The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  I noticed his eyes were misting, and he quickly wiped them with the back of his hand.

  “And do you know what, Dick?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “That hurt me as much as the first call had. That was my brother! That was the Patrick I want, that my parents want.”

  “Did you ask him where he was?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t tell me. He’s here in the city, though. I can feel it. He did say he had a very good job that he liked a lot, but didn’t say what it was or where. I told him I wanted to see him, but he said no. ‘We’ll see each other soon enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’re ready yet.’ I asked him what he meant by that, but he just said ‘I’ve got to go, little brother. I’ll call again soon.’ And he hung up. I called the operator to see if she could trace the call, but she said she couldn’t.”

  I thought in silence for a good long moment, with Kevin’s eyes on my face, waiting for me to say something.

  “The next time he calls,” I said, “ask him if he would be willing to meet with me. Tell him I won’t betray him to anyone, but that I really want to hear his side of the story. Maybe I can help.”

  Kevin shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dick. Patrick is playing with me. I know that. Those two calls…he knew exactly what he was doing in both of them. The devil lures with honey, and you have no idea of the power of evil.”

  This time I reached out for his hand. He looked truly startled and almost pulled back. I only gave him a brief, reassuring pat then withdrew.

  “Kevin, you have got to get to the bottom of this thing. We have to find out exactly what Patrick is up to and what he hopes to achieve. I suspect you’re right that his ultimate goal is to ruin your father’s chances for election.

  “But he hasn’t done anything yet, and we won’t know for sure until we talk to him. You’re under too much pressure as it is. I can be a little more objective. Will you do this for me? When he calls again, will you try to find out if he really is in the city and if he’ll meet with me?”

  Kevin sighed and searched my face. Then he nodded.

  At that moment, the phone rang. He jumped up and reached over the desk to get to it.

  “Salvation’s Door,”

  There was a pause, and I saw his body sag as his muscles relaxed.

  “Yes, it arrived this morning, and I want to thank you for your wonderful generosity. It will mean so much to our flock… Yes, thank you again. May God bless you. Goodbye.”

  He hung up, turned, shrugged, and sighed. He was about to sit down again when someone called from the bottom of the stairs, “Reverend Rourke? Could you come down to the kitchen, please?”

  “Yes…yes, I’ll be right there.” He turned again to me with a sad little smile. “We never do seem to finish what we start, do we, Dick?”

  “No, Kev,” I said, “we don’t.”

  We walked downstairs together, and just as Kevin started into the dining room, I stopped him.

  “You’ll ask, right?”

  He nodded, and I left.

  *

  I had tried to stay in regular contact with Tom, but we kept playing telephone tag and didn’t have a chance to talk in person all that much. I finally managed to reach him Monday evening.

  There had been a minor fire at Ruth’s, a lesbian bar, but it happened in the early afternoon and was quickly traced to an electrical problem. The arson squad had been informed of it but didn’t investigate.

  Knowing that the gallon jar used in the Dog Collar fire originally held jumbo olives wasn’t as big a clue as they had hoped. There were just too many bars and restaurants in the city, more than a few within a two-mile radius of the Dog Collar. Empty gallon jars of that kind were in pretty big demand for a lot of storage uses, and it was almost impossible for those places that didn’t break up their glass containers after use to keep track of what happened to them.

  One bartender at a straight restaurant was found to have had a previous arson arrest and was questioned extensively but had what proved to be a watertight alibi for the night of the fire. Gas stations were checked to see if anyone had been seen filling, or attempting to fill, a gallon glass jar, but since it was a violation of state law to sell gasoline in any container other than red cans meeting state regulations, if anyone had seen—or sold gas to—someone filling a gallon glass jar, they weren’t going to admit to it.

  I thanked Tom and invited him to go out for dinner the following Saturday. He agreed.

  On Wednesday, Don Yosling, Bob, and I got together for an early dinner, where I passed on the information Tom had given me. After dinner, Don and I went to my place for a little horizontal recreation. We both seemed to realize we had lucked out in finding a sex partner with no danger of the relationship going any further for either one of us.

  Thursday came, and still no word from Kevin. I knew he had been out of town on speaking assignments both Tuesday and Wednesday, but still…

  The chief, with nothing substantial going on in the Dog Collar investigation and, therefore, no valid reason for him to remain holed up in his office, was forced to begin accepting carefully monitored and scripted public appearances, with the primary emphasis on “appearances” and as little “public” as could be gotten away with. That wouldn’t take much pressure off Kevin, of course, since he had become the designated human contact in the chief’s campaign.

  I’d just finished dinner Thursday night and was debating whether the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink and stacked on the counters really needed attention when the phone rang. It was Kevin.

  “He called?” I asked, without even saying hello.

  “Yes. Just now.”

  “And?”

  “And he wouldn’t agree to meet you…or me. He asked me why you were ‘butting in,’ as he put it, and what you wanted and how I knew I could trust you, and then he started going off again.”

  I had an idea what he meant, but wanted to be sure.

