by Todd Young
All of it led him to a final conclusion. He had to see Rafe again, and he had to see him now. He couldn’t possibly drive over there again. It was not quite three o’clock. But he could watch Rafe on his computer.
He told himself he wouldn’t do it, and then got up and switched the computer on. The one tape he wanted to watch, but hadn’t watched yet, was the one in which Rafe sandwiched his nuts between a pair of tongs. He found it, and set in running.
Rafe was so funny—so odd. Most boys probably did things in this vein, at least, Jack imagined they did. But not every boy had the imagination to do the things Rafe did, and as he considered it, Jack decided he must be very creative.
He found the spot where Rafe’s nuts got sandwiched, and played it over and over again until he finally had it on frame by frame. He convinced himself that Rafe had hurt himself quite badly. The expression on his face suggested it. But then again, what did he expect?
Jack came unexpectedly, and then shut down the computer.
He took a shower, put a pair of clean underwear, clean shorts and a clean T-shirt on, and then stalked into the kitchen in search of food. Incredibly, Susan hadn’t left. She was yet in Em’s living room, and the three of them were talking. In the vegetable crisper he found some celery. There was some crab meat and prawns. He decided to make a seafood salad, and called out to see if Em and Carol wanted any. They all wanted some, all three of them.
When it was ready, he called out to them, and then had to sit through a long conversation about alcohol and drugs. He said as little as possible, though at one point admitted, stupidly, to having once tried cocaine himself. Em was appalled.
He washed up and retired to his living room. He closed the door and sat back, thinking about Rafe all over again. Aside from the drugs, if that was a problem, Rafe had murdered someone. He seemed troubled enough by it, but wasn’t there something odd about him, and about his relationship with Mike?
To all outward appearances Mike was as intelligent as any other boy, but Rafe had him wrapped around his little finger. Wasn’t there something odd about that?
He didn’t know.
He got up, brushed his teeth, and then went to bed.
31
That night, Jack dreamed about Rafe. Rafe was building a house next door to his, to Jack’s house. Jack was living in a mansion, and Rafe was building a cottage.
He woke to a darkened bedroom and the sound of thunder. His watch said it was five a.m. or thereabouts. He rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but was defeated by thoughts of the dream. Rafe’s cottage had been built of stone, or sandstone, and it had been particularly beautiful, golden in the light of the setting sun.
Rafe.
Jack drifted off. When he woke again it was seven thirty. He got up and showered and shaved. He walked through to his bedroom with a towel around his waist and put on the shorts from yesterday, the white, nylon shorts. He found underwear so restrictive that he often went without it, particularly when it was hot, and today was so hot. A heavy rain was falling, and the air was thick with humidity.
He found a tank top in his chest of drawers and drew it over his head, a red one that was a little too small for him. He had to be careful not to lift his arms so that his abs weren’t on display, but he liked the way it accentuated his shoulders. He fastened a pair of sandals onto his feet and then wandered, bleary-eyed into the kitchen. He fixed himself some cornflakes and some coffee, and thought again of Rafe.
The drugs.
He really needed to go and see Rafe and ask him what was going on. Perhaps he needed help. He decided then and there to go out to Rafe’s again this morning. Rafe had said he could come by any time he liked, and it wasn’t too early. He brushed his teeth and then set out.
To the west of the town, on the highway, was a large swathe of forest that had been burned out in yesterday’s fire. Today, the fire was out, the trees looking bare and black beneath the heavy rain. Forlorn.
Jack pulled into Sebring Lane and his car went into a skid, a brief one that he righted almost immediately.
“Shit!” he said, his heart thumping.
He pulled up behind Mike’s car and sat for a moment. He sucked a few deep breaths into his lungs and tried to steady his hands. Then he tooted the horn, a single, short toot. He gripped the door handle and braced for the rain. It was bucketing down, the clouds dark and heavy over the house. Rafe had the lights on, and it looked more like late afternoon that early morning. He opened the door to a rumble of thunder and raced for the house.
