Prey (50 page)

Andrea

Speed

reddish tinge to it, but then he listened to his heart; he could hear it pounding in his ears, feel it making his chest vibrate like a hollow drum, and he wondered why this was happening so soon.

Roan had his secrets, and he knew it. He didn’t want to tell Paris he’d got in a fight last night, probably because he’d partially transformed, or because his life was in genuine danger, or both. But Paris had a secret of his own. His last routine checkup, typical after he went through his viral cycle, his doctor had had some news for him that wasn’t that shocking but was still depressing. She told him, very kindly, that she had detected a heart murmur, and suspected the blood flow to his heart was now being affected. He was tiger strain and approaching thirty—it wasn’t a surprise.

Heart valve problems and blood flow irregularities were common with tiger strain; according to his doctor, it was usually the valves that went first, and aortic dissection killed many a tiger. She was very kind: she’d said it was “early days” and was probably not going to be a real problem for up to a year; all he had to do was watch that he didn’t exercise too strenuously, and expect some heart palpitations (although she’d advised him to come in if they started to get really frequent or really bad). She suspected that he wouldn’t notice until he was near the high point of his viral cycle.

He hadn’t told Roan. He’d told him he got a clean bill of health and praised his continued luck. Roan was relieved and held him for the longest time, so long he felt horrible for lying to him. But he didn’t want Ro to worry or, worse yet, coddle him somehow. So what if he was on borrowed time? He had been since he’d contracted this virus, and since he’d met Roan.

Which was the funny thing… funny in a bitterly ironic sort of way.

He’d never been brave enough to commit suicide, but he still chased death, afraid of this thing inside him. And when he met Roan, he had almost achieved his goal, although he was unaware of it. Roan knew he smelled like he was in the transition phase, but he also thought he smelled sick. After he spent the night in the police transformation tank, Roan took him to this special clinic that was for the treatment of infecteds with other medical problems. It had a waiting list, but Roan knew the right people and got him in. He had pneumonia, apparently, and according to the doctors who saw him, he was suffering from malnutrition. Which sounded insane, but apparently due to his wonky metabolism he didn’t have enough fat in his body to tolerate another transition, and he was one or two away from a fatal heart attack or organ malfunction. By that time he was too Infected: Prey

313

medicated to say “Let it happen,” and he’d stayed in that clinic for weeks while they cured his pneumonia and got him back up to fighting strength.

By that time he’d figured out he wanted to live, as Roan had visited him as often as he could, brought him books (from his own collection, which he didn’t know at the time), and sometimes called to talk to him when he was on boring stakeouts, just to have the company, and somewhere in all those days Paris had fallen in love with him, although he wasn’t sure when. It just sort of struck him one day that he loved him, and rather than being shocking, it struck him as bizarrely commonplace. Who couldn’t love a guy like him? Besides, he’d given him his life back, and love was the least possible response.

But that was how life tripped you up, wasn’t it? As soon as you were content with what you had, it took it away. He was glad to have some semblance of a life, and now the walls were closing in, and the death he had chased had now turned around and was charging at him. He could have been angry about it, or depressed, but mostly he was just weary. It was almost too predictable.

He closed his eyes and took deep breaths through his nose, letting them out slowly through his mouth, trying to get his heart to just slow the fuck down. That was much harder to will than you would have thought.

Maybe he’d had too much sugar and caffeine this morning.

He splashed cold water on his face and rubbed it in, hoping to absorb it through his pores, and he thought his heart rate finally went down. He hoped his face was less flushed, but he wasn’t sure.

Roan had told him about the narrow side hall leading to Eli’s pretentious private office, so he slipped down it, coming to a huge door that he knocked on quite loudly. He thought he heard the strains of SportsCenter leaking through the cracks. “Who is it?” Eli shouted in reply.

Paris didn’t answer. He turned the knob, found the door unlocked, and walked in. He found Eli sitting on an overstuffed sofa, watching a flat screen TV hidden within an open cabinet, drinking a Coors Light. He looked at him, indignation twisting his features, but when he realized who had just barged in he paused himself mid-rise and sat back down on the couch, grabbing the remote and bringing the volume down. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“And good afternoon to you too,” Paris replied cheerfully. “I need the time sheets of Jordan DeSoto for the last month and a half.”

