Purpose (5 page)

“Ryan, let me finish, please.” Gar waited until he received a tentative, sad nod. “Before we do anything, you need to know who and, more importantly, what I am. I can’t do that tonight. This isn’t a rejection. My reaction in the shower was genuine. I
do
want to be with you, and I
do
find you attractive. But we can’t be intimate tonight. Please accept that.”

Tears forming in his eyes, Ryan searched Gar’s face for something. When he looked away, Gar knew he had failed. For too long, he had renounced his feelings and expressing them to others. Tonight, when he needed to reassure, he failed.

No, he hadn’t failed, not yet. “Ryan….” Moving quickly, Gar took Ryan’s hand in his. “Don’t look away, please. If you give me a day, you have my word, if you still feel this way tomorrow, I won’t say no.”

“A day?”

Gar nodded, keeping his gaze locked on Ryan’s. “Tomorrow I’ll explain everything. After that… well, after that, you’ll have to let me know if the offer is still good.”

“Tomorrow,” Ryan repeated softly. “Okay, but will you at least hold me tonight? I’ll be good, but it’s been so long….”

He wanted to say no because that wasn’t much better. Sex wasn’t the problem; it was the emotional attachment. Attachment. That was the rub. Part of him was already attached. He just didn’t know when, how, or why.

“Okay,” he said.

A small smile appeared and continued to grow until Ryan looked about to burst.

But for his emotional detachment, something he practiced for more than three decades, Gar might be reacting the same way as Ryan. He didn’t understand what connected them, but whatever it was, he had a day to figure it out.

Ryan practically ran to the bathroom and tossed his towel over a hook. He pulled the sheet and blanket back, and rolled naked into the center. Gar stared. Maybe he should change his mind.

“I said I’d be good and I meant it, but this is how I sleep.”

Hanging his towel next to Ryan’s, Gar glanced at the cotton pants he’d set out. Leaving them untouched, he shut the lights off and walked around the bed. Ryan snuggled over almost as soon as Gar pulled the covers up. Wrapping his arm around Ryan, he felt himself stir again.

“William Morgan,” he whispered.

Ryan rolled around until they were face to face. “What?”

“Will—William Morgan, that’s my real name.”

Gar could feel the smile etched onto Ryan’s face as he burrowed in closer. Tomorrow better be one hell of a productive day.

T
HE
first hint of dawn seeped into the room through the blinds he’d forgotten to close. Gar stirred slightly, his body alerting him to the start of a new day. Ryan snuggled back, his breathing slow and steady. Gar smiled at his sleeping guest.

With his arm draped over the naked body next to him, Gar toyed with the idea of probing the sleeping mind. Somewhere in Ryan’s thoughts, conscious or otherwise, were the answers he needed. He could take them. So simple. Barely a second and he could be navigating Ryan’s mind. He’d never have to know.

Gar pressed tighter against Ryan. So why did he hesitate? Why did the thought make him recoil in guilt? Guilt had never bothered him before….

Yes, it has.
But that was before he detached himself from human contact. Before the Purpose.

He slowly unwound himself from Ryan and moved to the window. How many times had he seen the sun rise without having slept? And even when he did sleep, his dreams were violent or confusing. Often, he’d relive memories of his “past lives,” seeing events as if he were personally involved.

Yet he couldn’t remember dreaming last night. His chest clenched. Had the Purpose left? He closed his eyes and felt for its presence. It was there, just quiet. Relaxing, a sense of relief momentarily filled him before it drowned in a swell of hot anger.

For much of the first decade, he hated
It
for ruining his life. He spent countless hours trying to rid himself of the unwanted presence. Finally, he made peace with his lot and accepted his fate. So why didn’t he feel relief? Wouldn’t he be happier without
It
?

Stretching, he flexed his naked body, feeling… what exactly was he feeling?

“Looks good.” Ryan’s voice curled the edges of Gar’s lips up slightly.

“You should go back to sleep.” He kept his eyes fixed on the city rousing itself to life. “I’ll be gone most of the day.”

“Come back to bed?”

“No, I have things to take care of.” He dragged himself from the view and returned to the side of the bed. “You should rest. I’ll leave you a spare key. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“You don’t have anything, Gar.” Ryan extended his hand, running it over Gar’s back.

“I have what I need.” His eyes turned toward the dresser. “If you need some, help yourself.”

“Gar….”

He twisted and laced his fingers with Ryan’s. “Go back to sleep. You had a rough night.”

“Actually, I had a wonderful night.” The cheeky grin turned Gar’s amused half smile into a real one.

“I’ll be back. Try to stay out of trouble.” Ryan gently pulled Gar’s hand to his lips.

“I’ll be here.”

S
TANDING
across from the police station, Gar sipped absently on black coffee. The news conference was supposed to have started two minutes ago. Typical.

Years of practice keeping his focus helped him clear his thoughts of Ryan and all the odd behaviors that seemed to flow from him. The kid’s arrival created more problems than just the disruption to his routine.

Last night he’d been sloppy. Careless like he couldn’t remember. The five dead bodies in Northeast were shoved to page two. Four would-be robbers beaten by what was being reported as a Metro Transit cop was more unique, more sensational. Sold more papers. Brought more witnesses forward.

Even the whiff of police brutality was bad, but this was worse. The transit authority promptly announced the suspect was not one of theirs. They provided a complete roster of officers and accounted for them all.

Publishing an alibi for all its white officers in less than twelve hours was no small feat. No one wanted a rogue cop, least of all the transit system. Gar was not surprised when he learned the Metropolitan Police Department had assumed control of the investigation.

