Infected: Freefall: Infected, #4

By Andrea Speed

In a world where a werecat virus has changed society, Roan McKichan, a born infected and ex-cop, works as a private detective trying to solve crimes involving other infecteds. Between his mutating virus and his rocky relationship with his artist boyfriend, Dylan, Roan has enough problems to solve without taking on other people's, but that's the nature of his work. Roan finds himself under increased scrutiny, from police who suspect him to cultists who want him dead. Roan finds himself searching for a missing boy in a cold case gone frigid, and for a friend's fugitive brother. But when Dylan is singled out by his enemies, Roan's trip over the edge might be too much for him to ever come back. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Speed
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393251194

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright

Book One: Freefall

1 What Would Wolves Do

2 Exodus Damage

3 Waiting for the End of the World

4 Bitter for Sweet

5 Bad Sects

6 Something Bad Is Gonna Happen

7 Fighting in Built-Up Areas

8 Bliss

9 Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things to Do Today

10 La Stanza Bianca

11 Marching Bands of Manhattan

12 Drinking From the Necks of the Ones You Love

13 Corporeal

14 Mescaline Eyes

15 Stranger By the Minute

16 Subtle Body

17 Ghosts

18 Imitation of Life

19 The Bones of You

Book Two: Bloodletting

1 Signify

2 After Hours

3 Gravity Rides Everything

4 Cycle of Agony

5 Quote Unquote

6 Cattle and the Creeping Things

7 All Is Ash or The Light Shining Through It

8 Ghouls

9 Mistaken for Strangers

10 The Shit Sisters

11 Beware

12 Can’t Exist

13 Cosmopolitan

14 Time Won’t Tell

15 The Use of a Tourniquet Is Not Advised

16 We Regret to Inform You

17 The Sound of Light Breaking Down

18 Lucifer

19 Between the Bars

20 Warbrain

21 Midnight in a Perfect World

Don’t miss what happens next in

About the Author

Copyright

This is a work of fiction . Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Infected: Freefall

© 2014 Andrea Speed.

Cover Art

© 2020 fiverr.com/germancreative

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

Thanks to my mother, Charlie and Derek, the CXPulp crew, Ruth, Rachel, and everyone at Dreamspinner. I think I’ll thank Terry, Brandon, and James, too, just to blow their minds.

But this is really for my loyal readers. Thank you so much.

Book One: Freefall

PART ONE

FREEFALL

1

What Would Wolves Do

THE loneliest time in the world was 2:45 a.m.

It was long enough after the bars closed that everyone who had a place to go (or thought they did) and was physically able to leave was gone, so all that was left were the chronically homeless or the blind drunk, who had a tendency to drift into shadows or cars or parks, effectively disappearing. You could wander entire blocks and feel like the last man on earth.

Then you entered a convenience store, the last glowing beacon of humanity, and the feeling fled under florescent lights highlighting aisles and aisles of unnaturally colored snack food. It made you want to be the last man on earth.

Maybe it was that, or it was his latest case, which was just one fucking depressing surprise after another. He nodded at the Pakistani clerk, a sad-eyed man slumped at the counter, idly watching a portable TV that sounded like it was tuned to a Law and Order repeat (sure, why not? They could play that fucking show twenty-four hours a day for a month and never run out of different episodes), and then went to the back, where the cooler cases were. Roan had already decided this case was over, prematurely ended due to unexpected weirdness.

He had been hired by his client, one Holly Faraday, to tail her husband, Dallas Faraday. Over the past couple of months, Dallas had been working later and later, and she’d discovered, by finding a bill he’d thrown away, that he had maxed out his personal credit card—the one with the hundred-thousand-dollar limit. She confronted him about it, and he made up some phony story about outstanding student loans and a bad bet, but it made no sense to her. Then he drained their bank account, seemed to always have an excuse not to sleep with her, and one of her favorite coats—some ludicrously expensive Prada thing—disappeared. She figured he was having an affair (in spite of his denials), and that maybe he was being blackmailed, which would explain why his money was being spent so freely and mysteriously.