The front door was standing open, the windows on either side misted. Jack considered ringing the bell, or knocking, but then recalled the way Caleb and Judge walked in after sounding the horn, and he supposed that was the form.
He stepped over the threshold.
“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Mike’s voice.
“I mean you have no right.”
They were arguing, the voices coming from upstairs somewhere.
Jack hesitated, and then, tentatively, mounted the staircase.
“But you have her number somewhere, don’t you?”
“That isn’t the point. You said you were stopping today.”
“Fuck that, Rafe. I need it, and I need it now.”
“You’re not getting it from me.”
Jack took a few cautious steps upward. His toot had gone unnoticed, apparently.
“I know there’s some here, somewhere.” He heard the sound of something being overturned. Then Mike said, “Where the fuck is it?”
Silence.
“Come on, Rafe.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“Well, give me Jennifer’s number, then.”
“No.”
“No?” A pause of moments. “I’ll hit you, Rafe.”
Silence again.
“No doubt you’ll bring it out tonight and try to get me into bed again.”
“I’m not thinking …”
“How much is left?”
Silence.
“You need to give me the cheque. I’ll go over to Jennifer’s later today with it, but where the fuck is my phone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you hide it?”
Silence.
Jack stepped onto the landing mid-staircase and paused again.
“Rafe, just give me what is left now, and give me the cheque.”
“No.”
“Help me look for my phone, then.”
“I am helping you.”
Jack climbed the staircase to the top step. He glanced around the corner, but he could see nothing.
“Can you phone a mechanic for me?”
“My phone’s downstairs.”
“Well, can you go and do it? I’ve been stuck here for days.”
“I’ll do it later.” A pause. “Fuck, Rafe, is that it?”
This was followed by the sound of a scuffle. They were in Rafe’s bedroom, and by the sound of it, Rafe was being assaulted. Jack walked quickly forward. Mike and Rafe were on the bed, wrestling one another. The first thing he saw was two bare bottoms. Each of them was wearing a nightshirt—no, a button-down shirt. Their lower halves were naked, their thighs tangled. Mike had Rafe in a strangle hold, and as Jack watched, tossed him over, onto his back, and sat on him.
Rafe had something in his hand, the coke by the look of it, a little plastic packet. Mike thrust one hand against Rafe’s throat, and with the other, tried to pry open his hand.
“Hey!” Jack said, stepping through the doorway.
Mike turned, glanced at him briefly, but then leaned forward and locked his forearm against Rafe’s throat.
“Jack!” Rafe cried.
Jack stepped forward. He gripped Mike’s arm and pulled him off Rafe, though as he did, Mike managed to get the little packet out of Rafe’s hand.
“Get the fuck off me,” Mike said, as he stumbled onto the floor.
Jack wrestled with his arm for a moment, then let him go. He was breathing heav
ily, as was Rafe, as was Jack, their chests rising and falling. Rafe lifted his knees and the shirt parted, revealing his cock and balls, his naked ass. He coughed.
Jack helped him up and they stumbled into the hall. Rafe advanced upon Mike quickly, but Jack gripped his wrist. Mike opened the little packet, poked his finger into the powder and began wiping it over his teeth.
“Shit, yes,” he said. “Shit, yes.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
32
It was the police.
Rafe had slipped a pair of green and white flip-flops onto his feet, yet he was still dressed in a button-down shirt, one barely long enough to cover his bottom and junk. Mike’s was too short. The tip of his penis and his butt were on display. Jack glanced down at what he was wearing, at the short, nylon shorts, and realized he’d got wet as he ran for the door. His naked cock was visible though the shorts, and the officers, all seven of them standing on the doorstep, were taking this in with raised eyebrows and good humor.
“We have a warrant to search the house,” Wilmott said.
Rafe nodded, and the officers stepped over the threshold. Wilmott handed the warrant to Rafe, and Rafe glanced at it, perusing it briefly or pretending too. He looked confused about what it might have said.
