Breakfall (35 page)

“He’s all yours.” Then he took a few tense steps to his unmarked Dodge sedan and slid behind the wheel.

Time resumed its flow with Hastings’s departure, and Sean looked around, aware of his panting breath and shaking hands, aware of the way the cops around him had settled into a careful, prescribed routine.

He saw Mark and a uniform lift Frank Pettel off the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, and prop him against the cruiser, patting him down for weapons. The uniform removed a gun from behind his back, unloaded it much like Hastings had unloaded his, and placed it in an evidence bag.

Sean heard the Miranda warnings being recited by rote, not really absorbing the impact of the words. A dozen or so men and women, both in and out of uniform, watched Mark stuff the suspect into the backseat of the cruiser before they walked by him, saying their good-byes and congratulations by a punch to the arm or a clasp on the shoulder. No words were exchanged.

The cruisers pulled out. Their red and blue lights no longer reflected off the frozen snow in a dizzying array of colors—the street fell dark and silent. The police failed to answer the questions of those residents who noticed the intense, almost silent struggle in their front yards and came out to see.

“It’ll be on the news, sir. I’m not free to comment.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Nothing special. Routine arrest.”

Sean felt a sudden wave of nausea wash over him, and his knees threatened to buckle. He focused on his one point and breathed.

Just adrenaline. Adrenaline’s wearing off. Nothing new under the sun. He looked at the cops around him, mimicking their body language.

Nothing special. Routine arrest.

“What?” He realized a brown-skinned woman in uniform was trying to get his attention.

“I said, Mr. Gallaway, do you need a ride home?”

“Yeah…. Yes, please. That would be welcome.” He entered her cruiser. “One of your officers is at my home already, plus I need to return your body armor.” He noticed he said “my home” and felt warmth fill his heart.

His home. Asbjorn.

A
SBJORN
HEARD
a car park at the fire hydrant in front of the house. The door opened, and two people made their way up the stairs. There was no knock on the door, and realizing that, he released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He watched Sean enter and kick off his winter boots like he had done so many times in the past, inviting the woman in uniform inside.

“Hi, Bjorn,” Sean said, sounding the way he sounded every time he came through the door. He slithered out of his too-tight jacket, revealing the undamaged Kevlar vest underneath.

Asbjorn crossed the space between them in a flash. “Hey.” He embraced him, his nose buried in the mass of cold, messy hair. “Let’s get you out of this getup. Where’s Mark?”

“He had to go to the station—the paperwork and interrogation will take some time,” Colleen said. She nodded hello to the other woman. “Came to pick me up, Martha?”

“Sure enough. Plus to drop off this sweet young man right back home where he belongs. What were you thinking, going after that guy like that? You jus’ gave the rest of us a heart attack!”

“He was about to run for it. He spotted that van cruising around the block.”

Colleen got that spaced-out look again, and then she grinned. “Apparently, you got him good with that pepper spray. He’s bellyaching, requesting medical attention.”

The other woman cleared her throat. “What pepper spray?”

Sean looked at Colleen, confusion firmly written on his face.

“Yeah. What pepper spray?”

I
T
WAS
two o’clock in the morning, and Sean was thoroughly sick and tired of listening to Asbjorn go on about how terrible it was to sit behind and wait, and how terribly proud he was of Sean to do the brave thing and play bait, and how relieved he was that it was all over now and his sunshine was finally safe.

“Bjorn. I wanna go to sleep, Bjorn.” Sean’s adrenaline had worn off two hours ago, and even though he could have summoned another burst, he didn’t want to. He wanted a soft bed with soft sheets and a down comforter and Asbjorn pressed against him for body heat. Which was exactly what he got.

They were woken up by a doorbell ringing at eight o’clock in the morning.

“What the fuck?” Asbjorn rolled out of bed, grabbed his robe and slippers, and went to look out the window.

Mark stood on the front steps.

