Say Yes to Heaven

I'M SORRY— I won't be able to come to Bodega Bay this weekend. Don't give up on me, okay?

Tad's finger hovered over Send. He paused, put the phone back in his pocket, then took it out again, pulled up the text, and erased the last bit. I'll try next weekend, I swear.

God. That was worse. And not honest.

Please don't give up on me. I'll see you next weekend.

And he was going to press Send… going to press Send….

"Jesus, kid, shit or get off the pot, fish or cut bait. Shit, get off the pot, cut some bait, and go fish. This is killing me here. Are you going to text her or not?"

Startled, Tad pressed Send in sheer reflex and tried not to claw at the screen and moan, "Come back!"

Since that wasn't an option, he glared at Chris in the confines of their department-issue SUV. They had the window down in deference to the temp in the mideighties, and he was still sweating. He glanced up at the apartment, and no, his suspect hadn't moved.

"Goddammit," he muttered.

"What's the matter?" Chris asked, some compassion seeping into his voice. "You afraid she'll spook?"

Tad sent him another glare, and then realized the obvious thing, which was that after a year, Chris still thought he'd be texting "her."

Shit.

"What makes you think it's a girl?" he asked. "It could be my sister."

Chris shook his head. "You get a different expression on your face when you're texting April. Your brow gets all scrunchier, and you get this look like a soldier going into battle. This is… it's different. It's like you're afraid of being gutted like a fish, but you still want to swim."

"You are confusing me with fishing metaphors," Tad evaded, smiling a little because Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs had been one of April's favorite movies in middle school.

Chris cocked his head. "No, it's definitely a girl"—and apparently reading Tad's microexpressions— "no, wait. Boy?" He was asking, but not like it was a bad thing. Like he was checking.

"You're a really good detective," Tad said sourly, waiting for… for anything. He'd really loved working with Chris this last year, and he hadn't seen or heard anything that would indicate this would be a problem. But you never knew. Just because Castro supported Jackson Rivers and Ellery Cramer, the legal defense/PI team that had worked so hard to defend the innocent and root out corruption in their area, didn't mean he wanted to actually work with a gay man.

But Chris just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm such a good detective I've detected you haven't seen anybody in a year. Go me. So, boy? Nonbinary? Transhuman?"

Tad's eyes grew wide. "Wow. Uhm, boy. Aren't you, uhm, progressive."

Another eye roll. "Please. I've spent the last few years getting daily liberal lessons from my children. Believe me, nothing is more disdainful than a teenager who thinks you're not liberating like you should be. It's terrifying. I mean, I'll be honest. I have no idea what nonbinary means. But you know what? It is no fucking skin off my nose to respect someone's pronouns. It's like I prefer to be called Chris, and not Christopher and not Topher and not Christoph. But if I wanted to be Topher, then I'd expect you to call me Topher. If someone's not feeling the gender thing, then they're a they. Making that a scary thing would make me the weakest, most cockless wonder on the planet. So, now that you know my politics, who is it? He/she/they? I need a name here or my wife is gonna start fixing you up."

Tad laughed softly. "It's a he," he murmured. "But… but he's skittish. Tell your wife I don't need a fix-up, but I may need some ice cream and a weepy movie when it doesn't work out."

"I could take you out for a beer and pour you onto my couch," Chris offered. "I mean, that is the traditional male remedy for heartbreak."

"Don't drink much." Tad shrugged. "Ice cream and a weepy movie or you'll have to know I'm breaking my heart in my shitty apartment, alone."

"I'll take it," Chris said. "It's a hard bargain, but I'll take it. Now tell me why he's skittish?"

Tad grimaced, looking at his phone again. "Well, he's a musician with a day job, so part of it is he's busy. Like, he texts me from the john at work because his day job is not rainbow-flag friendly. I, uh, saw him perform about a month ago, actually talked to him last week, and I was going to go see him again on Sunday, you know, since our workshop was canceled and we've got Monday morning off, but…."

"Augh! We caught a hot one," Chris muttered, scanning the apartment complex they were staking out. Their guy was supposedly in there, doing all the drugs, and Chris and Tad were supposed to keep his sidepiece from going in to see him, since his wife and kids were in protective custody. They didn't have a warrant yet, but when they did, they were arresting him for shooting a night clerk in the corner convenience store. Caught dead on tape and identified by several of his ex-coworkers, the guy had danger written all over him.

"Yeah," Tad said in resignation. "We caught a hot one. I just… I was looking forward to seeing him. I don't want him to think I'm blowing him off or—"

His phone made the quiet bloop sound that indicated a text.

