by Gregory Ashe
Shaw carefully backed down the three porch steps, turned around, and let himself out the back gate. He hobbled up the drive; he was shaking so badly that he had to brace himself on the house to keep from falling.
When he reached the Mercedes, he dialed 911 and reported sounds of violence at the address. And when the dispatcher tried to ask questions, he hung up. Then he put the car in gear and drove a whole block blind, fucking blind, and then he jerked the wheels up over the curb and killed the engine.
He dropped his head onto the wheel. He cried. And he cried. And he cried. He cried so hard that he was coming apart.
And then his phone rang, and he saw Matty’s name, and he almost swiped the call into oblivion. But then he thought of how Matty had touched his arm. And touched his hand. He thought of the buttons done up wrong on Matty’s shirt and the way he plunged his hands into his cardigan and twisted the sweater. He thought of how good it had felt when Matty had needed him. Right then, Shaw needed to feel something other than how much he fucking hated himself for running away.
“Matty? What’s up?”
Something was blowing on the other end of the phone: shrill blasts of wind scraping the microphone. Then Matty spoke, and Shaw realized it wasn’t wind he was hearing. It was Matty’s hyperventilating breaths.
“House.” That was all Matty could stutter out.
“What’s wrong? Matty, what’s going on? Talk to me.”
“P-p-please. H-h-he’s in the house.”
Chapter 18
Shaw drove as fast as he could. The Mercedes’ headlights cut out glistening, halogen tracks ahead of the car; the rest of the city was a smoky suspension of light and steel and concrete.
As Shaw drove, he talked to Matty, but the boy seemed almost catatonic. He answered Shaw’s questions in single words, voice shaking so hard he could barely be understood, but Shaw kept talking, kept asking, kept pressing because he had the feeling that if he stopped now, if he ended the call, Matty might slip deeper into shock.
The Mercedes ate up miles of I-44 with a steady purr; at this hour, the interstate was basically empty, and Shaw fed the car gas until he felt like he was flying. As he drove, he pieced together Matty’s fragmented answers. Someone had been in the house. Or maybe someone was still in the house. Matty, however, wasn’t in the house. All he would say, when Shaw asked where he was, was Soulard, which wasn’t much fucking help.
And then two words pierced the connection—the only two words Matty had strung together since calling Shaw: “He’s coming.”
The call ended.
“Fuck,” Shaw roared. And he pounded on the steering wheel once before calling back. Matty didn’t pick up, and the call went to voicemail. Shaw called again, and this time, it went straight to voicemail. Fuck, Shaw thought as he stomped on the gas. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Peeling off the interstate onto Park Avenue, he took another sharp right onto 7th, and he followed 7th into Soulard. He passed the farmers market. He passed the park. He passed, on his left, the mixture of pubs and pop-up tax centers and dry cleaners and tattoo shops that straddled a charter school. He was halfway across Soulard, getting closer to Matty’s loft, when he swore and slammed on the brakes. An Escalade behind him laid on the horn, swerved, and for a moment, the thump of the car’s music rattled Shaw’s windows.
Marion Street. Carroll Street. Lafayette Avenue. Soulard Street.
Maybe Matty hadn’t meant the Soulard area. Maybe he had been trying to tell Shaw what street he was on.
Cranking the wheel, Shaw swerved down Soulard. This street, like so many others, was cramped with cars parked on either side. The asphalt was old and broken—but that was better than the streets still paved with brick. On the next corner, a restaurant called Twisted Ranch had its lights off and the windows dark. Then a long open parking lot reserved for the Lutheran church. Then the Soulard Soap Laundromat, security lights framing the building in a sterile white screen—a bright island that ended abruptly where darkness swallowed the alley.
At the next intersection, Shaw hesitated. If he kept following this street, he’d leave the Soulard area. How far might Matty have run? That was the kind of question North was good at, and right then, Shaw could have used his help. But he didn’t have North, and so he let the Mercedes idle at the intersection.
