Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction ❯ Unwilling Sleep ❯ So Quick Bright Things Come to Confusion ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

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Unwilling Sleep, Part One: So Quick Bright Things Come to Confusion

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It was Joyce who answered the door. And then she dropped her glass. It shattered, sending Coke and shards everywhere.

She also blurted the first thing that came into her head. "Jesus Christ!"

"No," said the bedraggled figure standing outside the door. She stared at him in fascinated horror, unable to process the vision. The last -- the only -- time she had seen Count D in person, he had been immaculate, poised, perfect. She'd felt kind of…smudged…just by sitting near him. But the person who stood on the doorstep of her aunt and uncle's house looked to be on the verge of collapse. And then, as she stared, he stopped being on the verge and just collapsed, sliding down against the doorframe, a look of surprise on his face as his knees buckled.

She caught him by the elbows before he landed on the glass. "Oh God," she said. "Are you okay? Come on in. Chris? Chris, come here!"

Because that had to be why the guy was here. She couldn't say she was glad to see him. She'd never really trusted him, not since he'd tried to slip her and Samantha that nine-tailed fox instead of letting them take Chris home. And then the way he'd disappeared, taking his little shop with him, just a couple of months ago. Not to mention the way Leon had always insisted that he was a criminal. It all smelled really bad to her. But what was she supposed to do? Let him die on the doorstep? And of all the times he could have come…

She dragged him to his feet and guided him inside, encouraging him to step around the glass. His shoes had holes in them -- delicate satiny things, not suitable at all for walking long distances. And judging by the mudstains on the hem of his robe, and the exhaustion on his face, he'd been walking a pretty long way indeed.

"Please," Count D whispered as she led him to an armchair in the living room, "please, I…Detective Orcot. Can you tell me where he is?"

"Jesus, you have bad timing," she said. "Hold still, I'll get you some water. Chris! Get down here, someone's here to see you! Okay, I'll be right back -- "

He caught her arm as she made for the kitchen.

"Detective Orcot," he repeated, his eyes wide, his face pale and smudged with dirt. She noticed there was a long tear along one of his silk sleeves. And ew, she could smell him all the way over here, as if he hadn't bathed in days. "Is he here? I looked…his apartment. Someone else lived there. So I came here. Where is he?"

"He's -- you came here? From his apartment?" That was in Los Angeles! This was Long Island! "How?"

"I -- various ways. Some people were kind enough to give me rides. Lots of large trucks." He shivered a little. "But I have had to walk all day today."

All day? It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon. "That's -- what? You -- how the hell -- " No wonder he had holes in his shoes. "Good God, you're crazy. Look, just sit tight. You need to drink something. CHRIS! Stay calm, okay? I promise I'll talk to you in a second. Just be still."

"As you wish," Count D whispered, and fell back against the chair. He looked half-dead. "I do not think I can move, in any case."

"I bet not." Now she understood why Leon was always referring to the guy as 'that Chinese moron.' "Why the hell didn't you take a plane? And then call a cab? You've got money." From the looks of that shop, and those clothes he wore, it wasn't a hard deduction to make. It might be tacky to mention it, but hell, somebody around here had to have common sense.

"No, I have no money," D said faintly. She could barely hear him as she filled a glass with ice cubes. "I have nothing." The sound of water from the tap. "Nothing." Well, she hadn't imagined his penchant for drama, at least. Maybe he'd been mugged on the way over or something.

And then there came the sound of clattering feet. "Joyce, who's -- Count? Count!"

Chris. Finally. "Watch the glass!" Joyce called, and headed back into the living room with a glass of water and a broom. She didn't have to worry, though -- Chris was coming from the back yard, not the front door, and he was currently busy hurling himself into Count D's lap like a small, determined missile. "Count! You came back! Are you here to stay? Why did you go in the first place?"

