The bar should close at two. Kurt shuts it down at one. The only remaining patrons are too drunk to check their watches. I doubt they even own one. He scoots them out the door with a cardboard cup of coffee and a good night. He doesn't bother telling them not to drive. There's little danger of them owning vehicles, either.
By the time he comes back, I have the tables cleared and I'm washing glasses. He nods his thanks and finishes cashing out. He's supposed to make the deposit tonight. He'll get it later. No one's going to break into his apartment for a few hundred bucks. Not when the last guy who jumped him spent a week recuperating in hospital.
He's done first and takes the dishrag from me to finish up. I wait. He tosses the rag in the sink, and I follow him into the back, where stairs lead up to his apartment.
It's a tiny place, half the size of mine. Kurt has two jobs and an ex-girlfriend with a five-year-old son. His son. His responsibility. Not that he plays any role in his child's life. He's just the ATM. His ex has decided her new husband is "daddy." Kurt still insists on paying child support, even if it means working two shitty jobs. He's also saving money. Saving it for what? No fucking idea, he said when I asked. I guess we have that in common, too.
He's locking the door as I walk into the living room. I hear him follow me, but he doesn't say a word, just stands behind me as I stare out the window.
"Casey?"
I turn. He doesn't move. He's trying to gauge my mood, if I've changed my mind about staying. I unbutton my shirt, and he smiles, staying where he is, watching. I left my bra off when I changed to come over, and as my shirt falls open, he sucks in breath. I start toward him.
"You are fucking gorgeous, you know that?" he says.
"Considering what I'm here for, I do believe you're obligated to say that."
"Nope. You're gorgeous, Detective Duncan. Also? Shit at taking compliments."
I laugh, and he crosses the floor to scoop me up in a kiss.
We're in his bed, entwined in the sheets--or what remains of them, most pushed onto the floor.
He leans over to kiss me. "Any chance you're staying the night?"
"Planning to."
"Good." He squeezes my hip as he slides from bed. "I need to make that bank deposit. You know the drill." As an ex-con, he doesn't dare keep it in his apartment overnight. "But I'll be quick. You want me to stop at the diner?"
I smile up at him, and he says, "Dumb question. Burger and rings and a Diet Coke. Though I don't quite get the point of the diet pop."
"Balance."
He laughs, kisses me again, and heads for the other room, where we left our clothes. I watch him go. It's a helluva view. Broad, tattooed shoulders. Muscled arms. Great ass. He notices and turns, his gaze moving slowly over me.
"You keep looking at me like that," he says, "I'm not going to make it to the bank."
I pull my knees up in invitation. He starts toward me. I shut my legs and tug the sheet over them.
"Tease," he growls.
"Drop off the money. Bring me onion rings. I'll show my sincere appreciation."
"Sincere appreciation? I like the sounds of that."
He dresses and then leaves. When the door closes, I'm on my phone, zipping through work-related messages before I check in on Diana. I go to hit speed dial. Then my gaze shoots to the door.
Phone. Kurt.
Shit, I never asked if he'd had any more weird calls. And now he's taken off on a 2:30 a.m. bank run.
I'm still doing up my shirt as I fly down the stairs. I know I'm overreacting. But it's my way of admitting he's important to me, that I'm not going to get distracted with my own problems when he has his own.
I'm on the street now. Even in the daytime, it's not one of the city's safest neighbourhoods. At this hour, it's unnaturally quiet, as if a predator lurks around every corner, waiting for some foolish prey to break the silence. It's a wet September night, rainwater still dripping from eaves, that plinking the only sound I hear until I catch the slow thump of Kurt's footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate footsteps, ones that tell the world he's here and doesn't give a shit if they know it.
I tear around the corner. He glances over his shoulder, still unhurried, even the pound of footfalls not enough to concern him. He's twenty feet away, under a flickering street light, and he frowns as he sees me.
"Everything okay?" he calls, his voice echoing in the darkness.
I slow to a walk. "I just decided I want a milkshake instead of the burger and Coke."
"You did keep my number, right?"
"I needed the exercise."
