Chapter 18
Y-E-S-M-A-S-T-E-R
Rune knew the tutor was due to arrive at ten. Oliver had told him he planned to split his day between ASL lessons and working, getting some trading done to get back into things after a month’s hiatus. He delivered breakfast to Rune’s bedroom on a tray after Rune didn’t emerge on his own although Oliver knew him to be awake.
Rune had been busy when Oliver popped in. After signing his thanks, he went right back to typing on the laptop he was borrowing.
It wasn’t long after that when Jackson arrived. Or, at least, that’s what Rune assumed. He had no way to tell yet if someone was at the door like he had with his old closet room. But Oliver had been so impatient to have Jackson look at Rune’s hand, he didn’t think he’d delay the exam any longer than necessary.
Luckily, Rune was just finishing his report, and had sent it to the printer right before the door opened and the stern pair entered.
Jackson had a series of index cards in his hand. He held them up one at a time. They were written out in a surprisingly legible script in black Sharpie.
Do you have any pain in the hand?
Rune shook his head. The card got shuffled to the back of the stack, the next revealed.
Did you have any pain last night? During the incident or immediately after?
Again, Rune shook his head.
Any significant stiffness of movement?
No, again. The next card read:
Are you being completely honest?
Thinking of the type of judgmental foresight that had gone into that question, Rune flipped him off with a subtle grin.
Do you realize the importance of protecting your hand from injury?
Rune promptly mimed jerking off.
Oliver was not amused. Jackson was unfazed. He came forward to where Rune sat on the bed, cross-legged. Taking hold of Rune’s hand, he felt carefully around, watching Rune for any sign of pain. It was sore and his knuckles were just a little swollen now, but there were no other complaints. It hadn’t been the first time he’d punched someone hard enough to break their nose, and it wouldn’t be the last.
With his left hand, Rune pointed to the printer on a desk in the corner by the windows, where a page had spit out, the white sheet gleaming in a sunbeam. Oliver went to retrieve it. After he’d skimmed the first few lines, he said something to Jackson.
Jackson let go of Rune’s hand and began to scribble out a new message on the back of a card with a Sharpie pulled from his pocket.
Please tell me if you experience any pain or it gets worse.
Rune held up the okay sign.
I’m doing online studies of ASL in my spare time. I’m hoping to pick it up quickly, but bear with me.
Rune smiled and fake-punched Jackson in the arm, which only got him a scowl and a waggling finger of warning. Hopefully they’d start to get his sense of humor soon, because it wasn’t going anywhere.
Jackson walked over to Oliver and began reading over his shoulder.
As soon as he’d started to head to Oliver’s place the night before, Rune had known he would need to explain what happened, but he was glad for the surprising reprieve that had lasted well into the following morning. Maybe there were some perks in not being able to verbally explain oneself.
The paper was a full report of what had gone down after Rune had left Oliver’s place yesterday morning until he’d returned with a banged-up fist.
It started with a thanks for Oliver’s patience and a promise that he wasn’t trying to keep secrets or disobey any rules. The reliable presences in Rune’s life had been few and far between enough for him to appreciate Oliver’s support. Though they’d already discussed it, Rune had wanted to put it in writing that he intended to make Oliver, his Master, happy—no matter what that entailed. He did, however, intend to satisfy his drive to right the wrong done to him.
Oliver didn’t get very far in his reading before he dropped the page, glaring over at Rune like he had a lot to say but not the skill to say it as immediately as he’d have liked. Then again, Rune knew sometimes it was better to have a minute or five to gather your thoughts before explaining why you were upset with someone or disagreed with their opinion.
Jackson grabbed the edge of the page, keeping it upright so he could keep reading. Oliver extended his wordless warning shaped only in the hard glisten of his eyes and the scary set of his lips, then kept reading too.
The morning had started for Rune with messages from Max and some of the other guys, letting him know about members of The White Lions getting arrested for throwing glass bottles at some kids. They told Rune—obliviously—how there had been witnesses describing a chase as the skinheads went after someone on a bike, and how the police had pieced the two incidents together after an anonymous tip messaged to them via Twitter.
Rune had expressed his (totally bullshit) surprise about the news to Max and the others—without letting on at all that the guy on the bike in said chase had been him—as well as his legitimate happiness that at least some of The White Lions were getting a taste of justice.
The arrests had riled the other Lions. Yesterday, a bunch of them were getting drunk and yelling things in the lot of their favorite bar, The Watering Hole, which was discreetly under watch by some of Rune’s friends and an inside source at the bar itself.
It seemed only a matter of time before one or several broke off and went looking for fresh trouble.
When they did, The Born Soldiers planned to be ready to stop it.
But then nothing really happened, with the exception of one douchebag who kept boasting about hunting down the little fags and lesbos of the world—the new crop who thought their shit didn’t stink—and laying the smack-down with some hard truths that the world would be better off without any of them in it.
The insider at the bar heard it all, relaying enough to get an ID. With the ID came proof. Evidence on public record, tying the guy to the skinheads. The same group that had gone after Rune.
So they suited up, leaving any identifying gear behind. Piling into a van led by a pair of bikes, they drove to the bar, and waited outside and down the road a bit, prepared to hang out as long as it took.
