by Lanyon, Josh
“It’s not like there’s a riptide in the aqueduct. They had divers looking and they couldn’t find the body.”
“Yeah, but Sean, there’s no way he could have survived that crash. I saw the photos in the newspaper. No way he walked away from that.”
“What if he wasn’t in the car when it went into the aqueduct?”
“It was a high speed pursuit. It’s not like he had time to stop, get out and push the car in and then hide behind some bushes. He was under police surveillance for another thing.”
“It was night. Someone might have missed something.”
“Sean—”
“I got a postcard from him yesterday. And another one today.”
Steve’s brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”
“The postcards have started again. Yesterday’s card said, ‘Miss me?’ Today’s said, ‘Soon.’”
“Was the handwriting—?”
“Dan’s having it analyzed to be sure, but I know his writing. It’s Hammond.”
“So Dan knows about this?”
I nodded. “He was there when I got the first card, but he doesn’t believe Hammond is alive.”
“Then who’s sending the cards?”
“He thinks it’s a copycat stalker. Someone who read about Hammond and me and decided to pick up where Hammond left off.”
“He’s the expert, I guess.”
“There’s more,” I said. I lowered my voice as though afraid somebody—Dan?—might hear this part. “I think I saw Hammond yesterday.”
Steve had a weird expression. “You are shitting me. Where?”
“On the hillside behind the house. I couldn’t be sure, but from a distance it looked a hell of a lot like him: same build, same shaggy blond hair, same baggy Hawaiian print shirt, black shades.”
“But that was from a distance,” Steve pointed out.
“I know. But I did see someone. Dan thinks—” I bit the rest of it off.
“Dan thinks what?”
Reluctantly, I said, “I feel like maybe he wonders whether I’m imagining things. Or that I’m making too much of a coincidence.”
Steve said slowly, “He knows about your breakdown, right?”
I nodded.
Steve thought it over. “But you didn’t imagine the postcards.”
“True.”
Two tanned twenty-somethings stopped by our table. A chubby blonde handed me a damp cocktail napkin to autograph.
“You were so great in Winchester 2010,” she said. “I was so, like, totally pissed when they killed you off.”
“Thanks.” I ignored Steve’s snickers.
“Told you so,” he remarked to no one in particular.
“Are you really gay?” the red-haired one said. She offered a Sharpie and her bare shoulder for me to sign.
“Nah,” I replied. “It’s just something I say to meet girls.”
They giggled then moved off whispering and looking back.
Steve drained his beer, and leaned forward on his elbows.
“Look, why don’t you come down to Santa Anita with me? Spend the weekend kicking back. I think it would do you good to get away.”
I studied him, liking the broad freckled planes of his face and his wide wry mouth. I remembered kissing that mouth. And how weird to think of that now.
I shook my head. “I don’t like crowds. And I’m tired of relaxing. I want to get back to work.”
His gaze dropped down to my chest, as though making note of the ring on the chain. “Okay. Well…what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Obviously we can’t go to the cops again, since the cop I live with doesn’t believe there’s a problem.”
“Dude.”
The waitress brought our lunches. I waited for her to depart before I offered a lopsided smile. “I don’t know that there’s anything to do at this point. I needed to talk to someone, that’s all.”
“Hey,” Steve said, “I’m still here for you, you know that. Besides, I remember how long it took to convince you to go to the cops over Hammond. You don’t panic that easily. If you say something’s going down, I believe you.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“One thing I can do,” he said, “is talk to LAPD myself. Find out where they are in recovering Hammond’s body.”
I said, “That would help.”
“Not if Hammond’s still alive,” he said with an odd laugh.
What I like about cooking is that, so long as you follow the recipe exactly, everything always turns out perfect. It’s too bad there’s no recipe for happiness. Happiness is more like pastry—which is to say that you can take pains to keep cool and not overwork the dough, but if you don’t have that certain light touch, your best efforts still fall flat.
The work-around is to buy what you need. I’m talking about pastry, not happiness, although money does make things easier all around.
There are a number of café bakeries in Malibu, but I mostly satisfy my sweet tooth at Cooke’s Family Market, which is where I headed after saying good-bye to Steve. I felt better having shared my fears with someone who didn’t instantly suspect I was cracking up, and I spent a pleasant half an hour selecting pastries for Saturday morning breakfast, lingering over the varieties of cheese and the amazing selection of olives.
I wasn’t allowing myself to think about Paul Hammond. I focused my thoughts on The Charioteer screenplay, and while I shopped I thought about what it would be like to lose a knee cap. Now they could probably reconstruct the joint—maybe do something bionic—but back in the ‘40s? You’d be crippled, no doubt about it. And any injury to a kneecap was going to be excruciatingly painful. Laurie Odell was younger than me; what would it be like to face years of pain? To face the rest of my life as a disabled man? I tried to think of all the things I took for granted: swimming, running—having sex. The film-Laurie was going to wear a leg brace. I felt that was gimmicky and heavy-handed, but it would make it easier to play. No having to remember which leg or faking a limp.
