The Ending Hour
by Maya Tawipart two
"Don't fear the reaper
I have been down deeper, too"
--Helium, "All The X's Have Wings"NOVEMBER -- BOSTON
Winter teased at the city, creeping in one day and scurrying off the next like a frightened groundhog. It was still warm enough to get away with short-sleeved shirts and a leather jacket, and Harrison was grateful for the reprieve; that much longer he didn't have to face the horror of clothes shopping. Still, he couldn't help thinking that fifty degrees in Boston in November had to be a sign of the end times.
He had some winter clothes that weren't completely threadbare, semi-decent suits bought secondhand and patched up by Spencer's nimble fingers, but he couldn't bring himself to put them on anymore. Playing at being a grown-up-- he wasn't even fooling himself now. Not after what he'd done with Jack.
Jack Harper. Sarcastic sociopath, sister-killer, damn good kisser.
Harrison thunked his forehead against the glass door.
It opened almost immediately, and Davis stood in the doorway, frowning. "You're knocking now?"
"It's a thing," Harrison said, pushing past him. "Didja start the dead meat party without me?"
Davis led him into the autopsy room, though by now he knew the place like the back of his hand. Harrison let the guy have his little rituals. Something Davis Something-or-other was king of his own dead domain; Harrison, a grudgingly tolerated guest.
He wiggled his fingers at the corpses in greeting. "Yo, stiffs. Miss me?"
"Don't get caught up in conversation," Davis said, glancing at his watch. "I have someone coming in ten minutes to identify this one." He nodded at the sheet-covered body on the middle gurney.
Harrison reached for the sheet, then stopped. It had been a long day. Long morning, now; once again he had seen the sunrise from the wrong end, and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. But first, Davis had his little schedule. The man was just crazy about spreadsheets. And if this was the corpse that would kick him back in time, first he had to get all the facts.
"What's her story?" he asked, hand hovering over the sheet.
"His," Davis said. "Stabbed seven times with a serrated blade. He was found at the foot of the MIT bridge and brought in just before midnight. They took his wallet, so probably a mugging, though it seems a little...." He trailed off.
"Overkill," Harrison suggested.
Davis's lips twitched. "In a manner of speaking."
"Who'd you tap for the ID?"
"The man who called 911. He said he was a friend. I don't think the guy had family here."
"Join the club," Harrison said. "So does he have a name, or do I have to guess? 'Cause Hangman's not really my game, but I'll give it a shot. Gimme an E, D."
Davis sketched a circle in the air with his index finger; it took Harrison a moment to realize it was meant to be a stick figure head. "Harrison, meet Thomas Macavoy." He paused. "Deceased."
Harrison shot him a sharp look, the name prompting an unpleasant shock of recognition. "You sure he doesn't have family?"
"No," Davis said, looking impatient. "Friend of yours? Because if so, you could have saved me a lot of trouble." He looked at his watch again. "Five minutes, Harrison."
"I'll do you one better," Harrison said. "I'll save this guy the trouble instead."
Now Davis looked dubious. "I have two other new ones. It might not be him, or any of them, for that matter."
"It's him," Harrison said, and pulled back the sheet.
Thomas Macavoy stared up at him. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, and would've been good-looking, if not for the whole dead thing. He had longish blond hair and pale blue eyes, and he didn't look a thing like Bett.
Not surprising. There were probably hundreds of Macavoys in the city.
After a moment, Davis said, "Are you sure you don't want--"
"Shush," Harrison said without looking up. "I'm communing with the dead."
"Because I don't mean to be rude, but I am on a schedule--"
Davis and his schedules. "Anniversary's coming up," he said, still holding Thomas Macavoy's unseeing gaze.
He could almost hear Davis blink. "Excuse me?"
"Tru, remember? Same time, same place? Just so I can clear my schedule and all."
"Of course," Davis said, then hesitated. "You know, Harrison, you don't have to wait that long. If you want company--"
At that, he did look up. "Hey, I got friends."
"Of course you do," Davis said.
Harrison bristled. "If you think I'm using my sister's death to pad my social life--"
"I was just going to say, if you want to come for Thanksgiving--"
"And what the fuck do I got to be thankful for?"
Davis opened his mouth, and Harrison was spared his answer by a knock on the outer door. "Don't move," he ordered instead, so of course Harrison followed him out to the waiting room.
Davis ran a quick hand over his hair before opening the door. "Right on time," he said.
And an all-too-familiar voice responded, "Davis, right? We spoke on the phone. Colin couldn't make it after all, but--"
Bett stopped, catching sight of Harrison over Davis's head. It wasn't hard; she was a tall woman. "Harry," she said with surprise. "What are you doing here?"
His chest gave a sickening lurch. Conversationally he said, "You're a dirty lying bastard, D."
"So noted," Davis said. "This way, Ms. Macavoy."
Harrison edged around her to the door, and she turned as he passed. "You're leaving?"
He stared at her, at a loss. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the long dark waves of her hair more disarranged than usual, and he found himself saying, "I can stay if you want."
"I'd like that," she said.
Harrison smiled weakly and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. His shoulders hunched as he followed them back into the autopsy room. He felt a little faint. He'd never expected to see Bett again, not after the way she'd stormed out last time. Never really wanted to.
She stood over Thomas's body, staring down at him much like Harrison had, then nodded once. "That's him," she said with a marked lack of emotion.
Harrison's fists clenched in his pockets. "Brother?"
"Cousin." Bett shook her head. "I didn't even know he lived here until Colin called me. We were never close."
