by J. M. Frey
“What the actual fuck?” Juan hisses, his cell phone already in his hand. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to—Jesus, boss, don’t get closer!—sorry, I’d like to report a . . . a break-in? I don’t know, a violent crime? A threat? It looks like some serious black magic shit, okay? Someone jammed the closet full of dead stuff! I don’t know, the skin is pink-ish, there’s blood everywhere . . . yeah!” Juan gives Elgar’s address, and then says, “Ten minutes, thank you.” He disconnects the call, shoves his phone into his back pocket, and comes over to where Elgar still stands, propped against the counter. “Come on, boss. Let’s go into the living room.”
Juan tugs on Elgar’s shoulder, and Elgar lets his assistant back him out into the living room, eyes still glued to the mess in the pantry, dull horror creeping up his spine. The smell of raw meat and curdling blood is strong, stuck to the inside of his nose like paint fumes and pennies. He’s torn between the twin urges to scream and puke, and clamps his teeth down hard on the tip of his tongue to keep from doing either.
“Where’s Linux?” It’s the first thing Elgar can manage to grind out around the bile lumping in the hollow of his throat. Juan shoves him down into the sofa and swears.
“I’ll look for him, boss.”
“Do you think—?”
“I’ll look for him,” Juan repeats with a bit more force, clearly trying to reassure himself as much as his employer.
Juan rushes upstairs, and Elgar pretends not to hear it when Juan slams the bathroom door and turns on the water to cover the sound of his own puking. Elgar’s stomach cramps in sympathy and he burps, acrid and vile, and chews hard on his bottom lip to keep the rest down. He covers his face with shaking hands and resists the urge to call Forsyth and yell “I told you so!” down the line.
But the police are on their way, and Elgar doesn’t want to be on the phone when they arrive. Especially to someone who prides himself on his anonymity, and whose livelihood and happiness depends on him remaining anonymous, unlooked at, secret. Forsyth has to appear to be bland, an overly intellectual house-husband and stay-at-home-dad who likes his books just a little too much, and stereotypically “manly” pursuits just a bit too little. His whole gig is built on people assuming that crumpled, cardigan-clad Syth Piper is the furthest thing from dangerous.
No. Elgar’s seen enough police procedural TV shows to know that if he’s on the phone with someone when the cops show up, they’ll want to talk to that someone. He can’t do that to Forsyth. Instead, Elgar plugs his nose, heaves himself to his feet, passes the kitchen, and goes down the hall to his office.
“Black magic shit,” Juan had said.
His laptop is where Elgar left it, and he immediately moves it to the filing cabinet, locking it in the same drawer as the fire-safe filled with external hard drives and papers. A small, fuzzy orange head pokes out of the end of the under-desk tunnel, and mrows pitifully at him.
“I found him!” Elgar calls, and reaches out to gently rub a finger up the bridge of Linux’s wrinkled nose. The cat’s ears are back, whiskers spread wide and pupils massive, the skin around his mouth pulled tight. He looks terrified.
Whatever it was that had come into their house and done . . . that, has scared the daylights out of the poor cat. Elgar is tempted to try to coax Linux out, to shower him with affection in order to soothe the cat and himself. But he’s too relieved that Linux is fine, and too worried that he might get underfoot once the police arrive, that instead, he rubs the cringing cat’s head once, then closes the office door to keep him trapped in there. Linux doesn’t like being shut up. Elgar expects him to yowl indignantly and bat at Elgar’s toes through the gap at the bottom of the door like he usually does. That Linux stays still and silent says more about his fear, and perhaps the danger of the situation, than Elgar likes.
Elgar shuffles back into the living room, where Juan is now sitting as close to the fire as he can get, shivering. There’s a quilt over the back of the sofa—Elgar’s late aunt Lilah had sewn it back in the forties out of the rags of clothing that were rationed in England—and he drapes it around his assistant’s shoulders. He feels, strangely, like he’s the world-wise and weary one this time around. Perhaps it’s the shock keeping him calm—actually, it’s definitely the shock keeping him calm—but with Linux accounted for and Juan to look after, the fear caused by the violation of his home isn’t as intense.