Pushing the cart, I turned into the arctic produce department and froze—literally. Paul Hammond stood a few feet away. He held a cantaloupe, weighing it in his hand.
I couldn’t seem to move. He was so close I could have rammed my cart into him. It was him: blue Hawaiian shirt, bushy blond hair that looked like a fright wig, deeply tanned pock-marked skin, black sunglasses…
He had to feel me staring at him, had to have followed me into the market, but he just stood there, ignoring me, fondling melons.
His cheap aftershave filled my nostrils. I felt cold to the bone, shaking on the inside and out. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t think of what to say. If he had spoken to me—even looked at me—but he did nothing. We were alone here. Why didn’t he acknowledge me?
I couldn’t think of what to do. It was surely something obvious.
Hammond replaced one melon on the pyramid and chose another. He stepped a foot closer as he reached for a plastic tear-off bag.
I abandoned my cart and fled.
“Hi!” I said brightly as Dan walked into the kitchen.
Dan pulled off his sunglasses and studied the countertops crowded with plates of food: baked ham, scalloped potatoes, cheese macaroni, cauliflower-broccoli salad, applesauce, and pineapple cottage cheese. “Are we having a dinner party?” he asked.
I dumped a pan of corn muffins into a basket, wrapping a tea towel around them to keep them warm. “I just thought I would do something special for supper.”
Dan’s brows rose. He tilted my chin up to kiss me hello; a nice leisurely kiss that told me he had missed me and was glad to be home. I resisted the impulse to plaster myself to him and pour out my latest trauma.
“Catch any bad guys today?”
I thought my tone was just right but he was frowning a little, still watching me. “Not today.”
“Slow day for crime? Everything is ready. Why don’t you get changed?”
He ran an absent hand up and down my
back. “Okay. You want me to open a bottle of wine?”
I nodded.
“Let’s see. What goes with everything in the pantry?”
I considered. “Martinis?”
* * * * *
Despite some really fabulous culinary exertions on my part, dinner was not a success. I wasn’t hungry and Dan seemed preoccupied, although he listened without interrupting as I chattered on about this and that and the other. Mostly the other.
It wasn’t until the third time I reached for the pitcher containing the blueberry vodka martinis, that he stirred.
“That’s your fifth, chief.”
“Third, but who’s counting?”
He didn’t bother to argue.
I was irritated, but I tried to keep my tone easy. “Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t so long as you’re not planning on going for a swim or getting behind the wheel. But you’re going to have a hell of a morning.”
“Promise?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
His lips twitched. “Now that is definitely the liquor talking.”
What did that mean? I thought I knew and opened my mouth to object, but Dan had apparently more to get off his chest.
“A couple of things I’ve noticed,” he said. “When you’re stressed-out you cook for a cast of thousands. And you stop eating.”
“I’m eating,” I protested.
“You’ve had one bite of ham and three bites of salad.”
“And five drinks. Jesus, am I under surveillance?”
“Hey.” His smile was crooked. “Naturally I notice what you do.”
“You notice what everyone does. It’s how you make your living. I don’t like it when you turn it on me.”
As usual he did not allow himself to be distracted from his point. “So far I’ve heard about the seasoning in the crab enchiladas at Coral Beach Cantina, I’ve heard that you’re not sure you approve of the sex scene in this new script, I’ve heard that damn dog crapped on our deck, and I’ve heard that the weather was perfect this afternoon. When do I hear what’s really on your mind?”
I laughed. And I knew I had it exactly right: lazy, untroubled. “Dan, relax. I’m just making after dinner conversation.”
There was a funny silence. He said, “You’re acting.”
Which I guess was better than being told I was lying, except he sounded like it really bothered him.
I stared at him. He stared back. It felt unpleasantly close to being emotionally strip searched.
I blurted out, “I think I saw Paul Hammond again.”
He didn’t move a muscle. At last he said, “Where?”
“At the market in Pt. Dume. I went grocery shopping after Steve and I had lunch.”
Surprisingly, this did distract him. “You didn’t tell me you were with Steve.”
“It was an impulse. Why do you care?”
“I find it odd. This morning you were freaking over postcards from the grave and in the afternoon you’re having a lunch date with Steve.”
“It wasn’t a date and it’s not like I tried to hide it.” But as I said it, I realized I had been avoiding telling him that I’d been with Steve; I wasn’t sure why exactly—or maybe this was why: the instant interrogation.
“Is that the issue?”
“Do we have to make an issue of it? You’re not on the job now. According to you there’s no danger, right? Hammond is dead.”
“I’m not talking about my job,” Dan said curtly. “I’m talking about the fact that we’re supposed to be a couple.”
Something in the way he said it caught me off guard. He was so cool and self-assured that it never occurred to me that he might not be secure about his place in my world.
For the first time it occurred to me that if I had decided to go to Santa Anita with Steve I would have to—should, at least—run it past Dan first.
I opened my mouth but before I could explain, Dan asked, “Did Steve see Hammond?”
“No. This was at the market afterwards.”
