Infected: Lesser Evils Read online

  Part of the intimidation had to be Tank’s inappropriate closeness. He was almost sitting in this guy’s lap, and that violation of personal space had to be unnerving. Not for Tank, of course, who had one of his stony game faces on, one that suggested he was more insane than that man could ever hope to be.

  The man dropped some money on the bar with a shaking hand, and that’s when Tank violently shoved him off his bar stool. He stumbled, tried to keep his balance, but hadn’t been expecting it, and fell on his ass.

  By this time, Julio had come over and grabbed the man as he stood up. “Problem?” he asked.

  He was asking Dylan, but the man answered, indignant and still scared. “This son of a bitch has a knife! He threatened to kill me!”

  Tank held his hands open, showing they were empty; his expression was his usual deceptively mellow one, no trace of his game face at all, his eyes no longer burning with some insane internal light. “No. English not so good, but he’s, uh… grabby.” Tank’s natural French-Canadian accent had suddenly trebled in thickness. Oh, the crafty bastard.

  “He threatened me, put his hands on me,” Dylan said, holding up his still reddened wrist.

  “He, uh, grabbed my, uh, what you say in English, balls? I’m flattered, but no gay.”

  “What?!” The man screeched, literally screeched, like an adolescent whose voice had yet to break. “I didn’t do that! I’m not a fag! He—he threatened me! He’s not even French! He’s making this up!”

  “Tell Robin he’s barred,” Dylan said to Julio. “And if he comes back, call the police.”

  Julio nodded and started muscling the man toward the door, the few restaurant patrons around staring after him as he continued fruitlessly protesting. Julio’s English was kind of limited, so it was almost all wasted on him anyways.

  Tank grinned at him, looking like a goofy but attractive busker, with shaggy hair and a T-shirt that Dylan now realized read “Supervillain Intramural” (another T-shirt his teammates had probably bought him, no doubt). “Amazing what you think is a knife if someone implies it is,” he said, his voice back to its lightly accented state. Tank fiddled with a ring on his right hand, and Dylan realized that’s what he had pressed up against the man’s neck. The man mistook the feel of a cold metal ring for a cold metal knife.

  Dylan shook his head wonderingly. “You’re just evil. I see why Roan likes you.”

  This made Tank grin wider, even more endearing than before. Still, he had an almost unnerving intensity in his eyes that never quite left, and combined with his neatly trimmed, pale brown goatee, it made him look slightly devilish. Who had Roan said he kind of looked like? Oh yeah, that guy who used to sing for Alice in Chains. Dylan was taking his word for it, because he had kind of missed the whole grunge thing, even though he was a Seattle boy. It’s just that while he was in college, the singer-songwriter stuff was more popular. (He could totally see Roan’s point about that form of music being “bloodless,” but he couldn’t see himself embracing some of that honestly noisy and abrasive stuff that Ro seemed to love.)

  “Hey, he clearly wanted to start some shit. Is it my fault he wasn’t all that serious? I mean, what’s the sports cliché, go hard or go home? If he went hard, maybe he wouldn’t be going home.” Tank paused briefly. “Who am I kidding? Of course he’d be going home. I wasn’t gonna let some bigoted fat piece of shit get over on me. If he started gettin’ pissy, I’d have rabbit punched him in the kidneys, thrown him down on the floor, and kicked in his solar plexuses. Hard to make claims when you can’t breathe or stand.”

  Dylan continued to shake his head, mainly because he didn’t know of a more appropriate response. Violence was base and wrong. And yet there were some nice, unexpected benefits to having your husband be friends with a hockey team. “Well, thank you for the help.”

  “What was up that guy’s ass?”

  He shrugged. “Just a hater. Saw me with Roan, figured I was an agent for infecteds, out to infect all the fat white rich people in here.”

  “Horrors,” Tank said, still grinning, his eyes glittering like diamonds. He lowered his voice to a ghost of a whisper, leaning over the bar conspiratorially. “It’d serve the bourgeoisie bastards right.”

