Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  His phone buzzed at nine, and he glanced at the ID, figuring Ross might have an update. Instead, he saw Captain Hargrove’s number and sighed. “I’ve got to take this,” he murmured in apology to Tracey and got up to pace.

  “D’Amato. What the hell was that little display? And now you’ve called in sick for tomorrow? Talk to me—and it had better be good.”

  Normally he’d have dragged himself in the day after a major bust even if he was dripping blood and spiking a fever of 104. But until Simon was out of surgery—and hopefully, out of danger—Vic wasn’t leaving the hospital.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Vic closed his eyes, well aware of what Hargrove had seen. Vic had broken ranks, run to Simon, begged him not to die, then left a murder scene—on his own case—to accompany Simon to the hospital and never came back. Hargrove was probably going to have his desk emptied out and dump the box of his stuff on the doorstep by morning.

  “You knew the victim.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me rephrase that. You were involved with someone who became a victim in the case you were investigating, who had provided material evidence, and you didn’t think that crossed a few lines?”

  Vic winced. Tracey didn’t look up from her game, but Vic felt certain she could hear Hargrove since the captain was nearly shouting. “I’m the one who brought Simon into the case,” Vic admitted. “We were at a dead-end, and I figured that psychics have helped other departments, why not us? His information was good. The rest just…happened.”

  “Jesus, D’Amato! You know better! Especially after last time—”

  “This is entirely different. Sir.”

  “Yeah. Last time you weren’t sleeping with a suspect.”

  Vic took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper, although between worry and exhaustion, his nerves were raw. “Simon was never a serious suspect, even before the big-deal lawyers showed up.”

  “Did you encourage him to go play Nancy Drew?”

  “Hardy Boys,” Vic corrected, and then face-palmed.

  “Excuse me?”

  Vic cleared his throat. “Um, I said ‘Hardy Boys,’ Because Nancy Drew was a girl.”

  The phone was silent long enough Vic figured Hargrove had left the station and was headed to the hospital to smack him upside the head in person. “He cracked the case,” Hargrove said finally.

  “Excuse me?” Vic was certain he had misheard.

  “Your psychic boyfriend cracked the case. He was a step ahead of us on who, why, and where. I read the folder and the notes. Won’t say I believe in all the woo-woo stuff, but then again, his system worked.”

  “He’s the real deal,” Vic said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. If he’d only come to believe that sooner, maybe Simon wouldn’t have gone Lone Ranger on them, and maybe he wouldn’t be fighting for his life in the O.R.

  “How is he?” Hargrove’s voice had calmed, returning to the efficient authority Vic had come to expect from the man.

  “He’s still in surgery,” Vic replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “No one will tell us anything.”

  Hargrove went silent again, and Vic found himself holding his breath. If he got fired, it would be the end of his police career, especially after the clusterfuck in Pittsburgh.

  “The SWAT guys who were in front said they saw a gray fog around Fischer that vanished right after they entered the room,” Hargrove said. “One of them thought he saw faces in the fog. And I’ve got to say; someone beat Fischer all to hell. Clawed him up real good, too. Couple of bites, for good measure. Now I’ve phoned the hospital to check under Kincaide’s fingernails and get a dental print, but I don’t think we’re going to get a match. Got any theories?”

  Gray ghosts attacking a serial killer with a wounded psychic bleeding out on the floor? Yeah, Vic had a lot of theories, and he wasn’t going to mention any of them. “I doubt I’m qualified to give an opinion on that.”

  “Huh. Because I’d heard something kinda like that happening to a guy up north a few years ago.”

  Vic closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Stranger things have happened.” He paused, and took the plunge. “So, um, do I need to come clean out my desk?”

  Hargrove’s silence stretched even longer this time. “Ross walked me through the timeline,” Hargrove finally replied, “and the folder Kincaide put together. I haven’t finished counting the protocols you’ve ignored and ‘best practices’ you’ve trampled. Not sure whether or not you broke any rules. Internal Affairs is going to have a field day. I’m gonna have to suspend you until IA is done. But if it’s up to me, your punishment is having to put up with me for a good while longer.”