Soulard. Matty had only said Soulard. And if Shaw’s guess was right, and Matty had been trying to tell him the street name, that was important because it wasn’t a very long road and it wasn’t a major thoroughfare.
What would North do?
That soft pop of the leather strap echoed in Shaw’s head.
Shaw forced himself to think. Matty’s building was west of here and closer to the water. If Matty had fled his apartment, frightened, he probably hadn’t been thinking clearly. So what would he do? He’d either follow the easiest path, or he’d follow the most familiar path, letting his brain run on autopilot. Easiest meant downhill, toward the water. If Matty had gone that way, he would have passed through some very rough territory—and Shaw would need to hurry his search.
But what if Matty had let routine take over? What if he had gotten out of the building and, in too much of a panic to think rationally, he had gone the way he always went when he left his building? I have coffee at the farmers market every morning they’re open, he had said. I just walk a few blocks and I’m there. If Matty had come this way, if he’d gone toward the farmers market like he did most mornings, then this would be about the exact midpoint between his apartment and the market. He might have recovered from his panic enough, by this point, to make a call. He might have pulled himself together enough to stop running. To hide. To try to get help.
Shaw pulled around the corner, parked, and left the Mercedes. He jogged back down Soulard. When he passed through the glare of the laundromat’s security lights, something rattled in the alley’s darkness. A cat. Or a raccoon. Or a possum. All of them likely. Much more likely than a badly frightened boy. But Shaw turned toward the noise.
Another five feet, and Shaw left the sharp demarcation of the security lights. He stopped. He was sweating, even with the damp April air sucking the heat from his body, but he wasn’t shaking. That was remarkable. He wasn’t even cold. And back at North’s house, he had been shaking like a three-day-dry drunk.
Still nothing. Not a sound.
All right, Shaw thought. Work backward toward Matty’s loft. He took a step toward the darkness of the alley. The sound of a can skipping off cement came from that blind spot ahead, and Shaw froze. All of the sudden, his sweating doubled. Tripled. Why didn’t he have a gun? Why didn’t he have a can of pepper spray? Why didn’t he have anything? Because he, Kingsley Shaw Wilder Aldrich, was an absolute bonehead. A fucking moron, as North would have put it.
But if Matty were out here, alone, with someone chasing him—
Matty had called Shaw. He had wanted Shaw’s help. And somehow, that decided it.
Shaw walked into the darkness. His footsteps echoed off the laundromat’s brick on one side and the privacy fence on the other. Butted up against the brick, the two dumpsters sat with lids thrown back. A cat leapt out of the dumpster, scrabbling to a perch on the dumpster’s rim, and then disappeared into the night. Shaw almost fell on his ass; his heart had climbed up between his ears and was pounding so loud he couldn’t hear anything else.
Fucking cats, Shaw thought, but he felt . . . alive. Awake. Energized. Fucking cats, he thought. But he was grinning.
Then something clanged against the dumpster, the sound hollow and vast, and rubber squeaked on cement, and Shaw glimpsed a pair of Sperrys between the dumpster’s massive casters.
“Matty?”
Another of those booming clangs as the Sperrys tried to draw deeper into the shadows behind the dumpster.
“It’s me. Shaw.” Shaw picked his way through piles of wet, flattened cardboard. “Matty, you can come out. You’re ok. Everything’s going to be ok.”
The
only answer was a soft shuffle across the cement.
Sidestepping, Shaw cleared the dumpster and peered into the cramped space between the dinged-up metal and the laundromat’s brick wall. Matty Fennmore had squirreled himself as deep into the space as he could go, and he had his knees drawn up to his chest and his head on top of his arms. The unruly wave of blond hair glinted at the rim of the light.
“Come on, Matty. Come out here.”