  “How so ‘going off?’ Exactly what did he say?”

  Kevin hesitated.

  “When he first started talking, he was fine, but when I started answering his questions about you he started…well…I really don’t feel comfortable talking about this, Dick. It was disgusting and perverted, and he made all sorts of sickening accusations about…”

  “About…?” I prompted.

  “You…and me.” He paused again. “And I fell right into his trap. I started defending myself and denying his accusations and trying to reason with him, and…”

  Another long pause, until at last I had to say, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. And finally I asked him again to please at least talk with you, and assured him that he would find you as trustworthy as I did, and then he said something really strange, which I still don’t understand.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said ‘Oh, I know who…” Kevin paused “…he…is.’”

  I didn’t miss the hesitation.

  “Did he use the word he?”

  I could almost hear him blush.

  “No.”

  “Exactly what did he say, Kev? It might be important.”

  “I don’t know if I can even say it, Dick…it was so ugly and perverted.”

  “Come on, Kev,” I said, a little impatiently. “It’s just me and you. Exactly what did he say?”

  There was another hesitation and then he blurted it out.

  “He said, ‘I know who your boyfriend is.’ What a disgusting thing to imply! Please don’t be insulted! But how could he know who you are?”

  I wondered exactly the same thing.

  “He probably just said that to get you upset. He might conceivably have found out I work for C.C. and your father,” I said, grasping at straws. “But more than likely he just said it to shake you…which apparently it did. I can assure you, if I had ever seen Patrick, I’d know it. Did he say anything else?”

  “No, not really.
He kept switching back and forth between being calm and conversational in one breath to being blasphemous and unspeakably perverted in the next. I hate to say it, Dick, but I truly suspect my brother is possessed by the Devil himself. You cannot imagine what filth he used when he talked about…us.”

  Yes, in fact, I could imagine.

  “So how did the conversation end?”

  “He said it was time for him to go and…engage in his sexual perversions…and that he would call again soon. I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this, Dick. I really don’t. I have prayed, and prayed, and…”

  I really empathized with the guy but couldn’t let him fall apart now.

  “Listen to me, Kev. I can imagine how hard this is for you—I really can.” I searched for something to say that might mean something to him. Feeling just a little bit hypocritical, I said, “You have the power of your faith to protect you. Patrick can’t harm you if you don’t let him. If he is trying to shake you, don’t let him. Don’t let him win.”

  There was a long pause, and then a sigh.

  “You’re right, of course. Thank you, Dick. You have no idea what your friendship means to me. But now I have to go to my prayers and meditation. Thank you again, and God bless you.”

  “Goodbye, Kev.”

  *

  Well, now I felt like a real shit. Kevin Rourke—closeted, bigoted, narrow-minded, stupifyingly uptight Kevin Rourke—considered me a friend! Me, who was out to do everything I could to keep his father from being elected governor. And the pathetic thing was, I guess that from his standpoint, I was a friend.

  As I said before, I felt in my bones that Kevin did not have many—if any—actual friends. Dominated by his father, stuck in a marriage I don’t think even he could convince himself that he wanted, living his entire life trying to be what others expected him to be. Our lifestyles could not conceivably be further apart. But he considered me his friend, and that made me very, strangely sad.

  And again, when it came right down to it, I felt a great deal of empathy for the poor guy. I could only imagine what he’d had to go through in his life. I couldn’t help but feel some respect for his ability to carry all that mental, emotional, and psychological baggage and still survive. Against all my better judgment, I guess I really did like him.

  And Patrick. Why was I so intrigued with Patrick? The whole thing was none of my damned business. Leave Patrick to his own devices and let him bring the chief down on his own.

  That anyone could be as evil as Kevin painted his brother was hard to believe, until you looked at the whole dysfunctional mess of a family. That Patrick might be as fucked-up in one direction as Kevin was in the other wasn’t that hard to accept. I just knew I had to know more about Patrick’s side of the story.

  Dick Hardesty: Collector of Lost Souls.

  Deciding the dishes could wait a while longer, I had another cigarette and went to bed.

  *

  Work had settled into a soporific routine. An endless string of press releases, press kits, head shots, a barrage of PR materials following every announced endorsement by some group or organization. A big to-do over the amazing and, from the chief’s camp’s ecstatic response, supposedly totally unexpected support of the National Rifle Association, the Christians for Democracy, the American Rights Foundation, Families for Justice, and other equally open-minded organizations. Each endorsement was ranked right up there with the Second Coming in importance to the campaign and heralded as such.

  McNearny played puppeteer to Kevin’s increasingly frenetic marionette as more and more time was demanded of him. Sean had caught a bad cold on one of the day trips, so Sue-Lynn, at least, was able to take some time out to care for the baby, while Kevin continued his endless string of speeches.

  He had, however, asserted himself to the point of gaining a grudging concession that he would not be scheduled for engagements from Friday evening through Sunday noon. I think even McNearny had some vague idea of how hard he was pushing and didn’t want to risk losing Kevin altogether.

  Kevin called me at home Saturday morning. He sounded a little tired, and more than a little depressed.