  Dylan couldn’t help but smile and chuckle faintly. It was obvious why he and Roan liked each other. Yes, there was a little man crush there, but Roan and Tank seemed to have a certain attitude in common. They were also both a bit smarter than you’d probably give them credit for, and too unpredictable for general safety. “What can I get you, Tank?”

  “Oh, I’m not here to drink. I knew you worked here now ’cause Fi told me, and since I can’t get ahold of Roan, I thought I’d let you know that you and Roan are working personal security for me tomorrow.”

  “Pardon?”

  He leaned his elbows on the bar, slumping down and looking comfortable. “It’s my last game with the Falcons; I’m signing an insane contract with the Bruins the day after tomorrow. I convinced the arena staff I needed extra security and was bringing in my own people. That’s you and Roan.”

  Dylan stared at him in open disbelief. “You convinced someone you need a bodyguard?”

  He continued grinning at him in a way that was equally charming and chilling. “I’m a goalie. We don’t fight.”

  “Really?” Dylan busied himself pouring Tank a glass of ice water. Tank needed to look like a customer, or Dylan might get shit about it. “It’s funny, but the last time we were at a Falcons game, I could have sworn the opening video bit they played of the team included you punching a guy so hard his helmet flew off. Or was that another goalie with your number?”

  Tank chuckled with genuine amusement. “That was justified. Fucking asshead pushed Zack into the boards, and if he hadn’t gotten his shoulder up he’d have gone in headfirst. That’s fucking dangerous, he coulda hurt him bad, and on top of that, Zack’s small. I mean, he weighs what, as much as Grey’s leg? And this fucker, Perry, he was almost Grey sized. And it wasn’t the first ass hat thing he’d done that night either. So I just snapped, called him a motherfucker, and when he turned to give me shit back, I’d already shucked off my catching glove and took him down with a right.” His grin ramped up a notch. “That got on ESPN. So did my subsequent decking of their second enforcer with my blocker, but by then Scott had grabbed me and pulled me away from the dog pile, and Grey and Richie put themselves in front of me to fend off the angry Tigers.”

  Dylan almost asked, but then figured Tigers was the team name. “Roan needs a bodyguard as much as you do.”

  “I know. But since it’s my last game with the team—well, if I don’t get busted back to the minors at some point—I thought it might be fun to have you guys right there, behind the bench. Ethan’s all for it, he can’t wait to have Roan nearby, he thinks his good luck will rub off on him.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Backup goalie, now becoming primary goalie. I told him Roan’s been my good luck charm.”

  Dylan almost laughed. He’d been wondering if Roan was a bad luck charm, and here came an alternate view. “Why?”

  Tank looked at Dylan as if he couldn’t believe he’d have to ask. “My career’s taken off since I met him. I mean, I’m playing the best I’ve ever played, and now I’m off to the NHL. How is he not a good luck charm?”

  “But that was a coincidence. You’re playing so well because you train like a bastard, and you’ve been working for this most of your life. Roan was happenstance, coincidental at best.”

  He nodded. “Doesn’t change anything. He’s been good luck for me.” Tank gulped down his ice water, and when he put it down, he asked, “Do you have a specialty?”

  It caught him off guard, mainly because he was still pondering Tank’s superstitious but weirdly sweet belief that Roan was a good omen. Wasn’t he, in an odd way? Yes, things had been kind of rough, but there were undeniable good times. And Roan, as much as he frustrated him, could make him happy in a way that no man had since Jason. Maybe even more
than Jason ever had. “Huh?”

  “Specialty drink, something you like to make.”

  Wow, Dylan hadn’t been asked that since… had he ever been asked? He wasn’t sure, but he said the first thing that popped into his head. “I dunno, a Surf Sider?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Blue Curacao, Southern Comfort, pineapple juice, lime.”

  “Ah. Sounds like a fruity drink that’ll knock you on your ass.”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Set me up. Oh, what time do you get off work?”

  “Tonight? Midnight. Why?”

  “Insurance,” he said cryptically, pulling out his cell.

  There was another customer, so Dylan had to get him his glass of wine before he made the Surf Sider and brought it back to Tank, who was now shoving his phone in his pocket. “So who’s the insurance?” he wondered, putting the blue drink in front of him.

