Butcher's Road (35 page)

They made their way to the couch and Hollis reclined. Butch lay over the top of him and immediately returned to rubbing against the man. He felt Hollis’s hands on his buttocks, holding firmly and pulling to encourage the aggressive massage, and when Butch felt himself nearing climax, he rolled to the side for fear of bringing the encounter to an end. Hollis rolled too so that they were face to face. Butch took in the man’s face, its strength and kindness, and he experienced a moment of complete peace. His passion had ebbed only a fraction, but his concerns were absolutely gone. His thoughts were clear. His body felt light, yet sensitive to every fiber of the sofa, every hair on Hollis’s chest. Butch closed his eyes. A moment later, he felt Hollis’s lips pressing softly against his.

Later, after both men had climaxed, they lay on the sofa with Butch on his side and Hollis on his back. Propped up on his elbow, Butch rested his hand on Hollis’s chest.

(And now,
Hollis thought,
he’ll make his excuses and go to bed and in the morning, he’ll be angry or deny the act outright, maybe he’ll manage to figure out a way to blame me for what happened. He’ll pull some shit. That much is for sure. Men’s opinions changed about three seconds after their sacks emptied.
)

Butch scooted and adjusted his frame on the sofa, but he found the two of them only fit on the furniture together if they were stacked or laid out on their sides. He threw a leg over Hollis and did his best to reach the floor without disturbing the man. At the bar cart, he lifted the glasses of whiskey Hollis had poured and carried them back to the reclining man. He offered Hollis the glass. Hollis thanked him and raised himself to a sitting position.

“Thank you,” Butch said, clicking his glass against Hollis’s.

“Sure,” Hollis said. (
This is it. Now, he escapes to build his excuses.
)

After taking a sip of the drink, Butch rubbed the back of his head. He yawned. He said, “I’m going to head into bed.”

“Okay,” Hollis said.

Butch couldn’t help but notice a flash of emotion—What was it? Anger? Sadness?—skipping across Hollis’s face. The expression came and went too quickly for Butch to identify. It was probably nothing. Butch couldn’t think of a thing to be angry or sad about.

“You coming with me?” Butch asked.

Now Hollis looked surprised. Again, Butch couldn’t figure the why of it, but it wasn’t as if he were in familiar territory right now. In fact he’d rarely been in territory this strange. The brief moments with his cousin and the longer, though admittedly one-sided, exchanges with the Weeping Clown bore little resemblance to what he and Hollis had shared. He wondered if he was meant to retire on his own. Is that how this worked?

“Or are you going upstairs?” Butch said.

“No,” Hollis said. He lifted himself from the sofa. He went to the cart and grabbed the bottle of whiskey.

In bed and propped against pillows they enjoyed their drinks in silence. Butch rested his hand on Hollis’s thigh, tracing patterns in the hair with his fingers. Aware that the curtains were open, Butch climbed from the bed and crossed to the window. Before he tugged the drapes together he asked, “Who owns this place? I haven’t seen a soul in the big house since I arrived.”

“And you probably won’t,” Hollis said. “A kid named Travis Brugier owns the property. And when I say kid, I mean it. He can’t be but about seventeen years old, if that. He used to frequent my club. He liked it. He liked me and he offered me this place a couple of years back once he’d had it refurbished. I’ve seen him half a dozen times since then. He’s always traveling. Even when he’s home, you wouldn’t know it.”

Butch closed the curtains and returned to the bed.

“You have to realize how surprising all of this is,” Hollis said. “I mean I didn’t think you—”

“Didn’t think I was a sissy?” Butch asked. He rolled his head along the wall and looked at Hollis. “Me either.”

“You think we’re sissies?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. Right here…right now…in this bed, we’re two men who’ve found a good way to get along. But we get out of this bed and leave this house and we’re a couple of fruits, and there’s no arguing out of it.”

“So what happens when you get out of this bed and leave this house?”

“You’re the one that said this wouldn’t end well.”

“You got me there.”

“So why don’t we worry about how this ends when it’s over?”

“And you’re okay with this?”

“Hollis, I’m not drunk, at least not yet. I’m not insane. I made a choice and acted on it, and right now it feels like the best choice I could have made, but I’m not that Lionel kid. I don’t know much of anything—not about this. I’m supposed to believe it’s wrong, but right now I don’t. Tomorrow I might. I have no idea. But when I said thank you, I meant it. It’s the only thing I’m certain of right now. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and I’m happy you’re in this bed. So thank you.”

“That may be the smartest thing you’ve said since you got here.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Butch said. “Smart isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

“I’m glad it happened,” Hollis said, “and I’m glad Lionel is gone.”

“Yeah, about that. I feel like a horse’s ass about what I said that first morning, considering how we just spent the last hour. I don’t really know how this happened… It’s not like… I mean, I don’t think I was jealous of the kid. I wasn’t thinking about any of this when we spoke, but I know I was insulting to you, and I’m sorry.”

“I expected you to hightail it out of the parlor when we finished up.”

“I’ve done that before.” He read the surprised expression on Hollis’s face and said, “Those were very different circumstances.”

“I’m looking forward to hearing about them.”

“Maybe after another whiskey.”

He finished his drink and handed it over to Hollis for a refill. When Hollis handed him the refreshed glass, Butch tipped some of the whiskey onto the man’s chest. Hollis flinched. He moved to wipe the booze off of himself, but Butch stopped him. “I’ll get it,” he said and leaned over to lap the alcohol up, allowing his lips to press deeply against the brush of hair and the firm muscle beneath.

Beneath a cone of brilliant light from the surgeon’s lamp, Paul Rabin stands with a knife lifted over his head. The doctor, Somerville, is on the table now, and his chest and belly are opened. Shreds of skin and shirt cotton hang from shattered ribs and drape into the glistening scarlet cavity below his neck. The red matches that leaking through the white pads of gauze affixed to Rabin’s abdomen and lower back. The expression on Rabin’s face is one of curious wonder.

