Infected: Lesser Evils (41 page)

But he had really underestimated both the bullshit and the contempt.

It started with sniggering references to a cat house, and how many ways you can skin a dead cat, and while Seb didn’t take part and tried to shut everyone up, most ignored him. Roan knew it was macho cop shit as well as graveyard humor, the kind that eased the horror of ugly situations, but it was just too gleeful. He snapped when one obnoxious little rookie shit made a comment about what cat tasted like, and maybe the Greek restaurant down the street was responsible. People had said worse things, but he had had enough.

Roan grabbed the rookie by the throat and slammed him up against the nearest wall. He held him with one hand, felt his pulse beating in his neck, and knew with a single squeeze he could crush every single bone in his neck to powder. It wouldn’t even take much, just a millimeter more pressure; Roan’s arm was actually shaking from the restraint that he was using to hold back all the strength that wanted to pour into his hand. “These are people,” Roan growled. And it was a growl; there were actual words in there, but they surfaced and sank like a drowning person. “You fucking sadistic moron, these are Humans beings. Are you that much of a cannibal? You Hannibal Lecter’s boy, huh?”

Seb was right there, and looked like he was about to touch him, maybe grab his arm, but instantly thought better of it. Instead, he said, firmly but not angrily, “Roan, let him go. He’s mine to deal with.”

The rookie had almost reflexively put an arm on Roan’s shoulder, as if to push him away, but just as his confusion turned to rage, his hand slipped away as his rage turned to fear. Roan had no idea what the brush-cut little boy saw in his face, but it scared the shit out of him. Almost literally. The growling probably wasn’t helping. While the fear was intoxicating, Roan knew it was time to step back.

With almost painful reluctance, he let go of the rookie, who sank down to the floor. Only then did he realize he had lifted him up off his feet. Once again, Roan was surprised at his own strength, and remembered Rosenberg had told him that maybe it wasn’t his fault. He certainly hoped it wasn’t.

“Let’s take a walk,” Seb said. It wasn’t a suggestion and they both knew it.

As they both left the noisome hallway of the tenement, he noticed the cops were now shooting him looks of wariness, or looks that could have qualified as first-degree felonies. But at least they’d all shut their ugly fucking mouths.

They had to make their way carefully down the broken staircase, but didn’t talk until they were outside. Seb turned on him, and exclaimed, “What the hell, dude? I know they were being assholes, but that doesn’t give you the right to Hulk out.”

“If I’d Hulked out, they’d be dead,” Roan snapped. “And they weren’t being assholes; they were a hell of a lot worse than that. Those were bodies in there, and they were making fun of the whole situation, like this was a fucking disturbance at a strip joint.”

Seb gave him his firm but otherwise emotion-free Spock look. “Could you please stop growling? It’s distracting.”

He hadn’t realized he was growling—yes, again—and it was a true effort to stop. “They’re treating them like a joke, Seb, like they aren’t people at all.”

“I know, and I’m reporting each one who made a crack. This is not your fight, Roan.”

“Isn’t it? They’re my people.”

That made Seb raise an eyebrow at him. “You’ve adopted them all? I thought you weren’t—”

“This isn’t the place for semantics. You better go back inside and make sure those fuckholes aren’t wearing the victims as hats.” He then turned and stalked away, before he could take out his rage on Seb, who was possibly the only nonasshole at the scene.

At least the cougar was okay. Roan had drugged her before forensics was able to pick its way up the staircase, and the cat squad took her away, complaining that they never saw any action anymore. Roan wished he could say the same thing.

Once he was back in his car, he felt like punching something, but the last time he had, he’d almost broken his steering wheel, and he couldn’t imagine how much that would cost to replace.

The cops weren’t going to treat this like a murder case, Roan knew it. It was legal to kill loose cats, wasn’t it? They weren’t going to try very hard to find the killer, or even find out who the victims were. Yes, Seb was a good guy, and Chief Matthews seemed to want his services as the resident cat expert, but he was losing what little faith he had left in humanity.

That actually gave him an idea. He needed the help of another person who had zero faith in humanity.

Holden answered on the second ring. “Well, aren’t I Mister Popularity today? And what can I do for you, Roan?”

Did he even want to know what that popularity crack meant? “You home? I need to talk to you.”

