Don't Befriend Psychos
Raccoon City, 1996
Grayson watched Alfred pick through his suitcases, stop, inspect a cashmere suit still in the dry-cleaner's plastic. "It's just a party, Alfred," he said, and sipped his beer. Alfred had dropped by his apartment unexpectedly, had mentioned something about an Umbrella function he was intent on dragging Grayson to. He'd been surprisingly decent company too, probably because Alfred had taken his meds. "Just pick something. All your clothes are nice."
"Party?" said Alfred, as if Grayson had just insulted him.
"Yeah, party," said Grayson.
Alfred regarded him critically, his eyes the pale color of hoarfrost, a certain vacant craziness there, vibrating softly. "There are going to be people of critical importance there," he said, hanging the cashmere suit in Grayson's closet. He wore a shirt of white sea isle cotton, dark dress slacks, and a pair of shiny black wingtips. Alfred had always been a pretty sharp dresser, Grayson thought. Took a special pride in his appearance, like Alexia had. "Including Lord Spencer," he added, making a small adjustment to the cuff of his shirt. "Much as I detest the old bastard."
Grayson shook his head, helped himself to the slice of cold pizza he'd been carrying around on a greasy paper plate. Unlike Alfred, Grayson dressed casually, in a gunmetal button-up and jeans. "Still don't get along with Spencer, huh?" he said, around a mouthful of pizza. He tossed the pizza onto the plate, wiping his hands on his jeans. Then knocked back a mouthful of the lukewarm beer, Alfred watching him with disgusted fascination.
"You eat like a pig," said Alfred, frowning. His accent vaguely reminded Grayson of Freddie Mercury's accent, from a Munich interview he'd watched as a teenager in 1984, but slightly higher pitched, more effeminate. Then, "Yes, I don't get along with Spencer at all."
"Even after the old guy gave you Rockfort," said Grayson, finishing his pizza and beer, dropping both into the nearby trashcan. "You're hard to please, buddy."
"I don't trust him. You know that, Grayson," said Alfred, neatly hanging the rest of his clothes in the closet. "Though," he added, offhandedly, "I do enjoy my new position."
Grayson watched Alfred shut the closet, push the leather suitcases under the bed. "Planning on an extended stay?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Why spend money on a hotel when I can simply stay here?"
"For a rich guy," he said, blowing smoke, "you're awful fucking cheap, Al."
"Alfred," he corrected. "You know I hate that 'Al' rubbish." Alfred paused, rubbing the space between his eyes, his nails perfectly manicured. "Which is precisely why you do it."
Grayson grinned, winking.
Alfred frowned, pointlessly smoothed back his Harlow-gold hair, which was slicked against the curve of his narrow skull. Grayson had often heard as a kid, mostly from girls, that Alfred looked like a young David Bowie, and agreed to some extent with the comparison; though there was a kind of reptilian insinuation in his appearance, a strange quality that suggested cold-bloodedness. Taking out a pack of Dunhills, Alfred lit one with an antique silver flip-lighter, etched with the Ashford coat-of-arms: a falcon, or perhaps an eagle, clutching a halberd in its talons, superimposed over a shield. Grayson always thought there was something vaguely Germanic about their coat-of-arms, remembering Alexia telling him that her ancestors had come from Germany and Sweden. "Anyway," said Alfred, strolling from the room, Grayson following closely, "the function is this Saturday. You still have a suit, yes?"
"Yep," said Grayson. He hadn't worn the suit since he'd come to Raccoon City, because he'd never needed to; he worked at a dive-bar. "What's the function about, exactly?"
"Company anniversary, some announcements regarding medical breakthroughs. Publicity, in short." Alfred shrugged his tapered shoulders, blew smoke. In his small living-room, Alfred sat on his couch, a nice leather piece Grayson had bought off an elderly couple. An episode of Friends played on the television, Ross complaining as usual about his relationship woes. "This show is bloody stupid," remarked Alfred, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out in the plastic ash-tray on Grayson's end table.
"Jill likes it," he said, and shrugged, finishing his cigarette too and dropping it into an old beer bottle, into the stale dregs.
Alfred made a face. Grayson knew he hated Jill. "You're still seeing that trollop?"