"Well, that's that, then," Davis said, reaching for the sheet. "If you could just sign some forms--"
Bett wasn't listening; she was giving Harrison a curious look. "You never answered. Why are you here?"
"He's a friend of mine," Davis said.
"Past tense," Harrison said with an insincere smile.
Bett shook her head. "Small world."
"Got that right," Harrison muttered, shooting Thomas's body one last glance before the sheet covered his face. Crisis narrowly averted. He could only imagine if he'd been right, and had to spend the day trying to save the life of his ex's estranged cousin--
Thomas Macavoy's hand whipped out, grasping Harrison's wrist. Help me, he whispered, and it was hard to tell, but he seemed to have the same Australian accent as Bett.
"Fuck me," Harrison said, as time started to unravel before his eyes.
He woke tangled in the sheets, nursing the same damned hangover as before. Harrison glared at the blaring alarm clock and wished, not for the first time, that he kept his gun within easy reach of the bed. "Fuck's sake, I'm up already," he grumbled, slapping it off. "Again."
He stumbled to the bathroom and popped two Advil before stepping into the shower, eyes squeezed shut against the fluorescent light. At least he knew Spencer had already made the coffee. She'd met him at the door yesterday with a steaming mug and a knowing look. He couldn't fault her efficiency; guilt and caffeine, all wrapped up in one neat, smoking hot package.
"Don't say it," he growled this time, grabbing for the mug and tossing back its contents in one long gulp.
Spencer contrived to look innocent. "I was just gonna say--"
"Dover wants his photos, Castilla wants her money back-- fat chance on that-- and we're out of creamer." He handed back the now-empty mug. "I noticed that last part. Fill 'er up, Girl Wonder."
She gave him a narrow-eyed look. "You're spooky sometimes, boss."
"If that's you pouring coffee, you're pretty damn spooky yourself."
Spencer retrieved the pot with a roll of her eyes, and Harrison slouched toward the back office, calling over his shoulder, "And get me everything you can on Thomas Macavoy, M-A-C. Place of residence, place of employment, humorous mug shots, the works." If he was lucky, he wouldn't have to see Bett at all today.
If he was lucky. And when did that ever happen?
Spencer appeared in the doorway, fresh coffee in hand. "New case?"
"Favor for a friend."
"You do a lot of those," she said, setting the mug on his desk.
"I got a lot of friends," Harrison said.
He waited until she was gone, then retrieved the bottle from his bottom desk drawer and poured a generous amount of scotch into the coffee. Much better.
By the time Spencer returned with a stack of printouts, he was smoking his second-to-last cigarette, and the Advil and the doctored coffee were finally kicking in. He tossed her his wallet and said, "Go get me another pack. You're old enough, right?"
"Gosh," Spencer said. "Let me think."
"You being so fresh-faced and innocent, I mean."
"Well, we can't all be ancient like you," Spencer said, flipping the wallet from hand to hand. "So now I get to turn my myriad talents and experience to buying you cancer."
"Myriad what now? You were a damn waitress. You're myriadly qualified to go fetch."
"I'd slip cyanide into your smokes," she said, "but, oh look, there's already some in there."
"And that's why they taste so good. Now fuck off." He raised his middle finger in dismissal, and she stuck out her tongue and flounced out the door.
Harrison turned to the printouts. He'd been joking about the mug shot, but there it was-- booked for possession of E, not enough for intent, let off with a fine. He eyed the photo through lazy curls of smoke. Thomas Macavoy, very much alive, stared up at him with an expression of amused contempt, and finally Harrison could see the family resemblance. His hair was slicked back, and his white tank top showed off a small black tattoo on his bicep. He looked like he'd been having a good time.
He'd been a doctor at MGH, Harrison read, but lost his job after the arrest. Apartment in Back Bay, immigration papers, green card. No driver's license; Harrison grudgingly approved. No mention of somebody named Colin, but he hadn't expected it to be that easy. Nothing about Bett, either.
He realized he hadn't called Davis yet, and reached for the phone just as it rang. Harrison realized with a sick roll of his stomach that he knew who the caller would be. He considered letting it go to voicemail, then picked up at the last second, for reasons he didn't quite understand.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
"Nice to hear your voice, little brother." Meredith's words dripped world-weary sarcasm.
"I'm sorry, did you stop understanding English? Don't they speak it in Ireland?"
"Better than you ever did," Meredith said. "It's coming up, isn't it?"
He didn't have to ask. He hadn't had to yesterday either. "So what?"
"So I'd like to see you for once. Are you free for breakfast?"
"Sorry," Harrison said. "I'm busy. Anything else?"
Meredith was undeterred. "Lunch, then."
"Still busy. Sensing a pattern yet?"
"Jesus, Harry," she snapped. "We're the only ones left now. You could at least try to be civil."
Screw the coffee; he needed the whole bottle. "Dad's still around somewhere," he said, bending down to open the drawer again. "Why don't you call him?"
"Very fucking funny," and he froze with the bottle halfway to the desk, stunned, because Meredith never, ever swore-- too undignified, she said. "Look, I know you have abandonment issues--"
Harrison snorted, recovering. "And which self-help book did you pull that one from?"
"I really wish you'd consider seeing a therapist. If money's an issue, I'll pay--"
"Oh, fabulous, charity. Just what I always wanted." He twisted off the bottle cap with a savage flick of his wrist.
"Are you drinking?"
What, did she have some kind of sixth sense? The addict's nose for substances. "No," he said, and took a swig.
"Damn it, Harry, you shouldn't--"
"Okay, you know what? Stop right there. Coming from a coke addict, that don't carry much weight with me."
