by Jack Wallen
But was there more?
I opened my eyes and watched the water run down my belly. Without warning, my imagination placed Shannon’s hands on my skin. Instantly, I was covered in chills, and my lungs scrambled for air as my heart’s pace doubled.
Oddly enough, I was afraid. I focused on my shower. But no matter how hard I focused, I couldn’t get beyond seeing Shannon’s hands wrapped around my belly. I forced myself to transplant Craig Wayne’s hands over them. I was instantly overcome with a feeling of heated passion I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. My breath started coming in long, deep pulls as my skin became lit with prickly fire. It was as if I could feel the warmth of his belly against my back, smell his cologne, and feel his five o’clock shadow on my neck.
I touched myself, something I hadn’t done in a long time. But the thought of being taken by that man was enough to drive me back to Straightsville and into the throes of orgasm.
I finally finished the shower and got dressed. I fumbled around but eventually managed to put both legs in a pair of pants and both arms in a shirt. At least I hadn’t lost control of my limbs, just my imagination.
After a quick run to Nancy’s Bagels, I was on my way to work. On the way, my mind started racing, and I found my thoughts turning right back to Shannon. She was my strength, not to take away from the power of Raja Kitty and Big Gay Skip. No matter how bipolar I was feeling about her and our relationship, I had to remember to call her today. I needed another girls’ night in. I needed to solidify what she was to me. I needed to reassert that we were the best of friends and that every ounce of my body was hetero. At least, that was the conclusion I was hoping I would draw.
I arrived at the station, parked my car, and started nibbling on my spinach-feta bagel as I walked across Sixth Avenue. There was another racial protest going on, and I was going to have to fight an angry crowd. Great. Just what I needed, to be seen as a white, female police officer bullying her way through a gang of protesters who were angry about the treatment of minorities. I couldn’t easily stop and say, “We’re not all corrupt, you know.” At least, not if I valued my job and my life.
Luckily, I wasn’t hit with any sour cabbages or rotten tomatoes as I made my way through the door. I was, however, approached a number of times and handed fliers declaring the wrong-doings of the Louisville Police on the black minority. The unfortunate truth was that they were handing these to the wrong officer. I felt like I should do them a favor and walk into the precinct to slap the notices on the doors of every known bigot in the department.
The echoes of the chanting crowd faded away as the elevator doors closed.
When the elevator doors opened onto my floor, I immediately felt that something wasn’t right. The goon squad was gathered in the War Room and seemed to be in the middle of a heated discussion. The door was closed, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. This was strange because the War Room was being used for my case, thus it was typically off-limits to other cases.
I decided I’d retreat to my office and call my own personal gossip columnist, Skip. If anyone would know what was going on, it would be him. I had set my coffee and bagel down and started to pick up the phone when the chief, in all his lard-ship, waltzed in and shut the door behind him. I stood and braced myself for ugliness.
“Sit down,” his highness commanded.
“I’m fine as—”
“Sit down,” he insisted. I complied. I crossed my legs and placed my hands in my lap. My face was like granite. This bastard wasn’t going to intimidate me. Not this time. I wasn’t going to show him any fear.
The chief looked at me as if he were sizing me up for something. I didn’t like the look in his eye.
“I’m taking you off that freak-ass case,” he announced.
I stared in disbelief. I wanted — no, had — to speak, but my mouth was having trouble forming the words.
“I’m putting Jefferson, Digby, and Claus on it,” he added for fun.
The frat pack. The creeps that had been laughing and joking at the Chung murder scene.
“No,” was all I could manage to get out through my building rage.
“Excuse me, Detective? Did I hear you say ‘No’ to my order?” He leaned over and put his face close to mine. “Surely that is not what you meant to say, Detective. If that is what you meant to say, I might have to reconsider your new assignment and place you on traffic duty.” He paused. He must have thought he was giving me time to think about it. Traffic duty was just another way of humiliating an officer. It was a shit job, and it lasted forever. A traffic duty cop was the lowest form of officer. And it usually included a dock in pay until the sentence was served. “I’m going to give you a chance to repeat yourself, Davenport.” His breath smelled of cigarettes and something sour that I couldn’t place. “What did you say?”
I couldn’t take it. I stood up and got right back in his pockmarked face. “What I said was that you can’t put those idiots on this case. Not now. I’m too damn close, and I’m the only one here who has any idea where this whole thing might be leading. I’ve done all the leg work. I’ve figured this guy out. You take me off, and you’ll never catch this psycho.”
The chief took in a deep breath as if he were going to suck the entire room into his barrel-chested lungs. “You and your partner are off the case. I don’t care if you’ve got the killer cuffed to your fucking bedpost with a shovel-sized dildo up his queer-bait ass. You set one foot near this case, and you’ll be busted so far down the ladder you’ll never return to humanity in my, or your, lifetime.” His face was red. “Is that clear?”
I refused to answer. I held my ground and stared deep into his bloodshot eyes until he couldn’t take it and huffed out of my office. He hated strength in women, and his overweight brain closed like a trap when confronted with feminine strength.
