Catching Out (Rail Riders Book 3), page 13
“How do you want to do this?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re looking for evidence, aren’t we? Does that mean we have to be careful so we don’t disturb things?”
“Smart, but seeing as there is a high possibility this place has been used by other squatters over the years, let’s not get overly worried unless we see something that stands out. It’s not like I can convince the police to rush out here and process the scene. Too much time has passed. Plus, my first goal is to prove we have a problem. If we find anything, we’ll document it and go from there.”
“Sounds good.”
He kept staring and didn’t move toward the building. I shifted, cutting my attention to the nearest boarded window. The heat of his gaze remained.
“Look, Brady. About yesterday.”
“I’m already humiliated. I didn’t intend for you to find out. We don’t need to talk about it. I can assure you I won’t make a pass at you or anything. In fact, after you went to bed last night, I stayed up and—”
He touched my arm, and the words I’d carefully planned fell away.
“Look at me.” His voice was raw and husky.
My cheeks burned, but I looked.
“I’m very secure in who I am. It doesn’t bother me that you’re attracted to me. It’s kinda flattering.” A soft smile crossed his face. “I’m pretty sure you’re the first guy who’s ever looked at me like that.”
I huffed a laugh. “Believe me. That’s not possible.”
“Well, if Killian thinks I’m hot stuff, he’s never mentioned it. He’s got a big mouth too, so I doubt it’s something he’d keep to himself.” His light humor helped bring my anxiety down a notch or two. “What I’m saying is, I’m cool with it, and you don’t need to worry I’m going to freak on your head or anything. I’m not one of those straight guys who’s going to pitch a fit and threaten to beat you up because you looked at me a certain way or admitted something you can’t help. I respect your honesty.”
“Then why did you get quiet last night? You seemed upset.”
Dodger rubbed his lips together as a furrow appeared in his brow. He looked away, then back, but the tension in his shoulders had returned. “It was… I was trying to sort something out.”
“Meaning?”
“Can we just leave it at that?”
I felt it was best not to push. “Sure.”
“Are we okay?”
I smirked and shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, it’s not like we can kiss and make up, right?”
“Yeah. Bacteria.”
“Exactly. A mature, adult conversation will have to do.”
Dodger laughed and bumped my shoulder. “What do you say we find a way into this building and look around, Dr. Reid?”
Even when the authenticity of the nickname was off, I beamed. “Let’s do it.”
We split up, both wandering around the building in opposite directions as we checked the boards over the windows and looked for other doors that might not be as securely locked as the one in front.
I ran my fingers along the edges of the old plywood, banging on surfaces, checking for areas that may have been loosened over the years. They were all secure. I gave myself a nasty splinter on the second window when I tried to dig my fingers under a suspicious lip and pry it up. Cursing, I pulled the jagged piece of wood from my index finger, then stuck the wounded digit in my mouth when blood pooled to the surface. Great. I would need another Band-Aid.
As I checked the wound, a sharp whistle pierced the air right before Dodger called out, “Found it.” A burst of excitement made me forget my finger as I dashed around the back corner of the building and met Dodger at another window, shrouded by an overgrown dead bush that was nothing more than brittle twigs and thorny snags.
“Careful. That thing bites,” Dodger said from where he’d wedged himself between it and the brick building. He had his fingers under the lip of a loose board. “It was balanced on the sill, but when I pulled it out, it swung to the side. It’s only attached in that corner up there.” He pointed to the top edge. “Someone removed the rest of the nails. Put on your gloves. There is rusty metal everywhere, and the last thing we need is to slice a—” His words stopped dead. “Did you cut yourself?”
He was staring at my hand. The tip of my finger was coated with blood. “Not on metal. A splinter. It’s fine.”
He chuckled. “I’m going to wrap you in bubble wrap. Do you need a Band-Aid?”
“I’ll live.” I pulled my gloves from my pack and put them on, disregarding the bloody digit.
“Leave your pack with mine. Do me a favor and grab the headlamps. It’s dark inside.”
By the time I collected the headlamps and joined him at the window, he’d pulled the board aside and was sitting on the ledge of the window frame, studying whatever was beyond. Instead of going inside, he hopped down.
“You go first. That way I can help you up.”
I didn’t possess a single acrobatic skill, and he knew it.
With Dodger’s help, I managed to get on the ledge and swing around, dropping to the ground inside. The interior was a wide-open space that had once held a closed-in ticket booth on the far side. Benches ran in a long line down the middle of the room. A line of rusty abandoned lockers covered a small portion of one wall. They were covered in graffiti.
Dodger jumped down beside me, his light adding to mine, giving the room an eerie glow but illuminating it enough so we could investigate.
“I’m going to have nightmares tonight,” he muttered. “This is your rodeo, detective.”
“No. It’s our rodeo, and I’m not a detective.”
“What are we looking for exactly?”
“Anything that points toward our killer or the men he killed.”
“That’s vague. Should we split up?”
“Might as well.”
The air inside was stuffy, warm, and stagnant. It stank of old piss, mold, and rot. The beams that had once crisscrossed the ceiling were either lying on the ground or hanging haphazardly from the joists, crumbling and in ruins. Studying the sagging roof, it occurred to me we might not be safe inside the building. It should have been torn down or condemned years ago.
