by Todd Young
34
Jack nodded. He turned and wandered toward the fireplace, looked along the mantel shelf, beside it on the side tables, and then by the window on the buffet. Mike got up and wandered down to the kitchen. Jack searched upstairs. In Rafe’s room he found a phone, switched it on unthinkingly, and was confronted by a photograph of Mike.
Mike was on his back, naked. A hand, presumably Rafe’s, was thrusting a dildo into his ass, a long, rippled, white one. Mike had his eyes closed. He looked high. A second photograph showed him in the same position, but with the kitchen tongs clamped to his balls. In a third photograph, Mike had his teeth locked onto a stainless steel serving fork. He looked ecstatic, but out of it.
Jack adjusted his cock.
He closed the series of photographs and searched for more. There were plenty of Mike—Mike smiling, Mike pouting, Mike in speedos. In each album there were three or four of Mike, but nothing that quite matched what he’d just seen, he thought, until he opened the album titled “Mike at Play.” Here Mike was in a series of outfits that looked as though they’d come from a costume store. He was dressed as Robin Hood, as Tarzan, as a monk, as a Roman soldier, as Peter Pan, and as a gymnast. In each, there was a problem with the costume. They were either torn or worn inappropriately to reveal Mike’s nipples, genitals or butt.
Jack laughed.
He spied a tube of lubricant on the night table and listened out for Mike. Mike was downstairs. Jack thrust his shorts to his thighs, coated his cock in lubricant, and searched for the first group of photographs again, photographs that looked as though they’d only been taken last night. A pair of kitchen tongs sat on the night table, looking out of place. Jack looked down and realized he was standing on a pair of Rafe’s underpants, the white briefs Rafe had had on yesterday. He bent down, picked them up, and lifted them to his nose. They were so ridiculously brief. Jack gripped his cock and tugged on it, letting his eyes range over Mike in the third photograph, over the dildo, the tongs, and the expression on his face.
He came. Cum jerked out of his cock and onto Rafe’s night table. Jack dropped the underpants, pulled his shorts up, but still had the phone in his hand as Mike came through the door.
“Is that mine?” Mike said, and took it from him. He stared blankly at the screen for a moment, and then blinked. “When the fuck did he take this?”
Jack shrugged.
“Little fuck-up.” Mike frowned. “Do I look good in this?”
Jack nodded. He wondered again just how bright Mike was. “I’m going to make a coffee,” he said.
“You didn’t find my phone?”
“No.”
“Can you make me one too?”
Jack nodded. He turned to go, but hesitated.
“You think I should delete this?”
“I think you should leave everything alone,” Jack said, and held out his hand for the phone. Mike handed it to him. Jack walked downstairs and into the kitchen. As he was pouring the coffee, Mike walked in, still dressed in the button-down shirt and with his cock on display.
“I need to phone a mechanic,” Mike said. “Can I use your phone?” He slipped a folded piece of paper into his shirt pocket. Jack said he could, and then handed it to him. Rafe’s was on the counter.
“Yeah … My car, Jason … Something wrong with the alternator … An hour …? Within the hour? … Okay.” He paused, stared at the phone, and then handed it back to Jack. He wandered into the laundry with his coffee, but came out again a few moments later. “Where would you hide a phone?”
“You think Rafe’s hidden it from you?”
“He more or less said he had. I haven’t seen it in three days.” He paused. “You think we could call him?”
Jack recalled something about getting only one phone call if you were in custody and shook his head. “You know, you really should be thinking about your friend. It’s not looking good for him.”
“No. Well. Do you think he really killed her?”
Jack shook his head determinedly. Then he remembered what Rafe had said—about his cheque book. He turned and walked upstairs with his coffee. The cheque book was in Rafe’s desk drawer as he had said. Jack took it downstairs.
Mike was sitting at the table. Jack figured he could go, but he didn’t want to leave Mike alone in the house. Someone would have to lock the doors and windows, and he figured that was him.
35
The mechanic came about three-quarters of an hour later and asked Jack to move his car onto the road. Jack had been searching for Rafe’s house keys, but had only just managed to find them. He had begun locking up upstairs, but figured he had to wait for the mechanic.
“A problem with the alternator,” Mike said again as Jack neared the two of them.
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” the mechanic said. He pulled the alternator off, checked it and the cords, and then reattached it.
“That looks like the problem,” Jack said, nodding at a loose cord.
The mechanic frowned, reached for the cord, turned it over, and then clicked it onto the spark plug. “You want to try turning it over?” he said with a wry grin.
“Has someone simply disconnected that?” Mike said.
“It looks like it.”
“Fuck Rafe and his games,” Mike said, and slammed the car door. “I’ve been here for three days,” he muttered. He started the car, revved the engine a little, and then got out. “What do I owe you?”
“Forget it,” the mechanic said. “You’ve helped me out in the past.”
“Great.”
The mechanic packed his gear away, got into his truck and pulled out of the drive.
“If you find my phone, can you call me?” He gave Jack his number.
Jack keyed it into his phone.
Mike got into his car, swore, and got out again. “Still not dressed,” he muttered, and walked back into the house. He trotted upstairs, changed into the red shorts and a yellow T-shirt and came down again, a pack slung over his back.
