by Lanyon, Josh
A voice over the loudspeaker asked them to turn to the right, back to center, and then to the left. They were each asked to speak an innocuous line—Peter had already forgotten what they said about three seconds afterward.
They were thanked for their time, escorted back to the waiting room, and Detective Griffin appeared for the first time—Peter’s lawyer in tow.
Peter saw it in Griffin’s face. He was absolutely prepared, so it was a little shock to feel that wave of light-headedness washing over him as Griffin told him he was under arrest. He managed to hide it, he hoped, standing silent while Griffin put the handcuffs on him.
“Is this necessary?” Stephenson said, sounding mostly bored. “My client has cooperated every step of the way. He’s already in police custody.”
“We’ve got procedures to follow, counselor,” Griffin said, snapping the handcuffs closed. “Sorry,” he added brusquely—and that was directed to Peter, though he barely registered it.
“I’ll arrange bail proceedings as we’ve discussed, Peter,” Stephenson said, moving away.
Peter nodded. He felt like he was watching it all happen to someone else, and that was probably just as well. He embraced his inner numbness. If he could have climbed onto an astral plane, he’d have done it. He thought Griffin might have addressed a couple of other remarks to him before he was handed over to the uniformed officer who took his mug shots and fingerprints, but it was like listening to someone across a busy street.
He spent hours in a cell with a sullen-looking Asian kid who appeared to be tattooed over every visible inch of his hide and an elderly drunk with a busy mustache who was snoring for all the world like a cartoon character.
Every so often the Illustrated Man would get up, shrieking obscenities, and slam at the bars of the cell, and the sleeper would snort loudly like he was about to go into respiratory failure.
At last Peter’s name was called and he was escorted to where Roma and Jessica waited for him.
He managed a terse thanks before going to collect the envelope of his personal belongings.
“You didn’t think we were going to leave you to rot in there, did you?” Roma demanded, wrapping him in a big hug as he returned to where they patiently waited for him. She must have seen that he was fighting for his composure because she said briskly, “God, this is a depressing place. Let’s get out of here.”
“You should have called us first thing,” Jessica said, taking her turn at hugging him tightly.
“I was hoping…” Peter didn’t try to finish it. He’d been hoping for a miracle. He hadn’t got it, but the next best thing had happened: his friends had stood by him, and he’d never been so grateful to see anyone in his life. In fact, he was very much afraid he was going to make a huge fool of himself if they didn’t get out of there fast.
He sat in the back of the MG, eyes closed, while Roma rocketed them home. The hot, dry wind blowing against his face felt clean and comforting.
When they got back to the bungalow, it was nearly five o’clock. He’d spent the entire day in jail; it felt like a month. Like a lifetime.
He excused himself and went upstairs to shower, standing under the warm spray for a long, long time, letting the cleansing water sluice over his head and shoulders.
He felt marginally better when he went downstairs. Roma and Jessica were in the kitchen. They had found the flask of cold brew in the fridge that he’d put in there what felt like a year ago and were drinking iced coffee. Peter opted for whiskey.
“Hungry?” Jessica asked brightly. “There’s plenty of chicken rice casserole left.”
“Maybe later.” There was something funny about the way they were watching him. Newly—and possibly rightly—paranoid, he asked, “What is it?”
Roma nodded at the table, and he saw that there was a letter there with the official stamp of the museum.
“It came while you were in the shower,” Jessica said in a stifled voice.
Peter reached for the letter and ripped it open before he had time to think about it.
Dear Mr. Killian.
His eyes scanned the neatly typed page. It was polite and perfunctory. The Constantine House Board of Trustees had convened in an emergency meeting to reach the unanimous if regretful decision that they must terminate his contract with their organization—effective immediately. He had ten days to vacate the bungalow in which he currently resided.
His eyes were drawn again to that weirdly formal Dear Mr. Killian.
“What is it?” Roma demanded, although it was clear from her tone of voice that she had a pretty good idea what it was.
He handed her the letter and went to stare out the window over the sink at the trees.
“That lousy son of a bitch Cole,” Roma snarled. “When are you going to see him for the manipulative, selfish bastard that he is?”
Not that Peter was feeling particularly high on Cole at the moment, but this did seem a little out of the blue.
“How is it Cole’s fault?”
“Don’t defend him!” Roma and Jessica yelled in chorus, and he stared at them, bewildered.
“For God’s sake, Peter! Cole has traded on your feelings for him for years. He gives you just enough to keep you hanging on—without ever actually giving you anything. He got you to work for him instead of taking the job in Boston…”
“Boston?”
“How can you not remember this?”
Good question. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Jessica said, “You’d agreed to take a job at a museum in Boston for nearly double the salary when Cole asked you to take the position here at Constantine House.”
“I—”
“You,” Roma said flatly. “And you’ll want to notice Cole didn’t come up with the job when you needed a job; he only suggested Constantine House after you’d already accepted another, better position. When he saw you getting away.”
“Getting away?” Peter echoed, staring at her.
