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Chapter 25

I wish I'd stop lying to myself. After driving around for twenty minutes, pretending that I had something better to do, I end up on the street in front of Jackie's apartment. I know I said I didn't care what happened to him, but that was a lie too. A very comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless. And the truth is, he's the only person that I've considered a friend since I was a fawn. I know I hardly know him. I know it seems insane. But I just, I guess, need something to cling to.

Because I feel like I'm drowning again.

And I just need to know what happened. What did I do this time? I can't make work fill that void anymore. It's like my first day all over again. My fingers drum on my steering wheel as I stare at the door. Part of me is shameful, wondering why I'm being made to crawl to him, why I have to make excuses. The other part of me tells me that thought is stupid. There has to be more going on. And why shouldn't I make contact first? We're friends, right? That's what friends do.

Sighing, I pretend to inspect my clothes and decide that since I've come this far, I have to at least knock. I may not be the most eloquent beast to have ever lived, but I'm no coward, even if this churns my stomach and pricks my fur. Just starting a dialogue might be what's needed. A soft breath escapes through parted lips as I come to a decision and open the car door. The heat hits me like a ton of bricks outside, but I hardly notice it.

With the door shut with a loud bang behind me, I survey the street out of habit. A few animals are out on the street, some familiar faces from the last time I was here. A heavyset bear and aged wolf lounge in patio furniture outside of a deli across the street, eyeing me warily. A few kids laugh and play, darting about on the sidewalk and in the alleyways. They haven't been fitted for their collars yet. My jaw tightens at that thought.

Above, younger animals climb light fixtures and telephone poles to hang banners and decorations for the upcoming street fair. Not far off now, I see. Maybe a week? Sure, some of the preds stare at the prey cop climbing the curb, but most of them regard me with little interest, which is nice. I still hunch my shoulders together and try to hide my equipment belt self-consciously; especially with the way those old predators watch me from their steel-and-canvas seats, like cops in their own regard.

As I cross in front of the old shop windows, I spot my reflection. I look a mess. Disheveled fur, ringed eyes, wrinkled clothes. The canvas that hangs above hangs askew, revealing the neon lettering of Jackie's father's barbershop. 'Quartz Cuts,' it reads. He lives above his father's shop. I already knew that, but, I suppose I never thought about it. I just move on with a sigh, not enjoying being reminded of how little I know of him, and make a beeline directly towards the front door off to the side.

"Jackie?!" I call out and knock heavily on the front door. "Are you--?!"

Startled, I gasp as the door creaks open in front of me. Half expecting somebody to be there, I wait and listen with erect ears and tense muscles. But nothing comes through the dark few inches between the frame and the door, save for cool air and disturbed dust. Tentatively reaching out with my left hand, I push the groaning door open and find the stairway empty. The door wasn't closed or locked.

Fearing the worst, I slip quietly inside and return the door to its previous half closed position. My ears search for any sign of life as I climb the steps towards the wooden door spilling out into his office. The only thing I hear, though, is the creak of aged steps beneath cautious hooves and a strange scratching noise that I cannot identify nor clearly discern.

The office is clear and quiet, the ceiling fan turning gently of its own accord directly above the desk. Papers are strewn above on his desktop, fluttering in the slight breeze, a stark comparison to my orderly, neat habits at work and at home. Viewing them momentarily, it appears to be records of the work he's done, with freshly completed forms resting on top. Just like a cop, you have to do your paperwork. That makes me smile.

Moving on, I enter the living room and peer across his apartment. It's a mess, and not just an I-live-alone mess. It looks like a tornado flew through here and had its way with everything. Papers, albums, books, random items are tossed carelessly about the floor. Some are smashed, some aren't. I don't see any furniture or fixture damage. It's like they were just dropped. My eyes are drawn immediately down to my right, to his answering machine. He's taken the larger tape out so it won't record any messages anymore. The piano sits next to it, a yellowed set of sheet music sitting on its stand. 'Ave Maria,' it reads. I knew it was familiar.

