Grilled Cheese and Goblins

by Nicole Kimberling

  Face resting on his folded arms, Gunther watched. He said, “I have a condom in my inside jacket pocket.”

  Keith picked up the jacket, felt inside the pocket and laid the foil packet on the bedside table, along with a small tube of lube. He lay down next to Gunther and ran his hand along the other man’s back till he reached the tattoo. He traced the inked lines, wondering what, if anything, they meant.

  Keith had tattoos of his own. He’d never met a chef who didn’t. His were slightly more embarrassing, though piecemeal, work that dotted his body like pictures scattered from a scrapbook. On his right shoulder, a Jolly Roger from his pirate phase—on his left, a Celtic maze, and on his inside left forearm, a line of black stars stretching from his wrist to inner elbow—a remnant from his club period.

  “I always liked this.” Keith gently traced the lines of Gunther’s tattoo.

  “It’s goblin script.” Gunther looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s how you write the word ‘love.’ I got it on my eighteenth birthday.”

  Keith chuckled, ran his hand down over the curve of Gunther’s buttock. “And you say you’re not rebellious.”

  “It’s my one and only display. I’d seen a picture online of a man who had a tattoo right there and I thought it was beautiful, so that’s what I got. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be called a tramp stamp.” Gunther smiled up at him from under his lashes. “Will you still kiss me?”

  “Why not?” Keith bent to press his mouth against Gunther’s. The other man’s lips were hot and soft and supple. Keith didn’t think he’d ever kissed a man who seemed so relaxed and willing to let him take the lead. The very compliance seemed suspicious. Why in the world had Gunther taken his ludicrous bait? Had their positions been reversed, Keith would never have offered his own body—especially not to a guy like himself, with such questionable views and obvious anger issues. It seemed impossible that they should be here together this way. And yet, here they were.

  By nature Keith was not a rough or aggressive lover. He never had been. He’d played at it, sure. Lied about it to the straight guys he worked with who didn’t really understand that being gay wasn’t about plundering ass after ass after ass—not to him anyway. He’d bragged with some bravado over slaying this or that twink at the bar. But inside he’d never thought about sex that way and he couldn’t think about it that way now. He gave it his best, turning the ritual of condom and lube into teasing play, taking time to make sure Gunther was comfortable, relaxed and overall eager to accept him into his body. Keith murmured small compliments, telling Gunther how beautiful his body was—how hot inside—as he lay, chest pressed to Gunther’s back, fingers entwined with his temporary partner’s, hands flexing and contracting, mirroring the push and pulling of their bodies.

  Gunther responded with more generosity, if it was possible to supersede the hospitality of allowing Keith within his body.

  Keith wound his arm around Gunther. Feeling Gunther’s questing hand, he laced their fingers together once more.

  Friction became slick heat and he could no longer tell where his skin ended and Gunther’s began. Dizzying scents and sensations flowed through him. The carnal pleasure of Gunther’s skin far exceeded anything he’d ever known before or since he’d last had this man. Whether it was a trick of his goblin flesh or actual love, Keith did not know and he did not care. He thrust into Gunther’s responsive flesh, kissing and consuming him as if he’d been starved and alone for years only to stumble upon some lush, wild bacchanalia.

  No number of kisses or fevered thrusts seemed adequate to slake Keith’s craving. He longed to consume Gunther utterly, selfishly. Gunther bucked back against him, then began a tense and shuddering climax. The beauty of seeing Gunther’s pleasure, feeling the other man’s delicious hunger, drove Keith to the blinding, inarticulate edge of sheer avarice. Then all at once ecstasy was upon him, rolling through his taut muscles, drawing tears from his eyes.

  Afterward, Keith lay alongside Gunther and drifted, waking only briefly when Gunther rose, collected his clothes and silently departed.

