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and over, shrill
and loud, drilling into him. The sound stopped as his answering machine
kicked on, then began again.
    He levered himself off the couch and onto the floor, heading to bury
himself beneath Gran's quilt, on Artie's chair. He simply ignored the
noise, the music, the pain in the back of his forehead.
    Think, Greg. Focus.
    Gran's voice.
    Art's laugh.
    Gran's tea, spicy and orangey and sweet.
    Art's watch, it had been Art's grandfather's.
    He had no idea how long he sat on the floor, his head on Artie's
chair, before the store beneath went quiet and the elevator started up,
creaky and groaning. It had best be Artie. If it was a psycho killer,
he'd probably offer up his throat.
    "Hey." Artie. It was Artie kneeling in front of him. "You wanna sit in the chair, man?"
    "I thought about it, but it's really a bit of a climb." Artie looked
stressed out, tired, eyes bruised and shadowed. The sun was trying to
come up, to fill the room with a pink light. "How'd it go down there?"
    "It went. It's a shop. People touch stuff. We've got about a million
prints, but I doubt there's a usable one. The box..." Artie trailed
off, shaking his head. Giving him plenty of time to protest, Artie
reached for him, grabbing him under the armpits and hauling him up,
plopping him in the chair.
    "What was in the box?" His head rolled, surrounded by safety, by family. By Artie. He loved this chair.
    "You were right. It was a piece of someone. Your girl, most like.
We're gonna try and ID her. I need something to eat. And maybe a stiff
shot."
    "I have your whiskey in the wet bar." He could stand up and cook. He
could. At least he was fairly sure he could. Mostly. "You want eggs and
toast?"
    He wouldn't fuck up eggs and toast.
    "That sounds good. Real good." Artie sat on the ottoman, elbows on his knees, head down. "Goddamn, I hate this."
    He nodded, looking at the different colors in Artie's hair. Some
were almost white, some a real gold. A shiny gold. Funny wasn't it? The
things you focused on? The things you saw?
    He reached out, braced himself for the rush of visuals and sounds when his hands stroked through Artie's hair.
    Tired. Mainly Artie was just really damned tired. The rest was a
blur. Leah. The pyramid, over and over. A bloody scrap of finger
wrapped in cream paper—gift wrapped. Artie leaned into the touch,
humming.
    God, it felt good. Warm. He kept touching, breathing nice and slow.
Eventually the pyramid would go away. It had to. Just relax, Artie. Let
it go away.
    "Feels good. I told Leah to call me when she gets home. Not sure
where my phone is." The image faded slowly, but it faded. Then it was
just Leah with a big old belly and swollen ankles and Artie fluttering
around like a nervous hummingbird.
    He smiled. Oh, yeah, Artie as hummingbird. Duke wouldn't have any of
that. His touch moved down, working the deltoids gently. If Artie
didn't know, Greg wouldn't either.
    "Mmm. Damn." Oh, that helped. He could feel the tight muscles
release, could feel Artie sink down. The old ottoman creaked and
groaned, sliding a little, bringing Artie closer.
    He nodded, eyes closing. It had been so long since he'd been able to just touch and not be scared. So long.
    Like three thousand five hundred and seventy three days long.
    Artie's eyes popped open, searching him. "You're touching me."
    "Do you want me to stop?" Greg hoped Artie didn't ask him to stop.
Not yet. Five more minutes and he'd go make eggs. Bacon. Souffle.
Anything.
    "No." Those eyes looked like storm clouds. Okay, so that was a cliché from hell, but there it was. "No, it feels good."
    "Yes. It does." So Greg kept doing it, letting the wonder and awe of
really and truly touching someone wash the horrors of the night away.
Artie's shoulders were hard, firm, hot under his hands. Not even murder
could supersede this, right here, right now.
    There was nothing coming through now but warm. Artie just leaned
against him and let him work away every bit of stiff and worried and
scared.
    Oh.