As we’d guessed might be the case, the ground was littered with debris that had been left behind by years of squatters. Dozens of crushed beer cans and broken bottles, plastic bags, old takeout food containers, cans from soft drinks and soup, anything and everything. There was old clothing, a lone Adidas sneaker that had once been white but was stained with rust and mud, a discarded pizza box, empty cigarette packages, and a rusty bicycle with a dented front wheel and no rubber on the frame. The old tiles underfoot were peeled and chipped, revealing the cement underlayment. There was evidence of mice and other rodents who’d taken refuge in the dank building. Nests had been built in the corners out of old newspapers and the fluff from the inside of an old sleeping bag that was chewed to shreds.
“Hey.” Dodger’s sharp voice made me jump and spin. “Don’t go digging around with your hands. There are old needles over here. Be careful.”
“Good to know.”
We continued our search. Back in my apartment, I’d been convinced my theory was correct. It made sense on paper. On location, those hopes died with the presence of too many objects that could mean everything and nothing. How were we supposed to differentiate between what might have belonged to our killer or rider and what belonged to other squatters?
“Um… Brady?”
“Yeah?” I’d been toeing through a mound of old clothing, pushing them aside with the thick sole of my boot to see if there was anything noteworthy underneath.
“I think I found your proof.”
My head snapped up, eyes widening. Dodger was staring at something on the ground on the far side of the station near the ticket booth. When he glanced my way, the beam of his headlamp blinded me, and I held up my hand as a shield.
“Shit. Sorry. Come here.” He angled his head so the light was directed back at the floor.
“Are you sure it’s proof?” I didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but anything in this building being remotely related to our guy felt sketchy.
“You tell me.”
Dodger had been shifting stuff aside as well, much the same way I had. When I followed the beam of his light to the object in question, the air left my lungs, and my skin crawled with goose bumps. “Oh. I’d say that’s proof.”
An old laminated high school ID card lay on the ground. The student’s image was too grime-covered to make out, but the name was visible. Kyle Brovick.
“There’s also that.” Dodger gestured to a half-buried rucksack lying nearby. “Not saying it’s his, but a rider doesn’t usually carry a high school backpack. That thing is meant for going distances and living on the fly.”
Very few of our deceased riders had full names. Most of them, according to the police reports, had none at all. They were numbers on an autopsy report. Dead homeless kids who no one cared about. It was a huge reason this whole thing had been discarded.
But Dodger had brought some of those missing pieces with him when I’d invited him to join forces. Dodger had given a lot of the numbered men identities. Names—mostly only first names—but names nonetheless. He knew the riders from the community. Not personally, but that didn’t matter. The community was a network of vagabonds, transient teens, and young adults, and they’d built connections with other vagabonds over the years. They’d mingled. Made friends. Shared stories.
It wasn’t unusual for adults to hop freight trains as well, but Dodger had explained that there came an age when those riders just didn’t associate with the younger generation.
Kyle Brovick had been the only exception to the nameless riders found dead across the country. He had been one of the few bodies that had been properly identified due to a missing person report his parents had filed when he’d run away from home at seventeen.
After four months of investigating his disappearance, the police had found his body a few kilometers from where we stood, and they’d delivered the news of the tragic accident to his parents. Accident. No one had a reason to question the circumstances surrounding his death.
I removed my phone from my pocket and squatted to take pictures. Once I’d gotten a few at various angles, I moved to the rucksack and took more. After, Dodger used his boot to lift the flap and see inside.
“Empty,” he said.
“Not surprising. Our guy would exhaust any resources before moving on.”
“Are we done in here? I think I need fresh air.”
I glanced at Dodger, and under the harsh light of our headlamps, the shadows across his face were more pronounced. He was pale, a troubled look behind his eyes. This was personal for him.
“We’re done.”
Chapter eleven
Dodger
“I look dreadful. How do people live like this? Look at my hair. Why didn’t you tell me it was sticking up everywhere?” Brady glowered. He was using the forward-facing view on his cell phone’s camera like a mirror.
“If I told you, then you’d want to fix it, and I like the cowlick. It’s playful. Fun.” I brushed my fingers over it for emphasis.
Brady batted my hand away, and the glower turned on me. I laughed, then he shoved me hard enough I collapsed against the side of the well. It only made me laugh harder.
“Tell me I’m cute. Talk to me about my eyebrows again. I may be highly intelligent, but my looks are important to me. I’ve given up my entire skincare regimen to ride with you. Do you know how hard that was? A gay man needs to know they’re still attractive to other men after five days on the fly.” I loved how he used the lingo. “You’re all I have. Shower me with compliments. I need it. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
I rolled my eyes but played along as I had been for days. It had become a game of sorts. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous, Brady Thompson. You could be the cover model for Rail Riders of Canada magazine. If there was such a thing.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“Your eyebrows are pretty.”
“Better. They’re only nice because you packed my tweezers. Have I said thank you?”
“I’m a nice guy like that. Besides, Oscar the Grouch scared me as a kid.”
