Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

“Fine. Then I wanna live with you.”

  So not going the right way. “Not a solution, Art. I’m not home very much, and I’m sure your mom and brother would miss you.”

  “They have stupid Mr. Nance.” Artie flushed beneath the freckles. “I don’t fit there anymore. They can be happy without me.”

  Beck’s heart ached. God, Dan. What am I supposed to say?

  * * * *

  It was a joyous day. Beetle tossed his jacket and suitcase into the backseat of the sedan and climbed in. Not a cloud in the sky above the razor wire. In the west, the Rockies wore a cap of snow, like a dusting of flour. Soon it would disappear, like so much evidence in the face of the elements.

  When he reached the highway, he put the car on cruise control and settled back for the drive to Denver. The trip would be tiring. Tomorrow he’d have to leave by four a.m. to make the shift at work, but he couldn’t endure waiting until his next day off.

  When Beetle had passed the gift to his mentor, the man had given Beetle the special smile, the one that started slow on the left side of his face and broadened until the world was ivory bright. Like the sun. Beetle’s heart had pounded with unbearable intensity. Glorious.

  It would have been better if Beetle could share the bones, but that wasn’t possible. There was nowhere to hide such things in the concrete confines of the cell. The mentor knew it as well, so he’d settled for Beetle’s homemade treats instead, savoring every morsel. Parceled out in bits over months, they’d lasted a long time, right up until the command to take Perny. Today’s token could be consumed if necessary. Paper was digestible, but only a substitute.

  It was all about the bones.

  Three knobby lengths cocooned in their special mixture of soil. It made him giddy, picturing them, waiting for their earthly flesh to decay until only infinity remained. Ossified perfection.

  With every specimen, he improved. In adolescence the neighborhood strays had served as his first experiments. Buried and dug up weeks later, after the earth had absorbed the flesh and revealed the skeletons, the slender shafts, hollow yet strong. Cast on the floor of the shed, they’d spoken a mystical message:

  XAV.

  At the time, he’d had no idea what it meant, other than he was destined for great things. The bones had been everything, enough to sustain him until he could escape the confines of home. When he’d assisted with the cases in the morgue, he’d seen his mentor’s work firsthand. He’d seen the missing fingers and known it was a sign. Time to find a path to XAV.

  An eighteen-wheeler roared by and pulled in ahead of him, tires spitting loose gravel. A stone pinged his windshield, leaving a chip. Damn it, he couldn’t afford to replace anything. Not now. Not when he was on the verge. The car was mission critical, and the mentor was counting on him. There were special beads to create, special morsels to be made. Graves to be dug. How fitting that his mentor loved bones as much as he did.

  Call me eidolon, ghost, specter, spirit. I am the one.

  * * * *

  The downtown branch of the Denver Public Library featured an eclectic mix of architectural styles, including turrets, towers, and traditional linear arrays. It seemed like the place to sort out a mystery, and Zach had commandeered a table upstairs. God knew his office at DPD hadn’t inspired any breakthroughs.

  The building smelled of old paper and fresh floor wax, and had the airy feel of a cathedral paired with the intimacy of polished wood and comfortable chairs. Poetry books and anatomy texts bracketed his laptop, and he’d managed to fill half a dozen notebook pages with thoughts about the Follower’s message. But the damn thing still made no sense.

  The heart of the matter is yours to discern.

  Read between the lines, my dear Dr. Littman.

  Soon it’ll be time for me to take another turn.

  Come out and play. Signed, Your biggest fan.

  How soon would the Follower take his next victim? Would it be another serial killer?

  How did the Follower want Zach to join in his grisly game? The late-afternoon sunlight ricocheted off the table and pounded his retinas. Zach took off his glasses and closed his eyes. Despite the lack of noise, his head felt like it was in a vise.

  Beck had called an hour ago to say he’d pick Zach up around six, citing an unexpected situation involving Marybeth. Beck hadn’t elaborated or asked why Zach had gone to the library. Telling Beck about the poem over the phone… No. No way.

  Ruskin would arrive tonight, and inevitably the discussion would turn to the Follower and what had happened. Beck deserved to know, but the timing had to be right, and Zach had to do it in person. He didn’t want to argue about the poem and how it placed Zach squarely in the middle of the case.

