Erik whipped around, and sure enough there was a police car parked not far down the street. It was too far to recognize the driver but Erik thought he could guess anyway and shivered, stepped back.
"Do you know him?" Charles questioned, sounding slightly anxious.
"I'm not sure," Erik muttered, the lie tasting bitter in his mouth.
"Well," Charles said, clearing his throat and shifting away from him. "I should be going anyway."
"Hey, I'll see you tonight," Erik reminded, catching the man's hand.
Charles smiled back at him shyly.
"Tonight," he agreed after a minute, and kissed Erik's wrist lightly before fleeing. Even after the man drove off with an embarrassed sort of wave, Erik could still feel it there, the imprint of his mouth, warm and tingling, and his stomach roiled with something more charming than anxiety.
Though anxiety did take an ugly foothold when he went to walk back into the house and Mark's voice stopped him.
"Oh I sure as hell know you ain't goan turn tail like that an' preten' you ain't even seen me!" the man shouted at him as he chased Erik down.
He grimaced, realizing he was not going to be able to escape his friend that easily. It was a small town, too small to escape awkward situations for long.
"Oh hi, Mark," he coughed. "Didn't see you there."
"The hell you dinnit. Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"Damn it, Erik! You know what I'm talkin' about! Where's the case file?"
"Oh, that," Erik laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his head.
Groaning, Mark squatted down and squeezed his head between his palms, an act of frustration Erik had mainly witnessed during atrocious calls by referees during intense sports games.
When he stood up again it was with an effusion of anger, and he grabbed Erik by the collar, shoving him backwards until he hit the side of the house. Erik tried very hard not to find this unspeakably erotic.
"Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get into over this?" Mark hissed, fist pinning Erik by his chest. Although it didn't hurt, Erik felt he should push the man's hand off him, even just to prevent further bruising, but he didn't. Mark would ask him why and he'd have to show him, and that was not a can of worms he wanted opened.
"Mark , I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I just wanted to take a look at it. I'll give it back."
"It's the most impornant file we've ever had ever an' you lift it from my desk like a middle school shoplifter, are you kiddin' me?"
"I said I was sorry!" Erik wailed.
"This is ezackly the shit Chief Boomer was talkin' about!"
"Chief Boomer?" Erik asked, wondering how the burly man had gotten mixed up in all of this. His curiosity ignited within him, and he pushed Mark off, taking the offensive now. "What did he say?"
Mark, losing his aggressive edge, rubbed his beautiful face with frustration.
"Damn it, nothing. He dinnit say nothing."
"You are the worst liar. How are you a police officer? Just tell me. You're going to tell me anyway. Just tell me now. Get it over with. Come on. Tell me."
Glaring at him with those two gorgeous eyes, Mark grit his teeth and answered him.
"He tole me not ta help you. So somehow or 'nother I really think he would have somethin' ta say bout you comin up with our case file!"
Erik was shocked, almost too shocked to respond, but not quite. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why aren't you allowed to help me? Help me with what?"
"Look, Erik," Mark growled, poking him in the chest meaningfully. Erik could only imagine what he was going to look like after all this chest-poking. He might have to leave his shirt on when he went after Charles tonight. "Affer my sister's article the whole town thinks you an Zavier are a hot item, and from what I can see on the damned street in broad daylight ya'll ain't doin' much ta disprove it. The last thing we need is this kid's autopsy showin up on the next season of this show! It is still an ongoin' investigation I'll have ya know."
"Mark," he pointed out. "That doesn't make any sense. I mean, the chief had no clue you took that file in the first case, did he?"
"I sure as hell hope not!"
"Then how could he mean for you to not give me the Lovegood file if he didn't know you had the Lovegood file?"
Mark blinked up at him, that adorable idiot.
"Well, he-he knows we're friends," the man stammered. "So he prolly knew if Zavier did ask you fer it then you'd ask me and I'd help ya cuz we're friends."
"Mark, darling," Erik cooed, gripping his shoulders. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. That makes no sense. If he thought you'd go around handing case files out to every friend of yours who asked he never would have hired you."
Mark frowned, scuffing his feet on the garage floor.
