Chapter Sixteen
John leapt in front of Harry, ready to protect him from this new danger. The wounds inflicted by Swan now hurt, and despite Harry’s reassurances, John’s mind reeled from having committed murder. But he knew with every fiber of his existence that he’d do anything to save the man he loved.
Several men burst into the room. An explosion resounded. Something hit John’s belly with such force that he fell, instinctively howling at the new pain.
Harry scrambled off the table and screamed “Stop!”
Miraculously the four men listened, freezing in their tracks, guns raised. One of them was Townsend.
Harry dropped to his knees beside John, his arm raised toward the agents. “Don’t hurt him!” Then he turned to John. “I don’t know— What can I— How do I help?”
After a moment of assessing the damage to his body, John managed a smile. “It’s all right. I’ve been hurt worse than this.” It was true. The Bureau had done worse when they first acquired him—and he’d always healed eventually, with new scars as souvenirs.
But Harry didn’t seem comforted. He peered worriedly at John’s injuries and tenderly swept the hair from John’s eyes.
“What’s happening here, boy?” Townsend had holstered his gun and marched over. He glared down at them like an avenging angel.
With another quick touch to John’s forehead, Harry stood, placing himself between Townsend and John. If he remembered his nudity, he seemed unbothered by it. “Don’t touch him. Don’t you dare hurt him.”
Townsend narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead he gestured impatiently at the other agents, who put their guns away. Two of them knelt over Swan’s corpse, while the third began a walking survey of the lab.
“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded.
“We followed you, of course. Do you think we’d let an untrained kid do an important mission unsupervised? We’ve been waiting outside for hours, wondering what the hell was going on. We broke in when we heard screams.” He crossed his arms. “Now you tell me what happened here.”
Harry lifted his chin. “Swan drugged me, I think. Tied me up on that table. He was going to….” He shuddered. “Torture me. Murder me. Use me for his experiments. John broke loose from his chains and stopped him. He saved my life.”
“John.” Townsend looked thoughtful and then seemed to reach a decision. He turned toward the agents still examining Swan’s body. “Clark! Call in the crew. Have them bag up everything and take it away. Call the Portland Police Bureau and let them know they have one fewer problem on their hands.” He swiveled back. “You come with me, Lowe.”
“Not without John.”
“Fine.”
Harry had to help John stand, and then John slung an arm over his shoulders so Harry could help him walk out of the lab, through the office, and up the stairs. A harried-looking agent met them there. He handed Harry a coat, but Harry refused to budge unless John got clothing too. He also demanded a first-aid kit. Townsend waited impatiently while Harry clumsily bandaged John’s wounds and helped him into a pair of trousers that had likely belonged to Swan.
“You see?” John whispered to him. “They were watching us. We couldn’t have run.”
Harry answered loudly, clearly wanting Townsend to hear. “I don’t care. The only way they’re getting their claws into you is over my dead body.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“Me either. But dammit, you’re worth whatever I have to do.”
Despite the wounds, despite the uncertainty as to their fates, John felt warm and happy. Harry found him valuable. In all his most imaginative fantasies while locked in the cell, John had never hoped for anything so wonderful.
***
They rode in the back of a big car while Townsend drove. Harry kept an arm wrapped around John as if to insulate him from bumps in the road. They went only about two miles before Townsend stopped in front of what appeared to be an empty storefront. Although the windows were papered over, new furniture filled the inside.
Harry and John were allowed to wash up in the bathroom, and John was relieved to clean Swan’s blood away. A doctor came to examine Harry and declared him fine, apart from some minor cuts and contusions where he’d struggled against his bonds. It wasn’t necessary for the doctor to look at John’s wounds, which had already begun to heal.
Someone had evidently visited Harry’s rented house, since an agent handed them familiar clothing. Another brought Harry a thick sandwich and a bottle of Coke.
