“I know. How does—”
“—it make me feel? Awful. Horrible. To be perfectly honest, it killed something deep inside me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I mean, how would you feel if your own family told the neighbors that their son died in a car crash? Things were bad enough before …” She took a deep breath, tried to stuff away the pain. “Well, let's just say, I'm surprised my own father hasn't already come after me and gunned me down.”
“We need to go into all of that at length, of course, but first just tell me about them again, about your parents and brothers and sister. I need some more background. When did they find out you were gay?”
She ran her hand briefly through her blond hair. Her family. Kris sat silent for a few minutes, and then she gave him the stats. Kris was the second oldest of four. Three boys, including herself—or himself. One girl. They lived in Duluth, where Kris's dad worked as a policeman and her mom as a nurse.
“They knew. All of them knew right from the start too. That was the great unspoken truth of my family—little Chris was a fairy. Everyone knew, but no one dared say it.”
She continued, explaining how her mother was always tired because she worked the night shift and her father was always, well, strict. Of Irish Catholic background, his job as a cop made him keep odd hours, and so he expected his kids to behave, to be the very model of respectability. Tom and Mike, the two other boys, were the oldest and the youngest, respectively, and both were hockey nuts and champs. And their father's pride. Mary, the third child, was Miss Social and went, of course, from captain of her high-school cheerleading team to homecoming queen.
“How did your brothers and sister treat you?” asked Dr. Dorsey.
“What do you think? For the most part my sister was pretty nice to me, and my brothers, well, they were always hammering on me.” Kris smiled. “You know what my big form of rebellion was?”
“What?”
“I never, not once, put on a pair of skates. That's tantamount to being a traitor in Minnesota.”
“You did that on purpose?”
“Of course I did. I did it as much to thumb my nose at my dad and my brothers as to protect myself.” She lifted up one of her legs. “I mean, look at how skinny these ankles are. I would've been massacred on a hockey rink.”
“So you've always been good at taking care of yourself?”
She shrugged. “No, I've always been good at surviving. Somehow I've made it this far, haven't I?”
“Yes, you have.”
Quite early on, she explained, Chris had learned which friends were okay and which were not, for there were those who would tolerate him and those who would torment. He learned quickly, too, which school halls were safe for sissies—the ones with teachers around—and which school activities were okay, badminton and football being the two opposite extremes.
“Kids are awfully mean. They're horrible, really. So cruel.” Gazing out the window, not really thinking what she was saying but knowing it was some kind of big truth, it just rolled out of Kris's mouth. “I'm amazed at how much I hate straight people.”
Dorsey seemed taken aback but struggled not to show it. “Why?”
“Because it's a straight world and I've always had to be on guard. I've always had to do this doublethink crap. I've always had to monitor myself. How would you like to live like that? How would you like worrying all the time what people would do to you, how they would hurt you, if they knew the truth of who you were? I grew up with it. It was always in my head. I was always afraid. And now …”
“Now?”
“It's worse. Straight guys think I'm disgusting, but …” God, no wonder she was going crazy. “But what's worse is that now gay guys are freaked out by me too. I mean, not even the fucking homos know what to think of me, where to categorize me. And you should see the muscle queens—you know, the ones on steroids—they're the worst, the most intolerant of anyone different from them. I mean, they're as conservative and inflexible in their ways as a Republican housewife. I really scare the shit out of them.” She looked down at her broad hands, saw how soft and lovely they'd become. “You know, the truth is that I was always a big fem. Right from the start, from when I was a kid. But … but I never wanted to lose my dick and balls. I was just an effeminate gay kid. In fact, I would never have thought about any of this if… if…”
“So tell me about that night.”
For a long time Kris couldn't speak, then she muttered, “It was January, and it was so fucking cold.”
As cold as it ever got, pushing past thirty below zero. Then again, that was midwinter Duluth. Co-o-o-ld. It was night and their parents were working, their mom on duty at the hospital until eleven, their dad due back sometime around ten. Mary, Miss Social Butterfly, was off for the night at a friend's house.
