Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,11

flecks of red showed where he had scraped the flesh raw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mason, Jesus Christ.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell was that?”

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

Shaking my head, I pointed. “Downstairs.”

“Fine.”

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

Mason’s mouth twisted. “Told you.”

“What?”

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

I took a deep breath. And then another. And then I said, “Go downstairs before I say something I regret.”

Mason was still sneering as he took the first step.

Elien had righted the chair, and now he was on his hands and knees picking up ceramic splinters from the plate.

“Leave that,” I said.

“I can’t—” He glanced at the wall that blocked Ray from view. “I don’t want it like this. His place, I mean. He tried to keep it clean.”

“Mr. Martel, please leave it. The coroner is going to have to determine cause of death, and you can’t be in here.”

He tried to argue, but he kept looking at the wall that divided the kitchen from the bedroom. Every time he looked, his color dropped. Finally, he let me herd him out onto the landing, and then down the stairs and onto the street. The sun was setting in a huge banner of red and orange, but the heat hadn’t dipped at all, and the smell of booze and piss in the Moulinbas street was thick enough to choke on. Mason was pacing in front of the jewelry store, so I made Elien walk to the end of the block and sit on the curb.

“Head between your knees,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Is that an order?”

“It can help you control your breathing, and that can help you deal with feeling panicked or out of control.”

“Great,” he said, leaning back, every movement exaggerated, and planted his hands on the sidewalk. “Thanks for the medical advice, Dr. LeBlanc.”

The sirens were moving closer, but this street was still strangely quiet. Elien was watching me, and I found myself looking up and down the block, adjusting my shoulder radio, running my tongue over my teeth. I looked at Elien a few times; it was hard not to look. He was pretty much perfect: long and lean, probably 0.1% body fat, light brown skin, his thick, straight hair perfectly windswept. In short shorts and a tank, there was a lot to look at.

“You saw it,” Elien said.

I just