But Matty wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t do anything, in fact, until Shaw dragged him out from behind the dumpster. Then Matty turned into a whirlwind of fists and elbows and knees. Shaw tried to deflect the blows as best he could, but more than a few connected, and Shaw’s ear was puffy and hot, and his cheek stung, and he could feel a bruise already blooming just below his ribs. Finally Shaw had to pin the boy’s arms to his side and force him up against the brick while Matty panted, blowing bubbles at the sides of his mouth like rabid froth, and driving his head toward Shaw—whether to bite or to headbutt, Shaw didn’t know.
“Whoa,” Shaw said. “Calm down. Breathe. Matty, just listen to my voice.” Shaw knew what North would do. North would knock the kid out. Or maybe just slap him around until Matty’s world was crystal again. But that was North, and the thought of him brought that soft pop of the strap into Shaw’s head. He had to shake it away before he started crumbling again. Instead, he focused on Matty.
It was like someone pulled a plug and all the fight drained out of the boy. He blinked those amethyst eyes and sagged in Shaw’s grip. “You came,” he whispered. “You came.” He started to slide down the wall, but Shaw dragged him close, wrapping both arms around him, and felt Matty’s arms tighten around him in return. The boy was shaking.
Some of that was the adrenaline cooldown. Some of that was probably shock. But some of it was the chill humidity of the April night that soaked both of them, so much moisture in the air that it hazed the security lights like fog, and the only warm thing, the only real thing in all that haze was Matty’s body.
That heat seeped into Shaw. It seemed to find every crack, every break, every tear, and it flooded into those fissures like napalm, a liquid blaze that trickled through all the defenses Shaw had built for himself since the night a stranger with a knife had cut open Carl’s stomach. The same night someone had dragged a blade down Shaw’s abdomen, across his thigh, and across his balls. For the first time since that night—that’s a lie, a part of himself admitted, that’s a lie because you’re not willing to think about North—for the first time since that night near the end of his freshman year of college, Shaw felt powerful. Needed. Desired. He was hard, and he hadn’t been this hard since he was fourteen and had just discovered porn. He arched his body away from Matty, embarrassed by his hardness, unwilling to reveal his reaction to Matty. Not now, you idiot. Not now when he’s been running for his life, not now when he’s scared shitless.
But another voice in his head said, if not now, when? If not now when you’re both wired with hormones, when he’s alive and he’s so fucking happy to be alive, if not now, then when? Sex, that little voice insisted, sex is the ultimate response to a brush with death. Sex is about affirming life. So if not now, when?
Shaw broke the embrace, staggered back, and slipped on a slab of wet cardboard. He caught himself on the dumpster, banged his funny bone, and the electric zing ran all the way to his shoulder.
“Ouch,” he mumbled. “Damn it.”
Matty shambled after him, but he paused when he saw Shaw nursing his zinging elbow. Then he smiled.
“It’s not funny,” Shaw said. “I’m wounded.”
Matty’s smile grew. “My knight in shining armor.”
Shaw tried to shake out the tingle.
“Aren’t you supposed to sweep me off my feet?” Matty said. There were still little tremors running through him, but his breathing was so much better. He was smiling; he actually looked human and not like somebody who had been scared half to death. “Aren’t you supposed to put me on your white steed and ride off with me into the sunset?”
“My white steed threw a shoe,” Shaw said, still massaging his elbow, “and it’s way past sundown. I’m not waiting a full day for another sunset. Will you settle for a Mercedes and a guy with a banged-up funny bone?”
Matty bit his lower lip, still smiling, and he blinked tears down his cheeks, still smiling, and he nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”
They walked the half block back to the Mercedes. Once inside, with the dome light throwing harsh shadows and the heater pumping, Shaw asked, “Have you called the police?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think. I kind of lost my mind for a little. I just ran. How did you find me?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” Shaw could still feel the heat from the alley, that burning napalm settling into every crack and cranny inside him. “You can buy me a drink. Anywhere but Allure.” Matty actually ducked his head in embarrassment at that, but before he could respond, Shaw added, “I need to make some decisions fast, so you’ve got to tell me what happened tonight. As clearly as you can remember.”