Way too messy.
Not caring made it easier to keep hidden. A small group descended the steps toward the podium and the tightly packed reporters and cameras. The chief, in her white officer’s uniform, took the lead. Behind her, a haggard Metro Transit chief looked on.

While she spoke, the mayor and others looked on, pretending to care. Gar disliked politicians and their “get elected” mentality. A cursory scan of their minds told him they didn’t care about the four thugs. It was the disruption to the night life and its paying customers that concerned them.

Fifteen minutes of mind-numbing speeches later, they got to the part he needed: the lead detective. Danny Griffin said a few prepared words, asked for the community’s patience and help. He ended by urging anyone with information to come forward. Quickly, he retreated into the crowd without answering questions.

Ignoring the rest of the speakers, Gar probed the detective’s thoughts. Tossing his coffee in a bin, he scowled. Griffin was going to be a problem. Inching closer, he selected a target.

“Chief?” a thirtysomething reporter from a news service called out. Traffic moved along Indiana Avenue, breaking the eerie silence.

“Yes, you have a question?”

Gar spoke, using the man’s voice. “Last night, five bodies turned up dead in Clay Terrace. After you arrived, fourteen guns and dozens of vials of PCP were found on the hood of your car with no witnesses to how they got there. How does that not warrant more attention than four injured, but alive, would-be robbers beaten during an attempted robbery?”

Sort that out.

Danny Griffin worked out of the Violent Crimes Branch. Gar decided they needed to talk.

P
AYING
the cab driver, Gar stared at the run-down, poor excuse of a shopping center. A dry cleaner, a CVS and a liquor store. That was the best they could find? He walked to the left and made his way to the back of the building. Built into a hill, the basement was ground level in the rear.

The lot was full, and there was considerable foot traffic in and out of the far end of the building.
Who builds the DMV next to the homicide branch?

Shaking his head, he found a quiet perch to watch the doors. Nothing marked the place as home to the Violent Crimes office. Even the parade of officers was mostly plainclothes. The occasional uniformed officer used an entrance to the far left that was marked “Regional Operations Center—North.”

Although Griffin wanted to come right back after the news conference, Gar wasn’t counting on it happening that fast. The detective’s expectations might not be the same as his commanding officer’s. Watching closely, Gar soon figured out that the keypad to the left of the door let in those with a badge. Without a keycard, someone needed to unlock the door from the inside.

Bypassing the keypad was simple enough, making his way to Griffin’s office unnoticed, a bit more difficult. Gar pulled a black cigarette-size box from his inner pocket and flicked a switch on the side. He replaced it, took a card from his wallet, and slowly walked toward the nondescript door.

Entering unseen had taken years to perfect. Technology kept making it harder. Cameras, keypads, microchips—all required special attention beyond clouding people’s minds. The fewer obstacles, the better.

He extended his hearing and searched for people close to the door. If he could slip in behind someone, so much the better. Opening the door when the video showed no one there usually raised an alert. Better to wait for someone leaving than to do that.

The black box kept his image off the video monitor and he could make sure anyone outside didn’t “see” him standing by the door. Making someone do his bidding, like getting the reporter to ask about the five dead bodies, was much harder than telling people he wasn’t there. But it required a lot of effort to maintain his focus for long, so he kept the key card override handy in case he didn’t get a chance to sneak in.

After three minutes of waiting and listening, he heard two sets of shoes approach the door. Perfect. Before the second detective cleared the doorframe, Gar slipped inside.

Gliding down the hall, he hugged the standard government beige walls. Gar used the hard, grayish tile floor to his advantage. With a practiced ease, his tread made the barest of sounds, unlike the others, whose steps rang out like a hammer pounding an anvil to his heightened senses. Their movements completely masked what little sound his passing made.

The heavy plodding of two sets of feet approaching caught his attention. Tuning out other sounds, he let them come closer. One male, one female, walking slowly. From their conversation, they were heading outside. Probably down the hallway where he stood. Didn’t matter, they were coming from the left. He needed to go right.

Staring them both in the eye, he walked by, following the path he’d seen in Griffin’s thoughts. Second door on the left, not closed, rows of gray cubicles. The image was etched into the man’s thoughts. So easy to read.

Pausing by the door, the only sounds he heard were not close enough to keep him out. Despite the number of desks, the office was nearly deserted. Those who were there sat well away from his destination.

Gliding over to Griffin’s desk, he took inventory. A large photo of a woman, two boys, not quite teens, standing in front of a blue Ford pickup, a group photo of him and four others—likely other officers—on a fishing boat, as well as various “office memos.”

On the left side of the desk, pressed against a cubicle divider, Gar saw his prize: a stack of six reddish-brown files. Sifting through these, he found the one he wanted.

Turning the pages, he scanned for the details he needed. Could they identify him? Four witnesses, three different descriptions, and one “didn’t get a good look.” Nothing of interest. Bland, boring, and mechanical. The file begged to be buried in the “unsolved and who cares” cabinet. Pleased, he almost missed a notation, seemingly tossed in as an afterthought, at the bottom of the second to last page, that stopped his heart for a beat. It didn’t make sense. Three times he read it, but the mystery remained.

A chair sliding across tile snapped his attention from the paper. Minding the activity in the room, he quickly used his phone to photograph each page. He returned it to the stack and checked the neighboring cubicles for Griffin’s cell phone number. The second one thoughtfully had a list of numbers tacked to the fabric wall. He added it to his contact list and had what he wanted.

Glancing around, he took note of the mismatched chairs to the right of Griffin’s cubicle. Extra details in case he needed to convince the man he’d been in his space.

He retraced his steps and stood by the exit, waiting. When a buzz of the keypad alerted him to someone’s imminent entrance, he prepared to dart through when the chance arose.