April strides up the porch steps, syringe in hand.
“This will stop—” she begins.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her. I jab it into Roy’s upper arm. He doesn’t seem to feel it. He keeps flopping and flailing until he drops with one last gasp, his eyes bulging like that fish breathing its last. Then his head hits the porch with a thunk.
I go to Mindy as Dalton and Anders handle Roy. The house here is empty, being used for storage, and I shuttle her inside, away from the crowd. She walks, stiff-legged. As the front door closes behind us, the rear one opens, Isabel coming through.
“He grabbed me,” Mindy says, as if still struggling to understand what just happened. “I was walking home after my shift, and he grabbed me right in the middle of the road. I didn’t have time to fight. I know how to fight, but I didn’t get a chance. He came up behind me, grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me onto the porch.” Her eyes fill with tears of sudden rage. “That bastard. That son of a bitch. I told him no. Three times I told him, and I was polite about it, and I was discreet about it, and then he … he…”
“He’s gone,” Isabel says. “Not just from the Roc. He is gone.”
I shoot her a glare and then say to Mindy, “We’ll tell the council we want him removed from Rockton. I cannot promise that they’ll allow that, but we will insist. If they don’t listen, we’ll impose so many sanctions on him that he’ll beg us to leave.”
I check her injuries—scalp abrasions and contusions—and as I do, I am reminded of how quickly an attack can happen. It doesn’t need to be in a dark alley, facing four thugs. Grab someone midday, and by the time anyone can react, the situation has escalated to a point where interference becomes dangerous, and all the onlookers can do is shout for real help.
With Roy being taken to the clinic, I don’t suggest Mindy go there. April can make a house call while Mindy rests at Isabel’s.
As Isabel takes Mindy out the back, I open the front door to find Anders and Dalton loading Roy onto a stretcher. April examines him.
“He appears to be under the influence of an intoxicant or drug,” she says.
“Huh.” Dalton looks down at Roy, naked, hair on end, beard half shaven. “You think?”
Anders suppresses a snicker.
“I’ll go search his rooms,” I say. “See what he took.”
Dalton nods. “I’ll meet you there. After I lug this idiot to the clinic. We may drop him a few times. He’s kinda heavy.”
“Drop him on his head, and we might knock some sense into him,” Anders says.
“That is not possible,” April says. “A head injury would only exacerbate his condition and make it difficult to tell the effects of the intoxicants from those of the fall.”
I shake my head and take off.
* * *
I’m walking to the station for my crime-scene kit when Sebastian catches up.
“I’m not tagging along,” he says before I can speak. “I just didn’t want it to seem like I was taking advantage of the distraction by walking away. Am I free to go?”
“No,” I say as I keep walking. “You’re free to go to Mathias. Tell him you’re working for him now.”
“I, uh, don’t think he’ll like that.”
“Too bad. You can apprentice under him, run errands for him, look after his damned dog. Whatever he wants. You’re working for him, and you’re under his care, and he is responsible for you.”
“He’s really not going to like that.”
“He’ll survive,” I say. “Hopefully, so will you. Now go find him and give him the good news.”
I grab my kit from the station and then continue on to Roy’s place. As soon as I pull open his apartment door, I smell … bacon? I follow the scent into the kitchen. On the counter is a jar of grease. While we don’t raise pigs here, Mathias cures other meats into a baconlike product, heavy on the smoke and spices. Roy has been collecting leftover grease in a jar. For cooking, I guess. It’s on the counter now—not just the jar, but the smears and clumps of grease, and as I get a better whiff, I realize that’s what he put in his hair.
His razor is also in the kitchen, smeared with more of the grease, as if he used it to lubricate the blade. I’m no expert in male grooming, but I think that explains the cuts. There are scissors and hair clippings, too, as if he trimmed his beard first. It’s a weird blend of logic and madness—that he knew enough to cut it shorter before shaving, but when he did shave, he used no mirror, no water, just … bacon fat.
I take a sample of the grease, in case there’s something in it that caused his state. Considering that he started cutting his beard in here, though, I’m guessing he was already in that state before the lid came off that grease jar.
Other than the shaving mess, his kitchen is spotless. I open the icebox under the floor. It’s full, everything neatly packaged and labeled. I empty it, find nothing suspicious, and repack it for now—I’ll come back if I don’t find anything.