Hidden Virtue Read online

  Rogers’ eyes were like wet glass. Like tears about to fall. “And who is that man, Grimm?”

  Frank sneered. “Oh, you think you’re so clever.”

  Rogers nodded. “I think I am. What man do you want to kill, Grimm?”

  Using his name like that was also infuriating. Heat was building under his scalp. Frank pulled a raspy breath through his crooked nose. “You knew before you asked, Rogers. I want to kill that man I blame for it all.”

  Rogers opened his mouth to respond, but Miguel beat him to it. “It’s you. You’re the man you blame, but you can’t do it, can you?”

  Frank kept himself from looking. Fixed his gaze on a crack on the floor. “No.”

  Rogers put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. Contact that felt like persecution. “Believe it or not. We know how you feel.”

  Miguel claimed Frank’s other shoulder. “Let us help, brother.”

  The feet of the other participants sounded like pursuit as they gathered around to offer their support. Closing in for the kill.

  Rogers’ fingers tightened. “A man like you could never do it, though.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill yourself.”

  Frank shook his head. “No. It’s just not right.”

  Miguel’s fingers tightened. Like they had rehearsed this whole thing. “That’s why we go back. Over and over. To put ourselves in the sights. Let God do it, so at least we ain’t gotta blame ourselves for that too.”

  Frank closed his eyes. “I’ll be damned. I guess you do understand.”

  Then he shrugged off their hands. Turned away from acceptance he neither wanted nor deserved. But even as he threaded his way through the compressing crowd, Frank knew they would take what had just happened as a positive step.

  He hit the loft stairs, hoping his plans would work out.

  Frank had no reason to hope, but if everything went perfectly, he’d be dead before they asked him to join again anyway.

  Chapter Three

  Frank could still hear the voices below him. Over an hour had passed since he stormed off in a huff. Straight to his liquor cabinet.

  He stocked it with as many different types and brands as he could. It made him feel like a collector — or even a connoisseur — instead of a lonely man with a problem.

  Especially since he never actually sat down to enjoy the nice reposado he had paid forty dollars for. Instead, pouring it into more iced tea. Measuring by eye.

  He moved out to the balcony where he could get a sense of how his efforts had made Carmen’s grave look. From the ground, it had seemed like a fair match between his trimming and Mo’s regular yardwork. From on high, though — he could easily see the ragged edges of his handiwork.

  It appeared sparse, rather than tidy. Pitiful and dying. Dirt showing through the patches.

  He pushed stringy hair off his forehead, but the breeze folded it back over. It looked a lot like the thin weeds.

  Frank noticed cars leaving. Waves and shouts. Mo was back at the RV with a polishing rag in one hand. A squirt bottle of compound in the other.

  Gen came out to him carrying a tray of drinks. Probably some lunch too. It struck him as a scene from childhood. The dutiful wife bringing food to the laboring husband.

  Only instead of an apron and pearls, she wore a tank top and tight shorts. Her legs were like trees. Thick neck and shoulders. And her man was black. Something not often seen in the late fifties.

  Even from his distant perch, he could see their love for each other. Wondered again how he had ever missed it.

  For all of her powerful muscles, she was still a girly-girl. Cutesy. Almost prissy. Mo was even more impressive now that he had stripped the fat to the bulging strength underneath.

  For some reason, they just fit together. Frank wasn’t sure if it was because he knew them, and in his mind, they were a unit. Or maybe it was just as the world intended, and two people meant for each other had found their ideal mate.

  He had thought the same thing about him and Sarah. Especially at the perfect child they had managed to produce.

  So maybe he was wrong about them too.

  He took advantage of their distraction to go down into the barn and leave by the side exit that would take him down the long edge of the yard.

  Under the old carport to the front porch. It had a visible lean. White paint warping off the railing in the humidity. Rocking chairs. Small table. An empty cooler tipped over to drain. A stack of coasters.