"Alexia's gone, Alfred." Saying something like that, while Alfred was in one of his lucid psychotic states especially, was a lot like playing Russian roulette, but with half of the bullets chambered. Thankfully, Alfred had been mentally sober for a while; Alfred, Grayson's father had told him on their last phone-call, had been keeping on his meds. "So yeah," he said. "I'm seeing Jill."
"Bloody half-jap," grunted Alfred, shaking his head.
"Don't go there, Alfred."
Alfred made a pfft noise. "At least she isn't a half-ni—"
"Stop. Right. Now," said Grayson, enunciating each word.
"Fine," said Alfred, staring vacantly at the television now. "Wouldn't want to hurt your delicate sensibilities. Hippy."
Someone knocked on the door. Grayson opened it, saw Jill standing there, hands in the pockets of her rain-stained windbreaker. She'd cut her dark hair short around the jaw, into a kind of bob, regarded him mildly with large blue eyes, slight epicanthic suggestion in the corners, smiling with perfect white teeth. "Hey, babe," she said, and kissed him. "Would have come by earlier," she continued, brushing past him, "but I had orientation with S.T.A.R.S. Going to be weird, leaving the military." She halted, seeing Alfred. "Great."
"Oh, were you expecting to be alone?" said Alfred flippantly, smiling without mirth. "Well, isn't this absolute shit."
"Why is he here, Grayson?" said Jill, looking at him.
"He came by," he said, and shrugged, closing the door behind her. "He's pretty much my brother, Jill. Can't just kick him out."
"Sure you could," she said.
"And I," said Alfred, walking his slim hand along the armrest, the fat sapphire of his ring catching the lamplight, along its smooth blue curve, "would just come right back."
Jill ignored Alfred. "We still going out this Saturday?"
Grayson had completely forgotten. He smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead and said, "Shit."
Alfred gave him a shit-eating grin.
Jill frowned.
"I'm sorry, Jill." Though some small part of him was glad he didn't have to go out now. Dates, Grayson had found, honestly bored him, because they almost always played out the same way: hello, food, random activity, kiss good night, maybe sex. "I have to go with Alfred to this Umbrella thing," he added, helpfully.
"And wouldn't you know," said Alfred, standing, lean and tall, "it's an invitation-only event. So unless you know someone in Umbrella, Jill, or are part of the press, I'm afraid you can't come." There was a sort of childish glee in Alfred's voice. He giggled, somewhat girlishly. "What a shame," he said.
"Why don't you jump back into your fucking carriage, and drive it all the way back to England, asshole?" she said.
"Oh, I would, but sadly the Queen revoked my license after I'd run over a couple gypsies. Bloody terrible, isn't it?"
Jill made a frustrated noise. "This is bullshit, Grayson," she said, whipping around and scowling at him. "You'd rather go to some Umbrella thing with Elton John over there—" she gestured at Alfred, who had found Grayson's good scotch, and was presently helping himself to a glass—"instead of someplace else with your girlfriend?"
Grayson avoided the question. "How's S.T.A.R.S? Meet your co-workers?"
"It's good, and no. Stop avoiding the fucking question."
"You know what they say about Asian women, Grayson," said Alfred, adding a bit of water to his scotch and sipping. "Bossy little things," he added, sucking at his teeth.
"I'm not fucking Asian," said Jill, looking at Alfred.
"You're half. Close enough."
"Piss off, Alfred."
"Alfred, shut the fuck up," said Grayson, pointing at him. "Before I deck you."
Alfred touched a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "How rude, Grayson."
"Your sister's dead; Grayson's moved on. Get the fuck over it," said Jill.
An eerie quiet settled over Alfred then, his face an expressionless pale mask. "Say that again," he said, in a voice that made Grayson's blood run cold, made him think of a long, sharp stiletto knife dipping dangerously toward a jugular. And he knew that voice, knew it meant Alfred, like a cobra, was flaring his hood, preparing to strike. Instantly, Grayson moved into position, to intervene if Alfred got violent.
Jill went quiet, probably sensing Alfred's craziness. Then she said, "I'm leaving. Grayson, have fun," and left, slamming the door behind her.
"Goddamn it, Alfred."
"I don't like her," said Alfred, sniffing imperiously.