“Okay,” Juan says softly. “Okay. I guess it wasn’t stress after all. Or drugs.”
“You think?” Elgar snarls. But it is soft. Not cruel, not accusatory.
Juan cringes all the same. “Yeah, boss. Sorry, boss.”
“It’s okay. Are you all right?” Elgar sort of wants to do something to comfort him, but . . . a back slap is too jockish, and he doesn’t think his relationship with Juan is on the level where he can offer a hug, so instead, he just twists his fingers around themselves uselessly and squirms.
“I won’t be eating meat for . . . like, the rest of my life,” Juan whines.
“Shame,” Elgar says, trying to lighten the mood, to distract them from the horror of their situation. “What will your writer-worshiping boyfriend say to that?”
Juan gasps, some of the color that shock had drained from his face bubbling back up to the surface of his skin in two pink splotches on his cheeks. “Boss! Did you just make a blowjob joke?”
“Yes?”
“To a man?”
“. . . yes?” Elgar says, wondering if this is a trick question.
“Good for you, boss,” Juan says, and punches his arm gently.
Elgar grew up in a very conservative household, his parents having passed away when he was young and his Aunty Lilah the kind of god-fearing Christian who had firm ideas of what was right and wrong. She hadn’t even been that keen on fiction, believed it was a waste of time and thought, and that a serious young man like Elgar Reed should be studying instead of reading comic books. She hadn’t minded so much when his first advance had gotten them both out of the co-op welfare housing, or when the subsequent royalty checks had gotten them into a house of their very own. A house that Aunty Lilah had lived in until she’d died in ’91. Elgar had sold that house because he couldn’t bear to see her in every wall and carpet, and bought the house he and Juan were sitting in now.
A lot of that god-fearing righteousness had crept into Elgar’s work, though he hadn’t really realized it until he’d read Lucy Piper’s PhD dissertation. It had also colored his perception of the people around him. So much so that he nearly hadn’t hired Juan when his previous assistant, Janet, had told him to go screw himself.
It was Lucy who’d encouraged him to give Juan a try. They’d been reviewing the resumes the temp agency had forwarded to Elgar at the Piper’s home in Victoria. Elgar had always thought that assistants should be women. Secretaries, receptionists, clerical aides . . . that was women’s work, right? Lucy had smacked him upside the head and told him to stop being so sexist, and to hire the right fit, not the right plumbing.
It wasn’t until a month into working with Juan that Elgar realized Juan was gay, and this time, it was Forsyth who smacked him, albeit verbally and via the phone, and told him that Juan wasn’t going to try to flirt with him or stick his manhood in places Elgar wouldn’t want just because he was into blokes. That gay men did not treat heterosexual men the same way that heterosexual men treated women. It was an eye-opener, and ever since then, Elgar has been doing his best to not be a dickhead about it.
If he can have conversations with fictional characters; if his hero can be married to his sidekick; if the hero’s son can be mixed-race, and his spymaster’s wife can be Asian and very much not a damsel in need of rescuing; if dragons can be misunderstood victims; if everything Elgar thought he knew about the world he had created had been tipped on its ear; well, then . . . Elgar Reed can make jokes about blowjobs with gay guys, right?
Right.
The sound of the doorbell startles both of them.
Juan stands to answer,
but Elgar pushes him back down. “I got it.”
Two officers stand in the space outside his door: a tall black man built like a linebacker, and a petite woman with a straight blonde ponytail and a look on her face that just dared you to call her, “Barbie.”
“This way,” Elgar says, before they can try to make awkward conversation. “Leave your shoes on.”
“Sir, we—” the woman begins, but Elgar cuts her off.
“Trust me. I can’t explain. You just have to see it.”
He stops at the threshold to the kitchen and waves them inside. The smell is stronger right beside the pantry, and he gags again, trying to hold it together. He claps his hand over his mouth, and backs away. Seeing it again, experiencing it again, shatters the false calm he’d been luxuriating in.
Yup. Definitely shock.
