Infected: Freefall (40 page)

Ahmed had made lots of road trips down South, so he knew several shortcuts and ways around the heavier traffic areas, but still Holden ended up dozing for about half the trip. It was well into morning when they reached Portland, but it was hard to tell because it was gray and raining, the sun hiding behind a cloud layer as thick as sheep’s wool.

Holden thought about calling Dylan or Dee when they stopped at a gas station to have a piss and get directions, but he ultimately decided against it. What if they told him Roan was dead? It was unlikely, but still possible. Could he handle that? He didn’t think he could, so he decided to operate in ignorance for now. Besides, if he found out Roan was dead before he met Colt, he might just beat the shit out of him, and how did you get information out of a guy with a broken jaw?

They got a bit turned around, but after about forty minutes they found Colt’s apartment building. It was a shitty little brick building in what looked to be a seedier part of town, and for some reason, it called itself Lincoln Towers, even though there was just the one building (why the plural, “Towers”? Did there used to be another one?) and it was only, at most, about six floors high. Hardly a tower.

Colt was in a ground-floor apartment, 5-A, and Ahmed offered to go in with him, but Holden managed to convince him to wait in the car. Being a social worker who was part of a mental health “crisis team,” he was accustomed to defusing tense situations and being so fucking bloody reasonable that it was almost impossible to bully and intimidate someone with him there. Oh sure, he could intimidate with his size alone, but once he started talking, he revealed his soft, marshmallowy center and pretty much blew the deal. Holden wanted to get in this guy’s face, and he didn’t need Ahmed hanging around being reasonable.

The interior of the apartment building was exactly what Holden expected: poorly lit, reeking of piss, vomit, and stale malt liquor. Dimly through doors he heard crying babies, loud televisions, louder music, some shouting in a language he didn’t recognize. Holden lived in a much better apartment, and his porn enterprise wasn’t really off the ground yet. But then again, Holden was his own boss there, it was all Internet, and he didn’t have a drug problem. Lots of the guys who got into porn and/or hustling got drug habits, but it was very chicken and egg—did they get into drugs to stand hustling, or did they hustle to get money for drugs? After doing a little research on Colt, he guessed he probably did have a drug habit. What other reason could there have been for Champion to not give him more high-profile work? He was probably a minor player because he had problems that couldn’t be solved with a fluffer.

He found 5-A and knocked on the door, but as soon as his knuckles made contact with the door, it opened a couple of millimeters. Not just unlocked, but open.

Oh wow, this wasn’t good. Holden made sure he was still carrying his gun before nudging the door open and walking inside. “Hello?”

A messy apartment, it smelled like mold and boiled-over soup, with an undertone of sweat. He saw some drug paraphernalia on the coffee table—glass pipes, blackened foil—and a bunch of wadded-up blankets on the floor beside it.

As he inched closer, Holden realized they weren’t blankets at all. Well, there was a blanket, but it was mostly covering a body.

Terrific. This was the gift that kept on killing.

16

We Regret to Inform You

H
OLDEN
knew he should leave and call 9-1-1, but he’d just gotten here. He checked and made sure Colt was dead, then put on the leather gloves he’d brought just in case he couldn’t pick the lock on the door.

He was here. He might as well have a look around.

What he found out right away was the guy was a slob. Besides that, he discovered that his real name was David Smith, so no wonder he’d decided Colt Brixton was better. It wasn’t, but who was he to judge? His real name was Holden Krause. He always thought he sounded like a foreign car.

The guy had a fridge full of Red Bull and vodka and a silverware drawer full of glass pipes and roach clips. The guy must have medicated himself morning, noon, and night.

Further searching turned up an empty laptop case in his bedroom. Had he simply forgotten it somewhere, or had someone taken it? Considering he was dead, the answer seemed to be the latter.

The guy was really disgusting. When was the last time he’d washed his sheets? Also, he had a pile of dirty clothes in the corner that smelled like an overcrowded bus at 5 p.m. on a Friday. Now, Holden wasn’t the neatest guy in the world, but he never let that happen. He never had a reeking pile of clothes in his apartment, nor did he allow his sheets to get crunchy. That was just beyond the pale.

