Page 30 of Body Count (Hazardverse: Sidetracks #5)

A warning bell began to sound inside my head, but I couldn’t quite put the thought into words. Instead, I said, “Must be hard to have a competition like this—” I nodded to the pictures on Rory’s mirror. “—when you’re super picky.”

Rory’s phone yowled again, and he picked it up to read his message. He didn’t even really seem to think about it as he said, “That didn’t start until after. He saw my pictures and started putting up his own. Didn’t even say anything, but he wanted me to see. Turns out Tip’s a real whore when he has the right motivation.”

That warning bell got louder.

“You told me you and Tip never hooked up,” I said.

“We didn’t.” Rory finished his message and dropped his phone. “Are you done? This guy is almost here.”

“I bet that drove you crazy.”

“Not really. He can fuck whatever piece of gutter ass he wants to fuck.”

“He can’t, though,” I said. “Because he’s dead.”

Rory ran his hand down his chest. “You know what I mean.”

“Did you ever make a pass at Tip?”

“No.”

“Did he ever come on to you?”

“Uh, no. He and Jordan were practically married.”

“No, he was out fucking every piece of gutter ass that moved, remember?”

He made a face, but a hint of color came into his cheeks. “I meant before.”

“I’m asking about after.”

Dropping back to stare up at the ceiling, he said nothing.

“You don’t like it when guys say no to you, do you?” I asked.

“Nobody likes it.”

“Sure, but most people shake it off. It makes you angry, though. I saw it. Just a minute ago, when I told you I didn’t want to screw around.”

He was silent. But the flush was spreading across his bare chest now, and he was breathing faster.

“Doesn’t it?” I asked.

So quickly that it caught me off guard, he propped himself on one elbow to stare at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but if somebody says no, it means no. You were fucked up that night at Sunny’s, but you knew what you were doing. Now what? You’re trying to pretend I would have gotten mad if you’d changed your mind.”

“How many times did Tip turn you down?”

His eyes slid away from mine again. “I already told you: none. That guy is almost here, so you need to leave.”

“You’re more convincing when you’ve had time to practice,” I told him. And the more I talked, the more I watched how he reacted to each question, the more I knew. Not with evidence, not yet. But I knew . I thought about how he’d acted, after that first, idiotic hookup. The barrage of texts. The sense of mounting desperation. He couldn’t stand being ignored; how would he respond to downright rejection? “More than once, wasn’t it? At least once before he found out about you and Eddie. But he and Jordan were together, so that was a no. And then again, after. And he said no again, didn’t he?”

“You’re nuts.”

“What’s Jordan going to say when I ask him?”

“Jordan is fucking psycho!” The words erupted from him. “He’s not even twenty, and he’s hot, and he’s got all these guys just waiting to bend him over, and all he wants to do is play house with Tip!”

“Holy shit,” I said. “He said no too, didn’t he?” Rory set his jaw, but he still wouldn’t look me in the eye. “That’s all right. He’ll tell me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. It would have been fun, all right? We could have had this nice, easy thing, the three of us. We could go out. We could find somebody to hook up with. Or, if we didn’t want to, we could fuck around here. It’s not a big fucking deal. It’s not complicated. But those two acted like a pair of fucking promise-ring virgins.” His voice rose, getting scratchier with each word. “Tip laughed at me!”

I bet, I thought, watching Rory’s rapid breaths, the dark circles in his cheeks, the way his pupils dilated. Aloud, I said, “And Tip wasn’t ever going to have anything to do with you after he found out about you and Eddie.”

Rory seemed frozen for a moment. Then he slid off the bed. He grabbed his tank and yanked it on, saying, “Yeah. You figured it out. Can you go now?”

“And then he got hurt. His face was all fucked up. He and Jordan were falling apart. You thought that was finally your chance.”

“Bro.” Rory gave me a flustered look, one hand absently trying to fix his hair. “I wasn’t obsessed with him.”

“I don’t know if you were or not. I’ll be curious what Jordan has to say. But I know you couldn’t stand having him say no to you. Especially not after. I bet you told yourself you felt sorry for him. I mean, he was never going to be pretty the way he had been. Guys weren’t going to be interested in him. You might have even thought it was a pity fuck. You were doing him a favor.”

Rory put a hand to his throat. He sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

“And he said no again,” I said. “Didn’t he?”

The boy stared back at me. His eyes were glassy.

“Didn’t he?” I asked again.

With a little shake, like he was stirring himself from a dream or a memory, Rory said numbly, “He laughed at me. Again. He had that—that bandage over his eye, and he laughed at me. He said I was pathetic. Him, with his face like that. His own boyfriend couldn’t even stand to look at him. And he said I was pathetic.”

He stopped, but the sharp sound of his uneven breaths filled the bedroom.

“What did you do?” I asked.

Rory shook his head—a tiny, almost invisible gesture. But it was there.