I'm not running off with anybody else between now and next week. You've got a real job. No worries. Keep texting. "Glycerine."

Tad had to read the word three times before he remembered their game, where they tried to find the love song Guthrie would use to replace "Long, Long Time."

Nobody knows if that's supposed to be a girl's name or a bomb. Why?

Because Gavin Rossdale in concert is hot enough to blow your balls off from the nosebleed section. Does there need to be another reason?

Tad chuckled. The Cure—"Friday I'm in Love."

Well I was, but somebody had to cancel. Chat later!

D'oh! But it was too late. Guthrie was already on the run at his job. That's okay. He'd gotten a dirty joke, a little bit of back and forth on their game, and a smart retort. He was going to call it a win and concentrate on the coked-out failed businessman in his mistress's crappy apartment.

"So," Chris asked in seeming idleness, "is he running?"

"Nope. He did suggest I should see Gavin Rossdale in concert."

Chris snorted. "Oh I bet!"

Tad, who was busy scanning his own side of the street, sent him a look. "What does that mean?"

"It means my wife and I have seen him in concert—about six, seven years ago. He's got this shirt that's all… holey, like, with holes in it. At one point in the concert he puts his shirt on, and he's soaking wet and sweating and oozing sex appeal, and he goes running through the crowd, urging people to reach out and touch him, and you know what?"

"You reached out and touched a rock star?" Tad was laughing, trying to imagine it.

"You're goddamned right I did. I got some of his sexy sweat on my fingers, and I'm telling you, that man almost converted me. Wife and I had some rockin' alone time when we got home that night."

Tad was still chuckling when he saw a girl—oh God, it was a girl, right? Nineteen? Twenty at the most?—cross the street in front of them, coming from a side alley that wrapped around the apartment and heading for a small entrance into the common area that needed a key to get into.

"Shit, Chris, that's her. Fitton's girl."

"Oh my God, she's a baby," Chris said, horrified. "Okay, you big brother or me daddy. What's it gonna be?"

"You, papi," Tad said, indicating the girl's Latina features. "She's had enough grungy White boys at this point."

"I hear ya. Let's go."

They quietly exited the SUV, both of them wearing jeans, sport coats, and sneakers. Not standard department dress code, but apparently Chris got away with a lot because he'd been there for twenty, and Tad enjoyed riding in the wake of his practical shoes.

"Heya," Chris said. "Claudia? Claudia Romero? Can we have a word with you?"

The girl took one look at them and went sprinting for the door, key in hand.

"Uh-oh," Tad muttered.

And then someone shot at them from a second-floor apartment, the bullet whizzing by like a steroidal hummingbird and thunking the concrete five feet behind where Tad stood.

"Shit," Chris said. "Get her or he'll kill us all!"

And the chase was on.

TWELVE HOURS later, after a chase through the apartment maze and a body tackle to keep Ms. Romero from bringing more drugs to her boyfriend, Tad and Chris finally emerged from the tiny alcove of the apartment patio where they'd hidden with her during the standoff.

Tad's knees were bruised, and his elbows and his shoulder hurt from breaking through the little wooden patio fence so they'd have a place to hide.

For that matter, his bladder was killing him, and he'd crossed over from thirsty to parched to the dry, dusty husk of a skeleton hours ago.

He was waiting to be checked out by an EMT (and to use the porta-john somebody had installed near the op center where the rest of the force had set up) when he thought about his conversation with Guthrie.

Oh God. He hadn't checked his pocket since two in the afternoon, and it was 4:00 a.m. now?

He looked and saw zero texts, and his heart fell. He accepted the bandages on his knees and knuckles, gulped the Gatorade gratefully, and finished using the john so he could even think straight before he rinsed his hands off and texted, Good night playing?

He got back an immediate text.

Wasn't bad. Got mugged for tips, though. Still at hospital—fine, but needed to bandage my hand. Hope your night was better. I'm assuming you're safe?

Tad's heart almost launched itself out of his throat. Now, yes. Long night. Will catch you up tomorrow when Chris and I clear the paperwork. Still playing at the Washoe?

Yeah. I can do drums, but Berta may have to get a fill-in for guitar for a week.

Oh hell. Tad wanted to haul ass down the road now .

I'll be there , he texted. I can visit April Sunday. Oh God. That was presuming a lot. I'll crash on your couch, if that's okay.

No worries. There was a moment of thought bubbles before Guthrie texted, It'll be nice to see you .

You too.

At that moment Chris wandered by, looking as dazed and out of it as Tad felt. Tad needed a shower and a meal and bed.

And to know Guthrie was okay.

