Marigold

Disclaimers: These characters belong to the likes of Bruce McDonald, Telefilm Canada, Barry Levinson, NBC, Noel Baker, Michael Turner, and to Callum Keith Rennie and Kyle Secor, who brought them to life on screen. Needless to say, they don't belong to me. Also, any people playing versions of themselves in the movie Hard Core Logo (e.g., Bruce McDonald) that appear in this are in no way meant to represent the actual people, and anyone who thinks the Bruce McDonald in the movie is the same as the guy who directed the movie should a) read Noel Baker's Hard Core Roadshow and b) get a life.

Notes: Beta thanks to Gemini and CatMoran. This is a slash crossover between Homicide: Life on the Streets and the movie Hard Core Logo. If men with men squicks you, you won't like this.

Warnings: Sexual abuse/non-con issues discussed—canon for the characters. Minor character deaths. Lots of angst.

Rating: NC-17.

Any comments, suggestions, complaints, or whatever would be much appreciated. Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Spoilers: This happens a few years after the movie Hard Core Logo, and starts about six months after Homicide: the Movie. There are major spoilers for both movies and the television series. If you're in the US, you can catch Homicide on Court TV, weeknights at 1 am Eastern.

Soundtrack: Headstones, especially Teeth & Tissue, with a smattering of stuff from the HCL soundtrack, courtesy of Hugh Dillon and Swamp Baby. Also, to add to the whole Canadian thing, a couple other groups: the Tragically Hip and Great Big Sea. Not Canadian, but definitely in the soundtrack, is Joan Osborne, Righteous Love; I also listened to a fair amount of Richard Thompson, especially Across a Crowded Room.

Summary: "I'm even more convinced it's a publicity stunt when I see the fucker who's been appointed my bodyguard. He's tall. Very tall. Not to mention lean, fit, and very fucking handsome."

In the evening, when the moon is shining marigold

That's when time draws a line down to your very soul

—Marigold, Headstones

Marigold

by shell

Prologue: Unsound

Can't stand up

Exhausted from trying

barely lit with a dull compliance

—Exhausted, Headstones

The last time I flew to LA was years ago, for that job interview with the security company, the job I should have taken. God knows, if I'd taken that job, things would have been different, but back then I couldn't bear to leave my home and the people I cared about, even though I knew the job was tearing me apart. I couldn't bear to leave Frank. Fat lot of good that did me.

When I confessed to him, a few months ago, I think he had a tear in his eye—when he was calling me a son of a bitch for putting this on him. I'm not sure, though. I still can't believe he let me go. I guess he once again knew me better than I thought he did—he knew I wouldn't eat my gun, and he cared enough to keep me out of prison. Especially once we heard about Gee.

I went home that night, unplugged the phone, and tried to sit. I must have adjusted my zafu a dozen times, lit and blew out three different sticks of incense, tried two different positions for my hands and three for my legs, but I couldn't settle. Couldn't get my body still, much less my mind. Tried kinhin, too, but walking meditation didn't work any better than sitting. Haven't had much success at meditation since Larry Moss, but that night was the end of it.

Every once in awhile I'll be somewhere and realize I'm counting my breaths. It's like a reflex, but it doesn't do any good. As soon as I realize I'm doing it, I can't keep it going. It's been like that for over a year.

But I don't want to think about that, have gotten pretty good at not thinking about it, so I shove it back under the surface and look out the window. Not that there's anything to see—it's dark, and we're just flying along over the midsection of the country.

People in Baltimore gave up after awhile—first I went away for six months without telling anyone, then I quit and left again without telling anyone, not even answering my phone. A couple times people tried to stop by, but I wouldn't answer the door. One night, Falsone of all people, he comes over, pounds on the door, yells, then sits down in the hallway, just stays there, for hours. My neighbors, already fed up, complained to the super, and I finally had to let him in. I wouldn't talk to him, though—just told him I was fine, but I didn't want anything to do with the department any more, that I couldn't stomach the thought of working for Gharty and dealing with punks like that kid Hall. I lied to him and said I'd accepted a job as a lieutenant in a small town in Vermont, and the dumbass believed me.

That encounter with Falsone was enough to convince me I needed to do something, leave the apartment, leave the city I'd lived in my whole life, try to start over. I only told my mom where I was going, and I made her promise not to tell anyone. I can tell she's worried about me. Shit, I'd be worried about me, if I could bring myself to care. I know that confession's got to be wearing away at Frank, and I figure sooner or later he'll stop by, tell me I need to turn myself in, that murder's murder, and he hates to do it, but if I don't turn myself in, he's going to have to go to Lewis.

I know exactly how the conversation will play out, everything he'll say, and I don't have the energy for it. I don't know if I even had the energy that night—once I got out what I had to say to Frank, once I finally made him accept what I was telling him, everything in me shut down, even before we heard about Gee.

It's still shut down. I'm not stupid—I know the symptoms of depression, of mental illness, better than most cops—but the wonderful thing about depression is that you don't care enough to do anything about it. It takes marginally less energy to leave than it would to deal with my life, to deal with the conversation Frank wants to have with me (has with me in my head all the time), so that's what I'm doing. It doesn't matter that I don't know what I'm going to do once I get to LA. Doesn't matter that I'm almost out of money, would have run out already if I hadn't sold my share of the Waterfront.

I don't want to face Frank, to face myself, so I'm leaving town, flying to the other side of the country, to find a new job and maybe start my life over. Either that or wait until I have the energy to finish ending it.

Part One: Disconnected

I wouldn't settle for nothing

I couldn't settle for that

I'd rather settle for something I don't believe in

—Settle, Headstones

By the time we pull up to the gate at LAX, I think I might just be tired enough to get some sleep. Unfortunately, it's early morning, LA time, and I have to rent a car and find a hotel. By the time I get the car, rush hour has hit, and it's practically noon when I finish checking in, so I head down to the coffee shop for a quick bite. You'd think, with it being southern California, you'd be able to get an egg white omelet without much problem, but you'd be wrong, at least at this motel. Once I finish choking down my food, feeling sick, half convinced they cooked it in bacon grease, I grab a paper and head back to my room.

After a quick shower, I fall asleep, but I wake up an hour later feeling just as tired. I spend the rest of the afternoon looking through the classifieds, making a few calls, dismayed at the scarcity of both jobs and places to live that I could possibly afford.

I don't bother with dinner, and fall into a deep sleep before the sun has set, only to have the other standby happen—a nightmare. I've had them all my life, and you'd think maybe by now I'd be used to them, but they still wake me up in a cold sweat nine times out of ten. This one's Ryland—predictable. But the nightmare wakes me mere minutes before the alarm goes off, which is about as good as sleep gets for me these days. After a quick shower and the complimentary continental breakfast (stale bagels and watery orange juice, and thankfully strong coffee), I hit the phones again.

It's been a long time since I looked for a job. The interviews I've had in the last fifteen years have all been people who've approached me. I'm out of practice, and my best suit doesn't fit me as well as it used to, since I stopped running, stopped caring about what I was eating, although I've stayed vegetarian, the only thing about Buddhism I've managed to keep intact. I've got on the tie Chris liked, for some sort of luck, I guess, but I don't feel lucky, I don't feel energetic, and I don't feel like talking. As a result, the first two interviews are unmitigated disasters, the third is merely bad, and that's the end of the day. There are only two interviews left, both tomorrow afternoon, at least one clearly a shit job, the other some sort of executive protection agency, which sounds like a temp agency for security guards. I'm starting to feel unemployable, so I give myself a shake, slam down some french fries and diet coke, and try to figure out how to make it back to the motel.

I sleep in the next morning, no dreams, and feel relatively human by the afternoon. The folks at the shit job tell me frankly that I'm overqualified, that they can't afford to pay me what I deserve, but if I'm willing to take the pittance they'll offer, they'd be happy to have me in their employ. They want to check my references, of course, but they'll call tomorrow with a formal offer, if I'm interested. I'm not, really, but I need a job, so I tell them to let me know. Then I head off to the last interview, hoping I'll be able to find the address.

The first surprise is that the office is in Beverly Hills, not too far from Rodeo Drive. Yeah, it's kind of a temp agency, but not for security guards, per se—they provide "executive protection," meaning bodyguards, for when divas and movie stars decide they need more protection from their worshipful public. Second surprise—they're as interested in my height and looks as they are in my resume and shooting skills (yes, the fact that I was QRT and on the mayor's security detail helped) and they hire me on the spot, for a lot more money than I've ever made before. Or maybe they see something in my eyes that tells them I'll get between Jennifer Lopez and a bullet; I don't really know or care.

But then again, that's pretty much the way my life has been for what seems like forever. Whatever. It's a job, it pays well, it's relatively brainless, despite the company's "this isn't a job, it's a calling" grandstanding, and it's very far away from Baltimore.

