Infected: Lesser Evils (26 page)

Empathy softened Dylan’s hard look. “Sweetheart, there are some battles even you can’t win.”

“You think I don’t know that? I do. Just tell me how I live with it.”

Dylan looked at him helplessly, sympathy coloring his expression. He had no answer, but Roan hadn’t expected him to. There was no answer.

They got dressed and left, stopping for dinner at the Hunan Garden before Roan dropped Dylan off at work. Before he got out of the car, Dylan leaned over and gave him a sweet kiss, cupping the back of his neck and holding it before saying, “You do not have to protect all infecteds. No one asked you to, it is not expected of you. No one can protect everyone. Walk away, hon. Save yourself for once in your goddamn life.” With that, he got out of the car, and left Roan thinking he had saved himself many times. More than most people might suspect.

Roan continued on to the Grind skating rink. When he got there, he found that the rink was abuzz, and he noticed that Tank was missing. He was allowed in behind one of the benches, putting him at ice level, and noticing him, Grey skated up. “Hear the news?” Grey asked.

Oh god, was it more bad news? He didn’t know if he could take anymore. “No, what?”

“Tank got called up.”

That almost made sense. “What?”

Scott skated up now, holding his hockey stick like he was either going to hang it up or smack him with it. Neither was in his game outfit, no one on the ice was, but they all seemed to be wearing similar dark-colored uniforms. Casual workout gear, he assumed. “The Bruin’s main goalie has the flu, and the backup wrenched his back. The Bruins have a game against the Leafs tomorrow and they have no goalies.”

“The way the Leafs are playin’ right now, they don’t need ’em,” Jeff said, joining the scrum. He stopped with a glide that kicked up a brief shower of shaved ice.

Scott ignored that and continued to explain. “We just showed up when Tank found out they wanted him there as soon as possible. He raced outta here as the Coach’s friend got him booked on the next flight to Boston. He’s probably in a line at Sea-Tac right now.”

“Tank’s playing for the Bruins now?”

Scott shook his head. “It’s temporary, an emergency call-up. For the moment.”

“He’ll be back,” Grey said.

“God, if I was him, I’d be shittin’ myself,” Jeff commented. “One minute playing here, next playing on a major team. Fuck.”

“We’re a major team,” Scott said. “Major in talent, at any rate.”

Jeff snorted. “Yeah, that and five bucks’ll get ya a cuppa coffee.” He pronounced it “cawfee,” and Roan had to suppress the urge to laugh. Where the hell in New York was he from? He should really know by now….

“He’s as good as gone,” Scott said. “Once the NHL overlords see him play? Holy fuck, there’ll be a bidding war.”

“Assuming he’s good,” Jeff said. “If I was him, I’d be so nervous I’d probably barf my guts out between periods.”

Scott shook his head. “Tank doesn’t get scared. He’ll eat up the attention and show off.”

“It’s national TV, dude,” Jeff continued. “I get nervous when I find out a local station’s carrying a game.”

“National TV in Canada,” Grey said, with a tiny smirk. “I don’t know if that counts.”

Scott gave him a halfhearted slap on the arm. “Somebody’s gotta get Roger’s Sportsnet down here. We gotta have a viewing party. You in?”

It took Roan a moment to realize that was directed at him. “Uh, why not? Sure. Just let me know when and where.”

“Bring that beer you got in your fridge,” Jeff said. “That’s good beer.”

Scott gave Jeff a look that suggested he shouldn’t. “Jeff, aren’t you on a carb watch?”

“Fuck it. I can have more carbs on a nongame night if I wanna. Just don’t tell anybody.”

Ever since lunch, Roan had had this sneaking feeling that the guys were on some sort of nutritional regime; now it was confirmed. Mainly it was because he’d never seen straight guys willingly eat so much salad.

There was a whistle, and the coach called them over, so Grey and Jeff skated off toward him, but Scott lingered. “You okay?” he asked.

Roan nodded and shrugged. “Okay enough.”

Scott scowled, and it was eerily similar to Dylan’s scowl. They didn’t believe him, but neither had time to argue with him. What it meant beyond that Roan wasn’t sure, except he had a talent for pissing off hot guys.

He sat at the bench and joined in some name-calling, and it was fun to compete with a bunch of hockey players to find out who could come up with the most profane insult. There were lots of standards, and many made-up ones, but who was to say fuckbutter was any filthier than taintface or shitfuck? Perhaps there never could be a winner; participating was enough.