"He still there?" Castro asked.

"He got mugged," Tad told him, sighing. Claudia Romero had been hysterical and angry and absolutely sure that if she, and nobody else, went to talk to the guy shooting a handgun from an apartment building filled with kids, then everything would be okay.

She'd broken free of them once, and Fitton had shot at her close enough for her to feel the wind of the bullet pass by her ear. She'd gone limp then, terrified, almost catatonic for the rest of the siege, which had ended with Fitton's death, but fighting with her—and fighting not to hurt her—had strained a lot of their muscles and resulted in a lot of bruises.

"Did you get some ibuprofen?" Chris asked.

"Need some food or it'll rip up my stomach. We didn't get lunch, remember?"

Chris stared at him, then pulled out his phone.

"Brother, it's fuck-you in the morning—not even DoorDash can find us food."

Chris shook his head and then smiled slightly when his phone flashed. "My wife doesn't sleep until I get home," he said softly. "I asked her very nicely if there was anything in the house to eat. Come home with me, sleep on my couch, and have some casserole and a beer." He met Tad's eyes. "It's not a night to be alone, brother. Until you've got a bird in your nest, you can come to mine."

"Thanks, Chris," Tad said gratefully. "So… when do they cut us loose?"

Chris flagged down their lieutenant, who was on-site and who had supervised the sniper shot that had taken Fitton out.

"You guys good to go?" Lieutenant Gresham asked. She was a tiny, weathered White woman in her late fifties with hair she was letting gray naturally and eyes that were still sharp and bright.

"Yes, sir," Chris replied. "Paperwork in the morning?"

"On my desk by two," she said and then gave a faint smile. "So we can all have a Sunday morning, right?" She winked at them both.

"Yes, sir," Tad murmured, and then he smiled a little. "Could you, uh, thank Lieutenant Johnson for that nice shot at the end? I was getting tired of all the fuss." Janine Johnson was the leader of the SWAT unit, and Tad wouldn't trust anyone else with a kill shot in a place so full of friendlies.

"Thank her? I'm buying her a bottle of wine!" Gresham laughed. "And maybe helping her drink it on Sunday. Today was a helluva thing." She sobered. "Nice work tonight, guys. Thanks for keeping the stupid civilian safe and not getting dead."

"That last one was our pleasure, LT," Chris told her, and then he went and claimed the department issue and shooed Tad in, calling dispatch to let them know he was keeping the vehicle so they could go home and get some sleep.

The next morning, Chris dropped Tad off at his apartment on the way to the precinct building so Tad could get his own vehicle, water his plants, take out his trash before it stunk, and pack a couple changes of clothes, as well as put on another pair of jeans and a button-down for work.

He tossed the sweats Chris's wife had given him in the hamper, with the resolution to return them sometime in the next week after he'd done laundry. On his way out the door, he paused at the threshold, glanced around, and sighed. He'd spent some time on the place when he'd moved in nearly three years before, when he'd taken the job as a uniform in Sacramento. He'd wanted to be a detective—was well on his way, in fact—but Bodega Bay, where he and April had grown up, had such a small force, the odds of him getting promoted before he was forty were pretty decrepit, much like all their detectives were getting.

Tad had been so optimistic back then. He'd put up curtains and contact paper since he couldn't paint or wallpaper anything. He'd bought a nice little dinette set—wood, with country-style cushions he'd picked out himself. His couch was leather and comfortable, with one of April's afghans on the back and one that his mother had made him when he'd been younger too. He had bookshelves with books and Lego models on them, area rugs that added color, and prints of some of his favorite movies or locations on the walls.

He particularly liked the one of a field of poppies in the Sierra Nevada mountains, with a white-topped peak behind it and a brilliant blue sky, along with a companion print of a view of the rocks off Doran Beach.

He did love his native state.

He'd done all the right things here to make his little apartment a home, but without another person to take up the downtime slack there, it was… sad. Lonely. Dark.

He thought of Guthrie, alone the night before in the hospital, and threw his backpack over his shoulder with some oomph.

He sure would like that to change.

PAPERWORK WENT long, and afterward he and Chris caught a bite to eat at a nearby teriyaki place—Tad's treat, to say thanks for letting him crash on the couch the night before. Then Tad was on his way.

He realized halfway there that the only landmark he knew related to Guthrie Woodson, musician and office manager, was the Washoe, and he wasn't sure when Guthrie's set started.

On a burst of hope, he headed there, and while the sun was still out at six o'clock, just barely lowering in the mist surrounding the still-green hills, he could hear the music starting as he pulled up to the place.

