Squish.
Gushing chest wound.
The SIG P226 in his hand.
Crack.
—Death’s teeth clicking and clacking, whispering, “Not yet, my little psychopomp.”—
Larkin flinched and shook his head. “He called out to me by name. I turned and then he shot—” Larkin didn’t have a chance to finish the explanation as Doyle promptly took his face into both hands, leaned down, and kissed him. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even romantic. It was frantic—a level of physicality that didn’t exist in Doyle’s touch outside of this emotional extremity, and Larkin understood then—really understood—just how different their relationships with death were.
How incomparable the pains of survivor’s guilt and profound bereavementtrulywere.
Doyle broke the kiss as quickly as he’d initiated it. He absently drew his thumb back and forth across Larkin’s lower lip while his Adam’s apple worked, like he wasn’t quite able to swallow a knot stuck in his throat.
Larkin said, very quietly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Doyle shook his head as he released his hold. He didn’t reply to Larkin’s observation, instead saying, “I’m sorry—I didn’t even ask if you wanted to be touched right now.”
In response, Larkin took hold of Doyle’s tie, bringing him close enough to kiss again, albeit more gently this time.
A gruff clearing of the throat brought the sweet and life-affirming touch to an abrupt end.
Larkin watched Doyle take a step back while wiping his mouth. He looked at the open curtain where Ray O’Halloran now stood, looking a little pale and a little haggard.
O’Halloran spoke first. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Larkin answered.
The big Irish thug cast a sideways glance at Doyle, recognition lighting his eyes. “Forensic art?”
“Ira Doyle.”
“That’s right,” O’Halloran said with a nod. It seemed like he wanted to say something more—maybe revert to the safety and security of his schoolyard bully tactics—but O’Halloran only returned his attention to Larkin and asked, “You okay, Grim?”
Larkin made a sound, something between a snort and disbelieving laugh. He asked in return, “Stolle?”
The ruddiness in O’Halloran’s cheeks seemed to wane only further. He looked down at his shoes, scuffed once, twice, at the high-traffic linoleum floor, shook his head, and said, “DOA.”
Doyle swore under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said.
O’Halloran shrugged and looked elsewhere—anywhere—in that way that shock or grief makes eye contact so difficult for people. “Paramedics said your CPR kept him going most of the ride.”
Larkin was silent.
O’Halloran cleared his throat, reached into his suit coat, and retrieved a small notepad and pen. “Okay if I ask you some questions about what happened?”
“Of course.”
A nurse, this one in green scrubs, suddenly bustled in and said, “You’ll need to make room, gentlemen, or I’m going to need you to step into the waiting room.”
Doyle promptly took two steps back, just as O’Halloran sidled in sideways so as to not block the busy hallway. They bumped shoulders and apologized over each other.
Larkin cracked a lopsided smile. The two stood on opposite ends of the Irish-American spectrum—lean and stout, dark and light, saint and blasphemer—but apparently the one commonality they did share was an ignorance of clothing hangers and the importance of owning an iron.
O’Halloran said, pen to paper, “Walk me through the chain of events.”
