Blood and Water - jadrea (2024)

Chapter 1: Get Up and Get Down

Chapter Text

I met Donovan at a bus stop in Southdowns.

He picked me up in his big blue panel van, disguised as a Marquis liquor delivery truck. Seemed like every time I rode in it, it smelled like something different. Pizza, Chinese takeout, curry. Today it was donuts. I had to shift two boxes off the passenger's seat so I could sit down.

“Jesus,” I said, laughing, “you got enough?”

“Few more in the back.” He grinned. “Great place just around the corner. Best Boston cream donut I've ever had. Want one?”

My stomach grumbled. When had I eaten last? Yesterday? I grunted my thanks and retrieved one. He was right, it was f*cking delicious.

“You said it's 'round the corner? Never been there.”

“Well, no use going now. That's why I stocked up.” Donovan jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the stack of boxes. “Owner got murdered.”

I looked down at the donut. Somehow it didn't seem as appealing as it had a moment before. I returned the half-eaten pastry to the box. “What happened?”

“Ah!” Donovan gestured to the glove box.

I pulled it open and retrieved a newspaper.

“Front page.”

“'The Shadow Strikes Again,'“ I read. “What's this?”

“Serial killer.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You seem awful excited about it.”

“Well, at first I was mad as hell. On top of everything else, there's a f*cking nutjob running around icing people? But then I thought, hey, I read the Hardy Boys when I was a kid—maybe solving a murder mystery could be fun.”

“You got a weird f*ckin' definition of fun.”

“We have a connection to it, anyway,” he went on. “For a while, they thought it was you.”

That was something that hung over my head. Every time I passed a cop on the street, every time a white lady grabbed her bag when I passed. They didn't know who I was. All they saw was black. It was bad enough before, now there's reports of a crazed black man killing New Bordeaux's favorite sons, and suddenly every black man, woman, and child was that man. Was me.

Cassandra had reminded me that time and time again. She had a point. But this had to be done, and I had to do it.

“I'm sure some people still do,” Donovan said. “But at the time of one of the most recent killings, you were over clearing out Perla's in the Hollow so, in a way, that cleared your name.”

I stuffed the paper back into the glove box.

“That's not as comforting as you think it is,” I muttered.

He glanced over at me and his enthusiasm faded slightly. “It's grizzly business, but it's our business.”

I ran a hand over my forehead and watched a few blocks pass in silence.

Finally, I said, “So, what, we're cops now? Hunting this 'Shadow'?”

His grin returned. “Sounds kinda cool, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. Maybe I didn't think it was as...exciting as Donovan did, but his enthusiasm could be infectious. Especially that grin of his, the sparkling eyes and curled lips. For as dark and gloomy as my life had turned, his smile was a beam of light that managed to break through the clouds.

“Where are we going?”

“Food. You look hungry.”

“I'm fine.”

“You know how you're always on my ass for not sleeping?” Donovan said. “This is me hopping on yours about not eating.”

I looked out the window again.

When I was moving, I didn't notice the hunger pangs. I had years of experience ignoring them. At the orphanage, Father James tried his best, but food was short and sometimes there wasn't enough to go around. I don't know how many times I saw him go without food just so a few boys could have crumbs.

Growing up like that taught me that food wasn't a guarantee. It could be hard to find, even harder to hold onto. I guess I forced myself to think I could go without it. Then I sat down and the hunger caught up. It learned I ignored my stomach, so it put cramps in my neck, locked my jaw, sent bile rising up my throat, made me so dizzy I could barely stand.

I managed to hide it from most people.

I'd eat with Sammy and Ellis if we all sat down for a meal, but if I didn't touch the food they knew to leave well enough alone.

It took Donovan months to notice. Then one night when we were stopped at a barracks on our way south, I'd slipped. I didn't close my bag fast enough and he saw the pile of rations inside.

At first he'd been excited. Wondered where I'd gotten my hands on them, if I was willing to swap a few for cigarettes. Then he'd seen the labels and done the math. Realized how many days' rations we'd been issued and how many remained untouched in my bag.

And he'd looked at me with a look I couldn't decipher—like he was confused, mad, and sad all at once. I didn't like that look. The thought that somebody had that kind of concern about me.

I lashed out. Threw a handful of ration packs at his chest and told him to leave me the f*ck alone.

He did for a few hours. Then he'd returned with a bowl of whatever they called 'soup' from the canteen and sat next to me, eating in silence for a while. Eventually he offered me a bite, real casual-like.

It'd been that way ever since. He didn't comment when he saw me skipping meals, when he caught me hiding food in my pockets rather than eat it. But he'd offer me a bite of his grub and he'd back off when I said 'no.'

The fact he listened and didn't push told me he really...cared. That meant a lot then. And now, maybe it meant even more. This was the first time in a while that he'd been so forward.

Donovan sent me a sidelong glance. I realized I'd been quiet for a second too long.

“Yeah,” I said grudgingly, “I could eat.”

He nodded. I turned the radio on and turned my attention to the street.

Southdowns was a mix of homes and businesses, a few warehouses along the riverfront. Swanky theaters with bright, flashing neon lights. Rundown shacks and trash-strewn alleyways. Rich and poor squished right next to each other, sharing the same streets but living in different worlds.

“Breaking news.” The announcer interrupted the music. “Local businessman Artie Madison was found dead this morning. N.B.P.D. officials declined to comment on any possible connection to the ongoing so-called 'Shadow' killings. Mr. Madison owned and operated the Shore Lane Bakery in Southdowns for 30 years. Back to the music.”

“That's him.” Donovan hand fumbled around for a moment until he managed to open the box one-handed and retrieve a donut. He spoke between bites. “Madison the baker.”

“How'd you hear?”

“Contact at the police department slides interesting reports my way. They found Madison last night down on the riverbank. Found most of him, at least. Didn't manage to track down his head and get a positive ID until early this morning.” Donovan had always had an iron stomach. He had no issue polishing off his donut while discussing dismemberment. “Sounds like they scrambled around a bit to get their story in order before making it public.”

I shook my head. “I haven't heard about this 'Shadow' motherf*cker. What the f*ck is going on?”

“You've been a little busy.” Donovan turned the radio down. He pulled into a parking spot outside a bar. “C'mon, let's eat.”

Chapter 2: In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

Chapter Text

The two of us were a goddamn mess. Donovan stifled yawns between every other bite. I had to grit my teeth and force myself not to eat so fast I made myself throw up. Had to be grateful, though. At least we weren't any of those sorry bastards who'd been hacked up.

“Weird stuff,” Donovan said. The previous diner had left their copy of the New Bordeaux Tribune on the table, and Donovan tapped a knuckle on the front page. “Never encountered a serial killer before.”

“How do they know it's just one guy? Plenty of psychos in this town.”

“Same M.O. Somebody hacked apart and dumped by the river, found the next morning. Blood found in an alley or some dark little corner nearby.”

“Dumped in the river?” I repeated. “Bodies drift all over, how can the cops be sure they found it just the next morning?”

“'Cause they're not in the river, they're on it. Beside it on the shore. Body's not even wet.”

“'On' not 'in.'“ I scoffed. “That is the most semantic-ass difference. You should've been an English teacher.”

He pointed at me with his fork. “Maybe our guy's an English teacher and this is one big quiz.”

“What about the tides? Even if the body wasn't in the water, it'd probably be wet from high tide.”

“Aha!” Donovan's eyes lit up. “So our killer must work around the tide. The tide table will provide us a time range for the body's placement, from that we might also deign the time of death. Elementary, my dear Lincoln!”

I raised my napkin to hide my smile. “You're a f*ckin' idiot.”

He smirked. Then his tone turned slightly more somber. “Listen, I know this sounds like a waste of time, but what I said earlier about people thinking it's you? Marcano's already got his powerful friends running scared saying them you're coming for them next. Not too far of a stretch for him to say the Shadow is you, too. More scared rich people means more cops on the street, more cops on the street means trouble. For us and everybody else.”

“Slimy motherf*cker,” I muttered.

We ate in silence for a while.

Donovan finished his food. As usual, I was trailing far behind, only a few bites into my plate.

Finally, he said, “You doing okay?”

I may have flinched a little at that. Not entirely sure why. His voice was soft, softer than I'd ever heard it. For some reason, it hit me like a freight train.

I grunted. “Fine.”

“Alright.” He took a sip of his co*ke. “You know I don't believe you.”

“Of course.” I managed a small smile. “You've always been better at lying than me.”

“You can be honest with me. If you want. If not,” He shrugged, “I won't take it personally.”

I studied his face. Didn't seem to me that he was lying back. Seemed he really meant it. His eyes were soft, just as soft as his voice, his brows slightly raised.

For a moment, I wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him how f*cking tired I was, that sometimes I looked out over this city and wondered how it would be after I killed Marcano. Wondered if I even wanted to see it. If I wanted to go on after I did this job, after I brought the Marcano family down, after I doled out ownership of the city to Cassandra, Burke, and Vito.

But I didn't know how the hell to say all that. So all I said was, “Yeah. Thanks. Thank you, Donovan.”

Donovan wasn't joking about the Sherlock Holmes schtick. After we finished at the bar, he circled back to Artie Madison's bakery and parked a few blocks away. Police tape marked off an alley a few yards down the street.

A bored beat cop stood guard, his arms folded.

Donovan leaned across me to rifle through the glovebox. He muttered to himself under his breath as he rifled through the items until he retrieved a N.B.P.D. badge. He strained to reach from the driver's seat. His elbow nearly touched my knee. So close to me, nearly in my lap.

I kept my eyes straight ahead. Tried hard to keep breathing. Sometimes when he grinned at me, I found myself short of breath. More so recently. And after what he'd said at the bar, the look in his eyes, it took a conscious effort to keep my heart beating.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Got a notebook?”

Donovan leaned over me again. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was leaning closer than strictly necessary. His arm brushed my thigh as he returned to the driver's seat and handed me a notepad.

I cleared my throat.

“You lead,” I said. “I'll be your secretary. Can't imagine he'll let me in otherwise.”

“Right.”

Donovan sauntered toward the cop with the practiced ease of a man who knew he belonged. Move with a purpose and flash a badge, you can get in anywhere. He walked in front of me, his posture loose and relaxed. Might've been walking more with his hips than his shoulders.

My eyes were drawn down his back, watching the hem of his jacket swish around his waist. I jerked my gaze back up.

“Afternoon,” Donovan called. He held up the badge and allowed the beat cop a quick look before dropping it lazily back down to his side. “This that newest 'Shadow' murder?”

The cop looked him up and down. “We haven't confirmed that.”

“Look, man, you can be straight with me. I'm Detective Watson, down from Baton Rouge. N.B.P.D. called me down to take a look at this 'serial killer' of yours.” Donovan quirked his fingers around the words. He waved over his shoulder in my direction. “Murphy, my driver.”

“Oh. Sorry, Detective, sir, I didn't know you were...I didn't know they were bringing people in from out of town.”

“Always the last to know, huh? I've been there, buddy.” Donovan lowered his voice. “Me being here hasn't been made public, of course. Don't want a panic on our hands.”

“I understand, sir.” The cop nodded. “People are already on edge with the Shadow around, they're afraid they'll get snatched up at night.”

“So this one, a baker? Archie...” Donovan snapped his fingers, pretending to think. “What's his name?”

“Artie Madison, sir.”

“That's the ticket. Killed up here and dumped on the riverbank.”

“Yessir.” The cop leaned forward. “Just between us, sir, we haven't got any leads. Nobody knows who this Shadow is. Some people say it's a doctor or something, the way the bodies were cut apart.”

“Nasty business.” Donovan held his faux-sympathy look for just a second before dropping it. “Anyway, you stay out here. Murphy and I'll head in and take a look around. Just be a few minutes.”

The cop nodded. I held up the tape and followed Donovan under.

“Yessir, Detective Watson,” I mocked under my breath. “Watson? Really?”

Donovan grinned. “I like a theme.”

The alley was a mess of blood. Red up the walls, along the ground, spattering trash cans. The stench of death and copper.

I wrinkled my nose. “Don't look like the work of a doctor. More like a butcher.”

“Must've cut the body up here. How the hell else could it produce this much blood?”

Donovan glanced around the alley, using the toe of his shoe to poke into the dark corners.

“Looking for anything in particular? A signed note from the killer?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of bullet casings, but I'll take what I can get.”

As he worked, I did my best to sketch the blood spatters. Maybe I could find a book on patterns, see if they meant anything. They taught us how to spill blood in Vietnam, not how to see shapes in it.

I heard Donovan move. Suddenly he was standing at my side, pressing close enough I could hear him breathing.

“Nice drawings,” he murmured. “You studying clouds?”

My mouth was dry. I had to swallow hard to speak. “It's the blood spatters.”

“Oh.” Donovan craned his neck for a better view. “Take it to Cassandra, have her try and read 'em like tea leaves. She does that kinda stuff, right?”

I'd done all I could for the drawings. Now that Donovan was commenting on it, I suddenly felt stupid for even bothering.

“I don't know. Maybe.” I tucked the pencil in my pocket. “Was gonna try and find a book to...never mind. You find anything?”

“No bullet casings. No signs of gunshots in the walls. From the reports I've been able to get my hands on, seems like they're thinking the cause of death was a blade, not a gun. Worth a look, anyway.”

Then he reached into my pocket. My heart stopped for a moment. He retrieved the pencil and took the notepad from my hand. My heart resumed beating.

He jotted something down, then handed the notepad back. Tucking the pencil behind his ear, he walked back toward the mouth of the alley.

“Think I've got all I need. By the by, what's your name?”

“Officer Phillips.”

“I like you, Phillips. You're doing good work out here.” Donovan gave his best trust-me smile. “I'll mention your name to the Chief, see if maybe he can get you off the beat and into something a bit more exciting.”

The cop's eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Thank you, Detective, that'd be-that's very kind of you, sir.”

“Just doing my civic duty.” Donovan pressed a hand to his heart. “God bless ya, buddy.”

I made it all the way back to the van before I couldn't hold it in anymore. “You're the biggest ham I've ever known.”

“Perhaps acting was my true calling,” Donovan looked over at me and smirked, “but the CIA paid better.”

Chapter 3: Reach Out, I’ll Be There

Chapter Text

Donovan's excitement about embarking on a murder mystery faded pretty quickly. He kept an eye out for police reports and news of grizzly murders, but it seemed the Shadow had gone quiet.

I got back to tracking Marcano's lieutenants. My attention was on the smuggling rackets in Tickfaw Harbor.

After a few days of creeping around shipyards, I stopped off at the Blue Gulf Motel to check in with Donovan. The chairs there were cheap and creaky, but they were more comfortable than the wooden crates I'd been camped on. It was a low bar to clear.

My head ached. I tried to remember the last thing I ate.

How long ago was that? A day? Two? f*ck, I'm hungry.

I tried to rub my face but my hands wouldn't move. They were gripping the arms of the chair.

Bile rose in my throat. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths.

Donovan was saying something but I couldn't hear him. Could only see his lips moving. I managed to pick one word out: “food.”

“Food,” I echoed hoarsely. “Got any?”

“Think I have a sandwich somewhere.” He scoffed. “But it's a few days old.”

“Can I have it?”

Donovan blinked. “Huh? No, it's old. Probably moldy.”

“Please?”

His face went through a range of emotions in a second: irritation then confusion then concern.

“You eat today?” he asked.

“Dunno.”

“Let's go get something.”

I didn't move. I couldn't. I was frozen in the chair.

“Lincoln?”

“I dunno.” My jaw started to lock up. I had to force the words out.

I stared straight ahead. Donovan ducked down to see my face. My eyes were glazed.

“You okay?”

I didn't reply. My ears took in the words but my brain just spun in circles.

Another night with a grumbling stomach. Back before I learned to ignore it. Laying there as a kid with tears dripping down my face, so hungry it hurt.

I realized with dismay the tears were dripping now, too, but I couldn't move to clear them. I could barely breathe.

“Lincoln.” Donovan's voice was softer now. I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Can you look at me?”

“Dunno,” I repeated. My voice shook.

I felt him watching me. His gaze was heavy. That same sad-mad-confused look from the barracks.

I couldn't move my eyes. I heard rather than saw him sit cross-legged beside me. He just sat there in silence.

Finally, I managed to blink. A few more deep breaths and I could look left, then right. Try and clear some of the mist out of my eyes, even though I still couldn't raise my hands.

“Donovan?” My jaw moved slowly, wanting to snap shut and stay closed.

“Yeah?”

“I'm hungry.”

Now I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He nodded. “What do you want?”

“Anything.”

“Briar Patch has sandwiches.”

All I could say in reply was a mumbled, “Please.”

Donovan rose to his knees. He shuffled over to crouch in front of me. “I'll get something. Don't worry about it.”

I managed to nod my head. Felt like the Tin Man, rusted in place from so many years of tears.

“Want to come with me?”

“Dunno,” I grunted. “I...I can't move.”

“That's alright. I'll go get you something. We'll eat together.”

I nodded again.

“I'll be back. Five, ten minutes tops.” He rose to his feet. “You just stay where you are, I'll bring it to you.”

Humiliation made my blood run cold. A big fist-sized lump of shame sat in my gut. But I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

Donovan slipped out the door, I heard it shut behind him.

I focused all my energy on moving my hands, peeling each finger up from the arm of the chair. One hand. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.Then the other.

Eventually, I could raise a shaking hand to clear the tears off my face.

My legs were numb. When I tried to stand, they wouldn't respond. They'd completely separated from my brain and gone on strike, leaving me stranded.

I leaned forward and put my head between my knees. Stared at the matted motel carpet between my boots.

f*ck. This had happened before, this terrified stupor that left me frozen. Not for a long time, though. And I was always alone. Always managed to hold off until I was by myself.

Donovan had seen me hungry, seen me snap and lash out, but he'd never seen me like this. I hoped to go my whole life without him seeing it. Never wanted anyone to.

I wasn't that scared little orphan kid anymore. I was a man.

I just wanted to disappear but my legs wouldn't move.

Forcing myself to breathe slow and deep, I lifted one foot off the ground, then put it down. The slightest movement sent my legs bouncing and shaking. A sudden wave of dizziness made me grit my teeth. More burning bile rose in my throat. I found myself silently begging Donovan to hurry.

Goddamn, I’m so f*ckin’ pathetic.

I must've lost a few minutes. I still sat with my head hanging low when the door opened.

Donovan brought with him the smell of bacon and fresh toasted bread. It prompted a wave of relief so strong my eyes watered.

He set a bag down on the TV stand.

“BLT? Or a club?” he asked. “Got a few different ones. Maybe I got a little overzealous but they all smelled too f*ckin' good. What d'you think?”

“Yeah.” I didn't know if it was a yes or no question, all I could think about was how hungry I was.

“Want me to bring the bag to you, or you want to come grab one?”

I focused hard on what he'd said. Two options. Sit or stand.

Stand. I needed to stand. Prove to him that I wasn't some pathetic lump. Prove it to myself.

I dug my fingers into the arms of the chair and forced myself upright. I stood, wobbling a moment before I was sure on my feet.

Donovan stood across the room, his face expressionless. He couldn't entirely keep the worry out of his eyes, though.

That made my guts twist up into knots. Shame. Fear. Anger. Exhaustion. Maybe a little...gratitude, too. Gratitude for the noncommittal tone he used. I don't think he was capable of gushing sympathy, but I was still grateful he didn't try to drown me in empty words.

I crossed the room. Realized I was holding my breath with the effort of keeping my steps straight, of fighting the tremors that wracked my body.

When I reached the TV stand, Donovan backed off a few steps. He had his own sandwich in hand and sat on the bed, unwrapping it. The smell was so good it almost made me sick.

I fumbled the bag open and took whatever was on top.

Donovan's sleeve rustled and I instinctively jerked back, holding the sandwich close to my chest.

He offered a napkin.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Napkin?”

My cheeks burned. I took the napkin and tried to ignore how bad my hand shook. Tried to pretend it was fine. I retreated to the chair across the room.

Slow, I repeated it to myself, eat slow.

I'd frantically scarfed down enough food in my time to know that just made me sick.

Donovan had already started eating. He leaned back against the wall, watching TV. He'd always had a talent for looking without looking. You'd feel his eyes on you and look back to see him watching TV or reading or engaged in conversation with somebody else. And it left you to wonder if you imagined it, if he was ever even looking at all. He did that now. Watched me without watching me.

I managed to unwrap the sandwich without dropping it, which was something of a miracle in itself. Then I just stared at it. Like I was too f*cking hungry to eat.

“It look alright?” Donovan asked. He jerked a thumb at the bag. “Few other ones in there.”

“'S fine,” I managed.

I finally forced myself to take a bite and nearly gagged when I tried to swallow it whole.

Chew.

I chewed and swallowed. Took another bite, chewed and swallowed. f*ck, it shouldn't be this hard.

Donovan stifled a burp. “Drink?”

I was too focused on the sandwich to comprehend he'd just asked me a question.

He retrieved an empty cup from the bedside table. “Think I'll get some water.”

He'd raised his voice slightly. Not shouting, but enough to draw my attention.

I realized he was announcing it for a reason: I sat between him and the bathroom. He didn't want to walk toward me without warning.

My guts twisted again, this time it had nothing to do with the hunger. I nodded.

He eased past.

I caught his eyes on me as he passed, just a split second as he glanced over my face, my hunched shoulders, the progress I'd made on the sandwich. Then he stepped into the bathroom to fill his cup.

He lingered at the sink for a minute or two, brushing his teeth. Giving me time to eat without feeling like I was being watched.

I had that childish urge to cry again. Fighting it off, I took a few more bites of the sandwich.

I could feel my legs again, they'd stopped bouncing and shaking every time I breathed. The tight fist in my gut loosened.

Chapter 4: Take Me for What I Am

Chapter Text

I finished the sandwich and crumpled the wrapper.

Donovan emerged from the bathroom. He sipped his water and sat on the bed, closer to me this time.

“You okay, Lincoln?”

I couldn't meet his eyes. “Yeah...no. I dunno.”

Donovan nodded.

“I didn't mean to startle you earlier,” he said quietly. “Or cause...something. This.”

I finally met his gaze. His eyes lacked their usual sly glimmer. He studied me carefully, his brow furrowed.

“It's not-” My voice came out harsh and grating. I cleared my throat. “You didn't do anything. Sometimes I just have this...sh*t. From when I was a kid. 'Bout food.”

“You were at the orphanage, right? Behind Father James' church.”

My gaze fell back to the ground. “Yeah.”

Donovan crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. Folded his hands, then unfolded him. Fidgeted with the blanket.

“I'm sorry,” he said suddenly. Then he shook his head. “I know there's nothing I can do about what happened. And I don't want you to think I'm pitying you or treating you like that kid you used to be, because I'm not. But I'm still sorry.”

I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck and said nothing.

“You did this back in 'Nam, too. With food.”

That hit me like a slap. My lips drew back in a snarl. “Forget about it. It's nothing.”

“Alright.” Donovan held up his hands. “Okay.”

I threw the wrapper toward the trash can, glaring after it.

Then Donovan spoke so softly I could've believed he was talking to himself. “I worry about you.”

My stomach dropped, my throat closed, my eyes fixed on the ground. My heart stopped. Every bit of blood and guts inside my chest was painfully tight. I was still so ashamed. Humiliated. Furious at myself for letting him see me so weak.

It was f*ckin' strange to hear somebody say that. Strange to hear Donovan say it. Truth was, I worried about him, too. I don't know if I'd ever have the strength to say it.

I stared at the floor. My snarl faded to a frown. The painful cramp in my jaw was almost gone.

I tried to speak more clearly now, not through clenched teeth. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Anytime,” Donovan replied. After a moment, he added, “Can I say one more thing? Then I'll drop it.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Let me know if it gets like this again, if there's some way I can help. Please.”

My eyes flicked up to his face.

He managed a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. I couldn't bear to look too long. His gaze drilled right into me.

He was right, it wasn't pity in his eyes. There was sadness. Some quiet, simmering anger. And something else I couldn't identify. Something I thought might be affection. But it couldn't be. I knew better.

I looked away again. “I'll try.”

“That's all.” True to his word, Donovan dropped it. “Got some calls to transcribe. Bigwig investors cooking something up in Frisco Fields.”

He walked into the other room.

The bag of sandwiches remained on the TV stand. My stomach screamed for me to grab another. Who knows when I’ll get to eat again?

My head dropped to my hands. My stomach was sour, confused by the sudden introduction of food after so long. The sandwich wanted to come back up. I had to grit my teeth against the nausea.

The smell of those damn sandwiches was all I could think about. I couldn't take it.

I swallowed the bile and crossed the room, nearly ripping the bag open in my haste. Scarfed down one sandwich. Then another. Barely pausing for breath between bites.

It was alright for about a minute and a half. Then my stomach reminded me what a f*cking idiot I was.

I staggered to the bathroom and managed to get most of the way over the toilet before the heaving started.

I fell to my knees, clinging to the toilet bowl, vomiting up every single morsel of food I'd eaten. Even the f*ckin' thoughts I'd had about food came out in burning streams of bile.

Finally, I sagged against the wall, breathing hard. My throat hurt, my chest hurt—everything hurt.

“Can I come in?” Donovan spoke from the doorway.

Of course he'd heard me. I barely made it to the bathroom in time, let alone pulled the door closed behind me.

I said nothing. Partly because I didn't think my vocal cords worked anymore. Partly because I didn't know what to say.

He pulled a towel from the rack and moved toward me.

I flinched back, eyeing him warily.

Donovan tried again.

I braced myself with one hand on the floor. Fighting to stay still.

He crouched in front of me and gently wiped the sweat from my face, the tears jerked from my retching, the spit on my chin.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “Sorry this happened.”

“My fault,” I said hoarsely. Turns out my voice still worked after all. “Ate too fast. Should've known better.”

Donovan shook his head. “It's not your fault.”

“I just-” I broke off, staring at the toilet. I reached up with a shaking hand and flushed it before the sight and smell made me throw up again. “I get so scared, like I used to. Like I was a kid. I f*cking hate it. I hate being scared like that.”

“You ever talk to Father James about it?”

“I couldn't. He...he did so much for us. All he could. Gave us the food from his plate, the clothes off his back. And still he thinks he didn't give enough. I can’t stand to make him feel guilty like that.”

Donovan set the towel aside. He sat back on his haunches. “Can I help?”

My heart sank into my stomach. I did need his help. So much of it. I needed his help to struggle through the coma. Needed his help to formulate a plan to take down Marcano. To track down and neutralize his lieutenants. To open my eyes every morning and keep going.

“I've asked you for enough already.” I rubbed my face with the back of my hand. “But if you...just stick around. That helps.”

Donovan offered a small smile. “I think I can manage that.”

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and took my hand. My fingers were clammy and far from clean, but he didn't seem to mind.

I was speechless. Even more so when he raised my hand to his lips and lightly kissed my knuckles.

“You'll forgive me if I don't offer y'know...a real one,” he said. “Maybe some other time.”

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing.

“Maybe,” I said finally. My voice was gruff.

He released my hand and gestured to the toilet. “Think you're done?”

I struggled to think clearly. The cool press of his lips to my fingers...

“Nothing left in my stomach to lose.”

“Probably for the best.” He rose to his feet and turned back to his desk.

“Donovan.” I called after him before I could think.

He turned back. That look in his eyes again, that...could it be affection? Did I even know what that looked like?

I didn't know what I wanted to say. –Thank you. –I'm sorry. –Where do we go from here? –What did you mean?

I settled on, “Yeah. Just stick around.”

Donovan smiled. “Alright.”

The room suddenly seemed too bright. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall.

Chapter 5: We Gotta Get Out of This Place

Chapter Text

The Shadow struck again that night.

I couldn't look Donovan in the face after the sandwiches, the vomiting, the kiss. I fled to Sammy's and laid awake in the basem*nt, staring up at the ceiling. Listening to the burned remains of the bar creak and shift.

I finally gave up around five in the morning and went for a walk around the Hollow.

I'd all but forgotten about the blood spatters, the beat cop, the Sherlock Holmes routine. Then I passed a newsstand and did a double take at the front page of the Tribune.

SHADOW STRIKES AGAIN. IS ANYWHERE SAFE?

After nearly a week of peace, New Bordeaux is once more rocked by another horrific murder—this unfortunate victim killed in the heart of our beautiful Downtown.

I read under my breath,

“'Witnesses discovered the body of an as yet unidentified man, aged roughly 35 to 40 years old, near General's Circle. Police have not publicly confirmed a connection to the so-called Shadow, but a source close to the case suggested that is their leading theory given the wounds and partially dismembered condition of the body. All five previous victims were found on the edge of Southdowns and River Row, dismembered and discarded on the Mississippi riverbank. This marks a severe and frightening escalation of force.'“

I started to wander away and the shopkeeper whistled.

“Hey, that's twenty cents!”

I reached into my pocket and tossed him a quarter, moving away before he had a chance to hand me change. I jogged the last few blocks to the Blue Gulf.

Donovan was coming down the stairs as I was headed up.

“Morn-”

“You hear the news? The Shadow got somebody in Downtown.”

His brows rose. “I'll be damned.”

I handed him the paper and retreated down the stairs so he could follow.

“This is bad,” I said. “Obviously for that poor dead bastard, but for us. Marcano-”

“-Will circle the wagons,” Donovan picked up where I'd left off. “If this doesn't bring the entire damn police force out onto the streets, I don't know what will.”

“Exactly.”

“I was just headed out to meet that cop contact of mine. Let's see if you can put some pressure on 'im. Oh, and Lincoln.” Donovan looked up at me, all sparkling eyes and a wide, oafish grin. “The game is afoot!”

My stomach flipped but it wasn't the painful twist of the day before. It was the kind of breathless, airy feeling you got when you missed a step and landed hard on the ground below. A moment of pure terror followed by sturdy relief.

I found my lips curving into an answering smile. “You're a f*ckin' idiot.”

“C'mon, we'll take the van.”

“My car is just over at-”

“That's great,” Donovan interrupted. He set off at a quick clip across the parking lot. “But my donuts are in the van.”

Ah, yes: the dead man's donuts. I rolled my eyes.

Donovan's cop contact was a janitor at a police department in the French Ward. We met him at a Best Oil service station a few blocks away.

“This is f*cking crazy,” the man muttered. He stuck his thumbs his overalls and nervously tugged at the straps. “f*cking serial killer, what the f*ck.”

“This newest body, the John Doe from Downtown,” Donovan prompted. “What are the cops saying?”

“They're saying he got f*cking sliced and diced by that crazy sonofabitch, that's what they're saying!”

“They got any leads?” I asked.

His eyes moved to me. “Some of 'em think it's you.”

I interrupted before Donovan could speak. “You don't know me. For your own health, forget my face.”

“Answer the question,” Donovan matched my low and cold tone, “they got any leads?”

“None. They know it's one guy, but they don't know who.”

“How do they know it's one?”

“Fingerprints.” I tried to recall the article I'd read that morning. “Didn't mention anything about that in the newspaper.”

“Obviously not,” the janitor snapped. “The only reason I know is because I'm good at hugging walls and listening. Most of the grunts don't even know, it's only the top brass.”

“What about the report from this latest murder?” Donovan asked. “You get your hands on that?”

“Not yet.”

Donovan crossed his arms and drummed his fingers on his elbow. “I'm not fond of waiting, Jeremiah.”

“Chief's keeping it in his office under lock and key.” Jeremiah shrugged. “I can't get in. No custodians allowed.”

“Keep trying. Get creative.” Donovan tapped the side of the janitor's head. “Use that noggin of yours and get it done. I won't wait much longer.”

He turned away.

I stayed back. Leaned close to Jeremiah the janitor's face. “What's my name?”

“Linc-”

I took his collar with a loose grip. Just one hand. The other tucked in my pocket.

Jeremiah fell silent. He thought real hard before he spoke again. “I don't know. Never seen you before.”

“That's right.” I released his collar.

I quickly caught up to Donovan.

“He reliable?” I asked.

“He's gotten me reports so far. But I don't suspect he's joking about this. Somebody killed and their corpse mutilated right in the middle of Downtown, right next to all these big buildings and big egos...that's gotta have the Police Chief hoppin' mad.”

“I guess that's the link, then.” I slid into the passenger's seat. “Fingerprints.”

Donovan started the engine. He retrieved the box of donuts from the floor and shoved it onto my lap. “Hold these. Go ahead and take one.”

“Wha-why?”

“You're always warm.” He opened the box and took a donut. I tried not to think about how close his hand was to my crotch. “You'll keep 'em nice and toasty.”

I huffed out a sigh but didn't complain. The smell of the donuts was enough to make me have an appetite again. I hadn't even thought about food all night, the very concept of it made me want to puke.

I started to eat one and, f*ck, this sh*t was good. Shame what happened to the baker.

“Why would he change his M.O. out of nowhere?” Donovan turned on the radio but kept it low so we could talk. “No way he could lug pieces of a corpse from the Circle north to the water, not through Downtown. How did nobody see him?”

“Maybe somebody did.” I took another bite, pausing for a long moment to savor it. I swallowed and went on. “Who's around Downtown that early in the morning? Janitors, commuters, folks getting off the night shift. Not the kind of people who can go to the cops without fearing retaliation or getting killed themselves.”

“Good point.” Donovan grunted. His eyes flicked down to my nose. “You've got...”

“What?”

He reached over to wipe my nose with his thumb. I blinked at the unexpected touch.

“Chocolate,” he said.

His thumb was smeared with brown icing. We both stared at it. Me, not sure why he did it. Him, not sure what to do now.

Finally, I reached over and used my sleeve to clean his thumb.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

We both looked at the road for a while to avoid looking each other in the face.

Chapter 6: Help Me, Rhonda

Chapter Text

Donovan parked by General's Circle, intending to do his 'Detective Watson' routine again.

The scene of the crime was obvious from the line of cops and the crowd of onlookers, craning their neck to see over the police tape. Too crowded for us to slip by.

Donovan sat on a park bench, watching the scene.

I stood a few steps away, smoking a cigarette. Trying not to think about his lips.

“Fingerprints,” Donovan said. He'd repeated it a few times in the walk from the van to the Circle. “Think he left 'em on purpose?”

“Personally, I'd wear gloves if I were handling a body like it was a slaughtered pig. That blood would get everywhere.”

“Hands, clothes, shoes...” Donovan nodded. “None of the reports I've read have mentioned finding any discarded disguises. Not in the newspapers or internal police records.”

“Tribune's going wild with this.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “Most exciting thing to happen in this town since somebody strung up Ritchie Doucet on the Ferris wheel at Baron Saturday's.”

“Imagine that.”

Donovan held out a hand and I passed him the cigarette, sitting on the bench beside him. He took a drag and blew out a slow stream of smoke as he thought.

“That place seemed like a f*ckin' nightmare. Even before all the corpses.”

“Can't say how it was before. Never could afford to go. Not that I wanted to. May have said it was for black folks, but we never did feel real welcome.”

Donovan passed the cigarette back. I slipped it between my lips. Wondered if I could taste him on it, a hint of chocolate icing and coffee.

“Flooded old park. If I were a psycho killer, maybe that's where I'd hang out. Check out the carnival games between murders.”

I glanced over at him. “You think a lot about what you'd do if you were a psycho killer?”

Maybe I meant it as a joke, but a muscle worked in his jaw as he heard the words. Digested them.

“Dunno what else you could call what we did over there,” he muttered. Then he shook his head and the dark cloud cleared. “Call it a hunch.”

I looked back at the crime scene. A few cops struggled to push the crowd back. You could feel the tension in the air. Seemed like the city was about to snap.

“Hm.” Donovan put his arm over the back of the bench, tapping the metal with his knuckles. “Maybe I've just got that park on my mind. Remember those calls I mentioned yesterday? Investors out of Frisco Fields talking about some big project. Some of them want to reopen Baron Saturday's, part of some 'revitalization project.'“

“That's a stupid idea. But I guess if you have enough money, you can make any problem f*ckin' disappear.”

“They want to clean it up. Make it for white folks.”

I snorted. “No white folks will drive through the Hollow to get there. None that could afford to get in, anyway.”

“It's tied to Marcano.”

“Of course it is. Everything in this f*ckin' city ties back to him.”

The noise from the crowd across the Circle grew in volume. Cops got more insistent in their shoving.

“Jesus,” Donovan remarked. He plucked the cigarette from my lips and took another pull.

My mind kept drifting back to that kiss. The gentleness of his touch. The coolness of his lips.

“Donovan,” I said suddenly.

“Hm?”

“About yesterday, I'm sorry you had to see me like that.” I sighed sharply. “I never meant for you to. It's just f*ckin'...sorry.”

His hand moved to touch my shoulder. Almost a caress.

“You're alright,” he said. After a moment, he added, “We all bring our ghosts with us. I'm here to help you fight yours.”

I stared into his eyes. He had that look again...

I almost wanted to do something foolish. Almost wanted to reach over and take that cigarette out of his mouth and see if he tasted like I thought he would. See if his lips were still as cold. See if his fingers would caress my neck like they rubbed lightly across my shoulder.

But I was painfully aware of where we were. How public it was. Sitting in the middle of Downtown with a group of cops across the street and plenty of passersby. Donovan's hand on my shoulder was already drawing stares. Two men—two men like us—shouldn't do this sort of thing. Not out in the open.

A sudden shout drew our attention.

It came from a cop: “Stay back!”

He was wrestling a man back from the alley, fighting to keep him from crossing the tape.

“My son!” The man was screaming. His voice fraught with agony. “My son, I know it's him-”

“Get back!” The cop drew his weapon, brandishing it in the air.

“We should get out of here,” Donovan muttered.

We stood. The crowd grew louder as we crossed the Circle back toward the van.

“These victims,” I said, as we walked, “any connection between them?”

Donovan shrugged. “All men. Different races. But I think, hm.” He paused, tilting his head. “Need to read the files again.”

A gunshot rang out.

The crowd screamed as one, scattering into the street. Ducking into nearby businesses.

Donovan and I turned to look back over our shoulders.

The first shot went harmlessly into the pavement. The shouting man grappled with the cop. He managed to wrench the gun free and fired it point-blank into the cop's chest.

The rest of the officers didn't bother with the 'hands up I'll shoot' routine. They just unloaded into the man, riddling him with bullets. Catching a couple of the frantic bystanders in the crossfire.

“Jesus f*cking Christ!” Donovan pulled the keys from his pocket. “Let's go. Now.”

I hesitated—at least three civilians lay on the ground, screaming from their injuries.

Donovan caught my elbow and pulled me into motion. “Nothing you can do for them. C'mon!”

We made it back to the van as the city erupted with wailing sirens. Red and blue lights seemed to be on every corner, blocking off roads. The cops were expecting trouble, and they were right to be scared.

Fear could drive New Bordeaux into chaos.

“Hold on.” Donovan turned down a side street. I held onto the dashboard to keep from sliding in my seat. Once we'd straightened out, he said, “Get in the back. Police scanner.”

I moved into the back, ducking so I didn't bash my brains out on the ceiling. Donovan's mobile command center had a tape recorder and police scanner. I flicked on the scanner.

“-ots fired, repeat: shots fired Downtown. Officer down. Reports indicate the suspect is a young black male, approximately six feet, large build.”

“What?”

Even from across the Circle, we could see the shooter had been a balding white man.

“Lying already?” Donovan sounded almost impressed. “Goddamn, they're quick.”

“Motherf*ckers,” I spat.

“Stay back there,” he ordered. “Cops crawling all over the place looking to start trouble.”

I crouched down, bracing myself against the sides of the van. Donovan slowed down. We had to get out of Downtown and avoid getting any second glances.

“Chief'll have to do a press conference on this,” Donovan called. “That could give our friend Jeremiah a chance to slip into his office and xerox that report.”

I grunted. We made it to the edge of Downtown and crossed into the French Ward.

