Touching Evil (4 page)

He propped some kind of South American shamanistic mystic fertility
walking stick under the busted door to hold it closed and went over,
staring over Greg's shoulder.

"Him. He's watching. Says to open the mail when it comes. He's watching. Deep voice, rough. Raw."

Wheeling, he checked windows, going over the whole perimeter. There
was no one close, so he automatically started scanning likely spots
outside where someone could watch with binoculars or a scope. The
street was pretty quiet; it was too early for the tattoo crowd.

"Yes. I understand. No. I ... I understand. I'll try harder to hear
what you're trying to tell me." Greg walked over toward the pyramid,
staring down at the package. "No. No, I haven't opened it yet. I just
came ... I just came downstairs..."

Oh, Jesus. The guy was still on the phone. Still. He needed to get
these lines tapped. He needed to get Greg away from there. Away from
the windows. No way was Greg opening the package with the freak talking
in his ear. Overload for sure. He'd just have to grab it.

Greg didn't reach for the little package, though; he went for the
front door, for the doorknob, head jerking back with a snap as his long
fingers closed around the metal. "White truck. Little. Dented. She hurt
your hand. She bit your hand. I can see your hands."

His gut tightened, bile rising as all he could do was wait and see
what happened next. Remember what happened. Goddamn, he hated being
useless. He couldn't call in the uniforms until the call was over. Not
if they really wanted to know what Greg had to say.

"Fuck you, too. You coward. You come back here for me if you can. I
can see you. You have a doll in there. Tools. A ... a ... a cheap
watch." Greg was beginning to shake, the man hitting his knees with a
sharp crack, the phone sliding across the tile, plastic shattering and
scattering about.

"Shit!" On his knees in a flash, Artie was touching Greg without
even thinking about it, holding the man up when he would have crumpled.

Greg jerked, eyes flying open, hands tearing free from the doorknob
and holding his face. "Raspberries. You like raspberries because
they're tart."

"Yeah. They go good with chocolate." He squeezed Greg's upper arms,
supporting him, letting him know Artie was there and the psycho wasn't.
Thin. Fuck, the man was thin, but strong.

"Yes. Yes. Raspberries and chocolate and coffee and your chair all
together. Like home." Greg nodded, fingers exploring his face, just
touching him, cheeks and eyebrows and jaw.

It had to be the weirdest fucking thing that had ever happened to
him ... something he'd been hoping for the longest time, but under the
worst circumstances. He woulda laughed had it actually been funny.
Artie chafed Greg's skin, feeling goose bumps.

"Uh-huh. You kicking my ass at backgammon. Alfredo. It's a tradition, man."

Greg nodded, relaxing a little, eyes closing. "Yes. Yes. Our
tradition. We'll have to replace the doorknob. This one's poisoned."

"Not to mention broken. We'll do it, but I have to get someone out
here first. They're gonna have to sweep the place, man." That was gonna
kill Greg, he knew. He'd keep the crew to a minimum, but people would
still have to touch Greg's stuff.

"No." Those black eyes met his, that familiar, heart wrenching panic
right there. "They'll be thinking, Art. Over and over and over. They'll
be everywhere."

"I know. I know, man, and I'm sorry. Leah can come. And we can try
to get one processor. You know? But we have to collect what we can."
He'd do as much of the work as he could. He would. And it was just the
shop, just Greg's public face.

Greg nodded. "I know. I know you will. You take care of me." Greg pursed thin lips, fingers just brushing his mouth. "You do."

"I do." Greg had become like his personal fucking mission in life
somewhere between that first case, where he'd called into the station
and said he knew who'd killed that society wench, and now. It was
fucking odd. "You know I will if I can."

"They can't come into the stairwell. They have to stay in the
store." Greg's head tilted. "He was driving away in a truck. He said he
was watching us. He said he knew I hadn't opened the mail. How did he
know that?"

"I don't know. We'll make sure there's nothing planted. Okay? He
could have just had binoculars. Come on, Greg. Let's go upstairs so I
can call." He wanted Greg out, away from that damned box before they
opened it, away from the windows for fuck's sake.

"Your people won't let me read the box, if they come first." Greg
stood with him and it meant something that Greg would touch it, even
though the man was shaken and sick and scared. Even if those eyes
begged him to say no, it wasn't necessary. All it would take was a word
from him and Greg would do it.