As soon as he left, my shoulders dropped, and the stale air I had been holding in my lungs escaped. I wasn’t going to take this. I didn’t care what that fat SOB said, he wasn’t taking me off this case. And the jerkoffs he assigned to the case would rather invent new and hideous ways to make fun of the victims than to try and save their lives.
I grabbed my keys and left my office. I had to get out of there before someone saw me show even the slightest bit of emotion. Those insensitive jerkoffs would never see weakness from me.
I was on my way to the elevator when Jefferson swung open the War Room door.
“Hey, Davenport! Looks like we get the homo case now. We’re going to run that fucker up the fag pole, and then we’re going to expose the entire cocksucking lot of his wanna-be victims for the freaks they are.” The entire room broke out in laughter.
I wanted to castrate each and every one of the brain-dead maggots, but I knew it would only further my plight. I wanted to scream. Instead, I realized I was about to cry. I had to get out of there as fast as I could.
I made to it the elevator and down to the lobby without further incident. Outside, the protesters were still going strong. I ducked my head and bolted down the stairs leading to the sidewalk. Their hatred was cutting holes in my already-weakened armor.
I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. I wanted to be anything but what I was.
I ran across Sixth and into the parking lot to my car. As soon as I got in, both the shields and the tears fell.
Drip drop, drip drop. Tears polka-dotted my uniform slacks. Good thing I stopped sneaking the Ann Taylor pants by the uniform inspectors.
I felt like a joke. I felt like everything was just a big fucking joke. I was working my ass off for a displaced section of society whose only sin was being misunderstood by everyone else, and in my book, that was no sin. I was trying to save dress-wearing men from a scalpel-wielding butcher who thought it was okay to play God.
I cried until my gut hurt. I cried until my elbows and my eyes hurt. Finally, when the crying seemed like it might finally stop, my cell rang. I looked at the caller ID — Skip. I cleared my throat, choked back the last sob,
and answered,
“Hi, Skipper.” I sounded like a little girl. I felt like a little girl.
“Baby, where you be?” I could tell he knew I had just been thrown down the outhouse well. His tone of voice was gently patting me on the back.
“In my car,” spoke the little girl, wishing she had her teddy bear.
“Where’s your car, dollface?” I nearly smiled at the pet name.
“My space in the lot.” The little girl refused to grow up.
“Give me two minutes, and you’ll get the biggest damned hug you’ve ever had.” How perfect of him.
I sobbed. “Two minutes is all you get.” He knew I was joking.
“Start the stopwatch, Momma’s comin’!” He hung up, and I tried to let out the rest of my tears before he arrived.
I closed my eyes and let my head drop back. I really had no idea what to do. I couldn’t believe what had just happened to me. It wasn’t fair. As if being a female detective wasn’t hard enough, working under a sexist, racist, bigoted pig made life nearly impossible.
I was about to be smacked upside the head with another crying fit when the passenger door opened. “Hidyho, muffin toe.” Skip said. As soon as I looked into his big gay puppy dog eyes, I fell into another crying fit. The pain of the racking sobs was nearly too much, but I let it all come out.
Skip pulled me into a deep, warm hug that filled me with life.
“Don’t let that jackass get under your skin, sweetie,” Skip whispered while patting my back, which was usually the quickest way to calm me down. “And don’t you worry, Mommy has a plan.”
I pulled away from him and gave him my best What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis? look.
“We’re going to continue with our investigation. The chief be damned. I’ve already contacted Jason and Tasha, the coroner and Craig Wayne. They’re going to cooperate under the table. You know everyone hates that fat fuck, and they’re all willing to do anything they can to undermine his authority. So, we’re going to lead a little rogue squad. No one will ever know.” He flashed me a devilish smile.
“And when we nail this psycho, we’ll shove it so far up the chief’s ass—”
“He could fart for days, and it would never see light!” Skip finished. We both laughed out loud.
“So, we’re going it alone?” I smiled as I asked. I had never been one to go so totally against the system. This time, however, I was willing to do whatever it took to bring down a killer and a corrupted system. Promotion be damned.
“You know we have to nail this guy before the frat-pack gets him. They’re already saying they’re going to out every one of the members of the Southern Belles.” I remembered what Jefferson had spouted off to me as I was leaving.
“Not on my watch, they won’t,” Skip said emphatically, as he pulled the door shut. “What’s the first move, partner o’ mine?”
“Well, the first thing we need to do is get in touch with the lab and see if we can confiscate that list of clues.” I knew I couldn’t just walk out with evidence.
Skip reached into his bag. “Do you mean…these?” He pulled out the baggie that contained the paper clues. My eyes instantly dried and grew wide.
“Skip, how did you…? On second thought, don’t tell me.” I grabbed the bag like a greedy child.
“You’ll also be wanting this…” To my surprise, Skip pulled out the list of names from the Belles meeting.
“Skip, for a gay man, you sure rock my world.” I winked at him.
“And for a straight girl, you… well, you… nah, you’ve had enough heartache for one day.” Skip winked back.
