Page 154 of Long Way Down

Well. They’d learned that Ben seemed to be genuinely invested in helping the people in his group. All of which were men. All of which harbored violence fantasies that they apparently talked about in group therapy sessions, and, sometimes in private, when members sought Ben out before or after group meetings, or even at his home.

He was a nurse by day, he’d told them, and worked at an urgent care center. Pongo made note of the name and address of the clinic, in case Dixie or Contreras needed it later.

But Ben had said nothing to link him to any of the rapes. Pongo was getting restless, and more than a little disgusted after listening to the guy wax poetic about “living with these kinds of urges.”

Apparently, Kat’s thoughts were running along the same line, because he interrupted Ben to ask, “Do you only work with people who are out?”

Ben’s face – shining with far too much enthusiasm, given his topic – froze, and folded into confusion. “I’m…out? As in…out of the closet? Because if you two are” – he gestured between them – “worried about acceptance, I can assure you that everyone at Eyes Ahead is toler–”

“Out,” Kat said through gritted teeth, “as in on the outside. Of prison. Or do you work with inmates, too?”

Some of the pink faded from Ben’s shiny cheeks. “I’m sorry?”

“Are any of your members prisoners, I think he means,” Pongo said.

For the first time, Ben shifted, and looked uncertain. Not nervous, exactly, but less sure of himself – or maybe less sure of them. “No,” he said, after a long moment’s consideration. “Not members, no. But I’ve been able to interview some, in the past, and have used their testimonials in our group sessions.”

“Which prisoners?” Kat asked.

Pongo kicked his foot under the table.

Ben frowned. “Are you interested in prisoners? I don’t–”

“I’m interested in David Osborn,” Kat said, because he was, despite the too-cool attitude and the awesome hand tats, a fucking idiot. “You ever talk to him?”

Pongo saw the moment Ben’s breath caught; saw his eyes expand, and his pupils shrink. Saw the barely perceptible twitch of his skin, like a horse with flies, and knew, in that instant, that somehow, in some way, Ben was directly involved. Ben’s initial, physical reaction was one of panic. An animal flooded with adrenaline at sound of the hunting horn.

“Shit,” Pongo muttered.

The Lean Dogs had methods of handling this sort of situation; methods that involved grasping hands, and kidney punches, and duct tape over mouths, and the whine of saws in a quiet, soundproofed warehouse somewhere.

But the cops were involved, now, sitting just a few tables away, in fact, and that complicated the hell out of things.

“Sorry.” Ben stood so abruptly that his chair fell backward with a bang like a gunshot. “I–” He gestured, and then he bolted.

~*~

Melissa had thought she’d call a cab, but had a helmet thrust toward her instead. They took Toly’s bike, which was a matte black, low profile Harley with wrapped pipes, like Pongo’s, but the ride itself was nothing like the one she’d taken with Pongo. Clinging to a cold-faced stranger’s back held nothing of the charm that holding onto her grinning and ardent lover had. But for all his slouching and shrugging, and stooping, he felt strong in the circle of her arms, and that, at least, was a comfort.

She called Dana as soon as her helmet was off. “Dana, I’m here. Can you buzz me in?”

Lots of sniffling and quick breathing over the line. “Yes, I – oh, I don’t know if he’s still – I’m sorry, I–”

She glanced sideways at Toly, who had stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, bored-faced save for his eyes, which tracked up the building with shrewd attention. “Tell you what. I’ll come up the fire escape.”

She hung up on Dana’s protests and slipped her phone away. “I’m not tall enough to pull down the ladder,” she said.

He lit his smoke and took a long drag, cherry flaring bright red, his cheeks hollowing so he looked, briefly, like a skeleton, sinister and ready for anything. He straightened up to his full height, which was taller than his slouch let on, and said, “Where is it?”

They went around to the side of the building, and Toly not only pulled down the ladder, but then pulled his gun, and led the way up with only a “which floor?” thrown over one shoulder along with a ribbon of exhaled smoke.

Considering everything about this was already off-book, Melissa didn’t bother asking him to holster his weapon. In fact, she drew her own. “Ten.”

He moved at a good clip, stepping lightly, so the iron network of the fire escape chimed, faintly, but didn’t ring with the clumsy bangs and thumps someone less graceful would have elicited. Melissa kept close behind him, panning the landings with her penlight, searching for anyone hidden. They startled a cat, and found terracotta pots that were definitely being used to grow marijuana, but nothing obviously out of place. On three, two fat-faced children peered through the window at them, lips smooshed against the glass, eyes big and staring.

When they arrived on the tenth floor, they found Dana’s window blazing with light, the landing bare save the grill, its cover flapping faintly in the breeze. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed the same rusting tools and herb pots from before. No fresh cig butts, no shine of liquid.

Melissa tipped her head back and looked up, flashlight beam piercing the grate above. The stalker could have bolted upward when he heard them below, and be crossing the roof now, trying to find a way into the main stairwell.

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