In the back of his closet he found a box of porn DVDs, many of which were movies Colt had been in, and Holden had a hunch. If he was going to hide something, this would be a great place to do it. He started opening up the DVD cases, looking for a DVD that didn’t fit.

He was through the first dozen without finding anything, and he wondered if he was a far-too-hopeful idiot. There was some straight porn in the box too, making him wonder if David/Colt was straight. It was more than possible. Lots of straight guys went into gay porn to make more money. And with his sizable drug habit, he probably needed all the money he could get.

Down near the bottom of the box, in a case for a truly scary-looking Ron Jeremy film, was a DVD that wasn’t a DVD—it was a CD-ROM. “I hope this is what I think it is, and not some interactive porn game,” he said to no one. Or maybe he was talking to the dead guy in the living room. It was bad enough that he was pawing through the man’s stuff—did he have to be completely rude too?

He did a quick check of other potential hiding places, found only a half a gram of white powder taped under the toilet tank, which he flushed away. He also found, in the false bottom of the cabinet under his bathroom sink, a little black book. Literally, a small, black-covered address book. Probably just a collection of his tricks, but still Holden shoved it in his pocket along with the CD-ROM.

Leaving the apartment, Holden pulled out his cell phone and reported that he was just walking through his building, and he’d noticed a neighbor’s door ajar, and while he couldn’t be sure, it looked like there was a person huddled on the floor beneath a blanket, a person who didn’t move or respond when he talked to him.

Okay, an anonymous 9-1-1 call was chickenshit. But there were too many questions he didn’t want to answer and, to be completely fair, just couldn’t.

D
YLAN
knew he was in ahead of visiting hours, but he didn’t care. He’d barely got any sleep, and he felt he had to be here.

It wasn’t anxiety keeping him up, but nightmares. Well, one in particular. He was at Roan’s funeral. Or was it a wake? Must have been a wake; Roan had already told him, when he died he wanted to be cremated and thrown in the face of his enemies. He assumed that last bit was just his dark sense of humor… but maybe it wasn’t. Actually, there was a fifty-fifty chance it was actually what he wanted and not a joke.

Dylan was getting a soda from a lobby vending machine—so much better than the industrial-strength coffee they had—when a woman asked, “You’re Mr. McKichan’s partner, yes?”

He turned to see the short Indian doctor from last night. According to what he could see of her security badge, her name was Doctor Singh. “Well, uh, I guess.” He hated that term, “partner.” Like they were business associates. He really would have preferred “butt buddy,” frankly. Partner was so cold and clinical, so American Family Association. Like there was no emotional attachment whatsoever. It was all financial or bureaucratic and seemed to indicate it was something other than a relationship that could end in bitter acrimony and clothes getting tossed out on the lawn at three in the morning. That was so unfair.

“During a routine test this morning, Roan had an unusual pupil response, so we did some scans—”

“He’s off the respirator?” he interrupted, as this seemed vital.

She looked distracted, and then a brief look of annoyance flashed across her face before she resumed her medical poker face. “Yes, he seems to be breathing on his own now.”

Dylan let out a sigh of relief, unaware he’d even held his breath. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Anyways, we… found something. Do you know if he has a regular doctor? As an infected, I imagine he does, but it’s not in the files.”

This threw him for a moment. Dylan’s hand tightened around the cold can of pop, and he was glad for its indisputable reality. “You found something? What do you mean, you found something? Can you be more specific?”

She shook her head, sweeping her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Not at this moment, no, and that’s why I need to talk to his doctor. Do you know who that is?”

Dylan scowled at her, wanting more answers, scouring his brain for the name of Roan’s doctor. Did he even have one? He hated doctors. But he recalled there was one he seemed to talk to on the phone, one who occasionally left messages on the machine. What was her name again? “Umm… Rosenberg. Petra Rosenberg, I think. I remember it’s an unusual name.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Rosenberg from the Institute? I didn’t even know she treated patients anymore.”

He didn’t know what the Institute was exactly, but he supposed it was infected-related. “I don’t know that she does. She treated Roan as a kid, I guess, and they’ve kept in contact. He seems to trust her. He doesn’t trust too many people.”

Doctor Singh nodded. “She’s good. Her work on infecteds will probably get her a Nobel Prize one of these days.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away.