“Plenty of cops here, too,” Donovan remarked.

“Summertime,” I replied. “Can't imagine what kind of havoc this might wreak on tourism season.”

“sh*t.”

I thought he was still talking about the tourists. “They're annoying but it's not all bad. Brings in business.”

“No, need to stop for gas.”

“You don't keep it full?”

“What, am I made of money?” he shot back.

“Enough to buy all these f*ckin' donuts.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulled into a service station.

My neck was cramping bad from being hunched over, and I got out to stretch my legs. Big mistake.

A sleek yellow De'Leo pulled up at a red light. The two men inside glanced over. Looked me up and down. Their eyes widened.

“sh*t.”

“'Oh, it's just tourist season,'“ Donovan mocked. He leaned against the van, idly kicking the base of the pump as it filled the tank.

“Marcano's boys!”

The passenger jumped out of the car and took off for a payphone. The driver laid down cover fire. I ducked as a bullet hit the side of the van beside my head. I heard it tear through metal and the machinery inside.

“Aw, motherf*cker!” Donovan jerked the nozzle out of the van and forced it back into the pump.

The attendant didn't bother coming to collect payment. He was too busy hiding from the gunfire.

“You drive!” Donovan shouted. He tossed me the keys and jumped in the back of the van.

Ripping open a crate in the corner, he plunged a hand in to retrieve an M16 and a handful of magazines. As the tires squealed into motion, one of the Marcano man's bullets struck the pump.

It burst into flames—not a massive explosion, but enough to make me wince. Another bullet struck my window, shattering it into pieces.

“You okay?” Donovan called.

“Fine,” I replied. “Gonna try and get 'em off our tail!”

Donovan opened one of the back doors and fired on the Marcano car.

Other panicked drivers swerved wildly, trying to figure out where the shots were coming from and what the hell he was doing.

“Get out of the f*ckin' way,” he shouted, as if they could hear him. Sometimes I think he just likes the sound of his own voice.

I couldn’t blame him. I did, too.

Chapter 7: Wouldn’t It Be Nice

Chapter Text

We roared through the French Ward, taking corners sharp enough to send Donovan staggering in the back. He lost his grip on the shelf and went tumbling into the side.

“Yeoouuchh!” Somehow he managed to sound like a wailing cat.

“Hold on!”

“f*ck you! That tore my f*ckin' suit!”

“Hold on better.” He sent a stream of swears at the back of my head. Then he threw open the back door and peppered the pursuing cars with bullets.

We now had three on our tail. I'd managed to lose the original driver, the one whose partner had called in reinforcements. He took a corner too sharply and struck a telephone pole.

The other three were still in hot pursuit.

Donovan managed to puncture one of the closest vehicle's tires. Even over the rush of wind through the open window, I could hear the ka-thunk ka-thunkof the rim against the road.

I took another turn. One of the pursuing cars managed to take the inside corner and get up alongside us.

The driver shot at my head. I heard the bullets whiz past. A bullet struck the windshield, not shattering it entirely but sending shards of glass flying toward my face. Several hit near my right eye, opening a gash on my forehead and making me flinch.

I jerked the wheel.

“f*ck!” Donovan tripped again. “Be f*cking careful!”

For a moment, all I could see was red. Thought the glass got in my eye, blinded me. The last f*cking thing I needed.

I freed a hand to wipe my face and blinked hard. It cleared some of the blood, but I could still only make out blurry shapes. Each blink sent jabs of pain through my skull.

I squeezed that eye shut and tried to drive with the other. Fine, this is fine, I told myself, I can operate with one eye. I could shoot and kill with one eye. I'll make it work. No need to panic.

I forced myself to put both hands back on the wheel, gripping it tightly. Having lost half my field of vision, I had to turn my head to see the road to my right.

Another few gunshots resulted in a loud slam and screech of metal.

Donovan called, “One down!”

The car alongside us kept up. I swerved into oncoming traffic, trying to shake them, but the driver powered forward. Cars parted to let us pass with squealing brakes and blaring horns.

Most cars got out of the way—one couldn't quite make it.

The Marcano man's car struck it in the front left wheel, sending both hoods flying. The Marcano car slammed into our van, denting in the door beside my leg. It nearly jerked the wheel out of my hands.

I struggled to right up before we careened out of control.

“No-” Donovan's voice sounded behind me and abruptly cut off.

I slammed on the brakes, put it in park. Still couldn't see out of my right eye, had to stumble to my feet and turn all the way around.

Donovan was gone. The back door hung open.

I reached into the crate for a rifle and crossed the van, stepping out and squinting in the sunlight. f*ck, my eyes stung. Did I get glass in both?

I caught sight of Donovan on his hands and knees. His suit was smudged with blood and dirt, his hands torn open. Looked like he'd been thrown out the back of the van on impact and hit the ground and rolled.

I started toward him, keeping low. I didn't know where the driver of the car that'd hit us was. Probably behind me, still by the front of the van. Maybe tangled up in the wreckage.

The final car skid to a halt and four men piled out.

Donovan struggled to his feet. He shook his head to clear it.

The Marcano boys had the benefit of cover. Donovan and I were exposed in the middle of the road.

I managed to shoot out one window and hit one man. He went down. The other three ducked behind the car.

I hustled over to Donovan's side. He let out a hiss of pain when I took his arm and dragged him toward a parked car. Managing to get his feet under him, he crouched beside the car. Bullets ricocheted off the metal.

Donovan held his shoulder, gritting his teeth. He looked up at my face and his eyes widened.

I ignored him and shot blindly over the top of the car.

“Can't let 'em call more reinforcements,” I shouted.

“The van,” Donovan replied hoarsely, “still drivable?”

“Mostly.”

“Can you see?”

Looking at him would've required me to turn my head farther than my neck would allow.

“Mostly.”

Donovan risked a glance over the car. Without a word, he scrambled to his feet and took off running.

“Motherf*cker-” I followed, giving him cover fire.

I hit one man as he peered through the broken window on the Marcano car.

Donovan dropped his rifle and tackled one of Marcano's boys as he ran for a payphone. One of them screamed in pain, I couldn't tell which. Then Donovan drove the man's face into the ground, over and over, until he stopped twitching.

The final man had a shotgun.

As I got closer to the car, he fired in my direction and I felt a few of the pellets fly past my arm. I ducked and fired back.

When I reached the side of the car, the man rounded the trunk and fired at my chest. I staggered back a step. Had my tac vest on, but it still hurt like a motherf*cker. Some of the pellets missed the vest and hit me in the shoulders.

We'd both counted the bullets. The man and I realized he had to reload.

He dropped the shotgun and reached for the pistol on his hip. I ignored the sharp pain in my shoulder and raised my gun.

Pop.I shot first. He went down.

I fell to one knee, breathing hard. It hurt like hell to move one hand up to my right eye. I felt splinters of glass protruding from the skin. More scars added to my forehead.

Donovan pushed himself to his feet. He held one shoulder, his arm hanging limp at his side. I heard him stumble toward me.

“Lincoln,” he called. His voice was ragged and strained. “Lincoln, f*cking hell.”

He dropped to his knees beside me and leaned against the car.

“You alright?” I asked hoarsely.

“Yeah.” He nodded, even though his arm was useless, at least two of his fingers were broken, he had road rash up his arms and legs. “Alive. You?”

My heart was pounding in my ears. Now that the gunfire had stopped, at least for the moment, I couldn't avoid the pain in my forehead and the blood dripping into my face.

I turned toward him. “What's...what's wrong with my eyes?”

Donovan heard the barely suppressed panic in my voice. He leaned closer. “Can you see me?”

I could make out the outline of his head, knew where to look from the sound of him speaking. But I couldn't see his features. Couldn't see his eyes, though I could feel him looking at me. Couldn't see his nose, though I heard him struggling to slow his breathing. Couldn't see his lips.

“No.” My voice was strangled. “Donovan, my-”

Sirens started and were drawing closer. Of course someone had called the cops over the gunfire. Probably several someones.

“We need to go.” Donovan used his less-damaged arm to haul me to my feet.

I held one hand out in front of me. I couldn't remember which way I was facing, where the car was.

Donovan took my hand and put it on his shoulder.

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I've got you, just follow me.”

The joint felt wrong beneath my fingers. “Your shoulder.”

“It can wait.”

We reached the car and he helped me in as best he could. He made a muffled grunt as he sat in the driver's seat. Thank God I'd left the keys in the ignition.

“Gotta ditch the van,” Donovan said. He was talking to himself. “They know it now. Need the reels, and-and the badges. And the scanner. The guns. Gotta gut it. Need to go...where can we go?”

I could tell when he turned his head from the sound of his voice.

He let out a shaky sigh. “Where do we go, Lincoln? f*ck, I can't think.”

I closed my eyes. It was better than the blurry red view I had when they were open. Think, Lincoln. Use your f*ckin' brain and think.

French Ward. Burke's scrapyard to the north, Vito's warehouses to the south. Cassandra all the way over in the Hollow. We needed somewhere close, somewhere covered.

We'd snaked our way across the French Ward during the chase. Probably ended up in the northeast corner, but I couldn't tell. I was all turned around, my head spinning.

I thought back to creeping around harbor fronts. The days I'd spent finding any excuse not to eat.

“Tickfaw,” I said. “Empty warehouse on the canal. Take the Boggs Bridge, hang a left. No, a right. Go right.”

“Okay.” I heard Donovan look back toward the road. “Okay. Tickfaw.”

I raised both hands to my face, though my shoulders screamed. Felt my cheeks and brow slick with blood.

“sh*t, my...glass got in my face. I don't know if it...”

“Reach over here.”

I could barely hear him through the blood pounding in my ears. I reached over until I found his sleeve. His arm was limp.

“I'm right here,” he said. “Just keep hold of me.”

I choked as a lump formed in my throat. Had that urge to cry like that scared little kid I used to be. Part of me wondered if it might help clear my eyes.

Chapter 8: I Got You (I Feel Good)

Chapter Text

By the time we reached the warehouse, the van was limping as much as we were.

Donovan got out to open the garage door.

Through the broken driver's side window, I heard him mumbling to himself, “C'mon, Donovan, c'mon. Just a few more steps.”

Once we were inside, I fumbled the door open and stepped down hard onto the concrete.

“Office,” I said, “had a little bathroom. Saw it through the window.”

Donovan took my hand. His fingers were cold. I could feel two of them were broken.

“Alright,” he said. He sounded the same way I felt—like hell. I heard his sleeve rustle as he wiped his forehead. “Let's try that back corner.”

He led me over. We must've looked like two old men stumbling and groaning along.

“Yeah,” he said. His relief was audible. “Yeah, it's there. Well spotted.”

I held out my other hand to find the walls.

He nudged me toward the toilet. “Not comfortable, but it'll work. Careful.”

I felt his breath on my face and shivered. The way he unsettled me by saying nothing at all, by doing nothing but breathing.

I wished I could see his face. I tried to conjure up an image of his grin, but even it was blurry.

Reaching for him again, I found the front of his jacket. “Your shoulder.”

“You first.” I heard the strained smile in his voice. “Need you to pop it back into place. Your eyes'd help.” His sleeve rustled again. “Gonna touch your forehead.”

I tried to stay still but I couldn't stop myself from flinching back when I felt his fingers.

I grit my teeth. “Sorry.”

“S'okay.” Donovan probed the area with his fingertips. “Most of these aren't in too deep. I'll pick 'em out but you'll have to bear with me.”

I nodded. He cleared the glass out a piece at a time. I heard each one drop to the ground. His hand trembled slightly, making it more difficult.

“f*cking hands are shaking,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

I had another foolish urge. This time we weren't in public, weren't around prying eyes. The urge overtook any fear or shame, overtook the pain that throbbed in my head.

I caught his hand just as he dropped a piece of glass. Lifting it to my lips, I pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“Think that'll help?” I murmured against his fingers.

I heard the catch in his breath. Then he recovered. “Yeah. Should.”

Donovan managed to get the biggest shards out of my skin. The light in the bathroom was too piss poor to see all of them. Then he turned to the part I'd been dreading most.

“Lotta blood,” he said softly. “Let me try and wash it off.”

I braced myself against the wall and stood. “Sink's here?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Donovan didn't try to push me back down. He just turned the faucet on and guided my hand toward the water.

I leaned on the basin and splashed water on my face. The cold porcelain dug into my forearms. My eyes burned. I scrubbed at my forehead, ignoring the pain. Desperate for it to feel clean. Frantic to remove the prickling feeling of glass beneath my skin.

Donovan held off until I started to dig my fingertips into the wounds. Then he caught my wrist.

“Please don't,” he whispered.

I could've easily shaken him off and kept going. He could only use one hand and broken fingers weakened his grip. But the pain in his voice hurt even more than the glass did.

I sucked in a few deep breaths. I washed my face with another few handfuls of water. It started to run clear, no longer pinkish against the sink.

Clear. I could see it was clear.

I blinked hard. My left eye had cleared—the vision wasn't perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than it was. My right eye was still blurry but when I turned to Donovan, I could see his face, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. His lips, spread in a smile.

“Look at that,” he said. “I don't have to take you out back and put you down after all.”

That f*ckin' urge again. I couldn't look away from his lips. I leaned forward and grabbed his shoulders and-

Donovan grit his teeth against a scream. He clawed at my hand. Oh, f*ck, his shoulder.

I released him. “sh*t, I'm sorry-”

“It's-it's okay.” His brows were furrowed, his face pale. But his gaze was on my mouth. His eyes darted up to meet mine. “My lips still work.”

I kissed him. He tasted like I thought he would, like chocolate icing and coffee and cigarettes. Like months of sunrises and sunsets sitting side-by-side. Like joy and loss and anger and hope.

I raised a hand to the back of his neck, holding him near. Running my fingers up into his hair. The strands were in disarray after his roll across the pavement. By the time I pulled back, they were even messier.

Donovan was breathing hard, looking up at me with equal parts surprise and relief in his eyes.

“Your shoulder's still f*cked up,” I said.

“It can wait,” he replied.

I cupped his cheeks and kissed him again. I felt him smile against my lips. He raised a trembling hand to press against my chest, pressing as hard as he could.

Suddenly, his lips twisted.

We parted. Donovan was fighting to hold back a frown.

“Used to worry about that,” he said softly. “About your heartbeat. Afraid I'd feel it stop. When you were out, sometimes I thought I couldn't find it. f*ck, it scared me, Lincoln.”

I put my hand on top of his. “You can feel it now.”

“Yeah.” He managed a small smile, but the pain lingered in his face. “Yeah, I can.”

I lifted his hand to my lips. As gently as I could, I kissed the scrapes on his palm.

“Your shoulder,” I said, “can I help?”

Donovan nodded. “Think it's dislocated. Landed hard. Heard a pop.”

I took his wrist and he winced. “Ready?”

He gave another short nod.

I straightened his arm away from his body, got a good grip, and pulled. I'd hoped it would be a quick fix, but landing and rolling on pavement didn't do him any favors. Finally, I heard it pop back into place.

I took his other shoulder to steady him. “Better?”

He rotated his arm and winced. “'Better' is a strong word. It's at least a few steps closer to working again.”

“Somehow we're still in one piece.”

“Somehow,” he repeated. He looked back at the van and pressed his hand to his forehead. “f*ck, this is a setback. Last thing we need right now.”

I took his hand. Didn't dare to squeeze, but just held it, his cold fingers against my warm ones. “Where are the bandages?”

“Uh.” Donovan screwed up his eyes to think. “Glove box? No, um...f*ck.”

“I'll find them.”

He started to follow me toward the van. “Check in the back. Maybe in the crate of guns?”

“Go sit down.”

“What about in-”

I got a firm grip on his arms and stopped him. As he started to protest, I kissed his forehead. The words died in his mouth. He just stared, his mouth partway open, frozen in the middle of a sentence.

“You take care of me,” I said quietly. “Let me take care of you.”

Donovan shuddered. His eyes closed.

I gently pushed him back toward the bathroom. “Go sit.”

I finally knew what that look was in his eyes, the one that sat alongside the anger and sadness. It was affection after all. Maybe I did know what it looked like.

Chapter 9: You've Really Got a Hold on Me

Chapter Text

I bandaged Donovan's arms and hands. He wrapped my head and the worst of the wounds on my shoulders.

Every few minutes, he'd just stop and stare at me in silence, his eyes searching my face.

“What are you looking for?” I asked finally. “When you look at me like that.”

“I don't know.” Donovan blinked. He pressed his hand to my chest again, feeling my heartbeat. “Maybe to make sure you're real.”

I managed a small smile. “As much pain as I'm f*ckin' in, I better be real. I thought death was supposed to be painless.”

A muscle worked in Donovan's jaw. He lifted a hand to my cheek. His fingers were cold, several of them crooked. But his touch was a soft caress. I couldn't help but lean into it.

“Never seen you so gentle,” I murmured.

Donovan glanced away. That muscle in his jaw kept clenching and unclenching.

“After everything we've done, never thought I could be,” he said. “But you make me gentle.”

I reached up to tip his chin down and kiss his forehead. I felt him shudder.

“Hell,” he whispered. “Nobody's ever touched me like that. I never wanted anybody to. Nobody but you.”

He finally looked back to meet my eyes. His gaze was full of pain. Pain and...maybe a little hope.

“Never trusted anybody like I trust you,” I said softly.

Donovan shuddered again. “I don't have the words to tell you how much that means. I could live forever, and I'd still never find them.”

“How's your shoulder?”

“Hurts like hell.” He laughed hoarsely. “How's your eye?”

“Blurry as hell.”

“You must've scratched it. Should heal in a few days.”

I blinked at him. “You can scratch your eye?”

“A corneal abrasion.”

“A f*cking what?”

The pain faded from his face, replaced by a grin. “Took an optometry elective back at Princeton.”

Hell, that grin would make me weak in the knees if I wasn't sitting down.

“You're a man of many talents, John Donovan.”

“Could've been an eye doctor in another life.” Donovan rubbed a hand across his forehead. His other arm was still pressed tightly to his side. “I don't think they get shot at as often.”

“You'd be doing the world a service. Fixing eyes so they could get a better look at you.”

Donovan laughed. A real laugh this time, not hoarse and ragged. He leaned forward to kiss me, soft and sweet.

I put my arms around him and it felt natural, like I'd done it a hundred times. One hand on his back, the other at the nape of his neck. My fingertips brushing the wisps of hair. I could stay there forever with my eyes closed, my lips pressed to his, sharing breaths. But I knew we couldn't.

As if he could read my mind, Donovan sighed and pulled away.

“Need to clear out the van. Should be pretty simple to source another one but I'll have to set everything up again.” He looked at me long and hard before he went on, “Can I ask something? Tell me if I'm outta line.”

I had to admit the words made me a little wary. “Yeah?”

“This...thing you've got with food. Is it 'cause you just forget to eat? Or is it...” He searched for the right words, “something else?”

I was silent for a long time. Thinking. The first reaction in my gut was anger. I wanted to lash out, push him away. But I couldn't. Not with the memory of that gentle caress, of the soft press of his lips.

“Something else,” I said quietly.

“Can I help?”

My gaze lowered to the ground. I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“Alright.” His voice was strained and he cleared his throat. “You just tell me if you think of anything.”

I didn't know what to say. Didn't know if I could put any words to the tightness in my throat and the ache in my chest. Instead, I took his hand and gently squeezed.

“Burke's guy can get us a car,” Donovan said. “McGahee. Maybe get us the van, too.”

I finally managed to force a few words out. “Always wary of running up favors with Burke. With all three of 'em.”

“At the moment I don't have any better ideas.”

I grunted.

“What were we even f*cking doing before all that?” Donovan muttered, mostly to himself. “Chasing some psycho. That was a waste of time, I should've known better. Doesn't f*cking matter.”

“You were right about the cops,” I interjected. “This has got them crawling all over. And, hell, that description of the shooter sounded like me.”

“Marcano's got the whole department in his pocket. I wouldn't be surprised if he was using them to hunt you down.”

“If they're looking for me, they won't be looking for him.”

“Maybe we do gotta play detective, then. Somebody's gotta stop this killer.”

I waited, expecting him to add some dumb Sherlock Holmes reference.

When he didn't, I asked, “What, no cute little murder mystery quip?”

He grinned. “You think I'm cute?”

“I think you're a f*ckin' idiot.” I softened the words with another kiss.

Donovan's tongue pressed hesitantly at my lips and I opened to let it in, letting him taste me. He leaned against me, his hand rising to my cheek, his thumb stroking my jaw. Deepening the kiss until my head spun. I was panting when he leaned back.

“Wanted to kiss you like that for two f*ckin' years,” he murmured.

I replied with a dizzy grin. “Got a lot of time to make up for.”

Donovan wobbled a bit as he straightened.

“f*ck.” He pressed a hand to his head. “Need to sleep for a year.”

I hesitated before asking, “Can I stay at the motel tonight? In the other room. I don't want to be alone tonight.”

Donovan looked at me with that surprise and relief in his eyes again.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “The mattress is still in there. You're welcome as long as you want to stay.”

“Thank you.”

“Gotta get there, first. Call McGahee.”

I nodded.

The next few hours were a blur.

Waiting for Hank McGahee to bring a car. Driving back to the Blue Gulf. Donovan drifting in and out of consciousness in the passenger's seat, jerking awake every time we stopped at a red light.

Clearing space for the bed in the other room. Too tired to put sheets on it, using every ounce of energy left to find a blanket and a pillow. Kicking off my boots. Hearing Donovan moving in the other room. Then I passed out.

Chapter 10: Paint It Black

Chapter Text

I woke to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of a shower running.

Gingerly rubbing my eyes, I blinked up at the ceiling. Couldn't quite tell if my vision was that blurry or if it was just filthy and smoke-stained.

My leg ached. I hadn't noticed it yesterday, with all my attention on the pain in my eyes, but my left leg was bruised and sore from where the door had been dented in the crash.

I struggled to my feet and limped into the next room.

A cup of coffee sat on top of the TV. Another half-empty cup sat on the nightstand.

I took the one off the TV and took a few long sips.

The shower turned off.

Retreating back to the adjoining room, I sat at Donovan's desk. A few of the police files from the Shadow case were open, stacked on top of each other.

I glanced through them. They were obviously copies, the ink on some pages was smudged and too light to read. As I read, I started a mental list:

Victim 1: Fred Wilkerson, 27, white male. Accountant at Beauregard Dining, Inc., Downtown office. Found dismembered in Southdowns.

Victim 2: Joe Reynolds, 35, black male. Cook at Les Trois Pattes Bar in the French Ward. Found dismembered in River Row.

Victim 3: Ron Robertson, 42, black male. Secretary at Beauregard Dining, Inc., Frisco Fields office. Found dismembered in River Row.

Victim 4: Artie Madison, 51, white male. Owner of Shore Lane Bakery in Southdowns. Found dismembered in Southdowns.

And the newest body, the John Doe found Downtown. If that even was the same killer.

I absently ran a thumb across the scar on my forehead as I thought.

Taking another sip of coffee, I glanced at the logo on the side. A grinning rabbit with a stack of pancakes. Must be from the Briar Patch across the road.

My brow furrowed.

Beauregard Dining, Inc.—that was the parent company for the Briar Patch restaurants. Two of the victims had ties to it, the accountant and the secretary.

Bill Beauregard had restaurants across the city, both the Briar Patch and a few other chains. Across Louisiana, too. Must be over a hundred people who worked in the Downtown and Frisco Fields offices. Could be a coincidence. New Bordeaux was a big city.

“Hey.”

I looked up.

Donovan stood in the doorway, a towel around his neck. His suit needed some salvaging before he could wear it again. He'd switched to a pair of khakis and a button-up. Always khakis or suit pants. I don't think I've ever seen him in jeans. Without the bandages, the angry red rashes on his arms were stark against his pale skin.

“Morning,” I replied.

We stared at each other in silence.

“You found the coffee,” he said finally, gesturing to the cup in my hand.

“Yeah.”

Another few seconds of silence.

“Even though-” Donovan started, then stopped. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Even though yesterday was a sh*tshow, I'm thankful for it. To say that I...to hear you say...that we could...” He huffed out a sharp sigh. “I'm glad I got to kiss you. Finally.”

I gave him a small smile. “Me, too.”

Donovan studied me for a moment longer, then nodded to the files on the desk. “Guess we've got work to do.”

“You see this about Beauregard? Two of the victims worked for him.”

Donovan snapped his fingers.

“That was it! Was trying to remember it yesterday. Half the victims worked at Beauregard Dining.” He crossed to my side and leaned over my shoulder to read the files. “What about the other two? A cook and a baker...hm.”

“And John Doe,” I added.

I felt his breath on my cheek, heard him read the file under his breath. He reached out to shift the folder to the side and glance over the one below it. I watched his hand move across the paper. The veins on the back of his hand, his short, slender fingers. Two were crooked and bruised.

Donovan stood close to me, so close. I turned my head to see the slight shadow of stubble his cheeks, the scrape on his jaw. His sharp blue eyes darting across the page. His lips moving silently.

I couldn't resist lifting my head to kiss his cheek. I felt the muscles move beneath my lips, curving into a smile.

“You're gonna distract me,” he scolded. “I’m trying to read.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

He raised an arm to place across my shoulders. It was his injured shoulder, I heard him grunt quietly as it moved.

I let him read in silence, telling myself I was thinking. Processing what I'd read. But in reality I was thinking about his hand on my shoulder, his breath on my ear, the cool pink flesh of his lips.

Enjoying this quiet peace of being so near to him. I never wanted anything to change. I wanted to live in this quiet peace forever.

“Wonder what the cops have made of those fingerprints,” Donovan mused. “Jeremiah got these pages all out of f*ckin' order—I thought the fingerprints were those of the victim, not the killer.”

“They match?”

“Just looks like a bunch of circles to me.”

“You took an optometry class but not a forensics one?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I had forensic science,” Donovan replied. He tilted his head. “Think I slept through most of them. That professor was a f*ckin' loon, he always wore his glasses upside-down. Had a great ass, though.”

I snorted into my coffee.

Donovan shook his head and looked back to the folders.

“Need to take these victims one at a time. Try to get these files in the right order.” He sighed and raised his hand to rub his temple. The other was on my shoulders. “f*ck, my head hurts.”

I slipped an arm around his waist. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned against me, resting some of his weight against my side. He sighed again, though this time it was a sound of relief.

We stayed like that for a while. Letting the minutes pass by slow and quiet.

Then Donovan said, “It feels good having you this close. I can breathe a little easier.”

That drew a smile across my lips. With him standing beside me, I could lean my head against his chest. Just sit there and hold him and be held.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

He made a strangled sound deep in his throat. I heard him struggle to breathe evenly.

“Hell, Lincoln,” he said hoarsely.

I thought more was coming and was surprised when instead he turned and put his other arm around me. Leaning hard against me, almost sinking into my lap.

“You f*ckin' ruin me,” he mumbled against the side of my head. His stubble scraped against my neck.

I laughed and rubbed a hand across his back. “You comfortable?”

“No.” Donovan admitted it grudgingly. He stood at an awkward angle against me, only able to use one arm to support himself. The other lay limply on my shoulders.

I rose to my feet, kissing his forehead as I went.

“Sit.” I gently pushed him toward the chair. “Gonna shower.”

“Lincoln,” he said. I looked back and his face was unreadable. “I've got a stupid idea.”

“Care to share?”

He shook his head. Maybe a bit of that pain crept back into his eyes. “Nah.”

I took a shower, letting the water run over my face. My eyes still stung. My shoulders ached, my bruised leg warned it might buckle at any moment.

But my chest was warm. Felt like I was full of f*ckin' sunshine. Absurd. Insane that just the thought of Donovan's face could do that. That thinking about his grin made my stomach flip in my gut. All I wanted to do was hold him again.

I looked at myself in the mirror and my eyes were glazed. I was breathing hard, my mouth slightly open. I thought of his lips again and grinned.

If I ruined him, what was he doing to me?

I dried off and got dressed, and when I left the bathroom, Donovan was gone.

Chapter 11: Piece of My Heart

Chapter Text

That warmth in my chest turned to ice. My leg threatened to give out. I had to reach for the doorframe to hold myself up.

Maybe he just stepped out for a cigarette. But the jacket on the back of the door was gone. My keys were gone from the table. I looked out the window and my car was gone from the parking lot.

Gone, he was gone. f*ck, had I...? I must've done something wrong. Said something wrong. Should've...what could I have done to make him stay?

My stomach chose that moment to once again remind me it was empty. My jaw cramped up, bile rose in my throat.

My leg did give out then, sending me to one knee.

I braced myself with both hands flat on the floor.

I heard my thoughts in Sammy’s voice.

You lose it all, Lincoln. Everything and everyone. Me and Ellis and Danny and your home and every single hope you were ever stupid enough to have. All up in flames.

Father James hates you for what you are. A monster. You've always been a monster. That's why they all leave.

That's why you can't eat. You don't deserve to.

And Donovan sees it now, too.

I coughed and spat a mouthful of bile onto the carpet.

My chest seized up. The heaving began. My empty stomach convulsing in protest. Nothing but coffee and acid for it to bring up.

Every time I think I'm happy. Every time I think I'm safe. It all gets ripped away.

My vision blurred. Couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the wound left by the glass. Then a tear dripped down and landed on the back of my hand.

Spit dribbled down my chin. I tried to raise a fist to clean it but my hands wouldn't move. Trapped again.

Frozen like that scared little kid, so hungry and all alone.

I thought of Donovan's gentle fingers and his lips and the pain in his eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I couldn't see anything. Nothing but tears.

So much for Lincoln Clay, the fierce killer, the terror of New Bordeaux. So much for the strength I thought I'd built. The power I'd gained. The fight I waged and won against death. I was nothing but the ghost of that child.

I had no sense of time. Had no idea when it was, how long it had been. My eyes were fixed on the carpet.

I started leaning and kept leaning until I was on the ground, awkwardly falling forward onto one shoulder. Both knees on the floor now. My cheek was in the carpet, I felt it press hard and leave marks on my cheek.

I breathed in short, shallow gasps. My stomach had given up heaving. Maybe it thought I'd been punished enough. Maybe it thought I wasn't worth the effort.

I was deaf to everything. Couldn’t hear myself breathing. Couldn't hear the sounds of traffic. Couldn't hear the door open.

My mind thought it would be funny to conjure up Donovan's face. I squeezed my eyes shut to make it disappear. It hurt too bad. I tried to focus on the pain in my chest, in my forehead, in my leg. Anything but him.

Something touched my cheek. I flinched. It felt like a hand. Like cold skin against mine. Nothing. It's nothing.

The phantom hand disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. I knew it.

Then a cool press of lips on my cheek. It felt like him. So much so that I couldn't take it. I'd wanted those lips for so f*cking long and now my mind was mocking me with them. I choked on a sob. Tears leaked from between my eyelids.

My shoulder gave out and I toppled onto my side. My arms limp against the ground. I tried to keep breathing, though I wondered if it even f*cking mattered anymore.

What was I doing to this city? What was I doing to myself?

The phantom hand returned to my cheek. Another joined it, lifting my head up off the carpet. The phantom lips kissed my forehead. I took a sharp breath in, trying to ignore it.

Sammy's voice spoke my thoughts again, You've got work to do, Lincoln. As long as Sal and Giorgi breathe, you must keep going. Don't let me down again.

I opened my eyes. Donovan's face swam in my vision. It was sideways and splotched with red. Why was it...?

I blinked hard, but the face remained. Its mouth was moving. If I concentrated hard, I could imagine it was speaking: ”Lincoln?”

I closed my eyes but it still spoke, ”Lincoln, look at me.”

I wanted to shake my head. Leave me alone. Leave me again.

“Lincoln, please.”

I opened my eyes.

Donovan's face was still there, twisted with worry. His cheeks flushed red. His head tilted to the side, trying to see all of my face.

“'onavan?” My jaw was so tight I could barely speak.

“I'm here,” Donovan said. “Feel me?”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead again. I did feel him. Felt the lips leave a burning imprint, sinking beneath the skin.

“You left.”

“I know,” he said. “I know, I'm sorry. But I'm back now.”

A wave of nausea swept over me.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Hungry,” I echoed.

“Can I get you something?”

“Dunno.”

“Okay,” Donovan whispered. “I'm sorry I left without telling you, but I had to go.”

“Why?”

“I knew you'd tell me what a f*ckin' idiot I am. Try to stop me.”

My eyes were clearer. My ears, too. I looked up at him, at the bright blue eyes searching my face.

When I spoke, my voice was strangled, “I don't know if you're real.”

Donovan's lips curved in a deep frown. His brow furrowed. His hands still held my cheeks, raising me slightly off the floor.

He leaned down and kissed me hard. His fingers trembled against my cheeks. His nose crushed against mine.

“Please,” he mumbled against my lips. “I'm sorry, Lincoln. I'm here.”

I struggled to get my elbow underneath me. Pushing myself up, I managed to grab hold of his collar with my other hand.

“You're here,” I said. Not sure if I was saying it to him or telling myself.

Donovan kissed me again. I closed my eyes and focused on his lips. Trying to ground myself. I felt him move one hand to my chest, pressing hard above my heart.

I tried to sit up. Donovan did his best to help, though his injured shoulder made it hard.

Finally sitting upright, I put my face in my hands. I couldn't bear to look at him.

“I thought you were gone. For good.”

“After everything we've been through, you really think I could do that to you?” I could hear the pain in his voice.

I shook my head miserably.

“No. I don't know, I just don't know what's...what's real. I lose everything I love, and it-” My voice broke. “It tears me up inside.”

Donovan tried to hold back, I could see his every muscle tensing. Then he gave in to his urges and wrapped his arms around me. I choked again as I leaned hard into him. Struggling to breathe.

“I'm sorry, Lincoln,” he said. “I'm here now.”

“I'm just like that stupid f*ckin' kid.”

“He wasn't stupid.” Donovan spoke in that soft voice of his. It made me shiver. “He was scared. I've always been ashamed of bein' scared, but fear lets you know you're alive.”

“Don't even know if I want that,” I said hoarsely.

He suddenly moved back. “What?”

My stomach convulsed again, and I had to swallow another mouthful of bile. I couldn't look at him as I spoke through gritted teeth.

“Everything I'm doing to my city, it...what happens when I burn it all down? What happens when I divide up the territory and leave all those innocent people at the mercy of those three mobs? What-what world have I created?”

“I don't know yet, but we'll figure it out.”

We'll. We will. We.

“I don't know if I can live with all that. If I...if I want to.”

“f*ck, Lincoln-” Donovan pulled me into his arms, squeezing even tighter. “God, don't talk like that.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, you don't gotta be sorry. It just hurts my f*ckin' heart to hear you so sad. I want to help you—more than contacts and surveillance and all that sh*t, I mean really help you. Please let me.”

“I want to,” I whispered.

“It's okay if you don't know how. I don't know, either. I've never...felt this way about anybody. I've never cared for anybody like I care for you. And, f*ck, I hate to see you hurt.”

I sat in silence, absorbing the words. I've never cared about anybody like that, either. Until him.

“Donovan?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Alright,” he said. “I'll go get you something.”

He drew back and kissed my forehead and, hell, it felt so good. I loved the feeling of being in his arms, of his gentle touch, of that intimate press of his lips against my skin and the silent whispers you'll be okay, I'm here.

“I'll go with you.”

“Okay.”

I pulled my shirt up to wipe my face. “Where'd you go?”

“The police station.”

That startled me back to earth. My head cleared in an instant. “What?”

Chapter 12: The Weight

Chapter Text

Donovan waited until we sat in a booth at the Briar Patch before handing over the folder.

“Chief Wilson's giving a presser as we speak. Big deal over by City Hall. Haven't heard from Jeremiah, figured he turned coward and ran. So I went in myself.”

I flipped open the folder. There was the body of the John Doe—what was left of it, anyway. Except it wasn't John Doe. There was a name at the top of the coroner's report. My eyes widened.

“Holy f*cking sh*t.”

“Name was familiar to me, too. Our Shadow's certainly escalating.”

Theodore Skelton. One of the head finance directors at Beauregard Dining, Inc.

I glanced up at Donovan. “You're right.”

“'Bout what?”

“You are a f*ckin' idiot for going in alone.”

He raised one of his eyebrows. “You couldn't exactly stroll in there. I just flash a badge and walk in like I own the place, nobody looks twice at an average white guy.”

I snorted and looked back down at the file.

“Was waiting for you to say I wasn't average, but alright.”

I ignored him. “No wonder the cops are keeping a tight lid on this. The Tribune may be a dirty rag but they're not stupid. They'll make the connection and tie it back to Beauregard.”

“Look at the fingerprints. Page two.”

I flipped the page. A few pictures of fingerprints, some smudged, left in blood at the scene. And the name—redacted.

“Why the f*ck's this redacted in the report?”

“Chief of police knows, that's for damn certain. But I guess he doesn't want anybody else to.”

Our food arrived. I'd asked Donovan to order for me since I still couldn't think straight. He'd ordered us both a tall stack of pancakes. His favorite. His eyes always lit up like a little kid in a candy store at the sight of them.

I stared at my plate for a while. Finally picked up my fork with a shaking hand and managed to cut a piece. Stared at it for a while more. Then put it in my mouth. Chewed.

The Briar Patch put them on every damn billboard claiming they were the best around. I had to admit they were good.

“Donovan,” I said.

He grunted around a mouthful of pancakes. “Mmph?”

“What woulda happened if they'd gotten you?”

Donovan blinked. He swallowed the mouthful. “The cops?”

I nodded.

He set his fork down. “I did think about that. Parked a mile away and walked. Hid the motel key in an alley a few streets over. Made sure I wasn't followed back. They wouldn't've traced me back to you.”

My voice was barely audible. “You know that's not what I mean.”

Donovan let out a quiet sigh. “I tried not to think about that part.”

I rubbed my thumb across the scar on my forehead. “I don't know how to say what I wanna say without...without making it sound like a horrible f*ckin' thing to say.”

“Say it anyway.”

“If you hadn't come back, I'd still be layin' there.” I grit my teeth. “I-I felt my f*ckin' heart in pieces in my chest. I was so scared I'd lost you. Like I lose everything. I don't know how much more I can lose before I just can't do it anymore.”

Donovan's jaw clenched. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no sound came out. I felt his hand fumble beneath the table to find mine and squeeze.

I wished I could reach across and hold his hands out in the open. Could hold him, kiss him, without any fear. But we both knew we couldn't.

“I was thinking of you,” Donovan whispered. “Every step I took, I was thinking of your face. In case anything happened and I didn't make it out, I wanted it to be the last thing I saw.” He shook his head. “I knew it was f*cking stupid and I went anyway, and I don't regret it. But, goddamnit, it f*cking destroys me knowing how you're hurting.”

My fingers tightened around his. I knew it hurt his broken fingers. He was too f*cking stubborn to do more than bandage them. No splints, no attempt to keep them straight. Let it work itself out.

I forced a small smile. “How about you swear you won't go missing again, and I'll swear I won't hurt anymore.”

Donovan returned the smile but it didn't reach his eyes. “Deal.”

“How are those pancakes?”

“Good.” Donovan hesitated. “No, I can't downplay it, they're f*cking delicious.”

I laughed and looked down at my plate. Maybe his enthusiasm could convince me to take another bite.

“I love that sound.”

I glanced back up at his face and the look in his eyes stopped my heart dead. They were so warm, so soft. I could swear they were f*ckin' glowing.

“Your laugh,” he said quietly. “I love to hear you laugh. Makes me forget about everything for a minute.”

The warmth I'd felt earlier returned to my chest. Maybe a little hesitantly, but it was there. “I feel the same about your smile. I just picture it and start grinnin' like an idiot. Just the thought of you.”

Donovan studied me. He slowly shook his head. “How the hell did I get lucky enough to meet you?”