  The front door was flanked by two wide windows. One had the curtains thrown back to reveal the shadow of the living room. The other had the curtains drawn. Wheat-colored linen.

  Frank smelled smoke from the grill before going inside.

  He shut the door behind him and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. Felt a chill ripple through him as the severely cooled air washed over him.

  He knew it wasn’t for Mo or Gen. They were far more tolerant of the heat than GG. He just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Frank leaned his head back to rest on the door. Held his breath against the anxiety forming in his chest. He was never ready for it. No longer knew how to prepare.

  GG loved all forms of weightlifting. Unlike some of the meatheads back at Stan’s gym, he had even loved bodybuilding. Could name hundreds of bodybuilders. From the Golden Era — Arnold Schwarzenegger’s heyday — to the current sidewalk-crackers like Phil Heath.

  GG held a particular soft spot in his heart for Ronnie Coleman, though. The man he still said was the greatest Mr. Olympia in the history of the sport.

  Frank sometimes had trouble with calling it a sport — at least the posing-on-stage portion. That seemed a lot like a testosterone-fueled beauty pageant. The work that was put in at the gym, though? That was amazing, and some of these bodybuilders put up numbers that would win powerlifting competitions.

  One of Ronnie Coleman’s catchphrases was simple. One that GG had often used to pump up the lifters at Wild One.

  “Ain’t nothing to it, but to do it.”

  Frank nodded to himself, as if he had said it out loud.

  He moved along the wall. Into the kitchen. Turned toward the side yard to look out the window over the sink. No view except the side of the RV. Some grill smoke rolling up along its roof.

  He sighed before turning to the open bedroom door to his right. Tried to force a smile and ended in something like neutrality.

  He could see GG’s bed. The fuzzy narwhal blanket hanging down the side. The TV hanging from an articulating bracket played a silent Minecraft video.

  “Hey, Dad,” GG called from inside. “I saw you on the porch through the curtains. You coming on in?”

  Frank’s face crumpled into grief when he heard GG call him Dad. Smoothed his expression back to the previous semblance of normal. Managed a smile as he entered.

  “Hey, buddy. How you feeling today?”

  GG looked up with a grin that only spread to one side of his face. The other was slack and waxy. The brow dropping almost low enough to cover the eye. A lot like Frank’s scarred one.

  Where GG had once been a mountain of a man, he was now an oversized skeleton. Bones showing through skin. Dark hollows in the creases of his joints. The chemo had made his head a smooth egg. The surgical scar lacing along the side of his scalp was the color of old blood.

  No eyebrows. A few twisted hairs on his chin.

  His decline had happened so fast. Like the world changing during the flash of lighting.

  A tablet was open on his lap. Another video playing without sound. This one the highlights of some strongman competition.

  GG nudged it aside with his withering left hand while motioning to the chair beside his bed with his good hand. “It’s a bad one, Dad. But most of ‘em are these days. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Frank looked away from his friend as he walked around the bed. Sat with a grunt before leaning in to look at the screen on GG’s lap. “Whatcha got there?”

  He leaned his head
back into the pillow. “Robert Oberst tore his bicep.”

  Frank nodded. Looked at the posters on the opposite wall. Teen Titans Go!, with the teenage version of Robin. The Boy Wonder was wearing a tuxedo, singing to an equally formal Cyborg. GG loved that show. So much that Frank was surprised it wasn’t on the TV right now.

  Next to it was Stan “The Rhino” Efferding. A massive bodybuilder flexing in front of an impossible stack of weights.

  Finally, there was a glazed doughnut with pink sprinkles and a cartoon smile. The caption always made him chuckle. Two in the pink, one in the sprink.

  GG reached to his bedside table. Hooked a bottle of water. Got the straw to his mouth for a slurping drink. Kept it next to him as he turned to Frank with a critical eye. “You look rough, Dad. You been hitting them sprints?”

  Frank nodded. “Sure did, buddy. The bleachers over at Mound Park. All the way to the top ten times. Thought I was gonna die.”