  Over the past few months, conducting a relationship had been challenging, with prolonged separations and tension over Zach’s frequent callouts and cancellations of scheduled visits. They’d known going in, the long-distance thing wouldn’t be easy. Believing it would be a finite period had made it tolerable last October when Zach had left Denver and returned to Minneapolis.

  They were finally in the same city and sharing a bed. Zach had envisioned a life pampering Beck with home-cooked meals and interesting nights. It wasn’t Sands interfering this time—a killer had plunked this case between them.

  And a strange poem.

  Zach shut the laptop and shoved it in his bag.

  * * * *

  “It’s an issue, Marybeth.” Beck tapped a finger on the kitchen table. He’d sat in the Halliday kitchen dozens of times, first when Dan was alive, and then after the shooting that took Dan’s life and injured Beck. Ordinarily it wasn’t an awkward experience, but the discussion wasn’t going well.

  “He shouldn’t have come to see you.” Marybeth’s reddish brows drew together. Artie got his copper hair and blue eyes from his mom, as well as the freckles sprinkled across his nose and a touch of temper. “If he has a problem, he can talk to me. Or to Aubrey.”

  Aubrey was Mr. Nance, the neighbor-turned-fiancé. “The guy took away Artie’s football, the one signed by Peyton Manning. Did you know that?”

  “Art leaves his toys all over the yard. He needs to learn responsibility.”

  This had been a bone of contention since the kid could walk. Artie left his bike in the drive, his toys in the yard, his coat on the floor. It had gotten worse after Dan died. “Agreed. But to take something Dan had given to Art—something he treasures—and throw it away… Jesus, Marybeth.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Aubrey wouldn’t do that. He’s very sensitive to how the boys feel about him taking over for their father.”

  Beck leaned his elbows on his knees and brought his hands together. “Can you ask him about the ball?”

  “You’re playing into Artie’s hands.” Marybeth crossed her arms. The diamond-encrusted ring on her left hand flashed. “Just because he’s unhappy about the engagement doesn’t mean he can run to you and tell stories about Aubrey.”

  “Unhappy” didn’t begin to cover it. “Ask Aubrey about the football. Please.”

  “Beck—”

  “Please.” He put a little steel into it.

  “Fine.” She held her hands up. “I’ll ask him. But no more of this tattling.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tattling’?”

  “He reports everything he can to make Aubrey look bad. And he’s been lying. Last week he lied about taking Aubrey’s fraternity paddle and throwing it in the creek. The week before, it was lying about locking Aubrey out of the house. Art claimed to be asleep. He hasn’t napped in years, Beck. Years.”

  Okay, so Artie had lied. Those were not felony-level fibs, in Beck’s opinion—misdemeanor ones, at worst. “They both involve Aubrey.”

  Marybeth frowned. “What’s your point?”

  “Was Art worried about being spanked with the paddle?”

  “I don’t spank.”

  “What other reason for choosing the paddle to throw in the creek than fear of getting hit? And maybe he was trying to a
void Aubrey by locking him out.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him.”

  “I’m not. I’m worried.” The boy needed an advocate, and his mom was blinded by her relationship with Aubrey.

  If it weren’t for Zach, Beck might have taken Artie to dinner and invited him to stay at the house for a boys’ night in. Artie and Pete had pajamas in the spare bedroom at Beck’s place. Marybeth had never voiced an opinion about whether the boys could continue their occasional movie marathons and sleepovers after Zach moved in. Beck cleared his throat. “How do you feel about letting the boys come for a weekend sometime, now that Zach’s here?”

  “I don’t have a problem with Zach.”

  Beck’s face heated. Not really wanting to get graphic here. “I didn’t mean that. I meant because we’re…together.”

  “They know about that.”

  “I don’t think what they know extends to the fact Zach and I share a bed.”

  “Oh.” Marybeth’s cheeks flushed. “Um…right.”

  “Think about whether you’re comfortable letting us take the boys for a weekend. I’ve got a case going right now, but maybe after things settle down.”

  “I’ll talk to Aubrey.”

