I guess she was right. Since nothing made sense anymore, and I couldn’t tell my enemies apart …
I looked up once at the face belonging to the knee-high boots I was squashed between. The long blond wig said one thing, but the five-day beard and the boxer’s nose said something a little louder. He smiled.
“How you doing? I’m Brock.” Deep.
“Manny,” I answered.
He tsked me. “You’ll have to work on that.”
“How about you? Brock’s not exactly androgynous.”
Brock leaned closer. “Because I’m just a guy in a wig. Big difference.”
I looked away and Brock went back to staring out the window. I was getting a feel for what this was. A troupe of good time party people, most either transsexual or in drag — fierce. It was a performance, just without a stage.
Joel was cramped and getting restless, folded up like the swami in the glass box, still freaked about watching Robin get tazed, and that wasn’t doing wonders for his temper. Seemed like he never once blinked the whole ride. Heat radiated from his face, I could feel it. If someone had opened the door and let him out, he would’ve marched right back to the condo and beat Detective Tischer into oblivion. No amount of voltage would’ve stopped him.
Something the Marine in Iraq never would’ve done, but now he had a reason.
The van made some turns that rocked-and-rolled us and finally had us driving into someplace without any light at all. A cave? No, we were in the city. A warehouse? A garage? The tires squeaking on pavement and the engine growling louder before we shuddered to a stop — yeah, definitely a garage of some sort.
We’d lost the ambient light when the garage door behind the van rolled back into place, clicking shut. Then the front doors to the van opened, giving us another flicker of light, and then the side door slid back. The gang tromped out as a herd, the people behind grabbing Joel and me under the arms to pry us off the floor, then pushing us toward the door. We stumbled out into the dark, no more than silhouettes visible around us in the weak blue fluorescents hanging from chains high above. Definitely some sort of warehouse.
The mud I’d knelt in earlier was beginning to dry on my knees and legs. I felt as if I was being mummified. Paula pulled us to the side so the others could get past, most shedding their wigs and boots and feather boas and rainbow scarves and skirts and blouses and bras. Comfortable in their own skin, something I, too, was hoping to be one day.
The lights grew brighter — bulbs popping to life as the troupe scattered. Mirrors framed in lightbulbs, the kind you see backstage at theaters. Others on stands, the kind photographers use, draped in bright dyed cloth, shading everything red, yellow, green …
The party vibe picked up again. Chatter, chatter, chatter. People gathered around mirrors, wiping off make-up, helping each other remove complicated straps and buckles, or covering themselves with robes after they’d shed everything else.
Paula put her arms around our shoulders. “Let’s get you two out of these clothes. We’ve got washers and dryers.”
“Bullshit.” Joel ducked out from Paula’s arm. “I’m good. Don’t have time for any of this. Get us back. The cops have my girl!”
“Relax, officer, relax. We’re about the best bet you’ve got anymore. Take your clothes off, take a shower, have a glass of wine. We need to talk and figure things out. Then we’ll make plans.”
Joel pounded one fist into the other and skulked off into the darkness, shouting “Shit!”
Paula pulled off her party cap, and now I could see the bloody gash she’d hidden beneath it.
I reached out automatically, but pulled my hand back. “Did I do that?”
Paula stepped out of my range. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. You were right, we were wrong. Titus and I had a nice heart-to-heart as he cleaned me up. We’d chosen the wrong way to go about it, so we agreed to help you. Come on, he’s on your side now.”
I doubted that. I searched the gloom for that stupid Flock of Seagulls hair and Matrix trenchcoat. There he was, watching us sideways. No idea how I could ever trust him again.
Paula led the way, confident in high-heeled ankle boots, leather pants, and a leather vest over a man’s tuxedo shirt. Joel sidled up to me, whispering: “What sort of V for Vendetta shit is this?”
I shrugged. I’d never seen that flick.
