by Lisa Henry
“I like it well enough here.” It was home. He’d never had any real desire to leave. Never saw the need. Being content was more than some people managed in their whole lives.
Except when he’d seen people like Whitlock and his sister and Tim Howard and Lauren Barber go off to college, sometimes he’d gotten a nudge of a feeling that he might like to at least vacation somewhere outside of Logan. A real vacation, not a weekend trip to Easley.
He stood. “Kinda disappointed in you.”
“How come?”
“You always did a real good job of not giving a shit. Not letting it get personal.”
She stared at him, and he almost winced. He might never get used to that look. “If I don’t give some kind of shit, then what am I doing here?”
Uncle Joe had said something similar when Bel had started on the force. That it was easy to get bored in Logan, to get to where you hated people and their stale lives and petty disputes. But you had to remember why you were doing this. If you didn’t want to protect, didn’t want to help, then you were wasting your time. He’d managed not to sound corny about it either.
Bel sometimes doubted he’d ever helped anyone in any profound way. You had to think in the abstract—the guy you pulled over for speeding hated your guts, but maybe you’d saved someone else by getting the idiot off the road. A lame thought, but Bel had to think it, otherwise he’d go crazy.
Then, just when you thought your whole life would be spent writing tickets, you got a chance to save someone’s life.
Part of Bel wished he’d had the presence of mind to enjoy freeing Whitlock. Saving him. But there hadn’t been much time to process what was happening. Hell, it had barely even registered with Bel that Whitlock was in his underwear until they were outside. Bel had gotten a pilled blanket from the back of his car and let Whitlock wrap himself in it, and then they’d gotten in the cruiser and pulled the hell out of the driveway.
“You give a big ol’ shit about Whitlock,” he said, not sure why he was trying to goad Dav. “Just because he’s handsome and young don’t mean he gets special treatment.”
Dav didn’t rise to the bait. “Who’re you talking to, me or yourself?”
That made Bel angry. Which wasn’t fair, since he’d started it.
And since she was fucking right. “I’m outta here,” he said. “Gonna go see if they’ve discharged Whitlock yet.”
“On your day off?”
“Got nothing else to do. Might as well get started on the investigation.”
“You could relax.”
“Same to you. You’re doin’ work at home. Fuckin’ get on YouTube or something.”
She punched his shoulder as he walked past. Kind of hard. He rubbed the spot as he entered the front hall. Stump whimpered when Bel reached the door. Bel crouched and took the pup’s face in his hands. “You be good, okay? You don’t gotta be scared of guns, you know. Nobody’s trying to shoot you.”
He caught sight of the singed hairs on his arm. A feeling welled in him that he didn’t understand.
When he straightened, Dav was leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching him with a slight smile.
“What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. You’ll be a good uncle.”
He hitched up his pants. “Yeah. No pressure, huh?”
“No pressure.”
He left and headed to the hospital.
The cabin looked gruesome to Daniel in the daylight. There was a large purple-black stain on the front wall over the porch, like one of those birthmarks that covered half a person’s face.
Or a bruise.
Daniel rubbed his wrists, where he had dark bruises that throbbed when he moved his hands. Part of him didn’t want to go inside. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or just the heavy depression that had settled over him since the Harnee’s kid had left the hospital. The odds probably weren’t in favor of another arson attempt tonight—though, who knew?—so he wasn’t sure what he might be afraid of. It must be sadness. Not because he had any real love for his cabin, but because this was yet another stain. Because for so long he’d felt covered in shame, fucking graffitied in it. Like no one could look at him without seeing layers and layers of ugliness. Couldn’t move without showing the world a worse side of himself. And now his cabin, the place most familiar to him—that was ugly too. Marked, ruined.
The sheriff had dropped him off here after their interview this morning. An uninspiring conversation during which they’d both agreed that a lot of people had reason to want to kill Daniel. Daniel forced himself to tell the sheriff about encountering Clayton McAllister out on the highway the other night. “But, uh, I don’t remember what happened,” he said. He waited for the sheriff to tell him that was bullshit, that he was lying. But Sheriff Joe only nodded. Maybe assumed Daniel meant he’d been too drunk to remember.
