Stray Fears Read online

  “Hey,” Jerome said when he pulled up in front of Ray’s building. “I don’t usually do this, but—”

  I slid out of the car, shut the door, and tipped him on the app. For a moment, the Escape idled at the curb, and I thought Jerome might do something really stupid like buzz down a window. After another moment, though, the Escape pulled away. He had one of those LED Uber signs in the back window, and it clicked on as he turned at the next corner.

  Ray lived in Moulinbas, which was the older and seedier side of Bragg. In many ways, it could have passed for the rougher sister of New Orleans’ French Quarter: narrow streets of Creole townhouses with painted brick, cast-iron balconies, and steeply pitched roofs. The glass was old and thick and wavy where it hadn’t been replaced; the October sun glinted off the dormers set high on the townhouses. In many ways, Moulinbas catered to the same general population as the French Quarter. Many of the townhouses had been converted into bars and restaurants; others held shops selling souvenirs, or offering day trips, or spa treatments, or manicures. There were even a few herbal supplement stores that offered a convenient place to get weed, and I thought about buying some just to see how Richard would react. In the end, I decided not to; I was afraid I would get Worried Patience when what I wanted was hissing-cat fury.

  Some of the townhouses still had apartments and residences on the upper floors; Ray lived in one of the half-story apartments in the building in front of me. I had visited a few times because Ray was easy to talk to, easy to be quiet around, and an easy escape from that beautiful, bipolar house. I’d always been irritated by the low ceilings in the half-story unit, although the dormer windows offered a beautiful view of Bragg at sunset, the whole city lit up and glowing in pastels, with the light making it impossible to see the chipped brick and broken stucco and the rust trails left by the cast iron. I climbed the stairs to Ray’s apartment and knocked. No answer.

  I waited, knocked again, a little harder this time. The door slipped out of its frame a quarter inch. The stairwell smelled like dust and the boozy, body-odor funk of Moulinbas, but now something else crept into the mix: shit.

  “Ray?”

  No answer.

  I pressed on the door, and it swung open another quarter inch before the chain caught. Through the opening, I could make out the cramped living space of Ray’s apartment: the patched floral wingbacks, the knock-off Tiffany lamp, the plastic skull he’d rescued from the dumpster behind a pop-up Halloween store.

  “Ray, are you ok?”

  I waited a full minute. Then I got out my phone and called 911. I explained the situation, by which I mean I lied. I told the dispatcher I’d been trying to get in touch with Ray for days, I’d tried the landlord, I’d talked to anybody who might know where he was, and nobody could tell me anything. I asked for a wellness check, and the dispatcher told me to sit tight. When I disconnected, I went downstairs and stepped inside the low-end jewelry boutique that occupied the ground floor. In contrast to the exterior, with its Old-World aesthetic, the interior was gratingly modern: steel and glass and slate. A middle-aged woman, trim, her hair neatly gray, was arranging things in one of the display cases; I barely gave the pieces a glance. Lots of synthetic stones, lots of silver that would probably turn your skin green, maybe a few diamonds that were too yellow to be sold for a premium. My first boyfriend had bought me a bracelet from a place like this, although that had been in New Orleans. It was a pretty piece with a lot of flashy stones that had all fallen out by the time we got home. I asked the woman about Ray, but she couldn’t give me any answers; she didn’t even know who Ray was, and she talked like a Yankee. She also talked a lot.

  By the time I got back outside, a blue-and-white SUV with DuPage Sheriff’s Department on the side was pulling up to the curb. The passenger door opened, and Mason got out. I’d never seen him in uniform before; khaki looked good on him. He stared at me for a moment and then looked across the SUV’s hood. The driver looked familiar. I was pretty sure he was the guy I’d seen dropping off and picking up Mason at the support group. His hair was buzzed short and almost totally gray, and although he was wearing the same khaki shirt and brown pants as Mason, he somehow managed to look rumpled in them, as though he’d slept in them. His badge was askew, and I wanted to know why Mason hadn’t pointed that out.

  “Mr. Martel?” the driver said.

  “Yeah, yes. That’s me.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Mason said.

  “I’m visiting Ray,” I said. “Trying to. He’s not answering the door.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Mason had his fists on his hips. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Why would it be a joke? I’m worried. Something’s not right, so I just wanted somebody to do a wellness check.”

  “This is fucking typical,” Mason said, rounding on the other deputy. “Let’s go. This is a bullshit call.”

  “Why don’t you check the jewelry store?” the other deputy said to Mason. His name tag said LeBlanc. “I’ll go upstairs with Mr. Martel, and he can explain what’s wrong.”

  “I already checked with the woman in there,” I said.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Mason said, dragging LeBlanc to the street side of the SUV. They conversed in low voices. Mason was expressive with his hands as he talked, the movements growing choppier, until finally he yanked on the brim of his campaign cover and said, “The little prick is up to something, ok? That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick fucking head.”

  LeBlanc’s eyes shot toward me before cutting back. He said something very quietly, and Mason stomped toward the jewelry store.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs,” LeBlanc said as he came around the SUV, “and we’ll see what’s going on.”

  “What’s his problem?” I asked as we took the stairs.