Both of the officers suck in surprised gasps, and then both begin coughing immediately after as the stench hits them.
“Lord!” the woman says, pulling plastic gloves out of her belt and snapping them on. Her partner copies her. “How long has it been here?”
“It can’t be more than a few hours,” Elgar says between gritted teeth. “It wasn’t there when I last opened the door, around noon.”
“But the smell,” her partner says, his face pulled into a grimace. “It’s like it’s been rotting there for days.”
“I don’t get it, either,” Elgar says. “I . . . I have to go . . .”
“Go, sit, we’ll come find you soon,” the male officer says, and then he’s speaking into his radio, calling for a forensic team while his partner inspects the windows and the patio door. She already has a fingerprint kit in her hand. Elgar has a swooping fear that the only sets of prints they’ll find belong to him, Juan, and the smudges from Linux’s nose.
Elgar realizes belatedly that he hadn’t let them introduce themselves. He hadn’t read their name badges, either. Surely this has to be some sort of catastrophic breach of protocol. The gripping, freezing fear crawls back up his spine. Because what if . . . what if . . .
“S-sorry,” he calls, without turning around. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t catch your names.”
“Oh!” the woman says. “I’m Lieutenant Riletti, this is Sergeant Jackson. And you’re Elgar Reed, correct? The wri—the homeowner,” she corrects herself quickly.
Through his fear, a little surge of writerly pride wells up, the smug satisfaction of being known a sweet balm, even with everything that’s happening in the kitchen. Happy to be dismissed, Elgar opens his living room window to try to encourage some fresh evening air into the place, then slumps down next to Juan. His assistant flings a corner of Aunty Lilah’s quilt over his shoulder.
He misses her suddenly, intensely and fiercely. She had been firm, but expansive and generous in her love, and he feels keenly alone right now. He’d give anything for one of her strong hugs right now.
It takes longer for the officers to investigate the pile of . . . that . . . than Elgar expects. He can hear them chatting softly to each other, and calling to others on their radios. Eventually, a whole wagonful of other people arrive—a forensic team, a photographer, and some paramedics who shine annoying penlights in his eyes, take his pulse, and make him drink water he doesn’t want.
And then the detectives are there, pulling Juan upstairs and Elgar into his office. Linux makes a fuss at them until Elgar sits in his desk chair, and the cat is able to scale his legs and tuck himself under Elgar’s beard. The detective is accompanied by Lieutenant Riletti, who seems to be squashing down her fannish glee at being in his inner sanctum well. Her expression has grown gray and grim.
After a quick look around the room, her ranking officer introduces himself as Detective Khouri and takes a seat on the tatty old sofa that Elgar keeps in the office for when he’s feeling lazy or needs to lay down while reading. The sofa is the last remaining piece of furniture from Aunty Lilah’s original apartment. Riletti tries to perch on the arm beside Khouri. When it wobbles under her, she stands back up, quickly.
Normally, Elgar would laugh at that—usually, it’s Juan who forgets the arm of the sofa is slowly disintegrating—but instead, he winces at the sinister groan the furniture produces. Okay, yes, he is officially out of the shock phase, and into the fear and worry.
“Mr. Reed?” Khouri says, and when Elgar blinks and turns his attention to the detective, it’s obvious that this isn’t the first time he’s said it.
“Yeah?”
“I said, we’re going to jump right into the questions. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
Linux meows pitifully and snuggles deeper. Elgar runs his hands down the fragile little creature’s back.
Khouri asks about Elgar’s friends, his family, if any other incidents have occurred, and Elgar, shaken and uncertain, answers with one-word phrases and very little elaboration. He doesn’t know if that makes him look guilty, or like he’s being cagey or hiding something, but eventually, Riletti is sent for Jackson and Juan, and the five of them crowd into Elgar’s office to continue the rest of the questioning together.
Elgar is reminded that, in those procedural shows, they always question witnesses separately, to ensure the stories check out. He doesn’t mean to be difficult, it’s just that he . . . he can’t help thinking about the strange man on the bench.