"Chris," Joyce scolded as she bent to sweep up the glass, the broom's bristles getting sticky from Coke. She'd need to get some paper towels too. Her admonition to Chris was only half-hearted; he'd probably ask some questions she wanted to know herself, actually. "Don't jump all over him, okay? Looks like he's had a rough time." Then she looked up and almost dropped the broom this time: Count D had not replied to any of Chris' questions, had not said anything at all, but instead had wrapped his arms around the little boy as tightly as they could go and buried his face in Chris' shoulder. Chris' eyes were wide with surprise; then they closed in obvious bliss, and he wrapped his arms around the Count as well, content to hold and be held.

Joyce set the broom against the wall and put the glass of water down on a table by the armchair. Count D didn't look up. Chris cuddled closer, and whispered, "Are you okay?" He opened his eyes and looked down at D's right arm, the one with the torn sleeve. "What happened to your clothes?"

A shudder ran through the Count's slight frame. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, bewildered. "A dog. I was walking today. I stopped to pet it. It…" his voice trailed off, and then he raised his face, looking blankly up at Joyce as if he expected her to answer a question he hadn't asked.

She had no idea what the hell was going on, but apparently Chris was getting something she wasn't. "A dog bit you?" her youngest cousin asked, sounding as if it was the most shocking thing in the world, instead of a thing that would naturally happen to somebody stupid enough to pet a strange animal. "Bit you?" Chris added, as if this wasn't perfectly clear. Well, the guy had owned a pet shop. Maybe he just wasn't used to animals not liking him. Although you'd think the reverse would be true -- you'd think he'd know how to handle them, recognize when they were in a temper…

"No. I…I pulled away. Just my sleeve. But…" Count D shook his head, as if none of this made sense to him. Well, that made two of them, Joyce thought. "But…"

"Drink your water," Joyce ordered, frowning. "You're probably dehydrated. We might need to get you to a hospital. You're not making a lot of sense, here." She reached out and put her hand on his forehead. He flinched a little, but did not move his head away from her touch. The skin was hot and dry beneath her palm. "Yeah. Definitely need to drink that right away." Not waiting for him to take action, she held the glass against his lips. He blinked, took a small sip, and then reached out and gripped the glass himself, drinking the water so quickly that small rivulets ran down his chin. "Whoah, whoah! Don't make yourself sick!"

He set the glass back down on the table, breathing heavily. "I. I am all right. Thank you. The hospital -- there will be no need. No doctors. But please -- where is Detective Orcot?"

Chris was staring at Count D with open worry on his face. Joyce hated that lost, helpless look of his; it always meant that something was going badly wrong with his world. She hadn't seen him like this since the night Count D first went missing. "Are you in trouble?" Chris asked the Count.

"Good question," Joyce said grimly. She wished her parents were home. They would be soon, though, and this business could pass into older, more capable hands. "What do you want Leon for? Weren't you being hunted by the FBI? If you've got my cousin mixed up in something -- "

"I'm not being hunted by anybody," Count D said, closing his eyes again and patting Chris' arm, though whether to reassure Chris or himself, Joyce wasn't sure. "I'm not in trouble. But I -- please. I must find your cousin. If I don't…this will all have been for nothing…"

"What all?" Joyce demanded.

Then Count D looked up at her, and she drew in a sharp breath at what she saw in his eyes. "Is there something you are not telling me?" he demanded. "Has the Detective been hurt? Why was he no longer living in his apartment? Is he -- " His eyes widened, and his throat worked for a moment. "He cannot be -- why won't you tell me?"

Oh, wow. This didn't look like…well, anything she'd expected, really. "Why the hell did you come all the way here looking for him? Don't you know anything?" She rubbed her temples. "I mean -- didn't you check by LAPD? You know Jill, right? Leon's friend?"

D squeezed Chris so hard that the little boy yelped. "I did! She was not there! On vacation for a week, and I had no time...They told me -- they told me he had quit the police force, and they were angry at me, and did not know where he had gone, and said I had to leave at once before they remembered I should probably be under arrest. But I should not. I have done nothing. Please, Miss Sampson. I did not know where else to look." His voice was starting to rise to a slightly hysterical pitch. "I came this far to find him, and I will go farther if I must, but tell me where he is!"

