Changes, p.2
Changes, page 2
Quentin stared down, then back up at Nick, his eyes wider. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Emerson was convinced Brian’s the real thing, to the tune of twenty grand. You must’ve heard they found and arrested Young down in Richfield.”
“Yeah, but… that was him?”
“Yep.”
Quentin took another long look at Brian, his gaze moving from the fine flyaway blond hair on the top of Brian’s head to his ice-blue eyes, and down. Brian endured the scrutiny stoically. Nick watched Quentin look, and look again.
Other than very pale skin and hair, there was nothing that unusual to see. Brian was young, ordinary, a bit pudgy and soft. His full mouth was pressed into a narrow line right now, and his normally smooth forehead was furrowed with impatience. His eyes glittered as he glanced at Nick, but he managed not to speak.
Quentin said slowly, “He found Young. Like, psychically? For real?”
“Yeah.”
“And no one knows? Because I’d have heard if there were rumors.”
“It’s tricky.” He sighed. “Think of everyone who’d want a piece of him, if people knew.”
“Yeah.” Quentin blinked. “Yeah! But if he’s that good, why this case? Why would he want to find Emily Stewart? There’s no money in it, not yet anyway, although I heard the husband’s asking people to donate to a fund for a reward.”
“No money,” Brian said quickly. “I don’t want any.”
“So why her?” Quentin still spoke to Nick, rather than directly to Brian. “Why not that college kid in Moorhead? Or the fourteen-year-old autistic boy last week?”
Brian flinched hard enough to shake the table. When Nick didn’t answer for him, he cleared his throat. “She has little kids.”
“So? There was that kid—”
“Look. He can’t Find everyone.” Nick cut Quentin off before he could make Brian feel so bad he’d lose it. His pale skin was becoming practically sheet-white. “He wants to Find Mrs. Stewart. Are you going to give him a chance, or not?”
Quentin huffed, glancing back and forth between them. “Okay, I guess, like I said, one sock. What could it hurt? But I wanna watch.”
Nick was going to say no, but Brian said, “Fine. I don’t care. Can we just do it fast?”
“I’ll have to go get something from her belongings.” Quentin eyed Nick. “You want to wait here? Or meet closer to where they found the car?”
“Here is fine,” Nick said. He wanted to carb- and fluid-load Brian, so a café was as good a place as any. “How long?”
“I’m not sure. I told the lieutenant I was meeting a possible informant. I need to touch base, then go by her house. An hour?”
Brian shifted in his seat, but didn’t say anything. Nick nodded. “We’ll be here.”
Quentin pushed back his chair and stood. He kept one hand on the table, and his gaze flicked between Nick and Brian, then down at his feet and back up. He gave a firm nod. “An hour.”
Suddenly, Brian said, “When we were looking for Young, the guy gave me a hat of his own. To test me. It wasted my time.”
Quentin flushed a surprising red, turned, and strode out.
“Mind-reading now?” Nick asked, more mildly than he felt.
“He talked about socks, and stared at his feet. I guessed.”
“And you say you’re not smart.” Nick stood. “You should eat and drink. What do you want?”
“Anything but Diet Coke.”
Nick went to the counter and brought back sandwiches and sodas. Brian bit into his ham-and-cheese eagerly. After he’d wolfed it down in six fast gulps, he looked over at Nick and smiled sheepishly. “Damon would give me a hard time for that.”
“For what?”
“Eating like a pig. Sometimes I forget.”
Nick didn’t want to bring up Damon. Not now, and hopefully not ever. He glanced around to make sure they were still out of earshot of the other customers, then said, “So when we do this search, do you want me to drive? Or Quentin? Should we warn him you’re likely to pass out at the end?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t think this through very well, did you?” He knew that was unfair, but couldn’t help the grinding frustration behind it.
“No, Nick, I didn’t.” Brian’s normally even tone had an unusual bite. “I’m not really a thinker, am I?”
“Don’t give me that. But now, here we are, with no plans. We have to tell him something.” He could imagine lots of ways for this to turn bad, with another cop in the mix, and Brian dropping unconscious, and shit, they didn’t have that medical power of attorney done yet. His fault, because Brian had said yes to it a while back, and he’d dragged his feet. He vowed to get to it tomorrow. Or whenever Brian wakes up after this Find.
