Under the Skin (26 page)

“Then we won’t ask you to talk about it,” Patrick’s father Daniel said in the tone of voice his children had learned at an early age not to argue with, lightening the admonition with a warm smile. “Welcome home, son,” he added, unable to rise for the lapful of grandchildren who’d climbed onto his recliner with him. “We don’t see you nearly often enough.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Patrick said, wishing he could tell his family more about Alexei, but until he knew his lover was safe, until he knew Alexei still wanted him, it seemed better to limit what he said. “We’ve been working on a difficult case, racketeering, money laundering, the works. Now that we got our guy, I should have a little more free time.” Not that he knew how he’d spend it with Alexei God only knew where. Patrick fingered the cross around his neck, sending a silent prayer skyward for Alexei’s safety.

For the rest of the evening, amid the noise and laughter as the family crowded around the table for dinner and then moved into the living room to exchange gifts around the tree, Patrick found his thoughts continuing to turn to Alexei. He tried to imagine his lover here, interacting with his family, but he couldn’t make the picture form in his mind. Trying to envision what Alexei might be doing at this moment was no better. He didn’t know which thought was more painful—that Alexei was spending the holiday alone, or that he might have already found someone else.

“You might have gotten Dad to keep everyone else off your back about your mysterious man,” Denis said, drawing Patrick aside after dinner, “but there’s more to it than you’re letting on. Let’s go sit on the porch so we can talk.”

“It’s freezing out there,” Patrick protested.

“So talk fast,” Denis said, pulling Patrick outside. Once they were alone, he went on. “I know there’s stuff you don’t want Mom to know about, but something’s on your mind, so spill.”

Denis had been Patrick’s first confidant when they were too young to even know the meaning of secrets. “You can’t tell anyone any of this.”

“I promise,” Denis said solemnly. “If I say anything, you can tell Dad I was the one who dented Mom’s new car when we were in high school.”

The memory surprised a laugh out of Patrick despite the seriousness of the situation. He shifted back and forth to keep warm as the icy breeze eddied around the house. “Alexei worked undercover for Interpol, but they pulled him after he saved my life from the Russian mobster he was supposed to be bringing down. I haven’t heard from him in five months.”

“Damn, that sucks.” Denis sighed heavily, the exhalation forming a cloud of steam around his head. His brother had known Patrick was gay almost as soon as Patrick had figured it out himself, and the rest of the family had mirrored his unequivocal acceptance when Patrick told them. Patrick recognized again how much that acceptance meant to him as Denis asked, “Do you have any idea how to get in touch with him?”

“No,” Patrick said sadly. “Interpol says he’s dead, although I know that can’t be right because he was alive and the Russian who supposedly killed him was dead when I saw him last. His cell phone is disconnected. He promised he’d call when it was safe. I just didn’t expect it to take five months.” He refused to acknowledge the possibility that Alexei might have moved on with someone else.

Denis pulled Patrick into a rough embrace. “I don’t know any more about witness protection than I see on TV, but if this Alexei is being set up somewhere under a new identity, it might take a while before they’re sure no one is after him.” He stepped back enough to see Patrick’s face, keeping his arms around his brother’s shoulders. “Is he worth waiting for?”

Patrick didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. And I know enough about witness protection to know you’re right, but you of all people should know patience isn’t my strong suit. I’ll wait because he
is
worth it. I just can’t promise to do it gracefully.”

“Well then, everything’s the same as usual,” Denis chuckled.

“Fuck you,” Patrick retorted, but he was smiling for the first time in what felt like months. “Can we go back inside now? It’s freezing out here.”

Denis held him back with a hand on his arm. “I know we haven’t been as close since you moved up north, but just remember, you have family here who care about you. Even if we can’t do anything to help, we can at least be here to listen. You don’t have to deal with everything on your own.”

“It’s not, or at least it wasn’t, something I could talk about much,” Patrick said, “but thank you for listening to what I can say. I guess I need to drag myself back down here more often, don’t I?”

