Busted (42 page)

"I saw you," Alex said. "I saw you that day in February. He was brooding over something and I got out. I haven't been out in so long… I was out and I saw you. I followed you until you went to the club. And then you saw me back. Nobody sees me, but you did, and everyone else did, and it was wonderful."

"But why?"

Joe found he was holding a child, maybe ten or eleven. It was unmistakably Alex, though his hair was longer, his skin darker.

 
"I just wanted to kiss a boy," Alex whispered.

Joe pulled him in tighter, kissing the top of his head. Holding him in like that Joe could almost feel Chris in him.

"How did you do it? The apartment and everything?" Joe had to ask, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know. It almost felt wrong, like he was peeking behind the curtain.

"It was hard, but you wanted it so much. Everything was always realer around you," Alex said softly.

"That couldn't have been easy." Joe remembered the way Alex seemed to almost glow after he'd been dancing or they'd made love. Alex loved to dance. He always seemed to drink it up, and Joe thought maybe he really did.

"I always could," Alex said softly. "When you really needed it. I could."

"Where did it come from?" Alex had grown in his arms, back to being an adult. Joe could feel him draw strength from outside as he did.

"Oh," Joe whispered. "Chris."

Alex hung his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't help it."

Joe stroked his cheek softly. "I know," he said, and he did. "You'd never hurt anyone on purpose."

Alex didn't just look half transparent to Joe. He felt half transparent. He wasn't real, not exactly. It was all echoes of Chris, wants and needs and desires, all wrapped together and given substance. There was something else, though. Smaller and less well formed.

"Toby? Oh, god, Toby." He pulled away, aghast.

"Joe?" Alex asked, his voice quavering.

"You can't. God, Alex, You can't. Not to him. He's only four," Joe pleaded.

"I don't… it's not… I just…" Alex looked down with an expression of shame and sorrow.

Joe sighed. "I know. It isn't your fault.” It was never Alex’s fault, not really. Joe always thought he was one of the most innocent people he’d ever met, and now he knew the reason why. “I think…" he took a deep breath. Losing Alex once had hurt so much. He didn’t want to think about how bad it would be to lose him again, but he had to. "I think you need to stay away, Alex. Leave me be."

Alex’s head snapped up. "I don't want to," he said with sudden fire. "And," he continued more softly, "he won't let me."

“He? Oh,” Joe said as the realization swept over him. It wasn’t just Alex that wanted him, it was Chris too.

“He really does,” Alex said. He reached out and lightly touched Joe’s cheek. “He’s just a little stupid sometimes.”

That made Joe smile.

“Sometimes,” he agreed.

“Joe, I…” Alex stiffened and faded out almost to transparency. “He’s there,” he whispered.

“What? Who’s where?” Joe asked, confused.

“Joe, he’s at the house. He has a knife!”

With that last word Alex disappeared. Joe stared at the empty bar stool in utter surprise before it hit him what Alex had meant. He grabbed for his cell phone as he bolted off his stool and started running for his car. Steve was speed dial four and he hit the button the same time he hit the door out of the bar.

“Joe? Has Chris talked with you yet?” Steve snapped at him before he had a chance to say a word.

“No, he hasn’t. Steve, listen—”

“Goddamn stupid, arrogant, pigheaded assholes, the pair of you. I swear I'm going to…"

"Steve, shut up," Joe snapped. "The psycho's got Chris. He's at the house. Get your ass there. Now!"

Joe pitched his phone through his open car window as he yanked the door open. He was ten minutes away. Five, if he pushed it. Pushing it was fine. Maybe he'd pick up a cop or two along the way.

* * *

Chris was swearing at himself the whole way home. He'd fucked up, and he knew it. He had the chance for something good, and he let his fear throw it away.

He parked his car and walked around the back of Steve's house. Steve's car wasn't in the driveway, which probably meant he hadn't gotten back yet. He felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Steve with the paperwork, but better Steve than him. He was having enough trouble with the captain without having to deal with catching crap for badly done reports.

"Hey, sport," Chris said as he walked into Steve's kitchen. Toby was sitting at the table with Bob and Amy. Steve's kids were doing their homework, while Toby was busy coloring.

"Hi Papa." Toby didn't look up. His head was down and he was concentrating on finishing his picture, a masterpiece in browns, blues, and greens. Chris could only see bits and pieces of it around the boy.