  Chapter Seven

  Keith was up and out the door at six the next morning. He walked the block and a half to Whole Foods and bought a doughnut. But rather than returning immediately to the hotel, he found himself, for the first time, pacing the aisles. Soon he had an armful of ingredients—eggs, heavy cream, milk, butter, spinach, nutmeg, Gruyère—which he toted back to the hotel in a newly purchased green reusable bag. Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he began to cook. First came the crepes, completed one at a time and layered with sheets of waxed paper to keep them from sticking together. After that he prepped creamed spinach filling and grated Gruyère. He brewed coffee. He waited, surfing through television channels until his proximity alert informed him that Gunther had exited the elevator. Then he bounced to his feet and began to assemble breakfast, filling the first crepe before he heard a knock.

  Gunther’s manner was exactly the same as it had been the previous day. No casual observer would have suspected from looking at Gunther that they had made love less than twelve hours ago in this very bed.

  Really, the only person displaying a change of behavior was himself.

  Keith decided not to think about that at all.

  “Want some breakfast?” he said. “I made crepes.”

  Gunther smiled. “Yes, please.”

  “Do you like spinach?”

  “I’ve never really had a spinach crepe before, but I probably do. So far I like everything except banana pudding.”

  Keith folded the spinach filling into the four remaining crepes and handed the plate to Gunther, along with a fork.

  “Aren’t you going to have any?” Gunther asked.

  “I already had a doughnut.”

  “So you made these specially for me?”

  “I wanted to cook something this morning.” Keith knew that this wasn’t really an answer, but he wasn’t ready to actually think about an answer either. He didn’t want to plumb the murky depths of his own motivations. It was perfectly reasonable to want to make breakfast for a man you had sex with the previous night. The urge toward hospitality contained no special significance. And yet, he found himself carefully scrutinizing Gunther’s reaction.

  Again, nothing special. He was a chef. Chefs all wanted to know how their food had been received. He paid no special attention to Gunther, nor should he.

  If he told himself this enough times, Keith thought, certainly he would eventually believe it.

  Suddenly, Gunther glanced up, noting Keith’s stare. “These are amazing, but I really feel awkward eating them all alone.”

  “I’ll get myself some coffee.” Keith rose, poured himself a cup and to change the conversation, asked, “So do you know many other gay goblins?”

  “Trans-goblins,” Gunther corrected, then added, “No, hardly any. During the transformation process virtually anything can be decided about a baby. Few parents want to give their child an orientation that will make their human lives less easy. My parents were the exception to this rule.”

  “Are you telling me that you were made gay on purpose?” Goblins, Keith thought, truly were a breed apart. Apart from common sense, mainly. But then he caught himself in his own disturbing condemnation. Why shouldn’t parents want a gay child? Goblin or not?

  “My parents thought my godfather was the ideal human, so they wanted me to be as much like him as possible. I joined NIAD to follow in his footsteps. You’ve probably heard of him. Half-Dead Henry?”

  “The Undead Bum?” The words leaped from Keith’s mouth before he could jam his foot in to stop them from escaping. “I mean—”

  “No, you got it right: the Undead Bum.” Gunther took a forkful of crepe and chewed it thoughtfully. “You remind me of him, somewhat.”

  “How’s that?” Keith tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help but be slightly offended by being compared to a famous hobo.

  “Your tattoos. The
way you don’t seem to be able to express yourself emotionally. And your terrible diet. Henry eats cold chili right out of the can. Are you sure you won’t have this last crepe? They’re very good.”

  Keith hesitated, on the edge of turning back from a second refusal. Again that unthinking inspiration struck and he just said, “I would, but I’m too lazy right now to lift a fork.”

  “I could feed it to you,” Gunther said. “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

  “God, no. I’m not a little kid. Give me that.” Keith took the plate and fork and ate the crepe in six bites. It tasted better than he expected. He wiped his mouth and, finding Gunther staring at him, leaned across the table and quickly kissed him.

  “Are you—”

  Keith held up a silencing hand. “I haven’t changed my mind about talking about it.”

  “I didn’t think you had. I was about to ask if you wanted to question Bullock now.”