Near the end of the practice skate, Roan’s phone went off, and he was slightly alarmed to see it was Holden. But it turned out to be nothing to worry about, as he was just checking in. He’d come back from the appointment with Doug safe and sound, and hadn’t had any problems. He wondered if it was safe to be at his apartment, and Roan admitted that he didn’t think it would be a problem, but to keep everything locked up tight. Holden said he wasn’t worried, he had window alarms and a gun, and that made Roan pause. “You have a gun?”

“I have a lot of things. I just don’t talk about them much.”

That’s exactly what he was afraid of. Roan wanted to ask what those other things could possibly be, but he had a sneaking suspicion he really didn’t want to know, and it was for the best that he didn’t.

Driving home, he played music way too loud, trying to drown out his own thoughts, but it didn’t quite work. Why did he have to be the leader of the infecteds, if there could be such a thing? Wasn’t it arrogant to even think of himself that way? Besides, he wasn’t really one of them, was he? Most infecteds started out as Human and became a cat along the way. He’d never been completely Human, didn’t know what it was like to be a normal person who one day woke up to discover a foreign hunger in him, a virus that completely rewrote everything he was. He was as he had always been, with the small exception of his adaptation to his uneasy condition, the give and take between body and virus that had led him to here and now, where he could call it at will and find it damn near impossible to rein it back in sometimes. He was technically an infected, but he wasn’t a typical one by any means, and would never be.

Roan enjoyed this rationale, aware that he’d never completely buy it. Humans would always toss him over into the infected camp, and the infecteds would accept him, because he was close enough. When you were a group of people who could generally count your lifespan in months, you didn’t kick up too much of a fuss. So shouldn’t the fucking cat who wouldn’t die kick up a fuss on their behalf?

Still, wasn’t this what the Church was made for? Divine Transformation was all about cat advocacy, even if, like a typical church, they skewed things to fit their purposes. He should just let Bolt do the job he’d scratched and clawed for (no pun intended… well, a little intended), go out there and pimp for the cats. Roan could go back and sit in the freak corner, and everybody would forget about him.

Once he pulled into Kevin’s driveway, he wondered why he’d come back. To take a nap? To shovel more pills down his gullet? The latter sounded more plausible. He had a couple hours before he had to pick up Dylan from work. He could go to Silver and bring property values down by loitering around the bar, but he didn’t want Dylan to fret about him any more than he already did.

He needed to get help. He knew it, he didn’t need the men in his life pointing it out, he was sure he was a total fucking mess. Was there ever any doubt? But where did he get help? He could ask Scott if he could recommend a therapist, but he wasn’t sure he had a therapist anymore. (The implication was he’d had one in BC, but, despite its proximity, that was another country.) Besides, he needed one that dealt specifically with infecteds, so they wouldn’t freak out when he talked about his partial shifts. If he did. Maybe he didn’t need to bring that up.

Roan had no idea how long he sat there, engine off, head resting against the steering wheel, the car growing progressively cold, cluing him in that it was an unseasonably chilly night. When did he become so pathetic? He needed his ass kicked.

He was still trying to convince himself to get moving when his phone hummed in his pocket. He dug it out and slumped back lethargically in the seat, seeing it was Seb. He felt a cold dread settle into his stomach as he answered. “Yeah?”

“Heard the news?” he wondered.

Roan couldn’t even begin to guess. “I’m nowhere near any electronic device, and I haven’t been for hours.”

“How? You in a cave in Twisp or something?”

“I was talking art shit with Dylan and then talking trash with hockey players. I’ve had a full night.” Out of courtesy for his straight squeamishness and general privacy reasons, he didn’t tell him he and Dylan actually did much more than talk.

“Obviously. Well, someone bombed the Church.”

Roan waited a beat, not sure if Seb was joking or not. But the longer the silence stretched, the more he realized this wasn’t a sick joke. “What?”

“Pipe bombs, Internet specials. There was an incendiary bomb, but it didn’t go off. Those are more complicated.”

Seb didn’t sound overly concerned about it, but since he was a stoic, he didn’t react to much. You could chop his hand off, and you might get a vocal inflection, but you couldn’t bet on it. “How bad was it?”