  “You couldn’t be so lucky,” GG said. “Did you puke?”

  “No, but it was close.”

  “Then do fifteen next time.”

  “You got it.”

  GG nodded like something important had been decided. “You up your eggs?”

  “I have, yeah. That’s a lot of saturated fat, though.”

  “Building block of testosterone. Besides, eggs got a lot of choline in ‘em. The way you drink, you need as much liver protection as you can get.”

  That didn’t make sense to Frank, but he wasn’t a doctor, nor did he plan on living long enough to get heart disease. “Then more eggs it is.”

  “And the salmon? You gotta get it once a week. And the oranges.”

  Frank put his hand on GG’s arm, even though he wasn’t sure if he could feel it. “I’m doing it all, buddy. I promise.”

  GG pressed his lips together. Breathed through his nose.

  A single tube ran along the sheets. To a cannula under his ribs. It delivered morphine, and every time it pumped, Frank was reminded of aquarium bubbles. The sound made him tighten his grip on GG’s arm.

  GG’s eyes opened, then the good one widened in alarm. Like he just remembered something important. “It won’t be long now, Dad.”

  “You got plenty of time, buddy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I can make it, Dad.”

  Frank rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I wish …”

  He trailed off. Listened to the bubbles stop. Waited for GG’s breathing to ease.

  GG adjusted his position with a grunt. “What do you wish, Dad?”

  Frank sighed. “I wish you didn’t have to suffer like this.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  GG fumbled with his tablet. Got it flipped over. Then he dug next to his thigh until he found the remote, killed the TV, then dropped the remote back on his sheets. “It’s a bad one today, Dad.”

  Frank looked away as he nodded. “I know.”

  “I mean … a bad one.”

  Frank stroked GG’s wrist. “I was thinking of taking a trip. One of my weekenders, you know? Down to Rosa Alta.”

  “That beach with that Ty Kirby dickhead?”

  The new studio for In Our Midst. Moved since gaining popularity on LiveLyfe.

  Frank nodded. “That’s right. Just checking some things out. Some loose ends.”

  “You’re almost over it, ain’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  GG sniffed. “Then can you do something for me?”

  “Of course. Anything you need, buddy.”

  “Cool, then can you kill me?”

  Frank thought of the first time somebody wanted him to do something that made him sick just thinking about it. Freya leaving a note where she knew he’d see it.

  My father is raping me. I need you to kill him.

  He had balked then, but this time he threw himself back in his chair. GG turned to face him so Frank could see the good eye leaking tears. Anguish pulling his skin tight over angled cheekbones.

  “Please,” GG gasped. “It hurts so bad. I just want it to stop.”

  Frank stood on quavering legs. Horror making his jaw fall open.

  GG looked away. Slammed his head back into his pillow. “It hurts, Dad. So fucking bad. But the worst part is, I’m losing myself. I’m forgetting.”

  Frank made his way to the foot of the bed. Around to the wall where he kept himself pressed against the paneling. His shoulder tore a corner of the doughnut poster.

  “The pain’s bad enough, Dad. But imagine dying without knowing who you are.”

  Frank froze. Stared into GG’s desperate gaze. “Imagine living without knowing who you are.”

  GG pointed. “You do it. You hear me?”

  Frank shook his head. Walked toward the door. GG lunged up and reached out his clawed hand to grab Frank’s upper arm in a crushing grip.

  He tried to get away, but GG’s old strength was still in reserve. Under all that cancer and suffering. Pain radiated down to his fingers. GG pulled, and Frank couldn’t resist.

  He was inches away when GG finally released him. Sat still as he stared into his eyes. “If you love me,” GG whispered. “If you ever loved me, you’ll do it.”

  Frank blinked his tears away. “Buddy, that’s not fair.”

  GG fell back. Looked up at the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I know it ain’t, Dad. But you know what I learned?”

  Frank straightened up. Retreated to the door, but paused before leaving. “What did you learn, buddy?”