Sheriff Joe said he’d talk to Clayton McAllister before anyone else. The noose was gone from the mailbox post, and Daniel hadn’t said anything to the sheriff about it.
He walked inside. Smoke damage mostly. To the walls and window trim and the bedsheets. The front windows had shattered. The fire department had told him he might want to find a motel for a couple of days. But a motel didn’t have any of the things Daniel needed to sleep. He winced as he wandered into the bathroom and saw the plug still on the edge of the sink. Imagined what the fire investigator had thought seeing it.
What— Worried people might think you’re a freak or something?
Back out to the main room. Belman’s bolt cutters were on the floor. Daniel crouched, hugging his knees with one arm. Didn’t pick the bolt cutters up, just touched them.
He’d have to get them back to Belman. And that might mean seeing Belman again. He took a deep breath. Remembered how it felt to breathe smoke. To know he was going to die.
No.
Remembered instead how it felt to hold his hand out to Belman to be cuffed. The look in Belman’s eyes that Daniel couldn’t read. Cuffing him was supposed to be practical—Daniel needed to be locked up; Belman had cuffs. And yet there’d been that moment, Daniel’s pulse racing under Belman’s hand. Marcus’s voice in Daniel’s head: “You like what we do, don’t you?”
Daniel had wanted to. Had wanted to let himself like it. But he couldn’t afford to have opinions about it one way or the other, not when it was so necessary. He picked his cell phone up off the bedside table. It seemed all right, just low on battery. As he wandered into the kitchen, the phone rang in his hand. He didn’t recognize the number, and he figured he shouldn’t answer it.
But he was so fucking lonely.
He took the call. “H’lo?”
“Daniel Whitlock?”
“Yeah.”
“Officer Belman.”
Daniel went still. “Hi.” What did Belman want? Had they figured out who started the fire?
“I just . . . I got your number from the hospital. Just calling to let you know I still got your keys.” Belman paused. “I came by to give them to you last night. Thought you might want your car back. It’s still out behind Greenducks; I checked.”
“Oh.” Daniel glanced at the counter. There was a brown house spider by the sponge on the edge of the sink. “I can, uh . . . Maybe when I get a ride to town I can come by the station.”
“You want me to bring ’em by? Then I can drive you to get your car.”
Daniel flicked the spider into the sink. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll get a ride.” Or walk. A walk would do him some good. Kill a few hours, too. “You’ve got plenty to do.”
“It’s my day off.”
Daniel gave a small smile. Realized he was clutching the phone too hard. “Even worse.” He watched the spider unfurl and start crawling again.
“I’ll come by,” Belman said. “I got some stuff to talk to you about. About the investigation.”
“Pushy,” Daniel whispered. But he was smiling just a little bit.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Y
ou can come by. I’m just here. I’m not doing noth—anything.”
“All right. I’ll be by in a little while.”
Belman hung up. Daniel lowered the phone slowly and hit End. He traced the bruise on his left wrist with one finger, daring to imagine for a moment that the touch was Belman’s. He pressed the pad of his finger into the mess of flattened capillaries, holding his breath through the slight ache.
He’s seen. He’s seen you chained to your bed. He’s seen you about to die. He’s seen you in your underwear.
And he’s known for years you’re a murderer. That you don’t belong anywhere. That you’re a dangerous fucking animal. What would he say if he knew you wanted him to touch you? If he knew you thought about him last night? He’d hate you more than he does already.
Daniel eased up on the bruise. Let the smile return.
Ah, well. What’s one more stain?
Bel drove Whitlock into town feeling as nervous and uncertain as he had his first day of work. He was in his regular car, a ’92 gray Volvo—not the cruiser. So Whitlock was up front this time, and Bel actually had to turn his head to sneak glances instead of using the mirror. Whitlock didn’t talk, which was okay by Bel. Bel didn’t know what to say, despite what he’d told Whitlock about needing to update him on the investigation.