Brian picked up the second sandwich, stared at it, and said, down to the sliced turkey, “Tell him it’s like narcolepsy. Damon always said it was dangerous if anyone knew how badly wiped out I get afterward. Tell him I’ll wake right up. And you drive. Get rid of him and drive us home.” He took a big bite of the bread and meat.
“Okay.” It was a plan, anyway. Although not much of one.
Brian finished eating. Nick watched him as he called up a reading game on his phone. They’d done some searching online for dyslexia materials. Really, Brian needed a qualified teacher, but for now, he was trying to do it all himself. Brian bent over the little screen, lips moving as he painfully sounded out words, then flicked with his finger to see if the picture matched. His unguarded expression showed hits and misses. It shouldn’t have been painful to watch, but Nick had to get up and pretend to be busy clearing the table. Nick’s childhood had sucked in many ways, but Brian’s had totally screwed him over.
Eventually, Quentin opened the door of the café and waved. Brian pocketed his phone and led the way toward him. They stepped out into the hot, humid afternoon, and Nick said, “My car’s over here.”
“We’ll take a squad car.” Quentin pointed at a black-and-white at the curb.
“No way.” Nick grabbed Brian’s arm. He knew one day his cop world and the strangeness of being with Brian would collide, but today was not going to be the day.
Quentin pulled out a white terrycloth headband from his pocket and held it up. “This is hers. She went running every day. But if we’re going to do this, it’s going to be under my control.”
“You can drive my car,” Nick suggested.
“No.”
“I’ll do it in the cop car,” Brian said.
Nick tugged on Brian to pull him aside. “You don’t have to. He’s hooked on the idea. Say no a few times, and he’ll change his mind. That squad car’s got a dash cam, sound recording. You don’t want to do this.”
“Come on.” Quentin dangled the sweatband. “Let’s either start, or I’ll head back to the real search.”
Nick winced, and sure enough, Brian said, “All right.”
Nick fell in next to Quentin. Under his breath he muttered, “You’re a paranoid fucker, and if anything bad happens because you couldn’t handle one psychic without your toys, I’m coming after you.”
“What? Can’t pull off the fake in a squad car?”
“He’s no fake.”
Brian was waiting impatiently. “Nick, you get in back. I’ll sit up front.”
Quentin popped the locks, walked around, and got in the driver’s seat. Brian scrambled in beside him, and Nick reluctantly got into the back. The safety divider between them meant Brian was out of reach, isolated up there with Quentin. Nick tried not to let that shake him. He leaned forward, close to the bars. “No recording devices, Quentin. Got it?”
“Nothing’s on.”
“Better not be or—” Right, don’t threaten the cop inside the squad car. “Ready, Brian?”
“Give me her band.” Brian held out his hand to Quentin.
Quentin dropped the sweatband onto his palm. “There.” He made his voice all quavery. “Now tell me you see… trees, and… grass, right?”
“He doesn’t do vague images,” Nick said, watching Brian’s face. There’s that inward look, the way his eyes unfocus.
Brian turned the band over in his hands, stretching it, and running his fingers inside it. He suddenly squeezed it in a fist. “This is hers? You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Nick leaned closer to the partition. “Quentin, if you’re playing games—”
“I’m not. Don’t have the time for that.”
Brian closed his eyes and pressed the fabric to his forehead. Nick winced, because if you didn’t know how rarely he screwed his face up like that, you might take it for fake-medium behavior. “It’s faint. Maybe she didn’t use this a lot yet.” But his hand eventually rose. “Yeah. That way.”
Quentin turned to Nick. “That way what?”
“Go where he points. Think of it like a compass, or a string with her at the end of it.”
“Really?” Quentin shifted out of park and started driving. For a few minutes, he turned corners, glancing over as Brian’s index finger swung back and forth, always settling to the southwest. After another series of turns, he said, “That’s the direction we found her car.”
“So? It makes sense, right?” Nick braced himself against the sway. The hard back seat was slippery, and echoes of some of his worst teen moments came back to him, sitting here behind the protective screen.