The scratching noise comes from somewhere ahead. Carefully, I walk towards its source only to find the record console open. It's covered with LP sleeves that were once orderly and neatly stacked away. More spill onto the floor, creating a colorful mosaic of rock and roll, blues, jazz, swing, and even pop. Yeah, he has some of the same trashy disco tunes I have. Because we all have our guilty pleasures.

I lift a double album up from the front and find a record spinning. The arm bobs back and forth as the needle follows the end groove towards the chrome center of the platter and then out again. It creates an unsettling grinding noise that fills this quiet room. Gently, I lift it and pull it sideways until it clicks to halt the platter from spinning. Looking upwards, Jackie's parents smile approvingly down towards me, a long time gone.

I turn around and lean gently back onto the console, crossing my arms. For the life of me, I can't explain what happened here. Jackie obviously isn't home, unless he's hiding, or passed out. My eyes peer across the room, taking in the disaster, when I catch a glimpse of bright blue something hanging inside his wide open bedroom door. That's as good a place as any to search first. Stepping as if through a minefield, I cross the room in the opposite direction and enter his bedroom, one of the few rooms I didn't see when I was here last.

Atop the queen-sized bed, several sheets of blueprints are spread. White lines indicate floors, furniture, fixtures, bar equipment, bathrooms, and everything a good business needs to have. I approach it to take a closer look, knowing instinctively what it is. Even though it's not my place, I grasp the edges of the building plans and look them over with a grin. It's all so familiar, this place I've been to. Which makes it all the more painful when I remember why I'm here. Especially seeing Jackie's father's signature in the corner: Charlie Quartz. Jackie has signed beside it, though his is more recent.

Defeated, I sit on the edge of the bed and sigh. He's not at home. Unless he's hidden himself in the full size bathroom beside me or the dresser in the corner, he must be out. And I feel like a fool, a fool who's trespassing. Crossing my arms, I sigh and stand, resolved to leave a note and come back. But as I do, I look to the end table beside his bed. His voice comes through crystal clear, "They always have three photos in their house: the bedroom, the living room, the front room. And they all go away when they don't love you no more."

With some hesitation, I grasp the small black knob on the chipped cherry end table and withdraw the drawer. The first thing I see is a picture frame, backside-up. I pause and stare at it. He wasn't lying. Or maybe he just had firsthand experience. While knowing I shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this, I gingerly grip the frame and lift it out carefully. Licking my lips, I slowly turn it over to reveal an older photograph in a silver frame. There are several animals in the picture, though only two are in focus, front and center.

Jackie and a girl.

Feeling my eyes burn and my shoulders grow heavy, I set the picture down onto the tabletop and stumble back onto the bed, causing the blueprints to cry out a crinkly cascade of deafening noise into the silent apartment. But my eyes aren't pulled from that picture. In fact, I don't think I could tear them away. Because I begin to realize what I've done, or at least have an inkling of an idea. My breath grows shallow and choppy.

They're at a club, somewhere vaguely familiar. In the background, a band plays on stage, out of focus and in tight red and black suits. A few tables with crimson cloth tops are spread atop a wooden floor, patrons of all shapes and sizes crowded around them. Jackie's young. Well, young-ish. I can tell the photo must be about five years old, give or take. He wears a fine white suit, double-breasted, with a matching white tie and waistcoat while he lounges in a seat, crossing his legs.

He smiles at whoever takes the picture, a genuinely happy smile, unlike I've ever seen on him. There's no lie in his eyes, which are just as cool and bright as they are now. To his right sits a female in an expensive blue dress that highlights the curves at her waist and bust. Tawny brown eyes bat extended eyelashes over a fine white and mottled gray coat of fur. She's taller than him, but for her species, I suppose that's normal.

Of course, she isn't a coyote. She isn't a canine either. Hell, she's not a predator. She's equine, and I immediately know who she is. This is Anne. I exhale a choppy breath and feel my stomach turn. My mind can't process it. I suppose the signs were there, I was just too blind to see. But he never said anything and I never asked. It didn't matter. He was just some degenerate predator I was forced to drag around. Then a respected colleague and a friend, who went through hell and back with me without hesitation. And now, I don't know what he is.

