Poetic Justice

Viggo was extremely happy that Orli had demanded he remain for the questioning and description of the attacker. The artist was very good, and when he was done and showed it to Orli the young male turned deathly white and began to tremble. Viggo noticed how the young man’s shoulders hunched protectively inward and he rubbed at his arms as though to ward off a remembered touch as he nodded it was the man.

The black and white sketch burned into Viggo’s brain, every detail ingrained for later referral. As he stared at it hatred flamed inside him, and grew until he stood with clenched fists. Now he had a target for his pent-up feelings.

Detective Walker gripped Viggo’s arm and whispered furiously at him. “Stay out of it, Mr. Mortensen. Your friend needs you, and we’re trained to handle this. If you go after him it could end up being you in jail and him still freely walking the streets looking for his next victim. He could go after Mr. Bloom and finish what he started, and you’d be powerless to protect him.”

Icy blue eyes slowly tore from the sketch to meet the green ones of the detective. “You’re a cock-sucker, Detective Walker.”

Walker’s face tightened. “Maybe so, but I’m a cock-sucker with a badge and a gun. I’ll get him, and he’ll pay for what he did.”

“He’d better. I don’t want that bastard accidentally or not accidentally shot to death. I want him to suffer for what he put Orli through. I want him in a hell hole of a cell with a hundred men who’ll beat him and rape him and make him wish he was dead.”

The detective hesitated, taken aback for a moment by the vehemence in the other man. Letting Viggo’s arm go he turned. “If we have any other questions we’ll contact you. Where can we reach you when you’re released?”

“At my place,” Viggo answered. He gave his address and number. “He’ll be staying with me.” Seeing the surprise in Orli’s face he smiled. “I promised I wouldn’t leave him and I’d keep him safe.”

The gratitude in Orli’s eyes was soon blurred by the sheen of tears. “Thank you,” he mouthed, but no sound came out.

The detective nodded. “Good. When you’re being discharged we’ll send some men over to escort you. You don’t want the media circus.”

“We appreciate that,” Viggo nodded in gratitude.

The doctor was in an hour later and announced that Orlando was well enough to leave so long as he promised to take it easy and get some counseling. Viggo offered to leave the room while his charge dressed, but Orlando begged him to stay. He busied himself with gathering the flowers and cards sent by friends. From the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of scraped and bruised skin all over the man’s body, and the slow and painful way he moved to dress. Teeth clenching Viggo again saw the face in the sketch. That face belonged to the man who had done that damage to one of the sweetest young men he’d ever met.

Forcing his rage aside he pasted a smile on his face. “So, any requests for tonight?”

Orlando’s battered fingers fumbled unsuccessfully with the buttons of the shirt Viggo had brought for him. All the clothes he had worn the night of the attack he’d ordered burned. Not that he thought they would be. He’d been told some forensic team had confiscated them for any and all clues they could get from them. ‘Welcomed to them,’ he decided. ‘I never want to see them again.’ “How about a really long shower and a call from the police that the prick who did this to me was found stampeded to death by a herd of razorback dragons?”

“Sounds good to me,” Viggo chuckled. “Reading Harry Potter, are you?”

Orlando chuckled, and then cursed when he couldn’t button the shirt. “Fucking shirt! Why can’t I…?”

Viggo neared. “Let me.” Trying not to touch the younger man too much he did up the buttons.

Orli blinked away tears. “So how do you know about Harry Potter? And for your information I’m only reading it because I wanted to know what all the goddamn fuss was about.”

Chuckling Viggo did up the last button, nodded in satisfaction, and met the two blackened eyes of his friend. “Guilty of the same thing. And it was a Norwegian Ridgeback, not a razorback. Though either one would do a lot of damage.”

Orlando couldn’t believe he was laughing. It hurt like hell, but he couldn’t stop. Then the laugh turned to gut-wrenching sobs, and he collapsed into Viggo. Clutching at the man’s tee shirt he was reduced to a boneless heap bawling like a broken-hearted teenaged girl, but he was unable to prevent it. And Viggo’s arms comfortingly enfolded him, and the soft velvet voice he knew so well shushed and soothed him. Finally regaining control he pulled free and wiped angrily at his sore face, welcoming the pain his own rough treatment elicited.

Viggo took a deep breath. “Come on. The sooner we have you showered and in bed the better both of us will feel.”

True to his word the detective had some men outside the room, waiting to escort them out of the hospital by a route cleared of media. They had heard that quite the crowd of reporters was being held back from the front doors of the hospital. Word had spread that Orlando Bloom had been admitted by ambulance, and the feeding frenzy was on. The police and hospital were keeping the details of the attack private, but they had told the media they were looking for a man, and had copies of the sketch sent to every newspaper and television station.