Saturday came. Grayson dressed in his black Burberry suit, borrowed one of Alfred's spare Rolex watches, because Alfred had insisted on it ("A man should accessorize," he said, jamming the watch onto his wrist. "Make sure the metals, like your watch, match your belt buckle..."), and some of his cologne, which was woody and fragrant, and more expensive than any cologne Grayson owned, which was the kind that came in boxes, and was sold in department stores.
Alfred wore the dark cashmere suit Grayson had seen earlier (Alfred informed him it was a Paul Smith suit, like it was important for him to know that), a thin gray overcoat, and leather Chelsea boots, which Alfred had spent thirty minutes polishing to an obnoxious anthracite shine. Alfred liked men's fashion, liked to talk about men's fashion, but Grayson didn't care about any of that, so he nodded along to whatever Alfred was saying, and stepped out of the apartment, locking the door behind them. "Bloody rain," remarked Alfred, as they stepped outside, onto the wet sidewalk, the colors of neon lights glittering on the pavement like an electric watercolor. "Have quite enough of it on Rockfort. Could do without it for a bit."
They walked to Grayson's car, the black '87 corvette Alfred had bought him, around the corner. A homeless man sitting in the doorway of a shuttered pawn-shop rattled an empty Spam tin at Alfred, who told him to piss off. Grayson, feeling bad for the man, dropped a dollar into the tin, which had been filled with a sparse collection of change.
When they arrived at the corvette, Alfred said, "You're still driving this thing? I bought this for you when it was brand bloody new, Grayson. It's been nearly ten years."
"Why get rid of a perfectly good car?" he asked, getting behind the wheel. "Still runs great."
"Why not invest in something newer?"
"Because, unlike you, I'm not rich," said Grayson, turning the keys in the ignition and driving, watching the wipers smear neon and car lights across his windshield.
"I could buy you a new car, Grayson."
"Like this one just fine, thanks," he said.
The Umbrella function was held in downtown Raccoon, at a historical hotel called The Heirloom. Walking inside was like walking sixty years into the past. The lobby was a slick blend of rattan cabana and art nouveau, like a 1930s Havana scene that had been designed by Alphonse Mucha. The hotel staff directed them to a large conference hall, decorated in the same fashion as the lobby, the expanse of bamboo floor crowded with chattering Umbrella personnel, all of them dressed as if they were attending the Oscars, sipping champagne flutes and smiling politely. One of the hotel staff took Alfred's coat and umbrella, at the door. Grayson didn't immediately recognize anyone in here, and supposed, considering how young most of them looked, these researchers were the newest generation of hires.
"You come as Alfred's date?" William Birkin appeared, smiling like a skull. He looked as if he'd actually slept, had put some effort into his appearance; he didn't look like a junky on the tweak. His tawny hair was neatly combed, and Birkin had actually shaved this time, his face several years younger now. He wore a nice blue suit, and a silk paisley tie, a metallic tang of aftershave wafting from him. "Then again, guess without his sister, he doesn't have a fucking date." Birkin grinned triumphantly.
Alfred whirled around, said something sharp and angry, and struck at Birkin. Grayson stepped between them, caught the punch in his shoulder; it burned badly. "Not worth the bullshit, Alfred." He glanced at one of the security guys, who was eyeballing them, from beside the buffet. "Cops."
"He's bloody security. Besides, the RPD is—"
Grayson knew Alfred was about to say that the RPD was in Umbrella's pocket; but he clamped his hand over Alfred's mouth, before he could. "There are reporters here," said Grayson quietly. "Shut up."
"Better listen to your boyfriend, Ashford," said Birkin.
Annette came over suddenly, and said to Birkin, pleadingly, "Please, not tonight, dear." She wore a blue cocktail dress, and red earrings veined with silver, a matching bracelet on her right wrist. Her pale hair was cut into a bob. Remembering Jill's hair, Grayson wondered if it was some kind of trend. "Come on. Let's go eat."
"Fine," said Birkin, starting to walk away with Annette. "Don't even know why Alfred's here anyway. Not even a fucking researcher."
Annette looked at Grayson, then Alfred. "Spencer will be here soon," she said to Birkin, soothingly. They left. Grayson heard Annette say, just before she was out of earshot, "Alfred's an Ashford. You know that's the only reason he's here..."