"No, and I don't want you to." He sighed, shook his head. "But
you're supposed to. It's part of his game, and if he's leaving you
clues..."

"Okay. Okay." Greg stumbled toward the pyramid, the copper tubing
soldered with silver. "Might as well just dive in. You take notes; I'll
talk as long as I can."

"Wait. Wait, let me get you something. Orange juice. Something."
Artie caught up, caught Greg's arm. The man was just gonna fall over.

"God, that feels good." Greg squeezed his fingers, gave a near
hysterical laugh. "Details, details, detective. Take notes. It'll be
fast."

Then, sure as shit, Greg reached into the pyramid and picked the
little brown paper package up. All he could do now was listen and try
to record every fucking detail. They'd been here before.

Artie hated every minute of it.

"Underground. Red lights. Swinging red lights. Scalpels. The knife
is to scare them. The rest is worse. Worse. The rest is work. Katy.
Karen. Kaitlin. K. Her name has a K and her granny gave her a necklace
when she was twelve. She screamed and screamed and he made her stop.
Dripping. The blood is dripping. She's put in the box. A box with the
others. There's water. His boots never get wet. Never."

The notebook and pen felt like it weighed about eighty pounds, but
Artie got it all, writing in his own sort of shorthand. All the while
he listened for outside noises and watched Greg's face as it got paler
and paler.

Greg didn't open the package, just held it, rocking it as if
comforting someone. "Kathy or Karen or Kari, and she was a street kid,
young enough to be scared. A throwaway person. A hole. She stopped
being frightened at the end. She went home to the mountains and he
screamed and tore at her and she didn't care and her eyes were green
but they're not anymore and there's part of her in here, in this box
and I can't open it but she's in here, too and..." The words trailed
off, murmured lost nonsense. Greg was wandering, eyes rolling.

Artie dropped the pen and paper and caught Greg with one hand,
taking the box away with the other. Part of her in there. Jesus. He set
the box aside on the table, trying to touch as little of its surface as
possible. "Come on, man. Let's go up now. Let's get some juice in you
and sit down and all."

"Orange juice makes you itch and you're allergic to blueberries."

Leading Greg back upstairs, Artie nodded, talking in a low voice.
"And I like raspberries and chocolate, but my favorite is banana
splits. They always make me think of when I was a kid and I still
thought cops were heroes who always got their man." One more step, then
another. "And you like orange juice and cream puffs, but not together,
because that's like orange juice and toothpaste. Icky."

"Yes." Greg followed him, shuffling like a hypnotized man. "Yes, and
your grandfather wore a badge and it was shiny and you watched it. His
eyes were the same gray as yours."

His breath caught in his chest. Yeah. Yeah, his grandfather had been
his damned hero. He'd never even told his dad that. "Come on. Come and
sit." There. Down on the couch, and he left Greg hugging himself as he
went to the kitchen and got juice, finally digging his cell out.

"Hey. Hey, honey. Look, yeah, I know it's late. It's—Yeah.
Another box. Can you come? And we want someone good. Maybe Dave or
Laura. Okay. Yeah. Bye."

Bless Leah's heart. She was a trooper.

"Here, man, drink up." Greg had shifted to the gray chair—his
chair—was curled in it, wrapped in the quilt, looking lost.
Goddamn. Artie plopped down on the ottoman thingee. "Come on, Greg. You
gotta drink or you'll pass out. And that'll suck. Then you'll dream."

"No dreams." Greg drank the juice down, long throat working. "No dreams."

"No. No dreams." Mind racing, he sat and waited for Leah, rubbing
Greg's leg with one hand. The doorknob, the street outside, the pyramid
... yeah. God, Greg looked like crap. "Have some more. Do you want a
sandwich?"

"No. She'll be here soon. I'll wait here for you to be finished." Greg cuddled into the quilt, moaning softly. "I'll wait here."

"Okay." He patted Greg's knee. "Okay. Everything will be okay."

He only hoped he was telling the truth.

If there was one thing he never wanted to do to Greg, it was lie.