“Which left you and Tom and Mike where? Up in your rooms?”
“No, we were downstairs.”
“Together?”
Her voice was nearly a whisper. “Yes.”
Yes, they were in the living room. The three boys. Together. It was kind of a small room, a sofa, two big old chairs. And a TV in the corner. A TV that had been on for hours. Already they'd watched Family Ties and a repeat of The Cosby Show.
“Tom was almost seventeen. I'd just turned fifteen. And Mike was eleven. A very loud, very active eleven.”
Their mother had made them dinner, a tuna-fish hot dish with peas and some crumbled potato chips on top. She'd left it in the oven, just as she always did, and told them when to eat and reminded them of two things.
“Now, you boys, listen up,” she had said, lecturing them as she put on a second sweater, then wrapped a scarf around her neck, put on a hat, and finally her heaviest coat. “Don't forget to turn the oven off—I don't want it left on for hours like you did last week. And don't go outside. It's too cold. I mean it, no going out. Am I clear? Do you understand?”
Yes, they'd all replied.
“Gramps and Nanna are just a block away, so you call them if you need anything. Right?”
“Right.”
“The number's above the phone.”
But it was too much. Three boys locked up inside on the coldest of winter nights. They just got antsy, that was all.
“We ate our dinner, that stupid tuna-fish crap,” explained Kris with a sneer, “then took our dishes into the kitchen. We got some ice cream and came back to the living room to watch some more TV. It was chocolate ice cream, I'm sure of that, and, you know, we just started horsing around. Mike wanted to sit on the couch; Tom and I told him there wasn't room. Then all of a sudden the two of them were wrestling and a foot came over and kicked my bowl of ice cream. It flipped right over, dumped right in my lap.”
Tom and Mike had started laughing, Kris continued, because they knew that Chris was going to get into trouble, big trouble, for making a mess. And so did Chris, which was why he ran into the kitchen, dumped his bowl in the sink, and then charged into the basement. He tore down the narrow wooden steps, over to the old Maytag, and ripped off his jeans and underwear. There was a big pile of laundry, and he hid his clothes beneath it all.
“I … I was just standing there in my shirt,” continued Kris, forever horrified by the event that had changed her life. “And then I looked over and saw one of my sister's skirts. It was a plaid wool kilt. Blue and white and yellow. It was hanging from a clothesline down there and, I don't know, I just grabbed it. I pulled off the wooden clothespins, then slipped it on. Why not? It was kind of fun.”
“Exciting?”
“Yes.”
“Sexually exciting?”
“Well …” She thought for a moment. “Not really.”
“Was this the first time you'd tried on a piece of woman's clothing?”
Kris sat quite still for quite a long time. “No, I'd fooled around with my mom's clothes a few times—you know, her high heels, her bra.”
“Then what happened?”
“I put on the skirt an
d then I started walking around, you know, in the basement. I was just going to wear it for a moment or two, it looked so warm and … and my sister always looked so pretty when she wore it, but then … Shit, I must have been nuts! What the hell was I thinking? I heard the TV, I thought they were both upstairs! I didn't think they'd come down!”
“But they did.”
“Yes,” said Kris, her eyes brewing with tears. “I was down there in a T-shirt and my sister's little kilt, and … and Tom and Mike were on the stairs.” She shook her head, wiped her eyes. “They started screaming, calling me a homo, laughing and saying they were going to tell Mom and Dad and everyone at school! It was like being outed by your own brothers, you know. It was awful! And I was so scared that I didn't know what to do!”
Without thinking Chris had ripped off the skirt, then grabbed a pair of gym shorts from the laundry basket. By then the brothers were laughing and screaming, even pushing Chris around. Chris had no choice. He had to leave. Had to get out of there.
