Another thought struck him as he dressed in his usualjeans and tank top. What if Jordan went to the cops? After Vicroughed him up and rescued Matt, what evidence would there be thatit wasn’t a lover’s quarrel, or a vindictive crime? It would beMatt’s word against Jordan’s, but Vic suspected that after thisordeal, his lover wouldn’t want to be interrogated about it forsome time. And Vic was sure the police wouldn’t let him sit inwhile they questioned Matt. His lover would have to relive eachhorrific moment in a steel room under the glare of a sterile light,while unsympathetic faces watched him impassively or worse, barkedquestions at him rapid-fire, making him stumble and doubt himself.If Vic rushed over there now, beat the shit out of Jordan, thenbrought Matt home to safety, would they wake to the sounds of aSWAT team kicking in the door in the morning? Would Vic even get tostate his side of the story before they slapped a pair of handcuffson him?
He didn’t think so.
Cops were wary of people who fit into their criminalstereotype. Who would they believe—Jordan, a man who lookedharmless enough, dyed hair notwithstanding, who probably didn’thave a criminal record, and who had never been in the publicspotlight? Or Vic, built like a mean motherfucker, tattoos all overhis body and shaved head, piercings in his ears and eyebrows andnipples, with a glare that could stop a man at twenty feet and apenchant for cracking his knuckles in a menacing way when he gotmad? Vic, who always seemed to be on the fringes of the crowdwhenever the police arrived at the scene of a crime? Who never gavea statement for the record when witnesses claimed he was involved?Who took three bullets to the chest and walked away without ascratch? The police had a file on him downtown that filled onewhole cabinet, he knew; he’d seen it in that female officer’smind—
She would believe me.
Vic straightened slowly as he thought it out. Yes,she would believe him, if no one else. Because part of her wantedhim, needed him, to be more than he appeared to be—he’dgleaned that much from the brief contact he’d had with her mindafter the shooting. She wanted to believe there was a superherohidden in the city, helping the cops in their duties, saving theworld one person at a time. Someone working with the law,instead of against it.
After a moment rummaging through his memory, Vicfound her name. Though she hadn’t mentioned it, some part of Vic’smind seemed to warehouse such useless information, part of thereason he needed to control whose thoughts he entered when. But itwasn’t all useless.
Kendra Jones.
Vic glanced at the clock on his bedside table. He’dbeen home for about a half hour now, though it felt like a lifetimesince he’d first realized Matt was not at home. But he had a prettygood idea of where Matt might be, and backup never hurt. So maybehe could spare a few minutes to call the police.
With that thought in mind, he hurried back to wherehe had left the phone in the living room.
* * * *
For a moment he debated calling the emergencynumber—this was an emergency, damn it. His Matty was outthere suffering. But the average citizen didn’t call 911 and ask tospeak to a particular officer. He dialed the number listed in thephone book for the dispatch, and almost dropped the phone when itwas answered halfway through the first ring. Despite thatefficiency, the bored female voice on the other end soundedanything but. “Richmond City Police.”
Vic switched the phone to his other ear. “OfficerJones,” he said. Then, realizing they probably had quite a rosterof officers with that last name, he added, “Kendra Jones.”
If the dispatcher heard the anxiety in Vic’s voice,she didn’t pick up on it. Instead her lazy Southern drawl made himwant to scream in frustration when she told him, “Please state thenature of your call.”
“I need to get in touch with her.” Vic spoke fast, asif making up for the time lost whenever the dispatcher talked.“It’s very important. My…my roommate’s gone.”
He stumbled over the word “roommate”—silently heamended, My lover, half my soul, the reason I draw one breathafter the other. Gone, missing, stolen from me. As it was,Vic’s breathing seemed labored and time might have stopped for allhe knew or cared. There was no future without Matt, nothingdifferentiating one moment from the next, and if he didn’t find hislover soon, Vic feared even the sun might refuse to rise whenmorning came.
But the dispatcher did not know Matt, and she failedto grasp the gravity of the situation. “Your roommate,” she said,as emotionless as if she spoke of a parked car. “I’m sorry, sir,but you want to file a missing persons report. Officer Jones is notin that department. I’ll be glad to transfer you to OfficerSloan—”
“No.” Vic resisted the urge to throttle the phone. “Ineed to talk with Kendra Jones. Tell her it’s Vic Braunson, fromthe 7-11 shooting. She’ll remember me.”
Patiently, as if he was just another dumb fuckhassling the police because he had nothing better to do, thedispatcher explained, “If your roommate’s missing, you need to filea report. Is he underage?”
Vic bristled at what her words implied. “What?No.”
“Elderly?” she continued.
“No, look—”
She spoke over him. “Mentally incapacitated?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vic growled.
In a kinder voice, the dispatcher explained, “Is heretarded?”
This was ridiculous. Here he was, fighting with somefaceless, nameless bitch on the other end of the phone, when heshould be halfway across the city by now, rescuing Matt. But no, hehad to do the right thing. He had to call the police. Andwhat the hell good was that doing him?
Through clenched teeth, Vic said for the last time,“Kendra Jones. Now.”
“Sir,” the dispatcher tried, “I am trying to helpyou—”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Without waiting for a reply, Vic slammed the receiveron the coffee table. The cracked casing split farther, a thin linespidering down from the
