Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  No. No one lurking behind the shower curtain either. Which meant, he thought, easing back into the hallway, the intruder was in Michael's office. Could Todd possibly have him cornered?

  He was focusing on the next room when he heard it. Darting steps behind him. Shit, whoever was here had gone back through the kitchen, the dining and living rooms, and was now coming at Todd from behind. He spun around, tried to swing the poker. But the hall was too narrow and the poker caught the wall just as the figure came thrusting into him, grabbing him by the chest, twisting him around. Todd tried to jab him with his weapon, but the stranger swung out, punched Todd's arm, and then grabbed Todd's fist and smashed it against a doorjamb. The iron poker dropped to the wooden floor.

  The man was terribly strong and he grunted, shouted something, but Todd exploded with fury, hurling him back down the hall. The guy stumbled, and Todd was flying forward. The intruder pulled to the side, ducking into Michael's bedroom. Todd charged in, grappling to catch him by the shoulder. But the intruder spun around, yelled again, and rammed a fist into Todd's stomach. As the wind shot out of him, Todd stumbled. The guy caught Todd by one arm and threw him forward onto the floor. In one huge heave he pounced on Todd's back, grabbing Todd's right arm and twisting it around, pinning it behind Todd's back.

  “Cool it!”

  Todd thrashed to the side, felt the pain zing up his arm, down his back. He tried to jerk himself free, but the pain cut even more deeply and sharply.

  “Stop it!” shouted the man, straddling Todd and holding him firmly down. “You're going to hurt yourself, you idiot!”

  Like some animal who'd been chased wildly through the woods and who now knew it was hopeless, Todd lay there completely still, awaiting his fate.

  “It's me, asshole!”

  Todd turned his head slightly, glanced upward, saw a somewhat familiar shape looming above him in the dark. “Wh-what?”

  “It's me, Rawlins.”

  “Oh, fuck …”

  17

  Todd lay there, heart thumping, his face mashed against the floor. He thrashed once, tried to free himself, but when he moved another streak of lightning-fast pain shot up his arm.

  “Just calm down, Todd,” Detective Rawlins said sternly. “It's just me. I'm not going to hurt you.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “My job. What about you?”

  Totally exhausted, Todd only muttered, “My arm.”

  “I'm going to let you go. I'm going to let your arm go now, okay? Just your arm. Don't get up.”

  “Don't worry.”

  Todd felt his arm release and he pulled it over, dropped it to his side. He tried to move, but couldn't. Rawlins was still straddling him, sitting on his back.

  “Get off.”

  Rawlins gently rubbed the back of Todd's neck. “You all right, buddy? You all calmed down?”

  “Get the hell off me!”

  “Not until you calm down. I don't want you jumping up and getting all excited. I don't want any problems.”

  “Okay,” Todd forced himself to say. “I'm okay.”

  Rawlins lifted himself off, and then Todd spun to the side, rolling onto his back. He lay there, staring at the dark figure of Rawlins, who now sat not two feet away on the edge of Michael's bed.

  Todd demanded, “Didn't you see that fire poker I had? I could have killed you.”

  “Big deal, I got a gun. I could’ve killed you.” Rawlins scratched his head, turned away, looked back. “You still haven't told me why you're here. You know, if I report this you could be in big trouble. This place is still a sealed crime scene.”

  “I was looking for something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something that belongs to me.”

  “You weren't going to remove evidence from a crime scene, were you?”

  “My checkbook,” blurted Todd. “I think I left it over here.”

  “Yeah, you did. And we have it now. Downtown. It's evidence. You should've just asked. I could have saved you a lot of hassle.”

  “Gee, thanks. Next time I'll be sure and remember how thoughtful you are.” Todd pushed himself to his feet and stood there in the dark bedroom. “If you're here doing your job, why did I just see you somewhere else, like in a very big gay bar?”

  “What kind of hotshot investigative reporter are you?”

  “What's that mean?”

  “Just put two and two together, you idiot. You saw me downtown and now you see me here. My, what a big coincidence.”