"Count," Chris whispered, reaching up to pet D's hair timidly. "Count, Leon's okay. Everything's all right. It's okay -- please calm down -- "

D's head swung over to look at Chris like it was on oiled ball bearings. "You know where he is?" he asked urgently. "He is all right? Chris, tell me -- "

Fast as thought, Joyce strode forward and yanked Chris right off Count D's lap. They both stared up at her in surprise, D's hands grasping uselessly at the air where Chris had been. "Don't tell him anything, Chris," Joyce snapped, never taking her eyes off the Count. "Not until we know what he wants with Leon. What the hell do you think you're doing, just showing up here all messed up like this? Have you been attacked? Is somebody after Leon?" Her eyes narrowed in a sudden, suspicious fury. "Is that why you keep asking if he's okay? Should he be otherwise? What's the real story here, pal?"

D stared at her for another moment, then dropped his head down to look at his lap. And then, unbelievably, his shoulders shook with harsh, rasping laughter that didn't sound amused at all. Joyce started at the sound of it. "You are so like him," Count D said after a moment. "So many questions. Yes. Someone is indeed after the Detective, Miss Sampson. I am. But that is all -- at least, so far as I know."

He raised his face to her again. His expression was so different from their first meeting -- this wasn't a doll, this was a person who looked half-dead and desperate. "Must I beg you? Is that what you want me to do? I swear I mean him no harm. I only want to see him."

She stared at him, speechless. This didn't mesh with anything: not her ideas of who Count D was, based on her own observations, Leon's grousing, Chris' stories. This was something else entirely and she didn't know what on earth to say to it. But her silence proved to be a mistake, because it gave Chris the chance to blurt, "He's looking for you, too!"

"Chris," groaned Joyce, but it was too late. The Count turned to look at Chris in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Well, it's true," Chris snapped at her, sounding a lot less sweet than usual. "I can't believe you're not calling him and telling him the Count is here. Then he'll come home!"

"Looking for me?" Count D repeated stupidly.

Joyce sighed heavily. Really, where the hell were Mom and Dad? "All right," she muttered. "He quit his job to go looking for you, okay? You happy now? He's been running all over the country checking out rumors. Every time somebody gets mauled by their pet, he shows up. Stupid, you ask me. Really stupid. I don't even know how much longer his money's going to hold out -- he's had to borrow from my parents. And what he plans to do when he finds you, I have no idea." She exhaled heavily. "But Chris is right. We have to let him know you're here. Maybe then he'll finally tell us what the hell he wants with you." And then she couldn't stop herself from adding viciously, "Personally, I think he just wants to wring your neck."

Count D bowed his head again.

"He wouldn't!" Chris protested. "He's just worried! I've been worried too," he added, breaking free of Joyce's grip, and returning to take one of Count D's hands in both of his. "You just left. You never even said goodbye." His voice held a hint of reproach.

"I know," D whispered.

"Well, I want to be the one to call him," Chris decided. "I remember his cell number and everything. Don't go away, Count, okay? You promise you'll stay here?"

"Whoah, there," Joyce tried to protest. "Mom and Dad aren't even home yet -- they might have something to say about that -- "

"If Leon says the Count should stay I bet they'll let him, all right," Chris said, narrowing his eyes. "You know they will. And I'm going to call him now. Count -- stay!"

He moved to take the cordless phone from the wall, keeping his eyes on D the whole time, as if afraid he'd bolt from the armchair and out the door. Good grief! This was ridiculous. But still, for reasons she didn't entirely understand, instead of stopping Chris, or interrogating D further, Joyce went into the kitchen to get some paper towels.

They were almost out. She had to break open the last pack. Over the crinkling of plastic shrink-wrap, she heard Chris speaking excitedly. She put a roll of towels on the rack over the sink, tore several off, and then went to stand in the kitchen doorway just in time to hear --

"He wants to talk to you!"

