Convicted

by Kim Fielding

  “Our chief wanted us to keep an eye on you. Sorry. We weren’t supposed to be too obvious about it.”

  “You’re being obvious now.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are. How about if we move this into the kitchen so we can see what the fuck we’re doing?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Either Townsend had known about the East Coast involvement and had lied, or else he didn’t know and was part of some obscure power struggle between the East and West Coast Divisions. Either way, Kurt was furious. He had bigger issues to deal with, real problems like finding the fucking boxes before the bad guys did and figuring out a way to keep Des out of prison. When he called Townsend tonight, he was going to burn up the fucking phone lines.

  Seething, he pushed past Des and followed Canfield into the kitchen. He had barely stepped inside when the first bullet hit him in the shoulder, knocking him back several feet. The second one struck his abdomen, and he fell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The shots were quieter than Des expected gunshots to be, so even as Kurt collapsed, Des hadn’t quite sussed out what was going on. He stood stupidly in the doorway, watching as blood darkened Kurt’s gray T-shirt.

  Then the man with the gun—Agent Finch, presumably—barked, “Come on in here.”

  Des obeyed, feeling as though he was caught in a very bad dream. When he moved to kneel beside Kurt—Jesus Christ, Kurt!—Finch brandished the gun. “Get away from him!”

  Kurt was looking up at Des, desperately trying to communicate something with his eyes, but Des didn’t know what.

  “Let me help—” Des began.

  “Move away!”

  So Des did, although he remained as close to Kurt as he could. He knew Kurt carried a gun, but Kurt’s right arm was hanging limply at his side, the shoulder a bloody mess, and it was clear he was in no shape to draw his weapon.

  “Why’d you shoot him?” As if the answer mattered. But Des couldn’t think straight, couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t envision a reasonable course of action.

  “Do you know how to work the boxes?” asked Canfield. “If you do—if you can prove it—we can offer you a way better deal than the Bureau. We can offer you freedom.” She smiled sharply.

  “Y-you’re not Bureau agents?”

  Her smile widened. “Not anymore.”

  No time for this bullshit, Desmond.

  “Help Kurt—stop the bleeding and call an ambulance—and I’ll tell you.”

  Kurt groaned, but Des couldn’t tell if that was due the pain or to Des’s words.

  Canfield’s smile didn’t dim, and Des saw something familiar in her eyes—the same fierce madness he’d seen in Larry’s, once upon a time. That was what a person looked like when they’d sacrifice anything for power. “Powell’s dead already,” she said. “D’you want to join him? Or cooperate and live?”

  She might let him live all right, but he’d be pinned under her thumb even more neatly than he had been under Krane’s. And how much death and destruction would she and Finch bring with the boxes?

  Stop dithering, you fucking idiot! Kurt’s life was seeping out of him, pooling on the dirty linoleum, and all Des could think of was the Oscar Wilde book that these two wankers had destroyed. For only blood can wipe out blood, and only tears can heal. It wasn’t just blood and tears that mattered though, was it? He was tied to the boxes with another body fluid.

  He was tied to the boxes.

  “Where’s the fucking box?” Canfield shouted. Finch was snarling and waving his gun; Kurt was on the ground, bleeding. Kurt, who’d been kind to Des from the beginning, even when Des didn’t deserve it; who was brave and strong and good; who would embrace Des to console him and lecture him to redeem him; who kissed like a man with his soul on fire and who tossed with nightmares every night; who loved his family and faced bigotry with dignity. Who had the courage to stand up to monsters but revealed his bruised core in only tiny, tentative glimpses.

  Kurt, who trusted Des to steer his ship well.

  Des reached deep into his essence—to the very cells that made him—and surged that sense of self outward into every musty, hidden corner of the house. And there it was, under loose earth in the cellar, reaching back to him: the box.

  It was a terrible ecstasy to channel power from the box into himself. His nerves sang and his cock grew heavy. He heard Larry’s laughter ringing through the empty rooms as Des pointed a finger at Finch. “Loscadh is dó ort,” Des whispered, because a curse needn’t be shouted to work. It was a phrase his mam used to roar when his father stumbled home drunk and heavy-handed, a souvenir of her childhood in Donegal. And later she’d snapped it at Des when he was vexing her beyond all tolerance. May you be burned and scorched.

