by Gregory Ashe
And then his eyes welled up and he had to cover his face again.
When the cyclone died down, Hazard drew in a sloppy breath, scrubbed his face, and tried not to feel like his head was a trailer park at the bad end of Tornado Alley. Somers’s hand was still moving in those light, leisurely strokes.
“Normally,” Somers said drily, “I’d give you the option to talk or not to talk. But since your default setting is not talking, I think I’m going to say you should probably put some of this stuff into words.”
“The case—”
“Your feelings, dummy. You’re bottling this all up, and it isn’t good for you.”
Three months ago, Hazard would have rolled away from his boyfriend, would have gone to hide in the darkness. A year ago, he would have tried to fight: first with words, then with his fists. Anything to keep Somers from getting close.
But Hazard wanted this: Somers, the dull heat of his hand, the smell of tea tree oil, the wetness of his hair like a bloom against Hazard’s heart. The way he asked questions. The way he hadn’t shushed Hazard when that cyclone of emotion had caught him; he had just waited.
“I saw Mitchell in the grocery store. I don’t know, a few weeks ago. Maybe less. He was by himself.” Hazard shifted. “I don’t know why the fuck he was by himself. He got fucking carved up by a fucking maniac, and what, nobody can fucking help him pick up his fucking groceries? I mean, for fuck’s sake, I told him I’d help. He can’t pick up the fucking phone and tell me he needs help? Instead, I’ve got to see him crutching down Aisle 7 of the Safeway, and I’m such a fucking coward that I hide. Even when he drops a fucking jar of pickles, even when I hear the glass break from the next aisle over, I just fucking hide. And he can’t pick it up, you know, because of the crutches. And I’m just standing there, staring at all the fucking bread, the same worthless piece of shit who let him get taken and cut to ribbons.”
“This isn’t a criticism, just pointing out: you are yelling kind of loud, and it’s pretty late.”
“You think I don’t fucking know—”
“That was very impressive.”
Hazard decided to ignore that.
“Excellent self-control.”
Shaking his head, Hazard stared into the memory.
“I’m sensing some conflict here,” Somers said, tapping on Hazard’s chin. “You’re mad that he didn’t ask you for help, but you’re also not ready to see him.”
“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me.”
“Why don’t you want to see him?”
“I said don’t.”
“I’m not. I’m just asking.”
“Because I got him—”
“No. We’re not doing that anymore, right? No more bottomless black abyss of guilt.”
“This psychopath who calls himself the Keeper of Bees took Mitchell, Phil, and Rory because they had a marginal connection to me. He wanted to play a game, John. A game that I lost. Mitchell was my first client, and because of that, he nearly died. Phil and Rory did die because of me.”
“They died because of a sadistic son of a bitch, Ree. Not because of you. And Mitchell is only alive because you found him.”
“I—”
“And you weren’t afraid to see him before. You went to his hospital room. You talked to him. You got as much information as you could out of him. You offered to help him whenever he needed it.” Somers shifted again. “Tell me what’s different.”
“What’s different,” Hazard said, feeling himself ramp up again, the only defense he had against the cyclone that was building in his chest, “what’s so fucking different, John, what’s such a big fucking difference now is that I’ve gotten absolutely fucking nowhere with this case. Is that too fucking hard for you to fucking understand?”
For the first time since they had lain down together, Somers propped himself on an elbow to meet Hazard’s eyes. The look lasted ten seconds, twenty.
Hazard broke first. “I’m sorry.”
As Somers settled back under Hazard’s arm, he said, “You haven’t gotten nowhere. You’ve made some progress.”
“What fucking progress have I fucking made, John?”
Somers poked him.
With a grunt, Hazard batted his hand away. “Let’s hear it. What fucking amazing development into this fucking dead-end case have I—”
Somers poked him again.