“Wait,” he said quickly. “This thing you found… can you tell me anything about it?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell at this moment. It could be an anomaly related to his condition, which is why I need to talk to his doctor.” It felt like a dodge to him, but he wasn’t sure how to call her on it. And honestly, did he want to? His heart and stomach were both fluttering nervously. No one wanted to hear a doctor found “something” in a routine test or scan. The “something” was never a thousand-dollar bill or a deed to an island in Hawaii. It was always a horrible something. “Oh, and you can see him now. We’re hoping he’ll regain consciousness soon.”

Dylan was hoping that too. Now more than ever.

As it turned out, Roan never woke up.

Dylan talked to him, mainly about the many twists and turns of the Newberry case, and how none of them could figure out what it meant. And how disconcerting Holden’s continued radio silence was. None of this roused him from a deep sleep that was just this side of a coma.

After a while, Dylan just laid his head on his chest to make sure he was still alive. Yes, he was. There was a slow, almost thick thud inside his chest, nearly normal but far too slow.

Something had been wrong with Roan previous to this, and he knew it, didn’t he? Dylan supposed he did, but he didn’t know how to say it, or even if he should. After all, Roan knew better than he did that his migraines were getting worse. Was he supposed to tell him something he already knew?

This was what he hated about relationships. Just fucking hated. The emotional investment and the slow, subtle death of it in one way or another.

Roan’s eventual death was a fact of life he’d had to grapple with the second he thought he might really like the guy. He was infected and had lived years beyond any virus child of record. The clock was ticking. Dylan knew this, and he wasn’t sure he could deal with it, but he also knew emotions had a tendency to carry him away, no matter how he tried to be Zen about it. The moment Roan took off his shirt, showing him the scars he had so Dylan didn’t feel self-conscious about the self-inflicted scars on his arms, was the moment he fell in love with him. You just had to love someone who was so utterly fearless and yet so kind. They were rare.

Too rare to live. Just like Jason.

A nurse eventually kicked him out, which was fine by Dylan, as he knew he was getting maudlin and that Roan, if he happened to come to then, would probably just slug him. He wasn’t a fan of the soppy.

On the way out, Dylan barely recognized the cute Asian guy who was Dee’s current boyfriend. He said he’d call him if Roan regained consciousness, and Dylan thanked him for that. He left feeling numb and strange, slightly disconnected from the world around him, as if he was sleepwalking and yet aware of it.

He felt that way all the way home, only realizing as soon as he parked in the driveway that he should have gone to the store. Fuck it, he wasn’t hungry. If he got hungry later, he could order a pizza.

Dylan was still in a personal fog, unlocking the front door, when someone grabbed him around the neck from behind. “Roan McKichan? Are you Roan?”

Dylan grabbed the man’s arm. He knew enough self-defense that he could have thrown the guy if he had the room, but he didn’t, so he could do nothing at the moment save keep him from strangling him. “No, I’m not. Why do you want him?”

“Where is he?” The guy sounded desperate. He also smelled, of body odor and, strangely enough, a scent like wet cat.

“In the hospital. Somebody tried to kill him. Was it you?” Dylan didn’t think so, he didn’t know Roan on sight, but he wanted to put him on the defensive.

“No! No, I didn’t do that. At least, I don’t think I did—” His voice cracked, and he made a slight keening noise as he tried to keep from crying. Results were mixed.

And that’s when it all suddenly clicked into place in his mind. “Grant Kim?” Dylan asked.

17

The Sound of Light Breaking Down

I
N
THE
manner of dreams everywhere, Roan was aware he was in what was supposed to be his house, but wasn’t his house. It was a big, nearly empty room of plain white walls, save for a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. He’d never seen a room like this, and it surely didn’t exist in his house. But in his dream mind, this was home. And he was looking out the window on an expansive green lawn where a tiger lolled, its tail flicking lazily as it surveyed its surroundings with what seemed to be boredom. Once again knowing without knowing, he knew he was looking at Paris’s tiger. Not Paris in tiger form—Paris’s tiger, the one that hid inside of him. “So, you finally got out,” Roan said, even though there was no way the tiger could hear him through the glass. It still looked at him anyways, as if it could.