Page 65 of Shrapnel

More wailing.

“Scream once for yes and twice for no.” Jamie watched as the man convulsed in pain and fear. “Wait, was that one continuous scream or two screams and a yelp?”

“…church. There’s a…ah…church over on Church St.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Got to hand it to those guys at city planning, they sure get creative.”

“Our Lady of—ah ah—something. Koehler hung out around there a lot. Please let go!”

He loosened his grip a little, patting the man on the thigh. “See? Was that so hard?”

Jamie was about to let go of the man when something moved out of the corner of his eye. The female tweaker was running at him, her limp arm twitching uselessly by her side. She slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Sharp pain radiated from his abdomen. The kind of pain he recognized.

She fell to her bad arm, crying out. He kicked her in the jaw the heel of his boot connecting once with a gross crack.

Grunting, he leaned back to look down his body. Hot blood gushed down the left side of his body. Peeling his shirt aside he saw half a glass bottle sticking out of his stomach. Breathing was getting difficult, the pain radiating up to his stiffening ribcage. Gingerly, he touched the bottle. The glass was warm. It looked like a beer bottle.

“Couldn’t have given me a cold one?”

Licking his lips, he steadied himself on the wall and wobbled into a standing position. Bracing against the brick, he closed his eyes. One hand on the bottle and the other on his abdomen, he jerked.

Jamie’s knees almost gave out. Spots danced in his vision and for a moment he thought he might vomit. Breathing through the pain he glanced down at the bottle in his hand. Blood dripped off its broken edges. The wound wasn’t very deep. Maybe a couple of inches with most of the damage superficial from the ragged end of the broken bottle.

“Fucking pig,” the woman slurred, her dislocated jaw hanging crookedly.

Jamie swallowed back some blood. “Once. Just once, I’d like to be hated for my own, original brand of bullshit.”

He didn’t think she got the joke, but it lost some of its humor in explanation. With heavy feet, he pushed himself out of the alley. One hand clamped on his abdomen, the other trailing on the wall for support, he tried to keep consciousness. Focusing on the way the surface of the brick snagged at his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if it was the hit to the head, the boots to the ribs, or the stab wound. He needed somewhere safe. Somewhere he could trust.

Awoman on the TV snapped her fingers. Owen wasn’t sure why she was talking about tea, but he wasn’t really paying attention. Curled up on his couch, a fleece blanket over his shoulders, he couldn’t get the conversation with Elijah out of his mind.

Can you handle the consequences?

The answer was a resounding no. Like a cat thinking he had nine lives, he let his curiosity bait him into a trap. Now he was stuck and unsure how to proceed.

Rhett called Jamie his friend. At the time he thought it was absurd but the more he looked at it, the more he realized they were. Maybe it was a weird friendship, but it was one. Until now, he would have sworn Jamie was dangerous to others but not to him. Jamie texted reminders to drink water and sends him breakfast. He put up security cameras in his apartment building because it wasn’t safe.

Owen knew all that, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a mask. There were so many parts to Jamie, how could he know which one was the real one? Was it all a ruse because he needed Owen’s computer abilities? Was that day he walked into the computer shop with that stupid crooked grin on his face, a lie?

Jamie was a killer. Owen thought he had accepted that. But what Elijah said brought it all home.

Whenever he closed his eyes he pictured a teenage Jamie—all long limbs he hadn’t quite grown into and abstract features. He wasn’t handsome, not in any classical sense of the word. But it wasn’t his face or the vapid grin that took up half his face that Owen fixated on. It was those dead eyes. The ones he had been drawn to in the Sunspot’s parking lot.

If eyes were the window to the soul…where was Jamie’s?

A knock broke him from his reverie, and he justknewit was Jamie.

Kicking the blanket off, he ignored the screaming in his head. The urge to duck down and pretend like he wasn’t home and opened the door.

Jamie was leaning against the door frame. His was smeared with dirt and blood. The Weaver uniform was rumpled and torn, the back of his black shirt still tucked into the black pants but the front hanging out. A smile twitched on his face, crooked and a little tired.

Owen clutched the door to keep himself centered. “Wh-what’s up?”

Jamie stilled, eyes roaming over Owen’s face. “I got a lead on one of the victims. What’s wrong?” he pushed up off the frame, coming closer.

Owen stepped out of his reach, still blocking the door. “Nothing.”

His smile faded. “It’s not nothing, Owen. What’s wrong?”