Fight (16 page)

Which made me wonder where he thought we would be able to go together and be safe. That thought catapulted me beyond shivering straight into icy terror. What if he didn't ever expect either of us to leave this flat?

Sleep clawed at Carl, and his voice slowed in telling Paul how their future would be. He'd explained them being together—always—never apart with what he had in mind. They didn't need anyone else. Didn't need the trappings of life to spend eternity together. Giving up speech, he thought about what came next, but he needed a nap in order to progress to the next stage. A meal together—and if it meant Paul being manacled still, so be it—and conversation, the kind where they got everything out in the open so they could move on with a clean slate. No good harboring grudges or holding emotions inside. No, it all had to be laid out there for them both to see and deal with. It wouldn't be long and they could put this silly business behind them, go to a better place.

His body sagged into the mattress, and his muscles relaxed, his mind floating at that in-between stage before sleep fully grabbed him. Paul would have plenty of time to think while Carl slept, to remember the good times they'd shared, and Carl hoped when he woke everything would be back how it was. Before life had turned to shit.

An irritating knocking jabbed at his nerves. He ignored it, thinking Paul was working to untie the belt. He wouldn't be able to—not the way Carl had secured it—so it wasn't a problem. Except it went on for a long time, or seemed to, and a thought streaked through his mind.

The door? Someone knocking on the door?

He jerked upright, disorientated, and stared through the bedroom doorway and out into the hall. The sound came again, insistent, louder. Carl sighed and climbed off the bed, a little unsteady on his feet as he walked out of the room. He paused and glanced back at Paul, who lay with his eyes closed, chest rising and falling as though in a deep sleep. Carl longed to join him, to sleep away the last few hours and wake refreshed, ready to begin the next phase. He rubbed his gritty eyes, the sting of them harsh, and drew his palms down his face.

The knock came again.

Damn inconsiderate fucking jerk.

Annoyed, Carl moved to the front door and peered through the spy hole. No one stood in the outer hallway, and he grimaced, turning to go back to the bedroom. Christ, he needed sleep badly. His body felt so heavy, and his mind, though alert, wasn't firing on all cylinders. A sharp rap had him jerking around and back at the door in seconds, eye pressed to the spy hole. Still no one there. Usually, he'd have swung the door wide and given whoever hid beside the door a piece of his mind, but he couldn't be bothered. Kids, probably skipping off school, had dared one another to knock and run. Yeah, that's what it was.

Back in the bedroom, Carl got onto the bed, careful not to wake Paul, who looked so at peace, so
right
. It had been worth it, doing all...this. Risking everything to show Paul how much he cared. Not every lover killed to show their devotion. Not every lover was prepared to go to such lengths. Paul would see that once Carl explained. He'd understand why and be thankful he was adored so fiercely, then act the way he should have all this time, giving Carl what he needed inside the bedroom and out. No more resistance. No more Paul wanting things all his own way.

He closed his eyes, letting the pull of sleep take him away.

Another knock startled his eyes open.

"Right, that's it. Fucking had enough now.” He jumped from the bed, lethargy gone, and stalked toward the front door. “Whoever you are, fuck off!"

Whoever it was tapped again.

Jesus fucking Christ! If I open that door...

Would he be faced with a kid or the cops? He couldn't risk seeing either. Cops being there, well, it was obvious why he couldn't answer, but a kid? Shit, he'd wring the little bastard's neck. Not something he wanted to do with where he and Paul were going. So far the deaths had been justified. He'd compartmentalized them away from everything else in his mind, telling himself that those he'd killed deserved it for a variety of reasons. A kid didn't deserve what he'd dish out, and he didn't think, if Heaven really existed, God would be pleased at an unwarranted death.

He leaned on the doorjamb and positioned his mouth at the frame. “Look, we're trying to sleep in here, all right?"

Something scuffled outside—feet shifting?—and Carl held his breath, hoping the visitor was walking away. He stepped to the spy hole and looked through. A guy stood on the other side, and Carl jumped back, leaning against the wall beside the door. Was it a cop? He couldn't be sure. It hadn't looked like the guy wore a uniform. Then again, if they were after him for murder, it stood to reason they'd send a plain-clothed officer around. Wouldn't they? And wouldn't there be more than one?