  “I think it’s about time. Is she still at PPB or was she moved to the NIAD detention facility?” Keith asked.

  “I’ll call.” Gunther did so. Keith listened absently, while finishing the dishes. He heard Gunther say, “I see.”

  Gunther’s tone alarmed him and Keith turned back to see that his partner’s expression had grown dark. He said, “What is it?”

  “Bullock was dead in her cell this morning. Suicide. I guess she knew the penalty for cannibalism after all.”

  Chapter Eight

  While Gunther spent the day visiting homes and interviewing members of the local trans-goblin community, Keith remained in his hotel room, staring at his own laptop, sifting through tens of thousands of pieces of text.

  Looking.

  Searching for any connection.

  Keith made grilled cheese, brewed coffee.

  Around ten p.m., Gunther returned. “Find out anything interesting?”

  “Samantha Evans, the booker from Lulu’s Flapjack Shack, has gone missing. Her mother reported her disappearance to the PPB and they sent out an officer to investigate, but according to the PPB report, her boyfriend says it’s not uncommon for her to take off for a couple of days without telling anyone,” Keith said. “What about you?”

  “I had to drink seventeen cups of tea, but I did manage to catch up on every piece of trans-goblin gossip for the last fifteen years. Lancelot, our goat-seeking goblin musician, has recently lost both his parents in a boating accident.”

  “A suspicious accident?”

  “Not at all.” Gunther leaned back, closed his eyes. “Nothing even remotely suspicious about him. Everybody loves him as far as I can tell.”

  Gunther yawned mightily. Keith waited for him to continue. He did not. A minute later Keith said, “You can take the bed if you want, Heartman.”

  Gunther complied, lurched up out of the chair and flopped onto the bed limp as a side of salmon slapping down onto a chopping board.

  Thinking that he should persevere, but tempted beyond all reasonable measure, Keith made it ten more minutes before joining Gunther on the ugly bedspread, then between the freshly changed hotel sheets.

  Approximately five hours later, at 3:06 a.m., PPB called them out to take a look at a foot.

  The foot in question had been found lodged under some fallen wood near an observation point in the Smith and Bybee Wetlands Natural Area. The foot was pale as wax. It had four toes—all of them very long. Each greasy white digit ended in a hornlike yellow talon. The most striking feature of the foot, though, was its NIAD vampire-identification bracelet looping the burned and slimy ankle stump.

  “We called this cuff into the office and they gave us your number,” the police officer said. “I would have called the department of wildlife myself. Since it doesn’t look like a human foot.”

  “It’s not a human foot.” Keith knew he stated the obvious but felt the need to say something. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the gear to take care of it.”

  “Who found this?” Gunther asked.

  “And ornithology professor from PSU. He was trying to set up in a blind before sunrise to observe the waterfowl when he ran across it. We sent him home. We wouldn’t have called you except for the cuff.”

  “It’s no problem,” Gunther said.

  “Do you mind if I ask what that thing is?”

  “It’s an animal limb. We’ll know more about it after it goes to the lab in San Francisco.” Keith opened up a lightproof bag and prepared to remove the evidence from the scene. They’d need to buy some dry ice on the way back to the hotel to keep it fresh during shipping.

  “It doesn’t really look like any kind of animal around here,” the officer remarked. “I’ve hunted here all my life, you know.”

  Gunther stepped smoothly between them. “I strongly suspect that this is part of a highly endangered animal.”

  “Endangered animal?”

  “Yes, the Argentinean four-toed sloth. Have you ever heard if it?”

  “No. I’ve seen a sloth in Costa Rica before, but never heard of the Argentinean one.”

  “Well, until recently, they were considered extinct. I’m actually collecting money for habitat preservation right now. Do you think you’d be interested in helping with a donation? Anything at all would be appreciated.”

  The officer demurred, claiming to have left his wallet in the car, and sidled away.

  “What would you have done if he’d given you money?”