“Did anyone see him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t point him out to anyone. He…” I stopped, knowing how it would sound.
“He what?”
“He was picking out melons. Or at least pretending to.”
“I see.”
His expression couldn’t have been more impassive.
“I know you think I’m imagining this. I know—”
“Did this guy who may or may not be Hammond make any attempt to speak to you?”
I shook my head.
“Did he do anything that could be construed as threatening?”
“He was avoiding looking at me.” I couldn’t hold Dan’s gaze. I knew how it sounded—which is why I hadn’t told him.
“That doesn’t sound like Hammond, does it?”
I shook my head.
A little more gently, he asked, “Are you sure it was Hammond?”
“It looked like him.”
“You’re not sure.”
“No.” I said, “What about the postcard that came this morning?”
“I’ll have it analyzed.” My relief was short-lived as he added carefully, “Sean, maybe it would help if you talked to someone.”
I felt like my stomach dropped to my feet. I stared at him. “You mean a psychiatrist?”
“Yeah.”
“Dan,” I said desperately, “I’m not cracking up. I did see Hammond. I’m not crazy!”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” He reached for me, resting his hands on my shoulders, kneading my knotted muscles. “I think you’ve been under a lot of strain. First the thing with Hammond, now this business with the postcards.”
“So you agree there is something to these postcards! Or do you think I’m sending them to myself?”
I saw by his expression that the idea had crossed his mind.
I struck his hands away. “Jesus, Dan! I’m not crazy!”
“I know that. I know you’re not sending yourself postcards, okay? But what’s wrong with talking to someone? Cops do it. Hell, I’ve been through it.”
I pushed away from the table. “I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you. I don’t need a shrink. So stop using that careful tone with me. Say what’s on your mind.”
“Okay,” he said evenly. “Then here it is. I want you to talk to me, and I will help you in whatever way I can and in whatever way you need. But I’m not a doctor and we both know you have a history of…” He changed his mind about finishing that. “I think this kind of prolonged emotional strain would not be good for anyone, and it is especially not good for you.”
I stared at him. When I could speak I said huskily, “I had a breakdown when I was a kid. Yes, I tried to kill myself. That was nine years ago. It had nothing to do with—you know why. You know it was about trying to come to terms with who I was. With realizing I was gay and knowing how my family felt. How my friends saw me. How everyone saw me—thought of me. How they would take it once they found out the truth…”
I couldn’t finish it. I got up and went to the railing to stare out at the path of moonlight across the black sea. The hurt and betrayal were almost more than I could deal with. I had told Dan about this in confidence, and he was using it against me now.
“You had a second breakdown when you were twenty,” he said quietly.
Hurt gave way to indignation. Obviously he had run some kind of background check on me. Probably when he was first assigned the bodyguard gig, but maybe it was since then. Like this week when I appeared to be losing it.
I wheeled back to face him. “I was depressed. I got help. Voluntarily. It was nothing like the other time. And I’ve been fine ever since. I’m not unstable mentally or emotionally. Yes, I push myself hard, and I’m under strain—that isn’t anything new—”
“This isn’t a normal amount of strain,” he interrupted. “You had some freak stalking you for nearly a year and now you’ve got some other asshole harassing you. Anyone would need a little help dealin
g with that—and, listen, the last thing I want to do is hurt you, which I can see I’m doing.”
I knew I couldn’t speak without my voice cracking, so I said nothing.
“I think it would help you to talk to someone neutral. Someone who could help you put this…experience into perspective. Will you at least consider it?”
He was right about drinking so much. My head was already pounding. And that much alcohol on an empty stomach was not good.
I pushed away from the railing and headed for the glass door.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Sean—”
I slid the door shut.
* * * * *
Scratchy beard, warm soft lips on my bare back. One velvety kiss for each link of vertebra in my spine. Kiss by kiss across the little mountains of bone and nerve to the small valley above my ass. I opened my eyes blearily.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Dan murmured.
“Great,” I muttered.
“You feel great to me, that’s for sure.” His mouth moistly nuzzled the sensitive hollow; I sucked in a breath, trying not to wriggle. Closed my eyes. My head throbbed and my gut felt like it was filled with boiling acid, but it wasn’t the hangover that made me shiver. How the hell could you be irritated with someone and still crave their touch?
I burrowed my head in my folded arms and asked muffledly, “How was the couch?”
“Lonely.”
I considered this silently while he slowly rubbed his bristly cheek against my ass—cheek to cheek. “You know, insanity is not contagious,” I said. I thought I was joking, but I sounded sour to my own ears. I didn’t think I was still angry or even wounded. I could see how this all looked from Dan’s viewpoint. He didn’t know me really. I didn’t know him.
“I don’t know about that,” he said, his breath warm on my bare skin. “I’m pretty crazy about you.”
I gave a short laugh. Never at a loss for words, was he?
The mattress shifted underneath as he sat up. “I wasn’t sure I was welcome in here,” he admitted.
I raised my head and eyed him skeptically. He wasn’t smiling, in fact, just for a moment he looked younger, unguarded.