As they approached downtown, Whitlock finally spoke. “The other night . . . when you gave me a ride . . . you told me it wasn’t smart to goad Clayton.”
He didn’t go on. “Yeah?” Bel prompted.
“What did . . . what did I say to Clayton, exactly?”
Bel threw a look at Whitlock. “You don’t remember?”
Whitlock shook his head.
“You asked if he wanted to suck your dick. Called him a cunt.”
Whitlock flinched.
“To be fair, he said some shit to you first. Threw a beer can.”
“He hates me pretty well.”
“Well enough to want to kill you?”
“I told the sheriff I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe now that I said that to him. He was real good friends with Kenny.”
Bel remembered Clayton on the witness stand. Those tears had been real enough. “Yeah, well, Kenny ain’t worth being broke up over,” Bel said before he could stop himself.
Whitlock didn’t answer. Stared at his hands, which were folded in his lap. Bel glanced at the bruises around Whitlock’s wrists.
“You lock yourself up every night?” Bel asked, because why the hell not? He was used to asking people questions they didn’t want to answer.
“Yeah,” Whitlock said. “Most nights.”
“Because you do bad shit?”
“I don’t know. Afraid I might.”
“Were you asleep the other night? In my car?”
Whitlock was silent a while. “Woke up. Didn’t know how I’d gotten there.”
“You acted all right,” Bel said, more aggressively than he’d meant to. “If I woke up in a cop car and didn’t know how I’d got there, I’d freak out.”
Whitlock cleared his throat. “Pretty used to it. Not cop cars. But waking up someplace and not knowing how I got there.”
“Just don’t seem very likely.”
“No,” Whitlock agreed. “It doesn’t.”
Bel hadn’t expected Whitlock to agree with him. They pulled up in front of Greenducks. “How long’s it been going on?”
“Since I was a kid.”
“Jesus.” Bel took a hand off the wheel to scratch his neck. “And you did, like, crazy stuff back then?”
“Not like what I do now.”
Bel shut the car off and turned to face Whitlock. The Volvo had red leather seats and a velvet ceiling, like a hearse. Whitlock was pale except for twin spots of color in his cheeks. “So what happens if you don’t use the cuffs? If you let yourself sleepwalk?” Bel could barely say the word; it sounded so ridiculous.
Whitlock stared at him, absently rubbing a bruised wrist. “I wander around like I’m tweaked out. I go to Harnee’s. I cook. I fuck. And one time I did something a whole lot worse than any of that.”
“You fuck,” Bel repeated, knowing this was a dangerous thing to fixate on. That maybe they ought to talk about what happened with Kenny, or possible solutions for Whitlock’s problem, but Bel wanted to know about the fucking.
Whitlock’s color deepened. “Yeah.”
“In your sleep? That ain’t possible.”
“It is, and I’ve done it.”
“How do you know?”
“People told me.” Whitlock’s mouth trembled for a second before his expression hardened again.
“You know you sound crazy, right?” Bel asked. “How do you know you’re not just crazy?”
“I don’t fucking know!” There was that deep, jagged pain in Whitlock’s eyes again, a sort of brutal disappointment, like something he’d hoped for had fallen through. He closed his right hand around his left wrist. “If I ain’t crazy naturally, I feel crazy from not sleeping. So maybe I am crazy. Maybe I fucking am!”
“All right, settle down,” Bel said, in what Dav called his cop voice. The one that was authoritative, calm, and brooked no fucking argument.
Whitlock glared. “You done with me?”
“I told you I’m off duty. This ain’t an interrogation.”
“Feels like one.”
Bel felt heat rise in him, a sort of frustrated, half-stifled rush of want. Not for Whitlock. Not just for Whitlock. A want for things to make sense. For Whitlock to make sense, for his own feelings to make sense. He felt his hand drifting toward Whitlock’s, because he wanted to be the one covering those bruises, and he only just stopped himself in time. The heat was in his throat and face, in his groin and fingertips.
