Chapter 3 Slaughter 28
Lam wasn’t a fool, so after he cut Conan’s cuffs, he stayed on guard with the knife in his hand. Conan only rotated his wrists and then stretched, getting to his feet. He was big, but now Lam looked him over with new eyes.
He could see the rough living on him, the roughshod clothing, the winter boots that had seen better days.
The threadbare coat he was wearing was ruined, slashed at the shoulder.
Lam would need to do something about that if the man survived the night.
He didn’t care to leave a man who had little, with less.
Lam cast a glance around and found his scarf where it had been forgotten. He picked it up and turned to Conan. He was brushing off his clothing with one arm, the other hanging at his side.
“See, I was returning your scarf,” Conan said with a smile.
Lam stepped closer. “Let me wrap your shoulder so you don’t lose any more blood.” The scarf was already ruined, so it was perfect for the job. Lam pocketed his knife as he stepped into Conan’s space, and they both watched each other warily.
Lam made quick work of tying the scarf around the man’s shoulder, knotting it tight as Conan tried to clamp down on a pained hiss. Lam tried not to let that affect him.
“Thanks,” he grunted when Lam was finished.
“You’re welcome. Come on,” Lam said, stepping out of his space and slipping his hand in his pocket, fist closing around the knife handle.
He turned and started in the direction he’d been going before they’d clashed into each other. The duffel of supplies was back behind the rocks still, and he didn’t care to retrieve it now. He’d have to come back for it tomorrow.
Conan dropped into step at his side, but left a little gap of space between them which Lam appreciated. The trust they had was tentative at best.
On the other side of the bridge were the steps leading back up to the main walkway. They took them by unspoken agreement.
“So…” Conan said as they got up the steps, “Going to yours I assume.”
Lam hummed and pointed in the direction. “About half a mile down. Think you can make it?”
It was half a tease, half a question. Conan hadn’t lost a dangerous amount of blood, but he had taken a wound and an adrenaline crash could still put a grown man on his ass.
“I’ll be okay,” Conan said. He glanced around as they walked through the dark. “Quiet around here.”
“Yeah. New to this area?” Lam asked.
“Just passing through really,” Conan said. “Was going to head more south before the worst of the winter. Winter’s shit to work outside in.”
“We don’t get much snow here, it’s pretty mild in this valley.” Lam offered.
“It’s not even the snow, it’s the temps. A good coat and boots ain’t cheap, and I go through them in jobs.”
“Ah,” Lam said. Right.
“How long’ve you been here?” Conan asked, saving Lam from having to come up with something further.
“About two years. I’ll be leaving soon,” he said, which was true.
Conan chuckled, “Extracurriculars catching up to you?”
Lam had been careful to keep Conan in his peripheral, but now he turned to look at him. Conan kept his gaze forward.
He was awfully handsome, in that rough blue collar way men could be.
“You could say that,” Lam said. “I’m careful, but part of that is not staying in any place too long.”
“I get that,” Conan shoved his hands in his coat pockets, but his shoulders were relaxed, he was trying to project a mildness that didn’t quite fit him. “I try not to stick around any place too long, habits and routines make you a familiar face.”
“Exactly,” Lam said. “Shame, because moving is so… annoying.”
“Oh yeah?” Conan asked with interest. “You got a lot of books or something? You look like a book guy.”
Lam didn’t mean to react to that, but something must’ve given him away because Conan laughed.
“You just need a big strong guy to move all the boxes for you,” Conan said, leadingly.
“You offering?” Lam asked.
Conan shrugged with his uninjured arm. “I’ve moved a lot of folks over the years. Anything for a shower and a warm bed, you know?”
Lam didn’t. He’d grown up comfortable and then gotten a degree in software engineering. The only hard work he’d ever done was his exercise and extracurricular training, and that was hardly the same.
“Is this something you do regularly?” Lam asked, “Talk your way into someone's house.”
Conan chuckled. “Yeah. Beats blowing your money on a bug-infested motel room most of the time. I’ve got the face and the charm for it. Most folks see it like taking in a stray for the night.”
Lam wrinkled his nose at the word. “Like you’re a stray dog?”
“Yeah,” Conan said with a smile, then must have caught his expression. “What? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”
Lam rolled his eyes. “No, I just–I mean, you’re not a dog.”
“Maybe I am,” Conan offered. “Stray dog looking for a good home, no shame in that.”
“Might bite,” Lam tacked on.