John and Harry sat side by side in uncomfortable office chairs while Townsend faced them across a desk and asked Harry question after question, often repeating himself or posing the same query in different ways, as if trying to catch Harry in a lie. But Harry did not lie, not even when he slumped from exhaustion and slurred his words.
Townsend, apparently indefatigable, finally took pity on him. “Unless you have something else to add, we’re done for now.”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“All right. Look, kid, I need to tell you something. About that job we talked about with the Bureau—”
“I’m not Bureau material. I know.”
Townsend cut his eyes toward John. “It’s like I said before. You’re too soft. A Bureau man has to make everything secondary to the mission—and you can’t do that, can you?”
“Some things are more important than any mission.” Harry took John’s hand.
In the past, when John had simply glanced at Townsend, he assumed him to be an ordinary man—middle-aged, overweight, prone to too much smoking and drinking. But now as he truly focused, he saw that Townsend was something else entirely. Dangerous. Cunning. And perhaps not entirely human.
Townsend had ignored John up to this point, but now he shifted his attention. “Who came up with your name?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“A person needs a name.”
“I suppose so,” Townsend said with a chuckle. Still smiling, he asked, “Why did you kill Swan?”
“He was going to mutilate Harry. And then he was going to murder him.”
“Why do you care what happens to Harry?”
“Because I love him.”
Harry squeezed his hand.
“I see. And will you kill again?”
“If I have to, in order to protect Harry.” John leaned forward. “Have you read Mary Shelley’s book?”
“Ah, the modern Prometheus. That monster never had a name. Its creator didn’t give it one, and it never took one for itself.”
“I am not that monster.”
“How do I know that? How could I let you loose on the world?”
“He’s no monster,” said Harry. “No more than any human is.”
John remembered the closing lines of the book. “Some years ago, I nearly wept to live. Now it is my consolation.” His paraphrase turned the monster’s words inside out, a reflection of John’s very different situation. But the next part he quoted exactly. “Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.”
Townsend laughed again, and this time he looked more human as well. Then he poured himself what must have been his sixth or seventh drink and lit another cigarette. “You’re not Bureau material, Lowe, but you followed through on your duties and you rid the world of a very bad man. Keep the money I gave you. Hell, keep the car. I’ll have the boys drive it back to your place.”
“I only care about John.”
“Keep him too. If he wants to be kept by you, that is.”
John’s eyes stung with tears. “I do. More than anything.”
Townsend removed a pen and small black notebook from his inner coat pocket, scrawled something, and tore the page out. He scooted the paper across the desk toward Harry. “Wrote down a name for you. Charles Grimes. The agent who fell for a demon. You remember I told you about him?”
“Yes,” said Harry, wide-eyed.
“He’s in Santa Monica. Look him up.”
“Why?”
“He’s good at finding things. Maybe he’ll help you find your way.” Townsend stood. “Want a ride home?”
Harry looked at John. “How do you feel?”
How to put so much into mere words? “Buoyant. Jubilant.”
“We’ll walk,” Harry said.
Townsend walked them to the front door and unlocked it for them. He stood there a moment, his bulk blocking the way. “The Bureau will be keeping track of you, boys. Don’t get into trouble.” Then he stepped aside.
Dawn had broken, the light drawing moisture from the pavement and giving the city a soft, dreamlike quality. Harry and John walked slowly side by side, hands not quite touching.
“What are you thinking?” John asked after a couple of blocks.
“I’ve never been good at anything. Never had any real reason to be on the planet. But I think I do now.”
“What’s that?”
Harry stopped in his tracks and smiled brightly, creating in John a warmth that far surpassed those patches of sunlight in his former cell. “I want to show you the world,” Harry said. “Maybe I’ll make a decent tour guide.”
John wanted to experience it all—the sights and sounds and smells and feelings—with Harry at his side. He wanted to see what was around every corner. Snow and oceans and mountains and sand; bazaars and concerts and parties and cafés. Books. Snuggling on the couch with the radio playing romantic tunes. Making love. John was greedy and he wanted it all.
“Show me, Harry.” John raised his hands high. “Show me everything.”