Asbjorn walked downstairs to let him in. “What the fuck, Mark? Can’t you tell how early it is?”

“What the fuck, Asbjorn? Can’t you tell how late it is? I haven’t been to bed yet, you stupid fuck, and if you want any of these fucking donuts, you’ll let me upstairs and put on some coffee.”

“I can’t believe you guys do this for a living. The adrenaline was so high I thought I was gonna pass out,” Sean said later as he sipped his coffee with soy milk, enjoying a too-sweet donut in the company of his good friends.

“Well… the job has its perks. You don’t get many parking tickets.”

They laughed.

“Hey, Sean. I wanted to tell you how well you did last night. The guy was about to back out.”

Sean flushed with embarrassment. “Ah… it was nothing. It was you who tackled him.”

“Bullshit. Do you realize how many people were attacked before you? You’re the first one to take him down. It’s like you were in that basement room on purpose, you know. Like a karmic thing—the universe knew it was time for the bastard to be nailed, and you were the one with the guts to do it.”

“You make the other victims sound like a bunch of little girls, Mark,” Asbjorn growled.

“Nope. Men and women both, of all ages. It wouldn’t have happened without you. And the best thing is, those other vics are coming out of the woodwork, pressing charges of their own. With all those recordings you made, and fingerprints, we’ve got enough evidence to lock him up and throw away the key.” Mark put his half-eaten donut down. “I better get going. If I don’t sleep, I won’t be fit to drive.”

“Would you like to crash here?” Sean asked, concerned.

“Nope. Thanks, though.” He stood and reached his hand to Sean.

Sean shook it.

“No, dumbass. I want my pepper spray back.”

T
HEY
SHOWERED
,
and to save time, they showered together. That led to touching, which in turn led to gasping moans until the water ran cold. Asbjorn exited the bathtub and hoisted Sean over his shoulder, carrying his indignant sunshine to the bedroom. The sheets got wet, but they didn’t care amid the kisses.

“I never want to lose you, Sean.”

“I felt so alone without you.”

“No help for it.”

“No.”

“If you were a girl, Asbjorn, I’d ask you to marry me.”

Asbjorn searched his eyes. “We
are
in Massachusetts. Gay marriage is a possibility here, you know.”

“Really?” Sean’s eyebrows rose. “I never paid attention to these things until….”

“Until I met you,” Asbjorn whispered. The unvoiced proposal hung in the air between them. “Although I can be a bit of an asshole at times. I’m not sure you want me on a permanent basis.”

Sean met his eyes and saw fear and regret. “You may be an asshole here and there, but you’re my asshole.” He gave him a flippant smile. “Plus you can cook.”

Asbjorn let out a long, inarticulate moan.

“Something to consider,” Sean continued, weighing his words with care. “Although after two weeks of traveling together, you’ll probably be ready to strangle me in my sleep.”

Asbjorn laughed, and the tension between them dissipated.

Two hours later, they showered again and changed the sheets. There was still time to wash and dry a load before they had to leave for their evening flight. Sean went down to the dark basement to put up the spent linens, and as he stepped through the door, his right hand slid inside his pocket, fishing around for a sleek black canister of pepper spray.

It was gone.

He leaned against the wall and looked around, surveying the dimly lit area. He’d do the laundry without his pepper spray.

Frank Pettel was in custody.

He no longer needed it.

T
HEIR
PLANE
landed in Copenhagen, Denmark on December 22 at 7:00 a.m. They exited their gate and walked down a short corridor.

“Wow. Like, wow!” Sean said as he looked around with wide eyes.

Asbjorn looked at Sean with some amusement. “You’re easy to please. It’s just an airport!”

It may have been “just an airport,” yet it didn’t feel like one. Never before had he seen an airport with warm-tone, wooden floors such as these. He was tempted to remove his boots and feel the smooth surface through his thick socks.

“It’s kind of homey in here. Not too big, and definitely very nice. I love the décor. What’s good to eat here, do you know?”