I spend a few more nights at the motel while I look for a place to live, using the last of my savings on first month's rent and security deposit on a small studio. My sign on bonus buys me a futon, a bike, and a bus pass, although I know I'm not going to last long in this town without a car. Then I go through a week of "orientation," which is a fucking joke, mostly about how not to offend the megastar you're guarding by standing in their light or dressing better than they do. I'm told that I'll be eligible for advanced training once I'm past my first three months on the job.

I work a couple months on small jobs, walking next to Dan Rather on his way to and from the airport, walking behind a short Latino television actor who cares more about me blocking people's view of him than his safety, not that anyone's after him anyway—shit like that. It's boring, but it pays well, and it takes up the days and nights, especially since I take overtime whenever I can get it. A few of the clients are warm and friendly, but I ignore them politely, and they leave me alone.

Some of the guys at the agency try to get me to come out for a drink; one even invites me to a Lakers game. That tempts me, just a little, but I politely decline, and after awhile the invitations stop.

Before I know it, six months have passed, they're sending me on assignments that may actually mean something, and I'm not even sure how I got here. The nightmares, the depression, it's all still there, but it feels like I'm waking up a little. I'm not sure I like it; in fact, I'm pretty sure I don't, but I can't seem to stop it. Maybe it's the fucking LA sunshine.

I get a call from the agency with a new assignment, might be long term "if you play your cards right, Bayliss." I grunt noncommittally, fearing the worst, because last week I escorted a simpering idiot who kept trying to flirt with me, and she said she was going to make sure she saw me again. It's not her, though, it's some guitarist who's getting death threats, so I agree to take the job.

Part Two: The Smell of Time

And this one's for the silence

And the questions that it brings

And the smell of time

and the reverence

and the possibilities

—When Something Stands for Nothing, Headstones

It's coming around to fall again, not that you can tell here in sunny fucking California. I'm bored with Jenifur, but not with the money it makes me. After years of nothing but jack and shit, I'll never be bored with making this kind of money, not that I've spent it on much since the first couple years. I've fucked around with the idea of a solo album, but I haven't felt like writing any music since Joe. If he were still around, he'd call me a lame fucking Hollywood sellout, and he'd be right, but the great Joe Dick never figured out that I only cared about the fucking music when I was with him. I stopped caring when he fucked me, or thought I did. Stopped caring for good when he blew his fucking brains out in Edmonton.

I don't give a fuck that the music I've played for years is bullshit pop, but every once in awhile I remember what it used to feel like when I did care. Usually I remember around this time of year. Even though the days don't get much shorter or cooler, some part of my body remembers it's coming on the dark and cold part of the year, and I fucking miss the anger, hurt, and especially the passion I used to feel. A couple times, the first couple years after, I let myself slip, found myself waking up from a drunk that started around Thanksgiving (what I still think of as Thanksgiving) and kept going until it was practically Thanksgiving here. Almost got myself fired the second time. After one more fucking month in rehab, I managed to keep myself bored and sober, deciding that, on the whole, I preferred it to the alternative.

This fall, things are different, things are the same. We're working on the next album, and I'm doing my job, playing the licks, fast and furious, the way they want me to, but without any fucking truth. At home, I actually find myself picking up my acoustic and playing a little of the old stuff. Play a couple bars from the stuff we were working on in Edmonton, until I realize what I'm playing.

Head in to the studio the next day, catch myself playing a little of it again. Trevor notices, although the girls don't. He comes over to talk, all excited, thinks it sounds great, wants to know if I have anything else.

I'm saved by the proverbial bell when Sammy, the band's manager, calls a halt, says he has to talk to us. Us turns out to be me, mostly. Seems I've been getting more than the normal amount of autumn love letters from psychos, and someone higher up decided I need protection. I'm half convinced it's a fucking publicity stunt, but I know better than to fight the suits.

I'm even more convinced it's a publicity stunt when I see the fucker who's been appointed my bodyguard. He's tall. Very tall. Not to mention lean, fit, and very fucking handsome. At first I figure he must be using this gig to break into acting, or into starlets' pants, but he carries himself with confidence, exhibiting nothing but professionalism, and doesn't give Jen and May more than a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the briefing materials they've given him, even though they're definitely giving him the eye.

Once the meeting's over, he shakes my hand firmly, looks me in the eye, introduces himself, and explains he'll be with me whenever I'm out in public, as well as making sure I get to and from my house safely, starting today. Fuck, he's even better looking up close. This could be interesting.

The next day we're flying out to do some gigs, and I'm stuck sitting in first class next to this fucker, this Tim the Bodyguard, and the movie—get this—is this totally fucking lame tv movie. There is no fucking way I'm watching that. There are other things to entertain me.

So I stare at Tim the Bodyguard some. Don't fucking remember his last name—something with a B, I think—but he's hot, with long legs and clear brown eyes and bookish glasses. I'm not making any attempt to hide my stare, and in a minute or two he glances over and frowns.

"Is there something bothering you, Mr. Tallent?" he asks politely, but I hear the annoyance underneath.

"Yeah," I bark. "Don't fucking call me that. Call me Billy."

"All right, Billy," he snarks back. "Is there something you need, or were you just enjoying the view?"

That surprises a chuckle out of me, so I decide to play nice for awhile. "I just figured, since we're fucking joined at the hip for awhile, maybe we should get to know each other a little better." I give him a smile. "After all, we were never really properly introduced—Bill Boisy, glad to meet you, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah," and I hold out a hand. He shakes it, still frowning.

"Tim Bayliss. Thought your name was Billy Tallent."

"That's just my fucking stage name, punk handle, what have you. Birth certificate says William Boisy." I leave off the Junior, not even sure why I'm telling this guy my real name in the first place. Haven't fucking used it in almost twenty-five years. "Bayliss your real name, Timothy?"

He frowns again. "Of course it is."

"So, where are you from, Timothy Bayliss the Bodyguard?" I ask him, smiling some more. It's starting to get to him—he's trying to stay annoyed, but I've schmoozed fuckers a lot tougher than him. Sometimes I think my smile ought to be fucking regulated.

"Baltimore," he answers reluctantly, not volunteering anything else. I decide to try another tack.

"Timothy Bayliss, the Bodyguard from Baltimore," I sing-song. "Tell me a story, Uncle Timmy."

"I'm not here to entertain you, Billy," he says, trying to sound professional, but I can tell he's amused. Score one for Billy Hollywood, but I'm not done yet.

"So what are you gonna do then—watch the lameass tv movie? Read the fucking in-flight magazine again? Keep an eye out for stalkers among the flight attendants? Enjoy the fucking view?" I gesture at myself, and he snorts a laugh. I win.

We end up playing the movie game for awhile. He hasn't heard of any of the Canadian movies, but he graciously takes my word that they don't suck, seeing as I'm his employer. Some of his selections are interesting—who'd have thought he'd have even heard of Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss? Eventually I say Exotica and he says American Beauty. Fuck.

"Y, huh? That's a fucker," I mumble, knowing who I'm quoting. I go right for Young Frankenstein, though, being as I have half a fucking brain and am not currently strung out on coke. Don't feel much like playing after that, and Tim picks up on it and lets the game go, waiting a minute before picking up the catalog from the seat back in front of him.

We're supposed to land in half an hour, but we get put into a holding pattern. The captain announces there will be at least a 45 minute delay, and the steward comes around and offers us fucking cookies and milk, which Tim accepts and devours. Christ, he's got a huge fucking mouth, with perfect, white, shiny teeth, full, pink lips, and an agile tongue. Bet he'd give good head, if he were into that sort of thing, which I was figuring he wasn't, but fuck, Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss?

I'm staring at him again as he finishes the milk and licks his lips. He looks up and meets my eyes, then quickly looks away. Score another one for me, and I'm smiling again, this time for real, and he looks up again in time to catch it, smiling in return, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Fuck. It's the first time he's smiled at me, and I can tell it's not an all-out smile, just a little one, but it's a good thing I wear baggy pants, because I can feel that smile headed right to my dick.

"Looks like you enjoyed your milk and cookies, Timmy," I say to distract myself, which doesn't fucking work for shit. "Time to entertain me again."

"What did you have in mind this time?" he asks. "Checkers?"

"Why—you got a board hidden in that crappy suit of yours?" He smiles again, shaking his head. "Got some paper, at least?"

He pulls out a small pad and a pen and hands them to me.

"Okay then, Mr. Milk and Cookies." I start drawing the gallows while I try to think of something both obscure and obscene. "How about a nice little game I'm sure you remember from your youth?" I'll settle for one out of two, make it easy on him. How many spaces do I need for "motherfucker"? I put them under the gallows and try to hand the pad and pen back to him. As soon as he sees it, his face goes white, and the pad drops from his fingers onto his lap.

"Jesus, Timmy, what the fuck's the matter with you? You got something against Hangman?"

"What? Fuck," he says, shaking his head. "Yes, I have something against Hangman, all right?" He pushes the pad back towards me like it's going to fucking bite him, but he doesn't say anything else. I watch him for a minute. The color's starting to come back into his face, but it's completely devoid of expression.

Against my better judgment, I find myself asking him if he wants to talk about it. He shakes his head.

