A/N: On reflection, I have nothing to say.
His legs felt weak and for a second he was afraid he was going to fall right next to John. He took a deep breath; he didn't have time for this right now. He had a body to dispose of.
Alright. Lock kept a boat in the adjoining dock a stone's throw from the warehouse. There was stuff lying around here. He could dump John at sea, making sure that he was wrapped up properly so no...parts...floated up and came back to haunt him. Figuratively speaking, of course. A small, not-quite-hysterical laugh broke out of him. He didn't believe in ghosts. There'd be nothing tormenting him later.
So. He had the means to make sure John probably wouldn't be found. He could get rid of the gun at the same time – it wasn't traceable to him in any way – so as long as he wiped off the prints, there'd be no harm in tossing it into the sea as well.
Now, if the body was found he'd want to be sure no one knew who it was. He'd have to obscure identifiable features and dental evidence. He glanced down at John's face briefly and tried to ignore the wave of nausea. Seemed like he'd managed to do that already.
That left fingerprints. He quickly ran out to the car and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. The fresh air made him dizzy. He crouched down beside John's head and picked up his hand by the wrist. It felt...heavy. Lifeless. With a steady hand, he picked up the knife and meticulously went about the task of sawing off each pad in turn. It was like carving a chicken, he lied to himself fiercely. Just had to let the blade slide through smooth and not catch it on the bone. He ignored the warmth he could still feel through the gloves, the thick foul smell of shit, and most of all the way John was still staring up at him with his remaining eye, watching Rusty mutilate him.
He pressed his lips together tightly and got on with it.
Eventually he was done, and he wrapped the stringy pieces of flesh in an oily rag. He knew where there was a furnace nearby that should dispose of these and John's wallet and phone easily enough.
Just John himself then, and he fetched a tarpaulin and some rope from the corner of the warehouse and wrapped John up in it carefully before tying it off tightly. There.
Next he found some strong cleaning chemicals and quickly scrubbed the patch of floor John had lain on. Should be enough to obscure the evidence, hopefully.
Right. So. Now he just had to head out to sea.
Getting John out to the boat was difficult. He was taller than Rusty, after all. Heavier and bulkier, and Rusty had to wrap his arms around him and drag him outside in some strange parody of a loving embrace. Eventually he managed to drop John into the boat, get the engine on and head out to sea.
It was almost peaceful. The water was calm and the sun was shining and once he'd got clear of the traffic near the shore there was nothing to do but think.
Only he didn't want to think.
There was still blood trickling through his shirt where John had cut him. He didn't feel the pain. Felt...numb. Tess had bought him this shirt and it was ruined now. He stared out to sea and tried to count the waves.
Four hours out and he dumped John over the side, weighed down with chains.
He stood for a long moment, staring down at the ripples spreading out and disrupting the calm. Somehow, he had the absurd feeling he ought to be saying something. Instead he sat down, leaning back against the side of the boat, and pulled out the pencil sketch of Danny and the little photo of him and Tess smiling together at Kat's barbeque. For what seemed like an eternity he just sat and looked at their faces. There was no comfort to be had there, but with a trembling hand, he traced his thumb over each face in turn, a shaking plea for absolution.
The sun was setting by the time he'd got back to shore and was standing and watching the furnace burn away the last traces of John. The oily fleshy rag had burnt away to nothing immediately, with a strange bright flare. It had been almost pretty.
And that was everything. Almost everything, he realised, with a sigh, and he pulled out his phone and pretended he was surprised to see the dozen missed calls.
He ignored them for the moment, calling an entirely different number.
It was answered breezily after a few rings. "Ray's garage, whatchawant?"
"Ray, it's Rusty Ryan," he identified himself. "Got a car I need disappeared. Tonight. Think you can make it happen?"
"No problem," Ray said expansively. "By tomorrow morning it'll be in pieces. By next week it'll be driving around in twenty different cars in five different states. Sound good to you?"
"Yeah. Thanks," he said tiredly.
"You bet it does," Ray agreed. "And this premium service will only set you back two grand."
"Sure," he agreed.
There was a pause. "Ah, hell. Call it fifteen hundred, Rusty."
He nodded uncaring. "I'll be with you in an hour or so."