Panic slightly eased, Carl peered out again. The guy remained where he was, gaze fixed on the door, jaw muscles flexing. Tousled brown hair flopped over his forehead, and a hooked nose bore signs the man liked a drink or two, broken red veins prominent. His hooded green eyes gave Carl the creeps, but he stayed his position. No way would some man scare him.

"What do you want?” Carl asked, his even voice belying the tremor of insecurity nestling in his gut.

"Gas leak in the building."

Carl laughed at the irony. Did everyone use that fucking excuse? “Yeah, pull the other one."

The guy lifted a small laminated card attached to a chain around his neck. “Got my identification right here, sir."

Carl looked it over, unable to read it clearly, but the photograph on it matched the man. Didn't mean a damn thing, though. The police—wily bastards—were well able to create cards like that. He'd seen it on TV.

"Think I'm stupid?” Carl said, narrowing his eyes. “If there's a leak, we'll come out when I smell gas and not before. So, like I said, fuck off.” He waited for the man to give up and go away.

He didn't. Lowering the card, he raised a clipboard, the paper attached complete with gas company logo. Still didn't mean anything. Anyone could mock up that kind of shit these days.

"Sir, if I could just come in to check, I'll be gone within five minutes."

The clipboard went out of sight.

"I don't think so, buddy.” Carl sniffed—smelled no gas. Scrubbed his chin. Itched to grab a knife, open the door, and ram the blade into the guy's chest.

Can't. Mustn't.

He glanced back to the bedroom. Paul still slept.

"Sir, if I don't gain access to check, I'll have to call the police."

Carl returned his attention to the door. “Say what? Like they're going to be bothered about something like this!"

"Let me in. Now!"

The man's tone of voice and words sent Carl back to another time. His breath caught in his throat, and he pressed his back to the door, hands splayed against the wood. Kevin had said the exact same thing one time Carl had fled to his room and barricaded himself in, knowing the belt was to come. Carl had been messing around in the living room, kicking a ball against the wall—something Kevin wouldn't tolerate if he was in the room. Kevin was in the shower, getting ready for his weekly night out at the local bar. The ball knocked Kevin's glass of red wine on a brand-new shirt he'd laid out on the back of the sofa. Rather than wait and admit he'd done it, Carl ran to his room, dragging a chest of drawers in front of the door, chest heaving as he drew in huge gulps of air.

I'm for it. He'll see it and come get me...

The creak of the floorboards outside Carl's room indicated Kevin had left the bathroom and walked past. One of the stairs groaned under his father's weight—the fifth one down if memory served right—and Carl breathed harder, knowing Kevin would see the stain and come roaring up the stairs, irate as fuck.

He had and hammered on the door, the knob turning as he tried to gain entry. “Let me in. Now!"

Carl hunkered in the corner, wedged between the bed and the wall, knees to his chest, arms about his shins. Shaking.

"Kid, I said let me in! You ruined my shirt? Yeah, I know you did, else why can't I get in here?” A pause. “I mean it, kid. Open the fucking door!"

Carl's guts had rolled over, and warm tears dribbled down his face, dripping off his jawline onto his grubby Superman T-shirt. He swiped them with the back of his hand, sick to death of living in fear, of hoping Kevin would give up and go away. He didn't.

The chest of drawers slowly inched forward, the base scraping the floorboards, the whine it produced much like the one Carl wanted to release. Kevin's face appeared in the partially open doorway, eyes ablaze and mouth drawn back over his teeth. He'd shoved his way inside then, shunting the drawers out of the way, and advanced on Carl. Shivering, Carl tried to push himself further into the corner, wished the wall was made of fluid so he could swim to safety. Kevin reached out and gripped Carl's hair in an evil fist, yanking the boy upright and flinging him onto the bed.

"Think you could get away with that, kid?"

Kevin's red-wine breath stung Carl's eyes, and he closed them, rolling over, waiting for the inevitable.

It came swiftly, the belt's bite wicked on his ass and thighs. Carl clamped his lips closed, determined not to cry out, but the lashes gained speed, the snap of them against his body too much to handle.

