A wave of depression hit him.
Dropping onto the nearest chair, he put his head in his hands and tried to deal with it. He was glad he’d managed to sleep a little and eat some breakfast, because otherwise he’d be falling apart right now. The homey rattle of the fridge, the tick of the clock; these familiar sounds seemed desolate now. Usually he liked the rain, but it wasn’t helping matters today.
Rising, he carried his suitcase into the bedroom, pausing by the bathroom door just to verify that it was body free.
Everything looked spick-and-span.
Depositing his suitcase on the bed, something caught his eye. Something lay on his pillow. A bird. A brown dove, dead.
Hand shaking, Perry picked it up. It felt soft in his hand, and cold. Its neck hung brokenly.
Chapter Three
Nick knew what the pounding on his door meant before he peered out the peephole. He swore and opened the door.
Perry Foster stood there cradling a bird in both hands. “It’s…dead,” he got out.
A dead bird. Nick processed the news. Assess and respond, that was the program, and he had best respond fast because more alarming than the dead bird was the fact that the Foster kid was blue in the face and gulping for air.
Why me? he thought. I’ve got my own problems. He took the dead bird in one hand and hauled the kid inside with the other.
“Sit.”
Foster collapsed on the sofa, braced his hands on his knees, and struggled to breathe. It was not pleasant to watch. Nick felt helpless, which made him angry.
“Where’s your…what do you call it? Inhaler?”
Foster ignored him, gulping like a landed fish.
“Shit!”
The boy’s eyes shot up toward Nick’s face, and he realized he was probably making it worse. Did people die from asthma nowadays? He didn’t know anything about it. He took a turn around the living room and paused by the couch. Awkwardly, he patted the kid between his bony shoulder blades.
“Calm down, kiddo. You’re fine now.”
Foster nodded. Courteous to the last breath.
The attack went on for what seemed like forever to Nick. Absently he smoothed his hand up and down Foster’s back, feeling the links of spine through the soft cotton of his T-shirt -- and why the hell was he running around wearing a T-shirt in this kind of weather?
“Try to breathe slowly,” Nick ordered, half-remembered TV shows flitting through his mind.
Eventually Foster’s breathing calmed. “It…was on my pillow,” he managed at last.
Nick had forgotten the dead bird that lay on his coffee table. He stared at the small, broken body. His head pounded with anger.
He was mad about the dumb bird, he was mad about the dumb kid, and he was mad that he was being dragged into this mess.
“Think hard,” he instructed. “Is there anybody who has a grudge against you?”
“Me?” panted Foster. “This…isn’t about…me!”
“Never mind what you think it’s about. Do you have any enemies?”
“Of course not!”
“Have you had any run-ins with anybody lately? Maybe something insignificant? Playing your stereo too loud or something.”
Foster shook his head.
“Any arguments over parking spaces? Cut anyone off driving to work?”
Another shake.
“Revoke any library cards?”
Amazingly, Foster laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it was a real laugh.
“You cut your vacation short. Why?”
Those wide, fawn brown eyes gazed at Nick woundedly. “My friend…changed his mind.”
“Your… Oh.” He thought that over. “No hard feelings on his side?”
“None.” One husky word full of heartbreak. It was embarrassing. But then, prosaically, Foster added, “Anyway, he lives in San Francisco.”
“Okay, anyone else you’re fucking?”
The Bambi look again. Nick had the urge to smash it into pieces.
“Kid, you’re queer, right? Problems come with the lifestyle.”
Foster whispered, “I have a problem-free lifestyle. I had one friend. That’s over.”
“Well, don’t cry about it.” His brusque tone brought the color creeping back into Foster’s white face, and that was a good sign in Nick’s opinion. Foster was kind of cute in a Christopher Robin way, and unwillingly, Nick was curious about the friend who had changed his mind. “No arguments with anyone at all?”
Wearily, Foster shook his head.
“Then I guess we can assume that this has to do with the dead man you found. Someone is warning you off.”
“Why? The cops didn’t believe me.”
Nick squeezed his shoulder -- he wasn’t sure why -- and rose. “No, and they won’t believe you this time, either.”
Foster nodded at the coffee table at the broken dove. “What about that?”
Nick shook his head. “Can you prove where you found this dead bird? It could have flown against the house last night and broken its neck. It happens. The cops might think you’re doing this for attention. Or that you’re not right in the head.”
Foster looked scared and stricken.
With a gentleness that surprised him, Nick said, “Even if they believe you, what can they do? Seriously. The most they could do is charge someone -- and who would they charge? -- with breaking and entering. Leaving a dead bird is not even a specific threat.”
Finally Foster nodded.
Nick took it as permission to get rid of the bird. When he came back to the front room, Foster said, “What should I do?”
You’re an adult. Do what you want. Nick opened his mouth to say it. He had done some violent things in his time, but that would have been punching a baby in the face; instead, he said, “Let’s scope out your apartment. You can pack some things.”
“And go where? I can’t afford to move; I told you that. Anyway, I can’t break my lease.”
Not exactly outlaw material, young Foster.
Nick said, “I’d say someone getting into your apartment is pretty good grounds for breaking your lease. Make MacQueen give you Watson’s rooms. She can have his gear moved out, and I’ll help you move your gear in.”
Foster gazed up at Nick like Nick was his hero, and Nick felt an uncomfortable tightening in his gut. Foster had nice bones, clear skin, and honey-colored hair that fell in his eyes. His eyelids were blue-veined eggshell and a pulse was visible in the vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat. Nick cleared his own throat.
* * * * *
Outside Foster’s apartment they found Mr. Teagle energetically banging on the door.
A big, raw-boned man, Teagle greeted them in his booming voice. “Why, there you are! I wondered where you were, son.”
Despite the smile he looked tired, grayer than usual around the edges -- and every one of his seventy-something years.
“Hey there, Mr. Teagle,” Foster said. “When did you get home? How was your trip?”
He was a friendly tyke, no doubt about it.
Teagle’s voice rose in the manner of the hard-of-hearing. “This morning. Wish I’d never gone. Waste of time. People say the economy’s improving, but I can’t see it,” He shook his head. “These damn Democrats.” He peered skeptically at Nick. “You a Democrat?”
“I’m an Independent,” Nick said shortly.
Teagle appeared unconvinced. “You’re that ex-marine, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
Maybe Teagle had been army. He shook his head again and turned back to Foster. “Son, they said you had a terrible experience last night. Someone broke into your apartment?”