Roan doubted it was blackmail, as shows and mystery fiction had overstated its use. Dallas was in the higher echelon of the middle class—he was an upper management drone at Columbia Mutual—but he was hardly someone worthy of blackmail, unless it was a family member extorting him for money. (When blackmail was involved, it was never complete strangers who had lucked into dirty secrets.) So he’d started following him. Of course he wasn’t working late like he’d told her. Roan discovered he’d actually been fired from his job at the beginning of the week—and uncovered Dallas’s secret life.

First of all, he had herpes. Roan caught him buying Valtrex, and he also caught him taking some in the front seat of his Lexus, washing it down with his latte. He didn’t take pictures of that, although it did explain his lack of sexual interest in his wife. Why wouldn’t he tell his wife about it, though? He might have exposed her to it already; she might already have it. It wasn’t fair to keep that information from her.

Dallas drove around for a bit, withdrawing money from two different ATMs, which was suspicious. Roan began to wonder if he was a sex addict, addicted to prostitutes (which would explain the venereal disease). He then drove down toward a formerly seedy but now gentrifying part of the city and visited a woman who lived in a ground-floor apartment. He got telephoto pictures of a not-so-subtle cocaine deal—he was buying himself some nose candy from a frizzy-haired blonde woman who looked like the perfect stereotype of a soccer mom, save for that tattoo. (He wasn’t sure what it was but guessed it was probably a cactus.) His new camera had such high resolution that he was able to see it was purely powdered stuff, not crack or crystal. Very old school. The woman didn’t look like Tony Montana. Her place wasn’t that posh, either. A very small-time dealer.

Dallas ended the night at a kegger taking place at an off-campus house outside the local college, where there was no way in hell he was invited (he was about fifteen years older than everyone else), but they were all too drunk to give a crap about the skeevy cokehead cruising the coeds. He abandoned his stakeout there, as there was no way to watch for long without being noticed.

But that explained the money and possibly the herpes. Dallas had a major drug habit. How he’d suddenly found nose candy about ten years after it became antiquated Roan had no idea, but it was still an addictive motherfucker. But none of this was part of the moral quandary that had haunted him the rest of the night. Should he turn the photos over to the cops?

If she had been a small-time pot dealer, it wouldn’t have even occurred to him. Hypocritical, but there it was. Most potheads were harmless, simply because doing harm would have meant getting off the couch. And dealers who did their business in dime bags were generally rank amateurs, usually high school or college kids, no one very hardcore. But once you vaulted into the harder stuff—be it the crack dealers or the pot-growing operations that took up an acre or two—things got exponentially more dangerous, mainly because the amount of money involved also increased. Money was the key. Not too many people got worked up over twenty dollars worth of pot. But make that twenty-five-thousand dollars worth of pot (or whatever), and yeah, people cared very much. That’s when guns and violence entered the equation.

Potheads generally didn’t do anything but act stupid and eat Twinkies. Cokeheads could go fucking nuts. Staying up twenty hours in a row and eating nothing but coke could do that to anyone. Amphetamines made you feel invincible and stupid enough to believe it. A small-time coke dealer still might be trouble.

At what point in his life had he decided he didn’t want to seem like a narc? It was too late—he’d already been a cop once. That stained you as a narc for life. He eyed all the sodas through the glass doors of the cold case and decided he wanted something else. He just didn’t know what. He was tired and thirsty and hungry, and it was a long drive home. He’d told Dylan he was on stakeout duty, but he may have showed up after work anyway, as he had his own key to Roan’s place. Sometimes Dylan made him dinner, and even though they were vegetarian things, they were usually pretty good. Dylan’s job made him a night owl by default, so at least they had that in common.

He’d know if Dylan was addicted to coke. Roan himself had to be really careful about when and how many pain pills he took, as Dylan was suspicious enough about his relationship with pills anyway. And they didn’t even live together. So how did Dallas get away with being a cokehead and Holly never suspecting a thing? That didn’t make sense. He’d be nervous and shaky, probably more high-strung than he was before, possibly losing weight or at least his appetite. And that’s not to mention the other side effects that could result, such as spontaneous nosebleeds. She’d noticed the changes in money and some behavior, but not all? Why not? Oh sure, some people seemed to miss a lot, but Holly had struck him as sharper than that. Perhaps he was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He’d just decided on a bottled green tea when he heard the chime of the door’s bells, followed shortly after by a rough male voice shouting, Empty the fucking cash register, now!