“What did you do, Rory?”

He shook his head again. A tear spilled from one eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. He whispered, “I was so mad.”

“What did you do to Tip?”

Another tear spilled. Rory jolted. He brought one hand up to wipe it away, and he stared at me, his expression bewildered and accusing and even hurt. As though somehow I’d tricked him.

“You need to come with me,” I said. “We’re going to drive over to the sheriff’s station.”

It took him a few seconds before he said, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And you’re going to tell them what happened.”

But he shook his head again.

“Here’s the other option,” I said. “I call them, and they come over here. I’ll tell them what I know. And they’ll take you in for questioning. They’ll also search your apartment. And I think they’re going to have some more questions for you once Jordan confirms that a knife is missing from your kitchen.”

“You can’t—” Rory took a step back. “What knife?” And then, voice growing firmer, he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I could feel it slipping away from me. There was a moment in interviews when everything was balanced, all the fear and guilt and shame and the human need to talk. A tipping point. And we had passed it; I could see in Rory’s eyes the armor going back up, the resolve, the lies that he told himself. It was an accident. It was Tip’s fault, really. Even if I called the sheriff’s department, what did I have to show them? A photograph that meant nothing? A stupid competition between two college boys? Even that comment about a knife had been a bluff; Jordan might confirm that one was missing—if they tracked him down, and if he talked—but until they found it and matched blood and prints, it didn’t mean anything.

“I want you to leave,” Rory said. He backed into the kitchen, hands held in front of him like he thought I might charge. “You need to leave right now.”

“Rory, you’re making a mistake,” I said. “It’s going to be so much worse if we do it this way. You’re not a bad person; I know that. You can come in. You can explain it was an accident.Tell your side of things before it gets out of hand.”

The fear was bright in his eyes. I thought, maybe, I had him.

And then the front door of the apartment crashed open. Rory flinched. My hand went to my side, reflex and instinct, but I was wearing a tee and shorts—no utility belt, no gun, nothing.

“What the fuck do you mean you’ve got a picture of me?” Eddie Wheeler’s shout sounded unhinged. “How fucking stupid are you?”

If I’d thought I’d seen fear in Rory’s eyes before, it was nothing compared to the panic shining in his face now. He looked almost mindless with it: his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide, as he tried to shrink in on himself. He scuttled backward—away from the front door—until he hit the kitchen counter. Then he slid along it, his eyes locked on where I figured Eddie had to be standing. He was trying to talk. He also looked like he was doing what small children and animals did when they were frightened—backing himself into a corner.

“You took a picture?” Eddie’s volume continued to rise. And then there was a loud crack, like a hand slapping against wood. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Rory made a squeaking noise as he continued to weasel away.

I stepped out of the bedroom.

Eddie wore his Highway Patrol uniform. His face was shiny with sweat. More sweat made dark rings under his arms. He must have left the hat in his cruiser, but he had the rest of it—the belt, the holster, the gun. He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. “You.”

“Hi, Eddie.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Asking Rory some questions. What are you doing here?”

Eddie’s panic seemed to charge the air.

“He took it,” Rory babbled. “He took it. The photo. He’s got it. That’s why I messaged you. He was going to take it, and I knew you wouldn’t want that!”

“Stop talking,” Eddie said, but he didn’t look at Rory. He looked at me as he continued speaking to the boy. “You fucking idiot. What the fuck did you do?”

“I was trying to help!”

Once again, he seemed to lose control of himself: his gaze was unseeing, and muscles corded in his neck as he screamed at Rory, “I said stop talking!”

A moment passed. And then another, the silence settling like dust. He wiped his face with one hand. The other hand hung next to his gun.

“All right,” he said. His tone was weary, almost resigned. He held out his hand and made a gimme gesture.

I shook my head.

“He has it!” Rory’s voice was thin and trembling. “He took it from me! I didn’t tell him, Eddie, I promise!”

“Give it to me,” Eddie said to me as though Rory hadn’t spoken.

“No,” I said. “Get in your cruiser and drive away before you do something stupid.”

Eddie’s hand stayed where it was, inches from his gun. He might be a shit shot. He might be a great shot. It didn’t matter, not at this distance, when I had nowhere to run. My best bet would be to hole up in Rory’s room and call for backup, but I wasn’t sure I’d be fast enough.

But all Eddie did was wipe his face again. Hot, sticky air drifted into the apartment through the open door, carrying the smell of hot tar and exhaust and Eddie’s sweat.

“You’re not leaving with that photo,” Eddie said in that same tired voice.

“It’s evidence,” I said. “He killed your son.”

Eddie looked like he hadn’t heard me. And then he turned toward Rory.

“He’s lying!” Rory’s voice was shrill. “He’s making it up!”

But Eddie, for all his faults, was a cop, and the longer he looked at Rory, the darker his expression got. He shook his head slowly.