But I know what she is. I can see it in her eyes. The smile casts a convincing fable, but her eyes are passionless and aloof. I need to know what happened. I need to or I'll go mad. Standing up, I stand next to the end table and dig. The drawer produces item after item. Dinner tickets, small trinkets, business cards, sheets of music hastily drawn in pencil, the hallmark of a real, functioning relationship. At the bottom, I find two items hidden away, pushed against the back.

The first is a small black box, felt covered. Nervously, I take it in my palm and open the top to reveal a necklace. It's 21, maybe 24 karat gold, with small sapphires set into the thick chain, growing gradually larger until they surround a bright, rectangular, eight-sided and very much flawless emerald. The brand stamped on the inside of the lid reads, 'Tuftney & Company.' I'm holding $3,000 at least in my hand. Closing the lid, I place it beside the photograph with care and then slip the final item out.

At first I think it's just an ordinary piece of paper. The back is blank. But I flip it over to reveal the face of a large postcard. It's an artist's rendition of the famed Tanglewood Hills, with the bright sign on the slope in the back and the golden age movie studios below spotlight-riddled skies. Confused, I return to the other side and only read Jackie's name and his address. There's no message. But the handwriting isn't his. It's soft, flowing, and delicate. Where a message should have been written, there are several dark stains spritzed into its white surface.

She left. And this is all he got.

Placing the card back inside, I sit and feel a mixture of emotions that I can't quite recognize. Conflicting feelings of almost illogical anger for a mare I've never met, sympathy for my only friend, and a pain that grips my heart and almost makes me double over. As I slowly gasp, my breath rattles and my body shudders with it. Looking up at the photograph once more, I have only one thought: Why does he hold onto this?

Is it hope that she'll come back? He doesn't seem the type, and he sure doesn't seem to hold her in very high regard. Maybe it's a reminder. A reminder that if you get attached to somebody too much, there's a chance they don't feel the same way. And then, one day, you're sitting alone at a bar, or in a restaurant, waiting. Waiting for somebody who's never going to show up. For somebody who, for reasons unknown to you, doesn't care anymore. My eyes mist.

And I begin to understand.

I wipe my face before I can weep like a fool again. Standing up, I stumble towards the door and peer out. The destruction makes sense. It's not random, but it's not deliberate either. It's just carelessness. Empty, unknowing actions performed by somebody who has become a shell of themselves. Not angry or malignant, not even sorrowful, but apathetic. Because at some point, you discover you just don't care anymore either, that you are no longer capable.

A rustle and snap come from towards the office. Freezing, my eyes still heavy and my breath unmetered, I listen and wonder if Jackie's home. But his gait is all wrong. It's too heavy and then too light. Gasping and trying to wipe the wet from my eyes, I draw my tranquilizer gun and thrust it between me and the door with both hands on the grip. Then I take a defensive position behind the body of the piano and wait.

The footsteps come closer, soft on the wooden stairs. But as they round the corner, they abruptly halt. That's when I realize I didn't close the door separating the office and the entryway. Also, it's much quieter in here now that the record player is no longer spinning. There's a quiet gasp and then heavy footfalls. Thick paper crinkles before I hear a loud grinding of wood on wood. Dark shadows dance on the floor as light filters in through the front window.

I watch as it bends over and twists about. Then it begins to glide silently across the living room floor, the intruder's paws producing no sound. Taking in a long, hard breath, I brace myself against the wall and readjust my fingers on the tranquilizer's grip. And just as the beast would naturally walk through the door, a figure appears, one with a pistol in their hands. Lying my ears back, I prepare to bark an order to drop it, but the words choke in my mouth as she turns towards me.

Her collar blinks rapidly a yellow light. Sam's eyes grow wide as we stare each other down.

"S--Sam?" I cry, my voice strained.

She drops her arms and looks me over with a face that conveys both relief and disbelief. My arms thunk against the top of the piano, barely missing all of the photographs still clustered on top of it. With no reason to use it, I tuck my gun away as Sam regains a grip on herself. She's not in costume like last night. Today, she seems pretty normal. Her aura, though, hasn't changed. Jeans, leather, and spikes are prominently displayed. Her collar beeps again, returning to a normal, solid green.