Hazard shoved his hand away. “What’s my big fucking success story with the psychopath, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to say to Mitchell when I see him lugging an economy-size jar of pickles down Aisle fucking 7, John? What the fuck am I supposed to tell him? ‘Hey, Mitchell, I’m sure it’s a big relief to know that I’ve done a few fucking Google—’ Jesus fucking Christ, John. Do that again and I’ll break your finger.”
“Quit being such a drama queen, and I’ll stop.”
“John—”
“What have you learned in the last month?”
“If you’d give me a fucking minute to explain—”
“Just the facts, please.”
“I’m trying to make you fucking understand—”
“Just the facts. Or I’m going to poke you again.”
Hazard barely recognized the strangled sound in his throat, although he had been making it more and more often in the year since he had fallen in love again with John-Henry Somerset.
“You and Dulac have the case,” he finally managed to say. “You know everything I know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“No forensic evidence. Nothing from the killer, anyway.”
“And?”
“And I found two references to the Keeper of Bees that might be significant. Might. I’ve spent days trawling the web, and that’s all I’ve come up with, two.”
Somers lifted his head; Hazard hadn’t told him this part yet, and Somers held up two fingers to show his acknowledgment.
“The first one comes from Vergil. The Georgics. Aristaeus is a beekeeper.” He paused. “Do you know the Orpheus and Eurydice myth?”
“No. I’ve never heard of Orpheus and Eurydice. Never ever.”
“Orpheus is—” Hazard cut and frowned. “You’re teasing me.”
“Technically, I’m baiting you. Orpheus is a child of the gods, kind of a god himself, whose music could move stones and trees and everything else. Eurydice is the woman he loves. She dies when a snake bites her. Orpheus goes down into the underworld, uses his music to free her, and almost gets back to the surface. He breaks the one condition of her release, though, right before they escape: he looks back. She disappears, and he can’t rescue her again.”
Hazard grunted. “In that story Aristaeus is the reason Eurydice dies; he tries to rape her, and when she runs, she steps on a snake or over a snake or something, and she dies.”
“Ok,” Somers said slowly. “And the other one?”
“A book called The Keeper of Bees, by Gene Stratton-Porter. It’s about a World War I veteran returning to California, trying to find healing. There is a literal beekeeper who helps him.” Hazard shrugged. “They adapted it into a movie, too. Several times. One of them, the 1947 adaptation, has vanished. Nobody can figure out where it went. So maybe it’s about that, the way three men disappeared.” He made a disgusted noise in his throat. “What the hell am I talking about?”
“You think our killer is drawing inspiration from a book about a World War I veteran? Or from a dead Roman poet?”
“I think it’s all bullshit. I think they’re dead ends; another joke, another way of wasting my time while he laughs. Is that what I’m supposed to tell Mitchell? I’ve got nothing; I can’t tell him a single new development in the investigation, but, oh, isn’t this nifty, maybe this psychopath is making a carefully crafted allusion to a lost 1947 adaptation from a book critical of World War I’s effect on the Doughboys.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I have nothing else, John. I’ve hit a dead end every way I’
ve tried to go.” He ran a hand through his hair; the words kept coming. “And I know it’s important to take the jobs that come my way. I know I’m building a business, and in a small town, I need every job I can get. I know money is money, and we’ve got a mortgage and a daughter and bills. But Hoffmeister’s case, running down more dead ends, this is a waste of my time. I should be focusing on the Keeper. I should be spending every minute of every day tracking down this psycho.”
Somers trailed his fingers over Hazard’s ribs, rubbing the spot he had been poking.
“I know that’s stupid,” Hazard said into the silence. “I know it, ok? I know everything I said before, the bills, the mortgage, setting aside money for Evie’s college, I know that’s what matters. I know I can’t just disappear down this one rabbit hole. But, damn it, John. I am so goddamn frustrated. And I can’t look Mitchell in the face while all I’m doing is standing around with my dick in my hand, waiting for the lunatic to come back and finish what he started.”