“Lots of damage, some people hurt, no one dead… yet. One of their rent-a-cops ain’t doing so well.” Seb sighed heavily, and asked, “Can we start talking about protective custody now?”

Roan couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do less. But how long had he given the reins of leading the infecteds over to the Church, twenty minutes? That must have been a world record for screwing the pooch.

Oh, who knows? Maybe he could do better.

Shot by Both Sides

R
OAN
watched Kevin’s TV for a bit, just to see what the local news had to say about the bombing. Not a lot, or at least not much that was substantive. Two pipe bombs went off, one didn’t, and the number of injuries ascribed to the attack were fourteen, twenty-two, or twelve, depending on whether you were watching channel five, seven, or four. That one person was critical was the single constant.

If there were one or two particular suspects, they weren’t named. Perhaps because there was a plethora of suspects to choose from. It would be easier to name those not involved, or at least take less time. Kevin told Roan not to go to the crime scene, that he’d ask around and see what he could find out. Was it that obvious he wanted to check out the Church? Yeah, probably. Roan promised he wouldn’t.

He left early to pick up Dylan, ostensibly to stop by the store and pick up some Excedrin, which he used to take by the handful (taking so many painkillers basically killed his migraine cycle, which was a bonus of being a pill addict), but really because he had remembered he had to drop in on Cullen.

Roan had to cut through a party that had spilled out onto the stairs, and he got a variety of looks from the junior thugs holding their big plastic cups full of cheap beer, mostly of the dirty variety. The pot smoke that wreathed them made him sneeze.

There was no change of scents by Cullen’s apartment door, nor did he hear the hum of electricity when he pressed his ear against the door. Cullen hadn’t been home, had he? Had he done a runner? Had he heard of Hockney’s death, figured shit had gone south, and made a run for the border?

Maybe Roan was looking at this wrong. Maybe Cullen had known of Hockney’s death before anyone else. Or maybe he was dead too.

Headed down the stairs, a big guy with a white do-rag asked, “Who you lookin’ for?”

“Joe. Don’t suppose you know him?”

“The squirrelly white dealer?” he asked, and snorted derisively. The man had linebacker’s shoulders and a matching thick neck, making Roan think that’s exactly what he was, at least for some high school or college team. He caught a very vague scent of steroids on him. “What’cha need? We know a guy.”

“Nothing from him. His supplier’s dead, I wanted to find out where he was at the time of his murder. I don’t suppose he’s come back today, has he?”

Nervous glances were exchanged between the linebacker and his slightly smaller friends (smaller in the sense that a Road Ranger is smaller than a bull elephant). “You a cop?” One of his friends casually dropped something on the ground beside the stairs. (Dumping drugs, on his behalf.)

“Just an investigator.” Roan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to the linebacker. “If you see him, tell him to call me, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said in a halfhearted way that meant he’d do no such thing. He glanced at the card and was still reading it as Roan cut through the remaining crowd, which parted for him with the general semihostile uneasiness that occurred when people breaking a variety of laws thought you were a cop.

Roan was walking out to the parking lot when the linebacker shouted, “What the hell kind of name you got?”

“A weird one,” he admitted, not looking back.

He stopped by a Safeway to pick up a bottle of Excedrin and some of Dylan’s favorite green tea, and picked himself up a type of candy bar he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t know why, but he ate it in the car as he drove to Silver. Was he even hungry?

Didn’t matter. As soon as Roan was done with it, he popped a couple of codeine, washing them down with the bottle of water in his glove box, and went in to pick up Dylan.

He was a little early, and it was a slow time—the restaurant was about to close—so he sat at the end of the bar and Dylan served him a virgin pineapple margarita (he didn’t need to say it was virgin, Roan just knew) while he waited for him to finish closing down the bar. One of the waiters came by to gossip—he seemed very much the classic twink, with dyed blond hair in a sculpted quiff and a single diamond stud earring (surely fake)—and he mentioned the explosion down at the church, making it sound much more Michael Bay that it actually was. From the news footage, the bombs had collapsed the front porch and broken some windows, but not much beyond that. The twink kept giving him the stinkeye when Dylan wasn’t looking, which just made Roan smile at him. By now, contempt just amused him. Especially when the only reason was jealousy. The waiter wanted Dylan, and he knew that Roan was The Partner and could only cockblock him.