something inherently wrong with innocuous music. If you could take it or leave it, where was the passion? He wanted music you could fuck or fight to, and while he did like some of their songs, Fleet Foxes just didn’t fit that bill.

  They were closing in on the rest stop when he asked Holden, “So how long have you been doing this avenging angel thing?”

  “I don’t really. I just help Jessie out from time to time.”

  “So you haven’t been vigilante-ing without me?”

  “Is that a word?”

  “No. But don’t avoid the question.”

  He sighed like Roan was the most wearying travel companion ever. “I’ve never been a shrinking violet. You know that.”

  “It’s dangerous, especially without backup.”

  “Not necessarily. No one ever expects anything from me. I’m just a whore.”

  “That only works once.”

  “I know. But that’s usually enough.”

  Holden pulled off to the soft shoulder the equivalent of a block away from the rest stop, and Roan walked toward the building, sticking to the darkness. It wasn’t too busy on the highway right now, the few cars out at the moment were a pleasant background hum. Everything in him was telling him this was stupid and would probably end in a bloodbath, and yet he didn’t care. Maybe it was the fact he was wasted, maybe it was just because he really didn’t give a shit, as long as he could beat the holy fuck out of some traffickers.

  Roan smelled cigarette smoke long before he came up on the lighted oasis of the building, a squat, boxy affair that looked as appealing as a shoebox outhouse. (Wow, he was really fucked-up.) He heard two male voices too, talking about some incident involving someone else’s girlfriend, a waterbed, and the untimely return of an ex. He didn’t pay attention to what they were actually saying, but Roan picked up a few things: they were American, and they obviously expected no trouble whatsoever. He smelled gun oil somewhere beneath the tobacco and testosterone, but that wasn’t a surprise.

  He was quiet, and stuck to the shadows as long as possible. They never heard him, never broke their conversational stride. As soon as Roan ran out of shadows and buildings to
hide behind, he moved to the few cars in the lot (one was theirs, the one they were standing beside, and one had a missing tire and had probably been there for some time).

  He listened for a minute, orienting them in space by the sound and direction of their voices. Roan used the mirrors and reflective surfaces of metal to visually locate them. They weren’t anything special to look at, two guys around six feet tall (give or take some loose change), with broad shoulders and some pretty good muscles, although that wouldn’t help them. Judging from the bulges, one had a gun in a shoulder holster, and the other had his gun in his belt, near his right hip. Roan wondered if either would have time to pull them—he’d do his best not to be that slow. They were both unremarkable men, save for the fact that one had sideburns ending in sharp points, while the other was given a greasy complexion by the sodium lights. He looked like he was melting.

  Roan concentrated, thinking about these men selling kids, women, beating them, murdering them, tapping into the rich vein of rage hidden beneath the numbing calm of the drugs. It was hard to find, but he finally felt the toxic heat of it, let the blackness bubble up from beneath the narcotics, fill his veins like sour adrenaline. He heard the gentle fireplace crackle of bones in his jaw snapping, tasted blood, felt his skin go taut as if trying to peel itself away from his body, and his vision switched from myopia to hyperopia as the change worked on his eyes. They were still Human, but he was becoming something else.

  The drugs not only kept most of the pain out of the partial change, but they allowed Roan to keep more of himself from getting overwhelmed by the cat. He told it to be quick and quiet, nothing showy, nothing brutal; no playing with prey tonight. Take out the sentries before they could sound the alarm.

  He scuttled along the ground, almost on all fours, using the cars and shadow as cover until it became impossible, and then just simply went for surprise, bounding over the back of the men’s car and throwing himself at them. One of them made a noise of surprise as Roan’s tackle brought them both to the ground, and with one hand he rammed sideburn’s head into the asphalt, silencing him, while greasy attempted to squirm away and reach for his gun at the same time. Roan was on him first, throwing a punch that hit him square on the side of the head and knocked him out almost simultaneously. Was he dead? No, Roan didn’t smell death. But he wasn’t well; neither of them was well. They might regain consciousness by sun up, but he wouldn’t bet on it.