  “Oh, shit,” moaned Todd. “You followed me?”

  “What a brilliant conclusion. You really are sharp. No wonder you won those Emmys.”

  “Fuck you.” Todd shook his head. “And get off Michael's bed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Todd didn't like being in here, not in this particular bedroom with Rawlins, and so he turned, started out. And then stopped. He took out his small flashlight, flicked it on, and aimed it at the reddish stain, which seemed to glow. Stumbling into a hole, Todd wondered if there'd been much of a struggle. Much pain. If Michael had died slowly or quickly.

  “Come on,” said Rawlins, placing a hand on Todd's shoulder. “You shouldn't be in here. Besides, we got a cop checking on this place every night, and I don't think it would be too good for him to find you in here. I'll only lie so much, you know.”

  Todd didn't move, even as Rawlins slipped the flashlight out of Todd's hand. Rawlins returned to the bedroom, smoothed the bedspread, then came out and returned the poker to the living room. Leaning against the wall, Todd felt like the truth of what happened was slipping further and further away. He heard Jeffs sharp words, saw the dried blood before him. Michael was buried, but now what?

  “Come on,” said Rawlins. “Out we go.”

  With Rawlins leading the way with the flashlight, Todd let himself be steered along and past the blood stain. Todd took one look back, then stepped through the door, down the stairs, and into the basement.

  As Rawlins stood up at the top of the steps closing the door, Todd muttered, “This door wasn't padlocked.”

  “Yeah, don't worry about it, man.”

  “Here,” said Todd, reaching into his pocket. “You're going to need my key to lock up.”

  “Nope, I'm all set. Detective Lewis and I each have a copy.”

  “Oh.”

  Moments later they were passing up the other stairs to the back door, and finally outside.

  As they passed across the lawn Todd asked, “Where's Michael's car?”

  “We're all done with it. I think you can pick it up anytime now.”

  “I'll call Maggie. She should have it.”

  Walking down the alley, Todd seemed to grow more tired with each step. Had Michael's service only been this afternoon? It already felt like days ago. And that realization frightened him. Was he losing Michael that quickly?

  At the end of the alley Rawlins turned left, and Todd stopped, nodded in the other direction, and said, “I'm parked this way.”

  “Right. I'll walk you to your car.”

  Todd continued up the quiet street, and Rawlins followed, keeping silent pace. As they neared the Cherokee Todd cleared his throat.

  “Listen, I'm sorry about that,” he began, his breath steaming in the air. “I mean, I'm glad I didn't clobber you with the poker.”

  “Me too.”

  “Assaulting a police officer is all I need.” Todd stared down the straight street, put his hands in his pockets. “I didn't even see you down there.”

  “What?”

  “Down at the lake. You know, on the parkway,” clarified Todd.

  “Oh, right.”

  “I thought I was the only car parked down there.”

  Rawlins shrugged. “What can I say? That's my job.” He stared at the ground, then looked up at the night sky. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Oh, sure. The man I love is dead, I probably lost my job, and the entire fucking world knows I'm
queer. Other than that, hell, things are great.”

  “And your arm? I twisted it pretty good.”

  “It's okay.” Todd shook his head. “Hell, I don't know. I think it's just all catching up with me. It's been a hell of a long day, not to mention week.”

  “Yeah, well, get some sleep. And don't worry about tonight. I won't mention it down at the station.”

  As Todd started to take his keys from his pocket, Rawlins moved forward. Todd flinched. He stood quite stiff as he felt Rawlins's arms wrap around his back and embrace him tightly. And then the moment of hesitation evaporated. Todd returned the hug, even pulling Rawlins's thick, hard body against his and reveling in it. Someone to lean on. It just felt so good, so solid. Todd breathed in, faintly smelled cologne mixed with bar smoke, and his hand slipped upward, sensed the short hair on the back of Rawlins's neck.