  “No problem.”

  “Oh, great. All that shouting and swearing and stomping like he’s a toddler getting his toy taken away. I’m really glad that means there’s no problem.”

  The sound of our steps on the treads filled the stairwell.

  “Because you could have fooled me,” I said. “I could have sworn Mason has a really big fucking problem with me.”

  “Deputy Comeaux—”

  “I know his name is Mason. I know him from our support group, ok? And just because he’s got his balls in a twist about me, it doesn’t mean I’m making this up.”

  We had reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and I turned to face LeBlanc. He was about my height but built with a lot more muscle. He had legitimate biceps. Very legitimate. Like, cuff those fucking sleeves, big boy.

  “Does he hate fags or something?” I asked.

  LeBlanc face was very serious as he looked at me. “No.”

  “I think that’s what it is. He’s been acting weird as fuck around me lately, and I think that’s what it is.”

  “Well, I came out to him when we were in high school,” LeBlanc said with a shrug. “I thought maybe that would send him running, but he’s like a cockroach.”

  I was suddenly very aware of the clock ticking inside Ray’s apartment.

  “This is him?” LeBlanc said, nodding at the partially open door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Ray Field?”

  “That’s right.”

  LeBlanc jiggled the handle, although the door was open and the chain was visible. “And how do you know Mr. Field?”

  “From the support group. The same one Mason goes to; Mason knows him too.”

  “Mr. Field?” LeBlanc called. “Are you home? This is Deputy LeBlanc from the DuPage Sheriff’s Department.”

  The clock seemed even louder.

  “Mr. Field, we’re just checking if you’re ok. If you’re home, could you please respond?”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets; LeBlanc smelled like talcum powder and something else, woodsy, that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I was starting to think I should h
ave taken my chances downstairs with Mason.

  “You told the dispatcher that you’ve been trying to make contact for days?” LeBlanc asked, glancing over his shoulder at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. Three or four days.”

  Very soft brown eyes, the color of sandalwood, stared at me. I wondered if I wasn’t as good of a liar as I’d always believed.

  “I could cut the chain,” LeBlanc finally said.

  “Yeah, please. If he’s mad, I’ll pay for it.”

  “Right,” LeBlanc said, thick eyebrows shooting up as he took in my tank and jersey shorts.

  “I can afford to pay for a chain.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  I laughed. “And I’m definitely not old enough that you should be calling me sir.”

  LeBlanc didn’t laugh, though. He didn’t smile either. “I’ll get the cutters.”

  “I’m twenty-two,” I called after him. “In case you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said without looking back.

  When he returned, he had a pair of bolt cutters as long as his arms. He hooked the jaws around the chain, and his big hands compressed the handles. The chain folded and parted like butter.

  “Mr. Field?” he called again, giving the door a push. It squeaked as it caught against the floor, and LeBlanc gave it another, stiffer shove that forced it open the rest of the way.

  The lights were on throughout the apartment. The clock was ticking. The smell of shit was much, much stronger. LeBlanc stepped inside, and I followed.

  “Please stay on the landing, Mr. Martel.”

  “Sure.”

  We’d gone two more steps before he turned and said, “Mr. Martel.”

  “Loud and clear, big boy.”

  The look of frustration on his face only lasted an instant, and then he turned and advanced into the apartment. Ray’s unit wasn’t quite a studio, although the living area and the galley kitchen occupied most of the area. In the kitchen, one of the burners was on, the coil orange under a kettle that must have boiled dry. Across from us, the bathroom door was open, and the light was on in there too. A trickle of water ran from the tap; on the sink, a brown prescription bottle stood with the cap next to it. No sign of Ray. The only place left to look was the bedroom, which was separated from the main area by a short wall that gave the illusion of privacy.

  LeBlanc must have reached the same conclusion because he put one of those big hands on my chest, stopping me, and he made sure I was staying put before he started walking again. He looked around the dividing wall, grabbed his shoulder radio, and called for an ambulance.

  I moved toward the opening; LeBlanc grabbed for me, but he was still talking into the radio, and I dodged. I slid past him, entered the bedroom, and stopped.

  Ray lay on the bed. I’d seen dead people before, and I knew Ray was dead the moment I saw him. He was waxy and puffy, his body already past rigor and slack now, bloating in the October heat. In death, people rarely look the way we knew them in life; in Ray’s case, this was even truer than usual.

  “Shit,” I whispered. I dropped down onto the sill of the French window that led out to the balcony. I balled up my hands and covered my eyes.

  “Mr. Martel,” LeBlanc said, his voice distant, as though he’d already moved back to the door.

  “Can you give me a fucking minute, please?”

  LeBlanc didn’t answer.

  I tried taking deep breaths, but that didn’t help; I could taste the corruption, the shit, the putrefaction, and I wanted to be sick. I dropped my head between my knees. Episodes like these were cluster bombs: an explosion of sensory input that I couldn’t control. The smell of fried catfish. The run of greasy skin against my face. Someone shouting. A hand around my neck, choking me. The unrelenting invasion of my body. Flashbacks, episodes, whatever you wanted to call them—when they happened, it was all happening now. It wasn’t the past. It was this moment, right now, and it was going to last forever.