“Have you checked your pack?” Jack said. He had seen it upstairs, but hadn’t wanted to look into it.
“I know it’s not in there.”
“You should check it.”
Mike stopped, nodded, and then checked the main compartment, emptying his clothes onto the driveway. He glanced up at Jack, as though Jack had been an idiot to make him look.
“Check every pocket,” Jack said. “If you want to find something, you have to search methodically.”
Mike began checking every compartment. His phone was in a small side-pocket, one that didn’t look as though it was used. He pulled it out with a look of incredulity on his face. “Rafe’s real funny,” he said. “Real funny.”
Jack nodded.
“You think that’s okay, don’t you? Treating another person like shit? You think those photos are okay. The way he gets me to do things,” he muttered. He stuffed everything back into his pack and stood up, then rocked back on his heels and offered Jack his hand. They shook. “I guess you’re okay,” Mike said. “Are you going to lock the house up?”
Jack nodded.
“I have keys anyway.”
When Jack got home, it was almost three p.m. Carol and Em were in the kitchen, doing the dishes.
“Rafe Carter is in the courthouse,” Em said. “In a cell.”
“I know,” Jack said.
“What happened?” This from Carol.
“They think he had something to do with Sissy’s disappearance.”
“They think he murdered her?”
Jack nodded.
“Is that where you’ve been?”
“Yes. The police came this morning—to search his house.”
“Oh, I see,” Carol said. “So you two are that close?”
“We’re friends,” Jack said, though he wasn’t sure if he should say this.
“And did he do it?”
“Do it?”
“Kill Sissy?”
“I doubt it.”
“No,
that little slut is off in Dallas somewhere, selling herself most likely.”
“They say she had some money on her. One of her friends said she had more than seventeen thousand dollars in cash.”
“Really?” Jack said.
“For drugs,” Carol said. “It’s all about drugs. There’s probably some drug-dealer involved, or she’s in trouble with some dealer. From everything Susan said, I can see she’s caught up in it—or was, if she’s been murdered.”
“You think she really was?” Em said.
Carol shrugged. “Little hussy. Who can tell?”
“What do you think, Jack?”
“I don’t know. It sounds likely. The police are taking it seriously.”
“Why did they arrest Rafe?”
“Oh, they searched the house. A friend of his says he did it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Says he threatened her.”
“Is this Mike?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t believe anything Mike said.”
“No, Carol. Neither would I.” Em paused, and then considered for a moment. “Did they find anything at the house?”
Jack didn’t want to tell them, but after some further pressing, admitted to having seen a locket.
“A locket?” Carol said. “You mean it was Sissy’s?”
Jack nodded.
“What did it look like?”
He described it for them.
“Did you see the photo?”
“I did.”
“Was it Rafe and Sissy?”
“No. Sissy and Mike.”
“Sissy and Mike. So it was jealousy, then!”
Em shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’s gay, remember.”
“Yes, but he’s not open about that.”
Jack wondered how this made sense. It didn’t. He thought it through and realized it couldn’t. And anyway, was Carol ready to consign Rafe to prison simply on the basis of a locket?
“I really don’t think he did it.” He turned away and walked into his living room.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t found Rafe a lawyer yet, and that perhaps he should have done it while he was back at the house. He gripped his head and told himself he was stupid. Even now they might be questioning Rafe. He walked back into the kitchen.
“You know any good lawyers?”
36
McIntyre was the only lawyer in town prepared to take on a homicide case. After contacting him, Jack felt a whole lot better. All he had to do now was get the cheque book to Rafe.
He walked out to his car and drove off in search of the courthouse, which he guessed was in the main street or somewhere nearby. It was nearby, but it was in a side street that led to the river, one Jack didn’t immediately find.
“I’m here to visit Rafe Carter,” he said to the officer on the desk.
“Rafe Carter?”
“You’re holding him on suspicion of murder.”
“You can’t just simply visit him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I have something for him.” Jack withdrew the cheque book from his pocket. “It’s his cheque book.”
“Expecting bail, is he?”
Jack supposed so.
“Well, I’ll hand it to him when I see him,” the officer said.
Jack nodded, stared at the cheque book in the officer’s hand, and then left. Would he really pass it over to him? He guessed so.
A café on the corner had attracted Jack’s attention as he was parking the car. He walked in and ordered himself a plate of fettucine. Then he sat by the window, looking down over the river. The stream that ran past Rafe’s house flowed into this, the Markwell. It was frighteningly broad, and looked deep and cold, the rain pock-marking its surface. He stared at it, thinking of Rafe and all his problems. Then Susan passed, reached the door, and entered. He sunk down a little. He didn’t want to be seen. She looked drunk again, and he couldn’t help wondering if her search for cocaine had been successful. She ordered her meal in such a bright voice he guessed it had been. Then she began searching for a table.
“Jack!” he heard a moment later, though he was looking determinedly out of the window.
She took a seat at the table. “Have you heard about the Carter boy? He’s in jail.”
“In the courthouse.”
“I told you he was financing the drugs.”