“We’ll start upstairs,” Wilmott said.
And then the officers traipsed past them, all but the last man, an officer with grey hair, who stepped through the door as a bolt of lightning struck the road. A clap of thunder crashed thought the house, rattling it, and everyone jumped.
Jack glanced at Mike, who was gripping the little packet of coke in a tightly clenched fist. Mike closed his eyes briefly and swayed. Shit, Jack thought. He was very young to be in this sort of trouble—on drugs and with the police at the door.
Rafe glanced at Jack, his eyes swimming with tears, and Jack put his hand on Rafe’s back, steadying him.
“You his father?” the gray-haired officer said.
Jack shook his head.
“You live here?”
Again, Jack shook his head.
Footsteps clattered overhead, creaking the boards, and something, perhaps a cupboard or a bedroom door, was closed roughly.
“Shit,” Rafe said. “Are they going to make a mess?”
“They’ll conduct a thorough search,” Gray-Hair said. “Perhaps we ought to take a seat.” He nodded at the couch and armchairs.
They sat down, Gray-Hair in one armchair, Jack in another, Rafe and Mike side-by-side on the couch.
“You could build a fire,” Gray-Hair said, and nodded at the fireplace.
Rafe brightened a little. “I might.”
Gray-Hair had only meant that it was possible, not that the day called for it, or Jack imagined this. But Rafe got up and bent toward the pile of wood by the fireplace, his butt on display. Mike was sitting with his cock and balls bared on the couch, the crack of his ass visible between his legs. He had both fists clenched, and Jack figured he had to dump the packet somehow. He got up, pretending interest in the fire-making, and stood between Gray-Hair and Mike. Then he glanced at Mike, at his left fist, and glanced again, this time pointedly, at the pocket in his shirt.
Mike failed to take the hint, and Jack had to move. He helped Rafe with the fire, but once they had the fire built, they realized they had no matches.
“Can I go and get some matches?” Rafe asked Gray-Hair.
“We can all go,” Gray-Hair said.
Rafe nodded.
Mike got up, his fists yet clenched, and Gray-Hair threw a glance at him, though not at his fists. They traipsed down the hall with Gray-Hair at the rear.
Jack and Mike waited while Rafe stepped into the pantry, and then, suddenly, it occurred to Jack that the police were here because Sissy had gone missing, and not because of the drugs. They weren’t searching the house for drugs, or were they? No. They couldn’t be, because Wilmott and Casey were here, and why would they suddenly be on a drugs case when they were detectives. It all made sense to him suddenly, in a moment of clarity. Rafe had murdered Sissy, and he was being investigated for that. He thought for a moment more, wondered what they could be searching for, and then thought of the body. Rafe hadn’t mentioned that, but what had he done with Sissy’s body?
He turned, glanced at Mike’s hands again. They were empty. The little packet was on the floor by Mike’s feet. He’d dropped it, deliberately, and just as Jack thought he was going to get away with it, Gray-Hair looked down.
“What’s that?” he said. He bent forward and picked it up. He opened it, smelled it, put a finger in and tested in, and then said, “Is this cocaine?”
They stared at him in dumb confusion.
Then Jack said, “It’s not mine.”
“Whose is it, then?”
Jack nodded at Mike.
“Oh, great,” Mike said. “Point the finger at me.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes,” Rafe said.
Mike rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. Now even my best friend wants to point the finger at me.” He turned to Gray-Hair. “It’s not mine.”
Gray-Hair laughed. He led them back to the hall. As they entered, the other officers appeared on the stairs. They thumped down them in a group, talking and laughing.
“This is some house,” one of them said as he passed.
Gray-Hair got up and approached Wilmott. He handed him the packet of cocaine. “One of the boys had this on him. It’s coke.”
“Carter?”
“No. His friend. The one with the buzz cut.”
“This yours, Mike?” Wilmott asked, sounding fatherly.