"No, no, it's nothing. Just a case I worked on." His voice is tinged with bitterness, but his face remains impassive.

"A case? You were bodyguard to someone with a fucking Hangman fetish?" That pisses him off, which was my intent. Another point for me.

"I wasn't always a fucking bodyguard, you know," he informs me, and his voice is different. It's angry, menacing, and I move away from him at the same time that my dick wants to move closer. He notices my reaction and immediately apologizes.

"It's okay, Tim, but fuck, what were you—a fucking hit man?" I mean it as a joke, but he winces almost imperceptibly.

"I'm—I was a cop, okay?" he says finally, looking both guilty and proud. "A detective, with Homicide."

"Okay, so what does that have to do with a kid's word game?"

"You're from Canada, right?"

I nod, hoping this will make sense sometime before the plane lands. "Vancouver," I specify.

He nods, apparently satisfied. "New Years, '96, you don't remember hearing anything about some murders in Baltimore?"

I shake my head, laughing a little. "Tim, I don't remember fuck all about the beginning of 1996. That was a bad fucking time in my life, one I don't care to remember." He stares at me curiously—like a detective, I guess. Don't know what the suits told him about me, but I guess it's all a matter of public record, and if he wants to go digging around in my past, I'm not going to stop him. I'm not volunteering anything, though—it's his fucking turn to play—and after a minute he starts talking again.

"There was a sniper. Every eight hours, he'd find some high place in the city and start shooting. And he left a Hangman game at every scene, with more letters filled in. Bodies piling up, all those names in red, the whole city going nuts, while we try to find this guy. Finally trace him using writing samples from the Hangman games, getting a handwriting expert to go through hundreds of receipts for the kind of chalk he used until he found a match. Got to his house an hour before he was going to start shooting again, and I, I was primary, and I wanted to talk to him, try to get him out of that fucking room alive. I wasn't going to fuck up another redball. I gave him the last letter for his fucking game and he blew his brains out. A few hours later, a copycat's up on a roof shooting more people down."

"Fuck." There's some detective lingo in there, but not enough to detract from what he's saying, from the anger and pain in his voice.

"Yeah." He smiles wryly, and then the captain announces we're making our final descent. Tim the homicide cop busies himself with putting away the tray table and straightening his seat, and I stare at him some more. Maybe I'm not going to mind having a fucking bodyguard as much as I thought I would—this fucker has some entertainment potential, like a puzzle to be solved. A six and a half foot puzzle with a mouth made for fucking and what appears to be some repressed anger. Definite fucking potential.

I get used to having him around pretty quickly. Enjoy watching him. I know he enjoys watching me, too, but he's far too professional to do anything about it. On the tourbus, backstage, in the limo, he'll be watching all around me, doing his job, keeping me safe, but he'll talk to me while he does it. Get the feeling he's used to having someone around to talk to, that maybe he misses someone who knew or knows him well. Think it must be this guy he mentions on occasion, used to be his partner when he was a detective, guy named Frank.

He gets this look when he's talking about Frank. Wistful, resigned. I ask him once, who the fuck was this guy to you, Tim? He glances over at me, pissed and scared and lonely, says what do you mean? He was my partner. I was his friend. And that's all? I ask. He looks away. He knows what I'm asking. Doesn't say anything for a couple minutes, makes like he's looking out the window, then starts talking about Frank's wife and kids.

I could press him on it, probably make him tell me more, but for some reason I don't feel like playing. I'd rather have him tell me in his own way, in his own time. I started out attracted, then got curious, and now, fuck if I don't find myself actually liking him. Feeling kind of at ease in his company, feeling comfortable around him, and that feels really fucked. I can't figure out why for awhile, and then one day, sitting on the bus and looking out the window at the Rockies as we head into Denver for a gig, seeing the snow on the evergreens, I remember the last time I felt this comfortable with someone I'd just met.

I was thirteen fucking years old, and I'd just met Joe Mulgrew.

Fuck.

I try to back off after that, try not to notice him. It doesn't work for shit, and I give up after a couple days.

I do want to find out more, find out what makes him tick. Figure there's at least a chance I'll find out something that'll end this fucking attraction, this connection I feel. Doesn't make any fucking sense I'd feel like I had so much in common with a damned cop, even if he does look like he's been through six kinds of hell. Different kinds of hell, probably, from what I've been through, but fuck if I don't want to know all about them.

It's a few days later, yet another limo ride, Tim in the seat next to me. He's looking out the window again, and I'm looking at him, wondering what he's thinking about. Seems like something pretty serious, not that that's anything new. I know he's capable of laughing, of smiling, but it happens very rarely. So I ask him what's going on in that head of his.

"Not much," he replies.

"Bullshit. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, but I can tell you've got something on your mind."

He meets my eyes with a wry grin. "You don't miss much, do you? You would've made a good detective, Bill."

"Why'd you quit?"

His expression shuts down. "Too many bodies. Too many murderers getting off."

I know I'm pressing my luck, but I can't help asking, "Anyone in particular?"

There's a quick flash of rage in his eyes, then an even quicker flash of fear. "Luke Ryland," he says, with cold hatred, his face expressionless again.

"Wait, I think I heard that name," I say, searching my memory. "Was he in the news? Something with the internet?"

"Ritual murders, live videostreaming, online. He killed two women before we found him."

"Jesus. But you caught him. Were you the, what's the term you use, the primary?"

"Yeah, uh, no. No, Renee, she was primary, but it was her first redball, so the bosses wanted me to take over. Assholes." I can tell there's a fuckload of history behind that remark, but I forego pursuing it to ask about something else that's been bothering me.

"Renee was your partner? Not Frank?"

"Frank quit homicide the year before, right after the shooting. I partnered—jesus, I partnered with just about everyone for awhile there. For Ryland, I was partnered with Renee Sheppard, a new detective."

"What shooting?" I'm learning more in this one conversation than I have in the last couple weeks, and I'm not going to stop asking questions now, not when he's answering them like this. There's not much expression in his voice, but it's like he's started talking, and inertia's keeping him going.

"Uh, a few years ago, we were taking down this big drug ring, and I got shot. Spent six months on disability. Frank quit while I was still in the hospital."

"Because of the shooting?"

He shakes his head, then pauses, thinking. "Maybe. That's not the reason he gave Gee, but, you know, he was a fucking lousy shot, and he was in the line of fire, just standing there, one eye closed, so I pushed him out of the way."

"They would have shot Frank, but you took the bullet instead." Not for the first time, I wonder exactly what this Frank Pembleton means to Tim.

"Yeah. I took the bullet, and it went right through the vest like it was paper. I died in the OR, but they brought me back."

"Fuck, Tim, how can you be so fucking calm about it?"

He shrugs. "It happened; it's over. Thought it meant something once, but I got over that, too." He looks away, like he admitted something he wishes he hadn't.

"What did it mean?" I figure even odds he'll answer me or hit me. Instead, he just looks at me sadly and shakes his head again.

"Nothing," he mutters finally. "It didn't mean anything." I let it go, he resumes his stare out the window, and I resume watching him.

He has the next day off, and I have to put up with another bodyguard. I'm pissy all day, and rehearsal's a pain in the ass as a result, but at least it passes relatively quickly.

He's with the limo when it comes to pick me up the following morning, escorts me from door to door as usual. Once we're on our way, he reaches under the seat and hands me a book.

"What's this?"

"Thought you might be interested. It's a gift. The other day, when you asked, about when I got shot. I became a Buddhist."

This fucker just keeps surprising me. The book is one of those dummy series. This one's called Zen Living for Dummies. It's well-thumbed, with parts highlighted—his own copy, I guess, and I wonder why he's giving it to me. Then I remember something he said.

"How do you 'get over' becoming a Buddhist, Tim?"

He winces. It takes a minute for him to decide to tell me.

"You know much about Buddhism, Bill?"

"A little," I admit. "Jen flirted with it for awhile, made us play a benefit to free Tibet."

"One of the main precepts is respect for all sentient beings. Most Buddhists are vegetarians, and they believe that killing is wrong."

"Yeah, that sounds right." At least now I know why he has that faint look of disgust on his face when everyone in the band wants to stop at Mickey D's.

"There was a Zen teacher in Baltimore who was killed, couple years ago now. Another detective was primary, but they put me on the case, too, because I knew Sensei Kohler, had met Roshi Felder, too, and was familiar with the Zen community. The primary, Meldrick, he didn't want me on the case, thought it was one of the other people living in the zendo who did the deed, thought I couldn't be objective. Turns out it was this homeless guy, Larry Moss," I can tell it's hard for him to get the guy's name out, "and I tracked him down. He confessed—he murdered the Roshi because of a spoon, believe it or not, guy was a real winner—but when I went to take him in, he shot at me. I had my gun pulled, and I warned him to stop, but then he aimed right at me, and those cop instincts, that killer instinct Frank thought I didn't have, it kicked right in and I shot him. I killed him. After that, I couldn't be a Buddhist anymore."

"Why the fuck not?"