I had an idea that would require me to get home to my computer. We needed those names decrypted fast, and the only person I knew who could handle that task was one Jason Roberts in the computer lab. Since he was working under the table with us, I was willing to seek out his assistance.
“We’re going to my place for a little geek time,” I said, as I put the car in gear.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Lakmé didn’t sleep. He spent the entire night watching the girl dream. Before she had drifted off to sleep, he had learned that her name was Allie. She was darling and everything he had always wished he could be, a petite blond with a stunning smile, bright eyes, an infectious laugh, perfectly shaped, dainty feet. She was exquisite.
But no matter how much he wanted to devour her, mostly he just wanted to be in her company. He wanted to be infected with everything about her. She brought to life his fantasy self. He wanted to learn about her and from her.
For the first time in his life, he felt human and alive.
When she awoke, she went to the bathroom to dress. He told her they would go shopping for clothes.
“I won’t do anything until I have some breakfast,” she said with a playful laugh as she walked out of the bathroom. “I want a waffle and a Coke. And I won’t settle for anything else.” She put on her left shoe. “And I know the best place in town for waffles and Cokes.”
They got in the car and headed to Lynn’s Paradise Cafe for the best breakfast in town. It was strange, he thought, how much he wanted to know about her, but how little she wanted to know about him. But it was good to not have to recall his past for his new friend. It was a different life. He was a different person. He was no longer that frightened child waiting for the next crushing blow to his innocence. He was a man and free to do as he pleased.
The cafe was crowded but worth the wait. As they entered, there were stares that seemed to come from all around. At first, he assumed the glares were directed toward Allie, who flipped off some of the more blatant oglers. However, as the stares continued, he realized that many of them were aimed directly at him. He took mental notes of particular faces. He would remember them.
The waiter turned out to be a friend of Allie’s. They promised to get together very soon to talk about her last date. The chit-chat of her latest conquest burned his insides with jealousy. Lakmé didn’t say anything, though. He just breathed slowly and deeply. He couldn’t chance scaring his new friend away. He needed her too much. But he knew he would have to deal with this. Letting her out of his sight would be a drastic mistake. She was for him and no other.
As they waited for breakfast, he made awkward attempts at small talk. He wanted to know everything about the girl. Allie, however, was in the business of releasing only the smallest amount of information. Even with his prodding, things seemed to remain on the superficial level. She let him know of her favorite local band, her favorite horror movie, the last time she really felt like she was in love, the way her best friend smelled like mashed potatoes, and of her stuffed skunk that she missed so much. Nothing deep. Nothing to sink his teeth into.
Fortunately, the waiter soon returned with two frothy Cokes ready to be sucked down. The conversation continued in its shallow and glib way but settled into a less awkward back-and-forth exchange.
Finally, breakfast was served. The waffles were as warm and sweet as the company. His mind wandered to how she would taste, the place he was never supposed to think of. Would it be sweet or bitter? Very briefly, he let his mind go there. In his mind’s eye, he saw her lying naked on his bed as he dined on her secret flesh. The taste was sweet.
Allie brought him out of his reverie with a slap to the arm.
“They aren’t that good, ya knob,” she said with a smile.
Embarrassed, he dropped his fork. He didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled and blinked his eyes quickly.
He picked up his fork to take another bite of the waffle and noticed his hand was shaking vigorously. He was feeling that sense of loss where control was something that might soon slip from his grasp. Sometimes he wished he had maintained his prescriptions. But insurance and doctors were not something that agreed with his methods and his needs. Without the medication, physical torture was the only means to end the spells. Sometimes it only required a burn or a cut. There were other times, however, when more drasti
c measures were necessary. For those times, Lakmé had his tools, but those tools were long lost in his abandoned home.
This time, he was trapped in public with his new friend he so desperately didn’t want to lose.
He felt the shaking move up his arm. He needed to get away for a moment. “I have t-t-t-to use the b-b-b-boy’s room. I’ll be back. Okay?” he stuttered, feeling his jaw tense.
“Are you okay?” Allie looked genuinely concerned. Someone cared about him. But the caring wasn’t enough to push back the chaos overtaking him.
“I’m f-f-f-fine. I’ll be b-b-b-back.” He rushed off and sped straight to the restroom.
The restroom was a single occupancy, so he was able to lock himself in and work his way through the spasms. He stood in front of the sink and stared into the mirror. His eyes were darting back and forth. Keeping focus straight ahead had become nearly impossible. The nightmare was coming through the veil. It was like a demon forcing its way through the membranes of his brain and into reality. He knew what would happen. He could feel it coming. He knew who he would see. He knew that the biggest evil of all would be waiting when the membranes were finally broken.
“What’s happening with the little pussy boy?” his father screamed, and then threw his beer. “God, why did you have to have that fucking mess?”
“He’s sick, damn it. He needs to see a doctor,” his mother cried.
Wrapped in his mother’s only angora sweater, he was convulsing. The episodes were rare, but when they happened, they were ugly. He was clenching his jaw hard. She pried his mouth open and put the heel of her hand in his mouth. The young boy bit down hard. She cried out.