Roan turned, and had to take a couple of steps back to the end of the candy aisle to see what was going on. A guy with a nine millimeter, black hoodie-wearer with the hood pulled tight around his face, was so agitated he seemed to be rocking back and forth even as he stood still. Speak of the devil—it was probably a methhead. They could become a serious case of twitches, tics, and shivers. Coke was bad enough, but meth was hell, a quick trip to the grave. He heard the high was spectacular, and it must have been for people to deteriorate so fast.

Roan had actually decided to let the robbery go, as it was too dangerous to the clerk to go after him here and now. He could follow him outside and confront him there. He knew the streets were fairly deserted, and the chance of collateral damage was almost zero. But the guy thought the clerk wasn’t moving fast enough and smashed him in the head with the gun. Don’t fuckin’ try anythin’ with me, towelhead! the guy snapped, reaching over the counter.

Stupid shit, Roan muttered under his breath. This could have gone smoothly. No one could have been hurt. But he decided to be even more of a fuckhead than he already was. Roan knew if he started running, the guy would hear him and turn, so he had to buy some time. He stepped into the candy aisle and tossed the bottle of tea.

It was a dead shot. It hit him square on the back of the skull, and even though the glass bottle didn’t break, Roan heard the terrible thunk of impact, and the guy pitched forward across the counter, although he didn’t drop the gun. Fuck! he roared. The bottle shattered when it hit the floor.

Roan had started running, but he could tell from the smell the robber was giving off that he was amped up and probably relatively impervious to pain. He started turning, gun out, and Roan realized he’d started running too late. The guy would have time to shoot him before he reached him.

So he lunged for him. He didn’t ram into him—somehow he landed with his feet on the edge of the counter, bracketing the man’s chest, putting him in a good position to grab the man’s gun hand and punch him in the face with his other hand. He felt a tooth give under his knuckle.

Motherf— The guy began struggling, and Roan snapped his wrist like it was made of plywood. He let out a horrified yelp, and Roan slammed his forehead down on the man’s face. It hurt like a motherfucker, and he saw stars, but the robber got it worse. Roan let his arm go so he could slide to the floor, and Roan instantly grabbed the edge of the counter, where he had planted his feet. Was this defying gravity? He supposed not, but it was pretty close. He was balancing—easily—on the very edge of the counter. He could see the clerk behind the counter, crouched down with a thin trickle of blood dripping from his scalp. His eyes were wide and definitely startled, like he wasn’t sure if he should be more afraid of Roan or the guy with the gun.

You call the cops? Roan asked, finally feeling the strain on the backs of his legs.

For a second he just stared at Roan like he couldn’t believe he was for real, then gestured to something under the counter. Got a button back here.

Good. Roan dropped back down to the floor, careful to avoid the robber, who was already coming around. Roan kicked him over onto his face and put a foot on the back of his head to keep him down, leaning back against the counter to wait. Don’t struggle. I have your gun now. Actually, it was still on the counter where it had fallen, and Roan had no interest in it. He didn’t need it.

The clerk stood up at some point, turning the set’s volume down to almost nothing, and eventually asked, How did you do that?

Oh no. Do what?

That—that jump. I’ve never seen anyone do something like that outside of movies. Are you a gymnast or something?

The jump? The jump. Staring down the aisle, he realized his lunge was done about, what, twenty feet from the robber? More or less? He should go for the long-jump competition. Roan wanted to say, No, I’m a cat, but managed to fight the urge. It was for the best. Not exactly. He didn’t know he could do that. But if he could jump from a third floor and manage to land on his feet (and not break every bone in his legs), why couldn’t he do this? It was a minor variation on a theme.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted the cops that showed up to know him or not, but as it turned out, the difference was split. It was Thompson and Bragg, two cops he had seen involved with crowd control at one of the Church of Divine Transformation protests he was called in to help patrol—they all knew of each other, but didn’t really know each other at all. Thompson was a rock-solid, six foot three, two-hundred-pound guy who bore a very minor resemblance to a young Jim Brown, a reference that Thompson totally didn’t get when he mentioned it. It made Roan feel so very old. Bragg was an attractive, slightly heavyset woman, ten inches shorter than her partner, who seemed to show no emotion whatsoever, no matter the situation. Thompson was a bit more jovial, but in a way that suggested he and Bragg had worked out their whole good cop/bad cop routine in advance.