On the second floor of a mansion, miles from the crowded snowy streets of Chicago, Marco Impelliteri sits on the edge of a bed. On the floor at his feet, a lavender duvet lies wadded on the carpet; the discarded coverlet resembles the corpse of a bulky man. Marco’s head is down and he rests his face in his palms. He wears a dressing gown that is cinched tightly at the waist but has fallen open, draping one leg as if his knee were pushing aside a curtain to make a grand entrance. Behind him on the bed, his daughter lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. A trail of tears glistens, running from the corner of her eye to the tip of her ear. Her nightgown is gathered at her thighs.

A hospital room. Molly Sullivan stands in the doorway, facing away from the bed and leaning against the jamb. Her head is down. Shoulders slumped. The spill of her thick red hair arcs across her shoulder blades like a smile. Rory Sullivan lies on his back. His eyelids are parted, but only enough to reveal a vacant stare. His mouth is open and his upper lip has pulled back, receded to reveal a glimpse of teeth and gums, and it looks nothing like a smile at all.

Police Captain Wenders is seated in his chair. Two government agents dressed in charcoal gray suits, neither youthful in countenance, sit across from him. Between them is Wenders’ walnut desk, the top of which is buried beneath files and papers. The Captain appears frustrated with the two men; one hand has formed a fist and is planted on the littered desk; the other is extended and points to the office door; his flabby jowls are tinged red; a spray of saliva hangs between his contorted mouth and a heap of documentation, on which sits a file bearing a name:
McGavin
. A yellow triangle of paper, the edge of an envelope, juts from the lip of the desk drawer beside his knee

Mr. Hayes and Mr. Brand stand inside Delbert Keane’s house, gazing out through the beating rain. The furniture on the patio is tipped and scattered, except for a single chair, which remains upright, positioned very near the center of the flagstone court. A familiar dagger lies on the seat of the chair amid a black stain. Mr. Hayes appears calm, as if he’s taking in a familiar and expected scene. Beside him, Mr. Brand is frowning with rage.

Hayes and Brand had arrived on an early train and after checking into a hotel three blocks from the station, they hired a taxi to take them to the address provided by 437 House in Jackson, Mississippi.

Delbert Keane didn’t answer the bell. Hayes tried again and waited, and then used his pick to unlock the front door. Brand barreled into the house, shouting for Delbert Keane. He soon discovered the open back door and the suspicious scene on the patio. Though Brand had been struck silent, Hayes knew what his colleague was thinking—that Cardinal had murdered another member, albeit a tangential one, of the Alchemi. Keane hadn’t reported back to 437 House after his initial call the previous day, he hadn’t answered the door; those things in combination with the presence of the Promethean Blade and the charred chair made a strong case. Keane was dead, and it was a tragedy both Hayes and Brand felt deep within, but though Keane was most likely a victim in this matter, he was not precisely innocent.

“Keane must have stolen the Promethean Blade when he left the order,” Hayes said, stepping into the downpour. Rain tapped on his hat and slid down the nape of his neck. “Cardinal wasn’t responsible for that. The knife has been on the Lost Item list for years.”

“That is what strikes you as important just now?” Brand asked.

Hayes stepped onto the patio and crossed to the knife. He lifted it, tested its weight, and felt a profusion of emotions pouring into his palm from the handle. Images and phantom voices filled his head, and Hayes closed his eyes. This was a powerful artifact, perhaps not as great as the Galenus Rose, but a truly valuable piece nonetheless. It didn’t belong in Delbert Keane’s possession. As he witnessed the blade’s history amid short bursts of flame and smoke, he caught a vision of the weapon’s last duty: Delbert Keane, his face carved with misery and regret, launching himself at the blade.

“Show me again,” he whispered to the weapon. But his head cleared, leaving only traces of Keane’s last moments and a newfound doubt. He handed the Promethean Blade to Brand. “You are better with these things.” Then he told his colleague to focus on the knife’s final impression.

Brand did as he was asked. With eyes open he moved his head up and down as if listening to music, noting each piece of information that passed from the knife’s handle to his hand. Eventually his brow knit in perplexity. Brand shrugged and handed the weapon back to Hayes. “Keane sacrificed himself. Cardinal had him trapped and wanted information. Rather than telling Cardinal anything, he killed himself. Seems simple enough and quite brave on Keane’s part.”

The explanation was sound, and the images Hayes had seen supported the series of events Brand proposed, but he didn’t believe it. Maybe it was the look on Keane’s face or some other, intangible element, that had passed from the weapon into his hand, but Hayes felt certain that Cardinal had not murdered the owner of this house.

Inside out of the rain, Hayes asked that Brand call 437 House and inform them of Keane’s likely passing and that they had recovered the Promethean Blade. Further he asked that Brand coordinate with their colleagues and build a list of Keane’s known acquaintances in the city and any other persons of interest. Cardinal hadn’t stumbled on the man by accident. Somebody had pointed him in Keane’s direction. Brand, whose rage moved like roiling larvae in his eyes, nodded and went to the phone while Hayes began a search of Delbert Keane’s home.

Items besides the Promethean Blade might have found their way into Keane’s possession, so Hayes walked up the back staircase with the intent of beginning his search in the enormous house’s attic. He would work his way down from there. Of course, searching the entire house thoroughly would take days, and that wasn’t his intent. He needed to be away from Brand, wanted distance between himself and his colleague’s searing temper. The man’s emotions were valid, Hayes knew, but they were also upsetting and distracting. It was too easy to get caught up in them and ride the tide of fury, rather than examine the facts.