Walking up the wooden porch of what had once been a B and B and restaurant, he almost felt like he was coming home.

He smiled at the hostess and found his way into the bar, surprised to see Guthrie singing in the front of the stage, guitar in hand. His left hand—the strumming hand—was wrapped in a thick bandage, but he seemed to be doing an okay job in spite of the blood seeping through while his right hand worked the frets.

He was doing "Little Suzi," a song made famous by a cover done by Tesla, and as Tad watched him sing, he became so focused on Guthrie's complete immersion in the song's dilemma—whether or not to let a lover go and fulfill her ambition of stardom or to hold on to the notions of hearth and home any young lover would want—that if there were misses or flubs he didn't hear them. He was singing along with the rest of the bar not to bring her down because she just wanted to fulfill her dreams.

As Guthrie wrapped up the final chords—mostly heartbroken cries—the crowd went nuts, and Tad put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Like dark river stones, Guthrie's soulful brown eyes were suddenly focused out in the crowd, and something sweet happened to Guthrie's narrow, intent features when Tad waved.

Guthrie gave a little wink from across the room and segued into the intro for a Cage the Elephant standard, "In One Ear."

For the next forty-five minutes, Tad was lost in the music. Guthrie's band didn't discriminate between time or place, or even genre. Roberta's violin often did the vocals for Beyoncé or Lady Gaga, and Guthrie sang everything from Harry Styles to Eminem to John Legend.

Depending on what was needed—and whether a song could live on a keyboard version of the guitar melody—Guthrie would play percussion or lead guitar, and only because Tad was watching closely did he see the sweat start popping out on Guthrie's brow.

When Guthrie did Blink 182's "All the Small Things" as their finale, Tad turned to the woman behind the bar and said, "You wouldn't have an ice pack ready for him, would you?"

She grimaced. "Yeah, actually he asked me for one when they got here and started to warm up. I may talk to the crowd and have them give him a break tonight for the second set. Roberta and the kids can do those classical versions of pop songs and let him sing." She grimaced. "Oops. He just got blood on my stage."

Tad winced. "Does he have any more gauze for backstage or—"

She pulled out a first aid kit. "You a friend of the band's?"

"Of Guthrie's," he told her. "But the night is young."

She laughed a little—same bartender as always, she had the sort of face made for chewing gum and cracking wise.

She wasn't doing either right now, though. "I'm Sarah. Guthrie's been playing here since he still played with his dad and his uncle Jock. You… you be kind to our boy there, 'kay?"

Tad nodded soberly. "It's the only kind of friend I aim to be." He winked at her, but her expression didn't change, and he understood suddenly what she was talking about.

He wasn't fooling anybody , or at least not Sarah the bartender. But she also knew better than to say it loud and clear in a room like this.

"I promise," he said softly, and her intense expression lightened up a little as the song wrapped up.

"Good," she said. "Go meet them in the back room. There's a sink, and maybe you can wrap his hand a little better. I think he changed the bandage himself this morning."

Tad's heart throbbed hard in his chest. He had some Band-Aids on his knees and his elbow, and a bruise on his cheek. Chris's wife, Laura, had dressed all of those that morning, replacing the EMT's work. Like a perfect mom, she'd bustled into the living room and told him to rise and shine. She'd started coffee, and if he wanted to shower, she had a change of clothes for him to wear to his apartment.

She'd taken off the clumsy gauze bandages and replaced everything with the more formfitting Band-Aids, and suddenly Tad wanted a Laura for Guthrie , who seemed to have needed one that morning far more than Tad or Chris.

Tad made his way through the crowd easily—he was no stranger to crowds, or shouldering his way through people who were expecting the biggest or the loudest to be the strongest. He met the band as they came off the stage with a nod.

"Good job, guys. Mind if I steal Guthrie for a minute to dress his hand?"

"Ooh," said the violinist. From texting with Guthrie, Tad knew she was Roberta, but he didn't know Neal from Owen yet. "So can you convince him that doing his own bandaging was not a good idea?"

"Nobody else in the house to do it," Guthrie muttered, and this close, Tad could see his face was white with pain and slick with sweat.

"God, Guthrie, you should have said something," Tad muttered.

"I saw the news, you know," Guthrie said. "Weren't you involved in, like, a shootout until fuck-you in the morning?"

Tad almost stopped walking. "You knew about that?" he asked.

"You didn't text," Guthrie mumbled, practically stumbling the last few steps to the backstage area. "I… I mean there's ghosting and there's being in the middle of a conversation and not replying. I had nothing but time while I was waiting in the hospital."