314

Andrea

Speed

He loved the way Eli looked at him, like he was the millipede he’d just found in his chicken salad. He still hadn’t forgiven him for threatening to lock him in the cage with his tiger, had he? Well, he hoped Eli knew that offer was still on the table. “Why Jordan? McKichan can’t be suspicious of that… loser.”

“You don’t like him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Eli treated it as such. “He’s a terminal fuck-up.” Paris entertained the idea of telling Eli that his own brother actually thought of
him
that way, but decided there wasn’t a point. He wasn’t sure Eli had a sense of irony. Or humor. Or dress sense, judging from his unfortunate choice of beige Dockers and a pale pink short-sleeved shirt.

He still had the slightly spiky Eurotrash hair going on too, which just didn’t go with anything from the neck down. Every time he saw him, Eli brought home the fact that he had much more money than sense.

He levered himself off the couch, leaving his beer and remote behind, and walked over to a desk that looked like it was made for a grown-up, not Eli. He started working on his computer, but didn’t sit down.

“So why did you hire him if he’s such a fuck-up?”

He snorted derisively. “I know you play for the other team now, but you can’t be that stupid.”

Paris smirked at his snide little comment, but he suddenly realized his head felt very light, like someone was pumping it full of hydrogen, and the room started a slow but obvious tilt. He sat on the arm of the sofa before the dizziness could fully overwhelm him. “To make Mia happy.”

“More like to shut her up, but same difference. She thought maybe I could put in a good word for him with Tom, get him in one of his businesses, but she apparently doesn’t understand our relationship.”

Tom was his much more respectable brother, and as far as Paris knew, they barely talked before Eli had managed to get himself infected.

Now that he was genuinely infected, Tom probably didn’t take his calls for any reason. “Is he good at his job?”

Eli shrugged, and started to print out the documents. “A chimp could mow a lawn.”

“Wow. You should slap that on his resumé.”

He glared at him. “He’s hungover when he isn’t drunk, and he’s a Infected: Prey

315

total bastard in any state. If he wasn’t Mia’s brother, I’d have fired his ass already.”

“He doesn’t like infecteds, or just you?”

Eli sighed heavily, glancing at the TV instead of him. “Is there any difference?”

“A bit, yeah—you’re not every infected. Does he blame you for Mia’s infection?”

Eli’s neck stiffened, and it was clear he was trying not to react to that. “Mia was infected before she got here, so I don’t see how he could.”

“But he hates your fucking guts.”

Another shrug, but far too deliberate to be casual. “Probably. He’s an ungrateful bastard.” He checked the printouts, which continued. There must have been five pages already.

Over dinner last night, before he went to meet with Barlow, Roan had told him he didn’t think the person threatening Eli and the killer were one and the same. Roan figured that since the killer was framing Eli, he wouldn’t kill him off; and then there was the fact that the killer hadn’t warned anyone else with a threatening note before doing the deed, so why would Eli warrant one? As far as Ro was concerned—and Paris agreed with him—someone was taking advantage of the killings to put the fear of God into Eli. A spurned lover, perhaps, or an irate brother of a lover. But as soon as they told Eli he was probably just the victim of harassment and not being stalked by an actual killer, he’d stop funding the investigation.

So they weren’t going to tell him right away.

There was the question of how the harasser knew of the killings, but that was simple enough, at least according to Roan: Eli knew. He knew as soon as Patrick was shot, and he probably mentioned it to someone, but he didn’t care about the killings until he himself was threatened. So much for caring about “his people,” but neither of them were shocked that Eli was a selfish hypocrite.

Outside he could hear the hum of the lawnmower, but Eli had flimsy yellow curtains drawn over the window, letting in light but blocking out most of the heat and any prying eyes. Staring at the yellow light made him feel even dizzier, although he didn’t know why.