We were still holding hands beneath the table. I reached with my other hand to hold his in both of mine. Warm skin against cold. Pressed tight, cradling his broken fingers.

“I just gotta keep telling myself you're here,” I said. “That you aren't going to up and leave.”

Not at all an answer to his question. Hell if I knew how we managed to find each other. Maybe it was the divine intervention Father James preached about.

“I won't.”

We may have been leaning a bit too far over the table, maybe looking a bit too intently into each others' eyes.

I felt a prickling on the side of my face and glanced over. Another table was staring at us. Glaring. Maybe leering. Despite Donovan's empty coffee cup, the waitress walked right past with her nose in the air and a coffee carafe in her hand.

I swallowed hard and released Donovan's hand.

“We should get out of here,” I said quietly, barely moving my lips.

Donovan caught on immediately. He nodded.

We paid our bill and left without exchanging another word. The two of us didn't even look at each other until we were back at the Blue Gulf with the motel room door closed behind us.

Then Donovan reached up to my cheeks—he had to rise up slightly onto his toes—and pulled me down into a kiss.

I slipped my arms around him, my hands pressing against his lower back, holding him close.

He rest his weight against me and sighed. It was a sound of contentment.

I teared up a bit at that. When I opened my eyes, the room was misty.

Donovan pressed his ear against my chest. I felt him hold his breath, listening for my heartbeat.

“I wish things were easier,” he murmured. He must've heard the catch in my breath because he looked up at me.

I could only nod wordlessly in reply. I raised one hand to press to my eyes, desperately trying to hold the tears back.

Donovan pulled my hand away from my face and moved it down to his lips. He gently kissed my knuckles. I felt him smile. “Think this'll help?”

My knees were shaking. Aching from the crash and the softness in his voice and the few bites of pancakes I'd managed to eat. I could barely stand.

I stumbled toward the bed, dragging him with me, and sat heavily on the edge. My head sank to my hands.

He put an arm around my shoulders and sat there beside me as I shook.

“Sorry I keep doing this,” I mumbled finally.

“You're stronger than me,” he replied. “I do everything I can to avoid these moments of...quiet. Hate thinking about what's in my head. But you stand right up and face them.”

I let out a choked laugh. “Not at all. They tear me down and beat the hell out of me.”

He leaned his head against me. “Maybe that's what it feels like.”

Having him right there leaned against me was just where I wanted to be forever. I could take a lifetime of tears and shudders and empty, aching stomachs if it meant I could feel him beside me.

“Donovan?”

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

“I've got...I think...” f*ck, why did telling the truth have to be so hard? “I think I've got something to say.”

He paused. “I...I think I might, too.”

I swallowed hard. “You wanna go first?”

“No.”

“Me, neither.”

We sat in silence.

Finally, Donovan gave a sheepish laugh. “Hell, this is...well, it's just silly. Isn't it?”

“I think I love you.” The words tumbled out.

Donovan froze. I could feel the effort it took for him to move his arm and press his hand to my chest. He held his breath.

I placed mine on top of his. “I'm real.”

“You are,” he agreed. “I can feel it beating.”

I sat in silence. Waiting for him to...what? Push me away? Or maybe say...

Donovan made a strangled sound.

“You're stronger than me. You're...I'm a coward. I've wanted to kiss you for two f*ckin' years. I've wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. I've wanted to hold you close and never f*ckin' let you go. But I couldn't. I was...terrified. I'm terrified, Lincoln.” He looked over at me, his eyes wide. “I'm f*cking terrified because I think I love you, too.”

“Why are you terrified?” I asked softly.

“I've never loved anybody before. I don't even know if that's what this is, I...but I don't know what else to call it.”

“I've never loved anybody either.” I shook my head. “Not like you.”

He stared at me. “What do we do now?”

I hesitated. Then I lifted his hand and pressed it to my lips.

“We go on,” I said. “We've been two fools in love for long enough now, nothing's...I guess the only the difference is we've said it now. Out loud.”

“Go on,” Donovan repeated. He nodded. “We'll figure it out as we go.”

Maybe I did want to go on, after all. Maybe I could manage to find some hope.

“We've got a killer to catch, haven't we?” Donovan went on. “I haven't even used any of my pulp fiction references yet.”

I looked over at him and saw his grin, and my knees went weak again. “You f*ckin' idiot.”

I kissed him and he tasted like pancakes and a sweet summer afternoon.

Chapter 13: Born on the Bayou

Chapter Text

After I stopped shaking, I cashed in another favor with McGahee to source a van.

Donovan was annoyed, of course, that he had to uproot his tac-center and kit out another van to suit his needs, but he was even more annoyed that most of the donuts hadn't made it through the car chase intact. Seemed like every time I turned around, he managed to produce a new box.

On his fifth “Motherf*cker!” I finally asked, “How many f*ckin' donuts were there?”

Donovan chucked the box across the floor, and it skidded against the far wall, a mess of dough and chocolate icing. “A few.”

“How many boxes have you thrown out so far, six? A dozen donuts in each—seventy-two f*cking donuts.”

“Yeah, a few.”

“John Donovan, what in the goddamn were you going to do with seventy-two f*cking donuts?”

“Eat them.” He stuck his head out the back of the van. “Figured you'd help me take care of a few of them.”

“Seventy-t-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “Look, I heard the guy got f*ckin' murdered and it was probably the Shadow, I went poking around the bakery. I saw they had Boston cream. I happen to adore Boston cream. It is delightful. So, I tried one. Then I said, well, if the guy's f*ckin' dead, this is probably the last batch of good ones—I mean, really good ones, so I ought to stock up. Consider it a gift to his family. I've never liked sending flowers to a funeral.”

I rolled my eyes and got back to poking through the tape recorder.

I'd been a mechanic for a time before I joined up, taking odd jobs around the Hollow, mostly fixing cars for Sammy's associates. I thought it would be worth a shot to see if I could piece the machine back together. How difficult could it be?

Pretty difficult, it turned out.

Either way, I was beyond relieved that my eyes seemed to work much better than they had the last time I'd been in this warehouse. One still stung when I blinked, but it didn't hurt so bad and my vision wasn't so blurry.

Donovan grunted behind me. There was a loud crash.

I all but leaped out of my chair.

Donovan still stood inside the van, but he leaned heavily against the back of the driver's seat, his head lowered. The crate of weapons spilled at his feet.

He heard me coming and looked up, gritting his teeth. “Help?”

I pushed the crate out of the way. “What happened?”

“Tried to lift it. Arm...can't.” Donovan's right arm pressed tight against his side. His other hand clutched his shoulder.

“Shouldn't be lifting stuff,” I chided him. “You'll pop that shoulder right back out.”

Donovan lurched toward me. I caught him and helped him down out of the van. He moved in an awkward shuffle.

“Got-” He broke off to put a hand over his mouth and muffle a sound of pain. “Got bad burns from the pavement. Legs and arms. Okay for a while but now, f*ck, they're stiff. Hurts like hell.”

“It's alright. Just sit down for a minute, I'll find you some meds.”

Donovan managed to nod. He sank into the chair I'd been using.

I rifled through the glove box, the back of the van, under the seats. Finally, I managed to find a small bottle of aspirin.

“This'll have to do,” I said, emerging from the van.

Donovan slumped forward in the chair, breathing hard. I could hear the labored inhales and exhales from a few feet away.

“Tried to ignore it,” he said hoarsely. “Managed for a while, but it's just too...too much.”

I shook a few pills into his hand. He swallowed them dry, grimacing as they went down.

I kissed his forehead and he leaned into me.

“That helps,” he whispered.

I held him against me as I gently probed his shoulder, checking that the joint remained in the socket. Donovan made a strangled sound, muffled by my chest.

“Feels okay,” I murmured. “Can I take your jacket off?”

He'd slipped a sports coat on to hide the wounds.

Donovan nodded. “Need help getting it off.”

I started with his left arm since it had the most mobility. I got the jacket off his shoulder alright but when it hit his elbow it stuck.

Donovan gave another strangled cry and leaned hard into me.

“Didn't-” His voice rasped in his throat. “No bandages.”

My jaw tensed. The rashes were still raw and weeping. No doubt they'd stuck to the cloth, adhering it right into his skin. f*ck, this will hurt.

“Gonna do it slow, alright?”

“No, fast, do it fast. Just rip-” Donovan tried to jerk his arm out of my hands but I held firm.

“Just hold onto me, I'm right here.”

I started to gingerly remove the sleeve. It was a slow, painstaking process.

Donovan took a handful of my shirt and held on as tight as he could. His jaw clenched so tight it cracked.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

“You're alright.”

I felt something wet my shirt and looked down. His face was pressed into my stomach. He was breathing hard, his shoulders shaking.

I was nearly done with the left sleeve. When I finally got it free, the inside was smeared with blood. I pushed the jacket off his shoulder.

“One down.”

“Need...need a minute.”

“Okay.” I put my hand on the back of his head, running my fingers gently through his hair. “Halfway there, Donovan.”

“f*ck.” His voice was garbled. “I've f*ckin' broken bones, fractured my f*ckin' skull and it didn't hurt this bad.”

I lowered myself to my knees and lifted his chin, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He trembled against me.

“I've got you, hun,” I whispered.

A tear dripped down his cheek.

“You should work at a hospital,” he mumbled. “Could make all the pain go away with words like that.”

I cleared the tear with my thumb. The word had slipped out. Tumbled out without me thinking, just like I love you. And it felt just as good.

Donovan sucked in a few deep breaths. “Do the other arm. Before I chicken out.”

His right arm was worse. The blood seeped through the jacket, sticking it tight to his skin. Road rash went all the way from his wrist up to his shoulder.

“That aspirin kicking in yet?”

He gave me a strained smile. “Nope.”

His shoulder was stiff as I pulled the jacket off. The sleeve stuck on his bicep. I tried my best to peel it off gently, but the oozing sore made it difficult. Maybe Donovan was right and I should rip it off like a band-aid. The thought turned my stomach. He was already grunting and shaking with pain. I didn't know how much more I could stand. I could almost feel his pain seeping into my skin, spreading an ache across my chest.

I kissed him, parting his lips with my tongue, pressing deep. When Donovan's eyes closed, suitably distracted, I pulled the sleeve off his upper arm. He groaned into my mouth.

I leaned back to check on his arm. It was bleeding again. At least it looked clean. Needed to get bandages on it. Still had to free his forearm.

I looked back to Donovan's face and his eyes were still closed, his lips parted.

“Do that again,” he murmured.

Guess that worked. I almost laughed.

I kissed him again, raising one hand to the back of his neck. Getting a handful of hair and pulling gently. Deepening the kiss as he moaned softly. Drinking in his sounds, the taste of him. I almost distracted myself, too.

But I managed to get myself together enough to peel the jacket the rest of the way down his arm. I tossed it onto the floor and put both arms around his neck. His hands found my shoulders. He moaned again and the sound echoed around my head. Sweet like iced tea on a hot day.

He bit my bottom lip. His teeth nipping at my tongue. I considered grappling for control, teasing him, but his lips were too damn intoxicating. It was my turn to moan.

His soft bites moved down to my jaw. I could barely breathe. Even without kissing me, he sucked all my breath away.

“I don't think they'd let you do that at the hospital,” he said, grinning against my chin.

I laughed. “You'll send me to the f*ckin' hospital kissing me like that. Give me a goddamn heart attack.”

“You know, I've never been...I haven't, um.” Despite him nearly sucking my tongue clear out of my skull, Donovan was suddenly bashful. “I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“For what?”

“I've never been one for the...physical side of relationships.” Donovan's brow furrowed. “Or the romantic side, come to think of it.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Should just be f*cking honest. You know that's hard for me.” He blew out a breath. “I've never f*cked anybody. Or been f*cked by anybody. Never wanted to. And I still...I can't give you that. I love you, Lincoln. It would break my f*ckin' heart if you walked away, but I'd understand. I understand if I can't give you all you need.”

I blinked a few times, taking in what he'd said. Maybe I was quiet for too long.

“Please say something.” He studied my face, his face twisted with worry. Trying and failing to hold it back.

I took his hand, bringing it to my lips. I didn't quite understand what he'd said. But I could make myself understand. I'd do it for him. It would break my f*ckin' heart if I walked away, too.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said, speaking the words against his fingers. “I'd hate to push you into something you don't want. I'm glad you told me now.”

Donovan's shoulders relaxed slightly. He was still hesitant. “I didn't really know what you'd say. It haven’t...I’ve never said it out loud before.”

“I want you just the way you are.” I kissed his fingers again. “I love you, too, Donovan. It feels so f*ckin' good to say that.”

Donovan managed a smile. “I still can't believe I found you. Can't believe we've stuck around each other for so long.”

“And somehow we managed not to kill each other.”

He chuckled. “Somehow.”

“Let's get your arms bandaged. How 'bout your legs?”

His smiled faded. “f*ck, I'd...forgotten about those.”

“One thing at a time.”

Chapter 14: Respect

Chapter Text

Donovan's new tac-center was, ironically, a bakery delivery truck. He groaned that it smelled like fresh bread and donuts despite the fact he'd lost all those boxes in the crash. He mourned those f*ckin' donuts like a fallen brother.

“Let's just stop and get breakfast, if you're that sore about it,” I said.

“You hungry?”

I felt him glance over at me. His eyes were heavy on the side of my face. Had that urge to lash out again, but I tamped it down. Breathe. You're hungry, you know you are.

“Yeah,” I said. First time I finally had an answer that wasn't 'I don't know.' “Burgers?”

“Have a place in mind?”

I considered the question. “Feel like playing detective again?”

“Always.” Donovan grinned.

“There's a place up in Frisco Fields. Pretty close to Beauregard Dining offices there. You'll have to order and bring it out, it's whites only seating inside.”

He nodded. After a moment, he said, “Can I say something that might be outta line again?”

“You always worry me starting off a sentence like that.”

“I just wanna say I'm proud of you. For...” He hesitated. “What am I trying to say: for saying you're hungry? Dunno if that really captures what I mean, but...for letting me help. I guess that's what I mean. I know it's hard. God knows I can never f*ckin' do it.”

I swallowed hard. Had to grit my teeth to stop my jaw from trembling. I reached over to take his hand and squeeze. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Parkview Diner faced the campus of Brandt University.

The campus was lush and green, a sprawling symbol of wealth that most of us could never hope to achieve. Frisco Fields was the kind of place you were only allowed to go if you were “one of the good ones.” And don't even dream of trying to live there.

I sat on a park bench on the edge of campus, watching students pass by. Some ran past on their way to class. Others lounged on the grass with a book or a picnic lunch. Enjoying the sunshine.

I couldn't help but wonder how my life would be different if I had that chance. School was never for me. Everything I learned came from Father James and the church, or working alongside Sammy. I preferred to work with my hands, anyway. From what Donovan told me about his time at Princeton, it sounded miserable. He seemed to enjoy it, though. He liked the schedule and monotony of classes, the predictability of it all.

Donovan returned with the burgers. He passed one to me and sat on the bench, leaning back to breathe in the fresh air.

I went ahead and unwrapped the burger, knowing it would take a while for me to work up the strength to take a bite.

“The offices are a few blocks down from campus,” I said. “HQ's Downtown.”

“You ever know anybody who worked there?”

I shook my head. “Hard for black folks to get a job here or in Downtown. Mostly custodial.”

Donovan took a bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. “One of the victims was a secretary. Robertson, black guy.”

“Been thinking about that.” I sighed. “These victims had to have been connected, somehow all tie back to Beauregard. Three of 'em worked there, the other two have to have some tie, too.”

“A cook and a baker,” Donovan mused. “Maybe the killer lumped them in because he hated their food.”

He was already halfway done with his burger. I finally forced myself to take my first bite. We ate in silence for a few minutes.

Donovan glanced over. He started to reach over, then abruptly realized where we were and redirected his hand to sit on the back of the bench.

“You've got something on your cheek,” he said quietly.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “Shame you can't lick it off.”

I might've detected a slight blush in his cheeks. “Jesus f*cking Christ, Lincoln.”

“Beauregard recruits a lot of students from Brandt. Maybe Robertson was one of those.” I kept my voice light, hiding my smile. As I licked my lips, I felt his eyes follow my tongue.

“Yeah,” he said, and he sounded slightly breathless. Flustered. He cleared his throat. “They let black students in?”

“Occasionally. 'Special cases,'“ I quirked my fingers around the words. “Rich politician wants to look good so he sponsors some poor kid from the Hollow. I think Lou Marcano might've done it once or twice.”

“Hm.” Donovan finished his burger.

I looked down and realized I'd only taken two or three bites. I forced myself to focus.

“You don't have to eat all of it,” Donovan said. “You can save it.”

“I know.” My voice was sharp. I closed my eyes and puffed out a sharp breath through my nose. “Sorry.”

Despite my harsh words, he still stared steadily at me. “Just want to make sure you've got something in your stomach. Anything's better than nothing.”

I looked down at the burger. Trying to make it appetizing, to entice myself into taking another bite.

“I know you're trying to help. I get...food makes me nervous, is all. I don't mean to shout at you.”

“You don't need to apologize.”

“I feel like I do.”

Donovan was quiet. He looked back across the street, watching patrons come in and out of the Parkview Diner. Watching pedestrians stroll by.

I swallowed two more bites and finally gave up. Maybe a bite or two left, but I couldn't stomach it. I dropped the burger in a trash can.

“Want to walk around campus for a bit?” Donovan asked.

I looked over. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Enjoy the air.”

“We can enjoy the air from the car.”

“Then you wanna go for a drive?”

“To where?”

Donovan snorted. “Hell, Lincoln, I'm just tryin' to find excuses to spend time with you. Turn my brain off and just feel you close to me.”

That caught me by surprise. “Oh.”

It's hard enough to say things like I love you. Hard enough to admit you're feeling it. But seeing it in action, in kisses and looks and walking aimlessly and sitting quiet just to hear the other person breathe...maybe that wasn't so hard.

“What about Beauregard?” he asked. “Wonder if we could get anything interesting from their offices.”

“Probably could, but no way they'd let us in.”

“I could try my average white man routine again.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You waiting for me to say you're not average?”

“Maybe.”

I watched the traffic pass through a light cycle. Stopping and starting.

“You know what I can't figure out?” I said. “That man who fought the police. At the John Doe site. What was he trying to do?”

Donovan shrugged. “Grieving father?”

“The body would've been gone by then. Nothing but blood left.”

“Grief makes people do some strange things.”

I f*ckin' knew that intimately. Grief was driving me to tear New Bordeaux into chunks and kill any man who got in my way. What a fine line between grief and revenge.

“What if he wasn't the father?”

Donovan's face screwed up in a frown. “What the f*ck did he do all that for, then? He got blown away for nothing, then.”

“I don't know. None of this makes much goddamn sense.” I sighed. “Need to put those files in order, didn't we? The police reports?”

“Yeah.” Donovan rubbed his neck. “Shouldn't be too hard. It's just f*ckin' annoying.”

“Thought you liked that kind of paperwork.”

“Oh, generally I do. But when I pay somebody for work, I expect them to deliver a decent product.”

“Be a shame if you wasted money.” I tried and failed to hide my smile. “Think of all the donuts you could get.”

He chuckled. “Alright. Enough distracting me. Need to use my brain.”

I waved a hand. “Go ahead, genius.”

Donovan got up to pace.

“Robertson and Skelton worked here at the Frisco Fields office. Wilkerson at the Downtown office. Reynolds was a cook in the French Ward. Madison was a baker in Southdowns.”

“Two of the bodies found at Southdowns,” I added, glancing up at the sky as I remembered what I'd read. “Two in River Row.”

“And the most recent in Downtown.” Donovan crossed his arms, drumming his fingers on his elbow. “Certainly fits the signs of a serial killer. Pattern of victims, pretty regular intervals between killings. I guess the escalation is a bit quicker than others.”

“Thought you said you'd never encountered a serial killer,” I said, smirking. “You sound like a regular expert.”

“Had a few criminology classes.” He grinned back. “Didn't sleep through those.”

That goofy grin of his. I stared at his face, memorizing it, burning it into my eyes so I could see it even when I closed the lids.

“Donovan?”

“Hm.”

I kept my voice soft to make sure no one overheard. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

He gave me a coy smile. “We should do something about that, shouldn't we?”

“Thought we had work to do.”

“This is work. I need to boost my morale every now and then.”

Chapter 15: Soul Man

Chapter Text

New Bordeaux may be marketed to tourists as a city for lovers, but not all lovers were welcome.

We knew that, we felt it in the air. Felt the sneers as the two of us walked down the street, even when we weren't standing too close. Even the hint of camaraderie between two men, between black and white, was enough to get you stopped by the police. Or worse.

It was hard to find a secluded spot. But Donovan and I were good at hiding. We'd made livings of it, spent years doing it in 'Nam. Spent our lives hiding who we really were and what we really felt inside.

That's how we ended up in a parking garage, back in a far, dark corner. How Donovan ended up in my lap, pushing the seat back as far as it would go to straddle me and kiss me senseless. How my hands ended up squeezing his ass, appreciating the firmness he attributed to his f*ckin' calisthenics.

“Mm.” I sighed into his mouth. I freed my lips enough to ask, “How long has it been?”

“Twenty-two minutes,” he replied breathlessly.

He leaned forward again but I turned my head to redirect his lips to my cheek. “We should get going.”

Donovan made a frustrated noise. “First thirty minutes are free. Takes thirty seconds to get from this level to the gate. We've got seven and a half minutes.”

I laughed. “You're timing this out like an op.”

“You just wasted fifteen seconds.” He scowled.

“I'm sure I'll hear about that in the debrief.”

Then he shut me up with more of his rough, biting kisses, and the next seven minutes passed in a blur.

In the end, we made it out with ten seconds to spare. Donovan was nothing if not punctual.

We swapped out for the drive to the French Ward. I moved to the driver's seat and Donovan sat in the passenger's seat, rereading the newspaper announcement of Artie Madison's death.

As I drove, I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror.

“You left bite marks on my f*ckin' jaw,” I muttered incredulously.

I ran my fingers across them and they stung in the best way. The memory of Donovan's teeth nipping at my skin made my heart flutter.

He looked over. “They'll match your swollen eye. How is that, by the way?”

“Better. Guess my corn-core-corporal abrasion is healing.”

“Corneal,” he corrected, grinning.

We crossed over into the French Ward. Donovan went back to his newspaper.

“You've always kept good time,” I said. “Always wondered how you did that.”

“I count.”

“You what?”

“I count,” he repeated. “Generally have a good sense of what time it is. When I need to keep minutes, I count 'em out.”

We stopped at a red light. I stared at him. “You're insane.”

“Aw, that's sweet.” Donovan didn't look up.

Les Trois Pattes Bar occupied the corner of Rue de l’Église and Grande Place. Though it sat at the heart of the French Ward, it didn't appeal to tourists. This location was dingy and dark, even filthier than other dives in the city.

It was an open secret that Doc Gaston used it to run drugs and girls for Marcano. The main floor was a small bar with an office up top, not much room to do that kind of business on-site. But anyone, tourist or local, could walk in and get dope or ass, or both, to take someplace else.

I'd take over the French Ward, just like I'd take every other corner of the city, but this neighborhood was trickier.

Those tourists who didn't come for carnival season in the spring were here for the summer. Cops and Marcano's boys crawled the streets at all hours of the day and night. And that was before some f*ckin' serial killer set out on his own reign of terror.

As we drove through the neighborhood, I looked around, my eyes narrowed. “What the f*ck?”

Donovan glanced up. “Somebody following us?”

“Look, there's hardly anybody around. Place is deserted.” I checked my watch. “Five o'clock, the French Ward should be packed shoulder-to-shoulder.”

Donovan put the paper back in the glove box. “Pull over here. Leave it running.”

He walked to a store with darkened windows and peered inside. After glancing over a sign on the door, he returned.

“N.B.P.D. curfew. They must be awfully scared after yesterday.”

Yesterday. f*ck, that feels like a million years ago.

“I'll bet this bar'll still be open,” I said. “Kinda people who go there aren't the kinda people to care about a curfew.”

Donovan nodded. “If it is shut, that makes it easier for us to get in and poke around.”

“I wouldn't hold my breath.”

I parked a few streets over, in a small, quiet alley. If was narrow enough we couldn't get the doors open and had to go out the back.

I blocked Donovan as he rose from his seat. Ducking my head to avoid the roof put my face just at the right height to kiss him. He smiled against my lips. I reached down to cup his ass in my hands. The feel of it made me groan. I squeezed hard, massaging the flesh with my fingertips.

“f*ck, I love your ass,” I mumbled.

“Are we deep in the honeymoon phase now?” He laughed.

I forced myself to move my hands up his back and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “This doesn't bother you, does it? Me touching you like this?”

Donovan's immediate response was wary. When he looked up, his gaze had some simmering anger in it. A hint of fear. Then he saw my earnest look and blinked hard to clear it from his eyes.

“No,” he said softly. “No, it feels good. I'll try to tell you if you...if it's too much.”

I kissed his cheek again. “Thank you, hun.”

“I love that.” His grin returned. “'Hun.' In that sexy southern drawl. It's enough to make a man faint.”

I scoffed. “I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one with an accent.”

Just as expected, Les Trois Pattes was open despite the apparent curfew. A handful of drunks milled around by the door with drink in hand. One had his arm around a girl wearing a tight, skimpy dress and a forced smile.

As we approached, he pinched her breast and she jerked away.

“You want this job or not?” he slurred.

The girl's forced smile returned. “'Course, sweetheart.”

Donovan's steps suddenly grew stumbling. He bumped into me, hard enough to nearly knock me back a step. Trying to enter the bar, he slipped on the threshold and staggered into the slurring man, spilling his drink down his front.

The girl wrinkled her nose and moved back into the bar to look for another trick.

“Sorry, buddy.” Donovan added a hiccup for good measure. “Hit a bar down the street already, best margarita I ever f*ckin' had.”

“f*ck you!” the man spat. He pawed at his jacket, trying in vain to wring out some of the beer.

Donovan's steps immediately returned to normal once we entered the bar.

“Can't take you anywhere,” I whispered.

“Office is upstairs,” he replied. “Get up there and see if you can find employee records, logs, anything that might tie Beauregard to here. Maybe some bigwig came for dope, girls, who knows.”

I nodded. We had to shoulder our way through the crowd. Plenty of locals finding a drink here when many of the other bars in the French Ward were closed.

He went on, “I'll chat up the bartender, see what I can find out.”

“Grab me a drink while you're at it.”

I walked down the side hall toward the bathroom, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms like I was waiting for it to open. Once I was sure nobody was looking, I slipped behind the curtain into the back room. There was a table, a few filing cabinets, and a medicine cabinet along the wall. A swinging door led into the kitchen.

I made my way toward the staircase in the corner. The carpet was thick shag, the kind of lipstick red carpet you find in all these sorts of places. It muffled my steps as I ascended.

Peering around the corner, I saw a plush lounge with a few girls sitting around, similarly clad to the ones downstairs. A man with a shotgun leaned out the window as he smoked a cigarette.

I drew my pistol. Creeping forward, I made eye contact with the girl closest to the stairs, raised my gun, and held one finger to my lips.

Her eyes widened. She reached over with a trembling hand to urgently tug on the arm of the woman sitting next to her.

I jerked my thumb toward the stairs. The message passed quickly.

As the women hurried past me, I kept low and approached the man from behind. He was too occupied with his cigarette to hear me coming.

I choked him out, lowering him to the ground as he stopped twitching. Sending another quick glance around the room to make sure it was clear, I proceeded to the door marked 'Office.' I pressed my ear to the door.

Two voices inside. Couldn't see much through the frosted glass. I wasn't sure where they stood, if either faced the door, if there were more. Gauging the size of the upper floor against the layout of the bar downstairs, I figured it couldn't be too big.

I'd grabbed a silencer out of the crate of guns in the van. Not a magic fix, but the noise of the patrons should be enough to disguise the sounds.

I opened the door.

One man leaned over the desk, his fists clenched. Another man was tied to the chair, his face bloody.

At the sound of the door opening, both men looked over.

The one who stood reached for his waist. I moved forward and cracked him across the face with the butt of my pistol. He staggered back and raised his gun. I knocked his arm aside. My fist connected with his jaw. The man went down.

I nudged him with my boot, making sure he was really out. Then I turned to the man in the chair. He watched me with wide eyes.

“Well,” I said. “Looks like I've found you in an interesting position.”

“Who are you?”

“You first.”

“Bozich.” He coughed as some blood dribbled down from his broken nose. “Sam Bozich. Bouncer here. Well...used to be.”

I tucked my pistol back in my belt and sat on the edge of the desk. Gesturing to the rope around his arms, I asked, “How'd you get in this?”

“Doc Gaston thought I was selling info about our clients.”

“And why'd he think that?”

“Probably 'cause I was.”

I snorted. “That him I just laid out?”

“Hell no.” Bozich scowled. “He don't get his own hands dirty.”

“Tell you what, Bozich, I'll make this nice and easy on you. I won't even hit you. You just go ahead and tell me all about these clients you were ratting on.”

He hesitated.

“If you're nice and cooperate, I'll help get you out of here. If you don't,” I tilted my head, “I'll leave you trussed up like a turkey and let 'em do what they want with you.”

“Man, how'd I get in this f*ckin' business?” he muttered under his breath.

“I ask myself the same thing.”

“Yeah, alright. Fine. Will you untie me first?”

“Absolutely not.”

“f*ck. Fine. f*ck, look, it's just a lot of businessmen. Rich guys, good reputations. Senators. A few priests.”

I whistled. “Ain't that interesting.”

“I found this reporter who wanted to blackmail 'em. See if he could make 'em sweat money.”

“A reporter?”

“Yeah. Never got his real name, so don't ask. He called me Slim, I called him Specs. He wore glasses. But they didn't have any glass in 'em, just fake ones. f*ckin' crazy.”

“Gimme names, Bozich.”

“Father Patrick from Sacred Heart, Bishop John Paul from-”

I waved a hand. “Skip the priests.”

“Senator Walter Jacobs.” Not a surprise. “Jim Wiggins, one of those supermarket kings, can't remember which one. Theodore Skelton, um, Joshua-”

“Hold on. Skelton. What about him?”

“He was more into the dope than the whor*s.”

I kept my cards close to my chest. “Know where he is now?”

“No. Works Downtown. Others from Beauregard came, too. I think ol' Bill himself came once or twice but he's so f*ckin' old he could barely make it up the stairs.”

“Who else from Beauregard? Name Robertson sound familiar?”

“No.”

“What about Wilkerson?”

“Wilkerson,” Bozich repeated, screwing up his eyes as he thought. “He came a few times, but he was just some schmuck. Specs didn't care about him.”

“Where can I find Specs?”

“I dunno.” Bozich shrugged as best he could with his arms tied behind his back. “Whenever I had more information for him, I tied a red handkerchief around the leg of that postbox on the corner. Then we'd meet at the cemetery that night.”

“I'm gonna untie you now.” I pulled out my knife and moved toward him. Pausing with the knife leveled at his throat, I lowered my voice, “You're going to leave the bar. You're going to walk to the corner and tie that red handkerchief around that postbox. Then you're going to get lost. You get it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Bozich strained against the ropes. “Now f*cking cut me free, my hands are numb.”

I cut the ropes and shoved him toward the door. I watched through the window as he stumbled onto the street, fumbling with something his pocket. Producing a handkerchief, he all but ran to the corner to tie it to the postbox. Then he looked back up to the window and saw me watching. He turned and took off in the opposite direction.

I went back down to find Donovan.

Chapter 16: Born to be Wild

Chapter Text

Donovan and I took our drinks to a corner booth.

For a minute or two, we tried to shout over the live music and the raucous laughter and hollering of the crowd. Then Donovan slipped around the table to sit on the same side as me. We still had to shout, but it was slightly easier to hear each other.

I had to admit I was thinking more about the way he pressed up against my side, his thigh right next to mine, his elbow brushing my arm.

It took me a second to understand what he'd said. “Huh?”

“Skelton and Wilkerson were both here, then?”

“Oh. Yeah. But the reporter only cared about the big fish.”

Donovan lowered his voice. He spoke right in my ear. “You sound distracted, Lincoln.”

I shivered. “Yeah, you're f*ckin' distracting.”

He laughed. His hand slipped over onto my thigh, squeezing the muscle.

“You're not helping,” I hissed.

“What else did the bouncer say?”

I struggled to focus. “Doc Gaston knew he was selling dirty details about the bar's clients. Some reporter was paying Bozich for them.”

“A reporter, huh?” Now Donovan's fingertips were drawing little circles on my leg. His voice was even, betraying nothing. “Guess he forgot about that pretend journalistic integrity. “

All I could think about were his fingers. His fingers and his tongue. And his teeth. Hell, I loved his teeth. I've never even f*ckin' thought about anybody's teeth before, and now I'm fantasizing about—

“Lincoln?”

“Wha-?”

“I said, who's this reporter?” Donovan's hand retreated.

I watched it return to his beer, lifting it off the table to his lips. Watched his throat move as he swallowed. Watched his tongue flick out to lick the foam off his lips. Then he smiled and, goddamn, his teeth...

“He wore glasses,” I managed.

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “That narrows it down.”

“Weren't real glasses. Didn't have the...” I gestured at my face. “Lenses.”

“Tell me you at least got his name.”

“Specs.”

Donovan's other eyebrow shot up. “That his government name?”

I shook myself awake. “Not unless his mom hated him.”

Donovan scoffed.

“I've got a meeting with him this evening,” I went on. “At the cemetery.”

“How'd you manage that?”

“Bozich had a way to signal him using the postbox on the corner. I had him set it up as he left.”

“The cemetery,” Donovan mused. “Cheery place. All the best, most reputable people meet in cemeteries.”

“I used to go to the one in the Hollow when I was a kid. Just walk around and read the names.”

“Gotta have a hobby, I guess.”

“You been to many funerals?” I don't know where it came from. Just slipped out.

He blinked. “Some. Had a big family.”

I nodded to myself and turned to my beer. “Didn't go to many funerals until Sammy took me in.”

Donovan said nothing. Not that I expected him to. What could he say to that? For some reason, I was still talking.

“I remember the first one he took me to. One of his cousins. Nice lady, I met her a few times. She read liturgy during Mass at St. Jerome's. I didn't have a suit, I had to wear one of Ellis's old ones. It was too small on me. I kept trying to tug the sleeves down.” I set my beer down. “It felt so strange. Everybody talking about her while she was just laying there in a box. Then they carryied it over and put it into the vault. I remember watching the coffin slide in and being so confused. What if she woke up? She'd be stuck. I knew she was dead, but, I dunno, I...I just kept thinking that. I never thought about heaven before then. They talked about it at church, but I never really understood what they meant. Had this real abstract idea of death. And I just stared at that box and wondered is that what death is? Just being stuck in a box forever?”

“Lincoln.” Donovan spoke softly.

I felt his hand on my wrist and looked down. Realized my fists were clenched so tight my nails were close to piercing my palm. I opened my hands and there was a line of deep marks left on the skin. I laid them flat on the table.

“I missed their funerals.”

“You couldn't help it,” Donovan replied. “You were half-dead.”

“Yeah.”

I felt so guilty for it. Thought about it nearly every day. Sometimes I went and stood and the Robinson tomb in the Delray Hollow Cemetery and just stared at the stones. Trying to imagine what the funeral had been like. They’d had one ceremony, a joint memorial for father and son. Maybe it should’ve been two sons buried there with Sammy.

Donovan released my wrist before anyone looked over. His hand moved back over to his drink.

After a moment, he said, “It was a nice ceremony.”

When I glanced over, he added, “Father James made me go. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to go out and buy a gray suit. Only brought the tan one with me.” He laughed quietly. “Didn't have much time to pack.”

My gaze moved back to my beer, watching the bubbles rise. “I didn't know that.”

“Lots of people turned out for it.” He looked at the side of my head and chose his words very deliberately. “Whole lotta folks loved your dad.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Breathing in the smell of stale beer and peanuts and cigarette smoke. Breathed out the urge to cry, the lump in my throat. Didn't have the time for that.

“Thanks for going.”

Donovan nodded. “Let's go to their graves sometime. I'll tell you about the funeral.”

“I'd-” My voice cracked and I quickly cleared my throat. “I'd like that.”

I didn't dare look at him. I could imagine his expression. If it was anything like that soft, glowing-eyed one he'd given me at the diner that morning, I wouldn't stand a chance. I'd break down into tears in the middle of this sh*tty little dive bar and crawl into his arms and we'd both get jumped.

I checked my watch. “Need to get over to the cemetery, take a look around before this 'Specs' shows up. Drop me off and head back to the motel.”

“You don't need a ride back?”

“No, I'll figure something out.”

“Alright.” Donovan studied the side of my face but didn't push the issue.

Chapter 17: What Kind of Fool (Do You Think I Am)

Chapter Text

When I went to a cemetery, it was a time for quiet. Maybe I wasn't the most spiritual man, but cemeteries had a kind of feeling to them that made your voice drop low, that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your body knew you were entering the domain of the dead.

I didn't give much thought to ghosts or spirits. But maybe we left a piece of ourselves here when we died. Somehow.

Tourists didn't share that sentiment. To them, the cemeteries of New Bordeaux were just another attraction. They ogled the above-ground vaults, touched the stones, carved bits of rock off the statues.

Even as the sun started to set, plenty of people loitered. A few locals paying their respects.

The rest were from out of town, willing to ignore the N.B.P.D. curfew for a late-night ghost tour. I gave them a wide berth.

The cemetery provided plenty of places to hide. Many dark corners and rusty mausoleum gates that could easily be broken into. Specs could come from any direction.

My gut led me to the large, round mausoleum at the center of the French Ward Cemetery. A stone woman in a flowing robe stood on top, holding a crucifix. Facing the setting sun as if blessing it on its way out of sight. Welcoming the darkness with open arms.

I found a vault with a deep doorway and stood in the shadows, my arms crossed. Waiting.

People came and went. Some mourners, dressed in black. One of those ghost tours, the guide holding a flashlight under her chin and telling stories that sounded so bizarre I figured even the looniest believer couldn't buy them.

The church bells chimed ten. One man sat on the bench facing the mausoleum, staring up at the statue.

The moon rose higher. From where I stood, I could see it shine on his face, illuminating his glasses. There was no glint of light. Glasses without lenses. Must be him.

I ducked low and approached from behind.

When I reached him, I put both hands on his shoulders. “Don't turn around.”

I felt him tense up.

“Who's that?”

“Got some questions for you, Specs.” The man started to turn his head and I squeezed his shoulders harder, digging my fingers into the pressure points. “I said don't turn around.”

“What kinda questions?”

“Why are you so interested in Les Trois Pattes?”

Specs scoffed. “So you found Slim. He send you to shake me down? Get more payout? Too bad, buddy, I don't have any with me.”

“Bozich'll probably be dead within the week. Doc Gaston knew he was ratting.” I leaned closer to Specs' ear. “And if he told me about you, you can bet he told Doc Gaston, too.”

“That stupid motherf*cker,” Specs muttered. “What a waste of money.”

“That reporter salary not enough for you?”

“You know how much a reporter makes?” He scoffed. “I don't have two pennies to rub together. Why the f*ck do you think I was trying to get into the blackmail business?”

“Then where'd you get the payment for Slim?” Specs said nothing.

“Work with me, Specs.” My voice was a low, warning growl.

“You don't scare me.”

“I'm not trying to. Not yet. You'll know when I start.”

A muscle worked in Specs' jaw. Finally, he gave up. “I take nudie photos.”

“You-?” I couldn't get a clear look at him standing on the other side of the bench while he was sitting. Maybe he had a nice body, but I certainly couldn't see it from where I stood.