It had taken exactly two hours and ten minutes before the blond—a thirty-two-year-old janitor named Kurt Radner—had come out, staggering towards his blue 1994 Pontiac sedan with the bumper and fender missing and bald tires.
They had let Kurt drive a mile down the road, then had come up around him, cutting him off. By the time Rune had climbed out of the van, the others already had Kurt on his knees a few yards down a quiet, tree-lined side-road.
Rune wasn’t privy to the run-down the others gave Kurt to explain why he was there, and that was just fine. Rune was there for one reason, and talking wasn’t it.
Arms folded, Rune waited while Oliver and Jackson read.
The report ended with an admission that he understood Oliver would have a reaction to everything which would be slower coming than in a typical conversation. Rune was prepared to be patient while Oliver composed his thoughts, and promised to remain in the apartment until that time. He also promised that he was careful of both his hand and his identity. Everyone had been wearing masks, and had shown no identifying details, apart from Rune’s rainbow tattoo. The last sentence told Oliver this wasn’t going to be a regular thing, but it was something Rune needed to get out of his system.
Jackson finished reading first. He stalked over to Rune, a finger pensively to his lips as he fought back emotion and composed his thoughts. He was pissed, choking on words he knew Rune wouldn’t hear.
Slowly shaping the words, Jackson got right in his face and said, “This isn’t your job.”
Rune considered not replying, but wound up pulling out his phone and typing:
Protecting vulnerable people when I’m able is my job.
“You’re not protecting. You’re attacking!” Jackson replied. Or something like that. Rune wasn’t the greatest lip reader of all time. It was the gist of his emotions, anyway. Closing his mouth, taking a deep breath, Jackson seemed to be trying to calm down. He pulled out his phone and typed:
Next time, file a report with the police. Give them any evidence you have. Let them build a case and go after these guys. That’s THEIR job.
Rune responded:
The police don’t care about what happens to those kids like I do. We report what we can. But nothing the police can do will scare that fucker into laying off. We were careful. We just want them to know they can’t get away with it anymore. That people are watching.
Jackson rolled his eyes and gestured widely with his arms, then started typing some more.
You could just be making the skinheads madder. These aren’t cool-headed, rational people. They lead with anger, hate & arrogance. You can’t change that. Believe me. You need to protect yourself first!
Rune signed okay. Holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he let Jackson win the argument.
Oliver was just standing there, staring at them. His face was unreadable. Something about the lack of response made Rune’s pulse start to race and his stomach tie in knots. It would have been better if he’d been visibly angry like Jackson. The stone-faced stillness was so much worse.
A fresh shock of nausea helped Rune realize how much he did care what Oliver thought of him.
After climbing off the bed, Rune walked over to Oliver. Rune kept his head bowed, glancing up to try to maintain eye contact. More than anything, he wanted to reach out and get lost in Oliver’s embrace again, where everything seemed safe and certain. The coldness of Oliver’s glare put Rune off from trying. So instead he clasped his arms behind his back and dropped his gaze to the floor, using submissiveness as a peace offering.
The moment drew out.
Oliver hooked a finger under Rune’s chin, forcing it up.
He signed three words: Tutor. Soon. Stay.
Rune finger-spelled: Y-E-S-M-A-S-T-E-R.
He’d barely finished the last letter before Oliver walked past him and left the room. Rune didn’t see him again for hours.
“Hey Maggie. Remember that piece you did the beginning of June about the rise in racial tensions around the city, and the white power groups in particular? You don’t still have your research on hand, do you?”
Oliver unlocked the car he used to use for scouting leads. It was an old Cadillac that blended in nicely with any surroundings, giving off none of the pompousness of Adam’s bright blue Mustang, or even Oliver’s black Jaguar. He drove the old Caddy once a month just to keep it from going entirely to shit, but other than that, he rarely used it anymore. Day trading didn’t require as much stealth as journalism.
He loved that car too much to get rid of it, though. He’d spent hours upon hours scoping out stories, piecing together clues to form a tantalizing, shocking whole that would get served up for readers. He’d eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner inside it. He’d dozed off while stalking targets. He’d felt the rush of excavating truth in a world stuffed full of lies. The thrill had carried him through a couple of years until his priorities shifted. He never wrote off the possibility that he’d go back to it someday, so he kept the car.
It was coated in a fine layer of dust, but the key worked just fine and the engine turned over with a smooth purr like always.
“I know. I’m sorry for springing this on you, but it’s important. One of the groups you investigated, The White Lions, have been really active lately. People have gotten hurt. If you’re interested, I’ll give you more details, just not today. Hit me up later. How’s Steven, by the way? Pain in the ass as usual? If I wasn’t such a fan of minding my own business, I’d try to talk you into moving on to someone new, who wouldn’t shit all over your desire to make something of your life, but that’s just me.” He laughed. “Yeah, fuck you too. I know you missed me.” He rifled through the glove compartment for a tablet of paper and pen. “Okay, shoot. Yeah, the main one. Yep. Weadley and what? Okay. Give me some back-ups too, just in case. Oh! Yeah, the bar on Dekalb I definitely need. Great. Thanks, Maggie. You’re the best. Don’t ever forget it. Yep. You too. Bye.”
He hung up and had the GPS on his phone map the route, then cranked the volume so he’d hear every direction.
“Okay, you fuck-heads. Let’s see what you’re really up to, after one necessary detour.”