Touching Evil (11 page)

"Love the way you ... Greg. Damn." He loved it all, so how was he
supposed to pick one thing? He touched, that fine, fine skin sliding
under his fingers, the tiniest bit of honey making them catch here and
there.

Greg nodded, nibbling on his lips, eyes staring into his like he was fascinating.

"Greg. Want you." His damned libido went into overdrive these days,
now that he was able to touch, to see and smell and ... Yeah. Artie
kissed Greg until that long body bent back over his arm, shoulders
nearly touching his legs.

"Don't let me fall." Greg stretched, that trust heady, intense.

Fuck, he could feel those angles, those lean muscles, all just given up.

"Not gonna." No way. Not ever. Well, not if he had any say. He
couldn't protect Greg when he wasn't there. Now he could, though, and
he supported Greg's back, licking and kissing that long throat.

"God, Artie. That feels..." He heard Greg's moan, felt Greg swallow. "It's like the first time all over. So good."

"You're amazing, babe." Babbling. That was what he was doing. Just
telling Greg all sorts of shit, with his words and his hands. All about
how he'd wanted and needed and finally gotten and now couldn't get
enough. Reaching inside Greg's sweats with his free hand, Artie touched
the long cock, fingers pressing the sensitive spots.

"Oh. Oh. Shouldn't have made you wait so long. I was scared. Scared I'd short out on you."

"I know. And I was so scared I'd hurt you. Fuck with your head."
Hot. Hot and beating with Greg's heart, that cock filled his hand and
then some. Jesus.

"Never hurt me. You don't. Artie, I feel you. Good." Greg was moaning, flushed, rocking into his touch.

Losing the ability to do anything but nod, he groaned and stroked,
watching Greg swell harder, watching that fine body writhe and buck. He
could see the orgasm pass through Greg—the long belly flushed
dark, balls drew up, cock jerked as Greg's cry just echoed and heat
sprayed, pooling on Greg's belly.

"Oh. Oh, fuck, man. I can't. Jeez." Greg hadn't even touched him,
his sweats still covered him, but Artie came anyway, like a house afire.

Greg shuddered. "Oh, shit. That's so sexy."

"Greg. Damn. We can add the kitchen table to the list." Well, the
chair. The table had possibilities. "And there's my place, too."

"Mmm. Yeah. Your tub. Your sofa. The walls..."

"Walls." His back might never be the same. Back. Lord. Hauling Greg
up, Artie kissed Greg's mouth soft and slow, stroking the strained
spine.

"Oh." Greg melted against him, breathing nice and slow. "Your hands."

"You haven't even seen yet what I can do with them." Greg made him
feel tall as a mountain and just as strong. "Want you to, though."

"Good. We have time. Time to learn." His shoulder was kissed, his collarbone.

"We do." All the time in the world. He'd see to it.

One way or the other.

Chapter Seven

Greg stared at the package.

At the wall.

At the package again.

Okay, there was no guarantee it was a package from him. Not at all.

Just because there wasn't a return address.

Or a label.

And the handwriting was the same.

And it made him sick just looking at it, and even Alice avoided
touching it, and it was book shaped and he hadn't put in any little
book orders.

What could that possibly mean?

The shop bell jingled, making him start, the low murmur of Alice's
voice like the buzzing of a bee. Indistinct. The yowling of a Siamese
cat came a lot clearer.

Artie appeared in the doorway to his little office, carrying a huge
plastic carrier with a very unhappy Duke in it. "Hey, man. Alice
called. I hope that's okay."

"Oh, Duke. You're ruffled." He nodded, looking up at Artie. "Is it that bad? That she knew to call?"

"Well, I imagine it ain't good. We were on the way back from the
vet. Duke ate some tin foil. Can I close the door here and let him out?
He'll calm right down if he can squat on you."

"Is he okay?" He nodded, reaching to open the cage, Duke yowling and spitting and pissed. "C'mere you. Poor thing."

"Well, he's just had like half a tuna can pulled out of his butt.
But yeah." Poor Artie just gave Duke that hapless pet owner look, and
Duke hopped right up on Greg's lap, telling him all about it. Loudly.

He nodded, stroking Duke's ears and listening, murmuring right back
about how awful and smelly the damned vets were and how, maybe, tin
foil was hard on the G.I. tract.