  Vic realized he had been holding his breath, so certain that Hargrove would be furious. He bit back the impulse to ask the captain to repeat what he’d said. “Thank you,” Vic managed, although his throat was dry.

  “When Kincaide is on the mend, maybe we can do this the right way, and discuss how it might work to bring him in as a consultant with the proper paperwork.”

  Tracey gasped, and Vic couldn’t help it as a tired grin spread over his features. “That would be great. Thanks, Cap.”

  “Call me when you know something,” Hargrove replied brusquely and ended the call.

  Tracey looked up at him expectantly as he pocketed his phone and sat. “Well?”

  “I’ve still got a job. I think. Depends on how much shit IA wants to give me over ‘irregularities.’” He should have felt more relieved than he did. But until he knew how Simon’s surgery was going, Vic wouldn’t have cared even if he’d won the lottery.

  “You know, I was all set to dislike you, D’Amato,” she said. “But I think you’ll do for Simon.”

  Vic shook his head and looked away. “Pretty sure I lost my chance. That letter…he thought I’d written him off. I was trying to keep him safe. And look how that turned out.” No matter how Simon’s surgery went, and regardless of where their relationship went from here, Vic knew he’d feel guilty for a long time over leaving Simon on his own.

  “That boy’s in love with you,” Tracey said. It should have seemed funny to hear her talk about Simon, in his mid-thirties, that way, especially when Tracey was several years younger. But Tracey had an old-soul vibe that made it work. “You just have to let him know where he stands with you.”

  And Vic intended to if fate gave him the chance.

  By midnight, Simon was still in surgery, and no one could, or would, provide any information. Tracey had drained her phone battery playing mindless games when their conversation ran dry and now sat close to a wall plug so her cord would reach. Vic began to pace. Over the course of the evening, a few other visitors poked their heads in, then withdrew. Vic wondered if he and Tracey somehow managed to take up all the space by themselves. To Vic, the small room felt airless and constricting, as tight as his chest.

  Vic looked up when the door opened, hoping to see a surgeon. Instead, Ross stepped into the room, looking weary and worn. He had two large coffees and a bag of donuts, which Vic and Tracey accepted gratefully.

  “Hey,” he said. “Anything?”

  Vic shook his head. “No one’s talking. Even flashing the badge doesn’t work.”

  Ross took a seat beside Vic, with Tracey on the other side. “It’s going to take forensics a while to finish up the scene,” he said. “But they’ve got everything I think we’ll need to put Fischer away for a long, long time. Assuming he lives long enough to go to trial.”

  Vic raised his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Not counting the bullet wounds to his gun hand and right leg, and the four times he was shot at close range with a paintball gun—” Ross replied with a grin as Vic couldn’t help snorting, “—and that he was clawed up like a wrapped roast at a honey badger picnic, the man’s dying. Some sort of wasting disease. Maybe autoimmune. They don’t think it’s contagious, but we have him in quarantine, and the infectious disease folks are giving him the once-over. I’
m frankly amazed he was strong enough to overpower Kincaide.”

  “Guess we’ll have to wait until Simon can tell us his side of the story,” Vic replied. He filled Ross in on his conversation with Hargrove, and Ross told him what he could with a civilian in the room.

  “Sucks you’re going to be suspended,” Ross commiserated. “That means I have to do all the paperwork myself.”

  “Beats hell out of the other options,” Vic pointed out. “But you know everything I know. And you type better.”

  “Meaning I was going to be the one filling out the reports, regardless.”

  “Yep.”

  Ross yawned, looking like he was about to fall over. “Go home,” Vic urged. “I appreciate you coming by, but there’s nothing else to tell you. I’ll call when I know something.”

  Ross clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You know where to find me,” he said and headed toward the exit. Just then, the door opened, and an exhausted man in blood-spattered scrubs walked in.

  “The Kincaide family?”

  Vic stood immediately, and pure fear sent a surge of adrenaline that made him wide awake. Tracey was beside him in an instant. “How is he?” Vic asked, and Ross stepped back to close ranks with them in support.