"I killed him!" The anguish in his voice is quiet and unbearable, but it doesn't make any fucking sense.

"So? You're a fucking sentient being, too, right? And don't they have some Buddhist outreach programs for the prison population? I thought only the Buddha himself achieved perfection."

"You don't understand."

"Then fucking explain it to me, Tim, jesus! Explain to me how not letting this Larry Moss fucker kill you is a bad thing, so bad that you couldn't be a Buddhist anymore, because you're right, I don't fucking understand."

"I thought, I thought it was different, that I was different. I was the zen detective, the sensitive one, the fucking bisexual murder police, and then it just all went to hell, and I didn't know who the fuck I was anymore, but I was sure of one thing. I was sure that when it came down to it, I was a better cop than I was a Buddhist. That's all I had left, being a homicide cop. Everything else was gone."

Putting aside, for the moment, that he just admitted he's into men, I try, and once again fail fucking miserably, to figure out how he got from point A to point a million miles from B. I know he's the self-torturing type, but this is fucking ridiculous. Unfortunately, we're pulling up to the rehearsal space, and his face is shuttering back into professional mode. I grab the book again, then reach for his hand and give it a squeeze.

"Hey, thanks. For the book—I'll give it a read." He meets my eyes with gratitude, then gets out to do his looking around the limo for suspicious characters thing before he gestures for me to get out. And I spend the rest of the day thinking about him. Not that that's anything new.

Part Three: Back Alive

I said goodbye

When I was numb

Now I'm back and alive

'Cause you have got what I need

—Say Goodbye, Headstones

When I first got this assignment, found out I was going to be bodyguard to a rock star, I had some preconceptions. Figured it would be some arrogant hump, strung out on money, drugs, fame, and groupies, out for the status of having me in his posse or something.

I'd heard of Jenifur, of course, although I couldn't remember any specific songs. The day I met Billy Tallent is the first time I'd ever heard of Hard Core Logo. That night I went online, looked up the band, ordered a couple cds on Amazon, the only ones that weren't out of print. When I listened to them a few days later, I realized Jenifur was wasting the talents of one hell of a guitarist and wondered why he'd never moved on.

Billy Tallent's a consummate performer, and he's always, always onstage. He can lie, schmooze, and play the angry punk, seducing and manipulating everyone around him. One smile from him and most people are so charmed they don't know what hit them. But I see him when no one else is paying attention, have been watching him for weeks now, and I think I'm getting a better sense of who might be behind all those personae he so effortlessly puts on and off.

Bill Boisy, the man, is quiet, soft-spoken, extremely intelligent and observant. Those bright blue eyes of his miss nothing. He's aware of my attraction to him, just as I'm aware of his, just as we're both aware that acting on it would be monumentally stupid.

I can talk to him, more than I've been able to talk to anybody since—well, since ever, really, because talking to Bill, talking with Bill, is easier than talking to Frank ever was. It's not that Bill doesn't challenge me—he does—but even when he thinks I'm dead wrong about something, there's never as much as a hint of superiority or condescension.

I find myself opening up to him, telling him more in a few weeks than I've told most people I've known for years. I feel more comfortable with him than I'm used to—usually when I'm attracted to someone, easy conversation is the last thing I'm capable of.

I can't seem to help it around Bill, though. It passes the time during long limo rides through LA traffic, but there's more to it than that. I feel like he knows me better than he should, somehow, but it doesn't bother me. I like it. He's curious about my life, an attentive listener, and even when he's swearing at me, those blue eyes regard me with respect, acceptance, and, if I'm not fooling myself, an easy affection.

It makes the job a hell of a lot more pleasant, although it's getting difficult to keep my interest in the client out of my weekly reports. Fortunately, there haven't been any signs that anyone's actually out to do Bill harm, outside of groupies grabbing at him. The label still wants me watching him on this next tour, though, so I close up the apartment and pack for a couple weeks on the road, loading my bags into the trunk of the limo when it picks me up the next morning.

A couple days later I'm standing by the door of the tourbus, watching the Seattle fans behind the barricade, waiting for Trevor and Jen to get their asses in gear. There's a commotion over by the barricade, someone fighting his way through. Sid's over there, with a couple police and rent-a-cops, and I hear his part of the conversation through my earpiece. Sounds like it's someone who knows Billy, someone from Canada, and he's pretty agitated, claims Billy's expecting him. I signal one of the rent-a-cops to come over and watch the door while I go into the bus to check on Bill.

He's fiddling with his guitar, doesn't even notice me until I say his name twice, then looks up, annoyed, but doesn't say anything. I gesture for him to move away from the window. He gives me a measuring look, then turns to peer through the tinted glass.

"Bill, look, how the hell am I supposed to protect you if you ignore me?"

He tells me to fuck off and continues to watch the scuffle outside; Sid's voice in my ear gets louder, something about not caring who the fuck the guy is, without a pass he's not getting any closer.

Bill jerks back from the window, and I pull him quickly out of the way. He's shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't fucking believe it," he mutters. "What the fuck is that cunt doing here?"

"Who?" I ask.

"Bruce McDonald."

"That's the guy who did the film?"

"And the guy who told Joe I was leaving the band, yeah, that's him. Fucker."

"Why would he be trying to talk to you?"

"Fuck if I know, Timmy—why don't you go ask him? Better yet, why don't you go beat the crap out of him?"

I hold my hand up, listening to Sid in my ear. "Wait a minute, Bill. Bucky Haight—that name mean anything to you?"

"Why?" He's still got the attitude, but hearing the name shakes him a little.

"This guy McDonald's saying Haight was murdered a couple days ago, and that whoever did it is after you."

"Fuck."

"Why don't you let me go out and talk to him, see what he knows? You don't have to see him—just let me handle it."

"No, bring him in. Fuck knows I don't want to see him, but I'll listen to what he has to say."

"You sure?"

"Long as I don't have to look at him."

It takes a few minutes, but eventually I get things worked out before a couple of the rent-a-cops beat on McDonald. Turns out a message got mislaid, a message from the cops up in Canada—we were supposed to be expecting him, were supposed to know what the fuck this is about. I pull him aside before I take him in to see Bill.

"Listen, Mr. McDonald, I don't know what this is all about, but I wanted to let you know one thing before we go in. I'm here to protect Mr. Tallent, and I will do that. Remember that, and don't try anything stupid."

"There's no love lost between me and Billy, but that doesn't mean I'm out to hurt him. Someone out there is, though, and he deserves to hear about it."

I nod, gesture for him to follow me. "This way."

Bill's waiting in a small conference room backstage. He didn't want any of the others there, and I concurred; no use involving anyone not directly connected to Bill's old band. McDonald goes right over to him and holds out his hand, but Bill ignores it, looking down at his own hands on the table.

"You're looking good, Billy," Bruce offers hesitantly.

"Cut the bullshit, fucker. Tell me what you came here to tell me and get the fuck out."

"Fine. I've been getting death threats off and on since a year after Joe's death, when some sick fuck took his body out of his grave. You heard about that, right?"

"I thought you came here to talk about Bucky, not Joe."

Bruce winces visibly at the contempt in Bill's voice, then answers him angrily.

"Bucky, not Joe. Right. Did you hear how he died, Billy? He bled to death. The killer cut his fucking legs off with a chainsaw and left him to bleed to death."

Bill looks up quickly, startled, meets Bruce's eyes for the first time. The two of them stare at each other for a minute before Bruce speaks again.

"Did you know Pipefitter died a few months ago?"

"What? Fuck, no, I haven't heard from him in years."

"He and I kept in touch—he worked for me on a couple projects. Seems he was at home, decided he wanted to do a little gardening. He was going to use a tiller on some ground, but it malfunctioned and electrocuted him."

"Shit, only Pipe would get himself killed by fucking gardening," Bill mutters, disbelieving.

"They ruled it an accident, and I didn't question it at the time, just like I didn't question it when Oxenburger took a dive off that bridge in BC, even though I knew we filmed him there."

Bill's looking puzzled, and more than a little pissed off. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Bruce shakes his head. "No, you wouldn't know—listen, Billy, I filmed stuff before that show at the Commodore, went out and interviewed Pipe and John, interviewed Joe, all before you ever made an appearance. There was shit that was for the movie that you never saw. Oxenburger talked about his falling dreams, imagining how it would feel to die. We filmed that interview on the bridge in BC, the one he jumped off a couple years ago, if he really did jump. Pipe we interviewed in front of his house. He talked about how the tour was going to be great, as long as no one died in a bizarre gardening accident. Those were his exact words."

"And just how does this relate to Bucky Haight's legs?" I ask.

"How the fuck is this guy supposed to protect you if he doesn't know about Joe and Bucky?" Bruce asks incredulously. "I mean, shit, Billy, I know it wasn't your finest hour, but come on!"

That pisses me off, so I let him have it. "I know enough about what part you played in Joe's death to wonder exactly where you were when Bucky was killed, Mr. McDonald." That earns me a wry smile from Bill, one I can't help returning. He gives me a little gesture to tell me to back off.