The only thing out of place is the 1911 loosely held in one hand.

"Jane? Jesus!" she exclaims, exasperated and blinks at me. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off furthering your career somewhere important and pred-less?"

I wince at the accusation thrown at me, and brow tightens in confusion. Her words are sharp, and the shocked, fearful expression of not knowing who's in a friend's house has transformed into cold disdain. That pistol still hangs in her hand inexpertly. She may never have held it before in her life. My eyes inspect it fleetingly and then return to the angry face hurling daggers into me. Honestly, I could ask her the same thing. Jackie never mentioned her to me before we met, and now she's in his house?

"I just--I'm just looking for Jackie," I try to explain, feeling defensive.

"Well you can stop looking, honey, because he has no interest in ever seeing you again," she spits and rocks her head.

Her collar beeps and blinks yellow once more. He doesn't want to see me? Well, I guess him disappearing and then not taking any calls should have made that obvious. But I don't understand and I feel my lips part as I step forward almost pleadingly. Sam, though, stands resolute, only shifting her weight to the other leg and tilting her head in the opposite direction.

"What? W-why not?" I ask her and shake my head. "I don't understand--I just want to talk to him!"

Her head recoils in offense and she snorts. The fur around her muzzle begins to wrinkle as she scowls at me. Her fangs appear from behind cool, pretty lips, and her small black nose curls into something almost unrecognizable. Sam lurches forward and thrusts her arms out and forward.

"Do you even know what you did?" she howls.

Her collar beeps red and throws a few low-level shocks into her. It seems to have no effect on her, save for a wince or two. Instead, she absorbs every bit of electricity that collar thinks she needs to heel her. Primal fear bubbles up inside of me and I stumble backwards in surprise, some not-so-good thoughts springing forth. My breath rattles and I look to her, completely baffled, frightened, and on the verge of tears once more.

"W-what? I didn't--I didn't do anything!" I insist to her, voice cracking, and shake my head. "I've been trying to call all day and night and . . ."

My words just trail off into nothing. And they don't seem to satisfy Sam in the least bit.

"My God, you are a dense one, aren't you?" she snarls, the collar crackling with electricity. "What did you expect to happen? You stood there while you let your boss paint every pred walking the streets as a dangerous, looming menace; a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off on every fucking network television channel in the city! And you did it all with a big, goddamn smile on your mug!"

The collar shocks harder as her voice rises, but she pays it no heed. In fact, it almost energizes her, throwing her fur up into a static-y mess that is both horrifying and intriguing.

"I--"

But she won't let me have an inch. This isn't a conversation anymore.

"I've known Jackie for a pretty long time now! We went to school together, our folks know each other! Knew each other. Ugh! After the last one, I didn't think he'd ever pay attention to anyone again! But all of the sudden, he's out and about, being normal and socializing in a way that I haven't seen in years! And who does have with him? You!" she jabs an angry finger at me, the collar still attempting to subdue her emotions, her rage. "A prey bitch cop! Just abraca-fucking-dabra and he's normal again! I couldn't believe my eyes! But I was happy for him, because why wouldn't I be? That's what friends do! Even if we don't really understand it. And to think, I sniffed you and thought you were one of the good ones! How goddamn wrong I was!"

She turns away in a huff, throwing both of her arms over her head, and stomps towards the door. The collar finally breaks off its assault and quiets once more. I watch her back go, her tail puffed out in anger. She looks like she was mere inches away from launching herself on top of me. Then she leans onto the doorframe and inhales and exhales violently. And the only thing I can do is watch her. My lips go to say something, to say anything.

But she's right. Jackie's gone and I drove him out. I drove a lot of predators away, let loose something horrible not only onto them, but onto the city I thought I was protecting. What was I going to do, though? That guy was my boss. No, my boss's boss. And everything was finally coming together for me, almost three years of hard work, doubly so because of my handicap. I couldn't throw that away for him!