“Scared me too.” Brady tipped his face side to side as he studied his reflection. I didn’t have a clue what he was looking for, but it didn’t matter. His once pale skin was tanned after so many days in the sun. His hair had lightened to a sun-kissed blond, and as much as he hated it, I thought the carefree, windblown look suited him. He was a long way from the stuffy shut-in I’d first met in Toronto. The fresh air and sunshine had done him good.
A door had opened between us. Things had shifted and changed after he’d accidentally announced his crush back at our first stop. Brady had relaxed and turned bolder, constantly pushing limits. Teasing. Maybe he was testing me to see if I truly didn’t care about his sexuality and attraction. If that was the case, I hoped I’d passed the test.
Like I’d told him, I wasn’t one of those guys. His being gay didn’t bother me. In fact, his admitted attraction gave me a big head. It made my chest puff up, and I found myself seeking and absorbing all those small flirtatious moments that came up on occasion simply because they made me feel good about myself. Man, Willow would have a heyday with that.
When I played along, Brady’s grin was rewarding enough. And when that lopsided smile was directed at me and I got a sneaky peek at that eyetooth, I felt like I’d won the lottery.
The past five days had been arduous. Getting a ride back to Montreal had proven to be more difficult than expected. We’d wound up hiking for two days straight along a dusty country road before hitching a ride from a guy with no teeth and skin like leather who’d claimed his name was Gunther. Gunther and his truck stank like crude oil. He claimed he’d worked in the oil fields all his life.
Back in Montreal, we’d caught on the fly toward Toronto again. We’d stopped in the big city long enough to restock our food and water supply, then we’d caught out, heading northwest toward our second destination. Brady had shown minimal improvements. Although he complained less about the weight of his pack, he still couldn’t scale a fence or run for shit.
I had yet to have him detrain while wearing his ruck, but the last time we’d jumped, he’d stayed on his feet, so I had my fingers crossed we were making progress.
Brady put his phone away and sighed, leaning back against the side of the well. We were side by side, the long lines of our bodies close enough to touch. “Have you ever had a girlfriend in the community?”
“What do you mean? Like the rainbow community? Like have I dated a bisexual woman?”
“No, no. Like the riding community. Have you ever dated a female rider?”
“Oh. No. They’re a lot harder to come by. Willow’s the only one I know. There are others, but I’ve never met them outside forums. Why?”
“I was just thinking, if you met a rider you were interested in, maybe you’d be more apt to settle down. If you found someone who understood your passion and who would take to the rails with you when you needed to escape, then it might not sound so bad. You said the girls you’ve been with don’t understand and want to change you. Another rider wouldn’t. Maybe you aren’t looking in the right place.”
“True. I don’t know if that would make a difference. Maybe it’s not the girl so much as it’s about the feeling of being complete. Whole. Riding does that for me, but another person never has. I’ve never had a relationship that’s felt important enough I don’t want to let go.”
“Fair enough. You’re still young.”
I huffed. “Yeah. I’ll be thirty this winter.”
“And a very sexy thirty you will be.”
I tipped my head to the side, staring at Brady’s profile as he studied the pale blue sky. It was early morning, and the sun made his face glow. He had a stray chunk of hair standing askew, so I reached up and fixed it, drawing his attention. When our eyes locked, I smoothed my thumb over each of his eyebrows, one after the other.
“Just making sure they aren’t going wild,” I explained when he gave me an inquisitive look. “What about you? You said dating was hard for you. How come? I’d think you’d be a catch. You’re smart, good-looking, and you have all kinds of cute little quirks. I would think those are winning qualities. Especially when you talk with your hands. Man, that’s awesome. Every time you open your mouth, your hands fly. I love it.”
Brady made a theatrical, dismissive gesture and tsked. “Stop calling me cute. I’ll get the wrong idea. Besides, it’s wildly untrue. I’m not a catch. My IQ is a turn-off for most people.”
“Do you cruise the gay bars?”
“Not as much anymore. I did during my first year at university, but it gets old. Those guys want bathroom blow jobs, not relationships.”
“Is that what you want? A relationship?”
He returned his attention to the sky, a wistful look in his eyes. “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose, but I’ve given up trying to have one. My career is my focus now. If I could get my ass in gear and write my stupid thesis, maybe I could make my dreams come true, but it’s turned out to be the biggest pain in the butt.”
“How come? You’re smart enough. What’s the holdup?”
“I don’t know. I keep overthinking it. This big brain gets in the way sometimes. Maybe the timing isn’t right. I can’t even settle on a specific topic. I have a general idea, but it shifts and changes so much I haven’t been able to start.”
I didn’t know what to say to that since I’d never extended my education past high school, so I didn’t quite grasp what it meant to write a thesis.
“I can’t picture you in a bar bathroom on your knees giving a blow job. That doesn’t jibe with the Brady I know. Have you really done that?”
He snorted, his cheeks pinking. “Of course I have. You can’t picture it because you’re straight. Envisioning me, a slightly flamboyant gay man, on my knees, choking on some guy’s cock, regardless of the location, would be a challenge for any straight man. And likely an unpleasant visual since I assume it would be a massive turn-off.”