“Whoever killed Tip,” I said, “they were angry. We’re not talking premeditation; this was rage. Someone got so mad they grabbed the first thing they could find, and they stabbed Tip in the back. And whoever it was, they knew about me. What had happened to me. The fact that I’d taken an interest in Tip’s case. They knew about Darnell, about that story Tip and Jordan made up. It had to be someone close to the investigation, or they wouldn’t have tried to frame me and Darnell. Hell, I told Rory myself that those detectives were looking at me as a suspect.”

“It could have been anybody,” Rory said. “I never would have hurt Tip. He was—he was like a brother!”

Eddie’s flush made his nose look purple and stained his cheeks a dark, wine-colored red. The sweat on his forehead darkened his thinning hair. He flexed the fingers on one hand, and it was a strangely fluid movement, like he’d played piano as a child.

“He’s been chasing Tip for a year,” I said quietly. “You’ve seen it. Everybody must have. So, let me ask you something: you ever see him lose his temper when you told him no?”

“He’s lying!” Rory screeched.

Eddie stood there, staring at us. Something dark opened behind his eyes, a black hole collapsing in on itself. In a cold, clear voice, he said, “What did you do, you stupid little faggot?”

Rory managed to get out a pinched noise of denial, but before he could do more, Eddie took a step toward him.

I moved without thinking, putting myself in his path, hands held up to ward him off. It was the same pose Rory had taken with me, a few minutes ago. And it would be just about as effective.

“Everybody needs to calm down,” I said. “We’ll get the deputies over here, and they can sort this out.”

“He’s going to kill me,” Rory said. He sounded hysterical. “Why did you have to tell him?”

“Nobody’s going to do anything—” I began.

But Rory’s bare feet slapped the linoleum as he darted into his bedroom, and he slammed the door shut behind him. And then it was just me and Eddie.

So much for my escape route.

“Walk away from this,” I said to Eddie. “Right now.”

He stood there, staring back at me like he hadn’t heard me. But he had. I could see it in his face, the agony as he tried to decide what to do about me. And about his secret.

“He killed your son. That ought to mean something.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe I made the decision for him. Or maybe not—maybe it was always going to be this way. You never know, not really. But his face changed, settled, resolved. And he started walking toward me.

I backed up—not like Rory, so I’d end up cornered, but because I needed room to move. I pulled out one of the chairs from the little dinette set and kicked it into Eddie’s path. He stepped around it. I did it again, with another chair, and this one hit him in the legs. It probably didn’t hurt much, but it cost him his balance for a moment. I took advantage and threw my weight into the shitty little dinette table. It practically flew off the floor, tipping over under the force of the impact and then crashing down on Eddie.

I sprinted around the sofa and toward the front door.

A hand caught my shirt and yanked me back. Another hand caught my hair, and I shouted. Eddie had somehow reached across the sofa and grabbed me, and hedragged me back toward him. The pain in my scalp made me move with him, but I threw an elbow backward. It caught him in the arm, and Eddie didn’t react. I snapped my head back, hoping to catch him in the face, but I got only air. He tightened his grip on my hair, and this time I screamed. When he pulled me back again, the back of my knees hit the sofa, and I fell.

I landed on the cushions, and Eddie lost his grip. I rolled off the sofa and onto the filthy floor. Behind me, springs creaked and protested, and Eddie grunted with exertion, the sound moving closer to me as he hopped over thesofa. I was scrambling to my feet when the punch connected with the back of my neck. The impact drove me to the floor again, and my vision went dark and wavy. One of those big trooper boots stomped down between my shoulder blades. I landed on my chest. Something was wrong with my lungs, and I couldn’t get any air, and my ears were full of a high-pitched whining.

Croaking, I flopped onto my back. My eyes were still doing something funny, and at first, I thought my brain was making things up—it didn’t make any sense. Why would Rory be standing right behind Eddie? The boy’s face was white, his eyes like little tar patches, and I had the drifting, balloon-like thought that this was how Rory would look when he was dead. Eddie didn’t even seem to know he was there; he was focused on me as he bent over and pawed at me until he came up with the two photos.

I don’t think he knew Rory was there until Rory moved. The boy darted forward. I tried to shout, but I still didn’t have any air in my lungs, and my body wasn’t responding the way it should have. All I could do was stare as Rory grabbed Eddie’s service weapon. The pistol slid smoothly from its holster. On Eddie’s face, the first sign appeared that he realized something had gone wrong. He started to turn, and Rory took two stumbling steps backward, putting himself beyond Eddie’s reach. The gun trembled in his hand. People who didn’t work with guns were always surprised by how much they weighed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing—” Eddie shouted.

But Rory didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed on me. The gun bobbed and sank and floated up again. I made a noise that wasn’t a word, but I thought I was trying to say something to him—I just didn’t know what. Sorry, maybe. Because there was so much naked hatred in the boy’s face.

And then he shot me.