“Hmm… it’s airport food. We could just hang out and pick up breakfast. Everyone at the house will still be asleep, or at least taking their showers. I don’t want to ambush them too early.” An uncertain frown flittered across Asbjorn’s brow. “There are other places I want to take you for herring and beer and cheeses and stuff. Let’s just walk around and see what breakfast foods look good.”

After they were done spacing out over a modest breakfast of sweet rolls and strong coffee, Asbjorn got them on the right bus. Sean looked out the window, eyeing the architectural style of the buildings with great curiosity. They switched buses downtown and crossed one of many bridges spanning Copenhagen’s numerous lakes and canals. Dancing snowflakes didn’t seem to deter cyclists. Dressed for the weather in hats and gloves, men and women cycled on ordinary, upright bicycles, their baskets laden with briefcases and grocery bags.

Sean realized that, despite the ravages of jetlag, he felt relaxed for the first time in weeks.

“You grew up here?” Sean asked, marveling at the picturesque entryways and snow-covered roofs.

“I was almost ten when my parents decided to move to America. My dad was teaching at Boston University.” Asbjorn looked around, seeing the city of his birth through fresh eyes. “It’s nice here. I never wanted to leave when I was a kid, but you know what they say—the grass is always greener on the other side, right?”

“Yeah….” Sean’s voice was hushed, his breath fogging up the bus window. “So you didn’t want to return here?”

“Not really. Although, I really love having a sense of home here too. We can do some touristy stuff while we’re here. I haven’t done that in a long time. Having you with me is a good excuse.”

They got off the bus and started walking. Asbjorn led them through a pleasant residential neighborhood. The streets were quiet, and only the soles of their boots scuffed the shoveled sidewalks.

“You didn’t tell me much about your family.” Sean felt a tendril of anxiety in the pit of his belly. They had decided to reveal their relationship only if necessary, and only if a good time presented itself. For all intents and purposes, Sean was a fellow student and a good friend.

“My mom and I clash a lot,” Asbjorn said half a block later. “My stepdad is a bit—well, we’re not really close. I have a stepsister, Ulrika—she’s in college—and a stepbrother, Ole, who is finishing high school.”

Sean felt his jaw tighten as he made his way through the snow on the sidewalk. “What did they think of you bringing a visitor?”

Asbjorn grinned. “They don’t know you’re coming. But don’t worry. We’ll stay in my room. There’s plenty of space.”

A sudden feeling of doom descended upon Sean. Manners and traditions didn’t differ so much from country to country to make it okay to bring an unexpected, overnight guest for the holidays.

“Wait, Bjorn. You serious?” He stood there in the snow next to an overgrown garden wall, unable to take another step forward.

“Come on, Sean. Two more houses and we’re there!”

“Asbjorn. You should at least text them.”

“Too late now.”

Mere moments later, Asbjorn pressed a doorbell by a garden gate. A figure moved behind the sheer curtains inside the house, and Asbjorn pressed against the gate when a buzzing sound let them know the gate was unlocked. They walked through it and up a stone path, cleared of snow from the gate to the front door.

The door opened.

A tall, thin man stood on the other side. He and Asbjorn greeted each other with a firm handshake, and Asbjorn switched into English. “Olaf, this is my friend, Sean Gallaway. Sean, this is my stepdad, Olaf Jenssen.”

Olaf shook Sean’s hand. “Come in, come in. A pleasure to meet you.” His English was fluent, with only a hint of an accent.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Jenssen.”

Olaf helped them take off their backpacks and brought a small broom to take care of the snow that had accumulated on their packs and shoulders during their walk.

“Put your shoes here, Sean,” Asbjorn pointed to a shoe rack by the door.

The commotion of their arrival drew the attention of the other occupants of the house, and Sean felt suddenly adrift in a sea of Danish words and phrases. Some were close enough to English to figure out, but not most, and certainly not at a regular rate of speech.