"Now who's bein' fuckin' dumb? You know none a them at the office ain't ever trusted me, not really. Specially Boomer. He's always lookin' at me sidewise. Juss cuz my daddy was a lawyer and my grandpa was a activist. I mean before all that my family bled blue for generations! Juss cuz one ancessor has a mennal breakdown and quits the force, is that so bad? Does that mean I gotta live like a fuckin pariah my whole life?"
"Come on, Mark. This town never forgets anything."
Marked glared up at him. "Me neither. Now gimme back that file and see if I ever mess around with you like that agin."
Shame burning him deep, Erik led his friend upstairs.
"Oh gawd," Mark bawled as soon as they walked in. "It smells like burnt plastic. What the hell were ya'll up to?"
Erik hadn't really thought much about it that morning. Aside from the mind-numbing orgasm he'd just had, he hadn't even really noticed the smell as being all that bad. Now, coming fresh from outside, it did seem especially acrid. Too acrid for just for simple tupperware.
Gagging, he and Mark threw open the windows before Erik searched for the source of the stench, something nearby. It didn't take him long.
Lifting up his seat cushion on the chair near the couch he saw the fabric was charred and melted down to the springs, the metal glinting out from the blackness like bones. His cellphone sat at the center of the destruction, unharmed.
"The battery musta overheated," Mark said, breaking their long silence. "I seen that happen on the news afore. The vent gets covered and it overheats."
"Right," Erik nodded, numb. He didn't point out that the phone itself wasn't burnt, wasn't scorched or damaged in any way. He didn't point out that this was only one link in a heavy chain of strange things happening to him lately.
"Ughm," he cleared his voice. "I've got to get going. I've got to get to work."
"Oh, yeah," Mark coughed, taking the case file from the couch, tapping the cover anxiously.
"Look, Erik," he sighed heavily at last. "I'm sorry bout earlier. You know I ain't mad atcha. Hell, I nabbed the case in the first place, you ain't done nothin worse but what I did."
"Okay," Erik said, counting down the seconds till he left. His skin felt too cool over his overheated flesh. "Thanks."
Mark patted him hard on the back and then did it one more time for good measure, obviously not trusting their reconciliation until Erik did it back, which he managed to do, his arm feeling far off and mechanical, like a toy he had to maneuver by remote control.
Erik watched out the window until Mark drove off, at which time he took his cell phone and slammed it against the wall, battery exploding out of it and hitting the wall. He slammed it again, shattering the screen, just to be extra sure. Then he packed his satchel: his notebook, his recorder, spare batteries, the travel lock-picking kit his father had given him as a child. This, especially, seemed crucial now, it seemed important to plan for all eventualities, prepare for any emergency. He dug his portable first aid kid out of his bathroom and shoved that in, too, then sat staring at it, thinking. What else? What else might he need?
His brain didn't come up with anything, couldn't think of anything right now.
He had to go. It was time to go.
"Yoouuuuu're late," Rebecca drawled at him as he poured himself through the door. It was still early, but he felt as if he'd lived this day for weeks. He was aware he looked tired, grimey, not his best. It had been a fast and furious drive out to the city dump to get rid of that chair, and he'd had to go to the strip mall with the cell store and then argue with this overweight guy he'd gone to high school with because apparently he was the only person on earth who wanted a new phone and a new number.
"Is Emma going to behead me the moment I get through the door?" he questioned, leaning against the wall for support. "Should I even bother?"
"Sheeeee isn't in," said Rebecca, checking her nails.
"What?I" Erik scoffed, standing. "Where is she?"
"Probably off murrrdering that MacTaggert woman." Rebecca shrugged for good measure. She didn't know and she didn't care, as usual. Erik didn't know why he bothered. Going into the office he collapsed in his chair and tried to decide if he could get away with napping.
"Did you hear?" Janos questioned, coming up behind him, making him jump out of his slump. "Emma is off to fight MacTaggert."
"Great," Erik grunted.
"She's actually writing a rebuttal to that piece of trash from yesterday. Well, as long as it's not me. I don't think I could write anything scathing enough to please Emma. There aren't enough synonyms for 'vile wench' in the English language for her tastes."
"Ha, ha," Erik intoned.