  It took everything Beck had not to groan. Fucking Aubrey. Nance had despised Beck long before he’d known about Beck’s orientation. After Beck had come out, Nance had voiced concerns to Marybeth about allowing “that influence” in the boys’ lives.

  Marybeth had embraced Beck’s disclosure, supporting him. She’d stood firm about Beck remaining involved with Artie and Pete, calling him their “honorary uncle.”

  They were her kids. The decision whether to continue with sleepovers belonged to her. Why in the hell would she feel the need to clear anything with Nance?

  A little judicious background check was in order on the old bald shithead.

  * * * *

  God, what a frickin’ bad day. Zach leaned back in the couch, taking a break while a crabby Beck and a wary Ruskin continued discussing the Follower. Social niceties aside, it was time to call it a night.

  A bad mood had accompanied Beck when he picked up Zach downtown. Beck had relayed the events of his day, including Unger, Artie, and the conversation with Marybeth. Not a happy story in the bunch.

  Zach had prepared broiled salmon and fresh garden greens, which had improved Beck’s attitude. Encouraged, Zach had waited until after the meal to broach the subject of the poem.

  Beck’s mood crashed and burned like the Hindenburg. It was “Jesus H. Christ. Who is this guy, and why is he fixated on you?” Followed by “Why are you working on this?” And wrapped up with “Let Ruskin handle it.”

  And now Ruskin was here, handling it by discussing it with Zach, much to Beck’s disapproval. After Ruskin left, Zach expected he’d get another earful. He swirled his whiskey, the ice gently clinking against the glass. Ordinarily he wouldn’t indulge on a weeknight, but it had been a hell of a day, and they had company.

  “I think the first one—and I’m talking about the Omaha Jane Doe here—was an unrehearsed kill,” Ruskin said. “He saw an opportunity and took it. Killing had been on his mind for a long time, but he’d never taken that final step.”

  “That might explain why she was different.” Zach glanced at Beck. “She was part of his learning curve.”

  Two vertical lines formed between Beck’s brows. “But then he goes to ground for eight months? That doesn’t sound typical.”

  It could happen. Zach had to remember Beck wasn’t a professional profiler and keep him in the conversational loop. Not that Beck had been in favor of this particular loop in the first place.

  Zach replied, “That one victim might have been enough for a while, especially if he has trophies to tide him over. And he hadn’t yet discovered exactly what he liked—what he needed to derive satisfaction from the kill.”

  “So he took Jane Doe,” Beck said slowly, “as an experiment?”

  “More or less,” Ruskin said.

  “Yet the next victim was a man.” Beck leaned toward Ruskin. “Does this mean he’s gay? Bi?”

  “No, probably not,” Ruskin said. “He emasculated the victim by castrating him. It didn’t make him into a woman. The killer likely did it as humiliation.”

  Beck frowned at Zach. “Not anger?”

  “There was definitely anger there, but that’s manifested more by the overkill—the large number of stab wounds. By ramming the guy’s junk up his butt, the killer could be saying ‘fuck you’ to the victim.”

  “So what is he saying by sending you a flesh-and-blood heart and personalized original poetry?” Irritation edged Beck’s tone.

  Irritated himself, Zach said, “He wants my attention.”

  Beck gave a humorless laugh. “Well, he got it, didn’t he?”

  Tension crackled in the air. What could Zach say to that? It wasn’t as if he’d asked the Follower for an invitation.

  Ice rattled. Ruskin set his glass on the table and got to his feet. “The head?”

  Zach directed him to the guest bath down the hall. When the bathroom door closed, Zach said, “Beck—”

  “I want you out of this.”

  “This guy won’t let me out. I’m right in the center.”

  “But you don’t have to be involved in the profiling or the investigation.” Beck glanced toward the hall. “Ruskin has it under control.”

  “Working together could solve the case sooner.”

  “You’re a private citizen now. Not an FBI agent.”

  The blunt words hit like a fist. Zach had over two years in as a profiler and an excellent closure rate. He wasn’t the average John Q. Public, victim of a violent crime. He had experience; he had a gun. Hell, he had a badge, but he hadn’t shared that with Beck. Heat built in his belly, and he dug his hands into the arms of the chair. “I’m not some untested civilian.”

