Chapter Five
Michael smiled and ran a hand through Deacon’s hair. “I’ve been looking for you for ages. What happened?”
With some difficulty, Deacon sat up and looked around. “That’s what I was wondering.” He groaned and rubbed his head with a shaking hand. He was still having trouble catching his breath and felt, very much, like he could throw up again at any moment.
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital.”
He shook his head. “Let’s just go back to the hotel. We can work it out there.”
Michael was reluctant, but he finally agreed and used his burner phone to call a cab. The morning crowd was starting to assemble at the streetcar station, so he helped Deacon to his feet and they waited by the curb.
“What do you remember?” he asked, trying to keep the man’s mind off the shaking and pain.
Deacon closed his eyes, but the lack of orientation almost made him lose his balance, so he quickly opened them again. Shaking his head was worse. He finally took a deep breath and managed to steady himself. “I…I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I was…checking my apartment, right?”
“Yeah. Then you disappeared, after crashing through the back door and down the steps.”
“That explains the cuts and bruises,” Deacon said, absently. “Um, then I was running, down here I guess,” he added, looking back toward the station.
Their cab arrived and Michael helped Deacon into the back seat. Then he gave the driver directions, but the man only looked them over wearily.
“He better not throw up in the back of my cab,” he warned.
“He won’t,” Michael assured him, but it wasn’t something he could be a hundred percent certain about.
Before long, they were back at the hotel, feeling relieved, but still confused. Deacon’s condition hadn’t improved much so Michael led him to the bed and then rushed into the bathroom to get some damp rags. He grabbed a bottle of water too, hoping that rehydrating would help. As he came back into the room, he saw Deacon with his eyes screwed shut and rushed to his side.
“What is it?”
“It was a powder,” Deacon blurted out, his voice husky and strained. “They blew it at me and…I think it was at the house too.”
“What do you mean?”
Deacon nodded down at his shirt and pointed. There was still some of the powdery substance embedded in the black material. “Look, look.”
Michael remembered noticing it before and his mouth fell open. “This is what’s making you sick?”
“Get the dry-cleaning bag from the closet. We have to save it, see what it is.”
“Um, OK.” Michael yanked the bag from its hanger and then helped Deacon carefully remove the black hoodie he was wearing. Then he folded it and placed it in the bag before tying it up and setting it, gingerly, on one of the chairs.
“You should wash your hands,” Deacon pointed out as he lay back against the pillows.
Michael nodded and then went to the bathroom to scrub them. He figured his lover would be asleep when he came back, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was leaning back against the headboard, arms hugging his chest like he was cold. Michael dug up a spare shirt for him and helped him put it on.
“Maybe you should get some rest,” he suggested.
Deacon shook his head. “I need to wrap my head around what happened while it’s still fresh.”
“You said someone blew powder at you.”
The detective frowned and then nodded. “Someone dragged me into one of the warehouses. I bet it was the same people who beat you up and trashed my place. They’re toying with us.”
Deacon’s condition continued to go up and down as the drug cleared his system. They decided it was best to spend the day at the hotel, relaxing and trying to regroup. By dinner time, Deacon was pretty much back to his old self. Charlie cooked them up a nice dinner again, having noticed the commotion when they came in, but he never asked any questions.
Deacon only nibbled at his sandwich and, to his surprise, Michael was doing the same. “I thought po’boys were your favorite.”
The younger man pursed his lips, but didn’t look up. “I think we should go to the police,” he finally said. “We’re in over our head, Deac.”
The detective let his sandwich slowly drop back to the table. Then he shook his head. “The cops don’t trust me, remember?”
“Nah, I don’t believe that. I don’t think that detective would have let you go that easily otherwise.”
“Who, Ramirez-Montague?” Deacon said with a sarcastic snort. “That man would just love an excuse to arrest me. He hates my guts.”
“Either way. We need help. Look at what happened last night.”