The printing finally stopped, and Eli gathered up the pages, bringing them over to him. As soon as he came within arm’s reach, he made to grab 316

Andrea

Speed

the papers, but paused, making Eli stand there uncomfortably close to him.

“Is there a garden shed? Somewhere where Jordan gets his tools?”

“Yeah, out back, past the gazebo.”

He took the papers. “I didn’t even know you had a gazebo.”

“No reason you should.” He’d turned away, but Paris heard the sneer in his voice.

Just for a laugh, he growled low in his throat, and Eli jumped, startled, turning around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Paris grinned at him, all teeth and ill will, as he managed to stand and not fall over. “Don’t fuck with me, Eli. Roan isn’t the only one who can bust your balls.”

Eli’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Aren’t you fags supposed to be effeminate?”

Ooh, he’d used the “f” word. He wouldn’t do that in front of Roan, but he felt it was safe to use in front of the bi. What, he didn’t think he would be offended? Paris took a couple of steps toward him, saying nothing, and Eli suddenly realized he might have made a mistake, eyes widening slightly as he took a corresponding number of steps back, bumping into his own desk. “Do I l
ook
effeminate to you?” Paris waited for him to respond, but when he didn’t, he prompted, “Well, do I?”

Eli finally understood it wasn’t a rhetorical question. “No, no, of course not.”

“Goddamn right. I’m a fucking tiger, Eli, and we don’t take shit from little pussycats like you. And get that word out of your vocabulary before I’m forced to smash your face in. We’re only your employees until we solve this case, and then it’s open season on you again, bud. Keep that in mind.”

He nodded hastily, clearly wanting to say something nasty but too scared to do so. Paris had height and muscle mass on him, and the reminder that he was a tiger—and the corresponding memory of threatening to lock him in the cage with it—made him shut the fuck up.

He probably should have done that two minutes ago.

He left Eli’s office and walked through the church’s main building, passing through several “sitting rooms,” a dining room that was mostly for show, and the sterile, stainless-steel-heavy kitchen before finding a back door he could actually leave through. He folded up the papers as best he Infected: Prey

317

could and shoved them in his pocket, where they fit very awkwardly but would do. He was still light-headed, but now it was kind of pleasant; it was almost like a contact high.

The “backyard” of the church was almost a solid acre, which was impressive for a city location. It was walled off by a seven-foot-high wooden fence, stained to a warm reddish-brown. The lawn was as smooth and weed-free as a golf course, with small, highly landscaped little islands, usually following a theme: one was filled with roses in all hues, another full of azaleas that were mostly in white and reds, another with various kinds of long ornamental grass. The gazebo was latticed and painted a bright white, big enough to hold a barbecue and several people to clean it, and just past a small, koi-stocked pond with a fountain that looked like a heap of rocks, was a small shed. It was painted the same reddish-brown color as the fence, so it kind of blended in, but it looked so nice and new someone could have lived in it. Well, if it wasn’t the size of a walk-in closet.

There was a shiny new hasp and padlock, but both were open so he didn’t have to break them. Inside it looked just like a tool shed, with weed eaters, edgers, and other large tools lined up against the wall, with a variety of saws and clippers hanging up on the right side. There was a kind of utilitarian table set up against the far wall, where a huge tool kit sat, along with a couple of random tackle boxes. Jordan had left a scuffed brown leather jacket in here, right below the calendar picture of a hard-faced blonde with artificially inflated breasts in a red bikini that barely covered anything, and proved she’d had a full body wax.

The toolbox wasn’t locked, so he opened it up and had a look. It had the usual assortment of tools, all haphazardly placed and in varying states of wear, but when he removed the first level and started searching among the others, he found something interesting: a red permanent marker. The type that was used by the person who wrote
“Your next”
on the article about Ashley Cryer’s death? Since he could still hear the buzz of the lawnmower growing farther and farther away, he decided to search the pockets of the leather jacket. There was nothing in them but a half-filled pack of crumpled Marlboros and a cheap red plastic lighter. He must have kept his wallet with him.

He called Roan while he continued searching the levels of the toolbox. Roan picked up after the fourth ring. “How’s it going?” he asked, without preamble.