“Not of me,” he snapped. “I follow socialites, politicians wives, that kind of thing. Snap 'em in compromising positions.”

“Then you sell them?” I offered.

“Sell 'em over to dirty magazines and use that money to buy information about their husbands buying hookers.”

“Why not skip the middle step and just take photos of the husbands and the whor*s?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don't wanna see that.”

This town was full of the weirdest f*cking loons...

“Tell about the clients at the Les Trois Pattes. Couple men from Beauregard who were gutted like pigs.”

“Skelton.” Specs nodded. “f*ckin' crazy to hear about him getting torn up Downtown.”

I kept a tight grip on his shoulders. “You have anything to do with that?”

“What? Are you insane? I write gossip pieces and hide in bushes to take photos of naked women, you think I could f*ckin' murder somebody?”

He could be lying, of course, but I doubted it. He was a short, scrawny guy who'd probably struggle in a fight against a fly. Not the kind of brutal animal who did the kind of damage I saw in those crime scene photos.

“Tell me about Skelton. What'd Slim give you about him?”

“Came in for the dope. Started taking it when he got the job at Beauregard a few years back, and got hooked. His use was picking up recently. Guess he had some stress at work.”

“Go on.”

“What, what d'you want me to say? 'He turned in a memo late and got his ass chewed out'—how the f*ck should I know what he was stressed about?”

“Turning a memo in late wouldn't get him murdered.”

“You'd be surprised,” Specs muttered. “sh*t, man, let me think. That f*ckin' Sal Marcano's always pushing Old Man Beauregard to sell more of his stock, give Marcano a bigger piece of the pie. And there's the remodel of Baron's Saturdays.”

Maybe Donovan's hunch was right. “Beauregard bought the park?”

“They already own it. Bill Beauregard fronted a big share of the money to build the thing in the first place, then once it went under he bought the remaining shares from the other investors. He's full owner, now. There's been talk about him rebuilding since the hurricane, but nobody really thought he'd actually do it.”

“What's that got to do with a whor*house?”

“His employees went there,” Specs retorted. “Surely they blabbed to the girls. Saps like that like to talk.”

“You're gonna give me that info, Specs. Everything you have.”

“Or what?”

I moved one hand to the back of his neck and squeezed. “The name Lincoln Clay mean anything to you?”

“Crazy black guy tearing up the town.” Specs paused for a moment. “Oh. Wait a minute.”

“There's that journo mind of yours working. Picking up context clues ain't your strong suit.”

“Say, how about a deal? I give you the info I have, and you give me the scoop when you go out and kill some rich f*ck.”

I laughed. It was so insane, I almost found myself considering it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“That’s all I ask. Gotta keep my prospects open.”

“You leave me what you’ve got or you’ll have a bigger problem to worry about.”

“Yeah. There’s a big coffin over by the fence, family name Petersen. It’s got a broken lid. I’ll leave the information in there.”

“Good.”

Specs cleared his throat. “So, I’ll just…go now.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t move. “I’ll just get up and go.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Specs stood and walked stiffly toward the gate. The moment he was out of sight, I heard him take off running.

Chapter 18: Black Ghost Blues

Chapter Text

I didn't expect the reporter to hang around and tail me, but I stayed in the cemetery for another hour or so to make sure. I may have been using it as an excuse to remain in the quiet.

The crowd was finally gone, the groundskeepers had locked the gates. I was alone with the dead.

I thought about Sammy again. I guess I was always thinking about him and Ellis. Even when I didn't think I was. I dwelled on Sammy's disappointment a lot. Remembered the times he was spitting mad at me, shouting and screaming about what a f*ckin' mess I'd made.

It took a lot of effort to remember the good times we had. Those few hours of celebration after the heist, when we were cracking beers and counting the money and seeing a gold-plated future stretched out in front of us.

They told us about survivor's guilt in the Army. How living through something can sometimes feel worse than dying. At least when you die, it's over. But when you live, the pain goes on. It was that guilt that kept me dwelling on those bad memories.

I'd never wanted to die until I went to Vietnam. I guess it was...naive of me, but I never knew it was an option.

Our Sunday School at Saint Michelle's taught us suicide was one of the greatest sins of all, but the Bible stories they told us never quite managed to explain what it was. Certainly didn't explain what could drive a man to it.

But over in ‘Nam, I saw men in all stages of death. Some really were dead, their eyes staring up at the sky and their throats torn open. Others were shaking and crying and would be dead the moment they stepped into a firefight. Others were the living dead. They shuffled around with their heads down, not eating, not sleeping. Just corpses waiting for time to catch up.

Some men were in too much pain, got their legs blown off, just got tired of it all, and dragged themselves out into the jungle to let nature or the Viet Cong do the work. Others took a pistol and did it themselves.

I found one of them once. A young kid, barely 18. He’d only been over for a few months. I'd met him once or twice. Just a little freckle-faced teen who was still growing into his gangly limbs.

And here he was, sitting in a chair, his cold, dead fingers barely hanging onto a gun. A hole in the bottom of his chin. Fortunately for him, the bullet had gone into his brain and ended it instantly. Other men weren't so lucky. They had to try two or three times before it took.

None of us talked about what happened. Told anybody who asked that the VC got him. His family got a letter saying it was an honorable death. America salutes another of its fallen sons. I couldn't say if it was 'honorable' or not, that word had no meaning to me anymore.

There were a few times over there I found myself staring at my rifle, not quite down the barrel, but close enough. Wondering if it would be an easy way to get out of this hell. Maybe it just took a twitch of your finger. Or maybe it was like biting your own tongue. Your body fights back, tries to stop you from doing it, and you have to push twice as hard. Body against mind. In the end, they both lose.

I could never go through with it. I guess part of it was the fear, not knowing what came next.

Even greater than that was the fear of failing. And the fear of Sammy getting that letter saying I had an 'honorable death' and him left wondering. Of course, then I met Donovan and the hell became a little more bearable. But it was always Sammy's face in my mind when my finger started itching, when the rifle barrel started looking too appealing.

Those thoughts were coming back to me now. After the fire and the coma and the tearing down and rebuilding. After everything. I wondered how the hell I could keep going, and for how long. And why. Why was I still doing this? I should've died with him and Ellis. Right?

Now Sammy's face was just in my memory. He wasn't around anymore to get that letter or be left wondering. And without him, it made those thoughts a little louder.

I'd lingered too long in the cemetery. Thoughts of death seeped into my brain, stuck on my hair like the dew.

Needed to shake myself back awake. Find some life and breath it in. Keep going, at least for a little while longer.

Chapter 19: Dance of the Hours

Chapter Text

It was early the next morning when I returned to the Blue Gulf.

I could've gone back to Sammy's and try to lose myself in memories. But I needed to be around someone living after so long among the dead. I figured I'd try to see how far I could push Donovan's invitation to stay.

Donovan was asleep at his desk when I arrived. He jerked awake at the sound of the door opening.

“It's me,” I called. As I stepped through the doorway joining the rooms, I saw him laying his pistol back on the table.

“How'd it go?”

“Seems like you were right about the link to Baron Saturday's. Beauregard owns the whole thing now, Skelton may have had inside knowledge of the plans. Specs'll hand over what he has. I don't think he's connected to the murders, but maybe he can give us something good.”

I stepped over a pile of papers on the floor and leaned down to kiss him. My stomach suddenly squeezed tight in my gut—not the painful, sad kinda squeeze, but the I want to stay in this moment foreverkind of squeeze.

I had to brace myself against the desk. It was just so wonderfully...domestic. Coming home to him. As much as this grimy little motel room had become a sort of home.

Donovan turned back to his folders, oblivious.

“Managed to get the reports in order while you were gone. Jeremiah f*cked them up something fierce when he was making the copies.” When I didn't reply, he glanced up. At the look on my face, he frowned. “Lincoln?”

I knelt down beside him and hugged him. He blinked in surprise a few times, then hugged me back.

“I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I won't complain.”

“I like this,” I whispered. “The way we are. Coming in and finding you here, kissing you like it’s something normal, it just feels...you just feel right.”

Donovan drew in a sharp breath. His hand moved up to press against the back of my head. “You feel right, too.”

I wanted to kneel there until the morning but my knees started aching and the room started to sway. Hell, I was tired. Reluctantly, I released him.

“Need to sleep,” I said, gesturing at the bed. “Will it bother you?”

His eyes flicked to the mattress, then back to me. “Actually, can you...can you sleep in the other room? With me?”

I studied his face. “I won't make you do anything you don't wanna.”

“I know. I just...want you close to me.” Donovan's brow furrowed. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” I kissed him softly. “Yeah, that's okay.”

I sat on his bed and unlaced my boots, groaning. My leg still hurt from the crash. Didn't help I wasn't doing anything to take care of it.

Donovan finally tore himself away from his files and all but fell into the bed. He threw an arm over his face.

Both of us were tired and sore and needed to sleep for a hundred years.

I pulled my shirt off and laid back beside him. Moving slowly, carefully.

“Can I-”

“Would you-”

We both broke off. Donovan laughed.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Would you come a little closer?”

I slid closer, pulling the blanket out from under me. Still not touching him.

“Can I put my arm around you?” I asked.

Donovan reached for my hand and squeezed. “Please.”

He sat forward so I could slip my arm around him. When he tried to turn into me, he yelped in pain.

“Should switch sides,” I murmured. “Your shoulder.”

“Mm-hmm.” His lips were pressed tight.

We did an awkward dance of shuffling around so he laid on my other side. He pressed his face into my chest. I felt his jaw clench and unclench.

“Still hurts?”

Donovan nodded. “Might've popped back out. Didn't tell you.”

I looked down at him, but it was too dark for me to see his face. “When?”

“Earlier. I fixed it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Got enough to do.”

I kissed the top of his head. “I wanna know when you're hurting. Please.”

He shuddered against me.

“God, Lincoln, you-” His voice cracked. He had to suck in a few ragged breaths before he could speak again. “I never thought I'd feel this safe with anybody.”

My breath caught in my throat. I put my other arm around him.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I-” His voice broke again. He couldn't move his right arm enough to wrap around me, it lay trembling on my stomach.

“I'm here.” I pushed his hair back so I could kiss his forehead. “We'll just keep trading that back and forth. You'll tell me you're here and I'll tell you I'm here.”

“Lincoln.” His voice shook. “I'm-I don't want to cry. I hate...I hate crying. Always-” He tried to say more but the words died.

I held him tight. “You can cry, hun. You go ahead and let it out.”

Donovan choked on a sob. He pressed his hand to his face, trying to hide. Like he wanted to shrink away.

He spoke into his hand. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

I felt his tears start then. Slipping out and pooling on my chest.

“My-” He gasped in a breath through the tears, “My mother told us we-we shouldn't...she-me and my brother, she hit us. Beat the hell out of us whenever we cried. And my father just sat-just sat right there and-and watched-” His shoulders shook as he struggled to breathe. “Hit a kid for crying. Why? I always just wanted to just ask her why.”

His tears were hot, hitting my skin and sinking right in. Burning through my chest, through my ribs, through my heart.

“That's why I hate-hate quiet moments. Hate thinking too hard.” Donovan shook his head. “Because I'm still f*cking scared of her. Because I'm a f*cking coward.”

“Look at me.”

I tried to lift Donovan's chin. At first, he resisted, trying to keep it buried in his hand, but my gentle touch eventually drew his face up. My eyes adjusted to the dim light coming in from the window. I could see his face now.

His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. The tears brought out their blue, looking like drops spilling out from an ocean.

“You're not a coward,” I whispered. “I was a scared little kid, too. I still am. Remember what you said? We can't be ashamed of that.”

His voice was strangled. “It still f*cking hurts so bad.”

“I know. I know it does.” I kissed his forehead and spoke against the skin, “I'm here.”

Donovan took hold of my shoulder and pressed his face into my chest, pressed his body against me, even threw a leg across mine. Desperate to get closer. Desperate for something to hold onto.

He sobbed for a while, letting out big gasps of air. Maybe it was a decade or two worth of tears all trying to come out at once.

Then he just lay quiet and trembled against me. Still holding tight to my arm, still with his leg over mine. His breathing labored.

I rubbed a hand across his back, slow and smooth. Trying to guide his breaths—rub up, breathe in. Rub down, breathe out.

His eyelids closed. He tried to fight it, tried to keep them open, but the exhaustion beat his will and dragged them down.

I kept rubbing his back until I fell asleep, too.

Chapter 20: House of the Rising Sun

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke to the feeling of eyes on my face. I looked over and saw Donovan watching me.

“Morning,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse.

I gently lifted his right hand to kiss his knuckles. “You're a treat to wake up to.”

“Liar.” He snorted. “I look like hell.”

“How do you feel?” I asked.

He considered the question. Eventually, he let out a quiet sigh. “Better.”

I kissed his knuckles again before laying his hand back on my chest. “Good.”

“I wanted to apologize for last night-” I started to protest, and he spoke over me, “I wanted to, but I knew you'd say I shouldn't. So I won't.”

I felt a little glow of pride there. Pride in him for not caving to the shame. I knew how hard that was.

“How's the burns?”

Donovan groaned. “Laying on it didn't do me any favors. But I can't complain. I got to be near to you, didn't I?”

I tried to force a laugh to cover up the twinge of worry.

“I used to dream about this.” Donovan looked away. His cheeks were pink, though it may have just been light from the rising sun. “About sleeping next to you. Waking up with you there. Was...nervous. Scared, I guess, 'cause usually when you wake up next to somebody there's something that has to happen the night before. I was always scared of that.” He cleared his throat and quickly added, “Not scared-I mean, I'm not scaredof it, I know what...what happens, it-I just-” He forced himself to stop talking and took a deep breath. Then muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ, Donovan.”

“I don't really...understand what you mean when you say that, but I'm trying. If you'll just be a little patient with me.” I managed a smile, hoping it conveyed all the emotion I meant. “I swear I'm trying.”

His jaw clenched. He leaned over and kissed me. “Goddamnit, Lincoln, I don't wanna f*cking cry again.”

This laugh was a real one. “Then don't cry.”

“f*ck you.”

“We'll figure this out as we go,” I said, raising a hand to caress his cheek. “Together.”

Donovan laid his head on my chest and made another one of those contended sighs. That sound was beautiful. Sacred. Made me shiver like a hymn on Sunday morning.

“I love you,” he murmured.

After a little while of just laying there, my thumb stroking his shoulder, him dozing against my chest, I finally shook myself awake.

“S'pose we should get up.”

“Nah.”

“There's a killer out there stalking the city,” I reminded him. “What about your little mystery references? Won't get to use those unless we get up.”

“I can do that from here.” He adopted a strange, nasally voice like a character from an old radio show. “Another late night in the office. A fella saunters in, legs up to here.” He walked his fingers up my thigh. “Most beautiful brown eyes I ever saw. He fixes me with one of those 'come hither' looks, and who am I to resist?”

I chuckled and nudged him off me so I could sit up. “You really should've gone into the pictures.”

“Hell, I dunno.” Donovan groaned again. He threw his arm over his eyes. “The butler did it.”

“Whose butler?”

“Bill Beauregard.” Suddenly, he sat up. “Oh. Bill Beauregard.”

I snorted. “Him, a killer? He's gotta be 100 years old.”

“Not him. What about that grieving father? What was his connection?” Donovan was out of bed in a moment, all his drowsy reluctance forgotten. He hurried into the other room. I heard him rifle through papers.

Stretching, I took my time standing up. Wanting to remain in the warm sheets with the indent of Donovan's body still there.

I heard him pick up the phone. Looking into the adjoining room, I saw him cradling the receiver between his shoulder and ear and scribbling on a piece of paper.

“Yeah, good morning,” he said. “Detective Jim Watson, I'm down from Baton Rouge on the Shadow case.” He listened for a moment. “Uh-huh. Badge number sixty-five four-oh-oh. Look, the wheels here move a lot slower than up where I work. Need to get my hands on the report for that crazy guy who charged cops at the John Doe site downtown. You got that?” Another pause. “Great. Can I-that'd be perfect. Gimme a sec.” He looked at me and whispered, “How far to the coroner's office?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a half-hour. Uh-huh. Thanks.” He hung up and grinned at me. “We’ve got a lead.”

The Coroner's Office was across from the downtown N.B.P.D. building. It made me itch to be so close.

I drummed on the steering wheel, trying to occupy myself with the song on the radio instead of the cops standing just across the street.

Donovan promised he'd just be a minute. True to his word, he returned quickly.

“Got it,” he said. “Let's go.” I forced myself to pull back into traffic nice and slow, though my foot wanted to hit the gas and make the tires squeal.

Donovan thumbed through the stack of papers. “Well, I'll be damned. Pete Skelton. Guess it was his father.” He turned the page. “Blah blah, death by gunshot—oh, here we go. Articles on the body: shirt, shoes, et cetera, but looks like in his pocket was a scrap of paper.”

A copy was included in the stack of papers. Donovan scanned it.

“Gotta be a financial report from Beauregard Dining. Seems to be about the remodel of Baron Saturday's.” He let out a low whistle. “That's a lot of money lots of it from the city.”

“Wonder if some of it went missing,” I said, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror to ensure we weren't followed.

“Maybe Skelton knew more than he should've,” Donovan agreed. “Or he was the one taking it.”

“What was that badge number you gave 'em?”

Donovan shrugged. “Made it up. Don't even know if Baton Rouge P.D. badges have five digits.”

I snorted.

“Need to find somewhere quiet to read this.”

“Parking garage?” I suggested innocently. Thinking of his biting kisses and his lovely, firm ass in my hands.

"No." He sent me a sidelong glance. “You'll distract me. You won't be able to handle my boyish charm and you'll launch yourself at me, and poor little me will be powerless to resist.”

“I would never.”

“Head to a park somewhere. Or the piers down on River Row.”

“How 'bout the French Ward Cemetery? Need to pick up the drop from Specs.”

“Sure. Can we stop so I can grab a burger on the way?”

“You're gonna eat in a cemetery?”

“I'll eat in the car.”

“Not in my goddamn car.”

Donovan rolled his eyes. “I'll stick my head out the window like a dog, would that make you happy?”

“Maybe.” I couldn't help but grin. “I love bickering with you.”

Donovan laughed, a big, barking laugh straight from his gut. “Like an old married couple already.”

A heavy silence followed those words. Two in particular.

Married.

Couple.

Donovan looked out the window, his eyes fixed on the road. I stared up at the sky, glancing down occasionally to make sure I wasn't roaming into the oncoming lane. Neither of us said anything for a while.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, “So, can I get that burger?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'll stop and get...we'll, uh, find a place. And get you one.”

“Will you get one, too?”

“I'm not hungry.” I didn't even get a chance to think before the words slipped out. I grit my teeth. “No, I am. I'm hungry.”

“Alright.” Donovan reached out and took my hand. Just sat there and held it as I drove.

“I don't think, uh,” he said suddenly. “I don't think I'd mind. If we...said something like that. Like, um. Like 'couple.'“

I took a sharp breath.

“We couldn't...” he went on. “Y'know...say it. Out loud. Or. Um. But...for us.” He finally looked at me. “I don't know. Would you...want that?”

We stopped at a red light. I met his eyes. Maybe mine were a little wide, a little scared.

“You make me so confused, Lincoln.” Donovan shook his head. “Make me want to say things I never wanted to say. Like 'I love you,' I never...hell, I didn't even tell my parents that. Not even as a lie. If it's too...if I'm too much, I-I understand. It feels like too much. I feel like my head's on upside-down. Like somebody shook me up and has me all turned around.” He gave a bewildered laugh. “I'm not usually this much of a sap, you know that.”

We still held hands, keeping them low so no one could see. I wanted to lift his to my lips, but I didn't dare.

“I think I'd like that,” I said slowly. “The thought of going steady with somebody or settling down always...that always terrified me. I can't think about having somebody, all that's in my brain is losing them. It just hurts too bad and I can't stand it.”

“You're not gonna lose me,” Donovan said softly. “I swear.”

“You can't promise that.” My voice was too harsh but I couldn't soften it. “You can't. I can't promise that you won't get hurt or-or worse by Marcano, or you won't just up and leave, I can't know you won't. You say it and, God, I want to believe you, but I can't. I can't. Everybody leaves, I can't...”

A horn blared. I realized we'd been sitting at the light so long it had cycled red to green to yellow.

I stomped on the gas. Found a service station and pulled into the lot. My hands were shaking. I released Donovan's hand and put both on the wheel, squeezing hard. My stomach grumbled loudly and sent a bolt of pain through my skull. I lowered my head and tried to breathe steady and deep.

Donovan sat silently.

My heart ached, my whole f*cking chest ached.

I finally forced myself to speak. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Donovan replied. His voice was strained, and he cleared his throat. “I can't lie, it hurts to hear that. That you think I might do that to you. But I understand. I do. I can't...trust very easy. I assume the worst of everybody. You're the first person I've ever known who hasn't f*cked me over.” He pressed his knuckles to the center of his forehead. “I know you won't. I tell myself that. But I know that fear's still there in the back of my mind. I understand, Lincoln. I'll just keep telling you, even if you don't believe me.”

I didn't speak for a long moment. I turned the engine on and pulled into the small alley beside the service station. I glanced around to ensure we were out of view. Then I leaned over and kissed him.

I knew we shouldn't, not out in the open like this. Even hidden in a dark alley, we weren't safe. But I wanted his lips. I needed them. Had to feel where those sweet words had come from.

I closed my eyes, focusing on him. On his soft lips, the taste of cigarette smoke, the hand that rose to cup my cheek.

Donovan ended the kiss sooner than I wanted, though I would've been happy to sit there forever. He pressed another kiss to my cheek before sitting back in his seat.

“You might just be perfect,” I murmured. “You know that?”

“Might be?”

I laughed. It loosened some of the pressure in my chest.

“Let's go grab some food,” Donovan said. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Chapter 21: Another Saturday Night

Chapter Text

I left Donovan on a bench and went to find the Petersen family tomb. Like the reporter said, the lid was broken. I pulled it aside and found a bundle of paper wrapped in a yellow cloth.

A note was tucked on top: Tie to the fence when you want to speak. Waiting for scoops on the murders.

I snorted. “Keep dreaming, Specs.”

Donovan paced around in front of the bench. He held a burger in one hand, holding it away from his body whenever he took a bite so he didn't dribble anything on his shirt.

He spoke through a mouthful. “Mphelto gneoo.”

“Chew.”

Donovan swallowed. “Skelton knew.”

“Which one? Father or son?”

“Son.” Donovan tilted his head. “Both. I was looking at that document scrap they found in Pete Skelton's hand and there's somebody on there named as an account manager. They would've seen every cent of that money. Something Samedi, the name's cut off.”

I scoffed. “Damn, they didn't even try.”

“What?”

“Samedi’s another name for Baron Saturday. Vodou lwa, serves the dead. You'll see him around the city in murals and graffiti, tall guy in top hat and tails.”

“A fake name.”

“Must be.”

Donovan smirked. “Maybe that’s Beauregard's elusive butler.”

I was ashamed to laugh so loud in a cemetery. “Yeah, maybe.”

Another burger sat in a bag on the bench. I stared at it.

“Can you do me a favor?” I asked suddenly.

“'Course.”

“Can you unwrap that burger and set it out? I know it's stupid.”

“It's not stupid.” Donovan sat back down. He folded the bag and unwrapped the burger, setting it on top.

“Thanks,” I muttered. I forced myself to pick the burger up. “I feel so f*ckin' stupid.” I tried to say it under my breath, but of course he heard.

“It's not stupid,” Donovan repeated. “Please don’t say that.” He suddenly laughed. “You made my pull out my soft-and-gushy voice again.”

“It's just food, I shouldn't-” I sighed sharply. “It shouldn't be this hard.”

“We carry those scars we got when we were kids. Like my mom gave to me.” Donovan turned in his seat and pulled his collar down.

A thick scar ran across his back just below the nape of his neck. It was faded with age but still stark against his skin. A good four inches long, maybe a half-inch thick.

“Gave me this on my ninth birthday. Great present, right?” Donovan scoffed. “She was beating my brother again. I told that whor* to get her f*cking hands off him or I'd push her down the f*cking stairs. She was faster. Broke a chair over my head. Well, missed my head. Hit my back.”

He pulled his shirt up and sat back on the bench.

“Was your brother okay?”

Donovan was quiet for a long, long moment.

“No,” he said finally. “He never was okay.”

He didn't say anything more.

“What's his name?”

Donovan looked at me, squinting in the midday sun.

“Matthew.” He managed a small smile. “Matty. We were half the Gospel writers: Matthew and John. Dad's name was Mark. Just missing Luke. They tried for another son. Thank f*ck they only had us two. They didn't deserve any more.”

I sat beside him, wanting more than anything to run my hand across his shoulders, to trace the scar with my fingertips and learn its shape. To know this part of him I'd never known before.

Donovan sighed heavily and changed the subject. “Is it worse with me here? It feel like I'm watching you too close when you eat?”

“No, it...I think it helps.”

“Alright. I noticed the other day, you-” He cut himself off. “Yeah, okay. Just tell me if it changes.”

“Yeah.” Donovan finished his burger.

I looked down and was surprised to find I'd managed to take a few bites without thinking. Hadn't even noticed.

“It's gotta be about that f*ckin' amusem*nt park.” Donovan dug into the bag to find a napkin and wiped his hands. “It all comes back to that. Three victims had the Trois Pattes bar in common—one was the cook there, two went to get their rocks off. Then there's the baker and the secretary at the Frisco Fields office. What's their tie?”

I took another bite of my burger. I could actually taste it now. Didn't feel like so much of a chore to chew.

“Ritchie Doucet was able to camp out at Baron Saturday's without anybody kicking him out,” I said. “It's hardly an active construction site.”

“But the money kept flowing in.” Donovan shook his head. “Let's go back to Madison's bakery. Ask around about ties to Beauregard.”

“I'm sure that's why you want to go.”

“I mean, maybe while we're there,” Donovan said, with all the innocence of an angel, “if we happen to get our hands on some donuts, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.”

“You're Sherlock Holmes if he thought with his stomach instead of his brain.”

“I will choose to take that as a compliment.”

Chapter 22: Needles and Pins

Chapter Text

The city was on edge after Theodore Skelton's murder was announced. Not that they'd been calm before. Hard to really relax when there's somebody going around gutting people.

But all the victims had been found in neighborhoods it was easy to ignore. They'd all been the dregs of society—a cook, a baker. Even the ones who worked at Beauregard Dining were unimportant. A secretary and a random accountant had no sway at all in a company that size.

But a body found in the heart of Downtown, and a recognizable name at that—that even had the upper-crust untouchables shaken up.

I was surprised to find there was still a crowd at the Shore Lane Bakery in Southdowns. Guess Madison must have passed on his recipes before he got killed.

Donovan beelined straight for the counter, his eyes fixed on the display case full of pastries.

I sidled over to the man stocking goods in the corner. He slid loaves of fresh-baked bread onto the shelves, his head bowed. Between his apron and his dark skin, he was invisible to the customers.

“Afternoon,” I said, speaking out of the corner of my mouth.

He grunted in reply.

“Weird sh*t going on. Heard Madison got killed.”

The man grunted again. “Shadow. Tore his guts out, I heard.”

“You worked here long?”

“Few years.”

“Name’s Levi,” I invented. “I’m looking into those murders.”

He finally lifted his head and looked me up and down. “You a cop or something?”

My contemptuous snort was real. “I look like a pig to you?”

It was a good question, though. Why was I looking into this?

I tried for something believable. Keeping my voice down low, I said, “The Voice wants the f*cker found and stopped before he takes any more of our people.”

The man nodded.

Everyone knew the Voice of the Hollow, the one who spoke for the poor and downtrodden, and said what we all wished we could say. I knew him as Charles Laveau, long-time crusader here in the Hollow. I’d grown up with him around as a bartender at Sammy’s. Not everybody knew the Voice’s real identity, but the faceless name carried weight.

“The Voice would appreciate any help you can give,” I went on. “I would, too.”

“I don’t know much.” The man glanced around to ensure no one was watching. “But I know Mr. Madison got into some mess at the Briar Patch on 5^th Street.”

“What’s your name, brother?”

“Leroy Weber.”

“What do you have for me, Leroy?”

“Madison was down at the diner a few days before he turned up dead. My sister works there, she said she could hear the shouting all the way back in the kitchen. Something about money goin’ missing and him not getting what he’s owed. Might’ve been talking ‘bout Vodou, too. I don’t know.”

“Vodou? What d’you mean?”

“Must’ve been praying for the other guy’s death. Kept shouting about Baron Samedi, my sister said.” Leroy shuddered. “I keep my hands outta that stuff. I don’t want to go pissing off some force like that.”

“Who was he shouting with?”

The man shrugged. “Dunno. My sister might’ve gotten a look at him.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Leroy hesitated. “We don’t want any trouble. She’s got a baby girl at home.”

I kept my voice steady and calm. “Voice doesn’t want any trouble, either. We take care of our own.”

Finally, Leroy nodded. “Her name’s Carlotta. She’ll be at the Briar Patch now, she works ‘til close.”

We’d talked long enough that his boss had noticed and was about to snap at him to get back to work.

“Thank you, Leroy,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”

Leroy turned back to his shelves.

“God bless you,” he said quietly. “And the Voice. We need you now more than ever.”

Donovan was happy to leave me to do the detective work this time. I found him waiting for me outside, already two donuts deep into the bag. His mouth was covered in powdered sugar.

“Beignets,” he said cheerfully, holding one out to me.

I took it and took a bite, sending a shower of sugar onto my shirt.

“Goddamn,” I mumbled through the mouthful. I pawed uselessly at my chest.

Donovan grinned.

“What?” I snapped.

“Nothing.” His grin broadened. His eyes were all lit up as he watched me.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that.” I tried to speak crossly, but that grin was just too goddamn beautiful. “This is your fault. Why didn’t you get some other donuts, not these f*ckin’ sugary things?”

“I did.” Donovan gestured to another bag that sat on the ledge behind him.

I rolled my eyes. “Clean your face, we’ve got places to be.”

He fluttered his eyelashes at me. “You wanna clean me up, big boy?”

I choked on the last bite of the beignet and doubled over, coughing.

Donovan whacked me on the back. “sh*t, I didn’t mean to kill you.”

When I could finally breathe again, I wheezed, “Jesus Christ, Donovan, you can’t say that out in the open like that.”

Donovan smiled sheepishly. “I know. Just can’t resist you.”

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Let’s get, uh, let’s go.” I had to admit I was flustered. The breathlessness in my voice wasn’t entirely from choking.

Donovan led the way back to the car. As we rounded the corner, I let my hand drift down to pinch his ass. He jumped and let out a little yelp. He looked back at me and I kept my eyes straight ahead.

He didn’t say a word until we reached the car.

“So, where we going?” he asked, a picture of innocence. “Parking garage?”

My lips wanted to say ‘yes’ but my brain at least knew better.

“Calhoun’s.”

He frowned. “What’s that?”

“Baby store.”

“Huh?” His eyebrows shut up his forehead. “You got something to tell me, Lincoln?”

I was still sore about nearly choking to death and decided to make him squirm. Guess you’ll find out when we get there.”

Chapter 23: Baby Love

Chapter Text

Weren’t many babies brought into Sammy’s. The boozy, smoke-filled room wasn’t the kind of place a kid should be. I saw some babies at the soup kitchen and at service at St. Jerome’s, but I avoided them like the plague. If I was ever forced to hold one, I kept it out at arm’s length, unsure what to do with it.

I meant what I told Leroy: we take care of our own. Even if I wasn’t really working with the Voice, Laveau had always been good to me. I owed it to him to try and pass some of that goodness along.

Problem was, I didn’t have a clue how. What do babies need? Clothes?

How big? The babies I’d seen had been maybe football-sized. But they got bigger—then what? And how big was Carlotta’s?

We got a strange look when we walked in. Of course we did. A black man and a white man walk into a baby sore—sounds like the start to a joke.

“What do babies need?” I whispered to Donovan.

“You’re asking me? You brought us here, I thought you’d worked out the plan of attack already.”

The shopkeeper approached. Her tone was more confused than anything. “Can I…help you gentlemen?”

“My sister’s got a little girl,” I said. “Need to get her…something.”

“Alright. How old?”

I hesitated. How old was a “baby girl”? Six months? Ten?

“Uh, she’s about seven months.” I picked a number in the middle. Holding my hands about two feet apart, I added, “’Bout this big.”

The clerk was still confused as hell but, bless her, it seemed like she was trying to help. “We have some lovely little dresses she might like. Does the mother have a color she prefers?”

“Um.” It’s not a trick f*cking question, Lincoln, just pick one.“Pink.”

The clerk smiled. “Such a lovely color. Many of our customers love this little frock.”

She held up a tiny dress covered in frills and lace. I thought it was ugly as sin. But I guess I’m not a seven-month-old baby.

“His sister’s very religious,” Donovan spoke up. “Maybe something a little more modest?”

“Certainly. Right this way.”

I felt Donovan staring daggers at the back of my head. To his credit, he didn’t abandon me to return to his donuts. He stuck it out and prodded me in the right direction when the best answer I could come up with to the clerk’s questions was “uuhh.”

Finally, we escaped with just one of the dozen tiny dresses the clerk tried to sell us, plus a soft purple blanket.

I scanned the receipt. “f*ckin’ bank robbery. We should’ve gone into selling little dresses and sh*t. We could make a killing.”

“That lacy sh*t is even worse than the rest,” Donovan replied. “You’d think it was made of gold.”

“It better f*ckin’ fit.”

“Who is this ‘sister’ of yours?”

“She may have some info on what got the baker killed. Wanted to-” I raised the bag, “thank her.”

Donovan was skeptical. “Thanking an informant? Should I start sending out flower baskets?”

I huffed out a sigh. “It’s hard to have a kid. ‘Specially in this city.”

“Yeah. Guess so.” He still looked like he had a nasty taste in his mouth.

“What’s your problem?”

Donovan shrugged. When we got back to the car, he finally opened his mouth to say, “Kids make me nervous.”

“Me, too.” I drove in silence for a block or two. Then I said, “Kid’s probably not gonna be there. I hope not, anyway.”

He grunted.

“You wanna wait in the car?”

We pulled into the Briar Patch parking lot. He glanced up, saw where we were, and the glumness vanished off his face.

“And miss pancakes?” He was up and out the door before the car stopped rolling. “You’re out of your f*cking mind.”

I snorted and followed him inside.

Donovan was already chatting with the waitress, a portly older woman with a friendly face.

I slid into the booth across from Donovan. “Carlotta here?”

The woman studied me. She kept that friendly face but her tone made it clear she wasn’t gonna be f*cked with. “Maybe.”

“Her brother, Leroy, sent me.” I was thankful I’d brought the bag of baby stuff in with me instead of running out for it later. I opened it so she could see in. “Got some stuff for her little girl.”

“Oh!” The woman’s smile returned. “I’ll go and grab her.”

“Can I get-” Donovan started, but the waitress was already gone. He sent me a sour look.

I couldn’t help but smile. He looked like a pouting toddler. “You’ll get your pancakes, kiddo.”

“‘Kiddo,’” he mocked, and kicked me beneath the table.

The waitress approached with another thin, frowning woman.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Leroy sent me your way. Said you might know something about that fight Madison got in before he died.” I lowered my voice and handed her the bag. “This comes with thanks from the Voice, Carlotta.”

The name had the same effect. Her eyes widened.

“Damn,” she whispered. “The Voice is after that killer?”

“We all want that monster off the streets. Cops won’t do it, we gotta take the power into our own hands.”

She nodded.

“What about Artie Madison?” I pressed. “What did he know that would’ve gotten him killed?”

“All I know is that fight he had here.”

Donovan shifted to make room for her to sit, but she shook her head. Instead, she leaned over the table and pretended to wipe it clean as she spoke.

“I recognized Mr. Madison from going to see Leroy at work. Saw him here, oh, about a week ago. Late night. Came in and sat with this scrawny little guy. They started shouting pretty quick after that.”

“They come in together?” Donovan asked.

Carlotta shook her head. “No, the little guy was here first. Then Mr. Madison came in.”

“What were they shouting about?” I asked.

“Money.” She scoffed. “What else? The scrawny guy mentioned Beauregard, then Mr. Madison started shouting about Baron Samedi. Thought that was awful strange.”

“And the man he was with?” I asked. “The scrawny guy?”

“Pretty forgettable. White guy, short.” She looked at Donovan, sizing him up. “Shorter than you.”

I saw Donovan let out a little breath of relief at that. Standing next to me made him self-conscious about his height from time to time.

“Real weird guy,” Carlotta went on. “Ordered a glass of milk and two pieces of toast, dry. Didn’t tip. And his glasses, I swear they didn’t have any glass in ‘em.”

I nudged Donovan beneath the table, a lot gentler than his earlier kick to my shin. I knew he was bursting with questions.

“Carlotta,” he said, “was this the first time the two of them came in here?”

She thought for a moment. “Yeah. I’d never seen the little guy before.”

“And this ‘Samedi’ they were shouting about, what’s that?”

“It’s Vodou.” Carlotta had been wiping the same spot on the table for long enough the plastic was nearly shining. She straightened and pulled out her notepad, pretending to take our orders. “I thought maybe Mr. Madison was calling on Baron Samedi to kill the other guy. But in the end it got him killed.”

Donovan gave me a slight nod.

“We'll let you get back to work, Carlotta,” I said. “Thank you for your help. It'll make a difference.”

She nodded. “Y'all want anything to eat?”

“Two orders of pancakes,” I said.

“To go,” Donovan added. I looked over at him and saw his smile was growing more strained by the second. He cradled his right arm close to his body.

It made me realize how stiff and aching my limbs were, too. I'd managed to focus on the questions, on driving, on everything but the pain. Now that we'd finally sat down, it was catching up.

Carlotta returned to the kitchen.

“Arms hurt?”

“Mm-hmm.” Donovan grunted through a clenched jaw.

Carlotta came back with our food. I thanked her again and pressed a few dollars into her hand. Didn't have much to spare. Funds were tight until I could pick up the payouts from the bosses' rackets.

Back in the car, Donovan leaned against the window.

“Can we go back to the motel?” After a moment, he added, “Please.”

“Yeah, hun. We'll go there now.”

He nodded his thanks. “Still can't eat in your car?”

“Absolutely not.”

Chapter 24: Somebody to Love

Chapter Text

We ate in silence. Donovan finished his pancakes and pushed the box aside. He moved to sit on the bed and groaned.

“f*ck, that hurts,” he muttered.

I sat beside him, reaching over to rub my hand across his shoulders. They were tight beneath my fingers, his back was one big knot.

I tapped his collar. “Take this off.”

He glanced over at me. His eyes were tired, but there was that flash of fear and anger again.

“If you want to,” I added. “Or something more comfortable, undershirt, whatever.”

After another moment of hesitation, he unbuttoned his shirt and laid it on the bed beside him. He kept his undershirt on.

I laid my hand lightly on his shoulder, ready to pull back if he flinched. But he didn't.

“Lay on your stomach.”

Donovan did. He couldn't pillow his head on his arms, they hurt too bad. He just laid his cheek on the blanket, trying to breathe slowly. I could tell how tense he was even without touching him.

“You want me to stop, you tell me, alright?”

He nodded.

I ran my hands across his back, over his shoulders. Didn't quite have a plan in mind. Just wanted to feel him. I let the warmth from my palms sink into his shoulder blades. There was one place my fingers wanted to roam. I ran two fingers across the collar of his undershirt.

“Can I touch it?” I murmured. “The scar?”

Donovan nodded again.

I pulled his collar down and found the scar, running my fingertips across it. I felt him shiver.

“Still hurts sometimes,” he mumbled to the blanket. “I know it's all in my head.”

I leaned down to kiss it.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “You didn't deserve that. Any of it.”

He didn't say anything, but his whole body shuddered. His shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths.