“We illegally entered a crime scene,” Deacon pointed out.
“After that,” Michael retorted in frustration. “The members of Vires et Spiritu are dangerous. We have to get someone else involved, someone—”
Better trained?” Deacon mumbled.
“No, someone with back-up and the power of the law.”
His lover poked at his sandwich, a deep pout on his face. After a while, he nodded, slightly, but didn’t look up. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I suppose the enemy of my enemy and all that.”
“It’s better than getting killed,” Michael pointed out and then laughed when Deacon only huffed.
The next morning, the two of them stood in Detective Ramirez-Montague’s office, bright and early. The man looked them over in surprise and a bit of satisfaction at the look of uncomfortableness on Deacon Jameson’s face.
“You look like hell, Jameson. New client a little too…young for you?” he teased and then took a sip of coffee.
Deacon’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t work like that and you know it,” he growled.
Michael practically had to hold him back, which only caused Ramirez-Montague to chuckle. “Fine,” the detective said. “What are you doing in my office?”
Deacon looked at Michael like he didn’t think he could bring himself to say it. Michael gave him a nod and then took a breath. “We need your help.”
Ramirez-Montague’s eyebrows shot up. He was both surprised and perturbed by the notion. Long, dark eyelashes blinked a few times and then he said, “So, what is it?”
Michael convinced Deacon to sit down and tell their story, which he did with a sigh and then crossed his arms over his chest again. “Last night I was drugged. I think it was by the same people who beat up Michael and ransacked my apartment.”
Ramirez-Montague leaned across his desk and clasped his hands together. “You were drugged? And how, may I ask, did that happen?”
Deacon grimaced and the heel of his right foot began to bounce on the floor. “It was a white powder. I inhaled it…twice.”
“You’d think the first time would have warned you away.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t given much of a choice.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment and then Ramirez-Montague said, “Do you have any idea what this powder was?”
“Nope, but we brought a sample,” Deacon said with a smirk and then Michael placed the dry-cleaning bag on the detective’s desk. “This is what I was wearing when it happened. The powder went everywhere, including all over me.”
The detective looked the bag over and then turned back. “How did this happen?”
“The first time was…in my bathroom.”
“You went back to the crime scene?” Ramirez-Montague spat in disbelief.
“Well, it is my apartment, Detective. I thought there might be some evidence—”
“That we missed?”
“Yeah, maybe a message from the bad guys. Instead, I found something out of place. It was an old jack in the box toy I keep packed away. They’d placed it on the bathtub rim and it was filled with the powder. I bet, if you send someone down there, you’ll find it and more of this stuff.”
The detective stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. “I’ll think about it. What happened the second time?”
Deacon recounted what he could remember of the warehouse, but Ramirez-Montague didn’t look very convinced.
“You didn’t get a look at the men?” he asked
“They were in masks.”
“Yet, you think it has something to do with your client’s case?”
Deacon sighed again. “I think it’s the same men, yes.”
“Why?”
“Vires et Spiritu,” Michael answered.
Ramirez-Montague turned his head and looked the man over as if he hadn’t realized he was in the room before. “Vires…what?” he demanded.
“Vires et Spiritu. They’re a secret society of very rich and very influential men.”
The detective rubbed his brow. “Of course they are.” He turned back to Deacon. “You seriously came into my office with a conspiracy theory?”
“No, Detective,” Michael cut in again. “It’s not a theory. I know they’re real. I was one of them.”
“Then why would they want to kill you or drug him?”
“I know too much,” Michael muttered. “They’ve…done things.”
Ramirez-Montague leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his shiny, bald head. “OK, Jameson, who are these people and what the hell is going on?”
“Are you saying you’ll investigate this case?”
“If there is a case.”
Deacon glanced at Michael and nodded. Michael nodded back and then took a shaky breath. “I got out when I realized they were committing ritualized murders. I hadn’t heard anything from any of them until I wrote a song about it.”