  “He’s a very stubborn man,” the doctor replied, looking even more fatigued than Vic felt. “We almost lost him a couple of times. The gunshot wound wasn’t the problem. We fixed his lung, and the rest of the damage—pretty straightforward. He’d lost a lot of blood. That was a big part. And he was exhausted to the point of collapse. I don’t know what he’d been doing, but the human body can only push so hard before it breaks.”

  Magic, Vic thought. Psychic gifts. That’s what he was doing, with everything he had. “So he’s going to be all right?” he asked, and Tracey’s hand gripped his forearm.

  “Yes,” the surgeon answered. “He won’t be going home tomorrow, or for a while yet, but assuming the next twenty-four hours go as they should, I believe he’ll make a full recovery.”

  Tracey let out a whoop and threw her arms around Vic, and he went with it, lifting her off the floor as Ross grinned. “When can we see him?” Tracey asked, suddenly wide awake.

  “He’s in Recovery until the anesthesia wears off, and then ICU until we’re sure the lung won’t collapse again,” the doctor answered. “We’re going to keep him under for a while, to give him time to heal. I hope you got whoever did this.” The surgeon’s eyes flashed with anger. “Because they beat the crap out of him before they shot him. Broken rib, broken hand, and bruises from head to toe. Plus the blood loss.”

  Those details spiked Vic’s protective fury, but he tamped down his feelings and tried to focus on relief. Simon’s alive. He’s out of surgery. He’s going to make it. Nothing else matters.

  “When can we see him?” Tracey repeated. From the set of her jaw, hearing the extent of Simon’s injuries had raised her hackles as well. Vic was glad that she had decided he was acceptable because he didn’t want to be on Tracey’s bad side. She would be a formidable enemy, but right now, her righteous rage was focused on protecting Simon.

  “Give it an hour, and I’ll leave word with the ICU desk that you’re authorized to visit,” the surgeon replied. “Only one at a time and the nurses will be strict on removing you if they think it’s necessary. It’s well past visiting hours, but a badge can bend a few rules, up to a point,” he added, looking to Vic.

  “Thanks,” Vic replied with a weary grin. “I’d offer to fix your next speeding ticket, but I don’t work that beat.”

  The surgeon gave him an equally tired smile, and after promising that someone would come by to explain more in the morning, shuffled out. Ross followed, with promises to call at a reasonable hour.

  The next hour seemed to last forever. Finally, Vic turned to Tracey. “You go first.” As much as he wanted to assure himself that Simon was alive and recovering, Tracey had been Simon’s friend much longer. And part of Vic still worried that after everything that happened, their reunion might not go as he hoped.

  “Okay. But don’t go far. I’m pretty sure I’m not the one he wants to see when he wakes up.”

  When Tracey returned, she looked shaken, and her eyes were red. “God, Vic. The doctor wasn’t kidding. He looks like he was in a car wreck. His hand… and they’ve got a tube down his throat.”

  “Is he awake?”

  She shook her head and sniffed back tears. Vic got the impression that Tracey wasn’t usually a crier. “No. But they said it could be any time now. At least, as far as the anesthesia goes. If he’s that worn out, he might sleep for a while.”

  Now that it was his turn, Vic hesitated. Tracey gave him a push. “Go. And don’t mince words if you to talk to him. Say what you mean. That’s what he needs to hear.”

  As Vic approached Simon’s bed, his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest, and his mouth went dry. He reminded himself that he’d been far more afraid going into the Slitter’s bolt hole, but that was a different kind of fear. Then, he was terrified for Simon’s safety. Now, Vic was scared that Simon might have decided Vic didn’t deserve his trust.

  Vic stopped when he pulled back the curtain and stifled a gasp. Tracey hadn’t been kidding. Simon’s right hand was wrapped and splinted. His left wrist was also bandaged, with stitches closing the wound beneath. The mechanical wheeze of the ventilator kept Simon breathing, giving his damaged lung a chance to heal, but it underscored the severity of his injuries, and how close Vic had come to losing him. A sheet covered Simon to his shoulders, but Vic could see the edge of the dressings over the wound in his chest. Fuck. A few inches over, and I’d be claiming him at the morgue.

