by C. S. Poe
“Shoulda dropped that fucking monitor on your head when I had the chance!” Rufus screamed, his voice hoarse, broken, incensed, insane.
Bruno let go of Sam’s head and tugged hard on Rufus’s arm, trying to grapple or fling him off, but Rufus clutched to him like a subway rat fighting for a crust of pizza. Bruno reared back on his knees, struggled to his feet, and gave Rufus another hard shake. But the addition of Rufus’s weight threw Bruno off balance and he tipped dangerously toward the edge of the stairs. Rufus let go and fell on his ass as Bruno waved his arms wildly for balance before tumbling forward. The fucker let out a shout as he crashed down the stairs, and then a loud snap silenced him.
Gasping for air, Sam flopped onto his belly. He’d lost the Beretta when he’d hit the ground. Now, he spotted it at the edge of the landing. Eighteen inches, tops. But he was exposed, and the world still hadn’t quite settled down after the blow to his head. He was aware of Ophelia screaming, a wordless noise of rage punctuated by another shot.
Dragging himself to the edge of the landing, Sam wrapped his hand around the Beretta. The composite grip was pleasantly cool in his hand; everywhere else, he felt like he had a fever. Heckler must have retreated, because he couldn’t see her below him, but Lampo was pinned down on the landing. The balding man swore and fired once at Ophelia, and when she pulled back into her hiding spot, Lampo darted down the stairs.
Sam was ready for him. He shot once, taking Lampo in the thigh, and the dirty cop stumbled, squealed, and hit the wall hard enough that his fancy comb-over flopped to the side and exposed the bald spot. Lampo came to rest two stairs down, still making that squealing noise, his gun forgotten as he clamped both hands around his thigh.
“Oh my God!” His voice was shrill. Hysterical. “I’ve been shot, I’ve been shot, I’ve been—”
The sound of sirens interrupted him.
And then, from Heckler: “Aww, fuck.”
The back of Lampo’s head exploded as a round from Heckler tore through his skull. Then, from her hiding spot below, Heckler tossed her handgun onto the stairs.
“I’m unarmed,” Heckler said. “I surrender unconditionally.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rufus had never seen so many cops at one location in all his life. The street in Queens was congested with black-and-whites, and uniformed officers swarmed the auto shop like ants at a picnic. Ophelia had Bridget Heckler in cuffs, and Rufus thought, if ever there was a criminal who didn’t deserve her Miranda rights, it was her. Because as far as he was concerned, a human being who killed good men, who kidnapped and abused children, didn’t have rights. He thought of what Bruno had asked him, about how long Rufus would last on Rikers as a snitch.
A snitch behind bars was one thing.
But a cop behind bars? So long, Heckler.
The kids had been escorted out of the garage, taken in awaiting buses to the closest hospital where Rufus hoped good cops like Ophelia would be able to reunite them with the families they’d been ripped from. He and Sam were sent to the hospital too—scrapes and bruises for Sam, and Rufus had a mild concussion and needed a few stitches in his head, which required buzzing some of his wild hair to reach the gash, but they were both doing a hell of a lot better than Bruno and Lampo, that much was certain.
Rufus didn’t have any idea how big the sex trade was or how many cops were involved in the prostitution of exploited teens, but at least they’d gotten a few of them. And with the cell phone Jake had left behind, hopefully they’d track down all the guilty parties. Jake wouldn’t have settled for anything less.
The hospital hadn’t officially discharged Rufus, but with the blood cleaned up and bottles of pain killers and antibiotics in-hand, he skipped out before too many more questions could be asked. It was easier that way. A discharge meant more paperwork, and he’d already lied about half of his personal information and was too tired to remember what he’d told the nurses in the ER. Rufus waited outside in the late-evening heat until Sam came out the automatic doors, and then he led the way home.
To his home.
“Paper,” Sam said as soon as they walked through the door.
Rufus was rubbing the bald spot on his head as he threw the deadbolt. “Paper?” He echoed.
“Yes. And a pen.”
Rufus glanced around the studio. “Uh… hang on.” He went to the kitchen counter, tore some cardboard from a container advertising Maruchan ramen, then uncovered a pen after a bit more shuffling. He scribbled it a few times against the palm of his hand, got the ink moving, then offered both to Sam. “Gonna write me a sexy poem?”
“Next time you get into trouble, call me directly. Routing the call through an important piece of evidence is just showing off.” He jotted the number in quick, hard strokes and passed the cardboard back.
“Oh.” Rufus stared at the offering, repeated the random numbers to himself until he’d memorized them, then stuck it underneath a magnet on the fridge. “Thanks.”
Sam stepped in, framing him against the fridge, and kissed him.
Rufus returned the kiss. Not exactly energetically, because he was exhausted and wanted to sleep for a week, but enough so Sam knew he meant something by it. “Hey, can I show you something?”
Sam nodded.
Rufus moved to his stacks of books on the left side of the room. He turned the biggest pile to face him, studied the spines, then started digging through the options. He got about halfway through the pile, chose a hefty book, then got to his feet. He brought it to Sam and said, “This is the book Jake bought me.”
Sam took it, turned it over, and raised an eyebrow.
“1001 Buildings to See Before You Die,” Rufus stated. “Three bucks.”