I replaced his collar and went back to gently running my hands across his back. I gently dug my thumbs into his shoulders until he groaned. Pushed harder, I felt him finally relax beneath my hands. My thumbs worked at the nape of his neck, his shoulder blades. The tightness all the way down his spine. The sore, bruised shoulder he'd dislocated.

Working slowly. Passing the time just touching him, letting some of my warmth soak into his cold, tired skin.

I kissed the back of his neck. He didn't respond.

I bent down to see his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. Drooling into the blanket as he slept.

I sat there and watched him for a little while, memorizing every little wrinkle and freckle and line on his face. Every twitch of his lips.

Then I kissed the top of his head and went to sleep in the other room. I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, to hold him close and kiss him, like we were...that word. That terrifying word. Couple.

But I worried I'd pushed him too far already. So I went to sleep with the thought of him, my fingertips still tingling like they were touching his skin.

I woke a few hours later to his voice.

“Lincoln?”

“Yeah?”

A brief pause. I thought maybe he'd fallen back asleep.

Then he said, “Come to bed?”

I drew in a sharp breath. Forced myself into motion, praying this wasn't a dream.

Donovan laid where I left him, but his head raised up a bit to watch the door. His face relaxed when he saw me.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Think I fell asleep.”

I pulled the blanket back and helped him under it. He moved stiffly from the rashes on his arms and legs.

I slid in beside him. Any lingering worry I had vanished when Donovan dragged himself over and draped himself across my chest. He was nearly liquid in my arms, more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.

His cheek rested on my shoulder, his eyes half-closed. He gave me a drowsy little smile. It was so beautiful, I could've wept.

“That felt good,” he mumbled.

I couldn't quite crane my neck enough to kiss his forehead, so I reached for his hand instead, bringing it to my lips.

“Get some sleep,” I whispered.

His eyes slipped closed.

I wished I could stay awake and watch him sleep, listen to him breathe, just stay in this moment with him so close, so comfortable beside me. I felt safe. For once, I could focus on it. I could live in this moment. Not fixate on losing him or spend my energy worrying about the moment ending. I could focus instead on his chest against mine and his breaths puffing against my neck. And, God, it felt so good.

I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark and the sun had set. Donovan still laid across me, sleeping soundly.

I stared up at the ceiling and sighed. My mind wandered. Specs. That reporter had talked to one of the victims, had dirt on several of the others. I needed to go through that bundle of files he'd left at the cemetery.

He hadn't mentioned that when we talked. Not surprising. He seemed to know enough to keep his cards close to his chest, just like I had.

“Samedi,” I said quietly. “All goes back to you.”

My eyes drifted down to the door. It opened, letting in beams of moonlight. A tall man in a top hat and suit stepped inside. He stood in the doorway and grinned at me.

I was frozen. Stuck in place. Who the f*ck—

The man morphed and suddenly it was Sammy standing in the doorway. He spoke in Giorgi Marcano's voice.

“Should've said 'yes,' Lincoln. Should've said 'yes.'”

“Sammy?” My voice was hoarse.

Sammy began to smolder, smoke rising from his head, his shoulders. Like a burning photograph, his silhouette curled in on itself. Then he burst into flames. I could feel the heat from the bed.

Fire. Fire, we had to get out.

I tried to shake Donovan awake but he didn't respond. Looking down, it wasn't his face looking back. It was that tall, grinning man.

“Why'd you do this, Lincoln?"he asked. It was an unfamiliar voice.

Then he repeated it and it was Sammy's voice. Said it again, and it was my voice.

“Why'd you do this?”

I tried to yell but no sound came out.

The whole room was engulfed in flames. I felt it scorch my skin. The horrible stench of burning flesh filled my mouth and nose, choking me.

Fire, we had to—

“Lincoln.”

I opened my eyes. They were blurry with tears.

Donovan sat beside me. I felt his hand on my cheek. “Lincoln?”

I took a shuddering breath.

“Fire?” I mumbled.

“No, there's no fire.” He kissed my forehead. “There's no fire, it's alright.”

A line of tears crept down my cheek. I could still taste smoke in my mouth.

“Sammy?” I felt like a kid, small and scared. Whimpering for him after a nightmare. All I could see was Sammy's disappointed frown. “Sammy.”

Donovan put his arms around me.

“It's okay,” he whispered.

I choked on a sob and leaned into him, holding tight.

“It's my fault. It's my fault.” I barely knew what I was saying. I couldn't think. It hurt too bad.

“No, it's not.”

“My fault they're dead. Sammy and Ellis and-and Danny. Burke hates me for killing Danny and he's right. He should. I hate myself for killing them, I hate-” My voice broke.

Donovan shifted to pull my head down and kiss my forehead. I heard him let out a little hiss of pain as his arms rubbed against the sheets. He cradled me against his chest.

“It's not your fault,” he insisted. “It's not. I know it hurts.”

My voice was strangled. “I wish I died there with them. I should've.”

I felt Donovan swallow hard against my ear.

“Please don't say that,” he said hoarsely. “Please, Lincoln, please don't.”

I was limp in his arms. It took a conscious effort to keep breathing. My tears soaked the front of his shirt.

“It's okay, honey.” Donovan was still talking though I could barely hear him.

He spoke quietly through it all. I focused on feeling his voice rise from his chest, vibrating his throat. Feeling it pass through my ears, even if I couldn't understand the words.

I cried until I ran out of tears.Finally, I could understand what he was saying.

“It's okay, I've got you. You're so strong to take all this onto your shoulders. I see you carry it. I'm proud of you, Lincoln. We'll get through this.”

My fingers curled in his shirt.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

He rest his chin against my forehead. “I've got you.”

I was quiet for a while. Fighting against shame, against the urge to apologize. I forced myself not to say any of that.

Instead, I said, “Didn't mean to wake you.”

Donovan hesitated.

“You sounded like you were hurting,” he said. “I wanted to help.”

I nodded weakly. “You did.”

“You should get some sleep.”

“I don't want to. I don't...” My breath shuddered in my throat. “I don't want to see it again.”

“Okay.” He kissed my forehead. “Just lay here with me, then. I'll keep you safe while you rest.”

I was thankful I had no tears left.

“I love you.” I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in the smell of coffee and cigarettes and his sweat. I loved holding him but being held by him, gently cradled in his arms, that felt like nothing else. Better than I could've dreamed.

“I love you, honey.”

“I like that. When you call me that.”

He smiled. “Don't know if I'm southern enough to pull off 'hun.' I'll leave that to you.”

I couldn't manage a laugh.

“Do you wanna talk? Or just be quiet?”

My head ached. I knew I should eat something. Still had those pancakes, I couldn't remember how much of them I'd been able to eat. “I dunno.”

“Alright. I'll talk and you just tell me if I should stop. You know I love the sound of my own voice.”

I closed my eyes and felt the words vibrate his throat. “Can you tell me about your brother?”

Donovan paused. I felt his pulse pick up. He took a few breaths and it slowed back down. “Matty's two years younger than me. He was born on Valentine's Day. Tiny little thing. Smallest baby I ever saw. Not that I've seen many. He's got big green eyes, like our mother. I think he hates that. We both hate anything that reminds us of her.”

I'd never heard him mention a brother before. I wondered if maybe he'd died when they were younger. But Donovan said hates. Present tense.

“He always wanted to be a pilot,” Donovan went on. “Always looking up at the sky. Never looked where he was going, always bumping into sh*t. He broke a lot of pairs of glasses running into railings. Mother hated that.” He puffed out a sharp breath. “No, she just hated him.”

“Kid shouldn't have to go through life with a parent who hates him.”

“No, they shouldn't. Matty didn't deserve that. Maybe...” He sighed again. “Maybe I did, but not him.”

Before I could interject, he continued, “Matty wanted to join the Army and fly planes, hot air balloons, whatever would get him in the sky. He always wished he could fly.”

I don't know if it was curiously or dread that fueled me. I lifted kissed his chin.

“You talk about him like he's gone,” I whispered. I felt him frown.

“He-” Donovan hesitated. “He's not. He's back home, in a hospital. One of those...” He waved a hand vaguely. “Asylums. Whatever fancy words they call them. Just a prison by another name.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know if they ever put a name to it. He's just a bit slower than most of us. Struggled in school. The teachers had no patience with him. I guess...” Donovan's jaw clenched. “I guess I understand why. Matty never spoke. His whole life, never said a word. Far as I know, he still hasn't.”

I said nothing, waiting for him to go on. To go at his own speed, reveal what he wanted to say and hide what he didn't. I could tell this was hard for him. I held onto his shoulder and stroked it gently with my thumb.

“Mother never f*cking bothered to be patient with him. She treated him like he was just some burden. Ignored when he was trying to say something because he wasn't saying it, y'know? And Father was never around, so it didn't f*cking matter what he thought. It was just me and him. We had to take care of each other because our piece of sh*t parents couldn't.” His voice dripped with acid. He took a breath to calm himself. “But he loves the sky. When we were kids, I took him to the library at least once a week, sometimes twice, because he had to check out all the books on planes, clouds, stars—anything up there. It took him a few years to learn how to read, so I'd read 'em for him.” He laughed hoarsely. “I learned a lot about the f*ckin' sky.”

“Maybe you could teach me some.”

“Forgot most of it. That was a long time ago.”

There was that quickness in his pulse again. His voice shuddered.

“I went-” He broke off, swallowed hard, and spoke again, “I helped him as best I could through high school. They kept holding him back, wouldn't believe he was a smart kid. But he was. He is. It was fine when I went off to college. I wrote him and he wrote back. Then the letters stopped. I stayed at Princeton during the breaks, working. Taking extra classes. Doing anything I could so I didn't have to go back to that house. Then I graduated and came home and he was gone.” His voice shook with rage. “They'd locked him in a f*cking hospital and threw away the key.”

I didn't know what to say. My heart rose up into my throat.

“If I'd been there, I-” Donovan shook his head. “But that wasn't all. Oh, no, my parents weren't satisfied with just torturing him. They told the staff that he had an estranged brother who under no circ*mstances should be allowed to visit. Told them I was even crazier than he was.” His fingers curled around my arm. He couldn't keep the shudder out of his voice anymore. “Even when I tracked down the f*cking place, they wouldn't let me in. I was right there, and they...” He shook his head. A tear dripped onto the top of my head. “I just wonder if they let him see the sky.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. My arms snaked around him, holding so tight I knew it had to hurt.

I thought about Sammy and Ellis and how I'd never see them again, never share a beer with them, never hug them or slap their back or laugh with them. I thought about loss. So much loss. The empty, aching wounds it left.

Suddenly Donovan let out a strangled laugh. “I was trying to cheer you up, I'm sorry. This is-this isn't helping. I just...I can try and remember some of those sky facts.”

I lifted my head to kiss him. His cheeks were wet with tears. I realized mine were, too.

He couldn't hold back a sob.

We clung to each other and cried for a while. It hurt. I hated it, hated the pain.

But in a way I...liked it. Maybe 'liked' is the wrong word. I was relieved that he had me and I had him, that we could cry together. Just exist in each other's space and wallow in our misery. Find a bit of safety in this warm bed.

Donovan wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Nephology,” he said, his throat raw and ragged. “Nephology is the study of clouds. Comes from Greek roots.”

I kissed him softly, a gentle press of lips. A silent reassurance.

“You do remember some,” I whispered.

“I don't want to sleep,” Donovan said. “I'm afraid I'll see Mother.”

“I don't want to see the fire again,” I replied.

“Let's keep talking.” He took a shuddering breath. “About anything.”

“You can list all the clouds you can remember.”

“How about I list all the things I love about you instead?”

“I should start with your smile or your eyes,” I said, with a small smile, “but your ass is a close contender for first.”

He laughed.

“Glad to hear that sound.” I kissed his cheek.

Between the heat in the room and the warmth of our bodies pressed together, I was getting too warm. My forehead beaded with sweat. Reluctantly, I admitted I was hungry. And thirsty. And desperate for a piss.

“Need to stand up,” I said. “But I don't want to leave this...this moment. Got that fear of losing it again. Of losing you.”

“I understand.” Donovan fumbled around in the dark until he found my hand. His broken fingers were healing crooked. “Hold onto me?”

I pulled him up with me.

We sat on the edge of the bed, our shoulders brushing.

“Need to pee,” I said.

He snorted and let go of my hand. “Do that first.”

Chapter 25: Hang Ten

Chapter Text

Donovan and I didn't say much for a while. We sat at the table as I finished my pancakes. I ate one-handed, holding his fingers with the other. Just sitting there, keeping hold of each other. Making sure I felt him and he felt me.

Then I said, “Who's next on our list?”

“The Shadow victims?”

“No, the neighborhoods. Tickfaw?”

Donovan blinked. “I guess, yeah. Frank Pagani runs rackets out of there. Has contacts with Cuba.”

“Alright. Gonna leave a drop for Specs telling him I'm going after Pagani.”

“Are you sure? Thought we were going after the killer.”

“We are. I need to lure the reporter out, get him to tell me what he knows. He wanted scoops when I was going out and killing Marcano's lieutenants—fine, I'll give him the scoop.”

“Think he'll bite?” Donovan raised an eyebrow.

“He seemed desperate as hell. Unless he's a good actor, I'll think it'll get his attention.”

“If you think so.”

I couldn't help but grin. “That's an awful polite way to say 'I think you're making a big f*ckin' mistake.'“

“I'm nothing but a gentleman.”

I raised his hand to my lips to kiss his fingers. “Need to run out to the car, grab those papers he gave me. I forgot them in the middle of...everything.”

He nodded and released my hand.

Stepping out the door, I breathed in the night air. New Bordeaux smelled of exhaust fumes and fried foods, cigarette smoke and salty breezes from the harbor. I hated this city. I loved this city.

I trudged down the stairs to the car. I didn't get a clear view of my Drifter until I got on level ground. Walking up to the driver's side, I stopped dead.

Tied around the door handle was a yellow handkerchief.

I looked around. Delray Hollow looked the same as it always did. Late-night wanderers walking down the sidewalk. Drunks staggering home from the bars, stopping in at liquor stores for another bottle to get them home. Drivers with tired eyes coming and going from work.

Other than the handkerchief, my car was untouched. Still locked, all the windows intact.

“That motherf*cker,” I spat. Was I losing my touch? I'd only been home a few months but between getting shot in the head, the fire, the coma—maybe it f*cked my brain up more than I was willing to admit.

How the f*ck did I miss this? How did I not see this coming?

I tore the handkerchief off the door, grabbed the papers from inside, and hurried back up the stairs.

Donovan looked up.

I threw the handkerchief on the table. “We've got a f*ckin' problem. Somebody left this on my car. Had to be Specs.”

Donovan picked up the cloth, scanning for any marks. “How do you know?”

“He told me to leave a yellow handkerchief if I wanted to talk.” I threw the bundle of papers on the table. “Like this one. Motherf*cker, how did I miss this? Goddamnit!”

I wanted to smash something, bang my head against the wall, grab a gun and storm out the door and find that son of a bitch and put him in the ground.

“How could I be so f*ckin' stupid? I thought he wouldn't follow me but he must've. God f*cking damnit!”

Donovan reached for my hand but I shook him off.

I raised my hand to my forehead. The wounds from the glass were healing, but still red and raw. I dug my fingernails into them.

“My f*cking fault Marcano's boys found us and you got hurt, and my fault that stupid f*ckin' reporter tricked me, I should've f*ckin' seen this coming.” Blood ran down my forehead, but I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything. Just blind rage. “How did he trick me? Stupid motherf*cker-”

“Lincoln.” Donovan stood and grabbed my arms. I fought to free them, still clawing at my face. “Lincoln.”

I finally gave in and let him pull my hands away.

Donovan reached up to hold my cheeks, pressing hard, forcing me to look at him. He wore that sad-mad-confused look again.

“I've never seen you do that before this week,” he said, his voice strangled. “Why are you doing that? Why are you hurting yourself like that?”

“I don't know.” My voice was just as strained. “I don't-the blood, I-”

I'd f*cked up so much. All my fault. I had to pay that tax in blood. Had to make up for what I'd done, somehow. I shouldn't've made it out of that fire. I was meant to die there with them. With Sammy and Ellis. With my family. I didn't...

“I'm all torn up, it just hurts too f*ckin' bad.” My knees buckled.

Donovan couldn't quite catch me, but he did manage to guide me back onto the bed. He stood in front pulled my head against his chest, holding me there. My blood smeared across his shirt.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I know it's not okay, but it's-I know it hurts. I know it does.”

I was breathing raggedly. Had no tears left. Just breathed, even though I didn't want to. I just wanted to go to sleep in his arms and not wake up. Not hurt anymore.

“I know it's not okay,” he repeated. “I'm here, honey, I'm here to get you through this. I'm gonna hold you so f*ckin' tight until it stops hurting, okay? I know that's not...I know I can't make it stop hurting, but I'll try. Is that okay?”

I nodded against his chest.

“I used to-” Donovan's voice shuddered. He swallowed hard. “Sometimes when Mother hit us, Matty'd hit himself, too. Guess he thought that was what he was s'posed to do. Sometimes I had to sit on him to get him to stop. I'd try and tell him all those sky facts I'd learned, or read to him from one of his favorite books. There was one about weather balloons he liked more than the others. I don't know if it helped. Maybe it was more to help me.” I felt his heart beating hard against my cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to help you, Lincoln, but I don't know how.”

“Just hold me,” I mumbled against his chest. “Please.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Tell me about Tickfaw. What rackets are there?”

Donovan hesitated. “I don't think we should do that right now.”

“We have work to do.”

“Keeping yourself alive is work, too.” Donovan let out a ragged laugh. “Sometimes that can be even f*ckin' harder than an op.”

He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the blood off my face. I closed my eyes.

“Can you talk?” I felt pathetic begging like this, but the silence was pressing on my ears.

“Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “That optometry elective I was telling you about? We had to dissect an eyeball. To be honest, I didn't think there was anything in there to dissect, but there sure is. Don't ask me what, though.” He shrugged. “I don't remember. One kid fainted, that was pretty funny. Professor had to peel him off the floor and send him to sit out in the hallway. I think he switched his major to accounting after that.”

I surprised myself by laughing.

Donovan kissed my forehead. I felt his lips curve in a smile.

“Love that sound,” he murmured.

My arms were limp at my sides. I lifted them to wrap around him, getting a grip on his shirt.

“I think I'd like to say 'couple,'“ I said quietly. “Just say it for us.”

He leaned back and grinned. “Yeah?”

“Maybe...maybe tell Father James. Someday. I dunno how he'd...” I shook my head. “But he's all the family I have left. I want him to know.”

Donovan's smile faded. His jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Alright.”

I knew he and Father James didn't get along. Father blamed him for this revenge rampage I was going on. At least partially. Blamed him for not talking me out of it.

“I dunno,” I repeated quietly. “I just...I wish it were easier.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know how much he means to you. And how much he loves you. Even though he and I haven't always been...on the best of terms, I stuck around for your sake.” He managed a small smile. “And he tolerates me for your sake.”

I lifted my hand to my face and Donovan tensed. I knew he wanted to grab my arm and pull it away, but he held himself still, waiting. I was grateful for that. I rubbed my eyes.

“Need to get it together,” I muttered. “Guess I don't need to lure that bastard out. He's luring me.”

“He'll be at the cemetery? Over in the French Ward?”

“Yeah. Probably.” I lowered my hand to my lap.

Donovan's shoulders relaxed. He kissed my forehead again.

“Can I bandage these up?” he asked, gently running a finger around the oozing wounds.

I nodded.

“Alright. I've got some in the other room.”

He started to walk away, then returned for a quick kiss. His soft lips were just what I needed. I closed my eyes. His hand cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. The feel of his fingers helped clear my head.

But with that clarity came shame at what I'd done. At what I'd made him see.

Donovan left me to retrieve the bandages. When he returned, my head was bowed. He gently tapped my chin.

“Can you look at me?”

I lifted my head. The pain must've been obvious in my face. He cupped my cheek again.

“You're alright,” he whispered.

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled. “For everything, I-”

He interrupted me with a kiss, rougher than the last. Pushing my chin up and parting my lips, he deepened the kiss. I couldn't hold back my groan. His lips moved to my cheek, down my jaw.

“You don't have to be sorry.” He punctuated the words with his teeth, biting into my throat hard enough to bruise. “You've got nothing to be sorry for.”

“f*ck.” I clung to his shoulders, tilting my head to give him more access.

He sucked another bruise into my skin. It ached so good.

“I love you,” he whispered, almost growling. “Your scars, your tears, your nightmares. Every bit of you.”

I made a strangled noise. “God, Donovan-”

“That feel good?”

“Yes,” I moaned. “sh*t, I-I can't think. You're-”

“You don't have to,” he replied. “You don't have to think, just sit here in my arms.”

He bit more bruises into my throat, kissed all the sense out of me. Stole my breath until I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be ashamed of.

When he finally finished his onslaught, I was panting like I'd just run a marathon. I realized I was laid back on the bed, Donovan straddling me. No memory of how I got there. My whole body limp against the mattress.

“f*ck,” I said hoarsely. “God, the sh*t you do to me...”

Donovan laughed. His lips were bright red, his cheeks pink.

Sometimes when I kissed him or grabbed his ass, I worried I was pushing him too hard. I was content to let him lead, to move at his own pace. So far, I was plenty satisfied with the way it was going.

“Wish you could see yourself,” he said, wiping some sweat off my brow. “You look like a fish outta water.”

“Gonna have marks from you chewing me up like that.”

“You do.”

I groaned again. “Yeah, bet I'll look real tough showing up to that reporter all covered in hickys.”

Donovan chuckled, though maybe it was a little nervous. “I hope you don't mind the...biting.”

My face and throat felt like it'd been chewed up and spat out and, hell, it felt good.

I finally got feeling back in my hands, lifting them to squeeze his ass. “It's sexy as hell.”

He laughed. Pressing a gentle kiss to my chin, he slipped off me and laid at my side.

“I hope you heard what I said. I meant it. I love you—all of you.”

I turned my head to press our foreheads together, closing my eyes. Breathing in together, breathing out together.

“I love you, John Donovan. You make me wanna keep breathing.”

I heard the catch in his breath. He ran his hand along my shoulder.

“That means so much to me,” he whispered.

I wanted to lay there forever with him. Breathing in and out as one. But I'd dug a hole and had to claw my way out of it.

I forced myself to sit up. “What do those papers say?”

Donovan sighed.

“Whatever that bouncer knew,” he said. “Probably just those creeps' favorite girls and how much dope they bought.”

I leaned against the table and opened the bundle.

“Forgot to bandage your head,” Donovan said from behind me. He sounded sheepish. “Got a bit distracted.”

“Holy sh*t.”

He moved to my side. “What?”

I picked up the top sheet of paper. It was a financial report, or part of it, at least. It was ripped in half, leaving ragged edges.

Without a word, Donovan hurried into the other room and returned with the coroner's report for Pete Skelton. He found the page showing a copy of the paper fragment found in the dead man's hand. Perfect match.

Chapter 26: The Howling Wolf

Chapter Text

As I scanned through the pages, Donovan bandaged my head. I relayed what I saw.

“Here's another report mentioning Samedi as account manager. Goddamn, they invented a whole identity for this guy. There are letters here written from him to the Mayor and City Council, signed receipts for payments from the city, real estate permits to develop Baron Saturday's. f*ckin' crazy.”

Donovan finished with the bandage and leaned over to read, absently wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Here.” He tapped the bottom corner of the torn financial report. “Prepared by F. Wilkerson.”

“Fred Wilkerson.” I nodded. “He was the first victim.”

“Hm.” Donovan lifted the receipt. He held it an inch from his nose, squinting.

“What do you see?”

“Skelton's signature's on here, acknowledging the payment. Samedi's, too. But they...” He leaned even closer until his nose was nearly brushing the paper. “I swear they look the same.”

I took the paper from his hand. They just looked like scribbled signatures to me.

“The S is the same.” Donovan pointed. He moved his finger along Skelton's name. “And here, the 'e' going into the 'l,' they're smushed together. Same in the other name, the 'e' into the 'd.'”

I blinked a few times. “I'll take your word for it.”

“Skelton signed for Samedi. I'll put money on it. Maybe he wasn't behind all of it, but he was in on the scheme.”

“And his father found out.” I nodded slowly. “Wilkerson the accountant helped create the reports. He and Skelton went to Trois Pattes, maybe they did some business there? Reynolds the cook heard too much, got whacked.”

“That secretary, Robertson, he could've had a hand in the reports, the memos, all of it.”

“And somehow the baker found out.” I sighed. My head ached.

“Goddamn,” Donovan said thoughtfully.

“Why would he give me this sh*t?”

He still stared at the receipt, squinting at the signatures.

“Which one did that?” I asked. “Looking at signatures and sh*t.”

“Which one who?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Or Watson, or whoever.”

Donovan laughed. “Maybe that's more Dick Tracy.”

“Should I be writing this down? Will there be an exam?”

“I can assign you some reading if you want.”

“I'd rather run into traffic.” I rubbed my face. “It's late. Specs'll be at the cemetery, I bet.”

“Unless it's a trap.”

“Oh, it's absolutely a trap.”

Donovan nodded. “It is.”

“We need to figure out who's next on the Shadow's list. Seems like he's going through the ring of people around this fake Samedi name and taking them out one-by-one. We figure out who he's going for, we can find him.”

I kissed his cheek, leaning against him. He put his arm around my waist.

“I'll go over what we have,” he said. “Figure out who else is involved.”

“I have to go to the French Ward.”

“I know.”

Neither of us moved.

“Wear a wire,” Donovan said. “I'll listen in.”

“You'll need to be nearby in the van for that.”

“Yeah.”

“I need you here, figuring things out.”

Donovan's jaw clenched. “I know. I know you don’t...”

“I need you here to come home to,” I murmured.

Donovan shivered.

“Never thought I'd have a home in somebody.” He shook his head. “I dunno if that makes any sense.”

“Yeah, it does.” I kissed his cheek again. Couldn't resist when he was standing so close. “Thank you, hun.”

Donovan forced himself to step away. He placed both hands on the table, leaning over the bundle of papers.

“Alright,” he said. “Get goin', or else I'll jump on you and bite you up some more.”

“Don't tempt me.” I slipped out the door.

It was late enough that even the French Ward bars had announced last call and kicked the drunks to the curb. The neighborhood was oddly quiet as I walked toward the cemetery. Guess people were finally worried enough about the Shadow killings to stay inside.

Wonder if it'd be better if they knew the truth about the victims. About the Beauregard fraud—well, alleged fraud.

I arrived at the cemetery. Pulling myself up the wall, I vaulted over it and landed silently. I drew my pistol. Not taking any chances this time.

I took the rows slow, keeping low behind the vaults. Using the beams of moonlight to my advantage to scan all the dark corners.

As I got closer to the center of the cemetery, I started to smell something foul. Like a dead animal. The stench of copper nearly choking me. Reminded me of some of that awful sh*t I saw back in 'Nam. Whole villages laying dead. Killed by American bullets for the American cause ordered by American officials who never set f*cking foot on that soil.

I pulled my collar up over my nose and pushed forward.

The clearing around the central mausoleum was all lit up by the moon. The angel statue on top of the vault oversaw it all, staring down at the dead with a disinterested expression.

It took me a second to find the cause of the smell.

I looked around the clearing, aware of how painfully exposed I was. I could use the bench as cover. Some of the concrete plant beds. Then I moved toward the bench and saw the body sprawled out on it, gutted like a pig. My jaw clenched.

The stink was overwhelming. I had to force myself to move around the bench to get a better look. The corpse looked like it'd been ripped open by an animal. The other victims of that killer had been carefully cut apart. That beat cop at the Madison scene said they thought the killer was a doctor. This looked more like the work of a butcher.

All the limbs were still attached, but just barely. Only held on by thin lines of muscle and sinew. The torso, the legs, even the feet were all torn up, but the face was untouched.

I recognized it. The bouncer from the Trois Pattes. Bozich.

“Jesus f*ckin' Christ,” I muttered.

Suddenly, a siren wailed. It was close, far too close for comfort. Another joined it, then another.

In a second, they were close enough I could see the flashing lights.

I glanced around, getting my bearings. Church to the east, streets on the other three sides. From the lights and sirens, sounded like the cops were approaching from the south and the west.

I took off, headed north.

I could hear the cops now. They'd entered the cemetery, their voices floating through the darkness. I stayed low, my gun still drawn.

There was a shuffling in front of me and I aimed my pistol into the shadows. “You're a son of a bitch, Specs.”

The shadows chuckled.

A man emerged from the darkness. He hadn't bothered to wear those stupid fake glasses this time.

“You like that scared act?” Specs asked. “I thought I did a good job.” He adopted a timid voice. “'Oh, I'll just get up now, Mr. Clay. Please don't hurt me.'“

“You do that? Butcher that man?”

“Maybe.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Look, Lincoln, this doesn't concern you. Just a few more scumbags to go and I'll be finished. We're doing the same thing. You're going after Marcano, I'm going after Beauregard.”

“If you f*ckin' think-”

“Oh, God, no!” Specs interrupted. “I'm not saying we're the same, not at all. You've at least got a noble reason, you're after revenge and sh*t. Redemption. I just want that old rich f*ck to suffer.”

The police were drawing closer. I saw their flashlights bobbing between the tombs.

“Got a body over here,” one cop shouted. “Jesus Christ!”

“Hey, that deal's still open,” Specs said. “Any tip you can give me when you're gonna kill one of Marcano's lieutenants, drop me a line. I'll get the scoop, get a neat little bonus, and pass some of it along to you.”

I took a step closer. “You butcher people across the city. You draw me out here. Then you call the cops on me and try and frame me for this f*ckin' slaughter. And you're trying to make a deal?”

He shrugged. “Sorry if I want to have a little fun.”

“Blackmail not good enough for you?”

“I was telling the truth when I said a reporter's salary is sh*t. I'm freelance, man, that means I gotta take what I can get.” Specs grimaced. “And those nudie photos, that was real.”

I leveled my pistol at his throat. “You sick motherf*cker.”

I had unanswered questions, sure. But more important than that, I had a chance to end this. I didn't give a f*ck about Skelton or the other Beauregard executives. But the cook, the secretary, the accountant who all got roped into this—they didn't deserve to die. Who knows how many more this motherf*cker was willing to kill for his own sick pleasure.

The cops were nearly on top of us now. A flashlight swept over the stones, hitting me in the back.

Specs ducked to avoid the light. At the same moment, my finger curled around the trigger. The gunshot made Specs flinch and stumble over his own feet.

“There he is!” another cop shouted. “Open fire!”

I shot again. Specs bellowed in pain.

He scrambled back into the shadows.

From behind me came a barrage of fire. It ricocheted off tombs, sending flecks of stone and debris into my face.

I ducked my head and ran after the reporter. No point wasting my breath shouting after him. It'd just give my position away to the cops. Not that he'd stop, anyway.

I followed the sounds of his panting to the edge of the cemetery. Somehow he managed to stay a few steps ahead of me. Must be adrenaline. I'd seen men who should be dead keep going for miles off that sh*t.

A smear of blood on the bricks showed me where he'd clambered up the outer wall. His pants had gotten caught on the wrought iron decoration at the top, tearing off a long strip of fabric.

I climbed over the fencing and jumped down.

The road was swarming with cops, all running for the cemetery entrance.

Specs ran straight across the street, giving the cop cars a wide berth. I kept my head down and followed. I couldn't tell where I'd hit him. From the way he was hauling ass, it wasn't his leg.

I chased him down an alley. He kicked a trash can down as he passed. I vaulted over it.

“Stay out of this, Lincoln!” he shouted over his shoulder.

I fired another two shots at his back. I missed. Motherf*cker.

After two blocks, we hit the main drag. Late-night traffic whizzed by.

Specs didn't hesitate. He darted between cars, crossing two lanes and making it to the median. Heading into oncoming traffic, he got winged by a driver who didn't quite slam on its brakes in time, and bounced hard off the hood.

Cars screeched to a halt, blocking my path.

I slid over one. Climbed up on another, scanning the chaos.

I saw Specs stagger into an alley. An engine fired up and a car peeled out. A gray Potomac Indiana that easily blended into the traffic.

I followed it with my eyes as long as I could, then it veered around a corner and I lost sight.

I swore and stuffed the pistol back in my belt. The driver of the car I was standing on was screaming at me. I jumped down and took off toward the alley. Scanning the ground, looking for something. Anything.

Somebody had flagged down some of the cops in the cemetery and they were making their way over. I kept to the shadows, ducking between buildings until I reached the riverside.

Leaping in, I swam to the bank and emerged, dripping and swearing, on a pier in River Row.

Chapter 27: Eve of Destruction

Chapter Text

I was breathing hard by the time I reached the Blue Gulf Motel. Not because I was out of breath—it was an easy jog through the mild early morning air.

The sharp gasps came from the fierce fight going on in my head. That urge to punch something, to scream, to rip at the wounds on my forehead again until the blood flowed and I could try and feel like I was doing some kind of retribution for my sins.

My vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Just looking at my boots on the ground, one step in front of the other. Pavement. Gravel. Pavement. Parking lot. Stairs. Doorframe.

The door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

Both rooms were silent. All the lights dark. Then the quietest sound, the safety clicking off on a pistol.

“Me,” I grunted.

Donovan flicked the light on. He emerged from the other room and set the pistol on the nightstand. His eyes swept across my face.

I know I looked like a mess. My teeth bared, my lips drawn back. My eyes narrowed. Bits of dust and stone in my hair, sticking to the sweat on my neck.

“You find him?” he asked.

It took every ounce of effort to force my feet into motion. I reached for his hands.

He didn't hesitate, didn't ask why. Just took both my hands and squeezed.

“Need-” I started hoarsely. I swallowed to get some moisture back in my mouth. Speaking through gritted teeth, I said, “Want to hurt myself.”

Donovan's grip on my hands tightened. He lifted one to his lips. “Okay, I've got you. Let's sit.”

I'd forgotten to shut the door behind me. Donovan shuffled us around until he could stretch out a leg and kick it shut. Then he moved to sit us down at the table by the window.

“What happened?”

“He did it. He killed those men. Left one in the cemetery. Bozich. Called the cops to frame me for it. Had to run.” I closed my eyes and lowered my head, sucking in breaths. “Tried to follow, but he got away. I let him get away.”

Donovan kept his voice nice and even. “You still got your gun?”

“Belt.”

“Can I have it?” I looked up at him.

He usually had a good poker face, and this moment was no different. The only tell was his eyes. I could see the way they darted back and forth, trying to read every bit of detail they could from my face.

“Yeah.” I freed one hand to retrieve it and put it on the table between us.

“Thanks.” Donovan's eyes glanced down to ensure the safety was on, then moved back up to me.

I took his hand again. “Three bullets left. Shot four times, hit at least once.”

“And the cops?”

“Didn't waste the bullets on them.” I sighed sharply. “Don't worry. I won't use it.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Okay.”

“I know you don't believe me.”

“It's not that,” he said quickly. “It's...I've seen men do awful things when they're hurting. Things they'd never be able to do any other time. I don't think you're lying to me. I just want to make sure it doesn't come to that.”

I took a deep breath in and blew it slowly out my nose. Fighting back the urge to scream and shout at him to mind his own f*cking business, how dare he talk to me like that. Because I didn't want him to mind his own business—I wanted him to talk honest like this. I needed him to.

“That-” I blew out another quick breath through my nose and fought to keep my voice quiet. “That makes me mad as hell. But I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself. Because you're right. You're right.” I had to repeat it, mostly to tell myself, “I'm not mad at you.”

Donovan kept his face expressionless. “I can handle you being mad at me if it keeps you safe. I'll bear that weight.”

“You shouldn't have to.” I shook my head. “I just need to...breathe for a bit. I'm not mad at you. I'm just-” I let out a strangled laugh. “I'm just mad at the world.”

He squeezed my hands. “Yeah. I...me, too.”

I laid my head down on the table.

“f*ck,” I muttered.

“You wanna lay down?”

“No.”

Donovan didn’t say anything else. He just sat quietly across from me, still holding my hands.

“He knows where we are,” I said finally. “Followed me back here. Left that handkerchief on my car. This place isn’t safe anymore. I f*cking ruined it.”

Donovan squeezed my hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s too late, we have to go. I have to make you relocate. I’m such a f*cking-”

We had the same thought at the same time. Maybe we knew each other too well. I lifted my head to slam it on the table. He reached over and put his hand under my forehead to cushion the blow.

“f*ck,” I repeated. I was so f*cking mad, I wanted to climb out of my own skin.

So angry at his kindness, at the kisses and embraces we shared. At how safe I felt in his arms. At the intimacy I’d never felt before. It terrified me. It made me want to keep breathing. I hated it, and I hated myself for hating it.

“I wanna say something awful again,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Go ahead and say it.”

“I can’t. I won’t do that to you, I can't.” I lifted my head off the table, leaving a smear of dust and sweat across his palm. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not.”

Donovan let his emotions show now. His lips twisted, his brow furrowed. Pain in his eyes and all across his face.

He pulled me up and half-dragged me across the room. Pushing me into the bathroom, he flicked on the light. He still hadn’t said a word.

His touch was rough as he shoved me toward the toilet.

I put the seat down and sat. Just waiting. I almost wished he’d haul back and punch me in the face. Maybe it would hurt less than seeing that pain on his face. Pain I’d caused.

But he didn’t punch me.

He wet a towel in the sink and wiped my face. I closed my eyes.

The towel ran across my forehead, my cheeks, my jaw. Cleaned the dust off my neck. Ran down my arms. He picked up my hands and cleaned my palms, my fingers.

My anger faded to numbness.

Then he pulled my shirt off. I was so numb, I let him.

He rinsed the towel in the sink and wiped the sweat off my chest. His cold fingers took my shoulder and nudged me forward until he could reach my back.

My eyes were still closed. I guess I was too scared to open them. Scared I’d still see that awful look on his face.

The towel was rough against my skin. It was cheap motel quality, ragged from use. I focused on that feeling, trying to fight the numbness.

Suddenly, Donovan was talking.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years. To feel your skin like this. The first moment I saw you, I was breathless. Your face, your eyes, your body…I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

I opened my eyes. He still stood in front of me, holding the towel. Watching me. His eyes wearing that sad-mad-confused look. It might have been a look of love.

“First time you smiled at me, my guts twisted up so hard I thought I was gonna throw up. I didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it was.” I took his hand and pressed it against my cheek, holding it there. “I think I know now.”

He managed a small smile. “Yeah?”

“I wanted…” I couldn’t bear to say it out loud. That horrible thought I’d had. Fueled by anger, by disgust at myself, wanting to hurt myself and hurt everyone and burn the world down. Make everybody lose like I’d lost. I’d wanted to say I hate you. The thought made me nauseous. “I’m sorry. That it has to be this hard.”

Donovan drew closer, pressing my head against his chest. I loved it. I forgot about the yellow handkerchief and the killer and the hard porcelain digging into my ass and all the world outside that bathroom door. All that was left was him.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

“Yes, it is.” I didn’t even pause to think. It was the natural response. Of course it was my fault. All of this was. I forced myself to breathe in and out, focusing on him. “It feels like it is.”

Donovan was quiet for a long moment.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was strangled. “Was Matty getting locked up my fault?”

“No.” Again, I responded without thinking. I pulled my head away to look him in the eye. “Do you think that?”

“I do. I wish I-if it was my fault, it’d be easier. I could punish myself for it, I could hate myself, and it’d make sense.” He took in a ragged breath. “But I know it was our f*ckin’ parents. They did it. And if that wasn’t my fault, then Sammy and Ellis—that wasn’t your fault.”

“They’re not the same.” My voice was harsh. Angry. Was I really angry? Or did I just not want to listen to what he was saying?