“Mr. Reed!” Khouri repeats, yanking Elgar back into the present. “Would it be best if we continued this tomorrow? I’d like you to get checked out by the paramedics again. You’re having trouble focusing. Did you take a fall earlier that you didn’t tell us about?”
“No, I didn’t fall. I’m fine,” Elgar lies, and he doesn’t like the way his voice trembles.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m tired, suddenly. I’m . . . what was the question?”
“Has there been anything else, besides the salad and this?”
“No,” Elgar says, but Juan immediately jumps in with:
“The Smithsonian.”
Elgar turns to stare at his assistant. “They told you?”
“They told me first,” Juan says. “You know the call wouldn’t have gotten through to you if I hadn’t let it.”
Khouri shifts closer to Juan. “What are you talking about?”
“In December, someone stole the typewriter Mr. Reed donated to the Smithsonian.”
“They stole an artifact from the Smithsonian,” Khouri repeats, to verify.
Riletti stiffens. “How come that wasn’t in the news? A theft like that, I would have thought it would have been international headlines.”
Elgar’s flattered that she thinks his missing typewriter is important enough to be international news, but just shakes his head. “Ah, I’m not that important.” The admission costs him a little something, a bit of what Lucy calls his Narcissist Beta Male Shield, and as painful as it is to break off that small piece of it, he realizes immediately that he doesn’t really miss it. Admitting to one person that he is not, in fact, the alpha and omega of the writing world hasn’t harmed anyone. His ego is bruised . . . but bruises heal. And he has other things to focus on.
“Besides,” Juan chimes in. “Jamie, the curator—oh, um, Jamie Denver, with an IE, yeah—she said that the Smithsonian doesn’t report robberies unless they’re really huge deals, because they don’t want to encourage copycats, like, uh, like how transit officials don’t call it suicide when people jump on the tracks.”
“Morbid,” Jackson says.
Khouri rubs his forehead and sighs. “Okay, look. I’m going to get in contact with this Jamie Denver, see what’s going on, on her end. Obviously, we’ve got a pattern now, and this person is escalating. I’d like to put a watch on the house, and I’d feel more comfortable if you stayed in a safe house for the next few nights, Mr. Reed. We’ll get you put up so an officer can stay with you. Is that acceptable? Riletti and Jackson can drive you out.”
“A safe house?” Elgar repeats, agog. “Is that really necessary?”
The detec
tive shifts and shrugs one shoulder. “I’d like you to be somewhere we can keep an eye on you, and somewhere whoever did this can’t. We’ve got a place, nice and comfy, and it means you can be safe and out of the way, just in case.”
“In case he strikes again?” Elgar asks.
Khouri’s eyes narrow. “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?”
“Oh,” Elgar says, caught on the back foot. “Well. It’s just . . . all my fans are male, aren’t they?” Riletti coughs. “Well, most of ’em, anyway. I’d assume it was one of them, right?”
“Right,” Khouri agrees, though he doesn’t quite seem to take what Elgar says at face value. As if he knows that Elgar knows something, or some other equally circular cliche from the detective thriller his life seems to have turned into.
“What about Linux?” Elgar asks. “Can I bring him?”
“I’ll take him, boss,” Juan says softly, and stands to do just that. Linux is reluctant to let go of Elgar’s shirt collar. They have to prise his claws loose. The cat snarls a bit, but goes limp again when Juan tucks him close to his own heartbeat.
That damn cat really does love Juan. More than it’s loved any of his other assistants. Elgar muses that he can’t ever fire Juan now—not that he has any plans to, of course—because Linux will kick up such a fuss over it that he wouldn’t be able to stand it. Juan spoils the little monster.
Free of the cat, Elgar leads Sergeant Jackson upstairs, where the cop watches him pack for a few days away, eyes on the room’s shadows. Jackson explains how they’ll pull the car up, block the view of the front door from the street with the ambulance, and try to get Elgar and Juan into the cars at the same time so nobody will know that they have left. Just in case someone is watching the house right now.
That doesn’t really make Elgar feel any safer, but he chooses not to say anything about it. If . . . if someone is watching the house, or watching him . . . he has a feeling they’ll know, anyway.