"I guess I assumed you'd heard the whole story, back when it first happened," Bill says. I shake my head, wishing I'd spent more time doing research. "The way Joe got the band back together, the way he got me to fly up to Vancouver for that first show, was a benefit for Bucky Haight. Joe announced to everyone that some punk had gone up to Bucky's farm in the prairies and shot him in the legs, which were then amputated. He figured the only way he'd get me to do a reunion show was for some sort of benefit. Fucking dink. I couldn't stand Bucky, but performing for fucking 'rock against guns' gave me the excuse I needed to see Joe again."

"Joe faked the benefit, sacrificed his friendship with Bucky just to get Billy back in his life again. And he fucking worshiped Bucky. Something else we filmed, that you never saw, Billy, was the look in his eyes when he realized what he'd given up. Do you have any fucking clue what you meant to him?"

I start towards McDonald again, but Bill stops me with a hand on my arm. His voice starts out fairly quiet, but it soon grows loud with fury. "You shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking cunt. You don't know anything about me and Joe. You may think, just because you followed us around with a fucking camera for a couple weeks, that you have it all figured out, but you're the one without a fucking clue. I appreciate that you wanted to let me know about Pipe, Johnny, and Bucky, but you'd be well-served to get the fuck out of my sight before I fucking shoot you myself, you understand? Is that fucking clear enough, or do you need me to fucking act it out for you?"

I've got a few inches and probably fifty pounds on Billy, but I wouldn't want to get in his way right now. McDonald's kind of a schlump, but he's smart enough, I guess, because he backs toward the door. He stops before going down the steps to deliver one last speech.

"I know we'll never be friends, and I know telling Joe you were leaving the band was wrong. You're right—I don't know that much about what you two meant to each other. But I know about Joe's body being stolen, Pipe's gardening accident, and Bucky's legs. The cops up in Toronto take the death threats I've been getting seriously, and so do I. Whatever you think of me, and however much guilt we both feel, that's beside the point. Someone's out to even the score, and I just thought you should know there's a real fucking threat out there."

Bill's turned away, although I know he's listening. He holds a hand up, a shield between his face and McDonald's words. "Fine. I heard you. Now get the fuck out."

I get on the cellphone and call the agency, set up a strategy meeting. Bill follows all my recommendations and insists that I'm the one he wants in charge, the one he wants on 24 hour duty. Says he doesn't trust anyone else like he trusts me. The label and the agency have no choice to go along with it, once I say I'm willing. And I am willing, there's no doubt about that.

So I go from spending most of most days with Bill to being with him 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I'll be sharing hotel suites with him while others guard the door. It won't be easy, continuing to ignore the attraction between us, but the truth is, I wouldn't trust anyone else to keep him safe. And that's important to me.

Especially now. The next leg of the tour is in Hard Core Logo territory—western Canada, with stops in Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon, and Winnipeg. The only city on the Hard Cores' last tour we're not hitting is Regina, where Bill's daughter and her mother live. I know Bill's far from thrilled about the tour schedule, but he's very professional when it comes to the band, and he doesn't say a word to their management about their choice of when and where to tour, no matter how awkward and tasteless the timing may be.

Meanwhile, the FBI and the RCMP are cooperating in the investigation, trying to find the fucker who's responsible for all this. I hope they find him soon, because once this is over, I'm beginning to think there's a chance for. . . something, I'm not sure what, with me and Bill. I want that, and it's been a long time since I've wanted anything. It feels good. Frightening, but good.

We drive from the Vancouver airport to the hotel in a separate limo—they don't want Bill on the bus anymore, except for occasional short trips, which is fine by me. The driver's from the agency, so I feel justified in letting some of the constant watchfulness fall by the wayside to use my interrogation skills on the man sitting across from me. It's definitely not in the manual they used in my orientation, but I don't give a shit. I figure the direct approach will work as well as any, so that's what I lead with.

"Hey, Bill."

He's been quieter than usual, turned in on himself, no Billy Tallent to be seen, but not much of anything else, either. He's shut off. So I'm not surprised when he keeps staring out the window until I say his name again.

"Yeah, what?" he asks in a flat voice.

"I understand it's a difficult subject, but I'd really like to know more about Joe, about what happened."

"We were in a band for twelve years, he was a fucker, and I left. Came back five years later for the benefit, lost the Jenifur gig, started writing with him again, got Jenifur again, that fucker told him before I could, and he fucking shot himself. What else is there to know?"

"Why you left, for one thing. How you met. How the band started. What it was like for those twelve years." He hasn't turned around, and his shoulders have gotten more tense with every question. "Shit, Bill, what are you afraid of?"

There's fear in his voice, but the anger's stronger. "Wasn't this all covered in your fucking briefing, Detective Bayliss?"

I answer the anger and fear with a calmness I don't feel. "This isn't about me being a bodyguard. Yeah, it might help keep you safe, but that's not why I'm asking. I just want to get to know you better."

He meets my eyes, finally, and I muster all the sincerity I can.

"I want to keep you safe. Not just because I'm paid to. I want to know about Joe because I want to know about you, about Bill Boisy, not Billy Tallent. I want to find whoever this mook is and put him away, because then maybe we can spend some time together, Bill and Tim, not the rock star and his 'executive protection.'"

"You want that?"

I answer the question he's really asking.

"Yeah, I do."

He looks at me for a minute, emotions rolling over his face so quickly and subtly I can't identify most of them. Then he nods. Another minute of looking at me, and he nods again and starts to talk.

"Okay. I, uh, I first met Joe when I was 13. He was a year younger, not that you could tell—always was bigger than me, and I always looked younger than I was—you too, I'm guessing."

I nod.

"He, um, neither one of us had many friends, but when we met, we just fucking clicked, you know? Instant connection. Didn't have a clue back then what else was going on, just knew he got me, I got him, and we both played lousy guitar and wanted to be something great. He introduced me to the Sex Pistols, I introduced him to the Ramones. We'd drive my mom crazy, listening over and over again to Anarchy in the UK, trying to play along.

"We couldn't go to Joe's house. His dad was on unemployment, his mom gone somewhere, years earlier, and it wasn't—I didn't know everything, but he sure sported a fuckload of bruises and black eyes.

"That was part of the connection, too, but it wasn't anything we ever talked about."

I nod again, and he recognizes something in my expression. "Your dad, or your mom?" he asks quietly.

"Uh, my dad, mostly. It's complicated."

"It's never simple. My dad, he had a good job, made good money, upper management. No one ever suspected he came home every night, got drunk, and beat the crap out of his wife and kid. Back then, it was don't ask, don't tell, you know?"

"Yeah," I answer, a catch in my voice. "I know."

"Thought so," he murmurs, looking out the window again.

He's silent for a few minutes, and I'm thinking maybe that's all he'll say tonight. I start thinking about some of the Hard Core stuff I've listened to, and I get a hunch.

"That song. It's about your dad, isn't it?"

He turns back to me, bemused. "You mean 'Who the hell?'" It occurs to me later that he knew exactly what song I was talking about, without a moment's thought.

"Yeah. 'Call your wife a fucking bitch, just because you're stinking rich,' right?"

"'Pour yourself a glass of port, pour yourself another quart,'" he answers absently, then brightens a little. "Yeah. Didn't know you knew it."

"Ordered a couple cds from Amazon. They're hard to find."

"What did you think?"

"Jenifur's wasting your talents." He smiles in acknowledgement. "You're a great guitarist, Bill. I was really impressed. You and Joe wrote all the songs together?"

"Me, Joe, and Johnny. All three names went on all the tunes, but some of 'em were more me, some of 'em more Joe, some of 'em Oxenburger." He looks out the window again. "And now I'm the only one left."

"Not your fault."

"Shit, you sound like the fucking shrink I saw after Joe."

"Must have been a damned fine shrink."

He laughs. "Not as fine as you." Then he looks back to see how I've reacted to his compliment. I smile reassuringly, make the 'enjoy the view' gesture from weeks ago, on the airplane, and he laughs again.

"So. You and Joe," I prompt gently, and after a few seconds he starts talking again.

"Yeah. Joe and me, we'd hang out in my room until it was time for my dad to get home. Made it into high school, and although Joe didn't give a shit, I actually had plans, wanted to go to University, if you can believe it."

"What happened?"

"What didn't happen is more like it," he mutters grimly. "Joe's dad went fucking nuts one night, beat him—beat him really fucking badly. Anyone with half a brain would have gone to the emergency room, but instead he showed up at my place, threw stones at the window to wake me up, and I snuck him in the house.

"Jesus, I was so fucking scared, worried he might actually die, you know, because the motherfucker hit him in the head with his fucking guitar, and Joe tells me he passed out then, plus another time before he made it to my house. He belonged in the fucking hospital, but I knew there was no way I'd get him there, so I clean him up a little, as best I can, stick him in my bed, and get in next to him, and he fucking smiles at me and falls asleep. I wake him up a couple times, to make sure he's not in a fucking coma, and he just smiles again and tells me to fuck off and let him sleep.