"He wanted that burrito, man. He even got the damned fridge open and
levitated to the second shelf. So where's the mystery package?" His
eyes cut right to it and Artie glanced over, lips tightening. "Same
deal, huh?"

"Uh-huh." Greg looked at it, sighed, feeling two parts sick and three parts ashamed. "It came an hour ago."

"Okay. It's okay." Duke grumbled and settled, making a that's that
sort of noise. Artie walked over to the package, pulling out a pen and
poking at the wrapper. "No blood on the outside."

"No. It's a book. It looks like a book." He reached out, almost touched it, then pulled back a little. "I should open it, huh?"

"Yeah." A ferocious frown twisted Artie's face. "I don't want you
to. But he does. And I'm worried what he'll escalate to if you don't."

"Okay. Okay." He reached out, grabbed the book with both hands and
started unwrapping the butcher paper. Butcher paper, not regular paper.
Butcher. By the time his fingers got to the book, sticky slick with
blood, he was falling.

Dark. Still. Fuck, it was dark and wet, so wet it hurt to breathe. He shook his head, trying to get away from the smell.

"Greg! Shit. Come on, Greg. Let it go. Let go of the ... come on."
Artie was gagging, pulling at his hands, prying his fingers open.

No. No. He could almost see. Almost. Red lights. Red lights.

"I swear to God, if you puke on the evidence I'll set Duke loose in
your kitchen. Babe. Please." He was retching, too, dry heaves, his
whole body shaking. Artie finally pried his grip loose, the whole mess
plopping on the floor with a horrible wet sound.

"Oh, God. Oh. Out. Out." He stood up and ran for the elevator,
slamming his hand against the call button over and over. Water. He
needed a shower. A bath. Bleach. Air. Light. Something.

"Stop." Arms going around him, Artie practically tackled him,
holding him so he could barely move. Fuck. Strong. "Stop touching
things. You'll just spread it all over and then what the fuck will you
do? We'll get it off. We'll get you clean."

It was the rough edge of panic in Artie's voice as much as anything that stilled him. Artie never panicked.

"Please." He closed his eyes, started reciting the peripheral
nerves, proximal to distal. "Spinal accessory, levator scapulae,
thoracic, dorsal scapular, subclavian, suprascapular..."

The elevator came down and Artie hauled him in, Duke's sleek body
slipping in between his feet. His stomach turned as they went up, but
soon enough he stood at his sink, the water running warm and cleansing
over his hands. Washing it all away.

"Artie. He's got another one. He's got another one in the dark. What
was
that?"

"I don't know. I need to go back down there and secure it, see what
all it is. I. Babe." Artie had let him go and he stood there scrubbing,
his skin getting raw. "I don't want to leave you alone, but I have to.
Can you? Will you be all right? With Duke? Just for maybe a half hour.
I swear."

"Go. I'm okay. I'm fine." Greg almost laughed, almost, because if he
started, he'd never stop. He'd just laugh and laugh until he couldn't
remember anything.

"Look at me." Those gray eyes held his when he turned, boring in.
"I'll be right back. Go sit down. Let Duke tell you about the burrito.
I'll be right back."

"Okay. Don't let Alice in there. She'll be pissed."

"No kidding. Sit. Breathe."

Then Artie left him, and the only thing left was the whooshing of
the water and the sound of Duke purring as the silly cat rubbed around
his ankles. He let himself sink to the floor, cheek against the sink,
listening to the water run. "Oh, fuck. Duke. Guys like us weren't meant
for shit like that."

Duke pushed against his belly, marking him, whiskers tickling through his shirt in a feline "no shit."

Bile rose in Artie's throat.

It was a kidney. Perfectly removed, excellently wrapped. The box
around it had been shaped like a large book, hand cut to really give
the look. The butcher paper could have come from anywhere, and goddamn
it, there wasn't a fucking thing to go on.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, thanks."

Leah flipped her cell closed. She looked greener around the gills
than he felt. Bless her, she came though. "Dave says he'll run the
blood and all tonight. The paper isn't likely to yield anything, and
neither is the box. The handwriting is the same. You should take the
rest of your night off."

"So should you."

She smiled at him, the lines around her eyes deep, her mouth tense.
"It's just getting worse, Artie. Gimme the go ahead to check Greg out."