Looking around, I see his apartment and needles thrust into my chest. My eyes water as I recall where I am and why I came. Because after so much time on the streets, filling a hole in my life with work, I find it's not enough. And I don't think it ever will be. Work's great, and I'll always keep doing it, but, it's not enough. There's nothing in my life beyond that. Rise, patrol, lunch, patrol, paperwork, dinner, sleep, and repeat. Three shifts a week, plus two or possibly three days of overtime, in the worst parts of the city.

All just to come home to silence.

And I guess it hurts because I finally had a friend. Somebody that didn't treat me like shit, or bring me down, or tell me I couldn't do anything. He treated me as a partner, not dead weight. And I lost that. Right through my unwitting fingers the best thing that's happened to me since taking up the blue ran. And I let it, if unknowingly, to double down on something that beat me onto the floor and then kicked me when I was down. It's all too much, even to think about.

I drop awkwardly onto the piano stool and let my head droop. My eyes water and I feel tears run down my nose and drip onto the floor. Soon, I'm sobbing silently and I raise my hands up to cover my face. Jesus, I feel like a broken fire hydrant. But with the way I feel inside, my stomach cramping, my heart aching, crying at least makes me feel better. It's honestly the only thing that feels appropriate right now.

That's when I hear Sam sigh.

"I--I guess you're not as bad as Anne," she admits, barely above a whisper. "At least you came back."

Opening my eyes, I lift my head and look to her. Sam lowers her arms and deposits the pistol onto the table with the answering machine as she turns. Sniffling, I wipe my face and meet her eyes. All of her anger has dissipated. In fact, she gazes at me with sympathy. Thoughts racing, I gaze back at the open bedroom door and see all of his private things I dredged up. Pleadingly, I look to Sam.

"W-who was she?" I ask, my voice still shaky. "That mare?"

Sam's lips tighten. Then she fools around with her shirt, wiping her palms onto the arms.

"I," she begins and then sighs awkwardly, "I don't really know, I never really . . . met her. I mean, I met her, shook her hand, but I never really _met_her. It's like, one day she wasn't there, and then magically she was. And he was always careful, so she was never around when others were. Had to be with the way society is. Can't let us intermingle. That's what my dad says. I guess I always knew he was a preyophile, deep down. But he was happy, so I watched from afar and soon forgot because things were good. In the end, I was just there for the aftermath."

That word jumps up and smacks me in the face once more: preyophiile. He's a preyophile. But mentally I shake my head. Why do we have to use words like that to describe each other, who we love? If they're both consenting adults, who cares? It's the same phrase they used to whack me about at work, at home, at school, just for not being bigoted. Sure, the parts are different, but the meaning is still the same. And for maybe the first time, I don't care. Not just in passing, but I actively don't care.

"What happened?" I ask her, my voice clearer.

"She eviscerated him," Sam replies flatly.

"W-what did she do?"

Sam shrugs and gently shakes her head, "She just up and left one day. No explanation, no goodbyes. The only thing I know for sure was she was gone and the only thing she left was that postcard."

A postcard with nothing written on it. A fitting goodbye considering the circumstances. Sam must know I found his keepsakes, found that postcard. She isn't angry about it; in fact she seems to have expected it. I'm a cop, after all. Uncovering others' dirty secrets is sort of standard fare for a detective. Taking a deep cleansing breath, I sit up straight and swallow hard.

"What happened afterwards?" I implore before adding, "Please, I need to know."

"I don't know all the details. I came 'round after he disappeared off the face of the planet for two weeks. None of the familiar bartenders or club managers knew a thing. Or, if they did, they weren't telling me. It didn't matter. I could piece it together from the look in his eyes and how messed up he looked. Beaten down." She pauses for a few seconds to let that sink in, her eyes searching the room sorrowfully. "I think it was a couple of months before he returned to anything resembling normality. And that's all it did: _resemble_normality. It was a good mask. I think he dated a couple of other animals, all preds, afterwards. Relationships that all ended swiftly. I was the first up to the plate. I thought it would help. No, that's a lie. I wanted it. But he was . . ."