Grayson wanted to say something, but let it go. "Bye, Annette. Bill," he said, waving after them, watching them disappear into a throng of guests, lost now among the noise and people of the conference hall. He turned to Alfred. "You," he said, with a profound air, "really need to learn how to pick your battles."
"He insulted my sister," snapped Alfred, gesticulating in the direction the Birkins had gone. "Then insulted me! You heard Annette, didn't you? I order you to pummel them both, Grayson. Into bloody pulps—"
Grayson clamped his hand over Alfred's mouth again. The security guard was walking toward them. "Everything okay, gentlemen?" asked the man, regarding them from beneath the visor of his baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes.
"We're great. Just a lover's spat," Grayson lied, kissing Alfred's cheek and grinning. Alfred squirmed in his hold, like an ornery cat. "We've been arguing about carpet. I like carpet, but he hates it, says it's too much maintenance." His smile widened. "You know what I mean, man?"
The security guard just stared. Then he went away.
"Works every time," said Grayson, letting Alfred go.
"Don't you ever," said Alfred, wiping the saliva from his cheek, "do that again."
"Thought you liked guys, Alfred."
"I do, but you're far too rough for my liking," said Alfred, shaking his head. He swiped a champagne from a passing caterer and sipped primly. "I also like women," he added, helpfully.
"Yeah, I know. So I'm not your type?"
Alfred looked him over, like he was appraising art. "If you dressed like this more, you would be," he said, finishing the champagne and setting down the glass, on the edge of the buffet table. "Why. Are you curious, Grayson?" He smiled winningly at him. Grayson could almost see the sparkle on his teeth, like a still-shot of a shoujo boy, where the background would go all pink and sparkly, and there might be a rose in the guy's mouth.
"Afraid not," said Grayson, beaming. He helped himself to the food, piling random appetizers—lobster tails, croquettes, stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, something called a malakoff—onto a small ceramic plate, Alfred following him. Though, had Grayson been gay, he was pretty sure Alfred would have been his type. "Like women too much, good buddy," he said, starting on his food. "Alexia spoiled me."
"Well, the offer's there if you ever change your mind," joked Alfred.
"I'll keep it in mind," said Grayson, laughing.
The rest of the function passed without further incident, actually went strangely smooth. Halfway into things, Spencer showed up in his power-chair, resembling a thin, bent tree, his hair and mustache like wispy white moss. He wore a tweed suit that looked as if it hadn't seen the light of day since 1931, and two-tone wingtips that looked too big for him, his ankles scrawny and pathetic in them, the ancient flesh webbed with dark varicose veins. Several tubes were wired to his body, connected to small bio-monitors on his chair.
When he saw Alfred, Spencer said, "Alfred, be a good lad and come here," and gestured like a grandfather wanting to see his favorite grandchild better. Alfred, Grayson decided, had become Spencer's new favorite, ever since Alexia had died. Grayson supposed it was because Alfred was Alexia's twin, the remaining grandchild of his late friend Edward Ashford. Or, Grayson thought, maybe Alfred was only treated so well because he was the company's biggest shareholder now, which seemed more likely.
"Lord Spencer," said Alfred, shaking Spencer's thin trembling hand. Grayson guessed Parkinson's. "Pleasure to see you, as always. I appreciate the invitation, sir."
"You've a right to be here," said Spencer, watching Alfred with foggy hazel eyes, nested in deep pockets of wrinkled flesh the color and texture of chalk-dust. Grayson looked at Spencer's skeletal hands, saw constellations of benign melanomas and varicose veins, like looking at a universe of sickness. "This company is as much your family's as it is mine." Spencer frowned, mouth lopsided, the corners of his lips wet, and shook his oblong head. "Poor Alexia," he remarked.
Grayson watched Alfred wince. "Indeed," said Alfred, politely. "She would have liked to be here, Lord Spencer."
"So young," said Spencer, and sighed, his breath coming like a burst of dusty air. "Well," he said, "I must find William Birkin regarding a matter. Enjoy the festivities, gentlemen." He whirred away on his power-chair, and was gone in the crowd.
"Conversations with him never last long, do they?" asked Grayson, staring at Alfred.
"He's an old, busy man, Grayson," said Alfred. "Doesn't have time to 'shoot the shit', as you would say."
Near midnight, the crowd started thinning. Grayson and Alfred remained behind, talking, and were approached by a young researcher.