He drove back to the house and took John's car round to the garage. Ray's eyes lingered on the blood on his shirt and the bruises on his face, and Rusty was just glad he could trust Ray not to say anything to anyone.
Without a word, he handed over the money and turned to leave.
"Hey, Rusty, you want to maybe sit down a moment?" Ray suggested, uncharacteristically anxious, and Rusty wondered just how bad he looked. "Maybe have a coffee? A drink?"
"Nah," he said briefly. "Got things to do."
He headed back to collect his car from the house, listening to his phone messages as he did.
They were all from Tess, of course. He'd been gone almost twelve hours now, and they started out calm with just a hint of anxiety, and quickly descended into frantic-worry and tightly-controlled panic.
"Rusty, it's been two hours. I know it's probably nothing but give me a call when you get this, please."
"Rusty. I don't know where you are but...just call me. Please."
By the fifth message she was considering checking the house. By the seventh she was leaving, and he winced for what she would find, and certainly the fear was audible in her voice by the next call.
"I'm at the house...there were things smashed. A whisky bottle on the table. I think John's been here. And you're not... Rusty, I don't know what to do. I'm heading back to the hotel, and if you're not there, I'm going to call the cops. I know you won't like that, but I just want you safe and I don't know what else to do."
The next message was full of anger.
"They wouldn't listen to me! They said to give it twenty four hours and try again if you hadn't turned up. Even when I tried to tell them about John and the brick through the window." She took a deep breath and he could hear her struggling to hold back the tears. "I'm sorry. I couldn't make them listen." There was a long moment of silence and when she spoke again it was barely a whisper. "Please. Please just call me."
He understood what she meant. Please come back. Please be alive. And he should call her, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he'd say when he was standing in front of her either.
Somehow he managed to get back to the hotel, despite feeling like his mind was encased in concrete. He even managed to sneak past the front desk and get upstairs without anyone noticing anything untoward, and then he was standing outside their hotel room door, pulling his jacket closed to hide the blood on his shirt, and the door opened as if by magic.
Tess was in front of him immediately, gazing at him with a mix of horror and relief. "Rusty! Oh, Rusty, thank God you're back." She stared at the bruises on his face worriedly, and reached out a hand towards him. "You're hurt though, let me see."
He took a step back. "Tess," he said with difficulty. "Tess, sit down a moment, will you?"
She stilled. "What is it? What happened?" She looked anxiously over his shoulder towards the door. "Is John - "
" - John's dead," he told her bluntly.
For a moment she just stared at him blankly. "What?" she asked faintly.
"John's dead," he repeated. "I killed him."
"I don't understand," she said her brow creased. "You...he...it was self defence?"
He hesitated for a second. John had been holding the knife. Only that wasn't what it had been about and he knew it. He shook his head. "I...he was in the house when I arrived. He wanted to know where you were. I wanted him dead. I lured him to a quiet spot and I shot him thirteen times. Then I got rid of the body."
There was horror in her eyes and more than a hint of revulsion. "But that's...no. No, you wouldn't do that. Tell me you wouldn't do that."
Numbly he shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"No!" She sank down to the ground as if her legs couldn't hold her up anymore. "John! Oh, God, John." Her face was buried in her arms and she was crying.
Instinctively he stepped towards her and she flinched away, staring up at him like he was a stranger. "Don't."
"Tess," he pleaded softly.
She shook her head. "How could you do that, Rusty? How could...?" She swallowed hard, looking faintly sick. "I need to get out of here." She took a deep breath. "It'll be safe for me to go back to the house, right?"
He nodded silently. There was no one left to hurt her, after all. No one except him.
"Right." She stood up, swaying slightly, and she looked exhausted and frightened and bereft, and he longed to take her into his arms and promise that he'd make everything right again. Only he didn't know where to start.
"I'll drive you home," he offered softly.
"I'll get a cab," she said instead, glancing at him. "Rusty..." She reached out as if to touch his hand and her fingers hovered mere millimetres away from him.
He closed his eyes and turned away and she was gone.
On his own, he collapsed onto the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees.
He was more cold and more alone than he'd ever been in his life and the smell of blood clung to him like a second skin.
This was a nightmare. She just couldn't get her head around it, couldn't even start to understand.
John was dead.
Rusty had murdered him.