"It should," Meredith said. "I know what it's like."
"Then you know how much I really want you to fuck off right now."
He slammed down the phone, and when it rang again, this time he didn't bother to answer.
Finding Thomas Macavoy proved to be no challenge; that afternoon, when Harrison knocked on his apartment door, he was still in bed. It took a good five minutes of grumbling and odd shuffling sounds, and the occasional crash, before the door opened a crack and bloodshot blue eyes peered out at him. Harrison sympathized. He wasn't a morning person either.
He coughed; he had a story ready, but it faltered in the face of Thomas's bleary glare. "Uh, hi," he ventured. "Um, you don't know me, but--"
"Who the hell cares?" The door closed in his face, scant inches from his nose. He blinked at it, then heard the chain slide off the door before it was flung wide. "Come on in."
Well, that was easy.
Harrison stepped inside, wary of his good luck. Potential corpses didn't usually welcome him with open arms, and that was before he even got into the whole hey-you're-gonna-die thing.
The door had barely closed behind him when Thomas crowded him back against it, looming a good six inches over him. "So," he purred, "what are you selling? Jesus or magazines?"
Harrison swallowed, caught halfway between amusement and alarm. Suddenly the warm welcome made a lot more sense. "I look like a Jehovah's Witness to you?"
"If you are," Thomas breathed against his ear, "I may have to rethink my stance on religion."
He gulped again. Thomas was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else, and heat poured off his bare chest like a radiator. "Bet that move works wonders when the Girl Scouts come knocking," he said, and only sounded a little bit strained.
"Are you kidding? I love those fucking cookies." Thomas stepped back, and Harrison told himself that he wasn't disappointed, and almost believed it. "So if you're not selling anything, what do you want?"
Right. Back to the story. He stayed pressed against the door, in case Thomas made any more sudden moves, and said, "Name's Harrison. I'm a friend of Bett's. I'm just in town for a couple days, and she's busy with work, so she said maybe you could show me around."
Thomas gave him a look of frank disbelief. "Bettina sent you to me?"
"Shouldn't she have?" Harrison asked, with what little innocence he could muster.
Apparently it was enough. "Shit. For this, she is definitely back on my Christmas list."
"I'm thrilled," Harrison said. "So is it safe to move? You're not gonna jump me again?"
"No promises," Thomas said with a wolfish grin.
Great. "'Scuse me a sec," Harrison said, feeling behind him for the doorknob, and ducked back outside before Thomas could respond.
In the hallway, he glared at the ceiling and lifted his middle finger heavenward. That finger was getting a real workout today. "Very fucking funny, asshole."
The fates, as usual, declined to respond.
When he opened the door again, Thomas was sprawled on the sofa, having produced a joint from parts unknown, and was sucking on it with great concentration. He saw Harrison and held up a finger, waited a beat, then exhaled. Harrison's nostrils flared despite himself. Pot had never been his drug of choice, but he wasn't one to turn down the opportunity when it presented itself. More damningly, he associated the smell with Isaac and sex, and that plus the unconventional greeting wasn't doing his libido any favors.
"Oh look," Thomas said, in that lazy Australian drawl he associated with Bett and sex. Double-pronged assault; so not fair. "You're back."
"And my front," Harrison agreed, and was rewarded with a brief spark of approval. "So you up for it, or what?"
Thomas held out the joint, and he waved it away with regret. He was addled enough already. Thomas shrugged and said, "I'm game if you are."
"It's gonna take more than a come-on to scare me away."
Thomas pinched off the end of the joint and set it on the table, then stood with another leer. "Well, Harrison, I look forward to finding out what will."
Thomas, of course, didn't have a car. Harrison started to suggest they take his, then realized that his Massachusetts plates and his local parking permit might give the game away, just a little, and resigned himself to public transportation. At least it was cheap.
"So where are we going?" he asked as they approached the T stop, scanning the streets for a glimpse of Jack. Thomas's death was still hours away, but better safe than not.
Thomas shrugged. He'd thrown a sweatshirt and tattered jeans over his pants, and didn't seem bothered by the weather, though Harrison was already shivering in his leather jacket. "You're a little early, I have to say. My usual places don't open till after dark."
And that way lay death by stabbing. "So let's do something different," Harrison said. "Something you wouldn't normally do."
Thomas smirked. "Hey, yeah, let's go pick up some chicks."
Harrison rolled his eyes and swapped his two bucks at the machine for a Charlie card. "Dude, I get it. You're gay. Message received."
"And here I thought I was being subtle," came Thomas's voice from way too close behind him.
Harrison flashed a sweet smile over his shoulder. "That's obviously not your strong suit."
They passed through the glass doors, and Thomas headed for the inbound platform, saying, "Come on. I wanna show you something."
Harrison followed with some trepidation. "Now where have I heard that before?"
"You wound me."
The train was just arriving, packed with rush-hour commuters, which saved him the problem of how to avoid sitting next to his charge, or even if he really wanted to. He hung from the support bar, swaying with the movement of the train, and racked his brain for non-innuendo-laden small talk. He was a people person. It shouldn't be too hard. What did normal people talk about, anyway?
"So, Thomas," he began.
"Tom." Another smirk. "Like the cat."
Ooookay. "Tom. What do you do?"
"I," said Tom, "am blissfully unemployed. You?"
"Same." It was a cover story he'd have no trouble maintaining.
"And what brings you to our fair city?"
"This time of year?" Harrison said, stalling for time. "Masochism."
"And the real answer?"
"What, that's not enough for you?"
Tom grinned. "You got that bad boy thing going on. You look like you'd have more fun dishing it out than taking it."