“I thought I could make it down to my grandparents',” explained Kris. “I'd run down there lots of times without a jacket, so I didn't even really think about it. I just went running upstairs and flying out the front door in my T-shirt, those gym shorts, and a pair of socks.” Kris blotted her eyes with the back of her hand. “I … I wish I could blame it on something. Or someone else. But I guess the only guilty person is … me.”
“Go on, Kris.”
“So I tore down our front walk, down the street. I was running as fast as I could, you know, wanting to get away from it all, wanting to hide for the rest of my life. My parents were going to kill me, I was sure of that. And then …” The tears were coming faster. “Then I hit that patch of… of ice.”
Kris bowed her head into both hands and sobbed. Overwhelmed by the humiliation as well as the horror of it, she couldn't stop, couldn't block the tears. One event on one night had changed the entire rest of her life.
“It's not fair!” she finally managed to say, her face pulsing red and streaked with tears.
“No, of course it's not,” replied Dr. Dorsey.
Then came the anger, surging through her with such hate and turpitude that Kris held her hands in front of her, clenching them into the tightest of fists. Using all her strength, thinking of everything she was so pissed about, she squeezed as hard as she could, digging her artificial nails into the palms of her hands.
“You know how fucking mad I am? Do you have any idea at all? Well,” she said, unclenching her fists and exposing her punctured and bloodied hands, “let me show you.”
At the sight of the blood, Dr. Dorsey sat back, then a moment later glanced at the clock up on his teak bookcase and said, “Well … okay, that's enough for today.”
19
Ignoring this morning's newspaper, Todd sipped his second cup of coffee and stared out at the lake. What if?
What if Todd hadn't seen that guy in the bushes and hadn't called out?
What if the gunman hadn't missed?
What if he tried again to kill Rawlins?
Yes, that had been him last night, the very same guy who'd gunned down Mark Forrest and later telephoned Todd. There was no definitive proof, at least not yet, but Todd was completely sure of it. And now burdened as much by a pile of guilt as a lack of sleep, Todd could barely move. He'd done his damnedest to engage this killer, and in retaliation the killer was evidently doing his damnedest to live up to his threat. And while Todd hadn't understood before, he certainly did now. Yes, go after his lover, that was exactly how to make him suffer.
Dear God, thought Todd, leaning his face into the palms of both hands, if anything happens to Rawlins—particularly now, particularly because of the stupid-ass things I've done—I won't be able to handle it.
It had been a late night. And as much as Todd had just wanted to wrap his arms around Rawlins and whisk him out of there, he'd known that Rawlins was right, that he had to do it all officially. But rather than leaving as Rawlins had wanted—after all, Todd shouldn't have been there in the first place—Todd retreated to his car and waited. And waited.
Rawlins had called in the shooting right away, and it got big attention real quick. The murder of Police Officer Mark Forrest weighed heavy on every cop in town, and within minutes a half dozen police cars had come screaming into the neighborhood. Wasting no time, they searched every yard, cruised every alley, yet discovered nothing but some kids smoking cigarettes in an abandoned garage. Meanwhile, the guys in Car 21—the team from the Bureau of Investigation—arrived and began combing Rawlins's backyard. In hopes of finding the stray bullet that had been meant for Rawlins, they used huge flashlights to search everything—the ground, the side of the neighbor's house, the trees—all to no avail. Even the bullet casing, which they'd hoped would tie into the Forrest case, escaped them.
It was going on 3:00 A.M. before things quieted down, before Todd was able to get Rawlins aside. No, Todd had insisted, Rawlins wasn't spending the night there, least of all by himself. There was some crazy-ass son of a bitch out and about, and Todd wasn't going to leave Rawlins alone. In the end they blew off Lieutenant Holbrook's orders and ended up back at Todd's condo, their fear morphing into sex that was as full of desperation as it was passion.
So what did they get in the end, three, four hours' sleep?