He chuckles. "I planned to give you that after I got back."
I laugh. He's waiting under the light, and I'm walking over, the gap closing. Ten feet, nine ...
Movement flickers in the shadows. I don't wait to see what it is. I charge, yelling, "Kurt!"
He turns, and it seems in slow motion. A gun rises. I shout. I hit Kurt in the side, and a gun fires, and he goes down, and I don't know which comes first--the shot or the fall. Then he's hitting the ground, and I'm twisting and there's a guy there. The same one I saw in the parking garage. Not Ricci. A dark-haired stranger. Holding a gun on us.
"Present from Mr. Saratori," he says.
He lifts the gun. I don't think. I don't need to. I'm already in motion, grabbing his wrist and wrenching, the gun clattering onto the pavement. A hiss of surprise. The thug turns, his fist swinging. Then the gun appears, seeming to rise from the sidewalk on its own.
No, not on its own. Kurt's pointing the gun at the thug. His face is ashen. There's blood on his shirt. The guy twists, pulling me into the line of fire. And I'm thinking I'm dead. Kurt will pull the trigger before he sees I'm in the way. Except Kurt isn't me. He doesn't react like me. The gun never fires. He just points the gun, and the guy breaks free and runs. Kurt shoots, but it's deliberately wide. A warning. Keep running, asshole.
I reach for the gun to go after the thug. Then I see Kurt. See his white face. See the blood on his shirt. The hole ripped through it, blood gushing. He slaps a hand to the hole, as if that will stop the blood.
He hands me the gun. "Go get him."
His voice is weak, his eyelids flickering. He's going into shock. I push him gently down onto the sidewalk.
"You need to go--" he begins.
"He's gone."
"You can still--"
"No."
I grab my phone.
"Don't." He wobbles to his feet. "Whatever this is, you don't want to get involved."
"This isn't about you. That was for me."
He hesitates, but then shakes his head. "I don't care. I don't want you getting in trouble. I know a guy. Comes by the bar. A doctor. He lost his licence, but--"
"Hell, no," I say. "I'm getting you proper medical--"
He teeters, his eyes starting to roll up. I break his fall as he topples. Then I dial 911.
SEVEN
I'm at the hospital, beside Kurt's bed. I paid to upgrade him to a private room, and he's sleeping now. He's been in and out of consciousness since the ambulance came, first from shock and blood loss, now from painkillers and exhaustion.
Leo Saratori has found me. My game of Russian roulette with therapists is over. The bullet has slid into the chamber.
Four days ago, I confessed to a new therapist; today, Saratori catches up with me. That's no coincidence. The therapist looked up the details and found my story. She told someone. Maybe she found a way to contact Saratori. Maybe she just called the police and someone figured they could get a windfall from Saratori if they told him first.
However it happened, I made a mistake. Many mistakes.
I'd mentioned Kurt to the therapist--no name, just that I was seeing a bartender. Saratori's thug had been stalking me and followed me to the bar. He got his boss to run Kurt's name and learned of his gang affiliations. Then he called to make sure he was talking to the right guy.
I've misjudged Leo Saratori. He knows that perfect revenge is not dumping my body in the r
iver--it's making me live with the knowledge that I'm responsible for my lover's death.
But Kurt is alive. Thank God, Kurt is alive.
The doctor has assured us Kurt will be fine. The bullet went through, did some muscle damage, missed everything critical. Forty-eight-hours-in-a-hospital serious, not permanent-injury-or-death serious.
While Kurt is sleeping, I make some calls. First to Diana to tell her to take a cab to work in the morning. She doesn't pick up. Not surprising, given it's 4 a.m. Then I phone my work and Kurt's to say we won't be in today. I'm hanging up from the last when his eyelids move. After a few flutters of indecision, his eyes open.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
He clears his throat. I hand him water, and he sips it, then says, "Those are some damn fine drugs. You'll need to refresh my memory: did I piss someone off or did you?"
"Me. All me. I saw the same guy tailing me the day before last, but I mistook him for another detective. It was a stupid, careless mistake." Nearly a fatal one.