“Denis Conor and Patrick Thomas, do you want to catch your death of cold?” their mother scolded from inside the kitchen door, though her gaze traveled warmly over both her sons. A minute nod from Denis seemed to reassure her. “Come back inside right now! Your father’s going to open the bottle of Midleton your Uncle Kevin sent him.”

Patrick took the opportunity to escape gratefully, kissing his mother’s cheek as he went back inside. “You know I’ll never pass up a chance at some real Irish whiskey.”

“Just make sure you take some to Sister Mary Joseph before you settle in with your own glass.”

“Yes, Mom,” Patrick said, joining the rest of the family again. His dad passed around glasses, giving Patrick two. He crossed the room to the chair by the fire where Sister Mary Joseph sat enthroned. He’d spent his entire life in awe and not a little fear of the tiny woman who wore the mantle of authority because of her religious vocation.

“Here you go, Sister,” he said, offering her the glass. “The first pour from the new bottle of Midleton.”

“Thank you, Patrick,” she answered, her voice still strong despite the frailty of her hand compared to Patrick’s as she took the glass. “Blessings on us all.” She raised the Waterford tumbler and took a small sip.

“Amen,” Patrick replied, taking a sip from his own glass as he said another silent prayer for Alexei’s safety. On impulse, he laid his hand over his great-aunt’s. “I have a colleague, a friend as well, who needs all the blessings he can get right now. He helped me out on a case and is in hiding because of it. I hoped you might say a few prayers for him when you think about it.”

Slender, wrinkled fingers closed around his, holding his hand between both of the nun’s. “I would pray for anyone in such a situation, but especially because he is special to you, I will pray for your Alexei gladly.” She squeezed Patrick’s hand before releasing it. “Have faith in the Lord, and in your friend.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, his voice hoarse. He should have known better than to try to hide anything from the wily old nun. Her body might show her age, but her mind was as sharp as ever. “I’m trying, but it’s hard some days. Especially on days like today when he should be here and he can’t be.”

“Don’t let regret for what you don’t have ruin your appreciation for what you have,” his great-aunt said, patting his cheek. “Remember and give thanks for the time you had together. I suspect your friend is doing the same.”

Patrick was sure his cheeks were as bright as the stockings hanging from the mantle. He could deal with gun-waving criminals and slimy crime lords without blinking an eye, but thinking about sex in the company of his great-aunt was too much for his composure. He was sure she’d laugh at him if he said that aloud, but it didn’t change his discomfiture. “I hope he is.”

The twinkle in Sister Mary Joseph’s eyes made Patrick suspect she understood the reason for his flushing, but before she could say anything, his mother tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I steal Patrick from you for a moment, Sister?” she asked. “I need someone tall in the kitchen to put some of the platters away.”

Patrick knew an excuse to get him alone and grill him when he heard one, but since the alternative was staying with Sister Mary Joseph and letting
her
grill him, he’d take his chances with his mother. Following her into the kitchen, he started on the platters immediately. As the tallest of his family, it had been his job since he was fifteen. “Go ahead and ask, Mom,” he said as he put the first one away. “I’ll tell you what I can, but there will be some things I just can’t talk about.”

“Does he make you happy, Patrick?” she asked softly as she handed him another dish. “I can’t tell if you’re sad because he’s gone or because you have doubts about being with him.”

“When we’re together, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” Patrick replied honestly. “I don’t doubt our feelings for each other, just the situation we’re in. He’s been in so much danger for so long. I don’t know if it’ll ever be safe to really be together.”

He could practically feel his mother holding back the questions she knew Patrick couldn’t answer. “Tell me a little about Alexei. What kind of man is he?”

“He’s Russian,” Patrick said, putting away the remaining platters and sitting down at the table across from his mother. “He... he’s a good man who maybe made some mistakes and maybe did some things I wish he hadn’t had to, but he never passes a church without lighting a candle to St. Michael, and he risked his life to save mine.”

“That alone is enough to make me love him already.” His mother stretched her hands across the table to take Patrick’s. “I know you could never fall in love with someone who wasn’t a good person at heart. Once you hear from Alexei again, I know you might not be able to bring him home to meet us right away, but let him know he will always be welcome here.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Patrick said. “I should have brought him a long time ago, but things were complicated and, well, it’s not like I’m down here every weekend. But I’ll tell him, and someday I’ll bring him to meet everyone. He might change his mind about me after being overwhelmed by everyone, but I know you’d all love him too.”