Sam turned the book over again. And then again. And then he tossed it on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Rufus frowned. “Hey, don’t throw it. You might bend the pages.” He moved around Sam, picked up the book from the tumbled bedsheets, and checked the corners for damage.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Some people dog-ear pages, and some people slap people who dog-ear pages.”
“You’re going to jump off a building and fucking kill yourself, so you buy a book about buildings to see before you die. Never mind. I’m too tired. Are you hungry? Maybe we should get something to eat.”
Rufus looked back at Sam, clutching the book to his chest. His heart slugged hard against his rib cage, and the stitched-up gash on his head beat in sync. “You said you wouldn’t talk about that anymore.”
“I said never mind, didn’t I?”
“Why are you pissed off? You had asked me what book he bought, and I lied and said I didn’t remember. Now I’m showing you because I don’t want to ever lie to you.”
“Yeah? Because it didn’t feel like you were just showing me the fucking book.”
“What does that even mean?” Rufus set the book on the bed again.
For a long moment, Sam stood there, hands on his hips. He looked paler than Rufus had ever remembered seeing him; dark hollows marked his eyes. “It means—” He drew a sharp breath. And then Rufus realized Sam was on the brink of tears. “It means you disappeared. Those lunatics had you, and you could have died. And then I get you back, which is a goddamn miracle, and then I have to come here and have you throw that in my face. ‘Hey, Sam. Glad you’re still around. Might kill myself, but we can’t talk about that, we’re not going to do anything to make it better.’ I almost fucking died today because—because I thought I lost you. Before today, fine, I could say we wouldn’t talk about it, I could pretend I was ok with ignoring it. Not anymore, Rufus.”
Rufus’s fingers were tingling. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the floor. At his scuffed-up Chucks. At Sam’s boots. At that gouge in the wall that’d been there since one of his mother’s friends threw a table across the room. How old had Rufus been when that happened—twelve? Yes, right before Alex Mitchell shoved him down the stairs at school.
Pop.
“You don’t have any idea what I’ve been through, Sam,” Rufus finally said, his voice hitching. “Sometimes that thought is… it’s like a security blanket. It’s the only constant I have.”
“Ok. You’re right. I don’t understand. Why can’t we go see someone? Why can’t we take care of this? You’ve had a shitty life; join the club. There are people who don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want you to hurt like this.”
“The more you say that, the worse it makes me feel,” Rufus said, wiping his face. “I don’t want—I’m just going to let you down.”
A struggle rippled in Sam’s face. He crossed his arms and said, “Fine. If you were sick, if you had pneumonia or something, if you refused to go to the hospital, I’d make you go. So I’ll make you do this. I’ll drag you to a fucking therapist kicking and fucking screaming if I have to. I’ll fill out the intake forms myself. You can whine and bitch and tell me you don’t deserve to be loved, but you are going. Today. Right now.”
Rufus lowered his arms to his sides, his hands balled into fists. Then, very quietly, he said, “Get out.”
“No, I told you—” Sam stepped forward, reaching.
“Get the fuck out right now,” Rufus ordered, his voice rising.
Sam grabbed him.
Rufus punched Sam squarely in the face. He swore, shook his hand, and held it to his chest.
The punch rocked Sam’s head back. Sam came to a stop, hands steepled over his nose. The look of shock in his face was almost worse than the look of pain that came after.
Shaking his head, Sam said, “What the fuck am I doing?”
And then he left.
Rufus stared at the front door for a long time. And when he was certain he was totally and unequivocally alone, dropped into a crouch, hugged his knees to his chest, and began to cry.
Sam Auden and Rufus O’Callaghan return in:
A Friend in the Fire
(An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery: Book Two)
Gregory Ashe is a longtime Midwesterner. He has lived in Chicago, Bloomington (IN), and Saint Louis, his current home. When not reading and writing (which take up a lot of his time), he is an educator.
gregoryashe.com
ALSO BY GREGORY ASHE
SERIES:
The Hazard and Somerset Mysteries
Pretty Pretty Boys
Transposition
Paternity Case
Guilt by Association
Reasonable Doubt
Criminal Past
Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords
The Rational Faculty
Police Brutality
Transactional Dynamics
Wayward
The Keeper of Bees
The Borealis Investigations
Orientation
Triangulation
Declination
Hollow Folk
Mr. Big Empty
All the Inside Howling
The Dust Feast
The Mortal Sleep
An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery
(co-written with C.S. Poe)
A Friend in the Dark
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C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
cspoe.com
ALSO BY C.S. POE
SERIES:
Snow & Winter
The Mystery of Nevermore
The Mystery of the Curiosities
The Mystery of the Moving Image
The Mystery of the Bones
Magic & Steam
The Engineer
A Lancaster Story
Kneading You
Joy
Color of You
The Silver Screen
Lights. Camera. Murder.
An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery
(co-written with Gregory Ashe)
A Friend in the Dark
NOVELS:
Southernmost Murder
NOVELLAS:
11:59
SHORT STORIES:
Love in 24 Frames
That Turtle Story
New Game, Start
Love, Marriage, and a Baby Carriage
Love Has No Expiration
Visit cspoe.com for free slice-of-life codas, titles in audio, and available foreign translations.
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