“I’m not saying they-” He broke off and shook his head. “They both f*cking hurt like hell. Yeah, they’re not the same. I’m not trying to say they’re equal, or I’m hurting more than you, I don’t f*cking care about fighting over that, Lincoln. Having some suffering dick-measuring contest. I’m trying to say we’re both f*cking beating ourselves up over this sh*t.”

I looked away, staring at the grimy tile in the bathtub.

“Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.” Donovan’s hand dropped to my shoulder. “But I…I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to-I just…I can see this killing you, honey. I can see it. I’m just trying to say you don’t have to suffer alone.”

I still couldn’t look at him.

He stepped back. His hands fell to his sides.

“I’m sorry, Lincoln,” he murmured. Then he turned and left the bathroom.

I heard the motel room door open and close.

I couldn’t say how long I sat there. Finally, I forced myself to my feet and pulled my shirt back on.

Donovan was right outside the door. He leaned against the railing, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word even when I put a hand on the small of his back.

“Let’s go to bed, baby,” I whispered.

I felt his whole body shudder.

He stayed silent for another moment. Then, he spoke in a hoarse voice, “I trust you, Lincoln.”

That caught me off-guard. I scrambled to make sense of it.

Understanding took its time creeping into my mind. The harsh words. The anger. The fear on his face.

Bed. All the euphemisms that come along with that simple word.

I trust you.

Sometimes you love someone so much, you’re scared of it. Scared of loving them. That fear sits in the back of your head and finds all the other fear that already lives there. It all joins forces and has a mutiny to take over your whole brain.

“I just want to hold you, Donovan,” I said. I kept my hand on his back, pressing gently. “I love you too much to hurt you.”

He shuddered again and lowered his head.

“I know,” he said. “I know, I…I didn’t mean to insinuate you’d-” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. For this and for what I said in the bathroom and for not being able to help you. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s go to bed,” I repeated softly.

Finally, he let me guide him back inside. I locked the door behind us.

Kicking off my boots, I sat on the bed. Donovan went into the bathroom and shut the door. I heard the shower turn on.

I pulled my shirt off and laid back on the bed. I had no issue sleeping in jeans—I’ve slept in worse. But I didn’t want to risk taking my pants off and sleeping in my boxers, not if it made Donovan uncomfortable.

I stared up at the ceiling until my eyes slipped closed. I woke a little while later when Donovan slid into bed beside me. He brought with him the smell of soap and toothpaste.

My eyes opened. I held out my arm so he could move closer.

Donovan laid beside me and rest his head on my chest. His hair was still damp, it tickled my collarbone.

He’d left his shirt in the bathroom. I felt his bare skin against mine. Swear it made my whole body tingle. My thumb drifted down to the scar on his back, tracing its shape.

We lay in silence.

Donovan was good at hiding his emotions. I’d known that for nearly as long as I knew him. But I didn’t realize how good he was at hiding his tears. He breathed evenly. I heard a slight catch on one inhale, but his breaths quickly returned to normal. The muscles in his cheek didn’t even move. It was pressed right up against me, and I didn’t feel him grimace or frown once.

Then I felt the first tear drip onto my chest. Then a second.

I moved my hand to his head, running my fingers through his hair.

“Let it out, baby,” I murmured.

He’d only been holding on by a thread.

Donovan heaved in a big gulp of air and choked on a sob. He slipped his arms around me, pulling himself even closer. Burying his face in my neck.

“Never cried this much in my life,” he managed. “Not-not since-”

“You’re okay.”

His tears dripped down my shoulders onto the pillow. They burned like acid. I knew I caused them. Some of them, at least. And that hurt my f*ckin’ heart. Getting shot wouldn’t hurt as bad.

“They’re not all-” He gave a watery laugh. “Some of them are relief. Relieved that I…that you’re here. Just…” His hand curled around my arm, squeezing hard. “Overwhelmed. I don’t know.”

I rubbed his back. His skin was cold and covered in goosebumps. Somehow, he was always cold. I pulled the blanket up to cover him, tucking it around his shoulders.

“Thanks for telling me about Matty,” I said quietly. “I…it is like them. Like Sammy and Ellis. He wasn’t blood, but Ellis was my brother. And I lost him. And it f*ckin’ hurts. I just get so angry and I wanna push everyone away. Wanna take on everything by myself because that’s what I’m used to. I tell myself it’s what I want, but it’s not. I hate being alone.”

He didn’t reply, but his fingers tightened around my arm. His other hand lay on top of my heart.

I kissed the top of his head. “A wise, handsome old man told me once ‘I love your scars, your tears, your nightmares. All of you.’”

Donovan was quiet for a moment longer. Then he lifted his head and used his fist to wipe his eyes.

“‘Old’? he echoed indignantly.

“Oh?” I adopted a tone of faux surprise. “You know him, too?”

He scoffed.

I rubbed my thumb over his scar again.

“Sleep?” I asked.

“I-” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I don’t want to sleep yet. You can, I won’t stop you. Close your eyes, I just want to lay here. With you.”

“Okay.” I laid my head back and closed my eyes. “Donovan?”

“Hm?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

Donovan raised himself on one arm and pressed his lips to mine. “A goodnight kiss.” He kissed me again. “A midnight kiss.” When he kissed me a third time, he couldn’t hold back his smile. “An early morning kiss.”

My eyes were still closed. I grinned back. “Better give me one every hour ‘til the sun comes up. Just to be safe.”

He snorted and laid his head down on my chest.

I fell asleep with the taste of him on my lips.

Chapter 28: You Keep Me Hangin' On

Chapter Text

I dreamed about Baron Saturday’s. Slogging through the flooded park, under fire from Ritchie Doucet’s men. Trying to shoot back but I’m out of bullets. Every corner I turn, I’m confronted by that tall, grinning man. He lifts his top hat to me and vanishes into smoke.

I finally reach the Ferris wheel and it’s not Doucet strung up by his neck, it’s Baron Samedi. Then it’s Ellis. Then Sammy. Then Donovan.

“Why’d you do this?” he asks.

I wake up shouting.

Donovan jerks awake next to me and rubs a hand across my chest until I fall asleep again.

I see the park. The grinning man. Ellis. Sammy. Donovan, strung up on that Ferris wheel. Blood dripping from my hands.

I wake up screaming. His gentle touch soothes me back to sleep.

Over and over.

Finally, the sun came up and I escaped the cycle.

I sat up and rubbed my face.

Donovan still slept beside me. He was curled up, just a lump beneath the blanket. He’d finally warmed up—I could feel his body heat seeping into the sheets. I was sweating, whether from his warmth or the nightmares, I couldn’t say.

Just a little of his face was visible above the blanket, a bit of his forehead and a messy head of hair. I leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out, but he didn’t wake up.

I slid out of bed and went to take a shower. Letting the ice-cold water run over me, I focused on the sensation. Tried not to think about anything.

Over in ‘Nam, an ice-cold shower was a luxury. Any bit of clean water was. Sometimes, when it rained, I’d go out and sit with my face turned up to the sky, my eyes closed. Donovan always complained about the rain, but there were times I caught him staring up at the clouds with a small smile on his face, raindrops trickling down his neck.

I dried off and dressed. The whole time, I avoided looking in the mirror. Didn’t want to meet my own eyes. Didn’t know what I’d see. Or who.

Donovan was just where I’d left him. Don’t think he moved even an inch. The slight rise and fall of the blanket was the only indication something living was underneath it. Could’ve just been a pile of pillows.

I couldn’t resist sitting beside him and placing my hand on the part of the lump I figured was his shoulder. He flinched at the touch.

“Morning, baby,” I murmured.

Donovan relaxed. Pulling the blanket along with him, he kept his face buried and blindly followed the sound of my voice. He laid his head in my lap. One hand found my thigh, tucking between his cheek and the rough denim.

He mumbled again and this time I could hear him: “Baby.”

My heart did a cartwheel in my chest. Not nervous, not shocked, not uncomfortable and scared and wanting to run. I swear it was goddamn frolicking.

I was good and stuck now. Not that I had anywhere better to be. Couldn’t imagine anywhere better than this. With this warm, handsome man curled in my lap. This man. My…man?

That made my heart do more acrobatics. The uncomfortable kind.

Donovan must have noticed the sudden stiffness that came over my whole body. He shifted in his sleep. The blanket slipped down to reveal his face.

He was grimacing, his eyes flicking back and forth behind his eyelids.

“Sorry, hun,” I whispered, rubbing his shoulder.

Donovan flinched again and made a strangled sound. His eyes flew open. They darted around the room until they landed on my face. He forced his face to relax.

“Lincoln.” My name came out as a sigh of relief.

I cupped his cheek. “I’m here.”

He leaned into my touch.

“You get some sleep?”

He nodded against my hand. “Yeah. You?”

“Some.” I rubbed my eyes. “f*ckin’ nightmares.”

Donovan flashed me a sweet little smile and it sent a wave of warmth across my chest. “Want your good morning kiss now?”

I leaned down to kiss him. He sighed contentedly, parting his lips and inviting my tongue inside. His morning breath wasn’t exactly pleasant, but I didn’t mind. Any chance to taste him was one I’d gladly take. He nibbled gently on my lower lip as I pulled away.

“You’ve started something now.”

“What?”

“You’ve spoiled me. I won’t be able to start my day without one of your kisses.”

Donovan laughed. He sat up but didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned back against my chest. I shifted one foot onto the bed and made room for him to sit between my legs. His head rest on my shoulder.

He closed his eyes. “Mm. Feels so good to be close to you.”

“You’re a big softy.” I kissed the top of his head.

“Pot and kettle, Mr. Clay.”

I chuckled.

We sat in that lovely, peaceful silence for a few minutes. Then Donovan’s stomach let out a loud grumble.

He looked up at me with a sheepish smile. “Breakfast?”

Donovan's suggestion for breakfast surprised me. I expected his usual Briar Patch pancakes, or donuts from the Shore Lane Bakery.

Instead, he said, “Let's go Downtown. Find a place on General's Circle.”

“It a good idea for me to be down there?” I asked. “Cops described somebody like me as the guy who did the Skelton shooting. They'll have a heavy presence up there.”

Donovan studied my face.

“Yeah, to be honest, I...I know it's a bad idea. I just wanted you close to me. But you're right, it's dangerous.” He shook his head. “Sorry, just got a little...blinded, I guess.”

I managed a small smile. “We can divide our efforts—you check out the Skelton scene Downtown. I'll head to River Row. We need more information about Robertson, the secretary. If he was found there, maybe he lived there, and the killer followed him home.” I gave a sharp sigh and corrected myself. “Maybe Specs followed him.”

“We need to figure out who he is.”

“Said he was freelance. Doesn't narrow it down.” Then something hit me. “The dirty photos. He said he followed socialites and took compromising photos to sell to nudie magazines.”

Donovan wrinkled his nose. “Charming.”

“Maybe he was a regular contributor, and we can ID him that way.”

“Playboy?”

“Nah, I doubt he was on their radar. There are a few local ones. I'm betting he sold to them.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “You read those frequently?”

“I was a teenager once.”

He snorted.

“That’s if he was telling me the truth.”

Donovan shrugged. “It’s somewhere to start, anyway.”

“I’ll start in River Row. Maybe Robinson had some tie to him. Not through Trois Pattes. I dunno.”

“Let me see something.” Donovan went to his desk and retrieved the police report for Ron Robinson. “Yeah, he was wearing a crucifix. Don’t know what flavor of religion he was, but start at the churches. See if anybody knew him.”

I nodded. “Good catch.”

“Say,” He grinned, “are there any of those dirty magazines of the…other variety?”

I turned away. Lucky he couldn’t see my blush. “If I find any, I’ll let you know.”

We headed for the door. He stopped me as I started to turn the handle.

“Wait a minute.”

I turned to ask what was wrong, and he stood up on his toes to kiss me.

“One more before we face the world.” He smiled, his eyes all soft, and it made me want to crawl back into that warm nest of blankets with him and sleep the day away.

The two of us parted ways in the parking lot. I headed for my car, he tucked his hands in his pockets and started toward where he’d parked the van a few blocks away. I forced myself not to turn back and watch him go. To call out to him just to hear his voice again.

Get it together, Lincoln.

There were several churches in River Row, serving the working men and women who lived there. Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic.

I started at the Catholic church, maybe because I was the most familiar with it. It reminded me of St. Jerome’s. Maybe I didn’t believe in God or divinity as much as I should, but I found a bit of comfort in that familiarity.

Made me think of Father James and all the sermons he’d delivered about forgiving thy neighbor and finding strength within ourselves. That strength guides us to find the strength in others.

The St. Joseph Catholic Church stood in the middle of 17^th Street, which curved along the outer edge of River Row. It was the tallest building on the block by far, its steeple rising high into the sky, topped by a cross.

The bells rang ten o’clock. We’d slept later than I thought. How did I lose so many hours? I guess he made me blind, too.

A stream of people made their way out the front doors. Guess it was Sunday. I’d just missed the morning mass. After the mess I’d made of this week, I had no concept of time anymore. Just measuring the days by the sunrise and sunset and dreading the news of another victim.

I stood off to the side, nodding and murmuring greetings to the churchgoers until they all cleared out. The congregation was like St. Jerome’s, a mix of races. A small sampling of the city’s population. Poverty is one of those things that drives people to find God, and poverty doesn’t care what color you are. Once you’re in it, it sucks you down and keeps you there.

The priest was an old white man with a wrinkled face and a short gray beard. He held out his hand as I approached.

“You’re a little late, son. We’ve just finished.”

I blinked and shook his hand. “Oh, I…sorry, Father.”

He smiled. “Just teasing. Haven’t seen you here before.”

“I go to St. Jerome’s. Father James Ballard’s the priest up there.”

“Ah, Father James.” His smile widened. “Yes, I know him. We run in the same circles, so to speak.”

“I’m Levi,” I said. “Wondered if I could ask you some questions about one of your congregation.”

He tilted his head, regarding me curiously. “I can’t promise any answers but ask away.”

“Father…?”

“Thomas.”

“Father Thomas, I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent murders. The ‘Shadow killings,’ they’re calling them. I think one of them was one of your flock. Ron Robertson?”

Father Thomas thought for a moment. “A few Robertsons here. Common enough name. But I don’t know any Rons.”

I let out a short sigh. “Alright.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.” It occurred to me he was probably wondering why the hell I was asking about this. I refined my answer. “We went to grade school together, long time ago. I wanted to give my respects to his family.”

“Mm.” He nodded. “Such awful news. What could possess a man to be so brutal? I shudder to think how those poor men suffered.”

I thought about the things I’d done in Vietnam, the things I’d done here. The blood I’d spilled. Brutal, indeed.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Levi,” Father Thomas went on. “Perhaps you could try Father James?”

“I think Ron lived here in River Row. He worked up in Frisco Fields, but I doubt he lived there. Not really a place up there for people like us.” I kept that ‘us’ vague.

The priest nodded again. “I see. The First Baptist Church is a few blocks over.” He gestured over my shoulder. “The Trinity Lutheran Church is four blocks the other way. Perhaps he was a member of either of those?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him.”

“I understand. I’m sorry for your loss, son.”

“It was a loss for all of us.” I deflected it. Felt a little bad for lying to a priest. That was an extra layer of sin on top of the usual ‘thou shalt not lie.’ “Thanks for your help.”

“Would you like to come inside? You missed the service, but God’s always willing to lend an ear.”

I considered it for a second. The silence might be nice. But I shook my head. Had work to do.

“Not today, Father.”

He shook my hand again. “Take care, Levi. Hope to see you again sometime.”

I started toward the Baptist church. I was surprised to find the front doors locked. I circled around the side and found a window to peer into.

It looked like a standard church. Pews, a pulpit, stacks of hymnals. I caught a glimpse of a stand by the front door with a big green book on top of it. My guess was a prayer book.

My fingers itched. I bet I’d find a few prayers for the dead man. Maybe a link to family or friends. But the book was in there, and I was out here. A few locked doors in my way.

Locks were easy. Easier than people. You did a little dance with the pins inside and it just made sense.

But, hell, I’d already done plenty of sins this morning. That little voice of Catholic guilt reared its head and listed them off: took the Lord’s name in vain, lied to a priest, laid with another man.

“Shut the f*ck up,” I muttered.

Not only would it be pretty damn blasphemous to break into a church, it’d also be pretty damn stupid to do in broad daylight.

I loosened my shoulders and made it look like I was just taking a casual walk around the church grounds. It was surrounded by a little patch of grass and a fence which obstructed a bit of the view from the other buildings. Behind it stood an apartment building a few floors taller than the church.

I looked at it, then looked back at the church. Wasn’t much space between them. Maybe a few arm’s lengths. And the roof of the church only had a gentle slope, wasn’t too steep.

Churches like that usually had windows on the upper floor for ventilation.

I had a stupid idea. Not as stupid as Donovan’s idea to go to the police station Downtown, but pretty stupid.

I turned for the apartment building. Plenty of people went in and out all day, the front door was propped open. It was easy to get in and trudge up the five floors to the roof.

The roof was empty. I was thankful for that. Didn’t know how the hell I’d explain to anyone what I was about to do.

Peering over the edge of the roof, I judged the distance. I’d been right—three, maybe four feet. Alright. Okay. I could do this. I didn’t have an issue with heights. It was more the falling part that turned my stomach.

I sent up two silent prayers: one, in thanks that Donovan wasn’t here to see this. Two, in apology to whatever God oversaw this church.

Then I got a running start and jumped over the edge.

I landed hard on the church roof and scrambled for a grip on the shingles. They were so hot, they burned my fingers. I grit my teeth and held on.

Finally, I felt stable enough to get my feet under me. I stayed in a low crouch and walked awkwardly toward the shallow ledge that ran around the church roof.

One window was painted shut. The one next to that, too. I started to get a little nervous. Hadn’t exactly thought of a way down that didn’t involve crawling inside the church. That possibility of falling started to loom a little closer.

Then I found one that was loose enough for me to get my fingers into the seam between the window and the frame.

I opened it enough to fit my shoulders through and squirmed inside.

The church was silent. I kept my breathing nice and quiet, walking carefully along the balcony. Each creaking step made me wince.

I went down the stairs to the main level. The big cross at the front of the room drew my attention. A wooden statue of Jesus stared down at me, larger than life. Some might look up at his face and see him as pensive and calm. His brown furrowed, his lips pressed together. All I could see was disappointment.

I stared at it for a moment, then muttered, “Sorry.”

Keeping away from the windows, I made my way back to the prayer book. I flipped through it.

For my grandmother. For my work prospects. For my aches and pains. For my son, Ron.

I ran my finger along the entry and found the requestor’s name: Cecilia Robertson, 1542 Short Street, Apt. 4.

I blew out a quiet breath. Not quite relief.

It was good I found a connection. Hadn’t been entirely convinced that I would. And now that I had…I didn’t really know what good it could do me. Was it worth tracking down a grieving mother and questioning her about her son’s business activities? Could I stomach it?

I thought of the Skelton father and the agony in his voice. He knew what his son had been embroiled in. Maybe he’d just found out and it drove him crazy. Would a mother want to know why her son was killed? Would that bring her any peace? Could it?

That bit of paper the coroner found on Skelton’s body—the scrap seemed to match the bit missing from the financial report Specs left for me. I wondered…did he kill the son and track down the father, thinking he was in on the scheme, too? Did he taunt him with the report, make him lose his mind? Did he ever know in the first place?

The way Specs killed those men was brutal. Like a wild animal. Focused on maximizing harm. That harm went beyond those directly involved—Skelton and Wilkerson, maybe Robertson. The wrath extended out in a circle, killing those caught up in the blast radius—Reynolds and Madison. Bozich. Skelton’s father. He wanted to kill anyone attached, even tangentially.

That confirmed it. I needed to find Cecilia Robertson before Specs did.

Chapter 29: You Better Stop

Chapter Text

The conversation would be hard enough, but I couldn’t even find the address. I scoured the apartment buildings. They all looked the same—tall, smoke-stained brick with dirty windows. Some signs of life in the form of window boxes full of flowers and posters for local musicians and union support.

The building numbers hopped from 1538 to 1540 to 1544. No 1542.

I leaned against a tree, watching people come and go. Maybe the mother hadn’t put her real address. Smart move. I could only imagine the pain and fear that came from losing a child. That was bad enough. Then knowing how he’d died, knowing he was one in a string of other victims. Seemingly random killings that put the whole city on edge. The whole thing was an awful f*ckin’ business.

I sighed. Couldn’t stand here all day.

1540 Short Street stood to my left. I ducked inside, my eyes adjusting to the change from bright sunlight to a dim interior.

How far off was the number? Had she even put the right street? Goddamn, I’m wasting my f*ckin’ time.

Down the block, a car backfired. I glanced out the door. An engine grudgingly came to life, whining and squealing. A car tore past me—a gray Potomac Indiana.

I couldn’t see the driver but I knew in my gut it was him.

I ran back the way he’d come, following the marks his tires left on the pavement. A big smear told me where he’d taken off from: a short apartment building across the street. 1563 Short Street.

I pushed open the door.

A few trash bags were torn open and scattered down the stairs. The path of destruction led up to the third floor. The door to Apartment 3 hung open.

I didn’t think about what I’d find. I just stepped inside.

A chair was flipped over at the kitchen table. The radio was on. A kettle whistling on the stove. But there was no body. No blood.

“Anybody here?” I called.

“Get the f*ck out!” a muffled voice replied.

I followed it to the bathroom door. There were a few smudged shoeprints near the doorknob, but it still looked sturdy.

“Was a man just in here? Scrawny, fake glasses?”

“I said get. Out.”

“He hurt you?”

“I’ll hurt you if you don’t leave now.”

I glanced around the apartment. Sparsely decorated, but there were a few photos around. They charted the life of a man from birth to what looked like mid-30s. I took my best guess.

“My name’s Levi,” I said. “I know what that man did to his son. And why he did it.”

There was a long silence. Then I heard the door unlock.

An older woman peered out, holding a cast-iron frying pan over her head. “Who the f*ck are you?”

“Levi,” I repeated. “I’m following those Shadow killings. I know why Ron was killed. Something to about what he was doing at Beauregard.”

“I told him he should leave that damn job.”

“Are you Cecilia Robertson?”

She glared at me and didn’t say anything. I couldn’t blame her.

“Alright, ma’am. I’ve got a gun in my belt. I’m gonna take it out and put it on the floor. I don’t mean you any harm.”

She didn’t move. “Guess we’ll see if this old woman can smash your skull in before you can shoot.”

I snorted.

Moving slowly, I turned my back to her and lifted my shirt to show my pistol. I drew it, careful to keep my finger far from the trigger and stooped down to drop it on the rug.

I turned back around, keeping my hands by my side.

The woman glared a moment longer, then opened the bathroom door. “Tell me about my son.”

“He got involved in embezzlement. Somebody was stealing city money. I think Ron might’ve been roped into forging some reports.”

Mrs. Roberston moved to the kitchen to turn off the stove and move the kettle. She poured the boiling water into a French press.

Her voice was emotionless.

“My son was a good boy. A smart boy. Top of his class. But he was scared.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “He hated living here. Wanted to move us somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I said softly.

“It got him killed,” she said. Her eyes were dry. I guessed she’d cried out all her tears. All that was left was the numbness of loss. “He wanted out so bad, he lost his head. Agreed to this-” She waved a hand, “nonsense.”

“Did you know?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I suspected something was going on. He always loved to talk about his work. So proud of it. Then a few months ago, he clams up. Doesn’t want to talk about it at all.”

“The man who was here before me, what did he say to you?”

Mrs. Robertson poured a cup of coffee. She poured another and handed it to me, moving robotically. It must have been habit. I wondered how many times she’d been here, leaning against the counter as she shared a cup of coffee with her son.

“Didn’t say much,” she said. “Could tell just from the look of him that he was trouble. Made some dumb excuse about being from Beauregard. Then he said Ron’s name, and the way he said it…” Her lips drew back in a snarl. She couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes. There was the slightest shudder in her voice as she said, “Had such contempt in his voice. I knew in that moment he killed my son.”

I hesitated. Wondering if what I was about to say would help or hurt. I made up my mind. “Ma’am, I believe he was here to kill you, too.”

“Not a surprise.” She sipped her coffee, her voice returning to its emotionless monotone. “Moment he reached for his pocket, I grabbed my pan and ran for the bathroom. Thought he had a gun.” She scoffed. “f*ckin’ idiot just had a knife.”

“Did Ron have anyone he would’ve told about this? Anyone who might’ve helped?” I let out a short sigh. “I only ask because that person or people might be that monster’s next target.”

Mrs. Roberston shrugged. “He had friends. Don’t know if he would’ve told them, though. They’re good kids, they keep out of trouble. Ron always did. Until this.”

I handed her the coffee cup. Never did take a sip from it. In a way it felt wrong to drink from her son’s cup. To stand where a ghost ought to stand.

“Thanks for your time, ma’am. I’m sorry about your son.”

She nodded.

I retrieved my pistol and walked to the door.

“Ackerman,” she said suddenly. “He introduced himself as Ackerman. Probably lying, but if he meant to kill me…” She shrugged again.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You find that motherf*cker and you kill him.”

I pulled the door shut behind me.

Chapter 30: White Rabbit

Chapter Text

I walked through River Row for another hour, just thinking. I considered taking Father Thomas up on that offer to sit for a while in the church. But I didn’t want to sit still, I had to keep moving.

Had that fight again in my head. That urge to beat myself up for letting Specs slip away again. But I forced myself to try and think something reasonable instead.

It was a strategic move. Priority was Mrs. Roberts. I’ll find him. It wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t f*ck up. It wasn’t a mistake.

I returned to my car, half expecting to find another yellow handkerchief tied to the door. But I found nothing. Honestly don’t know what I would’ve done if I had. I couldn’t guarantee I’d be strong enough to resist the urge to hurt myself.

I’d had issues with that in the past, too. Hitting myself in the head when I got mad as a kid. Sometimes I wanted to hit whoever or whatever it was that was making me mad, but hitting myself was easier. Helped me fight the numbness I always seemed to feel.

I had a couple options. Could go to Trois Pattes and see if anybody had seen Bozich and Specs—maybe “Ackerson”—together. Could track down some nudie magazines and read them, I guess, to try and find photographer names. Did they even have words in ‘em?

Or, maybe the most daunting of all, I could try and force myself to eat something. It was past noon by now and I grudgingly admitted I was hungry.

That was another thing that made me hit myself when I was younger. I’d be aching with hunger and just get so mad, but I didn’t know why. Mad at myself for being hungry? Mad at the orphanage for not giving us food? Mad at Father James for all he did not being good enough to keep us fed?

Even back then, us kids saw his kindness and love and knew it wasn’t his fault. We couldn’t be made at him, though we tried. We needed somebody to be mad at, and he was there. Being mad at the whole world doesn’t feel as good as being mad at somebody specific.

I wanted Donovan with me. For more reasons than just this, obviously, but him just sitting there eating beside me helped more than I realized.

I wondered if he was back at the Blue Gulf yet.

Parking beside a payphone, I thumbed a nickel into the slot and dialed the motel. The phone rang and rang. I huffed out a sigh and hung up.

I drove around River Row, searching for a newsstand. Managed to find one and scanned the offerings. The clerk gave me a dirty look when I walked away without buying anything.

There were a few brothels in the French Ward, some hidden better than others. I think one was at a flower shop. A few movie studios that made p*rnos—calling them “studios” was generous. As I understood it, the majority of their movies were produced on-site with women who didn’t know they were being filmed.

God, this f*ckin’ city drove all of us to do desperate sh*t.

Maybe one of those places could give me a lead.

I pulled over by the bay, watching the choppy water pass by. The song on the radio was interrupted by a crackling broadcast.

“Hello again, New Bordeaux,” it said. “Don’t bother adjusting your radio. You won’t silence the Voice of the Hollow. When the Voice speaks, you listen.”

The Voice. Laveau. I’d invoked his name twice already. Might be worth talking to the man himself.

Chapter 31: Wonderful World

Chapter Text

I found Laveau at his compound out in the bayou. The door to the central building was propped open to let in the breeze. A woman in a black leather jacket stood outside, her arms crossed, eyeing me as I approached.

“Here to talk to the Voice,” I said.

“I’ll bet you are, Lincoln Clay,” she replied.

I could hear Laveau talking through the open door. She knew it and I knew it.

“He in?”

“Depends,” she said. “You got a cigarette?”

I scoffed and reached into my pocket. “How’d your old man feel about you accepting bribes, Roxy?”

“What he don’t know won’t kill him.” She accepted the cigarette. Lighting it, she gestured over her shoulder. “Go on. Watch yourself, he’s in a mood.”

“I might’ve caused it,” I muttered.

Charles Laveau leaned over his desk, tapping on the map laid out over the surface.

Beside him stood a young, nervous-looking man in glasses that were too big for him. They kept slipping down his nose.

“You go in through the sewer,” Laveau said, in the same stern voice he used to use when he was bartending at Sammy’s and a patron started to get unruly. “You go up through the access tunnels. You get into the vault. Then what?”

“Um.” The man looked down to his notebook.

Laveau snatched it from his hand. “You won’t have notes in the middle of an operation, Quincy. Use your brain. You get into the vault—what do you do next?”

“Plant the explosives and run like hell,” I supplied.

Laveau looked up.

“Now, Quincy,” he told the young man. “This is a man of action. A man who gets things done. Whether they’re the right things, well, that’s still up in the air.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I doubt it.” Laveau handed the notebook back and pushed Quincy toward the door. “Get out of here. Ask Roxy to run through the drills with you until you remember. And do not-” He stopped the young man before he could leave, “-let her tell you you’re allowed to shoot the AR30. You are not.”

Quincy frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Understood.”

Laveau turned to me. “These young kids are all excited to join the movement until they see what it’s really like. Planning, running drills, and arguing about what the hell to do.”

“Can’t just give ‘em a gun and throw ‘em to the wolves,” I replied.

“That’s what Cassandra’s doing. And you’re helping her.” Laveau raised an eyebrow. “Of course, the Haitians are mad and looking for revenge against Marcano, the cops, the rich white men who run this city. But giving them assault rifles and telling them to go shoot up a shopping center ain’t the way to do it.”

I wanted to lean against his desk, to cross my arms and make myself comfortable. But Laveau demanded respect, and I knew he deserved it. He wasn’t the sort of man I’d kick back and share a beer with. Even when I was a teenager and he was slinging drinks at Sammy’s, everyone knew he wouldn’t tolerate sh*t. The kitchen had to be clean, the patrons had to keep the fighting to a minimum, me and Ellis had to make sure there was a steady stream of clean glasses coming from the sink to the bar.

Can’t count the number of dressings-down he gave me when I didn’t dry a glass well enough and left the inside streaky. Usually had to wash and dry it three more times before he was satisfied.

“I know,” I said. Out of habit, I guess, I stood at attention with my hands down by my sides. Sometimes facing Laveau felt like staring down a drill sergeant.

“Those kids need training.” Laveau straightened. He glanced out the window to watch the group at the shooting range. The muffled pop-popfilled the silence. Then he said, “We give them weapons and send them out just to soak up bullets, we’re no better than the bloodsuckers in Congress sending our young men to Vietnam. Sending them to fight other men’s wars. Just to die. And for what?”

I shook my head. “For nothing.”

“Right.” Laveau studied me.

I let the silence stretch on as long as I could until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “You got a minute to talk?”

He held up a hand.

“Let me guess. Some strange man calling himself ‘Levi’ tracked you down and started asking you questions about these ‘Shadow’ murders. You’re not the only one. Apparently this Levi has been all over town.” He raised an eyebrow. “And imagine my surprise when somebody happened to mention he was acting on my behalf.”

“Yeah.” I tried not to sound too sheepish. “Look, Laveau, I know I should’ve approached you first-”

“Oh, but that’s not all,” Laveau interrupted. “Levi’s giving out gifts, too. Gifts from me. ‘Cept they’re not from me. Never met this ‘Levi’ in my life. Though I think he might be standing right in front of me now. Am I right?”

“Yes. It’s me.”

“Normally when somebody uses the Voice as a tool to get what they want, I don’t take that sitting down. There’s punishment for that kind of thing.”

I held his gaze, though the teenager in me wanted to drop my head as I got scolded.

Laveau reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“A sister named Carlotta found one of our boys on the edge of the Hollow and gave him this. A thanks for what this mysterious ‘Levi’ did. I think it belongs in your hands.”

He handed it over. I looked down to see a child’s drawing. A stick figure of a woman in a white apron held what looked like a plate of pancakes. Next to her was a little girl with curly squiggles for braids. She looked to be maybe two, much older than the seven months I’d guess. Well, sh*t, I feel like a f*ckin’ idiot.

“She said the clothes didn’t quite fit, but she and her little girl like the blanket.”

I still stared down at the drawing. A kid made this. For me. She thought of that little bit of kindness and put her feelings down on paper.

I suddenly had to swallow a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry to use your movement without checking with you first. I did have good intentions.”

“I’m sure you did.” His face was unreadable. His voice, too.

I forced my shoulders to relax and folded my hands behind my back.

What he said next surprised me.

“What do you need from us?”

I blinked. “Right now, any information you can give me on the brothels in the French Ward. I know how the killer is. I’ve met him, talked with him.

Both of Laveau’s eyebrows shot up at that.

“Even shot him,” I went on. “At least one hit, maybe more. Can’t be sure.” I sighed. There was that flash of guilt and self-hatred again that I’d let him get away. I forced myself to focus. “I know an alias he goes by: Specs. He told me he’s a reporter. I don’t know what rag he works for, but I think he sells dirty photos to some of those nudie magazines. Figured I could try and find him that way.”

Laveau gestured to the table in the center of the room. I followed him over and we sat.

“Tell me what you know,” he said.

I laid it all out. The victims. The ties to Beauregard. The blackmail plot-turned-murder spree. Meeting Specs in the cemetery and finding the bouncer, Bozich, all laid out to frame me. The chase, the car. Mrs. Roberts and the frying pan.

By the end of it, Laveau had a bemused smile on his face.

“You’ve always been the industrious type.” He shook his head. “Even when you were just some 15-year-old kid, you could get anybody to tell you anything.”

“Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”

“Guess so,” Laveau agreed. “So, what d’you need? A name? A way in?”

“Knowing where to find these magazine publishers would be a start. A list of frequent contributors. If I can get my hands on that, I’ll work through ‘em one-by-one until I find who this sick bastard really is.”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Laveau.” I put my hands on my knees, ready to stand, but didn’t follow through on the motion. I realized I was waiting to be dismissed.

“I’ll be in touch,” Laveau said.

That was my cue. I stood. “There anything I can do in return?”

He looked at me long and hard.

“Find the killer before he takes and more of our brothers or sisters. Give out your gifts if you want, but don’t use my name again.” His voice was calm and even but I knew him well enough to know this wasn’t a polite request—it was an order. “Direct them to the movement. But you don’t speak for the Voice.”

I found myself sounding like that nervous kid he’d been lecturing. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter 32: Bring It On Home to Me

Chapter Text

The drive back to the Hollow took long enough, it was now late afternoon. The sun started to creep its way toward the horizon. I pulled into the Blue Gulf parking lot.

As soon as I stepped into the motel room and shut the door behind me, I was tackled by a tan blur that pushed me back into the wall.

“Ooof!”

“S’me,” Donovan mumbled, before I drove my fist into his kidney.

I looked down at his back. “You fixed your suit.”

“Trashed it. Got a new one.” His voice was muffled by my chest.

I put my arms around him, and he was stiff, his shoulders tight.

“You alright, hun?”

He paused, then said, “Didn’t find anything at the Skelton scene. Some bloodstains they haven’t scrubbed off yet.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Donovan didn’t say anything.

I shuffled us over to sit on the bed. Donovan leaned against me, his head slipping further and further down my chest until he sagged over into my lap. I shifted him over to pull his jacket off one arm, then the other, and laid it over him.

I ran my fingers through his hair, and he leaned into my hand. I still hadn’t seen his face.

“I lied,” he said finally.

“’Bout what?”

“This morning. You asked if I got any sleep. I lied.”

I didn’t say anything, just stroked his hair. Waiting.

“First time you woke up hollering…” Donovan shook his head against my thigh. “It scared the hell outta me. Hearing you so sad and so scared, it f*cked me up bad. Couldn’t close my eyes after that. Just stared up at the ceiling, and you just kept screaming…I think I managed to close my eyes after the sun came up, then you came back from your shower and woke me up.”

My stomach twisted up. “I’m sorry, Donovan, I-”

“No.” He took my hand and struggled to sit up. His grip was surprisingly strong given the number of broken fingers he had. “No, it’s not your fault. I don’t want-I didn’t want to say anything. I knew you’d say it was your fault. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

I could see how deep and dark the circles were under his eyes now that he finally looked me in the face.

“All day I was thinking about coming back here and sitting in your arms.” Donovan spoke quickly, the words tumbled out. “I couldn’t focus on anything else. I didn’t think I’d ever wanna sit in somebody’s arms, but, Lincoln, you were all I could think of.”

I scooted back on the bed and pulled him with me. I settled him between my legs. Pressing his back snug against my stomach, I closed my eyes and put my arms over his shoulders, my palms flat on his chest. Didn’t even care that my boots were on the bed.

Donovan took a shuddering breath. I felt it move up from his lungs, out his mouth. He tilted his head back against my shoulder.

“Like this,” he mumbled. “All I could think about was sitting just like this.”

“I wish I could stop the nightmares,” I said quietly, swallowing hard. “They scare the hell out of me, too. Sometimes I see your face next to Sammy and Ellis, and you’re all bloody or…or worse, and I can’t stand it. I just want it to stop and all I can do is scream.”

Donovan put his hands over mine.

“Can we just sit here a while?” he asked. His voice was strangled.

“Yeah. Just let me-” I tried to kick off my boots, but I didn’t have much wiggle room with Donovan sitting in my lap.

“Here.” He leaned forward to untie the laces and take the boots off.

The breath caught in my throat. It was…kinda foolish, I guess. To get emotional about something like that. But there was something so intimate about somebody dressing you. Or undressing you. The gentleness of their fingers as they undid buttons and untied laces and said let me help you get comfortable. I’d felt it when helping Donovan take his jacket off.

I murmured my thanks and shuffled us back until I sat against the wall.

Donovan settled back against me. He slowly relaxed, his fingers losing their grip on my hands. His eyes shut, then he flinched and they snapped open again. Closed, then opened. I could almost feel how tired he was, how sore every single muscle in his body was. Probably because all of mine were, too.

“Sleep, baby,” I whispered.

I wrapped my arms around him, pressing all my warmth into his aching bones. He finally relaxed. His eyes slipped closed for good.

Working through these struggles together, saying all our feelings out loud—this had opened up a whole new side of Donovan. A side that was gentle and soft, that wanted touch. Needed it.

Before this, we’d touched each other in passing. Shaking hands. Clapping each other on the shoulder. Brushing knuckles. Bandaged each other’s wounds, but nowhere near as intimately as this.

And now…now I could take him into my arms and hold him, kiss him, finally put words to all those feelings I’d had for months. For years. It felt so natural. It felt so good.

He felt so good.

I sat with him leaned against me and watched TV, living in this wonderful, peaceful, blissful moment. I could imagine this stretching on forever. Sitting with him like this every night. As the summer turned to fall. As Marcano and all of his lieutenants fell. As the dust settled and I finally accepted that I did want to go on living.

As my bones started aching and the wrinkles deepened around our eyes and his hair turned gray and we maybe had the luck to grow into old age together.

The fact I even thought that surprised me. I had to quickly raise a hand to wipe tears from my eyes. I’d never thought of old age. Never expected I’d live that long. Never really wanted to.

But now, maybe I had a reason.