The man had a harassed look, looked like the nerd in a 1980s sitcom. He wore a gray suit that was slightly too big for him, with a striped tie. His eyes were tired, behind the wire-frame glasses. "You're Alfred Ashford, aren't you?" he asked, mildly.
"Did you want something?" asked Alfred snippily.
"Your sister was Alexia Ashford, wasn't she?"
Alfred was expressionless, a strange coldness emanating from him, chilling the air. Grayson knew these conversations rarely ended well; Alexia was, outside of a few exceptions, like himself and Spencer, a taboo topic. The last guy who had asked about Alexia, a man named Robert Dorson, Alfred had imprisoned in the Rockfort compound. Far as Grayson knew, Bob was still serving time. "She was," said Alfred coolly.
The researcher seemed to shrink. "I-I just wanted to say, I'd read h-her work," he said. "I-impressive stuff."
Alfred's expression didn't change. He stared, silent.
"Probably better you go," said Grayson, gently nudging the man away. "Alfred, he's had a long day."
The man seemed to sense he was in danger, and quickly scurried away. Grayson turned to speak with Alfred, but realized Alfred was gone; he hadn't even seen him go, somehow. "Shit," said Grayson aloud, heading toward the doors to the conference hall. The attendant asked if he needed his coat, but Grayson said he didn't bring one, and that, please, he really needed to go, there was somewhere important he had to be.
He went to the parking garage next door, into the sodium-lit dark. A few people, guests from the function, crossed the worn asphalt, disappearing into their cars. It was oddly silent. Grayson made his way toward where he'd parked the corvette, heard a wet gurgle, and knew, instantly, some shit had gone down.
He found Alfred, standing over the researcher's dead body, the one who had asked about Alexia. A splash of arterial spray stained Alfred's cheek, the blade of the Fairbairn-Sykes knife that Alfred always carried wet with blood, shining in the light like liquid ruby. The researcher's throat had been slit wide open, a sloppy cut; Alfred hadn't even tried to be clean.
"Fucking seriously, Alfred?" he said, looking at the corpse, the collar of the man's shirt completely soaked with blood, several postmortem stab-wounds in his chest.
"He shouldn't have asked about Alexia," said Alfred. "That," he added, staring vacantly at the corpse, his eyes wide and blue, and completely insane, "is too sacred for him."
"Jesus Christ," said Grayson, not precisely panicking—angrier, more than anything, at how inconvenient it all was—because he'd seen Alfred kill people before, and in worse ways. "Put the knife away and get his fucking ankles," he snapped. "Before someone comes. My trunk's not big enough for multiple bodies."
Alfred coolly wiped the blade clean with a cloth, wiped the blood that had gotten on the car. Then he took out his lighter, setting fire to the cloth, the fabric crumbling away to the asphalt in black motes. The knife disappeared under his pant-leg. Alfred grabbed the man's ankles—the man didn't weigh very much, but he was tall and lanky—and they dropped him into the trunk, sort of folded him on his side like a child. Grayson slammed the trunk shut, glancing at the blood on the asphalt. "Get in the car," he snapped.
"You," said Alfred, getting into the car, "don't give me bloody orders, Grayson."
"I just did," said Grayson, getting in too, pulling out of the parking space, hearing the thump of the body in the trunk. "We need to get rid of the body."
"Bring it to the Spencer estate," said Alfred. "The Arklay team could use it, perhaps."
"And risk Birkin finding out?" said Grayson, looking at him. "He works there. You honestly think he's not petty enough to report us?"
"Good point. I suppose I didn't think this through," he said, offhandedly. "Reflexive, at this point. You know?" Alfred smiled to himself. "Then again," he said, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, "I don't think Birkin would report anything. It could bring the police knocking on Arklay's door."
"I thought you'd said, several times before, the RPD was fucking bought off?"
"Yes, but you always have that one annoying honest cop who wants to save the day," said Alfred, matter-of-factly. "And all it takes is one person to ruin something."
"Fuck it, we're burying the body," said Grayson.
He stopped at a twenty-four hour hardware store (Grayson was surprised there was even such a thing as twenty-four hour hardware stores; it seemed like one of those things that just didn't exist) and told Alfred to wait in the car. He put on an old but nice pair of leather gloves he kept in his car, and then bought a shovel, paying with cash. The sleepy cashier didn't even ask why someone dressed in a suit and gloves was buying a shovel after midnight, probably unwilling to become involved with what could potentially be a mafia matter, or knowing what it was for, and just happy to take the money. Grayson left, storing the shovel in the trunk with the body, which had gone absolutely stiff with rigor mortis.