“I was home. After you left, I just stayed there. I was putting up some of the pictures, the ones you saw, and I had dinner at home. Then I went to your office. I know it was stupid.” He plucked at the cardigan and the shirt—two of the buttons were still done up wrong—as though to point out that he’d never made it to bed. “After I talked to you, I came home. I was going to brush my teeth when I heard somebody at the door, and I thought maybe it was you.” Matty ducked his head again. “I don’t know, I just thought maybe you wanted—”
Shaw’s mouth was sandpaper. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear what Matty thought he might have wanted.
But Matty just said, “I looked through the peep-hole, thank God, and it was that guy. One of the ones that has been following me all day.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big. Really big. Bald. White. Not young, but not really old either.”
“Thirties? Forties?”
“Somewhere in there.”
“So he’s knocking on the door?”
“No, he didn’t knock. I told you, I heard somebody at the door. Like they were trying to turn the handle. And that’s when I went to look because I thought it was you.” Matty’s face could have started wildfires across the continent. “I think he was trying to pick the lock because I could see the handle jiggling. And I’d set the deadbolt, but—I don’t know. After that, I don’t really know. I was so scared.” His shoulders turned inward, and his voice shrank. “I was terrified. I didn’t even think. I just grabbed my phone and ran. I took the fire escape.”
“I know you were scared. I know you were doing what you thought was best. But if this happens again, Matty, you’ve got to stay in a secure space and wait for the police. What if there had been someone waiting for you at the bottom of the fire escape? What if they’d wanted you to do exactly that?” Shaw saw the look of hurt and embarrassment on Matty’s face, and he reached out, brushing the back of his hand across Matty’s cheek, feeling the superheated skin slick with tears. It was so easy. That was what set Shaw vibrating like he was tuned into some cosmic harmony. It was so easy to do this, to reach out and touch him, to enjoy touching him, when Shaw had spent his whole adult life trying his absolute hardest not to touch, not to enjoy, not to let his feelings slip to the surface. All those years wasted when it could have been easy like this. “I’m not mad at you, baby,” and a part of Shaw’s brain heard that word and sent up a signal flare, danger, danger, and that same part seemed to watch Shaw going into freefall, but it just felt so damn good to touch Matty, to feel his breath change in response to that touch, to know, just from the way Matty looked at Shaw, that Matty wanted this, wanted him. “I’m just telling you because I want you to be safe.”
Matty turned his face into Shaw’s hand, his breath heavy and tickling Shaw’s wrist.
“Then you ran,” Shaw said. “And then?”
�
�I don’t know.” He spoke into Shaw’s palm. His lips tickled the sensitive skin there. “I guess I came out of it a little. Enough to stop running. And then I just wanted to hide. I kept telling myself I was going to call you, I was going to tell you where I was, but I—I couldn’t.” He turned harder into Shaw’s touching, nuzzling into his hand, and Shaw responded automatically by stroking the side of Matty’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I screwed up so bad.”
“You didn’t screw up, baby.” Shaw took Matty’s face in both hands and forced Matty to look at him. “You’re safe right now because you made a choice, and that choice kept you safe.”
“I’m safe because of you.”
The words detonated a chain of explosions through Shaw’s brain, a neural whiteout of protectiveness and happiness and power. This. This was what he could have been feeling for the last seven years.
Shaw checked the clock. “I want to drive by your place. No, hold on. I’m just saying drive by. If things look wrong, we’ll just keep driving. But this is an opportunity, Matty. We don’t know what these guys want from you. We don’t know why they’re after you. And if they left anything behind, any sign of what they want, then that could help us.”
For a long moment, Matty didn’t say anything. Shaw couldn’t quite believe how good it felt holding his face like this, the softness of his skin broken by stubble the color of cornsilk, the purple-blue of his eyes like wine Shaw could swim in, the way Matty pulled his lower lip between his teeth, the way he looked at Shaw with so much fucking trust.