“Great, yeah, come over, I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Was that sarcasm? Somehow Roan didn’t think so. “Make me a sandwich?”

“You just changed, didn’t you?”

He wasn’t still growling, was he? If he was, he could neither hear it or feel it. “How do you know?”

“Your voice. Sounds like you’ve been scraping your throat with a metal rasp.”

“That’s a very specific descriptive.”

“I know. I save this shit for you. I know you’re the only one who’d appreciate it. Chicken or tuna?”

Roan checked over his shoulder to see if he could tell where the conversational shift went. “Huh?”

“Your sandwich. Which would you prefer?”

“You’re serious about that?” Truth be told, he was hungry, but he usually was after a shift. “Tuna, I guess.”

“Good choice. The chicken’s kinda iffy. And don’t hit the pills, I got something for that too. See you in a few.” With that, Holden hung up.

Roan looked at the cell for a moment, his anger draining away to simple confusion. What the hell was all that about? Then again, it was Holden—he would never understand the man, nor was he going to waste his time trying. He just lived to confound, vex, and thwart, all words he probably would have liked. And that was precisely the reason Roan had called him.

His head started throbbing on the drive over, a seeming aftereffect of the sharp pains pulsing in his jaw, bad enough that he wanted to reach up and rip off his lower jaw. (Could he? He had a feeling he could if he really wanted to, so he wasn’t going to push it.) The sun coming out didn’t help, as the light stabbed into his eyes like glass shards. Was he getting a migraine? His reaction to light seemed to indicate that.

By the time he reached Holden’s apartment, he ignored what he’d told him on the phone and went ahead and gulped a Percocet before getting out of the car. He was going to need it.

Roan was about to knock when the door opened, and Holden said, “Wow, you look like shit. Maybe you should take some pills.”

“Say it louder, I’m pretty sure your upstairs neighbor didn’t hear you,” he replied sourly.

Once they were inside, and Holden had shut the door behind them, he said, “Please, he’s a drug dealer. All he’ll wanna do is sell you some E.” Holden was shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants and the dog tags he’d got from that soldier client, now long dead. His apartment smelled like popcorn and tuna, and the scent of food made his stomach roil. It must have showed on his face, because Holden looked alarmed. “Fuck, you gonna hurl?”

He wasn’t sure, and he took a moment to just stand still and concentrate on swallowing down his gorge. “I dunno. I think I’m having a migraine attack.”

“Fuck. Okay, c’mon, let’s get you settled, I have an ice pack.” Holden helped him needlessly to the sofa, and then picked up a saucer and put it on Roan’s leg. “Have that, it should make you feel better in a few minutes.”

It was a brown lump, which would have been really unappealing, except it smelled like chocolate. A brownie chunk, only… there was something else there too, too strong to ignore. “Are you seriously feeding me a pot brownie?”

“These are better than your average po-bo,” he claimed, retrieving an ice pack from his fridge. “I know Mavis, this charming British lady who works for the Angel Project, you know, that charity that delivers food to seriously ill people? Real sweetie; wish she was my grandmother. Anyways, she makes these special painkiller brownies for some of her people, and by making a generous donation I got some. I keep them on hand for really bad days.”

“Pot brownies are horrible.” Roan had had a bite of one once, and almost immediately spit it out. It was dry, with an almost strawlike texture, and tasted like chocolate-laced shit. He had no idea how anyone ever ate them.

“These are different. Mavis has a way with Hershey’s syrup. Try it, you’ll see.”

He sniffed it warily. “You turnin’ into a pothead on me?”

This made Holden snort derisively. “I oughta. I just have painkillers around in case I ever need ’em. A lingering remnant of my street corner days, I suppose. You always had to be ready for somebody to try and beat the shit out of you. And trust me, those brownies are a great painkiller.”

Well, Roan was feeling like shit, so he went ahead and took a nibble. Holden was right—it really wasn’t bad. It tasted like an actual brownie, just with a thicker texture and a slight aftertaste. It didn’t make him feel like vomiting, which was a minor triumph. “Hmm.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Holden came back from the kitchen, carrying a blue ice pack and a plate containing a sandwich, with a bottle of mint green tea clamped firmly under his arm. As Roan continued to eat the brownie, Holden put the plate, tea, and ice bag on the coffee table in front of him. “Mint’s good for your stomach, so drink up.”

