Infected: Lesser Evils Page 8

  The smell of his fear was rank and awful, like asparagus piss (and it may have indeed been just that), and Roan ground down his boot heel just enough to exert terrible pressure on the fine bones of Garver’s neck. “I’m part of that plan B too. You think you wipe him out and the problem’s gone? No, now you have a bigger problem. But as low as I am, I’m not the worst—Fox has friends in even lower places, ones who probably would have killed you as soon as you walked in the door. You don’t fuck with street kids, Lloyd, certainly not if they’ve managed to claw their way out of the gutter, ’cause that means they’re a lot more ruthless than most, and predators generally hang with other predators.”

  The hand with the broken wrist was lying as limp as a dead fish on the floor, and remembering Holden from the ER, Roan stamped on it, bones breaking with a cereal-like crackle. Lloyd made an odd noise of pain, half scream half sob, that was mostly buried in the carpet. “You’re not telling me what I want to know, Lloyd. How ’bout I rip your ear off? I’ll feed it to one of your dogs on the way out. Good luck on getting that reattached.”

  “Fuck!” Again, a kind of half sob, but this time mixed with anger and fear. “You stupid crazy shit, they’re cops. You can’t do a thing to them.”

  Roan wished he was surprised, but he wasn’t. It explained the blunt trauma injuries. “Wanna bet? Give me names.”

  He hesitated, so Roan dropped down to one knee and gave Garver a vicious kidney punch that would have him pissing blood for the next two weeks, and snapped his short ribs just for the trouble. Lloyd made a sort of keening noise, squirming as best he could while trying not to aggravate his many injuries. It was difficult. “Vince Carmody and Oscar Muhlfeld.”

  “You’re making those up.”

  “No.”

  “I know cops, ass hat, and I don’t recognize either name.” Okay, there was no way in hell he knew all the cops in Washington State, but he was trying to get more information out of the guy. Oftentimes the best way to do that was by pretending you were either an idiot or totally belligerent. Belligerent was very easy for him.

  “They’re Staties.”

  “State Patrol?” He snickered derisively. “What, couldn’t contact the Three Stooges? Jesus. Not even good people owe you favors, huh?” He had nothing against the state patrol, they were generally fine police officers, it’s just that all groups—be they police, fire, military, even hospitals—had to indulge in childish pissing contests with their “rivals.” Roan reached down, grabbed Lloyd’s arm, and with one twist dislocated his shoulder and his elbow, which sounded with muffled, small pops. Garver made a noise of pain that was almost breathless, unable to do much more. “How do you explain these injuries, Lloyd? And the photos? I’ve left more than one around the place. How do you explain that to your wife, to your Focus on the Family friends? I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the video. Send it to the news vultures? Upload it to YouTube and Xtube and see if anyone ever works it out? Might be fun to see how long it takes. You have a favorite, Lloyd?”

  “F-fuck you,” he wheezed. It sounded more pathetic than defiant. “You’ll pay for this. You and the whore—”

  Roan stamped on Garver’s dislocated elbow, crushing bones. “If anything happens to him, I will hunt you down, destroy whatever career you have left, and then take my sweet time killing you. You’re Human, there’s nothing you can do to escape me or protect yourself. Are we clear?”

  “You’re insane.”

  “The good thing about insanity? You really don’t give a shit what other people think of you. Stay away from Fox, or die for your trouble.” He then stomped his head into the carpet, breaking his nose and severely stunning him, if not knocking him out. Roan pocketed the incriminating photo before leaving by the window he had come in—the picture was still ammunition. Lloyd had just needed to know more than one person had them, because otherwise Holden was still a target.

  Roan took off and found an open cyber cafe in downtown Seattle, where he found addresses for Vince Carmody and Oscar Muhlfeld. Carmody lived in Queen Anne, not far from here, but Muhlfeld had a place in Burien, much farther away. So Carmody, by necessity of geography, was first.

  Since he was able to connect with his usual database, he discovered Carmody was divorced and lived alone in a condo. Fifth floor, fourth door on the right. He may have been a cop (well, trooper), but it was easily to pick his lock and walk right into his condo. For a bachelor, his place was fairly neat, a pizza box with uneaten crusts on the coffee table the only stereotypical item visible in the darkness. Creeping by the kitchenette, he smelled Holden’s blood. Carmody had rinsed his nightstick off in the sink.

  This whole time, Roan had felt oddly disconnected from himself, almost feverish, as if everything that was happening was a vivid hallucination he was only half interested in. But the smell of Holden’s blood layered over the scents of Carmody—everything: body odor, stale coffee, beer farts, bad breath, rank cologne, shoe polish, hair gel, toothpaste, all the smells of a modern-day human—brought him back to himself in a very bad way. This was a man who had brutalized another, and then, after cleaning his equipment, had gone to bed. It didn’t bother him at all? Maybe he’d objected at some point; maybe Lloyd had something on him, maybe he was forced into doing it or lied to about what Holden did to deserve it (surely Lloyd hadn’t told them the truth). But he still did it. And Roan smelled no fear here, no sorrow, nothing that could be construed as regret.

  And he could hear him snoring in the next room, the deep sleep of a man at peace with his conscience.