  “Grey. I’m worried Fat Ass is gonna hang around and try for ya after work. So if he does, instead of meeting me, he’s gonna meet Grey.” He picked up his drink with a smile. “If he thought I was bad, he hasn’t met Grey yet.”

  “Ah yes, the guy who threw the punch heard ’round the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that. Usually you start a riot with a punch, not stop one by throwing a hit.”

  “Well, this one was pretty stunning. I don’t think anyone knew you could actually rearrange someone’s face with one punch. You just assumed it was a figure of speech.”

  “Grey’s got fists the size of ham hocks and punches like a jackhammer. He can rearrange, renovate, dislodge, puree, pulp, and blend. That’s why he’s an enforcer. To make sure guys who go after little guys or me don’t do it twice. So I doubt Mr. Fat Ass is gonna bug you twice.” He sipped the blue drink, raised his eyebrows, and then gulped it, putting down the now empty tulip glass with gusto. “Wow, that tastes good enough to get shitfaced on. Can I have another?”

  “Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

  “Yep, but I’ll stop at two, or you can call me a cheese-eating surrender monkey.”

  Dylan grinned, unable to help himself. “You know, I’m going to miss you.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere. I mean, sure, I’ll have to relocate to Boston, but I’ll be e-mailing, phoning, and when it’s the off season, I’ll be back. I love Seattle. It’s like Vancouver, but American.” He then gave him a cheesy but genuine grin, showing that, in spite of stereotypes, he had a full set of teeth.

  Yes, there were some odd positive notes to being friends with crazy hockey players. But the thing Dylan really never expected was one of them cheering him up when he was feeling down. Maybe he should encourage Roan to hang around with them more often.

  ROAN was initially disoriented when he woke up on Holden’s couch, although the smell of the place was familiar enough that awareness clicked into place, and helped his memory kick in.

  The apartment was low lit, though, and he had no sense anyone was around. He found Holden had left a Post-it note on the bathroom mirror. It read: Gone to store. Keys on counter. Don’t kill yourself. It was almost a poem, and if they could work around the syllables, it was a haiku waiting to happen.

  He felt infinitely better, mainly because his head didn’t feel like it was splitting open anymore. It was always humbling to be taken down so easily by a migraine, but that opened up a new possibility, now considered—it wasn’t just a migraine. Maybe he had a time bomb in his head, not an aneurysm this time, but a tumor.

  Roan stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, wondering if he could see it on his face, death written in the fine lines of his eyes, in the tense set of his jaw. But no, he looked no different than before, except he had two days’ growth of stubble from his partial change earlier in the evening.

  Evening. Holy shit, how late was it? He checked his watch, and realized if he floored it, he just might beat Dylan home. He’d already decided he couldn’t keep this from him any longer, and since there was no good time to tell him, he was just going to have to come out with it. Besides, he’d already told Holden, and that wasn’t fair.

  As it turned out, he didn’t beat Dylan home, but arrived soon after him. Dyl was still making himself tea, his postwork de-stressing ritual, and was full of messages for him. Seb had called to let him know Matthews wanted to see him ASAP (what a shock); Doctor Rosenberg wanted to see him, but wouldn’t leave a message. That concerned Dylan a lot, and he asked if something was wrong. Roan couldn’t see a reason not to tell the truth.

  So he did. He told him about the tumors, about how most were small and of no consequence, but Rosenberg still wanted a biopsy, and wanted to get a couple removed from him. Also, he’d had a brain scan, and she thought maybe his uncontrollable shifts could be blamed on a tumor. Then Roan admitted something he hadn’t said to Holden: the idea of this scared him shitless. He didn’t want to die like this.

  Dylan held him and reassured him he wouldn’t, told him everything would be okay, even though Roan knew he didn’t quite believe that himself. He was hoping, he was trying to will it to be true, and Roan actually found some reassurance in that. Dylan said all the right things, and eventually they started kissing desperately, both realizing they wanted the comfort of each other at the same time. Sex made you feel alive, it made you feel like you weren’t going to die, even though it was inevitable. It was a little death that made you feel, if only for a moment, that you could subvert the big one.