So much for no innuendo. Well, he had been asking for it.
"We recognize our own," Tom added, leering as Harrison felt himself flush. It was way too warm in the overheated subway car, and the crush of bodies around him wasn't helping any.
"Good to know," he said weakly.
"Then again, I've been surprised before."
Harrison licked his lips. Time to get the conversation back on track. "Real answer, I'm looking for work. Could use a change of scenery."
"Where from?"
"Baltimore." It was the first thing that popped into his mind, though he felt ill just saying it. Memories he'd been trying to repress came screaming back; he closed his eyes against the image of Jack's smirk, and oh look, suddenly he didn't feel like having sex anymore.
"What's the scene like there?" Tom was asking, oblivious.
The.... "What?"
Tom snorted. "Oh, come on. You may be subtle, but you're not that subtle. No straight guy would've let me back off first."
Harrison jerked his head around, face heating again, to see if anybody was listening. Some girl around Spencer's age was staring at him from the seat under the window, but nobody else seemed to be paying attention.
He dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "I really wouldn't know about any scene." Unless Tom meant the OTB scene, but he wasn't getting those particular vibes.
Tom gave him a speculative look. "Well then, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"
"We really won't," Harrison said.
The train lurched to a stop at the Copley station, and Tom stepped past him, grabbing his arm on the way out the door. Over his shoulder he asked, "But you are gay, right?"
Again, Harrison shot an anxious look over his shoulder as he let himself be towed onto the platform. "Well," he hedged, "not exclusively."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Lord save me from bisexuals."
Harrison stopped on the elevator and stared up at him. "Excuse me?"
"Hey, don't get me wrong, I am definitely on board with fucking everything in sight. But you, my friend--" he pointed down at Harrison-- "are in deep denial of your fagness."
"I am not!" People were definitely staring this time. He bared his teeth and resisted the urge to snarl.
"Hey," Tom said, stepping up into the street. "Whatever you say."
"I'm not-- you--" Harrison hurried after him, shoving past a couple of the more obvious gawkers. Under his breath he hissed, "I thought there was, like, this open-minded thing!"
"Yeah," Tom said. "You'll grow out of it."
"I'm older than you, asshole."
Tom scoffed. "Yeah, what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
"Thirty," Harrison snapped, with mingled pride and injury. "If you must know."
Tom gave a low whistle. "Seriously? You sure as hell don't look it."
Harrison frowned. "Uh, thanks?"
"You're still in denial."
"Bite me."
"Baby," Tom said, "I'll bite you anywhere, any time."
Harrison took a deep breath. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"There," Tom said, pointing.
Harrison stared across the street for a few long moments.
"It's a church," he said at last.
"Can't put anything past you."
"You said you weren't religious."
"Architecture's my religion. Look again." The light changed, and Tom stepped out into the crosswalk without a backward look. Harrison hesitated only a second before following. When he reached the opposite curb, Tom was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, neck craned upward. Harrison shot him a quick sideways glance, then followed his gaze.
"Still looks like a church to me," he said.
Tom didn't turn. "Trinity Church. Dedicated in 1877, restoration started in 2004. Richardsonian Romanesque style. Try saying that five times fast." He pointed up at the tall glass-mirrored building behind it. "The Hancock Tower, built 1976. Quintessentially modern." He paused. "This is my favorite spot in this city. Old and new, pressed right up against each other without a second thought. There's a metaphor there, if you're into that kind of thing."
"English wasn't my best subject," Harrison said.
"What was?"
He considered. "I kicked ass at recess."
"Yeah," Tom said, and turned away. "They're tearing down the church next month. Just in time for Christmas. Come on, let's walk."
They walked all the way across the river and up Mass Ave. Harrison puffed with the effort of keeping up, but didn't say anything. By the time Tom stopped, his lungs were aching and he could feel the beginning of a stitch in his side.
"There she is," Tom said cheerfully, as Harrison doubled over and gasped for breath. "Home away from home."
Harrison glanced up with a sinking feeling, and saw the Paradise's neon sign across the street.
He wet his lips. Tom was staring at him, expectant. "Doesn't the T stop running pretty early?" he ventured.
"Look at you, already talking like a native." Tom grinned. "We'll walk back."
"Walk," Harrison echoed, stomach dropping even more.
"Wuss," Tom said. "It's not that far."
"I drive, thanks," Harrison said, thinking fast; it was one of his strong suits, despite popular opinion to the contrary. The distance was debatable, but the walk would take them back over the MIT bridge. And Tom had been killed at the foot of the bridge, on the Boston side.
"You'll shake that pretty quick if you move here."
He hadn't yet, but Harrison saw no need to share that information. "I don't know," he said instead. Harrison wasn't much for gay bars, but this was about more than just his comfort level. This was about saving a life.
Time to pull out the big guns.
"I'm kinda tired," he said finally, turning and giving Tom a meaningful look. "I'd really rather just stay in."
He expected to feel his skin crawl as he said it, to feel some kind of wrongness, anything, about using sex to get the job done. There was crawling, all right, but it wasn't disgust. It was a small shock when he recognized the sensation: pure anticipation.
Tom's eyes darkened, the change visible in the light of the streetlamp overhead. "Seriously?"
Harrison licked his lips again. How far was he willing to take this?
"If you're game," he heard himself say, throwing Tom's earlier words back in his face, and oh, this was a bad idea. This was above and beyond. He didn't think he even liked Tom.
Tru never would have done it.
"Oh, I'm game," Tom said with a predatory grin.