He drove out to the Arklay Forest Reserve, toward Lake Whitley, where, thirteen years ago, Clancy and him had often hung out as teenagers. It was a relatively desolate expanse of forest, and Clancy knew all the good spots, had told him where they were. Grayson scoped a good spot to bury the body, then started digging. Alfred watched him, hands in his pockets. "If we go to prison," said Grayson, shoveling another pile of dirt over his shoulder, "you're going to be my jail-boyfriend, Alfred."
"Better you than some large ex-Hell's Angel named Bubba," said Alfred, picking at the drying blood on his cheek. "But really, you're worrying about nothing, Grayson." He took out the pack of Dunhills, lighting one with the flip-lighter, the flame illuminating his thin features in jack-o-lantern light, catching in his eyes like laser pinpoints. "I'll sort this all out." The lighter, and the Dunhills, vanished behind a dark lapel.
"Considering you're pretty much the kind of guy who always gets it first in the showers? Yeah, better me than Bubba," said Grayson, tossing more dirt out of the hole. "That said, if you can sort it out, why am I fucking digging this hole?"
"In case it doesn't work out," said Alfred, taking the cigarette between his fingers and blowing smoke. It was quiet out here, excluding the slight patter of the rain, the occasional rustle of some passing thing in the woods. "You know nothing is full-proof."
Grayson climbed out of the hole, watched Alfred splash the gas from Grayson's spare can onto the body, then take out a pack of tear-away matches that advertised The Heirloom, light all of them, and toss them into the hole. He'd kept the package, however, stowing it in his pocket. Immediately, the smell of cooking meat and burnt hair filled the air. "You owe me more gas," said Grayson, watching the fire.
"Bit of advice: carrying gas cans in your shitty corvette is a terrible idea, Grayson," said Alfred, diplomatically. "I did you a favor."
"Noted," said Grayson.
When the fire had fizzled out, and the researcher's body had been reduced to an unrecognizable charred husk, Grayson filled the hole again, then helped Alfred scrub out the trunk, the whole routine painfully familiar to him. He honestly didn't worry about anyone finding the body; in the early 90s, Umbrella had bought up most of the Reserve, so it was mostly private land now, and the Park Rangers had taken some serious budget cuts under Mayor Michael Warren's draconian administration. Still, there was always that small freak chance someone might find the body, so he'd wanted to prepare.
He drove back to the apartment, in silence. Alfred went to shower, and Grayson checked his answering machine. Jill had left a message, earlier that night.
"Hey, Grayson," said Jill, on the machine. "I wanted to say sorry about the other night. It wasn't fair, going off on you like that. So maybe we could do something, this coming weekend. I'll swing by your place later, and we'll talk. Okay?" The answering machine informed him there were no other messages.
"Cute," said Alfred, dressed in a red chenille robe. He was toweling himself off, heading toward the kitchen.
"Not now, Alfred."
Several days passed, and Jill never contacted him. Grayson assumed she'd gotten tied up with something at work, which worried him. Alfred had been going out more too, without saying anything, and that also worried him.
Jill showed up, unexpectedly, around noon, on Sunday. She kissed him, said, "Sorry I haven't been around," and helped herself to a beer in his fridge.
"Something happen?" he asked, carefully.
"S.T.A.R.S," she said, looking at him. "We've been investigating a string of disappearances."
Grayson's stomach knotted. He smiled. "Any luck?" he asked, retrieving a beer for himself.
"Not much," she said, leaning against his counter. "Proximity of the disappearances suggests the same perp. I mean, four people gone, in just a week?" Jill shook her head. "This guy on the team, guy by the name of Chris Redfield, thinks it's a serial killer. 'We don't know if they're dead yet', I told him."
Grayson knew, right then, that the perp was Alfred. Alfred, he'd long ago learned, couldn't exist very long without violence; it was an intrinsic component of his personal ecosystem. Take the violence away, and the rest of his biome fell apart. It also meant that Alfred hadn't been taking his meds as faithfully as his father had implied; either that, or Alfred had figured he didn't need them, here in Raccoon, because Grayson's father wasn't around to make him take them. "Any leads on the weirdness?" he asked, probing.