  A car whizzing around the corner, the headlights sweeping like spotlights and exposing their embrace. Todd and Rawlins quickly broke apart, each of them pushing back a couple of steps. Todd flinched, feared what might happen. And it did. The brake lights of the big old Ford flared up as it came to a quick halt. Both Todd and Rawlins kept their eyes on the vehicle, fearing the next few moments. Sure enough, one of the doors flung open. Were there now going to be a bunch of guys with baseball bats? No, only one guy emerged, and he shouted to the guys in the car, laughed, and then jogged up to a big stucco house.

  Relief rushed through Todd, and he said, “I've got to go.”

  “Sure.” Rawlins looked up at the night sky again. “Look, I'm going to give you a call tomorrow. You know, just to check in, make sure you're okay. You won't mind, will you?”

  “No. No, not at all.”

  Perplexed, Todd climbed into his Cherokee. He started up the vehicle and glanced in the rearview mirror. He had his foot on the brake, and in the red glow he saw the muscular Rawlins heading down the street toward his car, a lone figure disappearing into the night. Just what, wondered Todd, had the detective really been after?

  18

  The sidewalk sale was going full force. There were guys everywhere, milling about on the sidewalk, eyeing the goods, groping the wares, trying to make up their minds.

  The bars had just closed in downtown Minneapolis, and a flood of queers was pouring out of the Gay Times onto the sidewalk. Last call for drinks had been issued a half hour ago. This was the last chance. If you hadn't met the boy of your dreams during the evening inside, then the sidewalk sale out front was the final opportunity of the night. And the hundreds of men milling about on the brightly lit sidewalk were by no means masking their desirous, alcohol-fueled intentions. Take me. Love me. Be mine. At least for an hour.

  Seated inside his dark car, the man watched the goings-on. While a few of them paired up, most of them went home alone, sauntering away from the Gay Times, heads hung, pace slow, even dejected. Sure, the bar scene was exciting and fun, all the men, all the hormones, all that music. It grew old, though. He knew that. All that cruising took a lot of energy. Some gay friends of his just hated the bar scene. Or so they claimed, even though they still came down here all the time.

  Each day since he'd done Michael he'd been surprised. Grinning, he realized he'd literally gotten away with murder. At least so far, knock on wood. No one suspected him, because, of course, all the attention was still focused on Todd Mills. In just this morning's Tribune one letter to editor had expressed shock that Channel 7 hadn't fired Mills on the spot. Another letter, signed Two Dykes on Bikes, cursed Mills for fostering homophobia and violence against gays and lesbians. And a teenaged boy asked how was he supposed to develop a positive self-image when gays in positions of power like Todd Mills and all those famous Hollywood actors denied their true identities?

  Amazing, he thought. In the course of one short week Todd Mills had gone from stud muffin to killer fag. Not long ago he'd considered the possibility of doing Todd as well. And he still might want to. But not just yet. The pretty boy was making such a good decoy. Besides, if he did Todd like he'd done Michael, then would they suspect? No, better not to stir things up just now. It was playing out all too perfectly.

  The door of the Gay Times opened again and finally there he was: Jeff. The big man who wanted nothing more out of life than to wear heels and belt out Broadway tunes. He sashayed out of the bar, a huge grin on that broad face, his eyes casting about the crowd of eager men. Yoo-hoo, any of you boys want to take a nice queen home? All the makeup was gone, his face was scrubbed almost as red as a fresh beet, and what was left of his thinning hair was brushed carefully and neatly back. His plaid shirt was crisp and pressed, as were the jeans that circled his large waist. Sure, Jeff made a neat, presentable package, but nothing nearly so glamorous and dramatic as Tiffany Crystal. What a pity.

  He was going to have to do Jeff. There was no question about it. Jeff knew too much about him. That was now abundantly clear. The only question was when.

  He'd thought maybe tonight, which was why he was down here, parked across from the Gay Times, scoping the scene. Sure, he could play the troll and fish Jeff out of that crowd. Absolutely. And like some old troll he could take him down by the Mississippi and do him under a bridge. But that would be too easy and for that reason far too obvious. No, far better to wait. Far better to throw a curve.