  With a boom, Finch burst into flames.

  Shrieking and flailing, he lurched around the kitchen, stumbling into walls and cabinetry and setting them ablaze too. He dropped his gun along the way, but that hardly mattered as his blazing body collapsed near a corner and his screams faded.

  Canfield, however, had a gun too, and she was lifting it. But right now Des was almost faster than light. He pointed his finger again and repeated the curse. Canfield erupted into a pillar of fire that immediately engulfed the ceiling.

  Larry’s laughter rumbled louder than the conflagration. Good, good, good, Desmond. Now more. Feel me in you. Burn the whole town. Burn it all. The power was intoxicating and glorious, and Des felt so strong! Nobody could confine him. Nobody could control him.

  A man who isn’t in control of himself. That was Kurt’s voice. No—it was Des’s own.

  A great calm came over him. “I am in control.” And he turned the box’s power back on itself, burning the cedar to ashes.

  Then he scooped Kurt into his arms and ran from the blazing house.

  Things became hazy and jumbled, like a badly spliced film. Des knelt on damp grass, desperately using pressure and his own torn and wadded shirt in an attempt to stanch Kurt’s bleeding. Kurt wasn’t moving or speaking, but he still breathed and his gaze never left Des’s face. There were sirens, shouting, rough hands pulling him away from Kurt. Strangers yelling questions and commands at him. A ride in an ambulance? Needles and more hands—gentler—and loads more questions, the scents of charred flesh and chemicals. Des tried to speak a few times, to ask about Kurt. But if anyone answered him, he didn’t catch it through the fog. And then he was falling, blessedly falling into blackness.

  The man wasn’t wearing a doctor’s white coat or scrubs, and he wasn’t in a sheriff’s brown uniform, and for all that Des was grateful. He’d had more than his fill of those people, and after three days, the hospital room felt as confining as his cell.

  “Desmond Hughes,” said the man with a wide smile as he walked to Des’s bedside. He was some indeterminate age, maybe around sixty, with thin gray hair and a round face. His three-piece suit was too small for his portly frame, but he moved with surprising lightness and grace, as if the laws of gravity didn’t quite apply to him. He carried a fedora and smelled strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.

  “Yes?”

  The man stuck out a hand. “Townsend. Chief of the Bureau’s West Coast Division.”

  Des shook his hand automatically but didn’t pause for other niceties. “Kurt. Jesus Christ, what happened to Kurt? He was shot and nobody will tell me fucking anything.” He had propped himself onto his elbows, heart hammering rapidly against his ribs.

  “He’s all right,” Townsend replied in a soothing voice.

  “Oh, thank Christ,” sighed Desmond, falling back against the pillows. The giant fist in his stomach finally unclenched, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time since the fire.

  “He was badly hurt. Broken bone, internal tearing, blood loss, smoke inhalation…. But with time he’s expected to recover fully.”

  “Can I see him? Please? Just once more?”

  Townsend shook his head. “We flew him back to California.”

  Altho
ugh Des was disappointed, he knew it was better for Kurt to be near friends and family, and he nodded in acceptance. “I expect you want me to tell you what happened.”

  “Only a few minor details. Powell’s already given me the gist of it, and he’ll file a full report when he’s up to it.” Townsend’s expression turned grave. “He and I both owe you apologies.”

  That startled Des so thoroughly that he could only blink.

  “We misjudged, my boy, and made false assumptions. We forgot that Bureau agents can be tempted by the wrong path too. The East Coast chief has already resigned over this—she did a slipshod job of vetting and supervising her people.” Townsend seemed pleased over his colleague’s misfortune—so much so that a suspicious mind might wonder if he’d deliberately let things get out of hand so she’d be assigned the blame. Well, that wasn’t Des’s problem.

  “I killed those agents,” Des said.

