Page 24

Twenty-Four

Wednesday 10am

Tom

It was as if he was looking up through the water to the daylight above the surface. Sunlight danced on the top of the water, though down here it was blue and dark. Tom heard people calling him to swim upward to the light. He thought about it. It was very comfortable down here in the depths. A voice said, “You were shot,” and he remembered. Charlie shouting. Remembered pushing Orianna to the floor, trying to keep her safe. Shots sounding like a heavy-duty staple gun. The smell of spilled drinks. Whimpering. Then pain like he’d never felt before and the sound of Orianna shouting for Charlie. I must have passed out from the pain . He couldn’t remember what happened next.

“I was shot,” he said. Charlie had been shot once and had carried on as if nothing had happened, but he wasn’t Charlie. “I was shot,” he said again. All at once the voices from the surface became a clamour, begging him to swim, swim up to the light. He tried to listen, to separate out the voices. One of them sounded like his mother, but that couldn’t be right. None of them sounded like Charlie. A thought floated into his head. I’m in New York with Charlie . His mother couldn’t be there and the voices and the light were an illusion. No way was he going to leave the embrace of soft blue darkness for an illusion.

But somewhere inside, he knew it wasn’t an illusion, and that he could choose to start swimming if he wanted to. Did he want to? He wanted to see Charlie. Only Charlie wasn’t there.

Charlie

The spot Charlie chose in Central Park was close to where he and Tom had sat on the day of the shooting. Tom had been rocking his lumberjack look — red plaid shirt, baggy jeans and battered leather hiking boots. Shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his ink. Charlie had dozed while Tom sketched and then without having to talk about it, they had gone back to the flat, cool after the hot sun outside, and gone to bed. Charlie had unbuttoned the red shirt and run his hands over Tom’s chest, hardly able to swallow from desire, pinching Tom’s nipples because he knew Tom liked it, loving the hair under his fingers, and in turn loving Tom’s hands on his own, smoother skin, making him shiver. Tom tangled his hands in Charlie’s hair, using it to pull Charlie closer. They lay together, touching along the length of their bodies, caressing and exploring, reconnecting, kissing slowly and breaking off to smile and then kiss some more. Tom said he wanted to be fucked, so that’s what they did. Charlie remembers how it felt, watching Tom gasp as he felt Charlie inside him, moving from slow and sensuous to hot and sweaty and urgent , Tom yelling his name and all the world narrowed into a single point, the point of contact between their bodies where nothing else mattered. Charlie’s orgasm had crashed over him like an avalanche of feeling. He didn’t know where he ended, and Tom began. His senses were full of Tom: the feel of his skin, the smell of his skin, the taste of his skin, the sound of his voice, and the look in his eyes as he came undone.

Charlie had moved into Tom’s bed, then into his house and his life without ever considering what it meant except that Tom knew what he wanted, and Charlie loved him. He’d never gone beyond that. Now Tom was lying in hospital, and Charlie was on the run. What had seemed simple at home — being together — wasn’t a given any more.

I have to put this first, because if I don’t, I lose everything.

It was as if he had rubbed the sleep out of his eyes could see himself and Tom clearly for the first time, and realised it had all become much more important than he had ever suspected.

“Earth to Charlie Rees.” Charlie started out of his daydream at Murphy’s words.

“I was thinking,” Charlie said.

“From your expression, not about the case.”

“About my partner, Tom. We’re supposed to be on holiday.”

“Not what you had in mind for the trip, I’m guessing.” Pause. “Does Tom own that apartment?”

Yep, he could be a copper. Always with the questions.

Charlie smiled. “I wish. An art foundation owns it, and people like Tom get to use it as a place to work in New York.”

“He’s an artist, then, your Tom?”

“Printmaker. Well known at home. But he’s also the principal of an art college. Which I bet you already knew.”

Murphy had the grace to blush. His pale skin lit up like neon and Charlie was reminded of Patsy’s preference for loud pink clothes when not in uniform.

“I knew he was in charge of an art school, but not the other stuff.”

“You’d have found out, though. You’re invested in me and in something about this case, but it isn’t Kaylan’s murder because you don’t believe he was the target. The way you disappeared when Dwyer’s thugs turned up makes me think that perhaps it’s Dwyer you’re interested in. Am I right?”

Murphy looked away, apparently fascinated by a couple walking an undulating sea of small, curly-haired dogs.

“Dwyer may be of interest to law enforcement,” was all he said. But it was more than he’d said in the past. “I have to go, but I’ve got something for you.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. The something turned out to be a new smartphone, still in its packaging, and a well-used phone-sized power bank, lights indicating that it was fully charged. Charlie took them both.

“So, now you can track me?”

“So, now I can call you, and you can call me. Charlie, I swear to you, I’m on your side.” He took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on the package. “My number. I have to go and rescue the car. Stay safe.” And with that, Murphy stood up and walked out of the park.

Probably to tell someone where I am. But fuck it, let me sit still for five minutes.

* * *

If he could keep out of the way of the FBI, he stood some chance of finding out who had killed Kaylan and why. Andrew Dwyer had to be at the top of his list, with some unknown person at Sully Cybersecurity running a close second. Before any of that, he wanted to find out who Brody Murphy was, or wasn’t. He unwrapped the phone, inserted the SIM card and plugged it in to the power bank. Then he called a familiar number, hoping that Patsy would answer. She did, in a voice that indicated she expected to be told about picking up a parcel she hadn’t ordered.

“I heard about Tom, and the shooting,” she said when she realised who it was. “Are you okay?”

“Not really. I will tell you about it, I promise, but is Unwin around?” Charlie asked.

“What can I do for you?” Unwin asked when Patsy handed the phone over. Charlie thought he heard the rustle of bed covers.

“Can you find out if someone is a police officer? His name is Brody Murphy, and that’s all I know. He has an NYPD shield, and he appears to have access to their information systems, but there’s something not right. I think he’s one of the good guys, but I need to be sure.”

“On it,” Unwin said, as if nothing were simpler. “Anything else?”

Charlie thought. He could find out more about Andrew Dwyer himself, but Unwin would be faster, and any trail he left wouldn’t lead straight back to Charlie’s location. Though he doubted Unwin would leave a trail. “A guy called Andrew Dwyer,” he said. “Kaylan Sully’s uncle and almost certainly some kind of crook.”

“Ring you back on this number?” Unwin asked, and when Charlie said yes, the call ended.

Thirty seconds later, the new phone rang, and he heard Unwin’s voice.

“That Brody Murphy? That’ll be Special Agent Murphy to you.”

Charlie stared at the phone in his hand and had to make an effort not to allow his jaw to drop open.

Does not compute.

“ But that’s all I can get,” Unwin continued. “I can’t find out which bit of the FBI he works for, yet, but the phone number is to the switchboard at Quantico. Your guess is as good as mine.”