“That’s right. Oh my God.” She ran both hands through her dark hair, causing it to stand up in tufts. “You have no idea how badly we wanted you to go—as much as we love you—just to get away from him. But of course he couldn’t let that happen.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Roma’s right,” Jessica said calmly. “We don’t know what Cole’s story is. We only know him through you—but that’s plenty. Maybe he’s truly conflicted or maybe he’s just so self-centered it’s pathological, but every single time you start to move on, he finds some way to drag you back. Do you know how many relationships he’s spoiled for you over the years? Just by crooking his little finger.”
Peter was shaking his head. “You’re wrong. He told me last night there was nothing between us—and there never has been.”
“And as he said it he smiled into your eyes and held your gaze and brushed your arm with his hand. Peter, we’ve been watching him in action for years. He plays you like a…a…”
“Maestro,” Jessica supplied.
Peter trailed off, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, although it was obvious from both their faces that this was a truth they had been long wanting to deliver. “Even if you’re right…even if it’s true, how does that”—he nodded at the letter now lying on the table—“have anything to do with it?”
“Because Cole totally controls that board. If you’re being terminated, then that’s Cole’s decision. For whatever reason, Cole wants you gone. Either because he thinks you’re guilty or a liability or because he’s afraid of the scandal. Or all of the above.”
“Or because you’re too much of a temptation,” Jessica put in. “I don’t think that marriage is exactly a grand passion.”
“Cole is not gay,” Roma said shortly.
“We don’t know what Cole is.”
“Other than a manipulative bastard.”
“On that we’re agreed.” Jessica looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Peter, but there really is a pattern here, and it’s been go
ing on for a long time. Every time you meet someone and it seems like you’re happy, Cole finds some way to yank you back.”
Roma interjected, “He gives you just enough that you start to think maybe you do really matter to him after all. We’ve seen this again and again. I mean, I was actually glad you couldn’t remember Cole after you got hit on the head. That’s how bad it is.”
One thing was patently clear. They believed every word they were saying. And that belief, that certainty, was painfully convincing. Peter asked dully, “When was the last time this happened? That I started seeing someone else and Cole…yanked me back?”
“It’s been a while. About six months. You were seeing someone you met through work, and it seemed like it was going really well. And then Cole started having marital problems and he needed a buddy’s shoulder to cry on. And the next thing we heard, you weren’t seeing anyone anymore.”
“What was the name of this guy I was seeing?”
Roma and Jessica were both shaking their heads. “You didn’t say,” Roma said. “In fact, you were kind of mysterious about it. We thought maybe it was someone you’d met at a conference.”
“Maybe someone married.”
“Great.”
Roma said darkly, “I don’t think you’d get involved with someone married. It’s not like you haven’t had plenty of that already. I think subconsciously you didn’t want Cole to know you were getting involved with someone again.”
“You were really depressed afterward,” Jessica said. “I mean…not just down, but down.”
Peter thought again of the bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom.
“And that’s not like you,” Roma put in. “You’ve always been very positive and optimistic. Just a really enthusiastic person.” She added, “If a little slow on the uptake.”
He shot her a look, and she offered a lopsided grin. “And I say that with the greatest affection.”
“Yes. I see that.” He sighed. “I appreciate the concern. And the honesty. It’s… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have enough to deal with without this.”
“But you need to hear this, Peter,” Jessica said earnestly. “You cannot trust Cole.”
It was practically like one of those TV interventions. He said tiredly, “I won’t. I don’t.”
Roma was glaring at the letter. “This is typical of the no-balls way that gutless jerk would handle something like this.”
He appreciated their sympathy, but really this was just making it harder. He said, “Thank you for telling me. I mean that. To be honest, I don’t know what I feel for Cole anymore.” At their expressions, he said hastily, “Except that I know I don’t…feel that. I don’t love him. And I know that whatever he feels for me”—this was the part that still felt raw—“it’s not enough to inconvenience himself when I’m in trouble.” He finished the rest of the whiskey in his glass, and the burn going down his throat helped.
There was a pause. “Why don’t you come back with us?” Jessica urged. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Peter shook his head. He dredged up a smile, which he hoped looked more reassuring than it felt. “I’ll sleep better in my own bed, and that’s what I feel like I need now. A good night’s sleep.”
They didn’t like it, but in the end they had to accept his decision. Even so he had to promise to remember to eat the rest of the dried-out casserole, not get drunk by himself, and call if he needed anything.
When the MG had sped away, leaving the sound barrier lying broken in the dust, Peter headed for his study. Drawer by drawer he went through his desk, conviction growing with each moment.
“Those romance novels you love.”
“So you could hire a lawyer. So you wouldn’t be broadsided.”
“Sorry.”
He found what he was looking for in his address book. There was just a large initial M under the G’s. Large enough to take up the height of two lines. Whoever M was, he had been someone Peter didn’t want to lose track of.
He rang the number. It rang and rang and then an answering machine picked up and Detective Griffin curtly recited the phone number and instructed him to leave a message.
Peter hung up.
After a moment he realized tears were running down his face. He wiped them away impatiently. One mystery solved.
For a short time he and Michael Griffin had been lovers.