“Number one,” Somers said. “You need to talk to Mitchell again. See if he’s remembered anything else. Tell him what you found, about the references to the beekeeper. It won’t be easy, but you need to do it. When we’ve talked to him, he shuts down; he’s different with you, Ree. He trusts you. He came to you about Fabbri and the murder. He hired you because he trusts you. So you need to talk to him. This is a case, and you need to work it like a case, even if it hurts.”
“Thanks a fucking lot for the sympathy.”
“Number two, you know, and I know, that most murder cases play out the exact same way: you do the grunt work, you do it right, and you do it until it pays off and you’ve got the killer. This isn’t any different, even if the guy is insane. You keep doing the boring work, running down every lead, smacking face-first into every dead end, until you get him. Until we get him.”
Hazard grunted.
“Number three, you absolutely have to keep working because I expect you to provide me with a certain quality of life. Diamonds. Caviar. Probably two or three yachts, just to get started.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t make you return those new pants, John. Thirty dollars for new pants? Jesus Christ. You can get a new pair for eighteen dollars at Walmart.”
Somers rolled his eyes and burrowed deeper under Hazard’s arm. “We’ll find this guy, Ree. We will.”
Hazard grunted.
They lay like that for a while. Then Hazard ran a hand down Somers’s back, counting the vertebrae, tracing the dark ink that swirled over golden skin. He stretched for the lamp.
“No,” Somers said. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet. Can you just talk for a while? About anything else? I don’t want to have that fucking psycho be the last thing we talk about before I go to bed.”
“I was watching this documentary on trans-abled individuals, and they referenced elective amputation as the most statistically likely—”
“No.”
“It’s an important study, John. And it’s on the rise. In 2017, the number of elective surgeries for trans-abled—”
“No.” Somers rolled into him, kissing his chest. “No documentaries. Tell me something else.”
Hazard thought for a moment. “I’ve done some calculations on the current balance in the escrow account, compared to the last quote we received for home insurance and the property taxes assessed on the house, and I think we can—”
“Oh God,” Somers groaned. “No. Something else.”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“I don’t know. Something about you. I want to talk about you. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You know everything.”
“Of course I don’t. I don’t even know half the things I should know about you. What’s your favorite, um, Broadway musical?”
“Ok. Goodnight.”
“No, stop,” Somers said, laughing as he caught Hazard’s arm and they pretended to struggle, Hazard reaching for the lamp. “Is it The Music Man? No, no. I’ve got it. Evita. It’s Evita, right?”
“Goodnight, John.”
“A different question, then.”
Hazard let Somers drag his arm away from the lamp.
“What’s your favorite movie? Not a documentary,” he added in a rush. “Fiction movie. Cinema.”
“I don’t watch movies.”
“Yes, you do. What’s your favorite?”
Hazard watched Somers from under half-closed lids. Somers looked transformed: flushed, almost boyish, the wet hair drying into the unruly spikes Hazard was accustomed to. Happy, Hazard realized. Because Hazard had bent him over a sink? If that was all it took, Hazard wouldn’t mind implementing the solution more frequently.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Somers said, slapping Hazard’s chest just hard enough to sting. “You’re thinking dirty thoughts.”
“I think dirty thoughts about ninety-seven percent of the time when I’m looking at you.”
“Movie. Now.”
Hazard let his eyes narrow to slits.
“No,” Somers said. “You can’t fuck your way out of this one.”
“Let me try,” Hazard said, hands sliding to rest on Somers’s waist.
“Emery Hazard, for the love of all that is good, name one movie that you like.”
In an easy, practiced movement, Hazard rolled, carrying Somers with him, pinning the smaller man beneath him.
“Novecento,” Hazard said, bending to kiss his boyfriend.
Somers stopped him by planting a hand on his chest. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and began tapping at the screen one-handed. While Somers did this, Hazard bore down on him, never too much, but enough that Somers grunted and shoved him back once or twice, not letting Hazard get close enough to kiss him.
Then Somers groaned and dropped the phone. “You are kidding me.”
“Come on,” Hazard said. “I’ll be gentler this time.”