Those two thoughts just kept repeating in her head, over and over again, a dull, agonising drumbeat. John was dead. Rusty was a murderer.
She'd had to get away. He'd stood there, telling her everything, because he wouldn't lie, not even then, and she'd felt like she didn't know him anymore. She'd wanted to take him into her arms and comfort him, get some ice for the bruises on his face, and at the same time...
John was dead. Rusty had killed him.
She felt sick.
And when she'd arrived back at the house it was cold and dark, and she'd felt so alone, so uncertain, and when there was a knock at the door barely half an hour later, she'd just assumed it was Rusty and she'd been so glad...
It wasn't, of course. It was a glazier. He'd nodded politely to her, and she'd let him in and stood watching as he fixed the window, and afterwards, as she'd tried to pay him, he'd smiled and shook his head.
"Already taken care of, isn't it? Got a sizeable tip too. Have a good night, ma'am."
Of course Rusty had paid him. Had thought to call him in the first place. For the first time, the consideration angered her. He couldn't be...that...and then go around killing people. It just didn't make sense. She didn't understand.
He was her best friend. Her thoughtful, loving best friend, with the warmest smile and the wickedest sense of humour. And he'd shot John thirteen times and she just didn't understand how he could.
And John was dead.
The awful thing was, that part was a relief. She was glad she was never going to have to see him again, and that made her feel sick inside. God, what sort of a person was she? He'd hurt her, but that didn't mean he deserved to die. She'd never wanted him dead.
He had friends, family, workmates...they would be wondering where he was. What had happened to him. And Rusty said he'd disposed of the body, and that meant that they'd never know. He'd just...rot somewhere. Alone, missed and still unmourned.
Oh, John. The tears stung her eyes.
He hadn't been all bad, after all. He'd been a good listener, and he'd been sweet to her when she was feeling under the weather, bringing her tea and chocolate and a bunch of flowers. And he'd loved her, and he'd just wanted her to come back, and he hadn't deserved to die.
And Rusty had killed him.
She wondered if it had hurt. She wondered if he'd been afraid.
She should go to the police, really. That was the right thing to do. The only moral thing to do. She should tell them what Rusty had done and why...let justice be done. Only she couldn't. No matter what, she still loved him.
But maybe she still loved John. At any rate, she'd tried to call the police when she'd thought that John had Rusty. All that time Rusty had been gone, she'd been imagining John hurting him, like he hurt her. She'd pictured him dying, even, a dozen different ways, and it had been more than she could bear. She'd prayed he'd come back safely. She'd thought she'd give anything...
And all that time he'd been committing murder. And she still cared too much to turn him in.
She was so angry with him. So disappointed.
And the awful thing was, this was all her fault. Rusty would never have killed John if it wasn't for her. He'd done it because he loved her, and she'd driven him to it. And more than that, because she'd said first of all, right from that first night, that lying was okay, and then when they'd needed money she'd agreed to stealing - encouraged it, even, enjoyed hearing the stories, seeing him smile - and now, was murder any more than the next natural step?
John said she made him hit her. He'd said that he was doing better, that he'd been in anger management before she came back and spoiled everything. She ruined everything. Everyone. It was like her love was poison.
Maybe she should just be glad that Danny had already been a criminal before he met her.
She drifted around the house for a few days, not certain what she should be doing, how she should be feeling. A few times she went to call Kat but stopped herself just in time. She couldn't tell anyone about this, not even Kat. It was too much of a risk. She had to protect Rusty at all costs, and already she could feel the weight of this awful secret crushing her. Rusty called her every day and she answered reluctantly and spoke just enough to let him know she was alright. She didn't want him to worry, but she couldn't bear to see him.
It felt like she was stuck. Left with something that wasn't quite a life, and it reminded her of the dull empty days after Father had died, and it reminded her of the silence after Danny went to prison.
This was why she'd decided to live life alone. She should have stuck to that.
Except she was so lonely... And she was worried about Rusty. As ridiculous as it sounded, she was worried about how well he was coping with...what he'd done...even as she hated him for it. But when she remembered the look in his eyes...she longed to take him into her arms and promise that everything was going to be alright.
But it wasn't alright. And three days after she got home, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find three men standing there, lounging on the doorstep.