“Are you implying that meeting your family is more frightening than risking his life for you?” His mother smiled. “We may be loud and teasing and exuberant, but if he’s smart enough to fall in love with you, I’m sure your Alexei will be able to cope with us.” She stood and kissed the top of Patrick’s head, ruffling his hair. “You need a haircut. Now come back into the parlor and have another glass of your father’s whiskey. It’s not good for him to drink too much of it himself.”

“I don’t think he’s ever really had a family,” Patrick said, rising with her and starting toward the parlor, “and he likes my hair long, so I think I’ll leave it for now. I want to be his Patya when I finally see him again.”

“Patya?” His mother tilted her head as if repeating the diminutive silently to herself and then smiled. “I like it. I think I’m going to like your Alexei.”

Patrick smiled. “Good, because I’m hoping he’ll be around for a long, long time.”

P
ATRICK
stalked into the precinct, the third brochure he’d received in a month from the Oregon wine country in his hand. He tossed it on Reba’s desk. “Just because I brought you a bottle of wine—which wasn’t even from Oregon, by the way, since I didn’t know Oregon made wines—and just because you think I need a vacation is no reason to give my name to a wine tours mailing list.”

Reba picked up the brochure and glanced at it. “Sugar, I’ve never been west of the Mississippi. I did
not
sign you up for an Oregon wine mailing list.” She flipped through the pages showing hillsides covered with vines and smiling men harvesting grapes. “Looks like pretty country, though.” She turned a page that listed a number of wineries and the varieties they produced. “Green Slopes Winery, producer of quality Rieslings, Pinot Gris, and Pinot Noir.” She pointed to the listing that had been circled in red ink. “That the one you decided to visit on the vacation you’re finally going to take?”

“What are you talking about? I’m not taking a vacation,” Patrick said. “There’s too much work to do here.”

“And it will still be here when you get back,” Reba retorted. “You could bring some wine back for me and the captain and we wouldn’t even complain about covering for your sorry butt while you’re gone.”

“Thames, Flaherty.” Jacobs’s voice cut short their conversation. “It seems like getting rid of the Volkovs didn’t satisfy the Colombians. There was a hit on the Surovs’ restaurant that looks turf related. The gang unit’s on their way as well.”

“Told you there was too much work to do for me to take a vacation,” Patrick retorted as he and Reba headed for the door.

P
ATRICK
tossed his jacket on the table along with the mail. God, he hated his job sometimes. There were twelve dead bodies, not one of them related to the Surovs the Colombians had been trying to hit. Twelve innocents gunned down for a feud that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The restaurant was in shambles, and Patrick was sure business would suffer because of it, a slight victory for the Colombians, but the people who had actually died hadn’t had anything to do with the spreading turf war between the
vory
and the old-guard drug runners.

With a sigh, he sorted through the mail, tossing most of it aside to recycle, but the small package in amongst the bills and junk mail caught his eye. He examined it closely, but the return address wasn’t one he recognized. PO Box 825, Salem, Oregon. Frowning, he opened it to find a plain black cell phone inside. He turned it on, curious now, and found a single number programmed into the phone’s memory.

He considered calling a friend at the post office to see if he could track down the owner of the PO box, but even with the favor his friend owed him, it would be several hours if not tomorrow before he’d hear anything back. Even if it wasn’t after closing hours in Oregon by now, there was no guarantee they could give him any useful information. The way his luck had been running lately, the box would be rented under a false name anyway.

He opened the back of the phone, checking to make sure nothing had been planted, either a tap or any kind of explosive, but nothing seemed odd. Shrugging, he put the phone back together and dialed the number.

After four rings, the phone flipped over to voice mail, and Patrick’s heart seized. “Green Slopes Winery, producer of quality Rieslings, Pinot Gris, and Pinot Noir.” The words echoed in his head, but far more important was the voice. Alexei’s voice.