"What he's conveniently forgetting," said the rather short young man—that was Neal who played the keyboard, he remembered now—taking Guthrie's other side and guiding him to a big trunk near a small backstage sink, "is that he was so busy checking his phone after the gig last night, he let the mugger sneak up on him."

Guthrie grunted and leaned his head back against the wall behind him. "Yeah, he got the jump on me. I swung my guitar case late, and the guy had a knife. We'd made good tips too," he mumbled. "That sucked to lose."

Tad grunted. "Sorry about that," he said softly. "Now give me your hand."

Guthrie sat up uncomfortably and held it out, his face fixed stoically. "Nice bruise under your eye," he muttered.

"Look," Tad said, setting Guthrie's hand gently on his knee and starting with the haphazardly wrapped bandage, "I spent an uncomfortable day huddled under a patio while my lieutenant failed to negotiate a truce and SWAT waited for a good shot. Today I did paperwork, which, truth to tell, felt longer, more painful, and worse. This is different." He got to the skin under the bandage and grimaced. "For one thing, I haven't ripped out a single stitch."

"Aw shit, Guthrie," Roberta muttered. "Okay, that's it. I'm calling it—"

"I need the tips!" Guthrie burst out, and then glowered like he wished he hadn't said that. Tad recalled him saying that his bandmates all had better, more highly paid gigs than this one. His day job covered rent, but groceries and gas came from his performance money.

"Well, you can do vocals," Neal said. "The rest of us screech like a barn owl. Owen can do bass line on all the songs, and if you give us ten minutes, we can put together a set that's not so Guthrie intensive, okay?"

"There goes ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia,'" Guthrie muttered.

"Yeah, well, we can do ‘The Boxer' instead," Roberta told him pertly. "I'll do the guitar intro. I've been practicing, and I know you know the lyrics."

Guthrie sighed, and like having a thing to do as opposed to something he couldn't do calmed him down, he closed his eyes and let Tad settle into wiping the blood off his busted stitches, applying antiseptic, and rewrapping the hand.

"Here," Roberta murmured, squeezing Guthrie's shoulder. "Me and the guys will fuck off and get you some more painkillers."

"Ibuprofen only," Guthrie said. "No Vicodin or anything tricky like that. I can't play as well."

"Of course." She pulled a few lank strands of hair off his forehead, and gave Tad a guarded smile. "We'll be back."

The rest of the band disappeared, leaving Tad and Guthrie in the sudden silence, the bar noises and conversation surrounding the black curtain of the backstage area like a muffling blanket.

"This is so embarrassing," Guthrie muttered into the quiet, reclaiming his hand but keeping his eyes closed and his head tilted back.

"Why? Because you got hurt?"

He watched Guthrie's Adam's apple bob. "I just… if I saw you again, I wanted to, you know, not be stupid."

His unbandaged hand lay in his lap, and Tad, taking a careful look around, tugged it into his own lap and laced their fingers. Guitar calluses, ropy veins in the back, even crooked fingers, probably from hard work, made the hand rough and capable. Not soft at all. Tad had to stroke the tender part between thumb and forefinger so he'd know Guthrie could feel it.

"You're not stupid."

Guthrie opened one eye. "Say that with more convict—"

Tad had to stand slightly to kiss him. It wasn't a hard kiss, wasn't meant to tangle them both up or invoke passion or make them yearn.

Some of Guthrie's sass and irritation seemed to leak out of his body, and he opened his mouth and kissed back, sighing softly when Tad drew away and sat back down.

"I've wanted to see you for the past two weeks," he said. "Your texts have been the bright spot of a very tough year. I'm sorry you're hurt, but I'm not here because you needed me. I'm here because I needed to see you."

Guthrie's smile barely twisted his full lips. "I'm damned glad you're here," he admitted, and Tad figured that was as good as it was going to get.

Wasn't bad, really.

At that moment, Roberta stuck her head into the curtained area, paused like she was taking in their situation, and then said, "Okay. We've got a set list that won't tax Guthrie's hand too hard, but we need to have a consult about composition before we start. Tad, it's great to meet you. Go away. Tell Sarah at the bar I'll spring for your dinner—"

"You'll what?" Guthrie said indignantly.

"Shut up, Guthrie. I'm damned glad to meet your new—" Slight hesitation. "—friend. He came at a good time. Tad, go eat. Guthrie, we need you."

Guthrie sat up, and Tad could almost see each vertebra straighten until his shoulders went back. "See you after the set," he said to Tad with a mostly composed smile. Tad nodded and stood, brushing Guthrie's shoulder with his fingers before he left.