  Right, he thought, starting up his car and silently laughing to himself. A curve. Something not only to keep the spotlight burning on Todd Mills, but to throw the police way off. And this was going to work perfectly. He was sure of it, he told himself as he backed out of the parking space, pulled out of the lot, and turned right on Fourth Street. He had his big kitchen knife with him, wrapped in a T-shirt under the seat, and he knew only too well where he could dig up trouble. A whole bunch of it right along the banks of Lake Calhoun.

  Turning right on Marquette and heading south, this should prove easy. He just prayed he'd still be able to get the story on Channel 7's morning news.

  19

  Unaware of the time, Todd drove onto Lake Street and passed along the edge of Lake Calhoun. While Michael had had an affinity for Lake of the Isles, Calhoun was Todd's lake of choice. It was about the same distance around each lake— three miles—but Todd preferred the bigger feel of Calhoun, which was totally open and unobstructed. Isles was much more twisty with all its bays and islands. Todd also preferred the diversity of Calhoun. The houses ringing the parkway weren't as big as those on Isles, the people not as trendy nor as wealthy, yet on Calhoun there was the sailboarding beach, the yuppie beach, the kiddie beach, the Generation X beach, the black parking lot, and, of course, the gay beach. Todd had never sat along the long, narrow stretch frequented by gays, never joined in a volleyball game. But he'd often walked or biked along the eastern shore of Lake Calhoun, seeing who was who and what was what, his sexuality never falling suspect because both the pedestrian and bike paths ran through this area. He could pass as a harmless het, just out enjoying the day.

  But there would never be reason to hide again. Todd stared across the dark lake toward the gay beach. Would he be hanging out there in the future, either by day or night? No, he might take up sailboarding, but he doubted he'd hang out at the beach or pursue encounters in the dark bushes. He hated sitting around in the sun, and anonymous sex frightened more than titillated him. He realized that while his life had changed fundamentally, in many ways he was still the same person as before.

  Just past the Lakes' Beach Club he turned right, then left, pleased that the hecklers and demonstrators in front of his building were gone. As he pulled into the parking garage he continued up the ramp and to his space, where he got out and locked the Cherokee. Instead of boarding the elevator and going all the way up to the fifteenth floor, however, he entered the elevator lobby and descended to the main floor. After Michael's funeral today he'd forgotten about picking up his mail.

  As he headed for the bank of mailboxes he looked toward the security desk and saw not the younger Bob but the night doorman, Larry, sitting beh
ind the desk. A heavy, older man whose red uniform jacket didn't quite make it all the way around him, he was almost completely bald, and he now barely nodded. Todd offered a solemn wave in return and wondered just what Larry thought about the infamous homo-anchor-psycho-killer in his midst.

  Stop it, he told himself as he unlocked the small silvery box. You can't do that anymore. So what if this Larry knows? Who gives a shit? Just get a grip, get real. He reached into his box and pulled out a handful of mail. Bills. Newsweek. The requisite junk mail. A letter with no return address.

  Shaking his head, he crossed the lobby and reboarded the elevator. As he punched the button for his floor he glanced at the postmark on the letter and saw that it was mailed from St. Paul. He hesitated for a moment. Recently he'd done a story on a woman—an abortion rights activist—who'd gotten a brown box in the mail, no return address, no markings of any sort. Fortunately the woman had had her wits about her, was aware of what it might be, and had called both the CrimeEye team and the bomb squad. The result was a nice bit of publicity for the woman's cause, because somehow Todd had persuaded the police not to open the package until shortly after 6:00 P.M. and was thus able to broadcast the resulting explosion live on the evening news.

  So what did he now hold in his hands?

  Todd carefully felt the envelope, sensing no object, no lumpy item within. He held the envelope up to the recessed light in the elevator. As far as he could tell there was only a sheet of paper inside. Ripping open the envelope, he found a note scribbled in pencil.

  Dear Mr. Faggot Mills:

  So you're just a disgusting homo, huh? I hope you get AIDS. I hope you get oozing sores all over your body. I hope you get diarrhea and shit and shit and shit until you weigh nothing. That's right, I hope you shrivel up and die, you pathetic queer.

  A former Fan