“Easy to fake,” Quentin muttered.
Brian’s eyes stayed closed in concentration, and his raised hand trembled. He whispered, “She’s that way. The mom.”
“Okay.” Quentin hit a faster road.
Suddenly, Brian shrieked, “No!” His voice was ear-splittingly shrill, and the car swerved as Quentin reacted. “No, no, no!” Brian collapsed forward, huddled over, head buried in his arms.
Quentin pulled to the shoulder and stopped. “What the fuck! Don’t do that while I’m driving!”
“She’s dead.” Brian dropped the headband to the floor at his feet and rocked, hands locked in his hair. “It’s gone. She died. She’s dead.”
“Ooh, yeah. Very convincing.” Quentin’s acid tone was more confident than his expression. “Nice save, psychic boy. It’s a decent bet she’s gone by now, and when they find her, eventually, you can be all, like, ‘I knew it. I couldn’t find her because she was dead. I’m so psychic.’ Should I clap now?”
“Shut up!” Nick pressed his hand against the divider. Brian was sobbing, harsh deep cries that gained volume and pitch. Nick turned to get out, but of course he was locked in. “Let me out of here. He’s not faking it.”
“Sure he’s not.” But Quentin put the car into park and opened Nick’s door.
Nick yanked open the front door and put a hand on Brian’s bowed back. His muscles were rock hard under Nick’s touch, and his whole body shook. Nick patted him awkwardly. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not!” The last word rose into panic territory.
Nick met Quentin’s gaze over Brian’s doubled-up form. Quentin’s mouth twisted. “Well, isn’t this exciting? But not helpful.”
“Fuck you.” Nick wanted to punch that smug sneer off his face, except he felt Brian jolt at the harshness of his tone. Brian hated violence. “Money where your mouth is, asshole. I’ll bet you five hundred bucks they find that she died, right about now, right along a line from here to…” He pointed, more or less the direction Brian had. “Out there, somewhere. On this line.”
Quentin glanced that way. “Since that points to her car, sure. Sucker bet.”
“Time of death—” He glanced at the dashboard clock. “—four twenty-three. Money. Mouth.”
Brian sobbed harshly. “Can we just go? I want to go home. My head hurts. Can we please go?”
It wasn’t Bry’s thick, slow voice, but there was a hint around the edges of the way Brian would retreat into Bry under stress. “Sure,” Nick told him. “Quentin will drive us back to the car right now, so we can go home.” He tried to drill his gaze out the back of Quentin’s head. No more harassing Brian.
“Might as well,” Quentin muttered. “Not like this is helping.”
Nick held back his anger. Brian was clearly on the edge of losing it— well, losing it worse— so he kept his tone soft and even. “He can’t Find the dead, just the living. I’m sorry we were too late.” Even that made Brian cry harder. Nick patted his shoulder. “You want to get in the back with me?” Brian shook his head, so Nick closed the door and slid into the back seat. “Turn it around, Quentin.”
The drive back to the café was like nails on a blackboard, each minute raking over Nick’s taut nerves. Brian was clearly holding back as much as he could, but he stayed hunched over and shaking. The occasional wracking sob got past his resistance. Every time, Quentin huffed a breath like he couldn’t wait to dump Brian out on the street. Each delay for a stop sign or traffic light made Nick want to hit something. He clenched his fists until his hands hurt.
With terse sentences, he directed Quentin to pull up close to his own car. Brian got out on his own, his face tear streaked and his arms wrapped around his stomach. Despite Nick’s tug on his elbow, Brian turned to Quentin. “I wanted to Find her. I’m so, so sorry. I really wanted to Find the mom.”
Quentin shrugged uncomfortably and looked only at Nick. “You’ll get him home?”
“Yeah, we’ll head back.” He hated how “get him home” made Brian sound like some defective kid, although he couldn’t deny that Brian looked incapable of going anywhere on his own right now. He gave Quentin another glare. “Let us know when you find her.”
“Right. Or if.” Quentin got into the squad car and pulled away without glancing back.
Brian made a painful sound, like someone had hit him.