So that was really a relief because it was the uncertainty eating at him, right? And here was one uncertainty explained at last. Good news, really, despite the incontrovertible proof of the fool he had been, so no sense sitting here sniveling. He had probably made worse mistakes than that, starting with passing up the job in Boston.
He started as the phone at his elbow rang.
He picked it up and answered, only to discover it was the Los Angeles Times wanting an interview.
He declined and hung up.
Now Griffin’s fury at his amnesia made more sense. Or did it? Why exactly was he so angry at Peter? He’d apparently done the dumping. It was a bit unclear. Unless he really did think Peter was ripping off his own museum. Was that why he’d broken it off between them? Did he believe Peter was a thief?
The phone rang again.
Peter picked up. Another newspaper. The blood was in the water, and the sharks were circling.
Peter declined the opportunity to appear as newsworthy chum—less politely than he had turned down the Times—and hung up.
He was still staring at the phone when it rang yet again. An unpleasant reminder that he had more pressing problems than the fact that Mike Griffin didn’t like him anymore. Peter was jobless, soon-to-be homeless, and probably going to prison for theft.
He took the phone off the hook.
It wasn’t until Peter was scraping his dinner plate into the trash that he suddenly registered the absence of his laptop on his desk. He went into the study, and sure enough it was gone.
A quick search of the bungalow confirmed what he already knew. His laptop was gone.
Heart pounding, mouth dry, he called Cole.
It seemed a long time before Cole came on the line, and the sick knowledge roiled in Peter’s belly that Cole might simply refuse to speak to him at all. But at last Cole got on the line sounding friendly but wary.
“Peter! How goes it?”
“You mean aside from your firing me today? Well, I was arrested. But I guess you knew that.”
“I know. I heard your friends Roma and Jessica were able to put up the bail for you. I wish I could have… Well, you know that. But the conflict of interest between the museum and—”
“Thanks for your concern,” Peter bit out. “But that’s not why I’m calling. My laptop is missing.”
“Oh.” Cole said awkwardly, “Someone should have left a note for you. That laptop is museum property, as I’m sure you realize.”
“For chrissake, Cole. You’re acting like I’m suddenly an enemy. Like I can’t be trusted—”
“No, no. It’s not that,” Cole broke in. “It occurred to us, to Dennis, actually, that the police were probably going to confiscate your laptop anyway, and we wanted to download everything we might need before it disappeared for God knows how long waiting for you to go to trial.”
“Waiting for me to…” Peter’s voice gave out at the casual reference to his future trial date and probable fate.
“Pete.” Cole stopped. He said carefully, “We have to be realistic here.”
Peter couldn’t have spoken had his life depended on it.
“Angie and I are more sorry than we can say that things have worked out like this for you. We don’t think you stole from the museum, but…”
Angie and I?
“Right. Thanks.”
“We have no doubt that you’re going to be proven innocent, but I’m sure you see what a difficult position this is for me. Regardless of my personal feelings, my first responsibility is to the museum.”
“Yes, I got that. I assume you want me to turn over my keys
too?”
“Your keys to the museum, yes. There’s no hurry about the bungalow. You still have nine days to vacate.”
Peter said, “That’s…kind of you. Nine whole days. Can you wait for the keys until tomorrow or did you want me to bring them to you right now?”
A pause. Cole sounded very subdued as he said, “We’ve been friends a long time, Pete. Try to look at this from my perspective.”
“Through your ass, you mean? Because that’s what you’re talking through.” Peter slammed the receiver down with a shaking hand. The phone rang half a minute after that. He let it ring until it stopped, and then he took it off the hook once more.
It took him a long time to relax enough to fall asleep when he finally calmed down enough to go to bed.
He wasn’t sure what woke him. The squeak of a floorboard? A shadow cutting across the band of moonlight through the window? Whatever the warning, Peter’s eyes jerked open on the knowledge that someone was in his bedroom.
There was a moment of sheer and paralyzing disbelief, and then some instinct urged movement, and he rolled off the edge of the bed. The mattress next to his head jerked, he heard the weird, squished sound of a silenced shot, then another, then another.
Horrified, he recognized that someone was shooting at him. Unbelievably, someone had just tried to kill him.
There wasn’t time to think it through. He reacted automatically, grabbing the brass clock off the nightstand and throwing it hard at the tall silhouette illuminated in the moonlight. It made a ping as it connected with the intruder’s head. He staggered back and fired, hitting the lamp next to the bed a few inches from where Peter was crouched and getting off another shot into the wall behind the nightstand.
There was nowhere to go. Peter dived beneath the bed. The shooter came around the side of the bed, stepping on the small round rug beside it, and some instinct guided Peter to grab the rug and yank hard. The man went down firing. Plaster drifted from the ceiling and a window broke.
Peter was out from under the bed desperately wrestling for the gun. He knew he was fighting for his survival, and that the only rule was to survive the next minutes. It was quick and dirty and brutal. Using both hands, he wrenched the gun out of the man’s hand and threw it across the room. The shooter punched him in the head. Dazed, Peter let go, and the man rolled away and scrambled for the door. His footsteps thudded down the stairs, a door slammed and Peter scrambled over to the phone. There was no dial tone.