Bragg took his statement while the EMTs bundled the suspect off to the emergency room (broken wrist, possible concussion), and Thompson interviewed the clerk, who was actually the owner of the shop—it seemed he had a hard time getting people to cover the night shift. (No, really?) He gave Thompson an earful on shitty police coverage and response time, but Thompson took it all with the same good humor he took everything.

Roan got his tea. As soon as the cops arrived and took over, he got another bottle from the cold case. He offered money, but the clerk/owner waved it away. Maybe a free drink was the least he could expect. Maybe he should have tried to get a frozen burrito thrown in as well.

Bragg asked him if he carried a gun, and he opened his jacket and showed her the Sig Sauer in his belt holster. That made her raise a painted eyebrow at him. You didn’t pull it?

Why? Get in a gun fight with a civilian right there?

When you hit him with the bottle, you could have just as well have shot him. There’d have been no fight at all.

Roan scoffed. Kill a guy for trying to rob a store? I don’t think so.

She kept giving him that stare, like she couldn’t believe he was for real. It was then, inside the store, that Thompson let out a startled laugh and said, Lisha, you gotta see this! This is fucking awesome. Thompson was watching security camera footage of the incident. He looked up and met Roan’s eyes. How’d you fuckin’ do that, man?

Pilates, Roan replied, deadpan.

Thompson thought about it for a moment, thinking he was serious, but then he realized he was being sarcastic and laughed, shaking his head. You’re crazy.

He felt like it, but he knew Thompson meant it in a humorously complimentary way. Roan hoped that footage didn’t end up on YouTube too.

Roan drove home, listening to the Deftones and trying to stay awake. You’d think that his adrenaline would be high, but it wore off very quickly. He was tired and kind of drained. It was a shitty tail, and it had been a shitty couple of weeks. It was one of those times when he wondered if he should quit this job entirely, and then he’d wonder what he could do instead and reconsidered it. He was only qualified to be a smartass, and amazingly, no one paid for that. Well, very few at any rate.

The house was dark when he got home, but Dylan’s beater car was in the driveway, and he’d left the porch light on for Roan. He unlocked the door to a quiet house that still had the smells of recent cooking lingering in it. From the scent alone, he guessed it was something Moroccan, as he could smell peppers and cumin and couscous. Other things too—was that raisins?—but those were the dominant smells. There was a note from Dylan on the breakfast bar that he read while listening to the messages on his answering machine. It was short, saying Dylan had tried to stay up and wait for him, but he was tired, so he ate dinner and went to bed, but he’d left him dinner in the fridge. Fair enough. The messages were nothing remarkable. Unless Dylan had erased it, this was day number two without a death threat from an anonymous guy he'd started to think of as Mr. Asshat. He should mark it on the calendar.

But while it seemed good on the surface, it could be terrible. Maybe Mr. Asshat had gotten bored. Or maybe he’d decided that the time for talking was done, and the time for action was nigh. Fuck it—he’d find out soon enough.

There was a brief tug of war between hungry and tired, but tired won, so he simply went upstairs, letting the dim moonlight illuminate his path. He didn’t really need to see anyway; he knew this house, how everything was laid out. He didn’t need to see to know what was where.

Once he made it to the bedroom, he quietly stripped, piling his clothes on the chair before slipping into bed beside Dylan. Roan had bought new sheets and blankets, an attempt to move on even in a merely cosmetic sense, and he still wasn’t used to the feel of them against his skin. It was weird what you got used to without realizing it.

He didn’t want to wake Dylan up, but the shifting mattress seemed to do it, and he turned toward Roan and opened his sleepy eyes. Hey there. He must have glanced at the clock on the nightstand behind him, as he quickly added, Wow, that was one long tail.

Yeah.