Jill scratched her head and nodded. "Sort of," she said, finishing her beer. "All the victims, they frequented Larry Malone's. You know the place, Grayson. That popular college bar on Ennerdale, always fucking crowded and loud? But here's the weirdest part about this shit. The victims? All women in their mid to late twenties, same physical type: tall, blonde and blue-eyed. No bodies. Just missing, right now."
Shit, Grayson thought. They hadn't found the researcher, which was good, but the researcher had been the trigger for something worse. Alfred hadn't been taking his meds, so he'd relapsed, more than likely, into his Alexia persona, probably thought the women were impostors, in his fucked up head. "Hey, Jill. Don't mean to cut out so quickly, but I got to take care of a few errands." He knocked back his beer, then set the empty bottle on the corner of the counter.
"I can come with you," she said.
"Alfred's going to be there."
Her expression collapsed. "Never mind. I'll see you tonight." She paused. "Oh," she said, as if she'd just remembered something. "I've been meaning to tell you, I've been packing up my stuff. I'll be ready to move it over here soon, maybe by the end of the month."
Two weeks, just about. "Sounds great," he lied, and smiled. "Anyway, see you tonight." Grayson left.
Alfred hadn't taken the corvette. Either, Grayson decided, he'd been using public transportation, which was unlikely, because Alfred hated public transportation, or he had paid for a car, in cash, because that kind of method was more his style.
He drove to Larry Malone's. Larry Malone's was a small dive-bar with an upstairs, the floor black-painted concrete, the walls decorated in kitschy 1980s neon, like a drug-front from an episode of Miami Vice. The air was close and hot, from all the body-heat, and the lights. Even Sunday night was busy and loud, and made Grayson wonder if any of these kids actually had jobs or responsibilities, outside of school. A couple of people who looked too old for college were here—men and women, in their late twenties and early thirties, who probably hoped to bag a barely-legal college kid for the night. That explained how Alfred hadn't looked too out of place, Grayson decided. Weird guys were always here, picking up girls; Alfred, when he really tried, could be the most charming motherfucker on the planet, and he was handsome, cultured, and foreign, the kind of guy that most girls went for.
Grayson approached the bar, the counter patinaed in fingerprints, scratches, and random impacts. The bartender was young, like the crowd, maybe twenty-two. He was racially ambiguous, with pale green eyes, and closely shaved black hair. "Hey," said Grayson, casually. "Was supposed to meet a buddy here tonight. Tall guy, blond hair. Has an English accent, dresses real nice."
The bartender smiled with white teeth. "You just missed him," he said. "Left with a hot blond chick. Sorry, man."
"What an asshole," said Grayson amiably. "Tells me to meet him, then walks off with a girl. Real friend, huh?"
"She was good-looking, man. You know how it is." The bartender's grin widened. "You wanna drink?"
"Nope, I'm fine," said Grayson, and left.
He got into the corvette and took his cellphone from the glove compartment, shakily dialing Alfred's number. It rang for several moments. Then Alfred picked up; but he was speaking in Alexia's voice. "Grayson." Grayson heard wipers slooshing in the background, someone sobbing, Alfred's voice fuzzy from poor reception. "You shouldn't bother me right now. I'm busy."
"Alf—Alexia," he said, watching a young guy, beyond the rain-streaked windshield, stumble out of Larry Malone's, go down on his knees and hands and explosively vomit on the curb. "I know what you're doing, and you need to stop," he continued evenly. "Please. S.T.A.R.S, they're investigating the disappearances."
"Why must you always talk about Jill?" shouted Alfred-Alexia, shrilly. "You're mine."
"Alexia. You know I love you."
"If you did," said Alfred-Alexia, his tone ice-cold, "you wouldn't be dating that fucking Cracker Jap."
"Alexia, you need to let that girl go."
"You want her, you can find her at the Reserve. I won't abide anymore impostors." Alfred hung up.
"Fuck," he said, putting away the phone and turning the keys in the ignition. He drove toward the Arklay Reserve.