  “That guy? It was never a possibility,” Gunther said, smiling.

  Keith crouched down. The stench of decay filled his nostrils. He gloved up and gingerly picked up the limb. After wiping the goo away he read out the serial number on the tracking cuff while Gunther typed it into the database, via his phone.

  “Janice Sounder,” Gunther pronounced. “No surprise there. The question is—is the rest of Janice alive somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so.” Keith finished bagging the foot, then poked at the ground with his pen. Though footprints and rain marred the scene, traces of ash remained. “I think she burned here.”

  “Wouldn’t there be clothes left behind? Or remnants anyway?”

  “Only if she was wearing them.” Keith beckoned the PPB liaison forward. “You say the foot was found in the woodpile?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was any of the wood around it burned?”

  “Yes, sir. We have those in evidence. We’re testing them for traces of accelerant. We did find some metal as well. Some fragments of silver and also a piece of metal we think might have been a wedding ring, sir.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It was gold and about the right shape.”

  Driving up the road, Keith could see a small procession of nondescript black SUVs approaching. The forensic team had arrived, probably via some sort of portal. Through his NIAD glasses, he could see the faint blue tracers still clinging to them.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose we need to go turn this over to the team.”

  By the time they’d relinquished Janice’s foot to the Irregulars forensic team and signed all the requisite papers, it was seven a.m. Keith was hungry and on the delirious level of fatigue. He pulled into an old-school doughnut shop called the Tulip Bakery, glanced over to Gunther, and said, “You want to go in or should I just get a dozen and head back to the hotel?”

  Gunther leaned back in his seat, eyes closed. “I trust you.”

  Tulip Bakery turned out to have the sort of doughnuts he remembered from his childhood back east. No coffee milk, though—in fact, no coffee at all. He got an assortment of cakes and raised and a couple of maple bars. He set the box in Gunther’s lap—the other man didn’t open his eyes but held the box instinctively as Keith pulled out of the parking lot, heading back to downtown.

  “Okay, so we’ve got the butchery venue and we’ve got one dead vampire who was supposed to have gone to Boise but never made it.” Keith rubbed his face, not relishing the drive back. “There is no reason to believe that these two occurrences are co
nnected except for proximity.”

  Gunther reclined his seat. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that they are.”

  “All right.”

  “What if Janice was somehow connected to the killings—maybe not as a killer, but as a purchaser of blood?”

  “Why kill her then?” Keith asked.

  “Maybe she wanted out. Maybe she was blackmailing the real killer.”

  “I don’t know. The Sounders have been here for a hundred and forty-five years without a single incident,” Gunther pointed out.

  “Okay, let’s go at it from another angle. Who was Janice meeting in Boise?”

  “A vampire named Silas DuPree. According to our office there he hasn’t even left his house for the last fifteen years.” Gunther cracked an eye long enough to paw a coconut twist out of the doughnut box.

  “How does Silas survive?”

  “Blood delivered weekly by courier.” Gunther took a bite of his doughnut. “He’s basically a shut-in.”

  “Where does he get the money for the home-delivery bloodmobile?”

  “He wrote a series of romance novels featuring sexy reclusive loners. Before that he performed on stage, but that would have been in the pre-electricity era.” Gunther inhaled at least half his doughnut in one massive bite. “Damn, these are good. Any coffee?”

  “There’s some cold stuff from yesterday in the cupholder if you don’t mind my backwash.”

  Gunther looked like he might make some sort of droll remark, then seemed to think better of it. He slugged back Keith’s leftover black with two sugars, then fished around in his pocket for his cigarettes.

  They turned and were heading straight into the rising sun. Keith scowled. More than likely this was the last sight that Janice Sounder had seen. “Did our office actually send an agent to speak with DuPree or did they just check the computer tracking system?”

  “I don’t know.” Apparently reinvigorated by fried dough, Gunther adjusted his seat back to alert passenger position. “Are you thinking that he’s not really there?”