  A hand around my neck, choking me.

  “Mr. Martel?”

  A hand on my arm, grabbing me, twisting my wrist, pulling, pinning.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I shouted, stumbling up from the window seat, trying to pull free from LeBlanc. Only it wasn’t LeBlanc who gripped my wrist.

  It was Ray. He had dragged himself across the bed and now lay at an angle, his legs still tangled in the bedding. His eyes were open; blue fire danced in the milky depths. Where he clutched my arm, his bloated fingers had split, oozing black liquid down my arm.

  Ray yanked, dragging me towards him; his mouth opened. No, not opened. His jaw dropped, unhinged, like he was going to try to swallow me whole. I stumbled back, screaming, trying to rip free. Ray held on. His grip was iron. My tennis shoes slid along the polished floor, and I couldn’t get my footing. He dragged me toward him again, his puffy flesh slipping through the twisted sheets. I was still screaming. The blue in his eyes was brighter: huge, dancing walls of fire that fell in sheets across my vision.

  Then two strong hands had my shoulders, and my feet left the ground as I was hauled backwards. My weight must have overbalanced LeBlanc, because both of us tumbled to the ground. I twisted and scratched and clawed, not even sure what I was doing, just trying to get free. LeBlanc had rolled away, got onto his knees, and had out his service weapon.

  Ray lay in bed, just the way I’d found him. No blue fire. No twisted, crawling abomination. His eyes were half open and filmed with death. I crabbed back a few more feet until I hit the wall, and then I scrubbed at my arm. No black juice from putrefaction. I could hear my breathing, shrill and hysterical, but I couldn’t seem to get it under control. LeBlanc held the gun fixed on Ray, but his hands were shaking.

  And then, something blue drifted out of Ray’s mouth. A firefly, my mind supplied, although I’d never seen a blue firefly before. It circled lazily once, and then it slid through the French window and drifted away, vanishing against the intense blue of the sky.

  DAG (6)

  I’d heard about hallucinations people experienced after combat. Psychotic symptoms manifested occasionally in people suffering from PTSD.

  I had seen a dead man grappling with Martel, trying to drag the kid forward, trying to . . . to bite him.

  No, I had seen a dead man lying in bed. Dead. Motionless, the way dead people are supposed to be.

  I had seen something blue.

  No, I had seen a sunspot.

  The panicked breathing behind me dragged me back, inch by inch, from my own terror. Holstering my Sig, I turned and saw Martel against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, running a hand over his arm.

  “Are you ok?” I asked.

  He kept turning his arm over, studying it, his breathing shallow and rapid.

  “Mr. Martel, are you ok?”

  He raked his nails down his arms, leaving faint white tracks. Then he did it again, harder.

  Squatting next to him, I said, “Hey, you’re ok.”

  He was really digging in now, his nails furrowing the skin; in a few places, flecks of red showed where he had scraped the flesh raw.

  “Ok,” I said, taking his wrist. “You’re—”

  “No,” he shouted, twisting away. He scrambled across the floor, not quite getting to his feet, and then he ran into the two-person table. A plate slid off and shattered, and Martel flinched and pulled himself into a ball.

  Footsteps on the stairs made me get to my feet. Mason stepped into the apartment a moment later, his face tight. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Mr. Field is dead,” I said, thumbing at the partitioned bedroom. “Mr. Martel is having a reaction.”

  Mason’s face twisted further in anger. He stood there, worrying the palm of one hand with his thumb, his face getting darker and darker. Then he kicked the chair next to Martel and sent it toppling end over end.

  “What the fuck, Elien? You were
supposed to make sure he was ok.”

  “Mason, Jesus Christ.”

  “You were supposed to be looking out for him,” Mason screamed, bending over Martel—Elien—who was trying to make himself smaller and smaller. “Zahra asked you to do one fucking thing and you couldn’t even do that.”

  “That’s enough,” I said, stepping toward them. “What has gotten into you—”

  Bending, Mason grabbed Elien’s tank and jerked him upright. Elien came up awkwardly, slapping at Mason’s hand, shouting something that didn’t even sound like words. Mason was shaking him, shouting back, and then Elien twisted and got in a punch that caught Mason in the eye. Mason dropped the kid, and then he reached for his gun.

  “You are fucking kidding me,” I shouted, grabbing Mason in a wrist lock and forcing him out to the landing.

  “Get the fuck off me,” Mason said, trying to twist free.

  “What the hell is happening with you?” When he tried to lunge past me, I tightened the lock, and Mason howled. “Jesus, Mase, get a handle on it.”

  With a growl, Mason dropped back, and I released him. We stared at each other. In the distance, sirens moved closer.

  “I cannot believe what I just saw in there,” I said.

  “Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Mason said, massaging his wrist.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “He knows something he’s not telling us. I was just trying to put a scare into him.”

  Shaking my head, I pointed. “Downstairs.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m taking him outside, and I want you to stay the fuck away from him.”

  Mason’s mouth twisted. “Told you.”

  “What?”

  “You see his whole poor, defenseless gay-boy routine, and you pop a boner so hard you can’t even think straight.”