Dylan cupped his face in his hand as he brushed one of his legs against his. This was still nice; he still missed the warmth of another human being when it wasn’t there. Anything happen?

He wanted to say, I’m a hostage situation away from superherodom. Do you think I have an ass for spandex? But instead he said, Nope, not really. How’d your night go?

Oh, dull. It was a really slow night for some reason.

Cock ring show in town?

He smirked, too tired to laugh. I think I’d have been informed if there was. I’m glad I grabbed one of your books before I left, ’cause I ended up reading most of it. Not that the boss was happy about me reading on the job, but there was no one to serve drinks to for long stretches.

Tell him reading makes you look smart, and smart guys are hot.

Only to some.

I don’t like himbos.

He kissed him softly on the bottom lip, letting his hand trail down his chest. I know. It’s very sweet of you.

I’m a weirdo.

Stop that, Dylan said mildly. He snuggled closer, and Roan put his arms around him as Dylan nestled his head into his neck. He must have washed his hair before he went to bed, because Dylan’s hair smelled faintly of green-tea conditioner.

Roan could hear birds start chirping outside, as it was just about four in the morning, and out here some of the songbirds beat the sun by a good hour. Not many, though, so it wasn’t too distracting. He concentrated on Dylan’s breathing as it slowed and deepened as he fell back to sleep, and tried to copy him. He was tired, and yet not quite tired enough to fall asleep.

Maybe because somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had this awful feeling that something bad was going to happen, that he had dodged so many bullets that his luck was bound to turn. You could fight a lot of things, but odds and entropy always got you in the end.

Roan just wondered who Mr. Asshat was and what they would do when they finally decided to pull the trigger.

2

Exodus Damage

ROAN dreamed he was pleading to someone that he was trying. He didn’t know who, or what it was about, but, with jumbled dream logic, he was sure it was the most important thing in the world. He was desperate to convince this person he was trying, and he could feel his heart pounding even in his dream, anxiety spiking and punching through the dream state.

So when his alarm went off, he felt like he lurched out of sleep, the beeping so annoying he wanted to slap it across the room—and almost did, but decided he didn’t want to spend any more money on replacing broken alarm clocks. He turned it off and lay there for a moment, aware he was sweating and his heart rate was just starting to slow. Birds were chirping loudly outside his window, but it was a gloomy day, so light was filtered, as if through a dirty aquarium.

He heard soft footsteps in the hall, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the bedroom door open. (He really needed to oil that hinge.) Dylan padded in and asked, You awake?

Sadly.

Roan heard a rustle of paper and smelled that curious soy ink newspapers used now, and Dylan asked, Were you ever going to tell me about this?

Roan opened his eyes and saw that he was holding out a folded square of the paper, opened to the inside of the local section, where they had these tiny articles about the crime beat. There was an article titled "Robbery Thwarted By Customer. Oh terrific. Hadn’t it happened too late to make the morning paper? How fast was their turnaround time? The small article—and it was printed in small font—was only two paragraphs long, and identified him and the would-be robber by name, but they couldn’t just leave it at names. Oh no. He was identified as Roan McKichan, a private investigator with ties to the police department." That would come as a shocker to most of the police department.

He looked up to see Dylan looking down at him with his dark eyebrows raised curiously. He wasn’t quite angry, but he was clearly wondering if he should go there. Roan sighed and rubbed his eyes, buying time. It wasn’t a big deal. It happened on my way home. I just didn’t feel like talking about it last night. Or this morning. Whatever.

Dylan sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked only slightly more awake than Roan did, dressed in sweatpants and an old Ski Mojave T-shirt. Roan could smell eggs and toast, and hoped he’d made huevos rancheros. Technically, it’s afternoon, but I made breakfast anyways. Wanna join me, hero?

That last bit was weary, not sarcastic, so he took that as a good sign. He assured Dylan once he joined him downstairs he’d tell him everything, which would give Roan time to edit his story. He took a quick shower, washing away the sweat and letting his adrenaline levels even out. He didn’t know why fragments of such a banal dream could disturb him so much, but it did. An anxiety dream? Who was he failing? Dylan? He knew that one already. If he was going to be troubled by dreams, they could have the decency to tell him something new.