Harrison followed him back to the T stop, heart pounding. He couldn't fool himself into thinking it was just the exertion.
There was still some incredulous part in the back of his mind that didn't intend to go through with it, that figured he'd get back to Tom's place, stall until after midnight, then slip out while the dude was in the bathroom or something. It was a nod to the supposed nobility of his sister's legacy, and in the end, it was doomed by the real flesh-and-blood man standing in front of him with every intention of getting him naked as soon as possible.
Harrison rolled his eyes upward and thought fiercely, But don't think I'll be doing this for every dead gay guy you throw my way.
He had the strong impression that somebody up there was laughing at him.
Tom had been quiet on the ride back to his apartment; he'd been a chatterbox all day, and Harrison couldn't help wondering if he was just conserving his energy. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, startling despite himself. It was like, okay, eight years; he was fine with the bi thing, he was down with it, but he never went out looking for gay sex. It just sort of happened. And now here he was, with a guy he'd just met, about to get horizontal and aching for it. You've come a long way, baby.
Yeah. He'd progressed to one-night stands with men as well as women. Chalk one up for personal growth.
He noticed when the alarm clock flipped from 11:59 to 12:00-- hard not to, face-down on Tom's bed, the nightstand inches from his face-- but otherwise didn't think of much at all. Afterwards, just in case Jack was getting desperate and decided to break the rules again, he waited for Tom pull the bong from under the bed and matched him one hit for every two, until Tom was passed out and snoring and Harrison was feeling none too steady himself.
He dressed as quickly as he could-- the jeans presented some difficulty, but conquered them in the end, and felt a sad sense of victory when he managed the last button-- and let himself out, clutching the railing for balance as he stumbled down the stairs.
It was chilly out, but the low blanket of humidity kept the wind just this side of cutting. The overcast sky had a dull reddish glow, and the Citgo sign flashed on and off in the distance. His restless feet carried him the short distance to the river, where he wandered down the Esplanade, dazed and loose-limbed from the drugs and the fucking, until he found himself at the foot of the MIT bridge. Tom was supposed to die here tonight. Last night. The danger had passed.
He thought he was alone, and then when he saw the shadow lurking in the distance, he thought it was just a college kid out for an illicit smoke. He had half a mind to join her-- he was reaching that point where too high wasn't nearly high enough-- and then the moon emerged overhead for just an instant, the pale light fell on her face, and Harrison's breath caught in his throat.
He knew her. Only from pictures, her mug shot and the photos on Margery Doyle's mantle, but he knew her. Months later, but he knew.
"Hey!" he shouted, and started running, the cold stinging his lungs, the roots underfoot slowing him down. She spun at the sound of his voice and started to run as well, clambering up the riverbank. Harrison veered off the path, into the tangle of roots and reeds at the water's edge, and then the world tilted ninety degrees and he hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud. He rolled over with a groan and stared at up at the sky until it stopped swimming in front of him and his arms and legs started working again.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but when he sat up again, Olivia Doyle was gone, vanished as if she'd never been.
By the time Harrison reached his car and felt sober enough to drive, the sky was already starting to lighten. He navigated the early-morning traffic with his eyes drooping, avoided three major accidents and a handful of minor ones, and took it all in stride; the typical hazards of Boston driving. He barely had the energy to climb the stairs, and only the thought of Spencer finding him sprawled unconscious over his desk when she arrived four hours later was enough to propel him up the final steps.
He fully intended to sleep through the morning, and a large chunk of the afternoon for good measure, but it felt like his head had just hit the pillow when he was jolted awake by the pounding on his door. He sat up with a whimper and squinted at the clock. Just after ten. He'd had a few hours of sleep, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it.
He was still wearing yesterday's clothes, right down to the boots and the leather jacket, so at least he didn't have to hunt for pants before sending his irate secretary on her merry way. It would serve her right if he traumatized her, but it was Spencer, after all; she'd probably enjoy it too much.
"Heard you the first time!" he yelled. He stumbled for the door as the pounding continued, then braced himself against the jamb for a moment to catch his balance. Shit, he still felt stoned.
He reached for the deadbolt, then paused. That was Spencer's voice, all right, but hers wasn't the only one, and her yelling didn't seem directed at him. And the second voice... he knew that voice.
Harrison let his hand fall. "Fuck," he said, "fuck, fuck," and seriously considered crawling back into bed. Then he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and flung open the door.
"About damn time," Bett snapped, lowering her fist. "Sleeping it off, were you? You never do change, Harry."
"Sorry, boss." Spencer was glaring at her. "I told her to come back later, but the bitch pushed right past me."
"Yes, your hired tart did an admirable job of trying to keep me out. Was that in the job description, or is she just a fast learner?"
"Bett," Harrison said warily, trying to reconcile the spitting fury in front of him with the somber but composed woman he'd seen in the morgue. "What's goin' on?" A sudden thought struck him. "Is Tom--"
"Tom," she sneered. "He's Tom now, is he? I don't believe you, Harrison! You track down my cousin, you tell him you're a friend of mine-- tell him I sent you to him!-- and then you let him screw you!"
Spencer's black-rimmed eyes widened, and she leaned forward, mouth open. Harrison felt his face heat and cursed his damn blush reflex. He'd never managed to get that under control.
"Godfrey," he said with what little dignity he could muster, "get outta here. Go home. We're not open today."
Spencer didn't budge. "Since when?"
"Since I just said so."
"Come on, boss," she said. "This is better then TV!"
Bett arched a dark eyebrow. "Not quite as well-trained as you thought, is she?"