"It wasn't until that night that I realized—that I figured it out, that I loved him. All that piss and vinegar, all that fucking Joe Dick, you couldn't see it when he was sleeping, you know? So I curl up around him, watching him, until I fall asleep with my arms around him. Next morning, when my father decided it was time his namesake got his ass out of bed, he found the two of us in bed in our underwear, tangled up like a couple of lovers, even though at that point we'd never done anything. Shit, we both had girlfriends, you know?

"So my dad, he just starts screaming, saying no son of his is a fucking faggot, pulls the two of us out of the bed and just starts whaling on me. I'm not even awake yet, and Joe—Joe's pretty fucked up from the night before, one eye swollen shut and basically a mass of bruises—but he sees my dad hit me and he grabs a lamp off the table and clocks my father with it, right between the fucking eyes. Lays him out cold.

"My mom comes in, having heard the commotion, looks at the whole fucking tableau, and starts crying that we killed my dad. Joe grabs me, tells me to get my guitar and some clothes, grabs my stash, and we take off."

He quirks a smile at me. "Never did tell him I snuck off and called my mom later that day. She said my father was okay, but it wasn't safe for me to come back. I called her from the road now and again, until she died."

"What happened?"

"Car accident. Drunk driver, meaning my dad. The motherfucker survived, of course, until he died a few years ago. Cirrhosis."

"You expect it's gonna feel better, somehow, once they're dead, but it doesn't help."

"No, it doesn't."

He looks at me, and I can see him deciding not to ask, which is a relief. I suspect I probably would tell him, if he asked, and wonder why that is. It's not as if I've ever told anyone, except for my father and Frank, for all the good that did me. But he doesn't ask, and we lapse into a comfortable silence for the rest of the long ride to the next town.

After a few minutes of staring out the window, I'm counting my breaths, for once feeling no need to either stop or pursue it, just allowing it to happen, the way it sometimes used to. I'm aware of the images, thoughts, and feelings that intrude, but this time I'm finally able to let them flow. I sit up a little straighter, bring my hands together, thumbs touching, and continue to breathe, all the way to the hotel.

Once we get there, we only have a short while to make the place secure and get something to eat, then meet with security at the arena, get Bill to rehearsal, and go through the pre-concert security run-through, the concert itself, the post-concert routine, and the trip back to the hotel. I forget about what happened in the limo.

Couple days later, Bill's in the shower, which normally would be very distracting, but it happened again on the way here, this time on the bus from the arena to the hotel. No one was paying attention—Bill was off in the corner, playing his guitar, making some notes with Trevor—and I just slipped into it again.

I think I'm as nervous as I was the first time Chris took me to his sangha back in Baltimore as I pull a pillow off the bed and put it on the floor. I bow, try to get myself centered, and sit. There's no incense, I left my cushions in Maryland, and the view in front of me is foreign, but maybe that helps. Maybe the completely unfamiliar surroundings keep me from thinking about the past, because my eyes meet a point on the wall, lids half down, my hands stay where I put them, and I move easily from counting breaths into a stillness I've rarely, if ever, achieved before.

I don't know how long I sit before I'm aware that Bill's there, fully dressed, sitting in a chair and reading the book I gave him, glancing up at me from time to time. I take a long, deep breath, bow to the Buddha in us all, and get up to stretch.

I turn, and his eyes meet mine. He smiles warmly, sincerely. There's no Billy Tallent in that smile. It takes my breath away. I can't do anything but smile back at him, and his smile grows in response, and I'm suddenly feeling something I haven't felt in so long I can't quite figure out what it is. Then I realize it's joy, and it shakes me to the core. I have to close my eyes against the tears that threaten.

A second later I feel Bill's hand on my upper arm, the other hand reaching for mine, and I open my eyes to his concerned face.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly.

"Nothing," I choke out, looking down, away from those incredible eyes, but I can tell he's not satisfied with that answer. "It's—I'm happy."

I look up again, and the understanding I see floors me. "I get that," he says, and I know he does.

I glance down at our loosely clasped hands and realize I've been running my thumb over his knuckles, just as his other hand is caressing my upper arm. I place my other hand over his, stroking his wrist and inner arm with my fingers, feeling him squeeze in response.

"Bill—" I hesitate, clasping both his hands in mine. "Right now, I work for you. I'm responsible for keeping you safe, and that means maintaining some professional distance."

I don't think I'm imagining the brief look of disappointment before he gives my hands another squeeze, then drops them. "'Maintaining professional distance,' right. This isn't some fucking Whitney Houston movie, is that what you're trying to say?"

"Something like that," I acknowledge. "But this is a temporary assignment, you know."

Blue eyes meet mine, and the fire in them makes me want to forget any semblance of professional integrity I have left. Fortunately or unfortunately, the decision's taken away from me by loud knocking at the door.

I draw my gun and look through the peephole, but it's just Carl, from the agency, so I open the door.

Carl's new to the job, and young, but he's got potential. When I realize he's upset by something, I take notice. I gesture for him to come in, and the three of us sit down at the table.

"What is it, Carl?"

"This just came," he says, handing me a note in a plastic bag. "I thought I should show it to you right away. I've already called the police."

Bill grabs it from me before I can read it. Whatever it says can't be good, because he turns pale and starts swearing before thrusting it at me.

"This sick fuck is threatening my daughter, Tim," he pleads. "She never did anything to anyone."

The note, in generic Times Roman, says that Billie and her mother will be killed unless Bill agrees to play one last show tomorrow night. A special show, for a private audience. There's a polaroid of Mary picking Billie up from school in with the note, and I know it's a recent one, because she looks the same as the pictures Bill got just before we left for the tour.

The local police, the FBI, and the agency are all surprised when Bill insists on doing what the killer demands. I'm not, although I don't give in without a fight. We're still arguing about it when Bill's cellphone rings. The electronically altered voice announces he's got Mary and Billie, calls it an insurance policy to make sure Bill shows up. We're on our way to Saskatoon within an hour. Bill won't agree to a wire, but he's letting me come with him, not that he could stop me if he tried. Once we get into town, his cell rings again, and we're directed to an old nightclub; Bill confirms that it's where Hard Core Logo played on their reunion tour. We'll receive further instructions there.

There's something about the particular location that's got Bill even more worried than I would expect, but he won't tell me what it is. When I press him on it, he says he and Joe had a conversation there, and they made a deal to keep making music together, a deal Joe probably thought he was breaking when Bruce told him about the Jenifur gig. I think there's more to it than that, but I can tell I'm not going to get any more answers until Mary and Billie are safe.

Part Four: Something's Gonna Die

And I can see the earth below me

And I can feel it turn

—Turn, Great Big Sea

We walk into the club. It's clear no one's played here in years—the place is a fucking mess. Tim heads towards the stage, gesturing for me to stay behind him; he's got his gun drawn, and he's looking around carefully, although there doesn't seem to be anyone here but us. I realize I've been holding my breath since we opened the door, so I take a deep one, only to start coughing in disgust. "What the fuck is that smell?"

"Decomp," Tim answers absently.

"What?"

He turns to look at me, gesturing at the stage. "There's a body up there. I'm guessing whoever it is has been dead awhile, maybe even a couple years. I'll be able to tell better when I get a better look. Just hold your sleeve over your face and stay close."

"Fine, just don't tell me you miss this part of your old job." That earns me a look and a smile.

"Sorry—you get used to it, you know? The first time, hell, the first 20 times, they were hard. Especially the second time," he adds absently. "Look, I know it's—I'm sorry, but I need to get a good look at what's up there. I also need to keep you safe, and that means you have to stick pretty close, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," I answer, trying to breathe through my mouth. To distract myself from what I don't want to see, I ask him, "What was it about the second time?"

He stops.

"It was a little girl named Adena Watson. She was 11 years old, raped and murdered. It was my first case, and I never put it down. It was a huge fucking redball, but eventually I figured out who did it. When Frank and I got him in the box, though, he broke us. I couldn't get him to confess, and he walked away."

I put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"Yeah, me too. Come on." He leads me up to the stage, and I'm gagging, but at least that's all I'm doing. The first thing I see is a skeleton. It's dressed in black and holding a guitar, and as I get closer, I see the rings on its fingers, the necklace, and the bracelet around its, around his, fist.

"Joe," I breathe.

"You're sure?"

"Who else could it be? Besides, I recognize the jewelry."

"So whoever this is, whatever they've planned, it's been going on for years. It's the same person who stole the body."

"Yeah. I think you're right—it's got to be one of the crew from the film. Must be why Bruce is still alive, despite the threats."

There's a note pinned to Joe's sweater. It says, "Time to keep your promise, Billiam." Tim asks me what it means, and I tell him I'm not sure, although I'm getting a pretty good idea.

At first I'm relieved, thinking it could be worse. It's just Joe—what's left of him. But then I forget, take a regular breath, walk around the side of him, and it hits me, and I have to back away, because it's Joe, and you can see his skull. You can see the fucking hole in his forehead, and around the back of his head—fuck, the back of his head is nothing but a big fucking hole, and there are dark, ugly stains surrounding it. I'm still backing away when I realize Tim's saying my name, grabbing me by the shoulders.