Greg could hear them downstairs. It was a mixture of Artie snapping
out orders and some—two? Three?—women answering. It wasn't
impossible; people touched things all the time—customers, Alice,
Mitch. It was just hard enough to have a place that he could relax down
there; now, people would touch his little chair, his office, move the
little boxes of plastic gloves he kept so he could count money and
shelve books.

Okay. Stop. They weren't coming upstairs. He was safe. Safe and not
acting like a dipshit. He knew how the bad episodes went, how the paths
in his head felt open and raw, open for the tiniest bit of information.

He just had to remind himself that he survived the very first
episode, back when any touch made him scream, back when Jeff had signed
for the doctors to administer Lithium, Thorazine, enough Flexeril to
leave him unable to hold his head up, walk. He'd survived that.

He could handle a little police investigation, no sweat.

He walked down the steps, leaning hard against the wall, to deadbolt
the door. Artie had an elevator key, once they were all finished, and
no one would get up into his space. Touch his home.

Of course, climbing up the thrice-damned stairs took forever, and he made the last five steps on hands and knees.

"You could have just called, Greg." Oh. Alice. Round and familiar,
her hands helping him to a standing position. She was aggravated that
the police were messing with things, had called to have the door
replaced tonight, and had called the insurance. Artie'd sent her up to
check on him.

Artie lied.

This was ridiculous—the whole thing was just ridiculous. Here
he was, a full-grown man—a fucking Ph.D., for Christ's
sake—gagging and swaying, leaning on one soft 100%-pure
cotton-clad shoulder that could more than bear his weight across his
living room rug.

"If you're kicking yourself, stop. You'll just start throwing up."
Alice settled him on the sofa, started cleaning up coffee cups and
plates, carefully shifting the backgammon game aside.

"You're mother henning."

Pale blue eyes caught him, worried and fond all at once. "Yes, it's my job. Artie's worried about you."

"Yes, and you're worried about the shop."

"My shop is fine. I'll come in early-early with Mitch. He'll help me
clean." She sighed, looked down. "I want you to stay out of the office
for a few days, okay?"

"Artie?" If it was Artie, he could handle it.

She shook her head. "No. Miss Leah. She got sick. I think she's pregnant; she carries herself like she is."

"Yeah?" He should tell Artie. Leah should know that people knew, just in case. He leaned back against the sofa, sighed.

"You want to go up to the roof, honey? The jasmine's not all gone yet."

He shook his head. No, he didn't want to play up there, not right
now. Even if it was the best place, the reason he bought the building.
His garden. The sky.

"Okay. I'm going to go see if they need me and then get home, doctor
up Mitch's hand. That cut from the dumpster's just not wanting to
heal." Cut hand. Greg frowned, then shook his head. No, not cut. Bit.
The K girl had bitten ... him. Alice poured him a cup of coffee, made
him toast, kept jabbering, kept talking on and on and on as she
disappeared, locking the back door behind her.

Oh. Better.

It wasn't perfect; he could hear them, but it was better. Touching
Alice's books and opening and closing the door. The scratch as they
moved the pyramid.

It was maddening, and if it hadn't been Artie and Leah down there,
he wouldn't have allowed it. He wasn't sure if Leah should be down
there. What if someone saw her? Hurt the baby? Hurt Artie?

It wasn't the urge to help that got him moving, as much as he'd like
to think it was. No, it was the phone ringing, over and over, shrill
and loud, drilling into him. The sound stopped as his answering machine
kicked on, then began again.

He levered himself off the couch and onto the floor, heading to bury
himself beneath Gran's quilt, on Artie's chair. He simply ignored the
noise, the music, the pain in the back of his forehead.

Think, Greg. Focus.

Gran's voice.

Art's laugh.

Gran's tea, spicy and orangey and sweet.

Art's watch, it had been Art's grandfather's.

He had no idea how long he sat on the floor, his head on Artie's
chair, before the store beneath went quiet and the elevator started up,
creaky and groaning. It had best be Artie. If it was a psycho killer,
he'd probably offer up his throat.

"Hey." Artie. It was Artie kneeling in front of him. "You wanna sit
in
the chair, man?"

"I thought about it, but it's really a bit of a climb." Artie looked
stressed out, tired, eyes bruised and shadowed. The sun was trying to
come up, to fill the room with a pink light. "How'd it go down there?"