  “Yes. In self-defense and while defending Powell. There’s no shame in it, and certainly no criminal liability.”

  Des had been weighing those deaths in his mind over the past three days and had decided his conscience could handle the additional burden. He wasn’t happy Canfield and Finch had died so horribly, but he was very happy that he and Kurt were alive.

  “I understand you destroyed the box as well,” said Townsend.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. But more exist, yes? You and Krane had two more stops between here and Kansas.”

  “One more in Arkansas and one in Oklahoma.”

  Townsend rubbed his fingers together as if he wished he were holding a cigarette. “Two of my men are on their way here. Well, they’re not truly my men, although one of them used to be one of my agents. They still do consulting work for me now and then, and I think it’s better right now to avoid official Bureau channels. I’d like you to help them finish the work you and Agent Powell began.”

  Well, that was a bit of good news. Des wouldn’t have to return to prison right away, and he could make sure nobody ever got their hands on those boxes. “I think Demeter’s finest might have some problems with that. They’ve been camped outside my door.”

  Townsend gave a jolly chuckle. “I’ve informed the sheriff’s department that their services are no longer needed. And the doctors tell me you’re in good condition. Do you feel up to traveling?”

  “Most definitely.” Honestly, he’d felt physically fine for some time. He’d experienced smoke inhalation and some minor burns, but his main problems after the fire had been bone-deep exhaustion and worry. Three days of sleep had cured the former, and news of Kurt’s condition resolved the latter.

  “Excellent.” Townsend rubbed his palms together. “Grimes and Tenrael should arrive shortly. I’ll tell them to pick up some clothing for you along the way. Wouldn’t do for you to go traipsing about in a hospital johnny. Aside from clothing and basic toiletries, is there anything else you’ll need for the journey?”

  Couldn’t hurt to ask. “Books? I don’t care what kind.”

  “Of course. Maybe we can find you a fresh copy of Reading Gaol.” Townsend winked.

  Des was still processing that when Townsend clapped twice. “May I see your right hand, please?”

  “What?”

  “Right hand.” Townsend pointed.

  Des’s left arm sported several hospital wristbands, but the right was bare except for the tracking device. Maybe Townsend wanted to confirm that the thing still worked properly. Sure enough, when Des obediently held out his arm, Townsend poked at the device with a tiny metal rod he’d removed from his pocket. But then, to Des’s complete astonishment, the bracelet fell from his wrist. Townsend caught it neatly in his palm and tucked bracelet and tool away.

  “Wh-what…?”

  “Officially, Desmond Hughes died in a fire in Demeter, Arkansas. That means, of course, that his life sentence is complete and the federal government no longer holds authority over him.” Townsend grinned like a kindly grandfather handing out Christmas presents. “Grimes will bring you some paperwork to help establish a new identity, along with a little cash to start you on your way.”

  There were no words. Des was very close to fainting dead away, like a maiden in a Victorian tale. Arm still hanging in midair, he gaped. “B-but….”

  “You’re a free man, my boy. I hope you use this opportunity well.” Townsend plopped the fedora onto his head, winked again, and glided out of the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You make the world’s worst patient,” Maryann complained, snatching a plate out of Kurt’s hands. “You go sit down. I’ll wash up.”

  “You divorced me. I’m not supposed to be your problem.” But Kurt shuffled into his living room and threw himself down on the couch. Harder than he should have—he winced as his stitches pulled—but he was making a point. Of some kind.

  Water ran and dishes clinked in the kitchen. Several minutes later Maryann walked into the living room, drying her hands on a red-checked kitchen towel. “You are still my problem, Kurt Powell, because you are my son’s father. And if you don’t let yourself heal properly, my son’s not going to have a father to rely on. So keep your butt on that couch.”

  “Then let Jason do the dishes and other chores. Isn’t that what teenagers are for?”

  “Jason has track practice today, which you know perfectly well. But tomorrow’s Saturday, and you can make him work all day. All the while, he’ll be rolling his eyes and moaning about how unfair life is.”

  Kurt grinned. “Perfect.”