His cry had sounded like a wounded animal.

Carl gritted his teeth now, irked that tears fell down his face, mimicking the event of years ago.

"No,” Carl said to the guy outside. “Get lost."

"Well, then. I have no alternative but to—"

"I'm warning you, man. Fuck off!” Carl's words seeped between his clamped teeth, and he balled his fists, willing himself not to give in and let the guy in.

"Let him in, kid. Bet you can't face up to what you've done."

Turning, he made sure the door was secure then walked into the kitchen. Irate, he unplugged the fridge and gripped the sides, his intention to scoot the appliance in front of the door thwarted by a loud crack. He ran into the hallway and leaned toward the spy hole. The guy held a rammer and was in the process of swinging it back for another smack at the wood. Other men stood beside and behind him, their flak jackets evidence of who they were.

Gas man my ass.

His anger grew, and, with no time to block the entrance, Carl lunged for the bedroom, slamming the door. Uncaring whether Paul woke now, he moved to the wardrobe and slid down one side, pushing it toward the door. Sweat broke out under his arms, and his face grew hot with the exertion. Wardrobe in place, he dashed to the window and looked out. No cops occupied the rear grounds, but he couldn't exit the apartment from there. He didn't want to. His plan had been to get himself and Paul somewhere no one could touch them—and that plan hadn't changed. It would have to be implemented sooner, that was all. He snapped the drapes closed and stood beside the bed, looking down at Paul. Should he wake him or let him pass on oblivious?

A resounding snap rent the air, followed by the sound of the front door smacking against the hallway wall.

"Shit!” Carl whispered.

Paul opened his eyes and stared at Carl, mouth agape. “What's going on?"

Carl eyed him. “Some bastard at the door breaking in."

Paul's mouth twitched. Was that a smile trying to break out there?

No, he wouldn't find this funny. He wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him. I can see it in his eyes. See the shock. He loves me.

Carl longed to join Paul on the bed and kiss away his fears. Shouts from the hallway filled his ears, and he clamped his hands over them, humming to drown them out. With an infusion of strength, he darted to the wardrobe, patting around on top until his fingers touched what he sought. He found the handle and pulled it toward him, taking the gun case down and placing it on the bed.

"What are you doing?” Paul asked, eyes wide, panic written all over his face.

"Doing what I should have done a long time ago.” Carl snapped open the case and removed the gun, inserting the bullets with a steady hand.

"And what's that?” Paul stared from Carl to the door then back again.

"You expecting someone?” Carl asked, pointing the gun at Paul.

"No. No! I— Look, whoever it is...maybe we can get rid of them."

"Get rid of them? Not likely. They're cops. Too many of them. Not enough bullets."

"What are the cops doing here?"

Carl studied Paul. Did he know?
He must do. I saw that brawny cop at Brian's earlier. No fucking way Paul isn't aware of what I've done.

"Coming for me. I wanted to explain, but—"

Heavy footsteps running down the hall cut him off, and a thump on the bedroom door jarred Carl's last nerve.

"Police! Come out with your hands behind your head!"

"Carl, make them go away,” Paul said.

"You haven't got the balls, kid."

"Shut up,” Carl snarled.

"What?” Paul frowned.

"No you. Him.” Carl jerked his head then looked at the gun, wishing he'd had time to explain, to make things right with Paul before he blew his head off.

Then swallowed a bullet himself.

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I tried to sit up, remembered the bonds holding me, and shuddered back. I jerked experimentally at them, but Carl had made good work of keeping me captive.

"Carl, please.” This wasn't how this was supposed to work. They'd said let him in, don't make him suspicious. They'd be there before he could do anything. But he'd arrived so soon, and they'd taken so long to come. Now what was I supposed to do? “Who are you talking about?"

He didn't answer, just kept frowning at the gun, muttering and glancing at the door. I strained to hear Vic's voice through the hubbub, but everything was too chaotic.

"We can figure this out, Carl. Please.” I twisted my head away, unable to think with the gun filling my field of vision.

"Look at me, Paul."

"Put that away. Please."

"Look at me!"