  Afterward, Dylan slept while Roan found himself staring out the window at the unfamiliar landscape of a stranger’s backyard, wishing he was home. But he could still smell Dylan on him, and knew exactly why he wasn’t home. Not everybody wanted to fight him; most wanted easier targets. He couldn’t let that happen.

  He was planning out his day tomorrow, where he was going to start his search, when the phone rang. Roan almost didn’t answer it—at nearly three in the morning, there was no way it could be good news—but that’s precisely why he answered it. Might as well man up, face it head-on.

  He really hadn’t expected anything, but still the fact that it was Luke on the phone—Dee’s nurse boyfriend (or ex-boyfriend? He wasn’t clear on their relationship status)—was still a surprise.

  “Hey Roan, didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “No, you got lucky. What can I do for you?”

  “You know a guy named Oliver Jephson?”

  “Yes, he’s a client. Why?”

  “He’s in the ER, someone beat the ever-living shit outta him. We found your card in his possession, and it was the closest thing to a next of kin we found. Got some contact info for him?”

  “Nothing in state,” he admitted, trying to remember. “How is he?”

  “He’ll live, assuming there’s no complications. He’s unconscious, though, and he’s at least got a concussion.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “No, no idea. It looks like someone wanted to make it look like a mugging, and maybe it was, but… it’s too vicious. Either he encountered a psycho mugger, or this was personal.”

  Yes, that was what Roan was afraid of. Nothing was ever as it seemed, and why should he expect anything different from this? Even a sad-sack kid who seemed perfectly harmless.

  But what if he wasn’t?

  32

  The Blue Rose

  ROAN considered visiting Oliver at the hospital, but if he was unconscious, there was no point. He’d save it for later, when it was likely he was actually awake.

  From what Luke had gathered from the EMTs who’d brought Oliver in, he had been found collapsed in a bloody heap outside the parking garage of the Marriott on Pike Street. Which was curious, as he lived in the dorms. But maybe he wasn’t at the hotel, maybe he was just walking by, got jumped there, and collapsed. It was unlikely, but possible. Still, he wasn’t going to speculate on that until he could talk to Oliver about the incident.

  What Roan decided to do was see if he had missed anything. He turned up no
thing on Oliver, he was clean as clean could be, so he decided to go deeper. He’d looked at Oliver, at Annette, at Adam—what about the rest of the family?

  Everything that was happening must have put Roan off his game, because it was the rest of the family that was interesting.

  Adam’s father, Vernon Jephson, the one who worked for a place called Assurance International, the company where Adam had worked after dropping out of college to take care of his rapidly growing family (and where Caroline, Oliver’s sister, worked now), seemed like an oddly quiet sort. Adam had started in the Delaware branch, but Vern stayed in Miami. Approximately one month before Adam disappeared, Vern’s wife, Emily, had died in a very strange one-car crash. Initial reports called it “suspicious,” but the police apparently determined she was on prescription drugs and that was assumed to be the cause of the accident. About ten days later, Vernon’s brother, George, was shot and killed in the Assurance International parking lot in what was called a “violent robbery,” but no suspect was ever named, and the case remained unsolved. And then a couple of weeks later, in Delaware, Adam disappeared. What curious timing. Could one family be so beset by bad luck all within the same time frame? Well, why not? It beggared belief, but it was still possible. He didn’t trust it, though.

  Vernon was the pivot, the key. He no longer worked for Assurance, he had retired in 2008, but he was still alive, and still in the Miami area. He also had married himself a trophy wife (thirty-three years his junior) six years ago. His phone number wasn’t easy to find, but Roan eventually did, and did the math. The East Coast was three hours ahead, so he could call him by five in the morning and be within the politeness zone.

  Why hadn’t Oliver mentioned this? Because he didn’t deem it important, because he assumed it meant nothing… because he didn’t know. Was that possible? Could Adam have fallen out with his father enough to have next to no contact with them at the time of these incidents? Presumably Adam knew, but perhaps he’d kept it from the rest of the family, or at least kept the details out.