  “This guy may be after you.” Beck scooted forward until they were inches apart. “I’m not going to sit here—”

  The rush of water came from the bathroom, and the door opened. They sprang apart.

  Ruskin appeared in the hallway. “Think I’d better call it a night, guys.”

  Zach asked, “Sure you won’t stay here? We’ve got room.”

  “Thanks, but no. We can get together in the morning.”

  Despite leaving the room, Ruskin must’ve caught every nuance. Why overnight in a powder keg? Zach saw him to the door and waited until he drove off before flipping the dead bolt and turning out the porch light.

  Beck had disappeared, along with the whiskey glasses. Zach found him in the kitchen, hands propped on the counter, staring at the blackness outside.

  They should go to bed. Zach had looked forward to indulging in some intimate stress relief tonight, but it wasn’t looking good. The uninviting set of Beck’s shoulders suggested Zach should back off.

  But he didn’t want to back off. One of the perks of living together was in-person sex versus hooking up via a phone call and a fantasy. Tonight Zach needed that closeness.

  Don’t go to bed mad.

  He stepped behind Beck, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him close. Beck stiffened.

  Zach kissed him below the ear. The tension went out of Beck, and he leaned his head back on Zach’s shoulder. Better. Much better.

  Against Beck’s hair Zach said, “Ready to call it a day?”

  “I was ready hours ago.” Beck pivoted in his embrace, expression unreadable. “Let’s go to bed.”

  In the bathroom they moved around each other, too careful, not touching as they cleaned up. Better than yelling, but not by much. They had a cease-fire but hadn’t exactly kissed and made up. Beck had changed into pale blue pajama bottoms. Considering he usually wore nothing to bed but a smile, things weren’t looking up. Zach had wanted some energetic fucking as a prelude to sleep, but asking seemed insensitive after arguing. He climbed into bed and rolled to his side.

  Beck turned out the lights and slid in beside him
. Outside, a dog barked a warning, quieted, barked again. A low-pitched whistle was followed by a door slamming. The night settled into the soothing preep-preep-preep of crickets and the whisper of the breeze caressing the trees.

  Relaxing, if it weren’t for the fact they weren’t touching. Okay, so more of a standoff than a truce.

  The mattress bounced as Beck turned over and faced him. He smelled of toothpaste and whiskey and warm skin. Maybe…

  “Hey,” Beck said.

  Not exactly a seductive word. At least the dark would hide his disappointment. “Hey.”

  Beck said nothing. Then his smile gleamed in the darkness. “Wanna fuck?”

  Zach laughed.

  * * * *

  On the dark neighborhood street, Artie stood in front of Beck, bouncing a football in his hands. Yards behind Artie, Dan waved frantically, pointing behind Beck, mouth moving in a silent plea. Beck whirled.

  Nance stood there holding a pistol, eyes empty, dark pits. He lifted his arm and aimed the ugly black eye of the gun at Artie.

  “No!” Beck jumped in front of the boy. The gun banged, and agony erupted in Beck’s shoulder. He crashed to the pavement.

  Cackling, Nance stood over him and pulled a silk necktie from his pocket. “Don’t get involved where you don’t belong, queer.”

  * * * *

  Beck awoke drenched with sweat, left shoulder on fire. He whipped his head to the side. Home. Bed. Zach slept on. In the gloom, the glowing red numerals on the clock read 3:46 a.m.

  It felt like someone had jabbed a hot poker into his shoulder. Not the agony of a bullet tearing through muscle and bone, but more than a pinch. He palmed the joint and gingerly abducted his arm. The discomfort dialed down from flames to embers.

  Definitely not a narcotic-worthy ache. Must have slept on it wrong. Ibuprofen ought to handle it. He slid out of bed and headed to the kitchen. The night air was cool, scented with the honeysuckle draped over the patio cover. Nothing disturbed the quiet. He found the ibuprofen, filled a glass with water, and swallowed two gelcaps.

  It was nice having a house. More room to move around, plus a yard. His old place had had a swimming pool—sometimes actually filled with water—but he’d never used it. People had come and gone all times of the day and night at that complex. In contrast, the stillness of the neighborhood was relaxing. Now that Zach was here—