He eyed him warily. “You have mother hen aspects about you, you know.”

“Father hen,” Holden corrected, flinging himself down on the other end of the couch, and picking up his half-empty bag of microwave popcorn. His television was on, the sound down to levels that Roan could hear, but he was pretty sure Holden couldn’t. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

That was what Holden meant when he referred to “his boys”—when he was just your average street whore, he had still looked after a bunch of younger, smaller, or greener street kids (they weren’t all hookers, but most). Street kids often glommed together simply due to safety in numbers, but there was always a leader, someone who looked after the others, be they tougher, smarter, or more experienced than the rest. Holden fit all aspects of the bill, and seemed to have taken his job quite seriously. Even now, he was trying to protect kids he didn’t even know.

“You watch
The Soup
?”

Holden glanced at the set, as if double checking, as he grabbed his remote and hit the pause button. The fucker had a DVR. “Yep. It’s funny, and allows me to keep vaguely up to date on reality shows that some of my clients seem to love, don’t ask me why. But I must admit some do have a horrific train-wreck quality about them.”

“I don’t know about other people, but I have enough horrific train wrecks in my life.” Roan popped the rest of the brownie segment in his mouth before reaching for the ice pack and holding it to his head.

“Oh hon, I know. I’m a spectator. Which leads me to think we have another train wreck to discuss.”

He couldn’t deny that. He explained what he’d discovered in Jefferson Heights, and how he was afraid the cops wouldn’t treat it as much of anything. “Do you have any contacts in that part of the city?”

Holden considered that with the barest hint of a smile on his face. “I have friends all over, especially in low places. What do you want?”

“I want to know who might be bragging about cat killing. He was using an abandoned building as a tannery, which tells me he can’t do it where he lives for some reason.”

“Or he knows better than to shit where he eats.”

“Yeah, could be. But I find it hard to believe a man who appeared to be making them into skins would keep quiet about his hobby.”

“Isn’t that rule number one for a serial killer?”

“Typically. But since he’s not, in his mind or the mind of the legal system, killing people, he may not think of himself in that way. Hell, he may think he’s doing the community a service.”

“Well, according to Pat Robertson, infecteds are destroying America.” He paused briefly. “Or was it gays? Foreigners? Women? Hell if I can remember. What month is it?”

“Let’s just say all of the above and move on. Do you think you can help me?”

Holden nodded, now all business. “No problem. I’ll get the word out I’m looking for a cat killer, someone good at his job. I assume you want him alive?”

He wasn’t kidding. That was one of the most disturbing things about Holden. No, he didn’t judge, and that was refreshing, but he didn’t judge at all, and that could also at times be very unsettling. Not that he didn’t have a code, but it was a very limited one: no kids, no innocents, no one who wasn’t there by choice. Everyone else was fair game. Although, to be honest, that was a pretty good code, especially if you believed in karma.

“Yes.” Roan wanted to make sure they had the right guy, and Roan knew he would know the man if he met him. He would smell him, smell the trace of a scent he’d left at the murder scene, smell a scent of death on him that no amount of soap or time could wash away. Predators knew other predators.

Holden simply nodded again, looking in his microwave popcorn bag, probably for some remaining popped kernels. “You know, I took today off as a mental health day. I figured I’d just watch TV all day and maybe sleep for twelve hours. Best-laid plans, huh?”

“I thought I’d be trolling Capitol Hill, looking for a missing man.” His stomach had settled, the pain in his head fading to a dull roar, so Roan reached for the sandwich.

“Oh, a case? Can I help?”

“Only if you want to pass a photo around, ask if anyone’s seen him.”

“Goddamn, I hardly have to get off my ass for that. Can do.”

Roan took a bite of the sandwich, and marveled. He was expecting a simple tuna on wheat, even though his nose had told him to expect a sharp tang of vinegar, but what Holden had made him was a tuna sandwich with fresh vinaigrette, pickles, lettuce, and pepperoncinis for crunch and zest. “Holy shit,” he said impolitely, through a mouthful of food. “This is the best tuna sandwich I’ve ever had.”