  A hard plastic chair sat to one side, and Vic moved it to the left of the bed, so he could take Simon’s hand. “I love you,” Vic said quietly. “I should have said it before now, but I was too much of a coward. I was wrong about so much. I believe in your gift. In you. In us. And I want to get the chance to make it up to you, if you’ll have me.”

  His voice caught, and he blinked hard. “Just, get better. You’re not going to believe this, but the Captain wants you to consult with the unit, if you’re willing. I told Cap about us. Because I made a choice, and I chose you,” Vic said, leaning close.

  Vic brushed his lips across his lover’s temple. An ugly purple bruise spread across Simon’s cheekbone. His eyes looked sunken and dark-rimmed, and he still seemed far too pale. A glance at the monitors showed a regular heartbeat—music to Vic’s ears—but Simon’s skin felt too cool for Vic’s liking. Vic couldn’t remember his own early recovery after he had been shot, only that Ross had looked like shit from worrying when Vic finally woke up.

  “I hope you heard me,” Vic said, afraid that a nurse would come at any moment to make him leave. “But if you didn’t, I’m going to say it again and again until you do.” He gave Simon’s hand a squeeze, and kissed him again gently. “And that’s a promise.”

  Epilogue

  Simon - Three months later:

  “If you keep feeding me like that, the department will put me on a diet,” Vic said with a sigh, indicating a blissful food coma.

  “It turned out pretty good, didn’t it?” Simon replied as if still surprised their barbecue party had been a success.

  He’d spent a month recovering from his injuries. Jay and Tracey had helped him find reliable people to staff the store in his absence, and he had promoted Pete, his part-timer, to assistant store manager. Getting shot made Simon realize he couldn’t keep trying to do everything himself, so he intended to hire the extra helpers on a part-time basis. They couldn’t do the séances or private readings, of course, but Simon’s regular clients had been very willing to reschedule when they realized what happened.

  Simon had feared that he would have to cancel all his ghost tours, even though they didn’t require psychic ability, but Pete surprised him. As it turned out, Pete was a theater major and occasionally acted in the many stage shows at venues around Myrtle Beach. He steppe
d into the role with gusto and added his own spin with different costumes and personas. The uptick in bookings made Simon consider just letting Pete run with it, and using that time for better things, like coming home early to Vic.

  “Good? Our friends just ate us out of house and home,” Vic complained, but his grin put the lie to his words. He and Simon had gone together on the nicest gas grill they could afford and broken it in with a big “thank-you” party for their friends. Tracey and Shayna were there, along with Jay and his girlfriend, Chrissy. Ross brought his wife, Sheila, and Pete introduced them all to his new boyfriend, Mikki.

  Vic made pasta with homemade sauce from his nonna’s recipe and a big salad. Tracey brought several flavors of cheesecake from the killer bakery that supplied Le Miz’s pastries, Ross and Sheila brought a selection of appetizers, and Pete brought a handle of rum and a half keg of beer. Simon cooked up shrimp, chicken, and beef shish kebabs, corn on the cob, and a fluffy rice pilaf, with ice cold watermelon on the side. They all had taken the day off, so the party started with pasta at lunch and lasted through the afternoon into the evening, finishing up around the fire pit Vic had bought as a surprise for Simon.

  By ten everyone was happily full, comfortably buzzed, and all too aware that the next day was a workday. Vic and Simon saw them off, promising to do another cookout in the fall, and started cleaning up paper plates and plastic cups so they could head inside.

  “That pasta sauce was fantastic,” Simon said, something he’d already told Vic but which bore repeating. “My compliments to your nonna.”

  Vic smirked. “Come home with me to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving, and you can tell her yourself.”

  Simon’s heart did a little flip like it always did when Vic talked with casual certainty about the future. It was only May, and November seemed a long time away, but Simon loved the fact that looking ahead came so easily for Vic. He brushed a kiss across Vic’s neck as he passed to toss more trash into a garbage bag.