The Reserve was fucking enormous. Grayson hoped Alfred had taken the girl to the same spot; after all, Alfred was a creature of routine. He drove over the speed limit and managed not to get pulled over, making it to the Reserve in less than an hour. It was raining harder now, coming down in sheets. Grayson was pretty sure the girl was dead by now; Alfred typically didn't waste much time with murder, and sexual crime didn't interest him. His gratification came from sudden, violent death.
Arriving at the spot, Grayson found a '94 black Cadillac that definitely looked as if it had been previously owned, and Alfred dumping the woman's body into a new hole, not far from where they had buried the researcher. "Alexia," he said, getting out of the car, barely hearing himself over the roar of the rain. His clothes were instantly soaked, all the way through, his jeans clinging uncomfortably to his skin like an old band-aid. "You have to go home now!"
"I'm not going to stop until I've killed every impostor," said Alfred-Alexia. "They're trying to get you too, you know, by posing as me."
"Alfred needs his medicine, Alexia," said Grayson, reaching for Alfred. Immediately, Alfred whipped around and punched him, hard, made him fold, blood flowing freely from his nostrils. "Alexia, please," he said, his nostrils clogged, pain slowly radiating from his nose, burning. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
"Get up," said Alfred-Alexia. "So weak, yet you consider yourself worthy of my love?"
Grayson staggered to his feet, his knees caked with mud. He caught another jab, right under his eye, sharp pain exploding there. Alfred jabbed again, but Grayson pulled back this time, throwing a straight right cross, smashing Alfred in the cheek, noise of flesh connecting with flesh. Alfred reeled, and Grayson threw his full weight into him, tackling Alfred to the muddy ground. "Alexia," he said, pushing his knees into Alfred's solar plexus. "You're gonna get picked up, you keep killing these women. You want that? You want to go to jail?"
"Get off of me," croaked Alfred, in his own voice. "It hurts."
Grayson got off of him. Alfred gasped and sat up. "You need to get on the first plane out of here. Tomorrow," he said.
Alfred looked at the hole, his expression conveying he had no recollection of how it had gotten there. And he didn't have any recollection, Grayson knew. When he became Alexia, the things he did then were things Alexia did, not him. "What bloody happened?" asked Alfred, looking around. "Why are we out here again?"
"You killed some people," said Grayson, helping him up.
"I only killed the one," said Alfred, squinting at nothing, as if he was trying to see through the fog of his memories. "Last thing I remember was talking to some woman at a bar. We were going to go to a hotel."
"Least you weren't going to bring her back to the apartment," said Grayson.
"I like my privacy, Grayson, when it comes to certain things."
"Yeah."
"You said I needed to leave?"
"Yeah. Don't ask me why, please. Just do it."
Alfred nodded. "All right," he said.
The following morning, Grayson helped Alfred pack his bags, and then drove him to Raccoon-Warren Airport. "You keep in touch," said Grayson, in the sparkling marble and glass concourse, among a crowd of tired professionals, who, like Alfred, were waiting for their flight to Lima. "And remember to take your medicine, yeah?"
Unusually, Alfred hugged him. He wore another Paul Smith suit, gray linen with a gunmetal silk tie, and black wingtips. "I'll be certain to drop by, in the future," said Alfred, letting him go, then firmly shaking his hand, sunlight glinting brilliantly on his vintage silver Rolex. "Thank you, Grayson. I do appreciate it."
Grayson's stomach sank, settled atop his bladder. "Sounds great," he lied.
"You should really consider coming back to Rockfort, you know," said Alfred. "I can pay you better than that grimy little pub you're working at."
"I'll think about it, Alfred. Tell dad I love him, okay?"
"Scott would like it if you'd come back home too," said Alfred.
"Maybe later on. I like Raccoon City."
Alfred sighed. Dully, a woman announced that the flight to Lima was boarding. "Well, suppose I should go," said Alfred, picking up his bags. "Keep the offer in mind, won't you? Alexia is gone, there's no helping that. You can't avoid the things that remind you of her forever, Grayson."
Grayson smiled, somewhat sadly. "I know," he admitted.
Squeezing his shoulder in an awkward male gesture of comfort, Alfred said, "Take care, all right?" and left, disappearing through the boarding gate.
He took out his cellphone and dialed Jill's number, walking back to the corvette. "Hey, Jill?" he said. "I'll meet you for dinner tonight. I was thinking that Italian place."