He takes my hand and tugs me over, shifting on the bed to make room for me. When I resist, he says, "If I have to tackle you, I'll be stuck in this bed even longer."
I sit. He keeps hold of my hand and my gaze.
"I'm okay," he says.
"No, you're not. You were shot, and that's my fault."
"Bullshit. It's the fault of the asshole who shot me."
"That's not--"
His hand goes to my mouth. "Stop. Shit happens. Doesn't matter what side of the law you're on."
"It's not related to my job. It's from ... before that."
"Something to do with all this?" His fingers touch a pucker on my forearm. Where bone once jutted through my skin.
He's seen the scars. The damage is impossible to cover without hiding under the sheets, and I don't hide. The first time we slept together, he didn't seem to notice the marks until afterward. He just touched one of the knife scars and said, "You okay?" and that was an invitation to explain, but when I only said I was fine, he dropped it.
I nod. "I got myself into some trouble back in college."
He tilts his head, and I know he's thinking my marks aren't like his own physical reminders of a youth lived hard and wild: the scars, the tats, the old needle tracks. Mine suggest a single incident. A single attack.
"You paid someone back?" he says. "For doing that to you?"
I try not to look surprised that he's hit so close to the bull's eye. "Something like that."
"And it was the kind of person who remembers, the kind who won't let you walk away and consider the score even."
"Something like that."
"I'm not looking for an answer, Casey. Not unless you've got one to give. I'm just figuring stuff out. Someone is on your ass. Someone dangerous enough to hire thugs. We're gonna need to do some serious thinking on how to fix this."
"I'll handle it."
"We'll handle it. I'm not in any shape to go after anyone right now, but I will be soon. If that's not enough, I know guys. Guys who owe me. We'll fix this. Until then, I know you don't like carrying your service weapon, but you need to. At all times."
He continues on, planning, working out how to keep me safe, and I can only stare at him. This man just took a bullet for me. He's lying in a hospital bed because I brought my crap to his doorstep. And all he's thinking about is how he can help me fix this. What he can do for me.
"You're really something else," I say as he finishes.
"A good something or a bad something?"
I lean over, my lips brushing his. "An amazing something."
"Nah, I'm just building up credits."
"No, you're amazing," I say. "Also? Shit at taking compliments."
He laughs, puts his hand on the back of my head, and pulls me down into a kiss.
As I walk up to my apartment, I'm thinking about the last few hours. A night of hell. A night of surprises, too, chief among them the shock of realizing I can still feel. And what I'm feeling right now? Pain and regret.
As soon as Kurt's back on his feet, I need to cut him loose. Even the thought makes me gasp. It hurts. Physically hurts. I want to be selfish and jump at his offer to help and tell myself it'll all be fine and I can have this, I can have him.
Tough shit, Duncan. You dug your grave twelve years ago, and if you give a damn about Kurt, you're not going to let him fall into that grave with you.
This is what I'm thinking when I unlock my apartment door. It's not until it swings open that I realize Diana hasn't secured the interior deadbolt. I swear under my breath. I hate treating her like a child, but sometimes ...
The security panel flashes green. Unarmed.
I dash in to see a lamp toppled to the floor, the shade three feet away, the bulb smashed across the carpet.
There's blood on the floor.
Blood on the floor.
Oh, God. Oh fucking God. First Kurt. Now Diana.
I never called to warn her. No, worse--I called and when she didn't answer, I thought, Huh, guess she's sleeping.
The blood turns to drips in the hallway. Those drops lead into the bathroom, and there's Diana lying on the floor, bloody water everywhere, a red-streaked towel clutched in her hand. I drop beside her, my fingers going to the side of her neck.
She's breathing.
I carefully turn her onto her back. The blood is from her nose. Broken. Again. Her lip is split, more blood there. A black eye. Torn and bloodied blouse. I quickly check for holes--bullet or blade. She moans when I touch her chest, and I rip open her shirt to see her bruises rising on her torso. She's breathing fine, though. No broken ribs. No lung damage.
I take out my phone to call 911. Her eye opens. One eye, the other swollen shut. One bloodshot eye that looks up at me as she whispers, "No."