We had work to do. People to track down, a killer to catch. I was willing to ignore all that, however irresponsible and stupid that might be. Anything to keep Donovan sleeping in my arms, a deadweight in my lap.

Chapter 33: Fortunate Son

Chapter Text

Laveau may call me industrious, but he worked just as fast. The movement had the benefit of supporters all across the city. Some members were divided about including white sympathizers in their ranks, understandably so. But information was information.

Donovan and I woke the next morning to find an envelope slipped beneath the motel door. I didn’t bother asking how Laveau knew where to find me. Wasn’t worried if he knew where our tac center was. I knew that information wouldn’t get to Marcano from him.

Stretching and yawning, Donovan stumbled to the bathroom. I moved the envelope to the table and rifled through it.

Laveau’s informants included front pages with names and addresses of publishing houses of some magazines. Looked like three were here in New Bordeaux—two were brothels in the French Ward. Surprise, surprise.

A few photographer names, but they all referred to the image on the front cover. I had no way of knowing how good of a photographer Specs was, if he even was one. But gritting my teeth and taking his word for it, his lewd photos of unknowing socialites wouldn’t appear on the front cover. Those belonged in the back pages.

At least the addresses were something. I scanned the names.

The bathroom door opened, and Donovan emerged. He crossed the room to kiss me. He had the courtesy of brushing his teeth first so I didn’t have to taste his morning breath.

I smiled. “Morning, baby. You sleep alright?”

“Mm-hmm.” Donovan leaned against me, resting his weight against my back. His ear pressed against my back, listening to my heartbeat. I heard him yawn again.

I turned back to the magazine covers.

“You’re not lying this time, are you?”

He snorted. “No, not this time.”

“Good.”

“Dreamed about you,” he said quietly. “We went fishing.”

I blinked. “Didn’t know you liked fishing.”

“I don’t. It’s boring as hell.” He chuckled. “The whole time I kept asking you why the hell we were out there, and you kept saying it was my idea. Then the alligators started flying. Whole thing got kinda strange after that.”

I laughed hard enough it sent him reeling back.

“f*ckin’ loud,” he muttered crossly.

“Aw, poor thing.” I turned and ruffled his hair. “Little guy hurt his ears?”

Donovan scowled. He prodded two fingers into my solar plexus, not hard enough to do any damage but hard enough that it hurt.

“‘Little guy,’” he mocked. “I’m not little. I’m not even that short! You’re just a giant, so I look short next to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am above average height!”

“Okay, hun.” I kissed him and let him feel my smile.

Donovan tried valiantly to hold onto his irritated frown, but it quickly faded when I took his bottom lip between my teeth. He groaned. Leaning into me, he got a grip on the back of my neck and used it to bring me even closer.

“f*ck, I love you,” he mumbled. “You’re so f*ckin’ sexy.”

I kissed the corner of his mouth and stepped back before my hands started wandering places they shouldn’t. “Got my morning kiss. I can start the day now.”

Grumbling to himself, Donovan picked up the blanket and shook it until he found his jacket.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Laveau dropped off some info about those magazines, need to go through that.”

“I’ll grab you some.”

“’Kay.” I surprised myself by adding, “And some eggs?”

Did I just say that? Felt like somebody else slipped into my shoes and spoke for me. For once I was actually hungry, and for once I actually said it.

“Yeah.” I could tell Donovan was fighting to hold back a grin. He managed to keep it to just a small smile. “Omelet?”

“Scrambled.”

“Sure.” On his way out the door, he stopped next to me to slip an arm around my waist and kiss my cheek.

“Thank you, hun,” I murmured.

It was thanks for the kiss and the eggs, but more than that, I was thanking him for not commenting on what I’d said. For not making some big deal about it.

Donovan closed the door behind him.

I carried the envelope into the next room and charted out the locations on a map of the city.

One at the same address as that brothel, Un Belle Jardin. One of Marcano’s. Another I’d never heard of, some club called Red Lips. And the third in Southdowns. That surprised me.

The address stuck out to me: Bayside Street.

I looked at the map.

“Bayside, Bayside,” I muttered. I traced the road with my finger.

That’s why it sounded familiar—I’d just driven on it. It intersected with Shore Lane. A few blocks down from that intersection was the Shore Lane Bakery. Madison’s place. Did he run a dirty magazine, too?

Respected local businessman with his finger in a lot of pies. Seen meeting with Specs Shouted about money he’s owed. There had to be a connection.

I rummaged around on Donovan’s desk until I found two tacks. I pinned one in the possible address of the magazine publisher and the other at Madison’s bakery.

Sure, they were close, but that wasn’t enough for a definite link.

That magazine was apparently at 1733 Bayside Street. I wasn’t especially interested in going there—didn’t really want to see what I assumed I’d find. But we didn’t have the luxury of time for surveillance from a distance. Needed to go straight to the source.

I heard the door open and got a whiff of pancakes. It made my mouth water. Not from desperation or nausea, just ‘cause it smelled good.

“Honey, I’m home,” Donovan called in a singsong. He peered around the doorway from the adjoining room. “I come bearing gifts.”

“More gifts than your fine self?”

He grinned at me. I moved to kiss him.

God, those soft eyes of his. He looked so happy. I’m sure the pancakes were partly responsible, but I dared to think maybe I caused some of it, too. That made me wanna laugh and cry at the same time. My head didn’t know what to do with all that mess of emotion.

“Got your eggs,” Donovan said. He set the bag on his desk and began to unpack it.

“I’ll trade you eggs for a break in the case.” I handed him the magazine cover.

He glanced down at it as he took a sip of coffee and choked. “Goddamn!”

“Other side.”

Donovan studied the image, craning his neck. “How’d she do that? I didn’t know you could…”

“Other side,” I repeated, pulling the page out of his hand and flipping it around.

He read the address. “Southdowns. That’s right near the bakery. You think Madison had something to do with this?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but…”

“I will.” He nodded. “He must have been involved. And the meeting with Specs at the diner, there’s something there. There has to be.”

I picked up the fork and opened the plate of eggs and took a bite. I chewed. I swallowed. Then I looked down at the fork in my hand. Who the f*ck’s hand was this? It couldn’t be mine.

Donovan was doing his watching-not-watching routine again as he tucked into the pancakes. He leaned on the edge of the desk.

I took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Setting the plate down on the desk, I dragged the chair over next to Donovan and sat, pulling him down into my lap.

Donovan let out a surprised laugh. “Hey! My pancakes!”

Despite his protests, he found a comfortable position and leaned back against my chest to eat his breakfast. I reached around him to eat my eggs.

After a few bites, I murmured, “Never been so happy.”

Donovan gave another of his contented sighs. “Me neither. Never thought I’d be happy like this. Didn’t seem to be in the cards for me, ‘specially not with our line of work.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. For once, hearing his soft, sweet words didn’t make me want to cry. Didn’t make me feel overwhelmed or scared. Maybe I was getting used to them.

“So, what’s the plan for this magazine?” Donovan asked. “Think it’s part of one of Marcano’s rackets?”

I’ll admit that kind of surprised me. “It didn’t come up when you were researching?”

He shook his head. “Never heard of it. The ones in the French Ward, yeah, they’re both run under Doc Gaston and report straight to Marcano. But this one in Southdowns is news to me.”

“What’s it called?” I strained to reach the magazine cover on the desk, and read, “‘Gentlemen’s Digest.’”

“How quaint.”

“Might not be a brothel, maybe some publishing house. They may not even write it on-site, could just be a printer.”

“The printer leads us to the editor.” Donovan mapped it out on his fingers. “The editor leads us to the contributors. The contributors lead us to Specs.”

“Might be named Ackerman,” I replied. “That’s what Mrs. Roberts said he introduced himself as.”

We ate in silence for a little while longer.

Then, Donovan said, “I have this feeling in my bones that we’re going to end up at Baron Saturday’s. It all goes back there.”

I huffed out a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

“You gonna be alright doing that? Going back?”

“I’ll have to be.”

I didn’t scare easily. I couldn’t afford to. But that place f*cking unnerved me, and it wasn’t just the f*cking hicks shooting at me. Everything about it, from the flashing lights to the ride narration to the plywood figures moving in the shadows—it all reeked of hate. The kind of bone-deep hate that ran through the heart of this city.

“Alright.” Donovan set his pancakes aside.

He slung his legs across mine until he was sitting across my lap. I put my arms around him so he wouldn’t fall. His head leaned against my shoulder.

I held him for just a few moments before I forced myself to nudge him off my lap.

“Don’t go doing that,” I said. “You’ll put me to sleep.”

He doggedly clung onto my shoulders, refusing to move. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Donovan.”

“Fine, fine.” Donovan leaned up to kiss me, then stood. He took another bite of pancakes and said, “Let’s go to Southdowns. I’ll be a cop again.” He tried to sound nice and innocent as he asked, “Unless you’ve got some dirty photos laying around? We can pretend to be contributors.”

I snorted. “’Fraid I don’t.”

That innocent act continued. “We could always take some.”

I choked on a mouthful of eggs. My fork stabbed through the Styrofoam container.

“Jesus, Donovan, it’s seven in the morning.”

“What?” He fluttered his eyelashes at me. “Just asking.”

My eyes couldn’t help but drift over his body, sweeping from head to toe. I’d love to see every inch of him, every inch I’d seen and all those I hadn’t. From the trail of light-colored hair down his stomach to the rounded curves of his ass to the defined muscles in his thighs and—

“That something, uh.” I cleared my throat. “That something you would want?”

Donovan’s cheeks turned pink. He ran a hand across the back of his neck. I noticed how nervous he’d suddenly become, his shoulders tense as he shifted his weight.

“Well, I-maybe I run my mouth too much,” he said.

“It’s alright,” I replied. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, I…don’t want to, um, lead you into thinking I want something that I can’t, uh, that I can’t give.” Donovan fidgeted with his fork. “I guess I get carried away. I’m comfortable with you, Lincoln, and sometimes I say…things. Even if I can’t, um…”

“It’s alright,” I repeated. “You know I…well, like I’ve said, I don’t always really understand what you mean, but I’m happy to let you lead. I want you to be comfortable with me, hun, I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Donovan managed a small smile. He kissed me.

“Alright, enough sappy sh*t. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 34: The Letter

Chapter Text

I ran into the same issue finding the address given for Gentlemen’s Digestas I had for Mrs. Roberts. The building numbers jumped in just the same way.

1729, 1731, 1735. But no 1733 Bayside Street.

Goddamnit.

We circled the block twice before Donovan parked the van and we retraced our steps on foot.

“You can’t find it either, huh?” he asked.

I grunted. “Maybe it’s ‘round the back.”

We walked to the alley between 1731 and 1735.

Donovan kicked a pile of trash out of his way. “That’s a real great corner office view.”

About two-thirds of the way down the alley, almost hidden behind a trash can, was an unmarked metal door. There was a small slot at eye-level.

Donovan exchanged a glance with me before stepping up to the door and knocking briskly. After a moment, the metal slot slid open.

“Whosat.” I couldn’t see who barked the word.

“This where the Gentlemen’s Digestis published?”

“You buying?”

Donovan held up the fake police badge. “Not quite.”

“Aw, c’mon, man, we ain’t doing nothing.” For a faceless voice behind a metal door, the speaker managed to sound remarkably whiny. “It was just a little heroin, let it slide.”

“You’re a f*ckin’ dumbass, man,” Donovan snapped. “Just making f*ckin’ admissions like that to any f*cker who rolls up with a badge? Jesus. Gonna get shut down.”

Donovan and I really could read each other’s minds. Maybe I didn’t want to admit it because it f*ckin’ scared me that somebody knew me that well. That I’d let somebody get that close.

Either way, a split-second change in our story didn’t faze me one bit.

“You’re gonna open this f*ckin’ door.” I picked up where Donovan left off. “That badge was a test and you failed.”

“A test of what?”

“Of security,” I retorted. “Madison knew you idiots wouldn’t keep his sh*t safe. Now his business partner’s gonna do something about it.”

“Business partner? Aw, you mean that weaselly little sh*t? His photos ain’t even that good.”

Donovan huffed out an irritated sigh that was entirely genuine. “Open the door or we’ll break it down.”

“Alright, man, chill out.”

We heard the door unlock. The moment it started to open, I shouldered my way inside in case the speaker had any ideas of closing it in our faces.

The owner of the voice turned out to be a twenty-something who’d already developed an impressive beer gut. He had a joint tucked behind one ear and the smell rolling off him hinted it wasn’t his first today.

I decided to take my shot and see if it struck home. “Ackerman sent us.”

I hid my relief when the kid nodded.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s been a real f*ckin’ mess since Madison got got.”

Describing the room as an “office” would be generous. Piles of old, curling magazines littered the floor. Messy stacks of photographs were scattered across a table. Beside them, a telephone perched precariously on top of a stack of books. In the corner was a Xerox copier. The room stank of ink.

The kid picked up the telephone and poked through the books beneath it.

I leaned over to mutter in Donovan’s ear, “Real upstanding operation Madison was involved in here.”

“Here.” The kid turned and held out a phonebook.

Donovan looked down at it. He raised an eyebrow.

“You gotta open it, genius,” the kid said.

Donovan scowled. Before he could snap a reply, I took the book and flipped it open. The inside pages were hollowed out to hold a stack of cash.

“This what Ackerman’s owed?” I asked. Picking up the stack, I weighed it and took an educated guess. Few hundred bucks. Dirty photos really were a profitable business.

“Yeah, it’s his share.”

“And the rest of it?” Donovan asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“There’s no ‘share’ anymore,” Donovan replied. His eyes narrowed. “Madison’s dead. That means Ackerman’s full owner.”

“Look, I wasn’t really included in those kinds of discussions, man. I just collect the photos and print the sh*t.”

“And hand out the money,” I said.

“Well, yeah, somebody’s gotta.”

I glanced over at Donovan and saw the wheels spinning in his head.

“I don’t trust you,” he said. “How do we know this is really boss’s share? Show me the receipts.”

“You think I keep receipts?” The kid’s eyebrows shot up.

“f*ckin’ Christ,” Donovan muttered. He stalked toward the Xerox machine and left me to wrangle the stoner.

The kid started to follow Donovan, but I blocked his path.

“We’re not here to make things hard, pal,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Curly.”

It was fitting, he had a mess of loose curls on his head.

“We’re collecting debts for Ackerman. He’s moving on up in the world. That blackmail’s really working for him.” It was a risk letting so much slip, but this kid seemed dumb enough to take the bait.

Sure enough, he did. “Man, I knew I shoulda tried to get in on that. He kept talking to Artie about it. Guess I missed my f*ckin’ chance. Don’t even know if I’ve got a f*ckin’ job anymore.”

“Look, we’re just muscle, kid. We’re just in the dark as you.”

“Muscle?” Curly echoed. “You, sure, but him?” He jerked a thumb at Donovan.

“I’m the brains,” Donovan replied, without looking over.

Curly laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

That drew Donovan’s eyes up. “What the f*ck is that supposed to mean?”

I quickly interrupted before Donovan got his feathers all ruffled. “Talk is Ackerman’s going to Lou Marcano, trying to get into business in the French Ward. Y’know all the sh*t he was doing over at the Trois Pattes.”

“Yeah, man, he’s got some f*ckin’ vendetta against the Briar Patch guys. Apparently, a lot of them go to that whor*house. He always talked about ‘em. He and Artie fought about it a few times before he, y’know-” Curly clicked his tongue and drew a finger across his throat.

“They ever talk about Baron Saturday’s? The amusem*nt park?”

Curly laughed. “Oh, yeah, he had a weird f*ckin’ obsession with that place, too. Maybe he was pissed they didn’t let white people in. Well, y’know what I mean.”

“Something in the city that wasn’t for them.” I was speaking a bit harshly. That place was a spot of soreness for every black person, Dominican, Haitian—every f*ckin’ person who didn’t fit that label of “white.”

There was a little voice in my gut that reminded me I was in a room with two white folks and had to watch what I said. Never knew in this city. Smallest f*ckin’ thing could get the cops called on you. Or worse. That was an old instinct that had been drilled into me since I was a kid.

Curly nodded, obviously oblivious to what was going on inside my head.

“Wondered why he was so mad at the Briar Patch. Sounds like they’re trying to open the park back up for whites. Figured that was what he wanted. f*ckin’ loon.” He suddenly seemed to remember he was talking to Ackerman’s apparent “muscle.”

“No offense.”

“None taken,” Donovan replied. He added under his breath, “Not at that, anyway.”

“You got what you need, Watson?” I asked him.

Donovan’s poker face was, as always, unflinching. “Yeah. Let’s go. Smell’s making my f*ckin’ eyes water.”

“You stay out of trouble, Curly.” I clapped him on the shoulder hard enough that he lurched forward.

“Yeah, man.” He rubbed his shoulder, scowling. “You tell Ackerman he’s got what he’s owed and now he’s just gotta make sure we keep printing. I’m just the editor, all that’s above my head.”

I was going to remark that, as editor, that was exactly his job, but I kept it to myself.

“What’d he mean ‘but him?’, I look like muscle!” Donovan said crossly as we left the alley. He shrugged off one sleeve of his jacket and flexed his bicep. “Look at that, that’s muscle!”

I couldn’t resist reaching forward to squeeze his arm. “Real nice muscle, too.”

“That’s right!”

He stayed in his irritated little huffy fit until we arrived back at the van.

As I settled in my seat, he said, “Alright, I’ve held it back for a few hours and I can’t anymore.”

I looked over to see his grin.

“Felt damn good to hear you ask for eggs this morning,” he said. “Hell, I’m proud of you.”

Like always, I had the flash of anger, but I tamped it down. “Thanks, hun.”

“Might sound like I’m…dunno, making fun of you, or something, but honest, I mean it. It’s f*ckin’ hard to ask for help.”

I glanced out the windshield. Dark clouds were rolling in. We were due for a storm. That’d keep people inside, off the streets. Send the dock workers of Southdowns looking for cover.

“Y’know,” I said, as casually as I could manage, “the bay looks real nice in the rain. And there’s a good view from the docks. Real nice and quiet docks. Far back from the street.”

I felt Donovan’s heavy gaze on the side of my head. I looked over and saw his eyes were fixed on my lips.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, just as casually.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Maybe we oughta take a look.”

“Maybe so.”

Within the hour, I was happily squeezing his ass and getting all chewed up as the rain pattered on the windshield. After a while, Donovan tired himself out from biting hickies into my throat and just sat in my lap, listening to the rain.

“You were right,” he murmured. “I don’t know if you were joking or not, but the bay is beautiful in the rain.”

“I admit I was thinking more about you.”

He chuckled. “Alright, Casanova.”

I pressed my chin against the side of his head and held him. Could imagine us sitting there for hours, hidden from the world by the pounding rain. Safe and dry in each other’s arms.

We both got the idea to speak at the same time.

“I could-”

“We should-”

We both laughed.

Donovan nudged my chin. “You go.”

“I could sit here forever. With you.” I swallowed, wondering if I should say what I was thinking. “Last night, I…With you sleeping in my arms, it felt like everything was right, just for a little while. I thought about staying there and time passing and us getting…”

In the end, I couldn’t say it.

Us getting old together. Staying by each other’s side until the end.

I guess I didn’t want to scare him. Or scare me.

“What were you saying?” I asked.

“Just that we should do this more. Come here, or out in the bayou, somewhere we can be alone. Just sit together.” Donovan hesitated. Sounded like he was fighting whether or not to say something, too. “I don’t want to make this…normal. This whole mess—fighting Marcano and everything that’s coming along with it. But I want to make us normal. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

It did. Hell, we did think too much alike.

“Last night, I was thinking of getting old with you.” I said it. Finally. “If I could be so lucky.”

Donovan pushed himself up to kiss me so fast his hand slipped and hit me right in the crotch. I made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yelp and grabbed his wrist to move him.

Donovan winced sympathetically. “f*ck, sorry.”

My voice was maybe a little higher than usual as I said, “It’s okay.”

Donovan carefully placed his hand on my thigh to support himself and finally succeeded in giving me that kiss.

“Was trying to tell you that, goddamn, Lincoln, I’d be the luckiest motherf*cker in the world if you’d be willing to put up with me for that long. But I just punched you in the nuts instead.” He grinned. “I understand if that changes your answer.”

I was still wincing in pain, but I kissed his cheek and hoped the sentiment came through.

Donovan leaned against my chest, pressing a hand above my heart.

“Lincoln Clay.” He repeated my name like a prayer. “Lincoln, Lincoln.”

“I love you, John Donovan.”

The rain pattered down around us.

Chapter 35: I Fought the Law

Chapter Text

The papers Donovan snagged from the magazine office weren't receipts—just like Curly said, he didn't keep them. But these were more helpful. They gave us a first name and an address: Finneas Ackerman, 221 Monument Ave.

The moment Donovan read it, his eyes lit up. “Elementary!”

“Huh?”

“221, it's...never mind.” He rolled his eyes. “Monument Avenue is just off the Circle.”

“Doubt he can afford a place Downtown on a reporter salary. From what Curly said, seems like he was telling the truth about being broke, anyway.”

“And he did use his real name when he spoke to Mrs. Roberts. At least the name he was operating under with Madison.”

“He meant to kill her.” I nodded. “Anybody who knows his face gets killed.”

“She got lucky. Or, maybe not—sounds like Specs might’ve taken a frying pan to the skull and that sent him running.”

I scoffed. “He was definitely high-tailing it out of there.”

“Good for her.” Donovan grinned. “Maybe we should pick her up on the way Downtown, let her handle him.”

I drummed my fingers on my knee. We'd sat at the docks for hours. I was starting to get antsy. I knew we couldn't put off the real world for very much longer.

Donovan noticed my tension. He reached over to find my hand and kiss my knuckles.

“Ready?” he asked.

I sighed. “Drop me off at that address. Go 'round the block, find an alley somewhere and wait for me.”

Though I could tell he wanted to protest, Donovan gave a short nod. “Alright.”

He drove in silence.

I hung back, kneeling between the seats in case the cops were on the prowl. We passed through River Row without issue. Then, sure enough, we ran into trouble. Must have been a roadblock on the Jefferson Bridge headed into Downtown. A traffic jam backed up nearly a mile.

Donovan quickly turned down a side street to avoid it, headed toward the river.

“Find a boat to cross and get down into the tunnels,” he instructed. “Should just be able to head northwest and find a way to get back up to street level, get you close to the Circle. I’ll get through the roadblock and meet you like we planned.”

I grunted my agreement.

He pulled up to a row of warehouses. “I know you’ll be careful. But, y’know…be careful, Lincoln.”

I leaned over to kiss him then got out, forcing myself not to look back. He hung around for a moment or two, then I heard the van pull back onto the road toward Downtown.

It was still raining, but there was a break from the heavy downpour we’d had earlier. I had to search around a bit for a boat that didn’t have a group of people hanging around it. Finally, I found a beat-up little Njord Kingfisher that I figured nobody’d miss for a few hours.

I fired it up and crossed the river. I weighed my options: could enter the tunnel here on the south side of Downtown and trek all the way north. It would help me avoid any cop patrols on the water. Boating around the west side of the city would bring me a lot closer to General’s Circle and require a lot less time spent in the smelly, dark tunnels. But it would put me at a much greater risk of encountering any police boats.

Though I know I probably shouldn’t, I went with the latter. As I turned northwest, I couldn’t help but think of Donovan’s last words to me: Be careful, Lincoln.

“I will,” I said aloud, speaking to the waves rushing beneath the hull. “Mostly.”

The closer I got to the northwest corner of Downtown, the more boats were out and about. That surprised me with how nasty the weather had turned.

I kept my head down as I passed them. The first one was a N.B.P.D. patrol. The second one, too. And the one after that. I quickly realized all of them were. Heaviest water presence I’d ever seen from the P.D.

I guess it made sense. Most of the bodies had been found on the banks of the Mississippi. Evidently they were trying to catch the killer in the act.

I made it past the first three patrol boats with no issue, but my luck ran out on the fourth.

“Hey!”

I looked up to see they were flagging me down. One cop driving, three cops in the back, watching me.

“N.B.P.D., stop the boat.”

They weren’t shooting yet, that was good. Maybe I could get by if they were just doing a routine check, like the roadblock up on the bridge.

I brought the boat to a halt, keeping my hand ready to turn the key in the ignition.

“Afternoon, officer,” I called.

The patrol pulled up right alongside me.

“What’re you doing out here, boy?” one of the officers asked.

Another stepped across the gap between us to board my boat. He started to poke around the back, nudging life jackets and opening bags.

I grit my teeth and kept my attention on the one that was talking.

“Headed Downtown,” I replied.

“In a storm?”

“Yessir. Going to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Brandt.” Plenty of people worked in and around Brandt University. For the moment, I figured I could get away with keeping it vague.

“You seen anything suspicious here on the river?”

“No, sir.”

“Something tells me I shouldn’t believe you.” The officer looked me up and down. “There a reason I shouldn’t believe you?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s this?” The cop rifling through the back of my stolen boat picked something up.

Just my motherf*cking luck. It was a brick of goddamn heroin. I picked a boat at random and managed to pick one that was running drugs. God f*cking damnit.

The cop clicked his tongue. “Well, now, that’s no good, boy.”

I briefly considered diving into the river and swimming for it.

So much for being careful.

With one hand, I turned the key and turned the engine. With the other, I drew my pistol from my belt and fired two shots at the driver on the patrol boat. I hit him right above the ear. The man slumped over.

The cop in the back of my boat raised his shotgun. I sent the boat roaring forward and he lost his balance, tumbling into the water.

His buddies on the patrol boat didn’t bother to pick him up. The alligators got to him quicker.

One of the other cops threw the dead driver out of the boat and took his seat. I had just a few seconds head start. Had to make it count.

I abandoned my plan to enter Downtown from the northwest and hit a sharp turn to the right, keeping my head low as the cops peppered the boat with bullets.

There was a shipping yard right across from Industry Row in Barclay Mills. Lots of towering cranes and big metal shipping crates.

Not quite a tunnel entrance, but I could lose the cops and find a way to get underground from there.

The New Bordeaux Police Department had an absurd budget, enough to get them the fanciest new toys and the fastest boats. My dinky old boat had no chance of outrunning them. My best chance was on land.

The patrol boat already called in backup. The first couple boats I'd passed had wheeled around and were on course to intercept me.

“Motherf*cker!” I spat.

I kept my head down to avoid the gunfire. The boat didn't provide me much cover. And a voice in my head was screaming glass glass glass. I tried hard not to think about a bullet shattering the window and throwing glass into my face and sending blood running down into my eyes—

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

A big shadow overhead told me we were passing under the Cheshire Bridge connecting Barclay Mills and Downtown. I was parallel to the shore, headed south.

Suddenly, a bit of the water in front of me exploded.

I jerked the wheel to the left to avoid it.

Motherf*ckers had grenades. Me and my pistol were feeling outgunned and outmanned.

The next grenade hit closer. Far too close for comfort. Maybe one of the pitchers for the Bordeaux Lightning Bolts moonlighted as a cop.

The impact sent the boat jerking to the left. I fought for control.

As I did, one of the patrol boats coming from the front caught up to me. It came up on my right side to ram me. I hung onto the wheel and struggled to keep my feet.

The bullets finally did bust the glass. I grit my teeth and fought the rush of panic. For a second, all I could think about was being blinded by that dripping red tide. The stinging pain of each blink.

I forced myself to breathe through it and focus on not capsizing. It hadn’t hit my face. It didn’t get in my eyes. I just kept repeating, I’m fine, I’m finein the hopes I’d eventually believe it.

The patrol boat geared up for another collision. I braced myself. But it didn’t come. Instead, the boat peeled off.

Something in my gut told me that was a bad f*cking sign. I turned and saw the grenade sitting in the back of my boat. No idea how long it had been cooking. Not worth the few seconds it would take for me to try and pick it up to lob it back.

So much for being careful.

I dove over the side of the boat. Hit the water a second or two before it blew. The back of the boat turned to chunks of wood and plastic. The water sheltered me from the worst of it, but I still felt the blast in my chest. When I surfaced, my ears were ringing.

What remained of the little speedboat quickly sank. The patrol boats circled back to scan the wreckage for my corpse.

I dove beneath the water and swam for shore. I’d made it just a few yards before I got that feeling in my gut again. I sent a quick glance over my shoulder. The filthy river water burned my eyes. I could barely see. Then I got a flash of teeth—f*ckin’ gator on my tail. My bad luck knew no bounds today.

I set my jaw and kept swimming. The shore couldn’t be that far. I heard a boat coming closer. Between a gator and a cop, I’d choose the cop every time. I swam toward it.

I broke the surface of the water and gasped in a watery breath. Fortunately, I was close to shore. Unfortunately, there was a boat full of cops between it and me.

I swam toward the patrol boat and scrambled up the side. Behind me, I heard the splash of the gator snapping at my legs.

I missed the worst of the bite, but my bad luck wouldn’t let me get off that easily. The gator’s teeth caught my jeans, jerking me back toward the water. They scraped along my leg.

The commotion drew the attention of the three cops in the boat, who evidently hadn’t had a clue I was there. One reflexively fired a shot over my head.

I ducked and kicked the gator with my other foot.

“Give me a goddamn minute,” I spat, though I doubted they were listening.

I managed to wriggle free, though the gator took half my pantleg with it as it retreated back under the water. I staggered up and used my momentum to tackle the cop closest to me.

Wrestling the shotgun from his hands, I shot him in the chest. As he screamed, I hauled him up by his neck to block the shots fired by his companions.

It mostly worked.

A bullet snuck over the dying cop’s shoulder and struck me in the chest. It entered below my shoulder and glanced off my collarbone. I felt the scrape reverberate from my chest up to my teeth and grunted in pain.

Ducking down, I fired blindly. A scream told me I found my mark.

The cop driving the boat was torn between keeping an eye on me and watching the approaching shoreline.

I took two staggering steps forward and knocked the gun out of his hand as he turned. I slid an arm across his throat and locked it in my other elbow. He clawed at my face, my arm, the side of my head. One of his flailing hands hit me in the nose hard enough I heard it crack—not quite a break, but enough I tasted blood.

The shore was coming up fast. Got even faster when the cop gave up on clawing at me and used the last bit of his strength to jam the throttle forward.

There was a concrete path right along the river with some spots for mooring boats. The current paired with the engine, taking us toward it at a sharp angle.

I waited until we were just a few feet away, then leaped out of the boat, tucking my shoulder and rolling.

Or I tried to. I intended to roll to my feet, but the impact shook my collarbone so bad I fell out of the roll halfway through and scraped the sh*t out of my shoulder.

I landed hard and wheezed, struggling to catch my breath. I couldn’t hold back the cry of pain. f*ck, that hurts so f*ckin’ bad. Did I break the bone? I couldn’t tell. The hand I raised to my chest came away red.

My hands didn’t want to move, my arms didn’t want to push me up.

I closed my eyes and imagined the gentle press of Donovan’s lips to my forehead. I could imagine him speaking, too.

I need you to come home to me. Stand up.

I struggled to my feet. The other patrol boat wasn’t far off. Had to get to cover.

I jogged down the path and climbed the stairs, breathing hard. Took me a second to get my bearings.

I was in some riverfront neighborhoods, all big green lawns and tall, colorful houses.

With the sound of the boat getting louder behind me, I jumped the fence of the closest house. Staying on my feet would give me a better chance to outmaneuver the cops, but my legs were wobbling something fierce under my weight. I needed a car.

The first house just had a little shed, no garage. The second house I found had a garage but the car inside was a De'Leo Stiletto—far too flashy for my purposes. My luck finally turned at the third house. It had a fancy car out front but an old, beat-up pickup truck in the garage.

I tried the door at the back, testing my luck even though I figured it’d be locked. I was right. I moved around to the front and reached for the garage door handle. Gritting my teeth, I ignored the tearing pain across my chest and hauled it open.

The beater was easy to hotwire. As it puttered to life, I found a plaid shirt laid across the backseat. It was far too tight, but hopefully would cover up the blood staining my shirt. A trucker hat was discarded on the passenger’s seat. Pulling it low over my eyes, I pulled out of the driveway nice and slow.

Getting out onto the main road, I saw I was on the outskirts of Downtown, much farther south than I expected. Would’ve been a better f*ckin’ idea to just go right across from Southdowns and head into the goddamn sewer tunnels like Donovan had said.

I drove slowly, stopping at every red light though my gut told me to floor it. Finally, I hit the center of Downtown. Approaching from the south put me on Monument Avenue, right where I wanted to be. I slowed down as I passed the buildings. Didn’t want to get out of the truck until I had to. Because it covered my face, sure, but mostly because sitting down hurt a little less than walking did.

I spotted 221.

It was an abandoned storefront between a barbershop and a law office. Real unassuming place with brown paper over the windows and a padlock on the door.

I parked and walked toward it, keeping my head down. Casually pausing beside it, I pretended to take my time lighting up a cigarette and used the opportunity to glance over at the door.

I almost laughed aloud. The padlock wasn’t attached to anything. It just hung on doorknob. Yeah, this had to be the place. That reeked of Ackerman’s “genius.”

I stood in front of the door and reached behind me to turn the handle. It opened. I waited until it seemed like nobody was looking my way and slipped inside.

Chapter 36: Hard to Handle

Chapter Text

The room was pitch black. The only light came in through the paper over the windows. My eyes adjusted slowly. I kept my back to the wall and began to walk forward.

Thank f*ck I’d managed to keep ahold of my pistol during the scuffle on the boats.

I heard a shuffling sound toward the back of the room.

“Knock, knock, Ackerman,” I called.

The shuffling stopped.

I leveled the gun into the shadows. “Get your ass out here.”

Silence.

I moved closer. “Ackerman.”

“You just missed him.” The shadows finally spoke. I swore I recognized the voice.

“Come out here.”

A woman emerged from the back of the room.

I lowered the gun. “Roxy? The f*ck are you doin’ here?”

“Look, Lincoln,” Roxy said, “I love this little detective act you’re putting on. It’s cute. But you should turn those talents somewhere else.”

I puffed out an irritated sigh. “Your Pa send you?”

“Hell no.” She scoffed. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

I had to admit my irritation was made a lot worse by the stabbing pain in my chest. Roxy and me might not agree on everything, but we grew up together. At least during the times she was in town. I tried not to shout at her unless I really had to. Now was feeling like one of those times.

“Roxy, don’t say what I think you’re ‘bout to say.”

Roxy moved closer so I could get a better look at her face. She wore a coy smile. “What am I ‘bout to say?”

“That he’s killing the kind of people we want dead anyway. That I should just let him work his way up the chain at Beauregard until they’re all dead.”

She gave a dramatic gasp. “Why, Lincoln Clay, you must be psychic!”

“This ain’t funny, Roxy.” I raised a hand to my chest and pressed hard. My shirt was slick with blood.

“I know it’s not. I’m serious as a heart attack, Lincoln. Let this one go.”

“He’s killing innocents,” I snarled. My patience was gone. I didn’t bother checking my tone, I knew she could handle it. “The way he ripped those people up is like a savage animal.”

She met my eyes, unflinching. “Way somebody hung Ritchie Doucet’s body up on that Ferris Wheel was pretty savage, too.”

I was goddamn tired of drawing those comparison. “Doucet wasn’t innocent. Them Beauregard bastards aren’t, either, but half of these victims were just people trying to get by. You can’t blame a f*ckin’ secretary for getting roped into some scheme like this.”

“I’m not saying they should’ve been killed,” Roxy pushed back. “But Beauregard-”

“‘But Beauregard,’” I repeated. “When will it end? This freak wants blood. He says he’s going after that corruption, but his actions say otherwise. I want blood, I want revenge—I won’t argue that. But I’m killing with purpose. I’m killing those who deserve to be killed. Ackerman’s rage just sweeps up everybody in his way and leaves ‘em gutted and torn apart.”

“I don’t know when it’ll end, but what he’s doing is at least a start. Hit ‘em where they are. Make ‘em scared.”

“He’s making the whole goddamn city scared.”

“They should be.”

I let out another irritated sigh. “Roxy, we don’t disagree here. You know I support the movement whenever I can, you know I back you and your Pa. But Ackerman ain’t working for you. He doesn’t give a f*ck about equality or progress or black folks or, hell, even white folks. He doesn’t f*ckin’ care about any of that.”

“The enemy of my enemy…” Roxy crossed her arms and stepped closer until we were face to face. Her lips drew back in a snarl. “Pa always talks about planning and caution and I’m tired of sitting around and training. Ackerman’ll get what he deserves after he’s done. I’ll make sure of that.”

I’d be lying if I said that thought hadn’t occurred to me. Hell, I did agree with her. The way these men were getting killed was brutal, but it’s not like the city’d be any worse off without some of these Beauregard managers. I just couldn’t get over the others.

Thinking of the pain and rage in Mrs. Roberts’ eyes. The sickly stench of copper rising from Bozich’s corpse.

Collateral. They’d taught us all about that in ‘Nam, about how it was a necessary evil. But we weren’t in ‘Nam anymore. I wasn’t taking orders from anybody but myself.

“I agree with you, Roxy.”

She looked surprised at that. “So, what now?”

“I can’t let Ackerman go on doing this unchecked. At our first meeting, he seemed to want information from me. I’ll give him once chance to keep that spirit. If not, I’m ending this.”

I didn’t know if I meant it or not. Either way, I was killing Ackerman. Be it today, or another day, that man would be dead and it’d be my hands that did it. Could I let him go on with this? Could I…help him? Didn’t know if I could stomach that.

Already had so much blood on my hands. Real and imagined.

“Where’d he go?”

Roxy looked at me. I could tell she was trying to figure out if I was lying or not, too. I couldn’t be any help with that. Guess we’d both find out later.

“Baron Saturday’s,” she said finally. “At least, that’s what I’m guessing. He was just leaving when I got here, I wait ‘til he was gone and found this.”

Roxy picked up a paper from a table and waved it. I held out a hand. She didn’t make any move to hand it to me. Instead, she folded it up and tucked it in her back pocket.

“Some work going on at the park,” she went on. “They’re draining it, getting ready to gut the place and remodel it. Bunch of Beauregard people’ll be there. Easy pickings.”

I swore under my breath. f*ckin’ knew I’d end up back at that godforsaken place.

“Let’s go.” Roxy pushed past me. “I’ll drive.”

“You do what you want.” I moved further into the darkness, using the shadows to disguise the red staining my shirt. “I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

“I’m sure you will.”

I waited until she was gone. Then I pulled my shirt up, gritting my teeth at the pain. I felt around blindly, trying to feel if there were any fragments of bone poking out through the skin. I found the bullet hole, but no bone. I tried to slide my hand across my collarbone to feel if it was still intact.

I only made it a little ways before the pain got too bad. I choked on a mouthful of bile, leaning over and spitting into the darkness.

What I really needed to do was raise a hand to my back to see if I could find a hole there, too. Best case, the bullet went right through. Worst case, it pinged off my collarbone and went down into my guts somewhere. But the thought of moving my arm like that made more bile rise up in my throat. I didn’t think my body’d let me even try.

Needed to find Donovan.

My head was still clear, I was thankful for that. The pain kept me awake.

I pulled the plaid shirt off and slung it over my shoulder, adjusting it to cover the worst of the bloodstains. Then I pushed the door open.

Chapter 37: Crazy

Chapter Text

He’d be here by now. The backup on Jefferson Bridge had looked nasty, but the boat chase and the painfully slow drive up here had taken so long he must have beaten me here. Unless he got stopped. Or…left. Got tired of waiting or admitted this whole plan was stupid or realized I wasn’t worth the risk—

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind.

Donovan was there. He’d be there. I’d find him.

I tried to put myself inside his head. He preferred to hide out in alleys between tall buildings, liked the long shadows. Plenty of tall buildings around here. Usually, he was thinking with his stomach. Even if he didn’t plan to eat on a stakeout, he’d park near a diner. Maybe he just liked to roll down his window and enjoy the smell, I couldn’t be sure.