Past the brilliant mirrors and clothes racks, the bean bags and futons — on which the recovering Viral gang lounged, wine glasses, beer bottles, or cocktails in hand, all of them young, diverse, some glitzy, some scraped clean, all of them touchy, snuggly, cozy, at home being near each other — was the other half of the warehouse. Paula led us through a gauntlet of props: furniture from all ages, painted backdrops — some spooky, some swirly, some mundane — and ladders and monsters and curtains and … it was confusing. But then Paula arrived at an obviously garage-built set of steps that led into a dark opening in the wall. She peeked over her shoulder. “Up here. You’ll see.”
She disappeared into the shadows.
I followed, Joel right behind me, until I could see that Paula had headed over to a panel on the wall and began flipping switches. Lights popped on past this corridor of ours, leading to a stage. I stepped out onto it.
Spotlights in my eyes, overhead lights making me sweat, the house lights up to reveal row after row of mismatched folding chairs in a relatively small, carpeted room. Maybe as much floor space as a convenience store. No windows. The stage itself was simple, definitely just plywood over an abyss, with trapdoors showing their seams. The backdrop was a wall painted black. A shitty drop ceiling to contain the cavernous warehouse feel of the joint. Funny, for a place with this much space, to see how little was used for the theater part. But I supposed the troupe didn’t want any distractions — the play is the thing!
Paula stepped out onto the stage with us, arms spread theatrically wide. “What do you think?”
Joel chinned at the seats. “Packed house.”
“Really?” To me, “What about you?”
“It explains a lot, about how you know the politicians, running in the arts circle. And the quick appearance changes. So, what is it?”
“This,” another wave of her hands like a magician, “is home of the West Nile Theater Group.”
“Ah, like the virus.”
“Like the virus.”
“Hence Viral.”
She walked over to me and booped my nose. “You catch on quick.” Her happy mood made me sick. I was pretty sure my mom and sis wouldn’t have found it funny, either.
The West Nile Virus had shown up in Minnesota a handful or more years ago, thanks to our bird-sized mosquitoes — the ‘state bird’, some will tell you — and panicked a lot of people. If I remember right, it was pretty much a bad summer cold, unless you were too old, too young, or immune-compromised. It’s not something we had dealt with much since the initial warnings, though. I could just imagine it being in the Zeitgeist when this group was coming together. Years later, it sounded as if they put on Egyptian plays, which Paula assured us was far from the truth.
“It’s experimental. We like to play. We like to shock. Many of our actors have gone on to other companies, other cities, because they were scouted here. That’s what we’re known for, having an eye for raw talent. We showcase it for the rest of the world, and let nature and agents do the rest.”
We were backstage again, both Joel and I finally giving up our clothes to kick back in fluffy robes, him drinking beer while Paula and I sipped bottles of fancy brand-name waters. Titus lurked nearby, pacing, but when he floated too close, I gave him a look that sent him scurrying off again. Still didn’t trust that little rat.
I took a wild guess. “So this is where Hannah started being Hannah.”
“In public, anyway. I offered her a chance to play a role. Of course she wasn’t an actress, so when she was on the stage it was for bit parts, but she was herself up here.” Paula beamed, lost in thought for a long moment before blinking
out of it. “During the day, Hans became another character she had to play. He was becoming less and less of a ‘person’, more of a caricature, and I believe Andrew noticed before anyone else. Not that I ever had confirmation of that.”
“Another one of your experiments.”
A Joker-sized grin from Paula. “Let’s just say he was a work in progress, partially scripted, but with a lot of necessary improv.”
“Do you get a lot of Republicans at the theater? Wouldn’t all this be a little outside of their family values?”
“Rich people make whatever goddamn values they want and expect the rest of us to go along. They might as well have been right up on stage with Hannah. But as long as we didn’t boast about some of our benefactors, they were happy to support us. That was their children up on our stage. Their nieces and nephews and second wives. Secret lovers. In all colors, shapes, sizes, and flavors. Of course they gave us money. We gave their fantasies a home.”
Joel took a swig from his beer and gave us his best dismissive burp. “I’ll never understand it. Go libertarian. Then you can be as rich a bastard as you want and not have to be Jesusy.”