EIGHT
Diana won't let me call 911. I help her into the living room, set her on the couch, and try to argue, but she's crying, verging on sobs, shaking her head so vehemently that blood and tears fleck the sofa.
"You need a hospital," I say.
"I'm fine," she says, and shudders as she gets her crying under control.
"You were passed out on the goddamn--"
Her flinch asks me not to swear.
"You passed out on the floor, Di."
"No, my head was hurting, so I lay down. I didn't fall."
"And that makes a difference? A blow to the head means a concussion--"
"Which we have some experience treating, don't we?" She tries for a smile and her face crumples instead. "I can't do it, Casey. I know you want me to be stronger, but I'm just so tired of this. The police won't believe me, and I can't keep defending myself. Nothing good comes of it."
"Whatever your attacker said, don't listen. It's not about Graham this time. It's my problem. I'll fix it."
Her face screws up. "You?"
"Leo Saratori found me," I said. "It was that therapist. That goddamn therapist."
Diana continues to stare in confusion. "Therapist?"
"She must have looked up my story and told someone and somehow it got back to Saratori. But it's definitely him, so no matter what your attacker said--"
"Casey, it was Graham."
"He said it was Graham?"
"No, this." She waved at herself. "It was Graham. He did this."
Is it possible to screw up more than I have in the last few days? First I tell a stranger my deepest secret and expect client-therapist privilege to cover it. Next I'm stalked in the parking garage and dismiss it. Then I go to my lover's and lead my stalker to him. And, finally, I believe my best friend is safe because her psycho ex checked out of his hotel.
I screwed up. People suffered. People I care about.
Diana tells me that Graham came by around midnight. He must have figured out she was there and, not seeing my car in the garage, hoped I wasn't.
"I did open the door," she says. "But I was holding it. I only wanted to get rid of him. I had my phone out to call you if he wouldn't leav
e, and the next thing I knew, he was inside and he had my phone."
"We're calling the police. There's video this time. The lobby has surveillance. It'll show Graham coming and going, and there's going to be blood on him when he leaves. We've got him, Di. We've finally got him."
The superintendent knows I'm a cop, which is damned inconvenient most times--I'm the tenant she calls when she has a question about anything from eviction to parking enforcement. But I've been patient and polite, and it pays off now.
The security tapes show Graham arriving at 11:48 p.m. Twenty minutes later, he's walking out. Both times, he's wearing a jacket.
"He took it off," Diana says. "When I answered the door, he had it over his arm."
Of course he did. Easier to punch without a jacket restricting your swing. Also easy to put it on afterward and hide the blood.
Graham looks at the camera. He smiles. He mouths, "Hi, Casey," winks, and continues on.
"He said something," Diana whispers. "Right to the camera. Did you see that?"
I nod.
"Can you make out what he said?"
I shake my head. What would I say? I did this. I'm sorry, Di. I was trying to fix the problem. Desperately trying to fix it, and I made a mistake. All he had to do was switch hotels and lie low for a day, and I sauntered off to spend the night with Kurt, convinced I'd scared Graham away.
I hadn't spooked him. I'd only pissed him off.
I watch the video three more times, searching for even a smear of blood, but the quality is too poor, and he's too careful. He's done it again, and I've failed her. Again.
It's dawn when Diana begs me to let her look into her impossible town. For both of us. Just let me ask my contact. You don't have to do a thing. I won't tell anyone your real story. We'll make something up. I'd never put you in danger, Casey. Never. I know it's a risk, but ... Graham. And now Leo Saratori. I need to be safe, Casey. I need you to be safe, too.
I know this town isn't real. But the only way she'll accept that is to find out for herself.
I say yes.
NINE
By the next day, Diana has found a phone number to contact these people. That seems too easy--shouldn't we need to provide details, prove ourselves first?--so I insist on being the one to make contact, and she doesn't argue.
I find a pay phone and place the call. A woman picks up with "J & L Moving Services, how may I help you?" and I almost hang up. Then I process the business name. Moving services. Okay ...
City of the Lost Page 4