"Oh, what's wrong?" Janos simpered, rubbing his shoulders. "That boy of yours keeping you up late?"
"Get off of me!" said Erik, shoving the other man away.
"Ohhhh, touchy," Janos laughed, backing away with his hands up. He didn't seem to take him very seriously though, winking as he went to gossip with the other coworkers milling about amazed by this strange turn of events. Even if Janos was correct, it was starnge. Emma never missed work. When she did, it was always a ruse to catch them unawares when she lunged in in the middle of the day seeing who had used this opportunity to slack off or sneak in some extra coffee breaks. Why hadn't she written the rebuttal from work?
Erik plugged his new phone in and got to work while it charged. Emma had emailed him his assignment, a very brief "Out of the office today. Write everything you can find about the Lovegoods."
Great, that was just what he needed. Go figure, immediately after stealing the Lovegood file and being warned against printing anything juicy from an unresolved police case he gets this fucking assignment. What were the chances he could beg off with a sick day? No, no chance: there was no way to convince Emma it wasn't sex-induced.
Light bulb going off painfully in his skull, he grabbed for his work phone. But of course he didn't know the number, had never had to call it before, so then had to look up the number for Dr. Agis' office.
Erik didn't know of many doctors, he'd never had need of one before, outside of the hospital. But he still knew of Dr. Agis. He was the oldest man in Avalon, even though no one technically knew how old he was. Anyone could have looked it up, it would have been an easy feat, but no one had. There were too many bets on it all over town: it would spoil the game. Instead, they were all waiting for the obituary to pay out then. Erik himself had bet $40 on 1923 against Mark, who insisted on the paltry date of 1945 and was sure to lose. Dr. Agis was doctor to most of Avalon, and now to him.
"Hello!" the chipper voice twirped across the line. "Sandra at Dr. Agis' office, and how may I be of assistance to you today?" She spoke with the news-anchor tones of someone from Avalon pretending very hard they weren't, every word the product of an actresses' hard concentration.
"Hi, I need to make an appointment," he coughed.
"Okee-dokee!" she cheered back. "Your name?"
"Erik Lensherr."
"Oh gosh," she laughed uproariously. "I thought you said Lensherr! Hahahaha!"
"I did," he growled.
There was silence on the other line, a long silence, and then the voice came back, devoid of all fakeness, in excessive Avalon twang.
"Hayng an, I'mma hafta putchyou on hole."
The music was upbeat and repetitive, not an actual song, just pleasing noises. Erik did not doodle while he waited, or tap his pen to the tempo, but simply sat there, waiting for a voice to pick up. When it did it wasn't Sandra.
"Hallo?" an ancient, decrepit-sounding voice hawked across the line. "This Lensherr?"
"Um, yes... Erik Lensherr."
"This is Ulysses A. Agis. Heard you were wantin' ta come n see me and figured it had to be some kinda prank-you know like these young kids do. Sandra said to me 'It's the Lensherr boy on the phone fer an appoin'ment' an I say ta her, 'Ain't no way, Sandra, juss ain't no way, gimme that phone'."
"...So here we are."
"Hahahahah!" the laughed turned into hacking coughs and Erik cringed. "Juss so! Juss so! Well now I'll give you back to Sandra and we'll get you all set up to come in. Gotta admit, I'm curious as heck to finally meet one a you elusive Lensherrs. Curious, curious..."
"Um, okay, so," but he was cut off, a brief musical interlude and then Sandra, back to her old chipper self.
"Okay, Mr. um... well, ha! Mr. Lensherr! Let's get you set up for an appointment! Now, what seems to be the problem?"
"Um, bruising."
"Bruising?"
"Bruising."
"Oh, okay. Well, how does next Friday sound?"
"No, no good. It has to be today."
"Oh, I'm afraid we're all booked up today. What about Tuesday?"
"No, today. You have to understand. It's today or nothing. Look, Dr. Agis wants to see me, doesn't he? A real, authentic Lensherr. Well it's now or never."
Sandra was silent a moment, and then said, rather breathlessly, "Well okee dokee then."
He had an appointment at one and tried to not let that panic him out of his mind but it didn't work completely.