“Jesus means money.”
“Not in my Sunday school, he didn’t.”
I leaned back and nestled with my bathrobe, feeling strange to wear nothing else in company, feeling even more exposed and vulnerable than before. “How much did you know, Paula? How much really?”
She crossed her legs, propped her elbow on her knee and held up her chin. “I guess not as much as I had hoped. Hannah was vague about it. Something like, she had several half-brothers and a half-sister that she’d never met. Hannah wanted to know what had happened to them over the years.” A pause, a furrowed brow. “But that isn’t all, right?” Her voice unsteady.
I looked at Paula, long and hard and unabashed, and then I decided to trust her. Don’t ask me why.
I told her about the files — several ‘surrogate’ mothers paid off to have babies, and God only knows what had happened to them. The private eye had found evidence that one baby had died, and that the rest were left in the care of the single women who had carried them, completely unprepared for the role of mother because they’d been told they wouldn’t have to raise these children. Probably not even children in their eyes, but science experiments, or a profitable deal in a desperate situation. Kept quiet all those years by funds Hannah, as Hans, would later manage herself without a clue.
Her own siblings.
Paula began streaming tears as I spoke, but maintaining her resolve. She covered her mouth with her propped-up fingers. And then I played the trump card.
“Hannah was born a hermaphrodite.”
You’re all pretty smart, I realize. But indulge me, please.
Imagine: you have the genitalia of both a man and a woman, giving you some of the characteristics of both.
Imagine: one day, your supposed parents come to you. They ask you to choose. You can be a boy, or you can be a girl.
Or you can remain exactly the way you are. You’re perfect that way.
It’s all in your hands. Wear a dress and play with frogs, wear boy sneakers and hold tea parties, wear a barrette in your hair while pretending your plastic spaceship is escaping an evil space samurai, wear a t-shirt with a roaring T-Rex on it while you dress up a stuffed doll.
Pretend to be your daddy and lather on the shaving cream … except like your mommy, on your legs instead of your cheeks.
Make your own way. Be a man. Grow some balls. Put some hair on your chest. Or not. Smooth out your skirts, carry a twinkle in your eye, smack your lips to even the lipstick.
Whatever you want. Either. Or. Both.
Hannah never got the chance to choose.
Her parents, wealthy and powerful, successful and influential, decided that this ‘thing’ they had brought into the world to save their beloved first born was an embarrassment. Worse, an abomination, according to their Bible. Theirs was more of an Old Testament faith — less about forgiveness, more about the appearance of holiness. The faith of the rich was whatever they wanted it to be, as long as they could selectively quote scripture for justification after the fact.
So they told Hans he needed surgery. It was a defect, they said. It would make him feel better, they said. Would it leave scars? Some, but everyone has scars. Scars are a sign of a brave boy.
He knew more than they thought he did. Not before maybe, but as soon as the deed had been done, oh, Hans knew something was very wrong, and he knew those scars weren’t just macho reminders of a once defective but now super manly organ. While he never felt quite right again, never comfortable just being Hans (“A natural born actor,” Paula said), he eventually forgot exactly what had happened and why, once the wave of school and sports and family vacations and ski lessons and lavish birthday parties and and and … the cause, easily forgotten. But the symptoms …
…they never went away.
As I was finishing, Paula walked back over to all those props — painted scenery, papier-mâché shrubs and giant Mardi Gras parade heads, and wooden horses and cardboard cars — and started kicking holes in them. She picked up the Mardi Gras heads and threw them through the painted scenery. She screamed as she stomped the cardboard flat under her boots. She picked up a chair that had been made into a throne, and threw it across the room. It fell apart on impact. She screamed again, and again, and again, until she was hoarse. Then she sank to her knees.
The entire troupe froze mid-sentence, mid-movement, mid-laugh, and turned to watch, some of them with similarly trembling lips and wet eyes. No surprises there. These were people who had found themselves by turning to Paula for their cue.