"No. Let me talk to him first, okay? We did a lot of digging already."

Hell, he'd looked at everything in Greg's file a million times
during that first case. This wasn't going to be something they found on
paper.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. But if he gives you names, call me ASAP and I'll start running them."

"You got it."

Quiet descended as Leah left, the last of the team that was getting
too damned accustomed to working over Greg's store. The only thing left
to do was clean up the damned elevator button so nothing ambushed Greg
any more than it had to.

So he stood there with an alcohol-soaked cloth, swabbing. Avoiding going up there and telling Greg he had jack shit.

The elevator started rumbling, the ancient thing rattling and
squeaking and rumbling. When it opened, Greg was there, wearing a pair
of soaked shorts, eyes huge. "Artie?"

"Hey. Yeah. I was just." Procrastinating. Hiding his fucking
disappointment. "We got it all cleaned up, I think." He stepped inside,
holding himself away. "Except me. I need to wash up."

"Okay. Okay, upstairs. Shower. I ... I made Duke a litter box and a little bed and brushed him and fed him and he seemed okay."

"He'll be fine. You didn't feed him anything with a wrapper, right?"
He tried for humor. Fell short, but oh, well. The elevator took
forever. He wanted to touch Greg, but not with blood and all on his
hands.

"No. I fed him cream and warmed up tuna fish. I didn't try to eat. I
just took a shower and did normal stuff." Greg jabbered, fluttered, got
the elevator door open, and herded him into the apartment. "Put your
clothes in the washer here, and I'll turn the water on for you and open
the door."

"Thanks, babe." What else could he say? Suddenly he was bone damned
tired. Exhausted. He stripped right off and padded naked to the shower.

The stark white bathroom was lit up—lights and candles and
incense—the steam already starting to billow from the shower. "I
tried it with the lights down. I couldn't. This is better. Hop in.
There's soap and everything."

Yeah. He stepped right in, nudging the soap off the shelf with his
elbow and catching it, starting to scrub. He'd take the fucking skin
right off before he felt clean, though.

It wasn't long before Greg's hands moved on his back, a soft, pained
groan mingling with the splash of the water. He went to turn around,
but Greg stopped him. "Don't. Not yet. I just need to help you get
clean. I need to know you're okay."

There was pain in Greg's voice, tears.

God. Artie stood there, letting Greg touch him, wash him. "I'm
sorry, babe. I'm fine. It's—" He stopped. It wasn't okay. Not one
damned bit.

"I know. I know. Shh. You don't have to lie. I'm right here."

"Oh. Greg." He didn't lean, not on the slick tile, but he let Greg
touch and soothe and heal something inside. Eventually Greg turned him
around, pulled him close and just held on, face hidden in his throat.

Artie squeezed right back, just letting the water wash over them. He
needed the contact, the closeness. It didn't fix it, didn't make the
horror right, but it made things better, made the hollowed-out
sensation in him easier.

The water ran cold before they were ready to move, and they
staggered out, grabbing towels and mopping off. Artie headed straight
for his chair, pulling Greg down with him. Greg settled the quilt
around them, tucking them into the space, making it warm and dark and
quiet.

Quiet was good.

Nuzzling Greg's throat was better.

"I'm sorry, man."

"We didn't do it. We're okay." Greg relaxed, snuggled in. "Even Duke's okay."

"Duke's probably way better than we are. He had cream." They should eat. He just didn't feel like it at all.

"We'll eat later. Fruit and pancakes. I just want this now."

"Me, too." Stroking Greg's back, he loved on him, held him. There'd
be time for everything else later. For right now, he wouldn't think.

Neither of them would.

Chapter Eight

The phone rang at her desk and Virginia raced to reach it, heels
click-clacking as she slid across the newsroom, hurrying as she stared
at the clock. Two P.M. Christ. Christ. Don't hang up. Don't hang up.

Three days in a row. Three days, two P.M.

The biggest story in her fucking career, and she might miss a call because her goddamn pantyhose had gotten a runner.

"Hello?"

"Virginia?"

"Yes. Yes, sorry. How are you?"

"Fine. Our friend's place of business was crawling with police
yesterday evening. I was surprised, not to hear it on the news. I think
they were calling the killer The Collector."

"Oh, man. No. I hadn't heard. No one had. Dr. Pearsall has friends in the police force."