  Even though Roan felt more alive than he had all evening, he blacked out, or maybe the lion had taken over more than it should have. Because one minute he was standing there, looking down at the stainless steel sink where you could smell the blood in the drain and not see it, and the next he was back in the corridor, heading for the elevator. His hands hurt, and the faint scent of a stranger’s blood lingered in his nostrils. Alone in the elevator, he whispered to himself, to the lion within him, “What did you do?”

  But he really didn’t want to know, and the lion knew that if it knew anything at all. There was no reply, but Roan hadn’t expected one. The lack of blood on his clothes was the only sign that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

  In a way, he was hoping the drive to Burien would wake him up, snap him out of this black mood, but no such luck. It was cold, and the sky was starting to lighten—had he really been out all night? It felt like only a couple of hours—and he felt like death. Not like he was dying, but like he was actually Death, a thing in a black robe with a scythe and an urge to use it.

  When did he lose his mind? He wished he could remember; he wished there was some point when it became clear, a moment when he heard his brain actually snap, like a guitar string pulled too tightly. But would it have really helped? He didn’t think so.

  Muhlfeld was married with a kid, and Roan had no intention of terrorizing his wife and child. But there was an SUV in the driveway with a half-naked woman depicted on an air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, and he was willing to bet it wasn’t Oscar’s wife’s car. So he broke into it through the back seat, and found a Sharpie in his coat pocket. He had a vague idea he’d picked it up at Carmody’s place, but why? In a way, he didn’t want to know that either.

  He hunkered down in the back seat and waited. The great thing about an SUV was there was a lot of room, so hiding in the back wasn’t so bad. He almost could have fallen asleep if he wasn’t so wired on his own insanity right now. The sky was the fragile pale blue of dawn by the time Muhlfeld came out to his car, carrying a travel mug full of coffee. He was in the front seat, door slammed shut, before he noticed Why Lloyd Garver? written in black Sharpie on the interior roof. He was still looking up at it when Roan reached around the seat, grabbing him in a chokehold before slamming his fist into his face repeatedly, until blood splattered the windshield and Muhlfeld sagged limply, unconscious and bleeding from almost every orifice on his face. />
  Roan left then, walking away from the SUV, retrieving his bike on the next block, and only when he started driving off did he realize he had no idea where he was going. Maybe he should just drive until he hit the border, until the road ended, until his bike fell to pieces.

  He didn’t feel very satisfied, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was he had enjoyed it in spite of it all.

  His transition to monster was complete.

  8

  I Drive the Hearse

  ROAN stopped by his office and sat there for an unmeasured amount of time—maybe thirty minutes, maybe three hours. He took a handful of pills, uncounted as well and also unknown, and when he didn’t fall into a coma, he figured he ought to go before Fiona showed up. If she showed up. He had no idea if she was coming in today, mainly because he wasn’t sure what day it was.

  He should have headed home, but he couldn’t face Dylan. He had no clear plan where he was going, but time and place seemed to slide by like an unconvincing dream, and when he was more aware of things, he was in the hospital lobby, wondering why he was there.

  “Roan?”

  The voice was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He looked at the young male nurse in green scrubs, with dusky skin and an open face that was growing more concerned by the second. “Luke?” he finally replied. Dee’s boyfriend, the one with the annoying habits. He should have asked Dee what they were, but honestly, it didn’t matter. Dee thought Roan was annoying for having so many books, never calling when he was going to be late, and hating video games. Luke was probably a very rational person who simply had the misfortune of liking something Dee didn’t.

  “You look like shit,” Luke said. “Are you okay? Are you here to see someone?”

  “Holden,” he replied, even though he knew Luke was probably hoping he was seeing a doctor. He looked that bad? Well, being up all night and taking a handful of downers was going to do that to a person. “How is he? Can I see him?”

  “Oh. Krause, right?” He walked over to the admission desk, and went behind it to tap a few things into the computer. After a moment, when an older woman stopped behind the desk, Luke said idly, “I can see you two being related. You have the same jawline.”

  For a moment, Roan thought the drugs had really kicked in, but then he realized the woman with the unfortunate haircut was some kind of supervisor, and the idea of him seeing Holden couldn’t even be entertained if Roan wasn’t family. So Luke was implying he was. He nodded, and said, “He’s the only living family I have left.”

  “Well, it’s not visiting hours, but since you’re family, Doctor Cho will probably want to discuss his case with you. Deeanna, is Cho in his office?”

  Another nurse, this one a woman with a slightly Haitian accent, said, “No, I think he’s in lab five.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Luke briskly walked out from behind the desk and started down the hall, with a very businesslike “Follow me, please.”

  Roan did, and once they got in the elevator and the doors closed, Luke turned to him and said, “He has a lot of broken bones, some internal bleeding, and we’re waiting to see if he has any lingering brain injuries, but his scans turned out as good as we could have hoped.”

  “So he’s gonna live?”