The phone rings, and I hand it to Tim, sit down on the stage, shaking like a fucking leaf. I take a couple deep breaths, only to have the smell hit me again, stronger than ever, and then I'm puking my fucking guts up in the corner, and I don't know if the tears running down my face are from that or from everything else.

Then I feel Tim's strong arms around me, and I lose it, and he just holds onto me, murmuring reassurance, leading me away from Joe's body, off the stage. He tells me the call was from Regina, that the cops found Mary and Billie where they were supposed to be. I suppose I should be glad this fucker keeps his promises. Thank fucking god they're all right. Now I've just got to find a way out of this, or at least keep Tim out of it.

He finds a place for me to sit, away from the stage, while he looks around some more, and then I hear someone coming up behind me, from backstage. I turn around, and I get a quick glimpse—I'm down low, the guy hasn't seen me yet—and he's carrying a gun. Tim must hear something, too, because all of a sudden he's grabbed me from the side and pulled me down the hall and into a small, dimly lit room, where we sit and wait, hoping the fucker won't find us, but pretty damn sure he will. It's not as if there are a lot of places we could be hiding—the club's not that big. And Tim left the phone on the stage when I was puking.

I guess I should have figured out this is how it would go down. Yeah, I don't know for sure that Bruce got that conversation on film, but given what else he did, it's no fucking surprise. Whoever the sick fuck is who's doing this, he had to be on the crew; there's no other way he could have known what he knows.

I'm glad Tim's here, although it's not fucking fair that he might end up dying for my fucking sins. Maybe we'll still find our way out of this—the guy's really fucking smart, and he's kept me alive so far. Right now he's leaning against the wall, those long legs scrunched up in the tight space, his eyes closed. He's between me and the door, of course, and I know he's not asleep, meditating, or fucking time traveling—he's listening. Listening for any sign that the motherfucker out there has figured out where we're holed up, and trying to find a way out of this mess.

It's fucking freezing in here, and I find myself scooting closer, trying to take advantage of Tim's body heat. Without opening his eyes, he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, a faint, enigmatic smile on his lips. I guess there's not much point in either of us pretending any longer, so I wriggle even closer and rest my head against his chest. His hand comes off my shoulder; I feel his fingers running through my hair, the warmth of his breath against my forehead as he turns toward me, then the gentle touch of his lips just below my hairline.

I look up into his eyes, dark circles under them, barely visible in the dim light. He smiles sadly and strokes my cheek. Before I even realize I'm going to do it, I've returned the caress and urged him closer, our lips meeting in a soft kiss.

Joe and I never kissed. He was my whole fucking life at one time; I'll always love him, always miss him. He was the first guy I ever admitted feeling attracted to. He's the first and only guy who ever fucked me. But with the exception of that half-assed buss he gave me that night at the Commodore, his lips were never on mine. On my cock, yeah, but nothing like this. Nothing this, well, tender.

It feels so fucking good, so fucking real, it scares the shit out of me.

We kiss for a few minutes, still soft and sweet, a little tongue that seems to sweeten things even more. He breaks off to look in my eyes again, studying my expression intently. I don't know what he sees, but it's enough to make him smile. He kisses my forehead again, then folds me into his arms and starts running his fingers through my hair some more.

Even in the dim light, I can see the outline of his erection, and I'm sure he's aware of mine, but it's just as obvious that of all the times and places, hiding from a psycho in a fucking broom closet is not the best time and place to further our relationship. Fuck. I just thought of this as a fucking relationship. But it's not the time and place to ponder that thought either, so I push it away, or try to—it's kind of difficult when I'm practically fucking cuddling with the guy.

All thoughts get cut short the next second as we're startled by a loud guitar riff that's awfully fucking familiar, at least to me. It should be—it's me, playing the beginning of "Something's Gonna Die," and I'm pretty fucking sure I know when it was recorded, the last fucking song we ever played. Sure enough, next thing we hear is Joe's voice, singing the words I never wanted to hear again:

I got a bullet in my pocket like a Barney Fife

and I'm savin' it up for the right occasion

Like tonight feels pretty good all right

So alls I gotta do is get me a gun

and stare down the barrel, set my sights

Well there'll be no peace, there'll be no fight

When somethin's gonna (hey hey) die tonight

There ain't no point in wrong or right

When somethin's gonna (hey hey) die tonight

I'm shaking before the end of the first verse, but Tim just holds onto me again. At least this time I'm not puking.

After the song ends, there's a wail of feedback through a microphone, then a voice.

"It's time now," it says gleefully. "Your audience is waiting, Billiam."

A minute later the door opens. The guy standing there, dressed in an outfit that's a twin to the one Joe wore throughout the last tour, was a production assistant on the film. Neil or Noel or something. Think his last name was Mercer. Fucker didn't do shit but follow Danny Nowak around and stare at me and Joe whenever he thought we weren't looking.

"You—hand over the gun," he says, and Tim complies. "I kept my promise, Billy," he adds, gesturing with both guns for us to precede him to the stage, where he puts Tim's gun down. "Now it's time for you to keep yours. You're going to play one last show, and then you're going to shoot yourself."

"What's he talking about, Bill?" Tim asks.

"Who is this fucking felcher?" Neil or Noel questions me. "He doesn't belong here, William. I told you to come alone."

"Yeah, well, he insisted on joining me, so what the fuck was I supposed to do?" I slip easily into my Hard Core Logo persona, knowing instinctively I'll lose any chance of either one of us surviving if I don't play this exactly right.

"Fucking Billy Hollywood, complete with a fucking Hollywood bodyguard," the fucker sneers. "That's okay—he can be the audience. It's not as if there were that many people here that night."

"And what are you going to do, Noel—manage?"

"Don't fucking call me that!" he screams. "That's not my name, and you fucking know it, you motherfucker!"

"Sorry, Joe," I retort, which seems to mollify him. Jesus, he's even crazier than I thought.

"Yeah, like you were ever fucking sorry, you fucking cunt. Billy Fucking Hollywood. Get your ass up on stage next to me, where you belong."

I look over at Tim, standing in front of the stage, outwardly calm, but watching carefully for an opportunity of some kind, eyes never leaving the gun in Noel's hand. I must stand there a little too long, because next thing I know, Noel's shoving the gun in my face and screaming at me to get on stage.

Once I do, I notice a guitar case that wasn't there before. It looks familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"Got you a little present, Billy boy," Noel wheedles. "I fucking saved it for you. Go on, open it."

I walk over and open the case hesitantly, wondering what's inside. I can't help a gasp when I see it, and I catch Tim making an abortive move toward the stage before he stops himself.

It's the Strat. The '59 Strat Bucky gave me, the one Joe smashed to hell the night he offed himself. Looks like Noel took it upon himself to fucking glue it back together—it's in one piece, although I can tell by looking at it that it'll never play a note.

Even though it's broken, even with all that happened that night, even though the man who gave it to me is dead, even though I have a Strat of my own at home (but not a '59), I still lift it carefully out of the case, handling it with the same reverence I felt back when I first played it on Bucky's porch. Noel watches closely, apparently fascinated, as I run my hands over the back of the guitar, consciously mimicking how I caressed it after Bucky told me to keep it.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye until I see him pick up another guitar—one of Joe's. He has to lower the gun for a second, and that's when I change my grip and smash the Strat into the side of his face. He goes to his knees, trying to bring the gun back up again, but Tim's there already, shoving a knee into his back and forcing him to the ground. He steps on the fucker's hand, forcing him to drop the gun.

"If we were in the States, and I were still a cop, I'd have to read you your rights now, and put you under arrest," he says menacingly. "Fortunately for me, neither one of those conditions apply." With that, he pulls Mercer up and slams him against the wall, grinding his face into the bricks, twisting his arms behind him until the fucker gasps. "Bill, you'd better call the local authorities, so they'll get here before I can beat this sick fuck into a bloody pulp."

"If they don't get here soon, they'll have to pull both of us off him," I reply, but my hands are still a little shaky when I punch in the numbers. Then I thank Tim for saving my life.

"You saved your own life, I think, and mine too," he answers with a faint smile, his eyes still on Mercer. "That was pretty quick thinking with the guitar."

"Yeah, well, let's just say I had an inspiration and leave it at that," I reply.

By the time the cops come, we make our statements, and make sure all the fucking t's are crossed, we barely make the last flight out of Saskatoon. There's no fucking way I'm spending another minute in fucking Saskatchewan, though, so that suits me fine. Tim doesn't seem to mind, either; doesn't say a word about maybe getting a hotel and a shower, which we could both definitely use. He seems to want to get going as much as I do.

We manage a brief stopover in Regina, just enough time to hug my kid and apologize to Mary, and then we're on our way back to the States, Regina to Seattle to LA.