Chris held the phone out to Count D, who stared at it as if it was a foreign object -- Christ, something had to be wrong with him, hospital didn't sound like a bad idea -- before taking it into his hands and saying hesitantly into the receiver, "Detective?"

Joyce strained to listen, not even bothering to disguise her interest. Chris also seemed to be holding his breath. There was a moment of silence, and then suddenly the receiver exploded in noise, Leon's voice obviously shouting, though she couldn't make out what he was saying. D winced, held the phone away from his ear for a moment -- and then brought it back in close, cradling it to his ear as his eyes fluttered shut, even though Leon's volume did not abate. He was trembling a little. After a few moments, he opened his mouth to speak, and nothing came out. He swallowed hard, and then tried again. "Detective. You…you are well?"

More enraged shouting from Leon's end. Joyce thought about going back into the kitchen and listening in on the extension there, but something about Count D's face, his hunched posture, the way he clung to the phone, rooted her to the spot. "No," D said, "I'm not…I will not. Of course, Detective." A pause. Leon was evidently speaking in more modulated tones now. "Of course," D repeated, his face unreadable. "Yes…if your aunt and uncle permit it, I will…" Then: "No. I do not." Then, very quietly: "I promise."

Then he held the phone out to Joyce, and said, "He wishes to speak to you now."

She nodded dumbly and took the phone. "Uh…Leon?" she said into the receiver, as Chris went back over and took the Count's hand again. D gripped it tightly, staring blankly off into space -- but his expression was less haunted than before. Slightly, anyway. "What the hell's going -- "

"Keep him there, Joyce," Leon's voice broke in, and there was no room for argument with it. "I mean it. Give him the guest room. I'm coming as soon as I can catch a flight."

"Where are you now?"

"Vancouver. There was a guy killed by a wolf-husky hybrid who'd been beating his wife, and I thought maybe -- Jesus, he's really there. Don't let him move. Tie him down if you have to. You know how lucky you are? I was thinking my next stop would be goddamn China in a couple days, and you could've forgot the fucking cell phone then. Jesus. I'm on my way."

Click.

Joyce stared down at the receiver, and then over at Count D, who was patting Chris' head with slow, mechanical motions. Again, she said the first thing that came into her head. "You need a shower."

"Leon's coming!" Chris cried, overjoyed. "Isn't he?"

"Yeah," she said. "Show him the guest room, would you?"

"Yeah! Yeah!" Chris looked like Christmas had come early. "You can stay with us! You can have a shower, and tonight Mama said she'd bring home some ice cream from the grocery store -- you can have that for dinner. And then you can tell me all about Pon-chan and Tet-chan -- "

"I believe," D whispered, rising slowly to his feet, "that I will need to eat more than ice cream from now on, Chris."

Huh? What the hell was that supposed to mean? And why did Chris look so surprised again? It was like that comment about the dog. "Look, just go get cleaned up," Joyce said in exasperation, fed up with not knowing anything.

She watched in silence as they mounted the stairs together, D holding on to the railing and Chris' hand equally tightly. He was limping. As they reached the top, he turned around to look down at her, but she could tell nothing from his expression. It was perfectly blank, just as it had been when she'd first met him, if a little less pleasant.

Then they were out of sight. She heard doors closing and water starting to run. Good God, this day -- funny how things could go from normal to totally surreal in the space of a few minutes. Was this what it had been like for Leon all the time, hanging around that guy?

She hoped he wouldn't stay for very long.

Just then the front door opened, and her parents finally came in. "Watch the spill," she said quickly, coming forward with the paper towels.

"Joyce, what happened?" her mother exclaimed. "Did you break a glass? I'll get the vacuum. And you'll probably need a mop. Watch out for slivers."

"Never mind the vacuum," she said, and pointed up at the stairs. "Two things: Leon's coming home -- and we have a guest tonight."

Finally. Someone who was more confused than she was.

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