"Shut up, Bett," he said in a sing-song voice, teeth clenched. "You, get in here. You--" He pointed at Spencer-- "shoo. Beat it. Go do teenager stuff or something."
"I'm twenty-fucking-two, asshole," she snapped.
"So act like it and do what the hell I say." He dragged Bett inside and slammed the door shut, cutting off Spencer in mid-protest.
Bett looked around, her eyebrow still raised. "I see you've come up in the world. Physically, if nothing else."
Harrison covered his face and collapsed back on the bed with a groan. "Do we have to do this now?"
The mattress dipped under Bett's weight. When she spoke, her voice held no trace of sympathy. "What'd he give you? Meth? E?"
He peered up at her from between his fingers, incredulous. "I'm sorry, are you asking if he date-raped me?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," she said. Then, as Harrison gaped, she added, "But no, I don't think he did. I don't know what I think, Harrison, but it obviously wasn't that. Do you have any idea what it's like being woken up by a phone call from a man you despise, thanking you for the, and I quote, 'choice piece of meat' you sent his way, and realizing he's talking about your ex-boyfriend?"
Harrison struggled up on his elbows, still staring. "Wait, wait. Go back to the part where he's a date rapist."
Bett stood again and started to pace. "Thomas likes to seduce my boyfriends," she said. "It's his favorite little game. Sometimes, if they're reluctant, he helps them along. Imagine my surprise when I found out the latest one sought him out willingly."
Harrison cocked his head. "What, so you haven't been seeing anyone else?"
Bett gave him a bemused look. "You really want to have that conversation?"
"Better than the one we've been having."
She continued to watch him, seeming expectant, and he just stared back. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to disappoint her; she turned away with a small huff.
He wasn't sure what she expected. Moral outrage? He could do that. Sudden revulsion at what he'd done, not so much. Isaac was a hired thug for organized crime, and Jack... well, he was trying not to think about Jack. Harrison just had shitty taste in men. The only exceptions were Ray and Fraser, and they were so far out of his league, he got a nosebleed just thinking about them.
"So are you?" he pressed, after a long, tense silence. "Seeing anyone, I mean."
She sat down again with a sigh. "As a matter of fact, I am."
"So 'latest' meant--"
"Meant Thomas's latest triumph. Don't change the subject. I'm not here to talk about Colin."
Harrison frowned; the name was familiar, and a small pit of unease started to grow in his stomach. But before he could chase down the memory, Bett added in a softer tone, "Is that what you were hiding? That's your big secret? God's sake, Harry, you could have just said."
So close to the truth, and yet so far. He wet his lips. "If I said yes," he hedged, "could we maybe try again?"
Bett sat back and lowered her eyes. It was the most resounding no he'd ever not heard.
"Right," he said, "Colin," and again felt that unsettling twist.
"Harry--"
"I never cheated on you, Bett. Never wanted to. That's all you gotta know."
She twisted her hands in her lap, still staring down. "At least tell me you used protection."
"Jesus, Bett!" He pulled back so quickly, he almost fell off the bed. "Can we not go into detail here?"
She looked amused. "Bloody hell, Harry, I'm not asking if you rolled it on with your teeth--"
"Never got the hang of that," Harrison muttered.
"--just if you used it at all." Her eyebrow shot up again. "And don't think I didn't hear that. How many opportunities have you had to practice?"
He heard the bed squeak as she stood, and then nothing. He could feel the weight of her gaze on his bowed head. In a low voice, she asked, "Will you ever tell me?"
He knew she didn't mean how many men he'd slept with. At least, he hoped she didn't.
"I might have," he told the pillow. "If we'd stayed together. But not now."
"Are you going to see Tom again?"
"Not if I can help it."
"All right then," she said. "Good-bye, Harry," and finally he heard her heels clicking toward the door.
She paused before she left and added, "Tell your receptionist I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to her like I did."
Harrison flopped over with a sigh and stared at the ceiling. "See you, Bett."
"Maybe," she said with a small smile, and left.
It wasn't until he heard the faint slam of the outer door that the name clicked, and he sat up, heart pounding, all thought of sleep forgotten. Colin. The one who'd called 911 the first time around. The one who was supposed to come with Bett to ID the body, and then couldn't make it. Bett's new boyfriend. She lived in Back Bay too, and she had a deadly temper; Harrison knew that firsthand. If Colin had been with Tom last night, if Tom made a habit of bagging Bett's men, if she'd seen them together....
Bett was smart. She would know to make it look like a mugging.
He didn't have proof. The crime hadn't even been committed. There was no one to tell, and no reason to. But he couldn't help feeling like he'd just dodged a serious bullet.
There was no way he was getting back to sleep now, and anyway, he had work to do. He almost regretted sending Spencer home, but she wouldn't have been useful anyway. If Olivia Doyle hadn't left any electronic traces six months ago, she wouldn't have since then either.
No, this one was going to take some good old-fashioned legwork.
Harrison almost didn't hesitate before calling Isaac and setting up a meet. It was just business, and they'd met for business a few times since they'd split up. He wouldn't have thought twice about it, except that after Tom and the encounter with Bett, he was feeling rubbed raw.
"Harry," Isaac greeted him when he walked into Wally's, already at his favorite seat at the bar. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Harrison slid onto the stool, managed not to wince, and handed over Olivia's latest mug shot. "Olivia Doyle. She's in town somewhere. I need to know where, what she's up to, and how she's paying the bills."
Isaac gave the photo a quick once-over before tucking it into his coat pocket. "So how was he?"
"Who the what now?"