Part Five: Anything

Enjoy the pace of life's embrace

Every breath you take will guide you

Every sunset, both good and bad

Ain't necessarily behind you

—Exhausted, Headstones

So here I am again, flying first class with Bill. Granted, it's different this time—for one thing, we're both completely wiped out, not to mention pretty fucking ripe. I don't think the flight attendants would have believed our tickets were real if one of them hadn't recognized Bill; we look like a couple billies. Which reminds me of something I need to say to him, before either one of us falls asleep.

"Bill?"

"Yeah, Tim, what is it?" He turns those blue eyes on me and it takes me a second to remember what it was I was going to say. Even exhausted and filthy, he's still the sexiest thing I've ever seen. He notices my befuddlement and his mouth quirks in a little smile, just for me. Jesus.

"Uh, it's just, um, I was hoping that, with any publicity this whole thing gets, I was hoping we could keep me out of it, you know? My name, my face, I'd like them to remain private. I mean, if you want people to know that your bodyguard was involved, I guess I can't stop you, but if you could keep my name and picture out of it, I'd appreciate it."

"I don't know how much control I'll have—fucking paparazzi have a tendency to get pictures of whatever they fucking please—but I'll let the suits know to keep you out of it."

"Thanks." I give his hand a quick squeeze, then lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. When I wake up, as we're making our descent, I find Bill leaning against me. I watch him sleep for a few minutes, then brush my lips against his temple. He wakes up with a smile.

Fortunately, Bill's publicist managed to keep our flight information quiet, so there are no reporters waiting when we get off the plane. No one seems to notice us as we skip baggage claim and head for the exit; I think our disheveled state protects us. The limo driver, one of the regulars, doesn't even recognize us at first.

The drive back to Bill's goes by quickly. It's not until the driver's left that I realize I don't know how I'll be getting back to my apartment. Maybe Bill will let me borrow his car. I don't argue when Bill grabs some pasta out of the fridge, throws it in the microwave, and then hands it to me.

We eat quickly, and I realize it's our first meal in over 24 hours, since neither one of us ate on any of the flights. I sit there for a minute after I finish eating. I don't really want to leave, but I know Bill's got to be as exhausted as I am, so I force myself up and out of my chair.

"I guess I should be getting home, let you get some sleep."

Bill looks at me like I have a hole in my head. "You're staying here tonight, you fucking freak. I'm too fucking tired to drive you home, and I'm not calling a driver this late. You want a guest room, take your pick, or sleep with me. Either way, we both need a fucking shower. You got anything clean left to put on? 'Cause I might have something that would fit you, although I doubt it. I like my clothes loose, but not that loose."

"Yeah, I've got something. You're sure?"

"After everything that's happened, I'd feel better with you in the house. Safer, too."

"And in your bed?" I ask, glad none of the nervousness I feel shows in my voice.

He comes closer and looks up into my eyes. I can see uncertainty, but there's a heat there as well, and the gentleness he usually keeps so hidden you'd never know it was even there. "We don't have to do anything, Tim. Just sleep, at least tonight. But if you wanted more—" he hesitates, and I reach out to stroke his cheek.

"Hey, hey, Bill, it's all right. I do. Want more, that is," and I realize I'm blushing, maybe because I don't want to admit to myself just how much more I want. More than just sex, that's for sure, although the mere thought of kissing him again is enough to make my cock twitch.

He's looking worried for some reason, and I find myself reaching out again, smoothing my thumb over the lines on his forehead. He closes his eyes in pleasure, swaying a little, and I move my hand to the back of his neck and urge him forward. He leans against me for a few seconds, then pulls back and meets my eyes again.

"So you're okay with this. Comfortable, I mean."

I finally realize what he's getting at and can't hide a smile. "You know I'm bisexual, Bill. I like women, always have. But I like men, too. And you, specifically—jesus, I've never wanted anyone the way I want you." I'm blushing again. And I think he is, too.

"Tell me about it," he says under his breath, looking down, then looks up again and starts to smile, only to be interrupted by a huge yawn. "Fuck. If I don't get in the shower now, I'll fall asleep right here. The guest suites are down that hallway, so just pick one. Master's this way," he points. "You get in and out of that shower quickly enough, maybe I'll still be awake when you come to bed."

The shower feels too good not to linger, so I do, until my skin is red and the water's starting to cool. I can hear Bill moving around down the hall as I towel off, so I know he's not asleep yet. Even so, by the time I pull on some boxers, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, he's barely got the energy to open one eye.

That doesn't stop him from nudging me onto my side, then throwing a leg over mine and an arm over my chest. His breath on the back of my neck is the last thing I remember before falling into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

I don't know what time it is when I wake—I can't see the clock on the end table well enough to read it—but it's still dark. I'm a little thirsty, but not enough to get me out of this cocoon of warmth and comfort. I dislodge Bill's arm when I turn to look at him, and he shifts and mumbles a little, then wakes with a start.

"Tim?"

"Yeah, I'm here." I feel his lips touch my shoulder before he sits up. "Where are you going?"

"Gotta take a piss, if that's all right with you, detective."

"As long as you hurry back." I reach for the glasses I don't even remember taking off.

I find myself getting nervous again, waiting for him. It's worse than in that damned broom closet, probably because there's no fear of imminent death to distract me. And I can't decide how I feel about the fact that it's dark enough that I can barely see.

That thought's banished when Bill turns on a small lamp on the other side of the room, and I find myself staring. He's wearing nothing but soft jersey boxer briefs, navy blue, I think, or maybe black. The outline of his hardening cock is unmistakable. His hair's rumpled from sleep, his skin wrinkled and reddened in places from the sheets. Those long fingers of his are scrubbing through his hair, and he's looking at me kind of sideways. He's nervous. He's beautiful.

I sit up and pat the mattress next to me. My voice catches, and I have to clear my throat before I can talk. "Coming back to bed?"

"Fuck yeah," he says, smiling at last, and my already stiffening cock springs to full attention at the promise in his voice. He sits down next to me and gently takes my glasses off and puts them back on the nightstand. Then he hesitates. "Listen, Tim—fuck. Never mind."

"What is it, Bill? Tell me." I bring his hand up to my lips. He looks startled for a moment, then relaxes a little and brushes callused fingers across my cheek. He doesn't say anything, just watches his own fingers as they trace over my forehead, nose, lips. I take his hand again and kiss his palm softly, afraid I'll spook him. He shudders, then brings his forehead against mine, and my fingers follow the same path his did. Underneath the stubble, his skin is soft and warm. He leans into my caress, still silent, trembling a little. My hand ends up at the nape of his neck, and I leave it there, gently cupping the back of his head, waiting for him to speak, amazed by the vulnerability he's showing me.

A little while later—a few seconds, a few minutes, I'm not really sure—he takes a deep breath and speaks to my chest, his forehead still resting against mine.

"I've had a fuckload of meaningless sex," he begins, his voice even softer than usual. "First time I had groupies waiting for me after the show, thought it was fucking great. No pain, no commitment, just getting off with whoever took my fancy. Only person who meant anything to me, he, well, he was into power and control. He got off on—he loved me the way he loved the alcohol, the music, the coke. And he used me the same way. The addiction game kept us going for a long time, but in the end, I wanted out. Of course, that just made it all worse, and it ended—well, you know how it ended."

"I'm not Joe," I venture cautiously.

He looks up wryly. "You're not a fucking groupie, either."

"No, I'm not."

His answer is aimed at my chest again. "You can only have so much meaningless sex. After awhile, it's easier just to masturbate. Safer, too."

"And meaningful sex?" I ask, very carefully.

"I'm not sure I'd know what to do." He meets my eyes, and he's wide open, completely raw, and fuck if I'm not the one trembling now.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?" He nods, and I cup his face between my hands. I kiss his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, then his lips meet mine, softly, gently, and it's even sweeter than it was the first time. I take my time, relishing every moment, learning the tastes and textures of face, lips, and the tongue that meets mine with gentle passion.

At first Bill mirrors what I'm doing to him, but soon enough he's taking the initiative, reaching behind me, slipping his hand under my boxers, grabbing my ass and urging me closer. Then he pushes himself away, saying, "Wait a minute; stop. Fuck."

"What's wrong?" I pant.

"We need to talk. Fuck, Tim, I don't have any fucking condoms in the house. What—I'm not sure—I don't know if we'll need them, I don't know what you wanted, but if we don't stop and talk about this shit now, we might regret it later."

"Okay, you're right, of course you're right. But we don't need to—we can do things, uh, make love, safely, you know, without necessarily needing condoms."

His mouth quirks. "Make love?" He's teasing, but there's more to it than just that, at least to my hopeful eyes. Jesus, I have it bad.

"Yeah, Bill. Make love. Meaningful sex. That is what we were doing, isn't it?" I hear my own need for reassurance, and I guess he does, too, because his gaze softens and he reaches for my hand.

"That's what we were doing," he says wonderingly. "Yeah." He stares at our linked hands for a minute, then sighs. "And part of that is being responsible, right? So, um, the label, I was pretty fucked up when they signed me, you know? So my contract stipulates testing. At first I was peeing in a fucking