  “I’d say so. But… is he the one that’s a hustler?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well… I hope he saved some money. It took eight staples to close the biggest gash on his scalp, and some of his hair had to be shaved off. He also has a fractured orbital bone, although the swelling should be on its way down by now. He got a tooth knocked out too, but somehow he didn’t get a broken nose. Figure that one out.” The doors opened and he walked out, and Roan followed, feeling dazed, like someone had hit him with a shovel and the force of the blow was still ringing through his head. It wasn’t what Luke was saying about Holden, mainly because Holden was better off than he’d expected. He was exhausted, drugged, felt vaguely sick, and wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay on his feet. Luckily, he seemed to be floating—or maybe the floor was actually wavering.

  “You’re saying he’s disfigured?”

  “No. He might have a scar or two, but he’ll heal. It’s just it’ll take a few weeks before his face isn’t a bruised, swollen mess.” Luke opened the door to Holden’s recovery room, and even though there was another bed in there, it was currently empty. “Not that it’s related, but I saw that article on you. And holy shit, that picture of you—wow. Even Dee agreed that if he hadn’t already dated you and knew what a miserable bastard you were, he’d be all over you.” Luke looked at him again, and grimaced in a painful way. “Dude, I think I’m gonna get you a chair and take you back to the ER. You look like you’re about to die on me.”

  “I’m tired,” he admitted, heading over toward Holden’s bed. His feet still worked, he was still walking, so that was something. “I’ll be okay. I probably just need coffee or something.”

  He scoffed. “No, I think you need a coroner.” Proving that perhaps there was some justice in this world, Luke’s beeper went off, and he said, “Shit, the crazies have come early today.” He left, the door closing behind him, and Roan said to nothing, “I’m a singular, not plural.”

  Of course Luke hadn’t been referring to him, but he might as well have been.

  Holden was a white lump among white sheets, his right hand and wrist in a fresh cast, surgical staples, angular and blackish, were visible on his collarbone where it peeked out from beneath the sheets (just to the right of a very blatant Taser burn), and more were in a loose crescent on the side of his head, where a divot had been shaved into it. His left eye was swollen shut and so deeply purple it was almost black, he had three staples in his chin, and his lip was still torn, but it would have to heal on its own. His bottom lip was swollen to almost three times its normal size, and extensive bruising and bleeding beneath the skin made his face and neck a shade of purplish burgundy. He was hooked up to two different IVs, and a machine was monitoring his life signs. Roan could smell the drugs coming from him—they had given him some nice painkillers—so he figured he’d be out for a while.

  And Luke was right about him not being able to hustle for a while, because right now he was unrecognizable. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’ve always been one of those odd hot guys,” Roan said, as he pulled a hard plastic chair up to his bedside. “You know, not an immediate knockout like Dylan, but sort of… strangely appealing, although no one can quite say why. That almost sounds like an insult, doesn’t it? But I must be the same way. I’ve been told I’m ‘striking’, which I always interpreted as ‘ugly in an interesting way’.” He sat down with a sigh and rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. “I got them. The guys who did this are probably in hospitals right now. But I think I’m done. I don’t think I can be around Humans anymore. I think I need to be locked up, for everyone else’s safety. Mainly because I liked it. I took these men apart, and it could have been worse. When I’m angry, I feel like I could punch right through someone’s chest. That has to be an overstatement, a lie… but I wonder. Snapping bones is no problem. Why couldn’t I punch through a sternum, through a chest wall? I can break someone’s skull with one punch.” It struck him as perversely funny in a truly awful way, so he giggled as he admitted, “I’m a supervillain. Or maybe I’m just an insanely violent hero. Maybe I just need the rest of The Authority to show up and save me from myself. And see there I was comparing myself to Midnighter, a reference perhaps only three people in this entire hospital will get. Dylan’s right—I’m such a nerd.” He felt unbalanced in his own head, like his brain had come loose and was about to slide out his ears. How nice would it be to totally disconnect from his body, just leave it behind like a husk.

  He might have blacked out for a moment, because Roan had a sense that time had passed around him and left him behind. He sat up, slumping against the unforgiving plastic, and realized his throat still hurt. You’d think all of the pills he took would have calmed it,
but apparently not. “You know what? You could take my place. Fi is pretty much a detective now, so she could show you the ropes, and you guys could take over my agency while I am locked up in a zoo where I belong. Just check in on Dyl from time to time, make sure he’s okay, and ignore any bad vibes you get from him. He doesn’t seem to like you and I’m not sure why, although he’s so good at being Buddhist you probably don’t even realize it.” He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they had been replaced with heated marbles. “I wish there was an old monster’s home where I could go. I need to retire.”

  The door opened, and he expected Luke, but much to his surprise it was Dylan, looking rumpled and slightly sleepless, wearing Roan’s bomber jacket. “Jesus, Roan, where have you been? Would you please turn your fucking cell on, I’ve been worried sick.”

  Oh, his phone—he’d forgotten he’d turned it off before he embarked on his magical misery tour. He reached into his coat pocket, found it, and turned it on. It hummed in his hand, and when the screen lit up, he saw he had several messages waiting for him. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  Dylan had looked pissed, but as he came over toward him, he grimaced painfully, and his anger morphed into pity. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  “I feel that way too.”

  “Let’s get you home, okay? I’ll yell at you later, when you’re more conscious.”