She trails off and takes a deep breath. Broken. He was broken and she thought she could fix it, either out of pity or because she wanted something only he could give. I knew they had a relationship. Well, she had a relationship. He never mentioned her and it sounds like there's a good reason. If I were in his situation, I'm not sure what I would tell my friends, either.

"But the way I found him that day, I knew I had to keep an eye on him. We both don't have a lot of friends. Him because of who he is, me because I like to fight and drink and swear and, yeah. So when I caught the news on TV, saw your face, I came 'round in case . . ." Her eyes cut down and then consider the pistol on the end table. My mind doesn't have to go too far to get the point. "Well, let's just say he's the biggest drama queen I know," she chuckles awkwardly. "Artists, what can you say? I know it's sad, an ex that hangs around like a bad cough. But, we're friends. And, I guess everybody needs somebody or they'll implode. You can't walk through life all alone."

There's silence. That heavy kind of silence that feels both stifling and hot. My eyes turn downwards and I sigh.

"I didn't know," I tell her, softly.

Looking up, Sam gazes at me expectantly. Her ears are pressed back against her head and her tail has lost its angry poof. Swallowing hard, I continue on, shaking my head.

"I swear, I didn't. About the captain and what he said. About her. I'm just--I just can't handle this myself. And hearing that tape, the radio silence? I can't deal with that. I need to talk to him, to somebody. Because I have nobody else either."

My head turns to his answering machine and so do hers. I cross my arms and sniffle a few times, pondering what her response could possibly be. When they glide back to me, they're wistful yet hopeful.

"Do you love him?"

My head goes clear and I stare at Sam. Do I love him? I've known him for all of four days, how could I love him? And yet those words are rather attractive, or at least they make sense. But I don't know. My jaw drops open and I struggle to conjure the right response. A buried part of me screams to tell her no, no, I just need to explain myself to him, to make it ok for both of us again. She wouldn't accept that. She can see right through me. She'd just call me a liar and seal her lips.

And then there's the other side of the coin. It's true, I find Jackie oddly attractive, which is only accentuated by how kind and personable he can be. His voice is beautiful, his eyes see inside me, and we can talk like no date I've ever been on. Well, ones that didn't end in a cheap screw and a promise to never talk to each other again. And he treats me as an equal, sometimes a superior. Finding that in a male these days, well, it's as rare as it is precious. Even though I know we could never have fawns, I don't feel that I care.

But I don't know.

"I--I," my words stumble as I try to make up my mind.

Apparently, I don't need to. What I've said suffices.

In a way that tells me she's not sure she should be telling me this, she sighs and says, "He's at this rundown dump club off of Lionheart. Cyprus Grove Way, near a crappy park. This place he keeps all to himself and disappears to when he wants to be alone. He said he lodged all the paperwork with the realtor on Sunday to purchase it and the seller couldn't deny a full buyout. He's been down there all yesterday and all today, doing whatever it is he does. Now excuse me, I have groceries to put away."

She snatches up the pistol and disappears through the doorway into the office. I hear a solid 'thunk' and then wood scraping on wood as a desk drawer is pushed shut. Then comes the crinkle of paper and Sam reappears with a big bag of freshly bought groceries pressed to her chest. Standing up, I watch her go and don't know what to say.

Damn it, Jane, you know the fuck to say.

"Thank you," I tell her, maybe a little louder than I wanted to.

When she continues walking without giving me an answer, I assume that's my cue to leave. So I do, walking solemnly towards the office door.

"Jane?" Sam suddenly asks as I'm in the doorway.

I halt and turn my head and see her standing sideways, looking at me with a calm, neutral demeanor.

"If you break him, I'll break you," she informs me in a tone that doesn't match her words.

The collar doesn't shock. In fact, it doesn't even blink yellow. A cool green light shines from under her neck on that decorated collar she can't remove. She isn't joking and her mind is serene. My brow rises and my ears fold back, as I consider her promise. Then I nod assuredly. Seeing that the message has been communicated, Sam turns and pads silently towards the kitchen. She doesn't need to worry.

I'm going to fix everything.