"You," Isaac said, grinning like a fiend, "have that freshly plowed look. Also that burnt and crispy look. I've seen 'em enough times to recognize the signs."
He would not blush, he would not blush.... "Still got that sex-and-drugs-dar in working order?"
Isaac's grin widened. "And I saw you outside Paradise last night with Tom Macavoy." He leaned forward. "Tell the truth, Harry: how'd he measure up? Better than me?"
Harrison studied his expression, searching for some spark of jealousy, but all he saw was amused interest. They might as well have been discussing the latest Sox game. After a moment, he said, "Sorry. I didn't think to whip out the measuring tape."
"Pity," Isaac said, sitting back again. "Still, I always thought a few one-offs would do you good."
"Glad you approve," Harrison said with a forced smile.
"I didn't say that. You could do better." Isaac shrugged. "But hey, everybody's gotta start somewhere."
"Uh-huh," Harrison said, and stood. "Look, call me when you get a bead on this chick. You know the number."
"You're not staying for a drink?" Isaac asked with obvious surprise.
Harrison smiled grimly. "Not today."
Over the past three years, Davis had grown resigned to no longer being quite so much in the life-saving loop. When Harrison first inherited his sister's calling, he'd hoped-- after the first oh God we're all doomed reaction-- that he could continue in the mentor role in some way; it was a fun role, and not one he'd had much opportunity to play before meeting Tru. A few months, however, sufficed to prove two things: that Harrison wasn't nearly as incompetent as Davis had feared, and also that he had no desire to step so fully into his sister's shoes.
Davis saw him maybe once a week, when he dropped by the morgue to check out the new bodies, on the days Davis's spreadsheets indicated were most likely for a replay. In weeks he didn't see Harrison, he usually got a phone call saying it was a rewind day, it would be taken care of, and that was that. Otherwise, they met once a year for breakfast, on the anniversary of Tru's death; and sometimes, on the rare occasion when Harrison lost somebody, he dragged Davis out to a bar somewhere, during which time Davis felt like he served more as a witness to a ritual than a true participant. They weren't friends, and Harrison never just stopped by to chat.
So when he emerged from his office into the waiting room the day after Thomas Macavoy was supposed to die, clipboard in hand, and found Harrison sprawled on the sofa, boots smudging the upholstery, he stopped dead and blurted out, "What are you doing here?"
Harrison raised his head with some effort and gave him sardonic smile. "Nice to see you too."
"Did you...." Davis hesitated, fumbling for the words, then finally settled on, "Did everything go well?"
"Peachy," Harrison said, swinging his legs around and sitting up. "Tommy lives to prey another day. We got bigger problems."
Davis sighed; he knew that look. "Jack?"
"No," Harrison said, and an odd expression crossed his face. "I ain't seen Jack in months. That seem weird to you? Three years hacking this gig, he hasn't been around to try and stop me once."
Davis said, "it's entirely possible that his involvement stopped when Tru's did. That someone else is reliving the days with you instead."
Harrison tapped his thumb against the side of his nose. "You figured that too, huh?"
"It's crossed my mind."
"Has it crossed your mind who that someone might be?" Harrison leaned forward, draping his arms over his knees. His eyes glittered. "Here's food for thought. Guess who was lurking under the bridge last night where Tom was supposed to die?"
Davis opened his mouth.
"If you're about to say Olivia Doyle," Harrison said, "you get a cookie."
Davis closed his mouth and frowned. "I wasn't."
"No cookie for you."
He ignored the elusive imaginary baked goods. "Olivia? Your half-sister?"
"Please," Harrison said with a shudder. "I'm trying not to think about it."
Davis's frowned deepened. "This could be important, Harrison. We've been wondering what your father's part is in all this. If there's a chance that he was Jack's predecessor-- if the, the anti-calling, say, is passed down along bloodlines too...."
He trailed off as Harrison made an even stranger face. "Still trying not to think about it."
"I don't see why," Davis said. "We need every possible advantage we can get. If we can figure out how this works--"
"'We'? We're a we now?" Harrison jumped up and started to pace, then stopped in mid-stride and headed for the door. "This ain't your fight, Davis," he said over his shoulder. "I'm just giving you a heads-up about Olivia 'cause I figure you earned it. But I'm not Tru, and you're not involved in this anymore."
"Believe me," Davis said, "I've noticed."
Harrison paused at the door and shot him a glare. "And what the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," he said. "It means nothing."
"Bullshit," Harrison spat. "You think I'm not good enough. Well, I am so sorry that I'm not Tru. So sorry that she's such a hard goddamn act to follow--"
"I think," Davis said with forced evenness, "that you're not using all your resources. I think I could help you beat this, if you just talked to me more. And I thought the same thing about Tru, so don't even try to make this about that!"
"Beat what?" Harrison demanded, eyes flashing. "What the hell could we do about it, even if we knew Jack's whole fucking family tree? You think this is a battle we can actually win? It's-- it's--" He snapped his fingers. "What the hell is that word? That war thing where nobody wins?"
"Attrition," Davis murmured, impressed despite himself.
Harrison jabbed a finger at him. "Exactly. It's a war of attrition. There's no end in sight here. I do my thing, and Jack or Olivia or whoever it is now does theirs, and we keep doing it till we die." He took a step forward. "You want in on the game? Welcome to the ultimate fucking stalemate."
Davis stared; he'd never heard Harrison talk like that. "It doesn't have to be that way," he said, but his voice sounded weak to his own ears.
Harrison snorted and turned again. "Yeah, well, you come up with something, you let me know."
"You can't just quit, Harrison. What you do is important. You're changing fate."