  “I know it’s the weekend, Dick, and I really shouldn’t be bothering you at home, but do you suppose we might get together for a few minutes? For coffee, maybe?”

  I could tell from his tone of voice that it didn’t involve more calls from Patrick, and realized he probably just wanted someone to talk to. Hey, I was his friend, right? Ah, well, fuck the “no mixing business and pleasure.” It might not necessarily be a pleasure, but I figured I owed him something.

  There was the laundry to do, and groceries to buy, and that damned sink full of dishes, but…

  “Sure, Kev. Do you want me to come to the shelter?”

  “No. If I stay here, I’ll feel like I have to work. The staff can handle lunch. I just need to relax for a little while. What’s that coffee shop on the river, the one with the big windows?”

  “Everly’s?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Would that be alright?”

  “That will be fine. In about half an hour?”

  *

  On the way to the diner, I once again had a little heart-to-heart with myself, wondering what I thought I was doing. Did I really want to get involved with Kevin on a personal level?

  I was reminded of one of my favorite bits of graffiti. On a bathroom wall in one of the bars someone had written: Tony’s a SLUT! and under it someone else had added Yes, but he can suck a golf ball through a garden hose! Was I letting my memories of Kevin’s oral abilities sway my thinking? It wouldn’t be the first time my crotch had run away with my head.

  But I rationalized that, while another round or two in the sack with him would be interesting, my main attraction was finding out more about Patrick and what he had in mind. The only way I was going to get to Patrick would be through Kevin.

  *

  Kevin was standing in front of Everly’s when I got there, and we went in and found a table by the windows overlooking the river. He ordered coffee, and I opted for coffee and a piece of the banana crème pie I’d noticed in the bakery case when we walked in.

  “So,” I asked as the waitress left to get my pie, “how are you doing?”

  He smiled and shrugged.

  “Okay, I guess. I’m used to talking in front of groups, but I much prefer to talk about the Lord and salvation than about the current governor’s shortcomings—though there are a lot of them,” he hastened to add, almost as though he was afraid his father or McNearny might be listening.

  I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Tell me, Kev, what do you do for fun?”

  He looked at me as though the question had never been asked him before. It occurred to me that possibly it never had. He looked confused, and I could tell he had to think hard before answering.

  “I read the Bible. And I really enjoy my work at the shelter—helping people brings me real joy.” He unconsciously played his tongue against the inside corner of his lower lip. “I…uh…I enjoy playing the piano, and…” For some strange reason, he blushed. “…and singing, when no one is around. And playing with Sean, of course. I can’t wait until he gets big enough for us to really do things together.”

  “No sports?”

  He thought a moment, then shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I really don’t have the time. How about you?”

  The waitress brought my pie, and I scooped up a large forkful before replying.

  “I boxed some in high school and college.”

  “Were you any good?”

  “Well, I did make Golden Gloves. But after I got my nose broken the third time, I decided I’d better hang up the gloves for good.”

  Kevin stared at my nose.

  “It doesn’t look like it’s been broken.”

  “The Fates were kind. But I can see it when I look. And I really do enjoy water-skiing. A friend of our—a friend of mine has a cottage on Lake Verde, and I used to spend a l
ot of time up there.”

  He smiled wistfully.

  “I’ve always wanted to go water-skiing, but my father emphasized what he considered the more ‘manly’ sports. Patrick and I both hated them. Especially hunting…” His gaze suddenly dropped, and he became very quiet.

  “Nothing further from Patrick?” I asked and immediately regretted the insensitivity of the question.

  He took a sip of his coffee and put it back on the saucer, shaking his head.

  “No. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “I gather you haven’t told your father?”

  Kevin once again looked shocked.

  “Oh, my heavens, no! The only one I’ve told is you.” He looked at me. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

  “Of course not, Kev. I made you a promise, and I’ll keep it.” As I said it, I sincerely hoped I meant it.

  One thing I have never really learned to do, and that is to leave well-enough alone. I still had an awful lot of questions about Patrick, and Kevin was the only one who could even partially answer them.

  “Kev, I hope you won’t mind my asking these things, but the more I know about Patrick, the better I…we…might be able to know what he’s planning to do next.”

  He responded with a noncommittal shrug.

  “Go ahead.”

  The waitress appeared to ask if we needed anything else, and when we said “No” in unison, she placed the check on the table and went away. I used the time to try to formulate my questions in a way to elicit the most information without getting Kevin too upset.

  “Tell me more about you and Patrick as kids.”

  He looked into his coffee cup and, seeing it was empty, pushed it toward the center of the table and leaned back against the booth.

  “Patrick was born twelve minutes before I was—I think I told you that. He always made a big thing of being the ‘older’ brother, and when we were young—before he began to change—he always was the leader, and he always tried to protect me from things.

  “I was always shy, Patrick always outgoing. When our parents would discipline us, Patrick was always more concerned for how I reacted than for himself. I looked up to him. Even then, our being identical twins was more a matter of physical appearance than character.”