“I don’t know anything about it.” He glanced furtively around. “It’s Rafe’s house.”
“Fuck you,” Rafe said. “You know I don’t touch it.”
“Oh, shut up, would you, Rafe.” He plonked onto the couch, looking more than a little absurd, half-naked as he was. He pouted.
Gray-Hair turned away and began talking to Wilmott. The other officers had disappeared into the house.
“Fuck, Rafe, you better come through with the cheque today.”
“What?”
“The cheque.”
“Shut up, would you?”
Jack puzzled over the mention of the cheque. The one hundred thousand came to mind. Was this for the drugs? he wondered. Was Mike really sitting here with police in the room, hassling Rafe for money for drugs. It seemed incredibly stupid, but then, was Mike very bright? He seemed utterly unaware of the fact that he was dressed in a button-down shirt too short to cover his genitals … and he slept with Rafe, and let Rafe, well, manipulate him … for drugs. He couldn’t be incredibly intelligent.
Jack glanced at him, at his handsome face, but couldn’t help focusing once more on his stub of a cock. His balls were held in a tight, crumpled packet, and like Rafe, he had shaved down there.
It didn’t seem to bother him.
33
The room was hot when the officers finally finished, the fire blazing. They walked back into the hall and stood milling about in two’s and three’s, talking in loud voices, their badges and guns glinting in the firelight. They had found something and were passing it among themselves, though what it was Jack couldn’t see without trying to see, and he wasn’t trying to see. He was sitting stiff-backed, waiting for them to go. He supposed they would arrest Mike for the cocaine, but Rafe looked safe enough. He was standing by the fire with his back turned, warming his hands.
Finally, Wilmott broke away from the group and advanced upon them. “We found this,” he said to Gray-Hair. He plucked a piece of jewelry out of his hand, a chain with a heart-shaped locket.
“Where did you find it?”
“In a kitchen drawer.”
“You know anything about this, Rafe?” Wilmott said.
Rafe turned and took a few steps toward him.
Wilmott handed him the locket and chain and Rafe turned it over in his hands. He shook his head. Wilmott stepped forward and opened
the locket. Jack got up to see. Inside it was a photograph of Mike and Sissy. Black and white. Smiling lovers.
“You don’t recognize it?” Wilmott said.
Rafe shook his head again.
“Rafe Carter, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you,” he said, and then continued on until he’d finished reading Rafe his rights.
Jack felt ill, as though something like an eel were turning in his stomach. He coughed, coughed again, and then thumped his chest.
Two officers advanced upon Rafe. “You’re coming with us,” one of them said. They twisted his arms behind his back and cuffed him.
Rafe’s shirt was held up in back, revealing his squodge of a bottom. At the front, the shirt tails had parted to reveal his shaven cock and balls. Perhaps it was the danger (Jack didn’t know) but he found himself growing hard, which seemed particularly insensitive. He smiled at Rafe, a tight, reassuring smile. But Rafe looked stunned.
“You need a lawyer?” Jack said.
Rafe nodded. Now, there were tears in his eyes.
“You know any names?”
“No.”
“So, anyone?”
“A good one.”
“Of course.”
“My cheque book’s in my desk drawer.”
Jack nodded.
“You, young man, ought to thank your lucky stars,” Wilmott said to Mike as they were leading Rafe away. “We’re letting you off with a warning, but if I ever connect you with drugs again, you’ll know about it.”
Jack frowned. The problem with small towns, he thought, was that everyone knew everyone, and perhaps Wilmott had an odd connection to Mike. At least, it seemed that way. His attitude was very fatherly.
“I told you he did it,” Mike said, calling out to the officers as they were leaving.
Jack walked to the door. He watched on as an officer placed his hand on Rafe’s head and helped him into the rear seat of a cruiser. The cars backed out of the drive and roared away.
Jack turned into the house. Mike was seated contently on the couch with his arms folded. He turned his head, pouting, and glared at Jack.
“Can you help me find my phone?” he said.