"Did I say I was quitting?" Harrison flung the door open. "I said it was pointless. I'm good at pointless. I'm just being realistic here. I have a part to play, and I'm playing it. You're the one trying to complicate things."
Halfway out the door, he turned, his face hard and remote; Davis's throat clenched at the sight of it. "And you know what?" Harrison said in a low voice. "That's what got Tru killed."
He slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Davis stood motionless. The clipboard fell from his hands and clattered to the floor, but he made no move to pick it up.
For the first time, he was starting to understand why Harrison drank.
Harrison was shaking by the time he slid behind the steering wheel. He started the ignition with an angry twist, glaring out the windshield as the Nissan sputtered to life, then turned it off again and banged his head against the steering wheel. He jumped as the horn sounded and looked around the empty parking lot, but nobody seemed to have noticed.
Of course not. Empty parking lot. Get with the program, Davies.
And that was the problem, right there: he wasn't thinking about things. He was just going through the motions, reacting instead of acting, jumping when the universe said jump. Just like he'd told Davis, except now, with the righteous fury cooled to a dull ache, it was harder to believe it was a good thing. If he'd just thought for a second, instead of trying to forget the thing with Jack, he could've put the pieces together himself. It had taken Davis all of two seconds to figure out what he'd been ignoring for months.
Harrison fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one with an unsteady hand. The familiar rush calmed him, and he took a few deep drags, burning it down halfway in less than a minute. So Olivia was his half-sister, and Jack had been looking for her. Jack had been more or less out of the picture for three years. Harrison's father had been helping Jack, and how would Richard Davies even know about the calling if he hadn't once been a part of it himself?
It was like one of those circle diagram things, a vaguely-remembered concept from a brief moment of consciousness back in high school math. Two of these people are related to you; two of them have the anti-calling-- a stupid phrase, but Harrison didn't care to think of a better one. So where's the overlap?
He squeezed his eyes shut and fought down the urge to vomit. It helped that he hadn't eaten all day.
If Olivia was the new Jack, and Richard had been the old Jack, and Olivia was Richard's bastard daughter, then that meant it followed blood. And that meant Jack was blood.
Which meant that, unless Jack was his long-lost uncle or something, the man he had been so enthusiastically rubbing himself against six months before was-- along with being the smarmy asshole who'd killed Tru, which was bad enough-- Harrison's half-brother.
He lit another cigarette.
So what, he told himself, sucking furiously on the filter. What-- apart from the urge to shower for, like, a year-- had he gained from that information? His point still stood. Learning the truth wasn't going to bring Tru back. It wasn't going to change a damn thing, apart from his already-shaky sense of self-respect.
Harrison started as his cell phone rang, nearly dropping the cigarette in his lap. He reached for the overflowing ashtray, then changed his mind and rolled down the window, tossing the butt out onto the sidewalk. He sighed when he saw the call display. Isaac.
"That was fast," he said by way of greeting.
"You know me," Isaac said. "Couldn't wait to hear your lovely voice again."
Harrison slumped back in his seat and sighed. "Flattery gets you everywhere. What've you got?"
"You all right? You sound weird."
He closed his eyes. "Long day. What's up?"
After a short silence, Isaac apparently decided not to push it. "First, let me say this don't come cheap. Your girl's got some pretty big guns on her side."
"I'll pay you," Harrison said, thinking of his dwindling bank account and trying not to wince.
"If that's what you want," Isaac said after another pause.
"Don't you start. What are we talking here, your bosses?"
"Worse," Isaac said darkly. "Corporations. I know a guy who's open to the occasional bribe, hence the price tag, and he went through channels that aren't even supposed to exist."
"I'll pat you on the head later, okay? Just give me the bottom line."
"Which head we talkin' about here?"
"Izzy," Harrison said through clenched teeth.
Isaac sighed. "Spoilsport. She's in a studio in Roxbury, lease on a month-to-month basis."
"Address?"
Isaac told him, and he scribbled it on the back of an old gas receipt. "Fabulous. And who's paying the rent?"
"That's the fun part," Isaac said smugly. "Some corp that doesn't exist, owned by another one, also doesn't exist--"
"Lotta nonexistence going on here."
"Kind of makes you doubt the concept of concrete reality, doesn't it? Owned by another corporation, this one for real."
Harrison's chest tightened. "Are you gonna tell me, or are we going to dance all night?"
"Can't I do both? It's a company," Isaac added without waiting for a response, "based in Seattle. Some law firm. Wong, Young and Thundercliff."
Son of a bitch.
"You're golden, Izzy," Harrison said. He snapped the phone shut, threw open the car door, and ran back into the morgue.
Olivia's address was a ten minute drive in good traffic, close to thirty in reality. He could be there before dark. If it hadn't been a law firm, he would have. But now he didn't need to, because the only thing he wanted to ask her, he already knew the answer.
Davis was crouched where Harrison had left him, gathering up scattered sheets of paper. He looked up when Harrison burst into the room, face pale and eyes red-rimmed.
"Forget everything I just said," Harrison said breathlessly, before Davis could open his mouth. "It's bullshit and you know it. You're right, we gotta fight this. We gotta find a way to end it, right now."
Davis stood slowly, clutching his papers. He didn't look convinced. "We?" he echoed with a pointed stare.
"Shut up and listen, okay?" Harrison gave him a quick, fierce grin. "I know what to do now. Guess what, D? I know where Dad is."
MAY | NOVEMBER (1) | NOVEMBER (2) | NOVEMBER (3) | DAY 1 | DAY 2 | AFTER | EPILOGUE Email: mayatawi@populli.net