Conan laughed, deep from his belly. It was a nice laugh. “Only if you ask nicely,” he teased.
Lam felt a wash of heat in his cheeks and almost misstepped. He’d never interacted with any of the men he trapped beyond the sex. Usually by now Conan was a cooling body that Lam would have to dispose of.
He didn’t know what to make of this. His hand in his pocket tightened and loosened around the knife handle.
“So,” Conan said as they headed up the hill into Arlington Estates. Everything was quiet besides the whisper of wind through trees and their footsteps. “What’s with the three strikes thing? You a sports guy?”
Lam felt a brush of cold on the back of his neck. Usually questions about his method and moniker were immediate strikes, because to identify himself meant he couldn’t let his victims walk free.
But Conan already knew he killed people, and he seemed… unmoved by it. What would more honesty bring? Lam was curious.
“It’s a part of the game I play.” Lam explained. “Everyone gets three opportunities to behave, three strikes. It’s not about sports.”
“I see,” Conan said. “But no one’s gotten the metaphorical home run.”
Lam almost rolled his eyes again, “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
Conan chuckled. “Right, right. Of course not. But no one’s ever lived, right?”
“No,” Lam admitted.
Conan hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting. So three strikes, how am I doing?”
“You don’t have any yet,” Lam said. “But the night’s still young.” He’d meant to say it as a threat, but it came out… different.
He could feel Conan’s eyes on him. “Am I allowed to know what’s a strikeable offense? Or is not knowing part of the game?”
Lam turned that over in his head. He’d never been in the position to offer the information up. But he supposed telling him the rules wasn’t going to ruin it.
“I give a strike for not following directions, trying to kill me, having too much information about who I am,” the rules weren’t exactly cut and dry, because it wasn’t a game he’d designed for people to win. By the time they had a knife to their throat, their fate was pretty much sealed.
“I might be guilty of that third one,” Conan confessed, “you told me your name and that you’re a serial killer. That seems like it might be a step over the line.”
“Only if I think it’s going to lead to a negative outcome,” Lam said. “If I think you’re going to run out and tell people about me, the night’s not going to end well for you.”
Conan nodded. “Okay, so you’re flexible. Good to know. And just to be clear, you won’t find me running my mouth, I’ve gotten my hands dirty plenty of times before.”
“Oh?” Lam said. They turned down a darker street, his own, with his townhouse at the end. Only the porch light was on.
“Not like what you’ve got going on,” Conan explained neutrally, “but I’ve had to take care of someone once in a while. Livin’ rough and all that.”
“How often is ‘once in a while’?” Lam asked, curious.
Conan blew out a breath. “One a year, maybe?”
That put his body count at much lower than Lam’s, but that was still… something. A thrill went through him.
“Do you enjoy it?” Lam asked finally. He’d never encountered another confessed killer before, and wanted to know everything.
Conan shrugged. “I don’t hate it. Some of those bastards deserved it. I certainly don’t lose any sleep about it.”
Hm. So not quite like Lam, but still. He’d been a good sport all evening and Lam wasn’t bored.
“You enjoy it?” Conan asked a minute later when they finally came up to Lam’s place.
His hand tightened its grip on the knife as he took the steps up toward his door. Conan followed at a respectful distance, but Lam’s neck still prickled with the awareness of him.
“I do,” Lam said as he got to the keypad.
He half turned toward Conan, and met the man’s eyes.
“I like the moment where they think they have me, that moment where they think they can overpower me, and then all that power slips from their fingers. I like that fear, where they realize they can be made prey just as easily.”
In the porch lighting Conan’s eyes were dark, but he smiled. There was still blood on his face, and a large dark patch on his jacket. Lam had tried not to look at any of it during the walk, but now that he was home, the hunger had claws in him.
“Is that all you want? Prey struggling in the trap?” Conan asked.
The way he asked it gave Lam pause.
Once upon a time there’d been more Lam wanted, but he’d given up on that. Too many disappointments. Now he thought about Conan saying like a stray dog looking for a good home, as he keyed in his code to the door.
Maybe…
Lam turned the knob and opened his door. The dark chasm of his house opened behind him, but he kept his eyes on Conan.
“It’s not the only thing,” Lam said slowly, thoughtfully. His face was warm as he considered the two steps between them.
“Oh yeah?” Conan asked. His expression was open, curious.
“Yes.” Lam said, cutting off further inquiry. “Now come, I’ll suture that shoulder of yours.” Lam gestured to the door and Conan stepped forward, holding his gaze.