But he would’ve backed into the alley. Wouldn’t want to block traffic or raise too much attention. He was coming in from the west, so that would him on…I blinked hard and looked up and down the street, trying to figure which way was north.

The left, he’d be on my left. Left side of the street. Alley between tall buildings. By a diner. I grit my teeth and focused all my energy on walking in a straight line.

It felt like I walked miles, but I know it had to have only been a block or two. Finally, I spotted a big green van. Couldn’t see the driver through the dark windows, but I saw the arm hanging out.

Tan sleeve, white hand, knuckles rapping on the outside of the door. There, he was there.

I could’ve f*cking wept at the sight.

I didn’t bother checking both ways before I crossed the street. The cars would stop. Or, hell, if they didn’t and instead plowed into me, I wouldn’t have to deal with this bullet wound anymore.

The passenger’s side door opened as I approached. I still couldn’t see his face, but I saw the blur of movement as he leaned across to open it.

I got into the van and finally saw his face. It was pale, his eyes wide.

“Lincoln-” he started.

My hands were shaking, but I managed to haul him out of his seat and drag him into the back of the van. Then I wrapped my arms around him, and, thank God, Donovan didn’t protest. He just hugged me back.

I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed another mouthful of spit and stomach acid.

“God, baby,” Donovan mumbled. “I was worried about you.”

“I was worried about me, too,” I managed hoarsely.

“You find him?”

“No. He’s at Baron Saturday’s. You were right, we gotta go there.”

I wanted to keep holding him, but he pushed himself back and held me at arm’s length. His eyes were fixed on my chest. Of course they were—no way he could miss the blood.

“What happened?”

“Cops. Caught my boat, shot me. I don’t know-” I had to grit my teeth at another wave of pain. The nausea was hitting now. “Don’t know if the bullet came out or if it’s still in there.”

Donovan glanced out the windshield to make sure we were out of sight. Then he turned me around and lifted my shirt. I focused on the feeling of his breath on my back. I felt when he blew out a quiet puff that could’ve been relief.

“Here.” He reached for a roll of bandages—we’d learned from last time to leave them in a better, more accessible place. Ripped a strip off and folding it, he pressed it against my back. “Exit wound.”

I spoke through a clenched jaw. “Then it’s in the river somewhere. It can f*ckin’ stay there.”

“Can I take your shirt off?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. My arms absolutely did not want to lift like that. The movement sent a bolt of pain through my chest, up and down my left arm. The one I’d landed on. Both arms wouldn’t move high enough to get my shirt over my head.

“Think my-” I wobbled on my feet and leaned hard against the side of the van. Couldn’t quite use my arm to brace myself. “Hit my collarbone. Can’t tell if it’s broken or not. f*ckin’ hurts.”

Donovan kicked over the crate of guns. “Sit down.”

I sat.

He knelt in front of me and paused to give me a soft kiss. My eyes closed. The feel of his lips sent a wave of warmth across my cheeks, down my neck, into my chest. For a moment, I forgot about the pain. Then he pulled away and it came right back.

Donovan wrestled my shirt up to my shoulders and pulled the hem over my head, bunching it at the back of my neck. It trapped my arms at my sides, but it wasn’t like they were going anywhere.

“Can you hold onto me?” he asked.

“Dunno,” I grunted. “I dunno if my hands can.”

“Try.” Donovan lifted one of my hands to his shirt. “This’ll hurt.”

I gave another short nod and held on as tight as I could manage.

Donovan ran his fingers across my collarbone. I watched his face, the downward curve of his lips, his narrowed eyes. The deep furrow in his brow only got deeper.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that doesn’t feel right.”

I fought to hold in the grunts of pain.

I forced out a few words. “Don’t have time for this. Need to get to the park.”

Donovan fixed me with a sharp look. He could have a nasty glare when he wanted to.

“You’re a f*ckin’ pain in my ass, you know that?” he snapped.

I forced a stiff smile. “Would you have me any other way?”

Donovan scoffed but leaned down for another gentle kiss. His fingers moved quickly, wrapping the bandages around my chest. He didn’t bother to wipe off the rest of the blood. It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Alright, baby,” he said finally. He helped pull my shirt back down. Then he held my head against his chest for just a moment, running his fingers through my hair, before forcing himself to let go of me and straightening up. “That’ll have to be good enough. What’s at the park?”

As he pulled into traffic, I filled him in with what Roxy had told me.

“That construction work is going forward. Apparently Spec-” I corrected myself, “Ackerman found out some of Beauregard’s leadership will be on site as they start to drain the park.”

“How’d it get all flooded? Hurricane?”

“Yeah. They built it too low. This whole goddamn city’s on swampland. After the park closed, nobody gave a f*ck enough to keep the drainage and dams up. First big storm that swept through flooded the park, all the houses around it, everything.”

“Should’ve packed waders.”

I leaned my head back against the seat and focused on breathing. Breathe in through my mouth, out through my nose. In and out.

“Keep your eyes open, honey,” Donovan said. I felt him look over at me, then look away, then back again. His eyes flitting between me and the road. “You hit your head?”

Despite everything, I managed to laugh. “Why are you fussin’ over me?”

He grit his teeth and looked away. We went a few blocks before he replied, “Had this awful feeling that something went wrong. I wanted to run out there and find you but I was just frozen. I’ve never froze up like that before.”

That hit me hard. Felt like I got shot again. I reached over, ignoring the wave of pain it caused, and squeezed his hand.

“You take my breath away, you know that?” I murmured.

He squeezed back. We left Downtown in silence, crossed back over the Jefferson Bridge, passed through Delray Hollow.

Donovan didn’t say a word, though he tried to subtly raise his sleeve to wipe his eyes a few times.

Chapter 38: Palisades Park

Chapter Text

Trucks lined the road in front of Baron Saturday’s Fun Park. A few men in hard hats and rubber waders slogged through the parking lot.

“Can’t imagine those Beauregard men want to get their socks wet,” I said, “but the water’s too shallow for a boat.”

Donovan parked a few yards down and scanned the park.

“They’ll stay up high.” He pointed at the entrance and ticket booths. “Maybe they’ve put up scaffolding, or there’s pathways up there.”

I remembered my slog through the park. I’d entered from the side, climbing a ladder up to the roof of the entrance.

“If they’re up high, Specs’ll be up higher,” Donovan mused. “If he’s got any sense.”

I frowned. “His M.O. is up close and personal. Knives, not guns.”

“Big rich guys will have security. Maybe cops. They’ll be scared enough at this creepy f*ckin’ park, and I doubt any of them frequent this neighborhood. Specs may be f*ckin’ stupid but the way he runs when somebody fights back makes me think his sense of self-preservation can outweigh his bloodlust.”

“Up higher,” I echoed. “I get the feeling I’m not gonna like what that means.”

The tallest point in Baron Saturday’s was the roller coaster. The rickety old, splintery deathtrap of a roller coaster.

“You’re not the biggest fan of heights.”

“It ain’t heights that are the problem, it’s-”

“It’s the falling,” he finished, with a bemused smile. “I don’t really see the distinction there.”

I wasn’t exactly in the mood to try and explain it. The ache from my collarbone was creeping up my neck, into the base of my skull.

“Lincoln.”

I blinked hard and tried to fight off the dizziness. “Yeah?”

“Need you to think for me for a minute.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t think clearly, I…my head feels all shook up, like it was after the wreck. When I looked over and saw your face was all bloody, sh*t, it had me scared. I never get scared during ops.” He blew a sharp breath out through his nose. “I know what we need to do here. I know we need to split up and search high and low until we find Ackerman and kill him. But I don’t know if I can force myself to do it. To leave you.”

I still hadn’t decided if I was gonna let that co*ckroach live or not. It’d be easier to face that question without Donovan there, so I wouldn’t have to explain myself. I knew what he’d say—Are you out of your f*ckin’ mind? Kill the son of a bitch!

And he was right. But, hell, I was thinking maybe Roxy was right, too.

“Lincoln?”

“I…I dunno.” I rubbed my eyes.

Donovan shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” I looked over at him, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Why?”

“I’m a sh*tty f*ckin’ handler. Right now’s the worst goddamn time to choke up and fail you.”

I didn’t know how to tell him that him just being there next to me kept my heart beating, kept my blood flowing, kept me breathing. How the hell could I put that into words? My chest hurt too bad for me to think too deeply.

So I took his hand and pressed it to my lips. The only thing I could think to do.

“Let’s go,” I whispered.

It was mid-afternoon, maybe the worst time to launch a covert assault. Not like we had much of a choice. Every moment we waited was another potential corpse. I doubted Ackerman would hesitate for a second to kill any of the construction workers just for being here.

I directed Donovan to pull the van close to the bridge just beyond the park.

“Little embankment here,” I said. “We’ll keep low and hop the fence to the left of the entrance. Might get a little wet.”

“That’s two suits you’ve ruined in a week,” Donovan protested. His voice didn’t have any of the uncertainty and nerves of a few moments before. I suspected he’d pushed it down and slipped on his unflinching poker face for the time being.

We each grabbed a rifle from the back of the van, then slid down the hill to the muddy bank of the bayou. The sludge immediately oozed into my shoes, soaking me up to the knee. One of my legs felt substantially wetter than the other and I looked down. I’d forgotten one of my pant legs was in tatters form my tussle with the alligator.

Still, I had the feeling this day could somehow only get worse.

We reached the fence.

Donovan hung back. “You go first.”

I slung the rifle strap over my shoulder. The fence was my height plus some. Donovan would need a boost up. He seemed set on me going first, though, so I reached up and jumped.

Or tried to. I’m such a f*ckin’ idiot.

I heard my collarbone click. My right arm went numb. My chest seized up, the pain so bad it made my legs buckle. I fell to my knees.

Donovan had to get a grip on my shirt to stop me from smashing my face on the fence.

He dropped to his knees beside me and pulled my head onto his shoulder, muffling my hoarse groans in his jacket.

My brain desperately scrambled for anything to focus on, anything other than the agony.

“The-the street-” My voice was strangled. “See us-”

“I don’t care,” he replied. “I don’t f*cking care, Lincoln.”

I choked on a mouthful of bile. In its search for distraction, my brain joined forces with my stomach to chant hungry hungry hungry. I had to lean away from Donovan to cough and spit on the ground.

“Don’t think…” I coughed again. My throat burned. “Don’t think I can make the jump.”

“I know.” Donovan raised a hand to my head and pulled me close again. I didn’t fight him. “I shouldn’t’ve made you try. I just thought-I thought I could help you up. f*ck, I’m just not thinking straight. I’m sorry, baby.”

I almost laughed. This was so far from his fault.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“I have to.”

Donovan sent a quick glance toward the street. No one was looking—why would they. Either way, we were too exposed.

“Can’t go through the front, that’d be f*ckin’ stupid. Stupider than this.” Donovan pushed his knuckles into the center of his forehead.

For a moment, I was worried he was about to hit himself. But his hand fell back to his side.

I struggled to my feet, leaning heavily on him.

“Alright, baby.” He spoke so quietly, I could barely hear him. Maybe it was more for himself.

“The fence along the bayou.” I swallowed hard to get some moisture into my mouth. “There has to be a way in. People have been breaking in since it closed. I know some kids do it on a dare.”

“I’m too chicken for that,” Donovan muttered.

I led the way. Donovan pressed a hand to the small of my back. I suspected he did it partly to help me walk, but also for a bit of comfort. It gave me something to focus on outside of the pain.

We waded into the muddy water. It quickly rose to our knees, then our waists. Donovan’s hand on my back turned from gentle pressure to a fist in my shirt, keeping me close.

I kept an eye out for gators. Last f*cking thing I needed.

“Here.” Donovan nudged me toward a jagged gap where some of the fence had been cut and pried apart.

Ducking through it put us right under the creaky wooden roller coaster. I looked up at it and swallowed hard.

Donovan squinted up at the structure. “How do we get up there?”

I pulled my shirt up to wipe my face. All I succeeded in doing was smearing mud and sweat across my cheeks.

“Stairs?” I said. “Or…I dunno. Can’t climb it.”

Donovan reached over to clear my face with his sleeve. Now that we were hidden from the street, he could cup my jaw and kiss me.

I was expecting a quick, reassuring peck. But Donovan leaned into me, roughly thrusting his tongue between my lips, using his grip on my jaw to jerk my head down so he could better reach me. Could better capture my lips and devour me.

The sound I made was strangled, rising from deep in my throat. I could feel his desperation, all the worry and anger and fear that he transferred just through his lips.

I was too distracted at first to realize he was standing face-to-face with me. He finally pulled back, panting, and I looked down to see he’d stepped up onto the base of one of the coaster’s supports and was perched on one foot to reach my height.

I surprised myself by laughing.

Donovan’s cheeks turned pink. He dropped back down to the ground with a splash.

“Not my fault you’re tall,” he said crossly.

I grinned at him. I could still feel the roughness of his kiss, the desperate grip he’d had on my jaw. My lips stung.

“I love you,” I said. I couldn’t stop grinning like a fool. Even the sharp pain in my chest couldn’t curb it.

He prodded me in the back, attempting a stern voice. “Get moving.”

Crouching low put the water near our chests. It was an uncomfortable slog through smelly, muddy water. Brought to mind similar slogs we’d made over in ‘Nam.

Donovan seemed to think the same.

“Déjà vu,” he whispered.

Finally, we found the entrance to the coaster behind a snaking maze of metal poles.

Lines of people would’ve stood there in the summer heat, waiting to climb into the sticky, burning-hot seats of the coaster. Kids pushing each other, parents wondering why the hell they’d saved up to buy tickets for this. Now it was filthy and overgrown.

Between it and us was an open space.

Up along one side, standing on the rooftops of the boarded-up buildings that were once shops and carnival games, were a few men in suits. They surveyed the flooded courtyard.

On ground level, a handful of men were uncurling long rubber tubes from one end of the courtyard to the other.

“Not sure what they’re thinking,” I said quietly. “It’s level with the bayou. Water’ll just spill right back in if they don’t put up barriers.”

“I’m sure they thought of that,” Donovan replied. His hand returned to my back, nudging me forward. “They’ll be coming up behind us. We should move up.”

“I’ll distract them, you-”

“No, Lincoln.”

“I can’t climb, Donovan,” I interrupted. “My arms barely work, my f*ckin’ legs are wobbling. Get up there and if you find Specs, bring his ass down.”

Donovan was visibly fighting back his protests, I swear I could see him vibrating with the force of it.

Finally, he grit his teeth and said, “I love you.”

I think we were both trying not to think about the finality of those words. How much they sounded like goodbye.

“Go get him.” I wiped the mud off my rifle and turned for the courtyard.

A plan—what was my plan? Hadn’t thought about it. Donovan and I rarely did anything without a plan. Sure, we improvised when things went belly-up, but we always started from something solid.

I guess my plan was to f*ck sh*t up. Scare the businessmen and hope Donovan got to Ackerman before he started shooting. If he was even up on the coaster at all.

What a sh*tshow today was turning out to be.

I found a concrete flower box and pressed my back to it. From where I crouched, I could see Donovan scrambled up the coaster track.

I thought I saw a human-shaped figure at the top.

The minute I started shooting, the men on that roof would scatter. I didn’t know how good of a shot Ackerman was. Was I willing to risk it?

Roxy’s argument lingered in my brain. Hell, Roxy—was she here? Did she bother to come, or call it a lost cause? Or did she think I’d agree with her and let the pig go?

I hated having all these f*ckin’ questions. Gues I needed to make up some answers.

I fired straight up into the sky. The suits on the roof jumped and looked around. Then I saw the cops.

They must’ve been congregating by the entrance, out of my view. At the gunfire, they ran forward into the courtyard. More than I expected.

A huddle of them stayed back. In the middle was an old man, stooped with age.

Holy sh*t. I’d seen that face on billboards and the local news. Bill f*ckin’ Beauregard himself.

Specs was planning to cut the head off the snake.

Is he really gonna force me into protecting that shriveled old motherf*cker?

A bullet struck the roof a few feet away from the scrambling suits. Another struck even further away.

If that was Ackerman’s shooting ability, maybe we had nothing to worry about.

I needed a better look at how many cops there were. I fired into the courtyard, aiming close to—but not at—Beauregard.

The cops closed their huddle, forcing the man down.

Close to a dozen of them. They must have been expecting trouble, too.

I risked a glance over my shoulder at the coaster. My heart stopped.

Somebody hung off the track, their legs dangling midair. Looked like they were holding on by their fingertips.

Another figure stood on the tracks. As I watched, they reached down. I couldn't tell if they meant to help or not.

From this distance, I couldn’t tell who was who.

A barrage of gunfire pelted the concrete around me and forced my head down. The cops didn't know exactly where I was. They were casting the net wide and planning to kill anything that moved and didn't have a hard hat. Though the N.B.P.D. never cared much about collateral damage.

I fired blindly, screwing my eyes up against the dust and water kicked up by the bullets.

When I looked back up at the top of the coaster, both figures were gone.

I forced myself to focus.

The cops drew closer. The ones that huddled around Bill Beauregard were forcing the old man back toward the entrance.

Now would be a good time to implement that plan…the one I didn’t bother to think up.

What were my goals?: Clear the suits. Stop Specs from killing Beauregard. Kill Specs.

I’d already achieved one of them. The suits were gone from the rooftop. They’d scattered and fled from view. The construction workers in the courtyard abandoned their rubber hosing and cowered under any bit of cover they could find.

Might as well take a few cops out while I had the chance. Make some lemonade out of these sour f*ckin’ lemons.

I shifted cover to crouch behind a stone pillar.

The courtyard was a mess of cops. Some got caught up in the half-unrolled tubes and tripped into the muddy water. They were easy to pick off.

Then a few shots rang out overhead—not from me, not from the coaster. From the other side of the courtyard, on the path headed toward the Ferris wheel.

A few of the cops kept their heads enough to duck down. The majority, though, panicked. N.B.P.D. must’ve put their low-level beat cops on this job.

Bullets coming from three separate directions, three unseen shooters.

A few of the cops just turned tail and ran for the entrance. Between that mystery shooter and me, we killed a handful of them before they climbed the few steps out of the courtyard.

That other shooter must be Roxy. Guess she did turn up after all.

That attempt to focus was fading fast. My chest was seizing up from the pain. There was fear there, too.

One of those figures was Donovan and one of them looked like they were about to fall, and what if he fell what if he was gone he was gone he was gone—

And it was my fault sending him up there alone. What was I even doing? Why was I protecting some old f*cking co*ckroach, one of the many rich motherf*ckers who was ruining my city? Did Donovan die for that? Did Donovan…

One of the cops rounded the corner beside me. I’d let my guard down enough that he’d gotten that close. What the hell is wrong with me?

I seized the back of his neck and slammed his face into the concrete. He fell, twitching, into the water.

I forced myself to my feet. These were the motherf*ckers killing my city. Killing my neighbors. Supporting these rich bastards. They had to pay. Maybe I’d die. Maybe I’d fail. But what was one more failure on top of all my others?

My rifle seemed to fire on its own. I had no memory of pulling the trigger. Just shifted my gaze to whatever moved, and my rifle took it from there. Point and shoot, point and shoot. Like they taught us in the Army.

Might’ve gotten hit in the shoulder, but my chest burned so bad I barely noticed.

I shot until I ran out of bullets. The rifle dropped from my hand and splashed into the mud.

I was ready for death. I’d done so much, come so far, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t. It hurt too bad. No more.

I didn’t have to worry about Sammy’s disappointed face or leaving Ellis all alone or hurting Donovan. Not anymore, because I’d f*cked it all up already.

All that was left was to hope there was space for me in the Robinson crypt. If Father James thought I deserved to be there. Maybe I’d fit better in an unmarked pauper’s grave. Or just dumped in the bayou as food for the gators.

I closed my eyes and waited.

And waited.

I opened my eyes.

Nobody was shooting. Nobody was moving. My rifle had killed all the ones left in the courtyard. Could I even say I’d done it? It was all automatic. Muscle memory.

All that was left was blood and bodies. I sloshed through the water until I found a shotgun on one of the corpses.

For a second—a brief, fevered second, I considered turning it on myself. Could I…

I wheeled around at a splashing sound behind me. That automatic movement took over my body again. I took off running through the courtyard.

I barely registered that one Specs wasn’t one of the two figures approaching me.

“This one of yours?” Roxy asked.

Walking behind her was Donovan. He nursed a black eye, scowling.

He saw me approaching and his eyes widened. I couldn’t blame him. I was coming in at a fast clip, soaking wet and looking like hell.

I hit him with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet. He had to grab onto my shoulders to stop from falling over.

My chest was still so tight, I could barely breathe.

“Thought you fell,” I mumbled. My way of explaining why I’d done it, I guess. I could’ve said it was payback for him tackling me the other day.

“Guess he is one of yours.” Roxy snorted.

Donovan held onto me for just a second before pushing me away.

“Almost did. But this-” He grit his teeth, “lovely lady gave me a hand.”

“Though he was Specs,” Roxy said. “He fit the bill: average-looking, short, white.”

“Alright,” Donovan snapped. “You already hit me once, lay off the ‘short’ talk.”

Inside my mind, I was screaming at myself: He’s fine, get your f*ckin’ head on right. You shouldn’t be worrying like this. f*ckin’ pathetic—

Aloud, I said, “Expected to find Specs up there.”

“This isn’t him,” Donovan said. “Unless he’s real good at disguises.”

“Thought you were on his side, Roxy.” My voice was harsh. Maybe I was still disoriented from the pain and the worry. Maybe I was made at myself for being unable to make up my mind.

“You know what I said,” Roxy snapped. “Don’t twist my words because you can’t figure out what’s right.”

“Nothing about this is right,” I shot back.

Donovan got bored of us talking and started to move across the courtyard.

If Roxy was up on the coaster, that meant Specs was still running free. Meant he was that other shooter.

He apparently got the feeling I was talking about him and turned his fire on us.

Roxy and I dove for cover behind another of those concrete flower boxes, momentarily putting our argument aside. Donovan found one of the abandoned wooden vendor stalls and kept his head down.

“He’s going after Beauregard,” I said.

“Can’t say he ain’t ambitious,” she replied.

Speak of the devil: that huddle of cops suddenly appeared, hustling old man Beauregard back into the courtyard.

“The hell are they doing?” Roxy muttered.

“A man followed the group, his pistol drawn. Another face I recognized from the news—Earl Wilson. The goddamn chief of police.

Beauregard evidently spared no expense for his protection.

Wilson was firing back at that unseen shooter. Or—no, he wasn’t. He fired on his own men, pinning them down between him and Specs.

Roxy always played tough, keeping her real feelings hidden behind a mask. But even she let her surprise show. “What the f*ck?”

Before any of us could do anything—not that we had much of an idea of what to do—one of the half-dozen cops fell to the ground. It opened a gap in the huddle, which the others clambered to fill.

I saw Wilson chuck something toward them.

Guess I was too confused about the whole thing because I just sat there and watched the grenade arc through the air. Roxy had to force my head down a second before it exploded

The air filled with the stink of sulfur and blood. It made me gag.

Wilson approached what remained of the huddle. He picked his way through the corpses. Finding one cop still alive, he aimed his pistol at the young man’s skull.

“Sorry, kid. No witnesses.”

Pop.

I’ll give Beauregard credit, the old man was tougher than I expected. He’d survived the blast and was whimpering in a heap on the ground.

Wilson kicked him over onto his back.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, Bill,” he said. His voice dripped with venom.

I abruptly realized Roxy, Donovan, and I were just sitting and watching. All three of us were more interested in watching this unfold than thinking up something to do about it.

“You want money?” Beauregard croaked. “I’ll give you whatever-”

“You’ll give me money? Where was that spirit a year ago? Or six months ago? Or last week? I gave you chances, Bill. Plenty of ‘em.” Wilson raised his pistol again. “Get f*cked, old man.”

Pop pop.

What was left of Bill Beauregard twitched for a few more seconds before he finally gave up the ghost.

My brain suddenly took up philosophy.

Beauregard was dead. Surely that was a net good for the city. Would lead to a shake-up at his company. That could make it worse for the poor bastards who worked there. I’d failed at keeping him alive, that was objectively true. But had I set out with that intention? I was here to stop Specs. Hell, Specs wasn’t the one who killed him.

Why the f*ck was I wasting time thinking about this? That’s one of the many reasons I wasn’t bent up about not going to school. Thinking like this was just confusing for no reason.

Specs approached from the other end of the courtyard.

“I had ‘em in my sights,” he called.

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

Specs shrugged. He was just a few yards away. “Thought you might want to monologue a bit. You’re just as dramatic as me.”

Wilson’s lips drew back in a sneer. “Every second of working with you has been a test of my goddamn patience.”

Working with you.

My mind drifted back to that tense morning sitting at the Briar Patch, holding Donovan’s broken fingers beneath the table, asking what if they’d gotten you?The police report on Skelton’s murder sitting between us.

The fingerprints were redacted. Was this why? Because Chief Wilson knew exactly whose fingers those were? Because he’d hired them?

I felt Roxy move beside me. She raised her rifle, aimed at Chief Wilson.

I was torn again. Had more of those questions without any answers.

Of course, I wanted Wilson dead. He was a racist piece of sh*t who delighted in killing people like me. But killing him would unleash a wave of violence across this city. Cops would be busting heads, blaming every single non-white person for the killing of their leader. And it’d make my life a lot harder, too.

Sure, I was killing Marcano for selfish reasons. For revenge, my own personal grudge. But I was hoping I might do the city some good. Shift the balance of power. Killing Wilson in this moment wouldn’t achieve that.

I reached for Roxy’s arm. Didn’t push or pull her, though maybe I should’ve. In that split second, the best my brain could come up with was to grab her arm and hiss, “Think.”

Hoping maybe that got my fierce internal debate across to her.

Roxy hesitated for just a second, taking in the word and trying to decipher what the hell I was talking about. I could tell by the way she sighed all irritated-like that she did.

She still shot. But the bullet hit Earl Wilson in the leg, rather than the head.

“You’re too much like my f*ckin’ father,” Roxy snapped.

I hopped the planter and stumbled a bit as I landed. My shoulder and chest hated that movement. My whole body shook with pain.

Didn’t bother with any words to Wilson. Just cracked him over the head with my shotgun and let him fall into the water. I kicked him over a bit so his face wasn’t submerged.

I felt Donovan and Roxy move to stand behind me, but I kept my eyes on Specs.

“Ackerman,” I said.

He opened his mouth, but I raised my shotgun.

“The next words outta your mouth better be telling me what the hell was going on between you and Earl Wilson.”

Ackerman looked at the way my hand was shaking and seemed to do a silent calculation that I’d still be able to pull the trigger.

“We want the same thing, Lincoln. Maybe for different reasons.”

“You hear what I f*ckin’ said?”

“I’m getting there.” Ackerman kept his sniper rifle pointed toward the ground. I knew by the way his finger twitched that he was waiting for the right moment. “Wilson wanted Beauregard dead.”

“And the embezzlement?” Donovan asked.

“That money was meant for the N.B.P.D. Payment to protect the construction site here. Instead, some greedy f*ckers funneled it into their own pockets. I took some liberties in dismantling the ring. Very efficiently, I’ll add.” He gave me a crooked grin. “It’s money, simple as that.”

“You’re full of sh*t,” I said. Then I shot him in the head.

His head exploded, wiping that stupid smirk off his face.

My knees suddenly got a lot wetter. I blinked and realized my legs had given out. I hadn’t even felt the fall, could only feel the mud squishing under me.

I started to fall forward. Two cold hands caught me.

Instead of landing face-first in the water, my face collided with a tan jacket.

I heard Donovan’s voice: “I’ve got you, baby.”

He knelt in front of me, holding me up.

The shotgun slipped from my fingers. I couldn’t force any words out. All I could do was groan.

“Roxy?” Donovan asked. “That your name? Help me lift him.”

I felt Roxy’s eyes on me, flicking between my shuddering shoulders and Donovan’s arms around me. His far-more-intimate-than-an-associate grip. She didn’t move.

I felt Donovan’s jaw clench. It was pressed up against my ear.

“Help me,” he repeated. “Please.”

I knew that hurt him to say.

The two of them pulled me to my feet and I groaned again. The sharp pain turned my stomach. I leaned forward to vomit on the ground and didn’t manage to lift my head back up.

My eyes drifted closed. When they opened, I was chest deep in the bayou. Then I was in a car, rumbling along the road. Then I was being half-dragged up a flight of stairs.

Then the pain put a haze of red over my eyes and I finally passed out for good.

Chapter 39: You

Chapter Text

I woke with the feeling of cotton in my mouth and a fierce pounding in my head. I might’ve tricked myself into thinking it was just a bad hangover.

I got it in my head to try and sit up, but my body refused to listen. The best I could do was move my eyes.

Looking left, then right, I saw I was at the Blue Gulf. Felt a rush of relief at that. When I’d first seen this place months ago, I was skeptical at how good of a tac center it’d be. Now it just brought relief. Relief at seeing somewhere familiar. At the knowledge that I’d find Donovan here.

And there he was. Twice in just a few hours that the sight of him alone almost made me cry.

He leaned over from a chair beside the bed, his face buried in the blanket beside my arm.

It reminded me of so many times I’d woken up at Father James’ rectory to see Donovan dozing in the chair next to me. He sat further away back then, neither of us willing to ask the other to come closer. Both of us too scared. But at the time, him just being there was enough.

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a strained grunt. Donovan didn’t move. I tried again.

Finally, he raised his head and my heart stopped. His eyes were gone, replaced by dark, empty sockets.

I opened my mouth and tried to scream, but it was muffled in my ears. I could barely make a sound. I couldn’t even breathe.

Was I dead? Was this finally it? Finally trapped in the hell of my own making?

”Lincoln!” Donovan’s voice cut through the nightmare. ”Lincoln, open your eyes.”

I did. When I saw his face, I screamed again. One of his eyes was blackened and swollen, just like the nightmare.

I’ll never escape, I’m trapped here, I’m stuck and alone, never escape, never—

“It’s okay, baby.” Donovan cupped my cheeks. His hands were cold, but it wasn’t the cold of the dead. It was his normal, living cold. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

I managed a few strangled words, “Eyes-your eyes-”

“Oh, this.” He touched his eye and winced. “Gift from Roxy. She’s got a mean right hook.”

I could hardly hear him. I was frozen, staring straight ahead. My breath puffed out in ragged little gasps.

Donovan kept his hands on my cheeks, pressing gently. “Can you hear me?”

I grunted quietly.

“Can you nod for me?”

I swallowed hard and focused every ounce of energy I had into nodding.

“Thanks.” I heard the relief in his voice. “Can you breathe okay?”

I nodded again. My breaths were shallow, but I could at least inhale without too much pain.

“Good, that’s good.” He hesitated. “I bandaged your chest while you were out, is it too tight?”

I shook my head just slightly. I could only manage a small twitch to the left and right.

“Okay.” He moved one hand down to squeeze my fingers. “Roxy left after we got you up here. I think she, um…got the idea that the two of us were…”

Yeah. Would’ve been hard for her to miss it. That was one in a series of conversations I wasn’t looking forward to having.

Donovan shook his head sharply and changed the subject. “You hungry?”

I was too tired for my usual defensiveness. That little kid in my head spoke: Yes, I’m hungry. Hungry and sore and scared.But I couldn’t force out a single word. All I could do was stare at him with wide eyes.

He lifted my hand to kiss my palm.

“You’ll be alright,” he murmured. His breath tickled my skin.

I fumbled to get a weak grip on his shirt. My head leaned hard into his hand, the one still cupping my cheek. I couldn’t speak, could barely move, but I tried to tell him hold me, please hold me. I’m scared.Too exhausted to be ashamed at how pathetic I was being.

His face twisted up like he was fighting hard to hold back a frown. Fighting to keep his face clear for me.

“Can I sit next to you?” he asked.

My fingers tightened around his shirt. I nodded weakly.

Donovan sat on the bed beside me. He ran his hand across my forehead, brushing through my hair. His gentle touch sent shivers down my spine. A lump rose in my throat.

“I-” he started, and his voice was strangled. “Lincoln, I’m trying-I wish I could lie better and be strong for you, but I’m-” His voice broke. “It kills me to see you hurt like this.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the tears leaked out anyway.

Donovan sagged over on the bed next to me, awkwardly cradling my head against his chest.

I managed to mumble a single word, “Stay.”

It took every ounce of energy out of me. That was the last straw for my body. I passed out again with that word echoing around my head. Stay stay stay…

Chapter 40: (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay

Chapter Text

The next time I woke up, it was dark. I had no clue how long it’d been, but I was starving and had to piss. I looked over.

Donovan slept beside me. He curled up with his hand on my chest, above my heart.

The skin around his eye was a nasty blackish blue, but it wasn’t that nightmarish empty socket. Just a run-of-the-mill black eye.

I tried to speak and was surprised when the sound that came out was pretty clear. “Donovan?”

Donovan jerked awake. When he saw my face wasn’t stuck in that stiff, frozen expression of fear anymore, he gave me a small smile.

“Hey, honey,” he murmured.

“You’re a treat to wake up to,” I replied. My voice was hoarse.

He managed a quiet laugh. “Liar.”

“What’s going on with Beauregard? You seen the news?”

“It’s a f*ckin’ mess.” Donovan shook his head. “Earl Wilson got a handle on the narrative real quick, though. Our brave boys in the blue apprehended the Shadow Killer of New Bordeaux, unfortunately he’d killed all those cops and Beauregard by the time Wilson arrived. He took a bullet in the leg defending our great city.”

Quite a tale. I expected nothing less.

I grunted. “Help me sit up.”

Donovan hesitated. He started to ask, “Are you sure?”

But I was already moving, trying to claw my way upright. He figured he’d better help before I managed to hurt myself more.

He sat me up against the wall. I wrapped my arms around my chest and groaned.

“I’ll bet you’re sore,” Donovan said. “I dug some lead out of you while you were out. Sorry to say I didn’t have any morphine on hand.”

“How long’s it been?”

Donovan glanced at the clock. “It’s tomorrow already. ‘Bout four.”

“What do we do now?”

“You’re asking me?” He raised an eyebrow. “I want to crawl into a cave and sleep for a few years, how’s that sound?”

I laughed. It caused a wave of pain across my chest, and I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth.

“Sounds nice,” I said, after I’d caught my breath. “I was thinking more about the neighborhoods. Tickfaw and the Cuban connection.”

“Sounds like a pulp fiction novel,” Donovan mused. “Tickfaw and the Cuban Connection. Disgraced former police sergeant Jim Watson slips on his P.I. hat for one last job, with his sexy associate ‘Brown Eyes’ Murphy at his side.”

“Appreciate you saying ‘associate’ rather than ‘sidekick.’” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. “You’d better let me know when you decide to do a career change and go into radio dramas instead of this sneaking around and getting shot.”

Donovan kissed my cheek. “I won’t leave you high and dry. Maybe I’ll pick up a few gigs on the side and make my name that way.”

“We could use the cash.” I groaned again. “Need to pick up the earnings from the rackets. Burke, Cassandra, and Vito’ll be wondering why I haven’t been ‘round yet.”

“You’re a busy man. They can wait their turn.”

“Try telling them that.”

“Hm.”

I swallowed hard. There was something I wanted to say—well, there were plenty of things I wanted to say. Some I knew how to say, others I didn’t. Some I didn’t know if I should or not.

“Yesterday-” I started, then broke off. I tried again. “Yesterday, I was so scared. Scared that you fell, and it was my fault for sending you up there alone, scared that…about everything. I hate being scared. Just frozen and stuck in place like I used to when I was a kid. I was just trying to tell you to hold me tight because I was so f*ckin’ scared, but I couldn’t say it.”

Donovan sat next to me. He leaned against my shoulder.

“I was scared, too,” he mumbled. “Scared as hell. Of falling, obviously—Roxy thought I was Specs, she socked me in the eye and nearly knocked me off the f*ckin’ coaster. That wasn’t fun. But I was scared because I couldn’t tell how bad you were hurt. God, when you collapsed, I thought-” He reached over to find my hand and squeeze it tightly. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “I thought I lost you.”

My head lowered, my gaze fixed on the blankets. “I thought you lost me, too.”

I wanted so badly to hold him, but my arms wouldn’t move.

“Can you put your arm around me?” I asked. “I’m sorry to-but I can’t move. Please.”

Donovan wrapped his arms around me, struggling to find a position that didn’t jostle my chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“Let’s go sit in the bayou,” I said suddenly. “You said we should just go sit and be together, and you’re right, we need to do it more. Before-”

I stopped just short of saying before it’s too late. But we both knew what I meant.

Donovan didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I…I don’t know how to say sh*t. I’m bad at this. But I don’t want us to…have to do it. I want us to…go because we want to. I-” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t want to kiss you and be scared that it’ll be the last time. I meant it when I said I want us to be ‘normal,’ I don’t know if it made sense then and I don’t know if it makes sense now, but it’s the best thing I can think of.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at how clumsily I leaned into him.

“Trying to kiss you,” I said. “But I can’t really…move my arms.”

Donovan brought my chin up to find my lips. His kiss was soft, his thumb rubbing a path across my jaw. It was so gentle, so perfect.

We were a mess, a pair of walking disasters. Two idiots who still lived against all odds, maybe against their better judgement.We. Not just me and you, but us. And that we, that us, was perfect.

I was so f*cking grateful I’d found that us.

Just this once, I broke my own rules and let Donovan eat in my car. Even let him drive. I didn’t trust my arms not to suddenly decide to stop working in the middle of the road.

We picked up breakfast from the Briar Patch and I directed Donovan to a nice, quiet spot out in the bayou. There, we ate in silence and watched the sun rise over the water. Watched the gators snap at fish, their tails breaking the surface for just a second before they disappeared again. Watched the birds soar through the air and alight in the tree branches. Smelled the fresh morning air, mixed with mud and the faint stink of exhaust fumes.

I hated this city. I loved this city.

“I love you, Donovan,” I murmured.

Donovan wiped his mouth on a napkin before leaning over to kiss me. He smiled as he pulled away. “I’d love to jump in your lap and bite you up, but I think I’ll hold off for now.”

I managed a quiet laugh. Even the small movement made my chest ache. “Appreciate that.”

I’d eaten a few bites of my burger. Better than nothing, I guess.

I took his hand and ran my thumb across his knuckles. He sat back in the seat and closed his eyes.

“Can we sit here forever?” he asked. “Let Marcano die of old age and the others finish each other off?”

A lump rose in my throat, and I choked. I must’ve made an audible sound because Donovan opened his eyes and looked over.

“You okay?”

My lips trembled. I was so tired. I knew better than to get out of bed and drive all the way out here, I knew I needed to rest. All I was doing was putting more strain on skin and muscle and bone that needed to heal. I think Donovan knew it, too, but we made each other a little blind.

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “I wanna stay here with you. Watch the sun rise and set and rise again. I wish we could.”

Donovan lifted my hand to his lips. “You wanna go back to the motel?”

The correct answer was ‘yes.’ Again, he knew it and I knew it, but neither of us wanted to say it. Neither of us wanted to leave this spot.

I remembered something he’d said days ago—it felt like weeks ago. Months ago.

Back there, sitting together at Les Trois Pattes, it wasn’t safe for us to say these sweet words, to kiss and hold each other close. For me to crawl into his arms and cry. But there was somewhere where I could cry, where we could stand a little too close and people passing by could attribute it to mourning rather than love.

“Can we go to their graves?” I asked. “Sammy and Ellis. Can you tell me about the funeral?”

Donovan kissed my hand again. “Sure, baby. You ready?”

“Yeah.” I looked at him and wished I could leap in and drown in those bright blue eyes. “I’m ready.”