I started towards her, but she held up a hand, stopped me cold. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet, looking like a grand Italian sculpture. She took slow steps back toward her troupe, which as one closed ranks around their leader, glaring at us like it was our fault she was crying. Our fault we’d reduced their leader to this.
I lifted my eyes to them and turned to each and every face. I told them why Paula was seething, and what Hannah had learned about the liberties others had taken with her life, her choices. I explained as best I could how their theater group had given Hannah the courage and ambition to chase the truth.
One of the actors, a young Hmong man with a blond stripe through his spiky hair, asked, “But how did that get her killed? What does that have to do with it?”
I shook my head. “I think she told the wrong person.”
“Who?”
Paula sighed. “Someone she trusted. Someone she thought wouldn’t betray her.”
I pulled one of the flash drives from my pocket and held it up. “She didn’t trust him completely, though. She didn’t give him this.”
Paula nodded. “I was only her … Plan B.”
I stepped over to the love fest between Paula and her actors and took her face between my palms. “It’s a damn good thing you were, because Plan B is the only reason we got this far along.”
She smiled, tears tracking her make-up. “So what do we do next?”
Less than two hours later, I was on my knees on the banks of the Mississippi, being helped to my feet by a bone-tired patrol cop, cuffing me, while Joel fought for his life a few yards away, medics pumping his heart for him, trying to stop the bleeding, before shoving him in the back of their ambulance.
A very convincing scene, if I do say so myself.
PART THREE
1
The scene was madness. Lots of moving parts. Lots of actors. It was late, or it was early morning, or it was hard to tell the difference. My knees were cold and scraped and bleeding, pebbles and rocks beneath them making me want to scream, but I had to grit my teeth and wait. I had to wait for the perfect moment, that moment when the cops showed up to the scene and arrested me. That was the plan.
The ambulance — borrowed.
The EMTs — actors.
The equipment — props.
My partner, Jo
el Skovgaard, on his back with two big bloody holes in his chest — stage makeup and squibs.
When the first Minneapolis squad car arrived, carrying two seen-it-all patrol cops at the end of a long shift, I put on a show. Not hysterical but in shock. Numb. Shivering, eyes wet, hands weak, wrapped around the grip of a battered nine millimeter one of the actors had pulled out of his glovebox, a cheap Hi-Point that had seen more action fending off unbidden gentlemen callers than I’ve had since I burned my cock off. Anyway, sexual frustration aside — or maybe not, who knows what the fuck was going on in my head — two shots by my own hand into the middle of the river to make it seem real. Powder burns, spent shells, all that.
As the cop went through the routine of having me drop the gun, go face down on the rocks, I said over and over, “I need to see Detectives Haupt and Engebretsen. No one else. Detectives Haupt and Engebretsen. Haupt and Engebretsen. No one else.”
The cop helped me up, gently guided me to his car, leaned me against the back. “Easy, now, easy. Can you answer a few questions? Do you want to talk to me?”
“Haupt and Engebretsen. Tell them I’m Hannah. Haupt and Engebretsen. I’m a cop, too. The man I shot is a cop. Please, Haupt and Engebretsen.”
I could see the tension coiling in his neck as he tilted his head, tried to stare me out, and yet I wouldn’t answer any of his questions. Another squad car pulled up with the sirens going and the lights blinding us all, until he finally tossed his head back, said, “Shit,” and nodded at his partner. “Can you get these guys on the horn? Haupt and Engebretsen?”
The end of a long shift, a nasty mess of cop-on-cop crime with no eyewitnesses, yeah, I understood. Anything to get me off the guy’s hands.
I let out my breath. My chest stopped burning. “Thank you.”
These two detectives — the gold standard, like I’ve already told you — they were pros. They’d already gotten a new ride since Joel had totaled their first Charger, and they had a few bandages over the cuts and scrapes they’d earned, but these weren’t hospital-grade bandages. They’d blown off medical help to stay on the case.
Castle Danger--Woman on Ice Page 25