  Maryann draped the towel over a chair and came to sit beside him. She had her hair up in a complicated-looking scarf arrangement, which he knew meant she hadn’t been in the mood to fuss with it today. She looked attractive. Aside from gaining a few pounds—which suited her—she appeared nearly the same as when he’d met her twenty years ago. He, on the other hand, had aged centuries.

  “You’re doing okay,” she said. Statement, not a question.

  “All things considered.”

  “What will you do when you’re healed?”

  “Go back to work.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And let them put more holes in you?”

  “I’ll try to avoid that part.” He set one of his hands on hers, feeling her solidity travel through to him as it always had. Maryann had a few human faults, but she was strong. “It’s what I do, Mar. It’s funny, really. Before this mission I was feeling burned out. As if I were just running in circles, getting nowhere. Now I’m not.”

  “That’s what happens when you almost die? You find your purpose?” She was smiling fondly, a familiar expression that said she didn’t understand him but loved him anyway.

  “I guess so. Some of the things that happened reminded me why I do what I do. Reminded me it’s worthwhile. Even worth risking my neck over.”

  She tsked and shook her head. “Your mama and daddy would never have forgiven you if you’d died in Arkansas.”

  It hurt when he laughed too hard, but he did it anyway. Then he gave her a gentle smile. “I’m so lucky. Bullet holes and all. And as soon as I’m able, I’m going back in the field and doing as much good as I can, the best way I know how.”

  “I knew you would, baby.”

  She opened her mouth to say more, but the doorbell rang. Kurt waved her away to answer it himself. He could damn well walk across his own living room and open the front door.

  Des stood on the little concrete porch.

  He looked beautiful in jeans, T-shirt, and black leather jacket, with his sun-streaked blond hair hanging slightly in his face and his mouth curled into a tentative smile. Kurt’s pulse began to gallop, and he clutched at the doorframe for support.

  “Hi,” Des said.

  “Hi.”

  “You going to invite me in?”

  “Have you turned into a vampire?”

  Des’s smile turned up a few notches. “You’re the one who teetered on the brink of his grave.”

  “And you pulled me back.
Come in, Des.”

  Maryann was hovering right there, of course, and Kurt had to perform introductions. They both looked as if they’d love to interrogate each other about Kurt, who was relieved when Maryann sighed instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, rather pointedly. She’d clearly be expecting a briefing. In a flurry of shoes and tote bags and keys, she was gone, leaving Kurt and Des standing awkwardly near the door.

  Kurt took a deep breath. “How did you—”

  “We have some private-eye acquaintances in common. Interesting blokes, by the way. Very interesting. And they didn’t mind finding your address for me.”

  Kurt needed to have a talk with Grimes and Tenrael about divulging private information. Right. He suppressed a smile.

  “Townsend told me the three of you found the rest of the boxes.”

  “And destroyed them.”

  Kurt wanted to reach out and touch Des, to confirm the reality of him. He looked away instead. “I’m sorry, Des. I fucked up. I should have—”

  “Shut up, Kurt. If you think I dragged my ass all the way across the country just to hear you apologize, you’re a fool. And I don’t want to hear any ‘thank you for saving me’ either.”

  “Why did you come here, then?” Kurt tried to quell the hopefulness in his voice but doubted his success.

  “To point out to you— Wait. Did Townsend tell you what he did? How I’m free now?”

  “Yeah.” And as far as Kurt was concerned, nobody need ever know that he’d hung up the phone and sobbed with relief and joy after that discussion. Or that he’d spent every day since trying not to wish for Des on his doorstep.

  “Then I’d like to point out that I am officially and completely a man in control of himself.” That was hope on Des’s face; Kurt recognized it. And yearning. That was familiar too.

  Warmth spread throughout his body. “You’re the most in-control man I know.”

  The only warning he had was a slight widening of Des’s eyes, and then Des was on him—hard enough to jostle Kurt’s injuries, but who the fuck cared? Des was in his arms. Kurt buried his nose in Des’s hair and inhaled deeply. This. Yes. This was what he needed. God, he’d needed this for years.