“You have got to be kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’ll be nicer. I’ll be really nice.”
“Oh please,” Somers snapped, shoving him back again and then sitting up. “You couldn’t not be gentle if your life depended on it. You handled me with kid gloves tonight, and don’t pretend it was anything else.”
Hazard opened his mouth.
“I want you to tell me you’re kidding about this.” He held up the phone. “Novecento: the epic tale of class struggle in 20th-century Italy.”
“It’s a historically complex accounting of Italian Marxism and—”
“It’s five and a half hours long.”
“The characters and plot are allegorical for the 19th-century development of the Italian state as part of a broader sociopolitical program of disenfranchisement—”
“Stop, stop, stop.” Somers tossed the phone. He still looked so young, so vibrant, full of life in a way that was driving Hazard wild. “You’re lucky you grew up to be pretty.”
Hazard growled and moved forward until he was straddling Somers. He took Somers’s head carefully in his hands, tilting it, baring Somers’s throat.
Somers’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down; a thread worked its way through his voice as he said, “You’re lucky you’re big and muscley now.”
Hazard nuzzled at his neck.
Somers’s breath hitched. His next words were fuzzy: “You’re lucky I like guys with brains, even when they’ve got shit poor taste in movies—”
Before he could finish, Hazard reared back, catching his jaw in a tight grip, forcing him up to meet his gaze.
“Guys?” Hazard asked in that low rumble.
“Oh fuck,” Somers whispered.
Hazard’s head dipped in, his next word hot on Somers’s ear. “Plural?”
“Oh fuck,” Somers whispered again, a little higher this time. “Just you, Ree, just you, just—”
“John,” Hazard said, releasing his jaw and flattening Somers onto the mattress. He kne
e-walked until he was over Somers, and then he stretched, exposing hardened slabs of muscle in his thighs, abdomen, chest, arms. “Be quiet now and fuck me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DECEMBER 19
WEDNESDAY
1:16 PM
HAZARD WAS IN HIS OFFICE, afternoon sunlight picking out the scrapes and gouges in the old wooden floor, when the call came.
“I already ate lunch,” he said. “And I packed you tuna on rye. And those chips you like. And carrot sticks. You need to eat the carrot sticks too.”
“Ree, it’s Hoffmeister. He’s dead.”
“What?” Hazard rolled back from the desk, grabbing his keys and his coat. “Where? Do you have a lead on the shooter? Any witnesses? I’m getting in the car.”
“Slow down,” Somers said. “We’re at his house. It wasn’t a shooter, Ree. He hanged himself.”
“What?”
“Come over and take a look; Cravens wants to talk to you.”
Driving through the run-down neighborhood where Hoffmeister had lived, Hazard ran scenarios. What could have carried Walter Hoffmeister to suicide? Statistically, the most common reason for suicide was severe depression, but Hoffmeister hadn’t shown any of the signs. He hadn’t seemed listless, despondent, or withdrawn. He hadn’t said anything to hint at the possibility. Other mental health factors for suicide included schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and borderline personality disorder. Hoffmeister had shown a sense of being persecuted, which could often be a sign of schizophrenia, but in Hoffmeister’s case it had been legitimate: Hazard had been standing in the doorway when the shooting happened.
As Hazard pulled up in front of the brick house, he ran through more possibilities. Traumatic stress? Perhaps; someone had been terrorizing Hoffmeister for weeks. And everyone had issues in their past they hadn’t addressed, so perhaps the torture had drawn out a hidden trauma. Hazard had always considered Hoffmeister more likely to be the one to traumatize someone else, the way he had with Andy-Jack Strout, but often abusers were the former victims of abuse.
Or, Hazard thought, unbuckling himself, substance abuse could lead to suicide. Hoffmeister openly abused alcohol. And Hoffmeister also was facing the possibility of serious losses: the loss of his job and freedom if the criminal case against him was successfully prosecuted; certainly the loss of his savings and retirement if the civil case went forward. The possibility of loss drove some people to take their own lives.