"Miss Halliday?" the shortest of them asked, and there was a trace of some accent in his voice that she couldn't quite place. "We're with the police. We'd like to ask you a couple of questions about a Mr John Ross."
Oh, God, no! She wasn't quite able to keep the flash of fear off her face.
The police officer narrowed his beady eyes. "I see you know him then," he said knowingly. "May I ask how?"
She swallowed hard. "He was..." She hesitated for a second. "He is an ex-boyfriend," she said hurriedly. "We broke up a year ago. I...went to see him last month. It didn't go well. I haven't seen him since."
"I see," the officer said neutrally. "Would it surprise you to know that Mr Ross came down here with the expressed purpose of finding you?"
"No. But I haven't seen him," she said with absolute truth.
For a long moment he just stared at her searchingly. "I see," he said again. "Perhaps he changed his mind."
"Perhaps," she agreed, thankfully. "I...is that all? I need to go out. I'm meeting someone."
"Of course, Miss Halliday," he nodded. "If there is anything else, we shall be in touch."
"Certainly," she said, smiling prettily at him, and she went back inside, closing the door behind her and sinking to the ground. Oh, God. They were looking for John. They'd come looking and she'd...she'd lied. By omission, if nothing else.
This was Rusty's fault. He'd done this. He'd made her care and then he'd put her in this position and she'd lied. She was an accomplice to murder.
Anger running through her, she stood up and blindly grabbed the phone in the hall. He answered immediately.
"Tess. You okay?"
"I need to talk to you," she said coldly. "Not here. I'll meet you at the park near the hotel in twenty minutes."
There was a pause. "I'll be there," he promised. "Tess..."
She hung up. She couldn't bear to share the anger and grief. Not right now. Because if she let herself start crying, she might never stop.
He was already waiting when she arrived, leaning against the parapet on the bridge. He looked...tired. Tired and somehow older than he had just three days ago. Perhaps that wasn't surprising. After all, she felt older than she had three days ago. Funny how the whole world could fall apart so easily.
Still, he smiled when he saw her and the relief lasted at least two seconds before he frowned, studying her carefully. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice tight with anxiety.
"The police came to the house," she told him, barely able to get the words out, struggling not to yell, not to ask how he could have done this to them. "They were asking about John."
"The police?" He frowned, like he couldn't even imagine why the police would want to talk to them about a murdered man, and she wanted to shake him, wanted to blame him for everything. "Okay. I can fix this. What were their names? You get a contact number?"
"No, they didn't give me anything," she said impatiently, and that wasn't what mattered.
There was a pause. "Not even a name?" he asked, and as she glared, he actually smiled, just a little. "Right. Right. What did you tell them?"
"I told them I hadn't seen John since Philadelphia and that I didn't know anything, and I think they believed me..." She bit her lip. "I can't do this anymore, Rusty."
He wasn't even looking at her, she realised. He was looking somewhere past her, his eyes fixed further down the road, like he'd seen a ghost.
Caught somewhere between concern and anger, she reached out to grab his hand, needing to get his attention, and he pulled away from the touch instantly, and that hurt, but he turned to face her, focusing on her completely again."You can't do this anymore?" he echoed.
Suddenly she was just so tired and she just wanted this to be over. "I can't," she said and her voice sounded so cold. "What you did...I can't look at you without thinking about it. Without imagining..." She shuddered. "I know you did it for me, but I never asked you to. I never wanted you to."
"I know," he said softly, his voice pained and sorry, but when she looked up his face was distant. Closed off, like he didn't even care. She thought he'd have tried to talk her out of it.
"I never want to see you again," she said, and he didn't even flinch. "I'm going to leave," she said, half turning away. "Get out of town and find somewhere new. Try and forget everything."
"Maybe that's best," he said, sounding tired. "You should get out of town as soon as possible. So the...police don't bother you again. Just...be careful, Tess."
This was all wrong. This wasn't what she wanted...but he'd killed John, and that wasn't going to change, and she had to just walk away.
When she looked back, he wasn't even watching after her. He was leaning into a car that had pulled up beside him, gazing through the tinted window. Giving directions, she guessed.
He wasn't going to follow.
She didn't want him to follow. This was the right choice. It wasn't even a choice, it was what she had to do. He'd killed John. There was no way back from this.