Page 93 of Torch Songs

He sent her a bunch of heart emojis to make her laugh and left her alone. Before he went back to running financials on the target of Castro’s investigation, though, he sent her file of suggestions—and suggestions for implementation on a budget—to Aaron George. Before the end of the day, he got a reply, along with some options for contacts, asking April if she’d like to start talking to people before she even moved to Colton. And a budget. And pictures of the facility he’d already scheduled the county to lease, starting in September.

Tad smiled and passed it on and felt the hope for his sister bubbling up so strongly in his stomach he almost couldn’t breathe. Guthrie had been right; theyhadto move to Colton. This was a thing Tad could do to help his sister, to help their small family, to do good in the world.

Tad wished so badly for Guthrie to be coming with them he wanted to cry.

THE WEEKprogressed, and Tad got back into the swing of things as best he could. He made sure to use the gym facilities at the station—working out, walking, rebuilding his wind and his speed and the muscle loss that came with an injury so he was tired when he got back home to the apartment, with less energy to worry. For her part, April seemed content. She’d begun emailing back and forth with the people in Colton, and from what Tad could see, she was already a vital part of their new approach to dealing with the substance-abuse problems in their small area. She continued her yarncraft, and she still liked to binge murder TV, but she also seemed to be particularly motivated to start their move.

And she wasreallyexcited about Larx and Aaron’s wedding, which was approaching at the speed of light.

Tad was trying not to worry too much. Guthrie had been texting in the evening, like always, and he’d nailed down some dates and times, planning to come to Sacramento on the morning of August fifth so they could travel together to the small hotel in Colton and stay—in two rooms, Tad had insisted, one for April, one for them—until the morning of the seventh, when they’d return Guthrie to his truck and he’d travel back to Sand Cut to finish his grim duty.

At least Tad assumed it was grim. He had to assume because Guthrie told him nothing about it. His texts featured the little corner of the yard where his truck was parked, tapes of him practicing, and even two new songs he’d written. For all Tad knew, he spent his days raiding small towns along the coastline, pillaging and burning like a Viking, and then returned to his truck to eat kittens for dinner. Unlikely—GuthrieadoredLenny/Lennon/Leonard Bruce—but still. Tad wouldn’t know if he was doing that because Guthrie wasn’t talking,was he?

Tad’s worry was about off the charts when, the morning of the fourth, at about 6:00 a.m., right before he’d planned towake up, his phone buzzed in the charger. The ringtone was Guthrie’s “I Will Wait for You,” and Tad’s stomach clenched as he answered because this couldn’t be good.

He picked the phone up to hear an unfamiliar voice saying, “Detective Tad Hawkins of the Sacramento PD?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Deputy Kenny Wilson from the Sand Cut branch of the Monterey County Sheriff’s Department, and—”

“Oh God.” Tad sat up so suddenly he pulled his thigh muscle and had to work not to yelp like an injured hound. “Is Guthrie okay? Was there an accident? Did he get mugged?”

“He’s fine.” There was a pause. “Mostly. There was a bar fight, and he would have held his own, but there were four of them. I had to stop it, so I put him in the local lockup for his own protection. This isn’t an out-and-proud kind of place, Detective Hawkins. There’s only so much I can do to keep your boy safe. I think maybe it’s best you get him out of town for a few days until the dust settles. What say you?”

Tad blinked hard several times in a row and tried not to snarl at Guthrie through this nice small-town deputy who, it seemed, was really doing his best.

“I can be there in four hours,” he said, glancing at the clock.

“Hmm… better make it five. We don’t want you to get a ticket on the way. Don’t worry, he’s sleeping it off right now. By the time you get here, he’ll have had his coffee, maybe some breakfast, and he won’t be quite so cranky. Look forward to meeting you in person, Detective Hawkins. Gotta say, you’re a step up from who I used to have to call.”

With that, Deputy Wilson signed off, and Tad was left to frantically dial Chris’s number to tell him he wouldn’t be coming in that day.

“What’re you going to be doing?” Chris asked suspiciously. “I might want in on that too.”

“I’m driving to Sand Cut to bail my boyfriend out of jail,” Tad replied sourly, not even able tobelievethis.

“Oh, I’m definitely in,” Chris said happily. “I’ll pack a bag, make some hotel reservations—two rooms. We can stay down by the sea. Laura and Robin are making a college visit this weekend and picking out dorm stuff and bonding and shit. Whooppeee! Two vacations in one month! I’m in!”

And with that, Chris ended the call, and Tad was left to bury his face in his hands.

How in the hell had this happened?

Seven Nation Army

IT STARTEDpretty much the minute he walked into the father’s house. They hadn’t even gotten inside before a fortyish, exhausted blond woman ran out, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She waved at Jock to stay away and didn’t give Guthrie a second look, just jumped into the red Toyota under the trees and roared away, leaving Jock swearing and Guthrie unhopeful about the state of Jock’s love life.

Before the car was even off the property, Guthrie could hear his father. For a man dying of lung cancer, among other things, his voice still carried.

“Goddammit, Jock, I told you I don’t want that little faggot in my house!”

Guthrie paused on the cracked walkway and gave his uncle a flat-eyed scowl. “Really?” he said.

Jock swallowed hard. “Let me talk to him,” he said. “I told him I couldn’t do this by myself. He’s just making noise.”

“I’ll be here,” Guthrie told him, standing on the stoop with his arms crossed. Jock opened the screen door, outlined in peeling white paint, and the miasma from inside rolled into the decayed yard.

Cigarette smoke—a lot of it still fresh—ammonia, and, oh God, shit and piss blew out in a choking cloud, mixed with a sort of rotting overtone, a death smell that Guthrie had only caught in whiffs and clouds in the depths of hospitals when someone wasn’t going to make it.

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