He really wanted codeine. He briefly considered even just popping half a Tylenol codeine, which was the equivalent of scarfing a baby aspirin, but ultimately he decided not to. He could at least try, for Dylan, even if he didn’t know it. He tossed on some old jeans and a tank top, mainly because they were the first items he pulled blindly out of the drawer.

He was greeted by the sharp scent of dark espresso and the mellow sounds of Sun Kil Moon on the stereo, as Dylan usually liked to listen to music when he cooked, and he had gotten the espresso maker out of the closet, unaware that it had been a wedding present from Paris’s parents to the both of them. Roan was sure if he told him he’d put it away, but Roan had never told him.

Dylan had made a kind of tofu scramble that was better than it sounded, and Roan told him an abbreviated version of what had happened at the convenience store last night. He stopped it at the throwing of the tea, implying that stunned the robber enough that he was able to subdue him until the cops arrived. He didn’t see it as lying, more as just simply not admitting he was getting more freaky as he got older.

Dylan did have some good news, although he didn’t seem very thrilled about it. He’d got a showing at a downtown art gallery, but not one of those smaller avant-garde places where he often had showings. It seemed the big city gallery had decided to highlight local artists, and he was chosen after someone else fell through, and one of the artists actually in the show recommended him. It’d be in two weeks, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it. He was sure that no one in the gallery actually knew who he was, save for Reiko, who had recommended him. He felt like he was being tossed scraps, and on top of that, he had no idea what he’d show. Roan encouraged him to pick out his most meaningful pieces (Dylan said he didn’t have favorites, as he just couldn’t judge his own work that way), and to include at least one of his bleeding hardware series, if only for him. He was promising he’d go with Dylan to the debut showing, and Roan had no idea what he’d wear to an art gallery soiree (in fact, he was relatively sure that none of his clothes were nice enough), when the phone rang and probably saved him from sinking into even deeper trouble.

It was a man who identified himself as Chris Spencer and wanted to make an appointment today, as he had a case for him. Roan was going to fob him off on Fiona to set up an appointment, but he sounded desperate, and Roan couldn’t kid himself—he needed the money. So he said he’d meet him at the office within the hour. He didn’t need to tell Dylan, as he’d heard what Roan said, but thankfully he didn’t blame him at all. He totally understood needing the money.

Once he changed into slightly more presentable clothes and checked the weather, he decided to take his motorcycle anyway, as he felt he needed to get some better adrenaline going. He had a black leather trench coat that Paris used to tease him was de rigueur for the stylish gay Nazi and wore it, in hopes it would keep some of the sputtering rain off. The results were mixed.

The office was supposed to be closed today, so Fiona wasn’t there (he hadn’t expected to get through with the Faraday case so quickly), and as he opened the place he realized he missed her. It was nice to have someone bright and sarcastic hanging around the office, keeping him on his toes. Also, keeping him mostly sober.

He had time to put on a pot of coffee and call Holly Faraday. Accidentally, he called her home number and got her and Dallas’s machine, so he quickly hung up and called her work number. There he got her voice mail system. Did no one answer their phone anymore? He left a bland message, identifying himself and asking her to call him as soon as she could. It was unlikely anyone would intercept her work voice mail, but he still had to keep client confidentiality.

He was finished with that when a man came through the door. He was a bit on the short to average size, about five five and one hundred and forty pounds, wearing a brown-plaid flannel shirt and heavy work jeans, with scuffed brown work boots to match. He was blandly handsome, not a bad-looking guy, with nut-brown hair and piercing blue eyes in a pleasantly round, open face. He was also carrying a Jack-Bauer-style man purse, but Roan tried not to hold that against him. He had a strong grip when he shook his hand.

Although no one else was here, he invited him back into his office out of habit. Roan took his seat behind his desk, where he felt most comfortable anyway, and Spencer took the seat in front. Roan had barely gotten settled when Spencer blurted out nervously, Will you hear me out before turning me down?

Oh, that was never a good sign.