"What are you drawing?"

"A picture, Papa. 'M almost done," he said.

Chris sat and waited while Toby finished, his little hands flying over the paper.

"All done," he said, putting the crayon down. "Can we go now?"

"Sure, Toby. Can I see your picture first? Maybe we can put it on the 'fridge."

"'K, Papa," Toby said brightly. He held the picture up for inspection.

Chris' heart sank when he saw it. Toby had drawn a desert, the background filled with brown mesas and green cacti. There was a bright yellow sun in one corner, and what looked like a dog on one of the mesa tops.

In the center was a little stick figure with a big smile on its face. He was flanked by two other, larger figures, holding their hands. The one on the left was wearing dark blue clothes and a hat with a yellow star on it. The other was in grey, a white and black spotted ball at its feet. On the left edge was a tent, with another little figure sitting in front of it.

"That's me, an' that's you, and that's Uncle Joe. Up there's coyote, and over there by the teepee is grandpa."

"They didn't use tipis in the desert, Toby," Chris said. "Those were mostly used by the tribes in the plains." That just added to the guilt. This was a part of Toby's heritage, and he didn't know because his father had been too wrapped up in his own problems to teach him properly.

"Oh, okay. Can we have dinner now?"

"Sure, sport," Chris said. He opened the back door and they started walking across the deck.

"Is Uncle Joe gonna be home for dinner?"

Kids, Chris thought, really knew how to twist the knife, even when they weren't doing it on purpose. Maybe especially when they weren't doing it on purpose. That was when they asked the questions that you didn't want to answer.

"Maybe," Chris allowed. It was, after all, possible, so it wasn't really a lie. Not really.

"Does he like meatloaf? I like meatloaf, Papa," Toby said.

"I don't know," Chris answered. "Do you want some tonight? I think there's some in the freezer."

Toby stopped in the middle of the yard and thought. "We should save it for Uncle Joe. Can we have mac'n'cheese?"

Chris gave a half-hearted smile. The conversation was intensely painful, and he started cursing at himself again.

"Macaroni and cheese it is, Toby. With garlic bread," he added.

"Yay!" Toby started dancing around.

"Or maybe we could order pizza," Chris said, pretending to think about it. "That would be nice."

"No! Nonononono! Mac'n'Cheese Papa! You said! Go cook," Toby insisted. He pushed at Chris, trying to get him into the house.

"Are you sure? You don't seem very hungry."

"Papa! I'll tell Uncle Joe you were being mean!" Toby said with a pout. It brought Chris up short.

"You're right," he said softy. "I'm sorry. I'll get dinner started."

Chris wasn't feeling all that well right then, though. What Toby had said hurt more than he cared to think about. He knew it was only going to get worse when the dreams started back up again. That thought made his stomach churn, and started a throbbing behind his eyes. He was getting a headache, which seemed fitting somehow.

"Papa? Can you make extra?" Toby asked. His voice sounded a little off, but Chris was having a hard time thinking clearly. The throbbing had spread, and his whole head was fuzzy with pain.

"I don't know that Joe's going to make it in time for dinner," he said.

"That's okay, Detective," said an unfamiliar voice. It was oddly harsh, and it tickled old memories. "We can wait before I eat."

"Who… who are you?" Chris asked. It felt like something had just wrapped his brain in cotton wool, and he was having a hard time concentrating. The only thing that stayed constant was the sharp pain at the back of his skull.

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was a man wearing a blue suit. Or a uniform, Chris wasn't quite clear. His vision was a little fuzzy. He didn't like the fuzzy feeling. It felt like he'd been drinking, but he hadn't. That, strangely, annoyed him. He hadn't been drinking, dammit, not since Joe had found him on the couch.

The flare of anger pushed the fuzziness away some. That gave him a little more clarity.

The man in the doorway was wearing a blue jacket, the same one that Chris had seen on the security video from Joe’s apartment. The whole outfit was the same, and the body in the clothes seemed the same, but the face was different. It wasn't a young thug, but instead an old man, one with a face Chris felt he ought to recognize. Toby was standing in front of him, looking dazed. The kitchen door behind was wide open. He'd apparently forgotten to close it when they'd come into the house.

Chris' hand itched for his gun, but he'd already put it away. He couldn't get to it fast enough, and that would tip his hand. Toby was far, far too close to the man. He needed to get him out of the way, someplace safe, before he could do anything.