“It’s not,” Bel said fiercely, his voice low. He leaned toward Whitlock, using his height, his broad shoulders, wanting to see if Whitlock would pull back. “You do whatever you want.”
Whitlock leaned forward and kissed him. Just a brush of his dry lips over Bel’s, and a brief press of Whitlock’s forehead against his own. His eyes closed as he leaned against Bel, and it was a moment he was only able to steal because Bel was too shocked to move away.
The kiss had been electric, not because of passion or lust or any of that bullshit, but because it left Bel stunned, his body shivering with a strange current, a fear, a need, an uncertainty. Whitlock opened his eyes. Bel looked right into them, finding flecks of gold and green in the brown, wishing he didn’t have to decide what to do next, wishing his only job was to look at those colors.
“You awake right now?” Bel asked, only half-joking.
“Wide awake,” Whitlock whispered, and there was an intensity and danger in his eyes different from what Bel had convinced himself he’d seen those nights at Harnee’s. This expression was calculated, almost playful, and it dissolved quickly, replaced by a soft vulnerability that pulled at Bel. “Guess I am crazy.”
Whitlock wasn’t the only one.
Bel ripped off his seat belt, lunged forward, and kissed Whitlock hard to show him he wasn’t crazy—not right now, not for doing this. Bel cupped Whitlock’s face with one hand, his other finding the man’s wrist. He held it gently, running his thumb over the veins in the back of Whitlock’s hand.
Whitlock gave a little sigh into Bel’s mouth. He tasted like the hospital. Bel didn’t understand how that worked, just that there was a combination of sterility and staleness and bland food on Whitlock’s breath, and it didn’t bother Bel a bit. Whitlock pulled back slightly, his lips still parted. His inhale moved his whole body in a series of small jerks. He glanced down, and Bel didn’t know what he was looking at, but then Bel looked down too and his gaze fell on the front of Whitlock’s pants, the swell there. Bel’s own cock was full, his breathing ragged.
They caught each other’s lips again, and this time Bel lost track of how long they stayed in their awkward embrace, Bel’s elbow digging hard into the console, Whitlock’s seat belt scraping the side of his neck. Whitlock�
�s breaths turned into whimpers, and Bel rode a surge of desire, running his hand down Whitlock’s chest, feeling his heart pound through his shirt. He continued down, stopping at Whitlock’s belt. Whitlock tangled a hand in Bel’s hair and pulled.
Bel drew back. “Someone’s gonna see.”
“I don’t care.”
“Maybe you don’t . . .” Bel was panting hard.
“But you got a reputation to keep,” Whitlock said.
“I wanna . . .” But Bel couldn’t finish.
Whitlock leaned back in his seat. Took a few deep breaths. “I’ll go get my car.”
“Tonight,” Bel said, because he couldn’t stop the words. “You gonna stay out in those woods? By yourself?”
Whitlock looked uncomfortable. “Who else would I stay out there with?”
Bel tried to quiet the voice that was jeering, You kissed Daniel Whitlock. You kissed Daniel Whitlock, a murderer. A psychopath, and you kissed him. “You could stay in town. The motel.”
“I wanna go home.”
“’Cause you gotta lock yourself up?”
“Yeah.” Whitlock wouldn’t look at him now.
“It ain’t safe. You gotta know that, after what happened.”
“It ain’t safe for anyone else if I don’t do it.”
“I don’t get it. How’s it work? How do you get out in the morning?”
“There’s ice in the locks. When it melts, I can open the lock and get the keys to the cuffs.” Whitlock said it without inflection, staring out the windshield. “I’ve tried other ways, but that’s the safest. If the keys are anywhere I can reach them, I get them in my sleep and unlock myself.”
“Shit,” Bel said.
“Yeah.”
“How long’s the ice take to melt?”
“Three hours. I set the alarm so I get up and let myself out.”
“You telling me you get three hours of sleep a night? No wonder you feel crazy.”
“Sometimes I put another set of locks in the freezer. So when I get up I can replace the locks and go back to sleep another couple hours.”
Bel leaned back. “Hell. Hell, I’d kill myself.”