Ramirez-Montague just stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then let out a long breath. “Yeah, I imagine that would get their attention. And you said these were rich and powerful men. Like who?”
“Well, the ones I knew, the ones that came after me are Richard Atwater—”
“Son of former Mayor Atwater?”
Michael nodded. “Jess Stevenson and Robert Phillips.”
“Those are all high rollers,” the detective pointed out.
Deacon nodded. “They attacked him and then came after me last night.”
“So, why not just kill you?”
“I don’t know, but we think they’re just the messengers.”
Deacon told the detective about the article he’d found and helped the man find it on his computer. As they read through it Ramirez-Montague kept shaking his head as if this was still some kind of joke.
“Michael thinks these were the sons of the first members,” Deacon pointed out.
“Jameson, this man’s a Senator now,” Ramirez-Montague pointed out.
“We know.”
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into? I’ve seen you do some stupid things—”
“It’s my fault, Detective,” Michael insisted. “I should have just kept my mouth shut.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
“He has information about a murder,” Deacon hissed.
“No, he has hearsay. He heard someone bragging about a murder.”
“Then why come after me?” Michael pointed out. “If it wasn’t true then why do they care about thinly veiled lyrics in a song?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true,” the detective sighed. “I’m saying it’s not much to go on, especially against people this powerful.”
“You agreed to help,” Deacon reminded him.
“I said I’d investigate if there was a case.”
“Look, neither of us imagined what happened to us.”
Ramirez-Montague looked at him like he couldn’t be sure, but he finally nodded. “Fine, I’ll look into it, discreetly. I think it’s best if you left it alone for now, but I doubt that’s gonna happen.”
“I can give you a list of everyone I know is in the group,” Michael offered.
“That’ll be great.”
Deacon hung back, pacing the back wall of the office nervously as Ramirez-Montague went over everything Michael knew. He found himself feeling jealous and possessive. He’d always been that way over a case, but it was more than that now. The two men seemed to be getting along just fine and the detective was being helpful and understanding. He’d never gotten so much as a thank you out of the man. Plus, he felt like the man he was involved with should have the same disdain for the detective. He knew it was silly and tried to push the feelings away.
As they walked out of the station, once again, Michael could sense that something was wrong. “This place seems to have a weird effect on you,” he said, light-heartedly. When Deacon grunted, but didn’t say anything else, he added. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“No, I don’t. He’s never taken me or what I do seriously.”
“Well, he’s taking you seriously now,” Michael pointed out. “Who knows, maybe you’ll have a good ally when this is all over.”
Deacon gave him an incredulous look, not so much for the suggestion as for how his brain worked. “You do a lot of looking on the bright side. You know that, right?”
Michael shrugged. “It’s New Orleans, I’m a jazz singer. If I didn’t look on the bright side, life would fall apart completely.”
Deacon chuckled and wrapped an arm around him, surprising the younger man.
“I thought we were keeping mum about…all this,” he said, gesturing between them.
“To hell with that,” Deacon spat, but was still smiling. “Let’s go relax for a day or two, let the police do their thing.”
Michael was surprised to learn that Deacon really meant it. They went back to their little hotel room and the detective immediately started packing up.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I have a little lake house I never use. I think we should get out of the city and away from the people trying to torment us. They won’t be able to find us, and we’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Michael’s mouth fell open and he shook his head. “Uh, yeah, that sounds great, but…what about the case?”
Deacon waved it away. “We’ll keep in touch with Ramirez-Montague,” he said, and it felt strange not using the Ramigue moniker. “If anything important happens, we won’t be that far away.”
Michael’s eyebrows crept up and then a grin crossed his face. “OK then. Why not?”
“It’s not much of a house,” Deacon warned. “It’s more like a cabin in the woods sort of thing.”
“That’s all right. I like camping.”
“Good, because I don’t,” Deacon answered with a chuckle.