“It’s not your fault.” Nick tugged at Brian, trying to steer him to the passenger side of his car. “Let’s go.”
Brian resisted a moment, staring after the black-and-white, then slumped so much that Nick’s grip went from guiding him to keeping him on his feet. Nick wrestled him onto the seat, bullied him into sitting up enough to fasten his seatbelt, and did a hood-slide to the other side to entertain him. When he opened the driver’s door, though, Brian was staring blankly out the front, tears slowly trickling down his face, as if he hadn’t even noticed. Nick reached to turn the key, then hesitated. “Do you have a headache? Need meds?”
Brian shrugged. Looking at his pasty color and squeezed-together brows, Nick figured that was a yes. He leaned across in front of him to open the glove compartment and pull out the ibuprofen, then shook a couple out onto his palm. “Take these. You still have pop left?”
Brian didn’t look at him or answer, or reach for the pills.
Well, fuck if he was going to stick them in the guy’s mouth. “Brian! Dammit!”
When Brian slowly turned to meet his eyes, Nick held his hand up closer. “Take the pills.”
“Okay.” Brian finally reached to take the tablets, moving as if he was encased in molasses, and put them in his mouth. And turned forward again without reaching for the last of his pop. The tears didn’t stop welling in his eyes. Nick grunted in frustration, grabbed the pop can out of the holder, took Brian’s wrist, and pressed the can to his palm.
“Drink. Swallow.”
When Brian obeyed, Nick took the empty can back and slammed it into the holder so hard it crumpled. The roar of the engine and the squeal of the tires as he pulled away from the curb were a momentary satisfaction, but he had to slow down immediately and obey the damned laws. Fuck! Shit! Brian’s silent stillness made his chest feel tight, but he couldn’t think of anything to do except get them both home.
At the house, Brian at least stood up on his own and walked to the door. Maybe the pain meds were kicking in a bit. Nick unlocked, and ushered him inside. By the time he’d locked up and set his keys in the dish, Brian was on the couch in the living room, staring straight ahead.
Nick hesitated. Did he want to be left alone? Company? A hug? Nick had rarely hugged anyone for comfort. Well, Keesha, but that was different. There was such aloneness in the way Brian sat— rigid, blinking but soundless— it was hard to imagine bridging the gap.
Nick walked behind the couch, laying a hand on Brian’s shoulder for a moment, squeezing the muscles alongside his neck. “Want something to eat and drink? At least you didn’t pass out this time.”
Brian didn’t seem to react to either words or touch. Looking down, Nick saw that his hands lay flat in his lap, shaking with fine tremors. The skin under Nick’s fingers was clammy and cold.
Nick had researched the symptoms of low blood sugar. If Damon could take care of Brian properly, he sure as hell could too. Headache, dizziness, tremors, pallor, disorientation. It could all be due to needing to eat something. Right?
He strode into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. There wasn’t much in there. They needed to shop again soon. Among the cartons of leftover Chinese, and the last of the bread— which Brian insisted had to be in the fridge to keep bugs out of it— was a single-serve pudding. Nick grabbed it, and the chocolate sauce out of the cupboard, and a spoon, and brought them to the living room.
“Here.” He had to put the little plastic cup and the spoon into Brian’s hands and mold his fingers around them, which set his teeth on edge again. He pulled the top off the cup, poured some chocolate syrup on it. “Eat that. You need calories.” When Brian just slowly lowered his head to stare down at it, Nick snapped, “Right the fuck now! Or I’ll spoon-feed you.”
Brian’s eyes flicked nervously up to meet his, and Nick felt a flash of angry pleasure for at least getting some reaction. Followed by shame, because he never, ever wanted to scare Brian.
“Go on.” He gentled his voice. “Take a bite. You really don’t want to pass out and pee on our couch.”
Brian lifted the empty spoon, staring at it as it jittered in his shaky fingers. He dug into the cup, lifted a scoop of pudding, and halfway to his mouth, dumped it down his front. For a second he stared down at the brown smear on his shirt. Then he said a soft, wounded, “Oh. Oh, oh, oh.” Dropping the cup and spoon, he tipped sideways and curled up on the cushions, arms hugged around his middle, eyes welling with tears.