Spencer told him his five-year-old son had gone missing from Bishop Park eleven years ago, and the whole thing had become a cold case at the police department several years ago. There was a sketch of a possible suspect, but it was so vague it could have applied to almost any white male, and no evidence was ever found. It was like his son, Keith, just stopped existing, dropped off the face of the earth.

If it’s a cold case, and eleven years old, I don’t see how I could help you, Roan told him honestly. Any evidence that may have existed is long gone, and if the cops couldn’t find anything back then, I can’t believe I’d find anything now.

Spencer nodded through this, his eyes occasionally moist but tears never falling. I know. I know it’s more than likely you won’t find anything, but I want to make one last effort at it to tell myself I tried. I don’t want to be haunted to my grave by it, like Elliot, although I can’t see how I wouldn’t be.

Elliot?

Keith’s father. Roan stared at Spencer curiously until he added, I was Keith’s mother back then.

Okay. He loved it when things got complicated for no reason at all. Female to male?

Spencer nodded. I transitioned four years ago. I was in therapy before Keith’s disappearance—I was a depressive, an alcoholic, just so miserable. I got married impulsively at a young age and got pregnant, hoping that that would make me feel more feminine, because I never did feel like a woman, and I tried so hard because I got tired of being taunted as a ‘dyke’. But it didn’t work, I felt even more like a failure, and I know some of the guilt I feel about Keith’s disappearance is that I was a horrible mother and didn’t deserve him in the first place. He paused briefly, closing his eyes, forcing back the tears. Then he continued. After his disappearance, my marriage to Elliot, which was dicey anyways, just fell to pieces. We blamed each other and both crawled into separate bottles. I ended up in the hospital, and it was there that I first met someone who was transitioning, male to female in that case, but I realized that maybe I would be happier if I actually was a man. I saw a therapist about it for three years, because I didn’t want to do it just because I hated myself so much after Keith’s disappearance, and then there was the thought that if he reappeared miraculously after all these years, he wouldn’t recognize me as a man. But I lost all hope after the police made it a cold case. I did research, and I knew that—any television shows aside—cold cases usually ended up permanently buried. One or two might get solved, tied to another murder or rape case, but it was the police equivalent of the dead letter office. Once a case ended up there, it was lucky to be heard from again. It was funny, but Elliot wasn’t really surprised at my sex change. He said he always figured I’d have made a better guy. He smirked in a bittersweet way. My family didn’t feel that way—my mother still won’t talk to me. My sister does, though, she and her husband are pretty cool about it and my partner, Fletcher.

You’re gay? Well, why not? The funny thing about switching gender was it didn’t mean your sexual preferences changed. If you liked women before, you would after; if you liked men before, you would after. Gender really wasn’t tied to sexual identity, although some frightening people insisted the opposite.

He smiled. I like men. I like being a man. I’ve never been happier. Well, within reason. Spencer’s smile faded, and he rubbed his eyes. Every year, Keith’s birthday rolls around, and I find myself staring at birthday cakes in bakeries, wondering if he’d be into sports or cars, or be the total opposite of me and be into musicals and fine arts. Maybe all of the above. Maybe he would have been a Renaissance man. Is a Renaissance man. The accidental shift in tense made something in his jaw twitch, throat muscles briefly spasming, and he took another moment to get his emotions under control, hands knotting anxiously in his lap. I guess I rediscovered hope when I heard that story of that kidnapped boy who was found living with a sex offender several years after he disappeared. Do you remember that?

I do, I read that in the paper. But you do know that—

Such discoveries are rare? That most kidnapped children are killed shortly after their abduction? Yes, I know. But after Elliot died—two months ago, in a drunken driving accident—I started talking to the detective who had the case. He told me they really hated cases of missing children going into the cold case files, and he was trying everything he could, but nothing new had come up. He told me he was talking to a friend of his at the local paper, hoping to get an article published about it, but so far nothing’s come of it.

Who’s the officer?

Sadowski. Umm... Gabriel Sadowski, I think.

Roan nodded. He’s a good one. And he was. He was one of the last old-fashioned cops, although not old-fashioned in the let’s beat up some black guys and queers way. He was one of those nose-to-the-grindstone detectives, one who followed any lead, no matter how slim, and really worked the snitch angle by being