  “Ain’t nothing fair.”

  Frank left the way he came. He was almost running by the time he got back to the barn.

  He opened the tequila bottle, but didn’t bother pouring it into the tea.

  Chapter Four

  Frank had trouble thinking about anything else on his way to Rosa Alta. GG’s wasted face hanging in his memory. He even tried to distract himself with Ty Kirby’s nonsensical podcast, The Tip of the Iceberg.

  His mind was dominated by fear and anxiety. Pity for GG. Shame in his own inability to fulfill the dying man’s wish. Or maybe it was unwillingness.

  Frank sighed a gust of fresh frustration. Turned up the volume on the Dodge’s radio.

  He’d spent most of Carmen’s money — and most of his time — on the van. Stan had kept it in good shape. It suffered mostly from just sitting. Stains from various bodily fluids during their escape from Playa Dolor.

  Steam-cleaning the carpets hadn’t worked. So it was all new, along with the replacement seat covers. New folding mechanism for the rear seat so Frank had a bed whenever he was on a stakeout. Similar supplies to what he had carried in his Avalanche.

  Plus some extras that might help him with his new goals.

  Other than new brakes, a tune-up, and fluid changes, the last thing he had installed was a Bluetooth adapter to the old cassette/CD player combo. He’d found an old Van Halen album in the glovebox. Baked yellow from decades of heat. Popped it in, and it had played with the warble of stretched drive belts.

  The wave of nostalgia had been overwhelming, even though he’d never really been a David Lee Roth fan. Just the feeling of being in a different era. Back when things were far less complicated.

  He rewound the tape back to the start of side one. Put it back in the glovebox. Something about it being there was a comfort.

  His phone was paired with the receiver in the dash, and the Livelyfe audio came through the van’s speakers loud and clear. Too clear for Kirby’s voice.

  “When you look at the amount of control the media has over our lives, it’s no wonder we are losing the minds of our children.”

  Deep, with even more gravel than it used to have. Processed through studio equipment to make him sound more like the alpha male he always claimed to be.

  Frank steered down the road running parallel with the ocean. His last turn until pulling into the parking lot next to the boardwalk at Rosa Alta. Past the golf course clubhouse. The local spor
ts bar/seafood restaurant, The Open Net.

  A Sloppy’s made to look like a tropical beach house.

  “It’s in the eyes,” Kirby said. “That twinkle that shows the reptilian glint. That cold, emotionless way they have of reporting the news.”

  Ever since gaining such a following with In Our Midst, Kirby had been flirting with mainstream opportunities. He’d even had several meetings. Imminent deals he had breathlessly reported on his podcast.

  Of course, his popularity had been inflated. Fans and follows purchased to give him the social currency required to convince the networks that he was the next big thing.

  After Frank had gotten out of Playa Dolor, Kirby’s shine had started to dim. Without the state law enforcement support he enjoyed, his show had faded. His views and subscriptions had plummeted. And like every other bottom-of-the-barrel celebrity, he’d turned to more and more desperate measures to regain that sparkle.

  He had delved into every conspiracy. Every whack-job theory. From aliens to politics to Bigfoot. This week he was focused on the lizard people and their controlling the flow of information.

  Throughout it all, Kirby maintained a position of sympathetic sufferer. One of the little people with the resources and determination to uncover the truth for his fellow man.

  As his new popularity grew, so did the burden of his new followers. There was some overlap with his previous pool of fans, but they had mostly transitioned from terrified housewives and crime conspiracy theorists to shameless end-of the-worlders. The kinds of people that had filters that made their urine drinkable. Extra foil in the cupboard in case the aliens tried to control their minds during the inevitable invasion.

  Kirby had to be bitter about missing out on the network money, but he was also sure Kirby was doing just fine with LiveLyfe advertising.

  Sponsors that peddled inferior earbuds, underwear that kept your testicles in a separate pouch for comfort but were really designed to make your package look larger, manscaping clippers, and a different mobile game every week.