“He’s suspected of murder.”
“Of murder? Not the bald-headed boy.”
“The bald-headed boy?”
“Mike—is it?”
For the first time Jack connected “bald-headed” to Mike’s buzz cut. He shook his head.
“So he’s still alive?”
“Of course,” Jack said.
“Who is it, then?”
“Sissy.”
“That little wench. Did he kill her?”
“No,” Jack said. “He didn’t.”
“What’s he in jail for, then?”
“They think he did it.”
“But it wasn’t him?”
“No,” Jack said.
“It wasn’t you, was it Jack?”
“No,” he said, his temper rising.
“Oh, good. I’ve always liked you. Carol likes you.”
A waiter arrived with her meal, salmon, by the look of it. “You should try this. I come in every week for the salmon.”
Jack nodded.
“How’s Carol?” she said.
“Fine.”
“Is she ever coming home?”
“She’s worried about you.”
“About me? I’m all right.”
No, Jack thought.
“It’s Carol who’s the odd one. She’s always been odd.” She paused. “Are you two getting together? You’d be good together.”
“I’m gay.”
“Yes, but so is she.”
He left, and walked back to his car in the rain. It was almost five p.m. now, and he figured he could go to bed with nothing further to eat. Before he did, he copied Mike’s photos, the photos of Mike Rafe had taken, onto his computer.
37
The morning dawned bright and hot. When he’d had some breakfast, he rang the courthouse to see when Rafe would be appearing, if it was even today. He had to wait, and when he finally got through, realized it would be this afternoon. “The afternoon session,” she said, which began at one. What, then, was he going to do today?
He didn’t know.
He took a shower, wanted to play some music afterwards, but rediscovered he’d lost his iPod and dock. There was something to do. The suburban answer to boredom: the mall. He could buy himself a new iPod and dock, and perhaps an alarm clock. Money was getting a little tight. He’d earned a lot last year, before the accident, working for a mining company in Idaho. It was supposed to see him through until the end of this year, but he would then have to find work again. He could use some new clothes also. When he went into the courtroom today, he could dress in a suit, and as he thought of it, he thought of Rafe, and what Rafe would think of him. Would he be impressed? Jack hoped so.
In a small menswear store at the mall he found a navy suit that fitted him perfectly. All he now needed was a shirt, a tie, some socks, and an appropriate pair of shoes. The sales assistant, a man in his nineties, was more than helpful. He chose a white shirt and a red tie, or a mainly red tie. The socks were cotton. The shoes he had to buy elsewhere.
He’d never particularly liked dress shoes. He’d always thought they looked a bit wonky. He walked down to the shoe store wondering if he’d be able to find a pair he liked here, and was then helped by a very nice woman who had a new pair in, a pair of perforated derby’s. They looked fantastic, but cost him more than three hundred dollars. Even so, Rafe was worth it.
At home, he set up his iPod and dock, and then got dressed to the sound of ABBA singing Waterloo. He tied the tie and laced the shoes, and then saw an unfamiliar man approaching him in the mirror, a man he’d never seen, or that was his fir
st impression. He looked amazing. The scars were frustrating, but really, dressed like this he could be anyone, someone from the city—a banker or a doctor or even a lawyer.
This thought brought back thoughts of today, and of Rafe, and he glanced at the clock. It was eleven forty-five. He considered leaving the suit on, but that would mean eating lunch in it and possibly messing it up, so he dressed down to his underwear and socks and walked out to the kitchen. Em and Carol weren’t at home, which was a good thing, as he didn’t want them asking him questions about Rafe and his appearance today. He wanted to go down to the courthouse on his own.
He fixed himself a ham sandwich and ate it at the kitchen table in his underwear, a pair of tighty-whities, which he believed you more or less had to wear if you were wearing a suit. When he’d finished it was after twelve.
He dressed again, peered at himself from every angle, and then drove down to the courthouse, which was just over a mile away. He couldn’t find a parking spot in the street the courthouse was in, but found one two blocks down. He walked back, anxious about the time, but arrived at twelve thirty, just as the courtroom was opening to the public. An elderly lady preceded him into the room. She took a seat in front. He wanted a seat by the dock, on the left-hand side. That way, he’d be able to see Rafe clearly, and might even be able to say a word to him.
The courtroom filled quickly, and by five to one it was packed. He glanced around and saw a few familiar faces. Aaron was sitting in back.
At one, Rafe was led in. Incredibly, he was dressed in the flip-flops and his button-down shirt. It looked as though he hadn’t slept. His eyes were bleary and red, the skin around them darkened. He looked like a racoon, but perhaps he’d been crying. His hands were cuffed in front of him. After taking a seat in the dock, he sat, staring at his fingers. A minute or so passed and then he looked up and glanced around the courtroom. He recognized Jack with a jolt and smiled wanly.
Jack nodded.
“All rise,” the bailiff said.
They stood, and Judge Ewan McAfferty entered.
A few moments later, the prosecution was outlining their case. Rafe knew the deceased; he was the last to see her alive; he had a motive; and a locket had been found in his possession. “We are applying later today for a warrant to search the grounds. We oppose bail.”