Wondering if the police had dug up anything new on the case, he was just opening the paper when the phone rang. He reached past his coffee and grabbed the cordless. Please, he thought, let it be Rawlins. Letting him walk out of here hadn't been easy, not by any means.
“Hello?” said Todd.
“It's moi.”
It seemed as if they hadn't spoken last night but days ago, and Todd said, “Hi, Jeff. What's up? Did you find out anything?”
“A bit.” He kept his voice low. “Listen, I'm at work, so I can't talk long. But I called one of the bartenders last night, and he said, sure, he remembered Mark Forrest. Apparently a lot of the guys down there knew of him, because last winter Forrest was the cover boy for a feature Q Monthly did on gay cops.”
“You're kidding. I must have missed that issue,” said Todd, making a mental note to dig up that issue.
“I guess besides being a cop he was quite the looker.”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Well, he was there, at the Gay Times.”
Suddenly Todd was very awake, more than he had been yet that morning, and he pressed, “When? In the last few days?”
“That's where the bartender gets a little fuzzy—he's a sweetheart, but he's certainly no rocket scientist, I'll tell you that much. He did one too many chemicals, I do believe. Anyway, he's not positive, but he's pretty sure Mark Forrest was in a day or two before he was killed. Then again, it could've been last week.”
“Was he alone?”
“Nope, not this last time, or so says my bartender friend. Forrest usually came in by himself, he said, but the last time he was with some guy. He's sure of that because there was kind of a scene. There was a bachelorette party—about a half-dozen women—and they started giggling and laughing because Forrest and this guy were making out in the next booth. Apparently Forrest's friend got all bent out of shape and—”
“This guy, what'd he look like?” demanded Todd.
“I asked, trust me I did, but all I got was that the guy had brown hair.”
“Nothing else?”
“Zip.”
A pulse of excitement rushed through Todd. It very well might have been him, this guy who'd gunned down Forrest. But even if it weren't, perhaps he knew something about Mark Forrest's last few days.
Todd asked, “Would your friend be willing to talk to me?”
“Maybe, but then again you are a reporter, and I bet he wouldn't want to do anything on TV.”
“I just want to talk, that's all.”
“Well …” Jeff thought a moment. “Well, if you came down when I was there, say, like, tonight or tomorrow night, I could introduce you. But, Toddy,
dear, don't get your hopes up. I think I got all there was to get.”
“Jeff, thanks. Thanks a million. I'll be in touch.”
Todd hung up, then jumped to his feet. He took a quick slug of coffee, next stood at the balcony door overlooking the lake. This wasn't much, but at least it was something, a foothold into Mark Forrest's personal life. So who was this guy that Mark Forrest had been kissing? Had they just picked each other up, or was this someone Forrest had known for a while, perhaps someone he'd even brought home?
Now, there's an idea, thought Todd.
He turned and half trotted across the living room. Reaching the front hall, he grabbed his briefcase, brought it back to the dining room, and, giving it a good shake, dumped it out on the table. Pens and paper clips and scraps of paper spewed out, and there it was, Mark Forrest's address, which Todd had scribbled down just after they'd found his body in the Mississippi. Should he go? Absolutely.
Barely thirty minutes later Todd was pulling down Young Avenue South to a tall, white clapboard house with a front porch, one of thousands like it built in the Twin Cities in the early part of the century. Todd checked the address on the scrap of paper one last time, then climbed out. As he turned from the sidewalk to the front walk, he saw the pot of red geraniums at the base of the porch steps. Had Forrest planted those or had someone else? Someone such as a relative? Todd had learned that Forrest's parents lived south of The Cities, so who was he about to meet, a sister? A brother?
There was only one way to find out, and Todd swung open the screen door, stepped onto the wooden porch, and pressed the doorbell. He hated this kind of cold call, but he had no choice, and he stood there, his hands clasped in front of him as footsteps bustled somewhere inside. A moment later a lace curtain covering the window on the large oak door was pushed aside, and an older woman peered out, her white hair short and curled.
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