But Cher had a different story to tell. “That headdress cost me two thousand dollars, girl! How can something like that go unnoticed? What kind of security are you running around here? Those feathers reach nearly to the ground!”
Ian seemed to get the same idea Victor did. They both stood on tiptoes and scanned the room.
Yes. Over by the EXIT sign a feather Native American headdress had suddenly appeared. A rectangle of deep almost purple night sky appeared as the EXIT door opened. The white feather headdress was gone.
Performers resented when Victor rudely shoved them aside. He tossed aside a Whitney Houston, a Judy Garland, and a Mae West who went twirling butt-first into a table filled with punch glasses. Victor made it out the EXIT door just as a Freddie Mercury started after him, threatening “You don’t mess with the Statue of Libido, buddy! Come back here and fight like a man!”
Beard, surprisingly agile in high heels for a guy who spent so much time hunting wild swine, had already made it down three flights of snowy stairs to the front lobby side of the building.
“He’s probably headed for his truck,” Victor surmised as he half-ran, half-skied down the stairs. “He probably hopes to make a getaway.”
“Like we don’t know where he lives,” countered Ian. “I’ve got keys to my rental car. It’s closer.”
“Yeah, but my truck has four-wheel drive.”
Indeed, Beard was making a beeline for a van, not his truck. Before hopping into the driver’s seat, he took one of his high heels off and flung it at his pursuers. When he flung the other one, it did strike Ian in the forehead.
“You fucking monkeys can’t catch me!” Beard shrieked in a voice much higher than his normal one. “We’re not in the jungle anymore! Now we’re on my turf, and I control it!” Beard spent another few seconds starting the van and sashaying off down the driveway.
“Fuck!” cursed Ian. A trickle of blood ran into his eye, and Victor gripped him by the lapel to drag him down the slope to his work truck, parked in front of the cabin.
Victor’s truck handled the slushy road better than the cumbersome, boxy van, but Beard already had about a half a mile advantage on them. There was only one road out of the lodge, though, and with four wheel drive they felt as though they’d be catching up with him soon.
Ian was pissed now, and he fumed, “What the fuck do you suppose that meant? We’re not in the jungle anymore? We’re on his turf? Sounds like he’s been in the jungle too long. His brain has crotch rot.”
“Actually,” said Victor, “that might not be far from the truth. I was thinking about what Marilyn told Felicity about his uncontrollable arm flailing, that he was basically foaming at the mouth.”
“You think he might have some obscure African disease? Contracted from one of his smuggled exotics?”
“Exactly. Except maybe not such an obscure tropical disease. Think more mundane. Rabies.”
“Rabies! Like, what people get from dogs?”
“Exactly. When you and I were questioning him at his house, he had his hand wrapped in a bandage. Of course, I thought that could be anything. Pig hunting in the high desert, one runs into all sorts of things that can poke and impale one.”
“I just saw his headlights. We’re catching up!”
“But the next day, when Felicity went to try to purchase the aye-aye, his bandage was gone. What I saw were clearly bite marks—marks that looked almost human.”
“How did you know they weren’t?”
“Beard’s bite, in addition to being quite small and lacking a toothcomb, had one other defining feature. The ever-growing razor-sharp incisors the aye-aye uses to chew holes in tree bark.”
“That’s right!” cried Ian. “Bit by his own lemur!”
“Right—the tremendously enlarged incisors punctured right through his skin. An aye-aye bite is quite distinctive.” In addition to looking like Tony Stark, Victor was now feeling like Sherlock Holmes as he came to the top of a rise that let out onto a stretch of high desert. It was easy to see Beard’s van just an eighth of a mile ahead. Victor now risked sashaying into a snowbank by applying more pedal to the metal. It would be nice to get Beard to pull over on a straightaway. He could only try and outrun them for so long. Bottom line, Victor had a better vehicle. “Ian. Once we get close enough, can you take the wheel?”
“Of course.”
“In fact, take it now. We’re close enough.”
“Okay, but what are you doing?”
Victor could have drawn his Glock with his right hand while steering with the left, but he needed to lean pretty far out the window to shoot Beard’s tire, which he now did. He could only shoot right-handed, therefore, it would be handy if someone else kept the truck steering straight.
He was lucky, and hit the tire with the first shot. The boxy van began to fishtail, its red taillights making red rivers in the inky darkness of the snowy desert.
“Cool!” Ian exhorted, finally able to live his dream of playing cops and robbers.
“Well, how cool it is depends…” Victor’s voice trailed off as Beard’s van plunged headfirst into a snowbank. The driver’s door flew open and a corseted wedding gowned Madonna exploded forth, pistol blazing.
One bullet went right through Victor’s windshield, right between the two men’s heads. “Down!” Victor shouted, shoving his truck into neutral and braking in the middle of the road. Ian dove, clinging to Victor’s lap.
Beard’s van was only twenty feet in front of them now, and he was firing away randomly. “You think you can rub us out, do you?” Beard bellowed. “You think you can make us extinct! You make fun of us, belittle us, do nothing but criticize us, make us feel unworthy!” Another bullet hit one of Victor’s tires, and he felt the truck sink on that side.
“You’re not unworthy!” Victor tried to yell back in a feeble attempt at behavioral analysis. Between the explosions of Beard’s pistol and the fact that Victor’s head was also crammed against the side panel of his door, he doubted Beard could hear him.
In fact, Beard continued to bellow, “You think you can bite me, make me extinct, take your revenge on me?” Another bullet smashed Victor’s windshield, sending out a spider web of cracked veins and a shower of glass shards, and then Beard’s pistol was silent. “I’ll show you, you bastard!”
There was the rusty sliding of the van’s side door. Ian whispered loudly, “Who does he think we are—his father? God?”
“It’s the rabies talking. He’s in some kind of manic phase.”
“But even in a mania, there’s something behind it. Someone telling him he’s unworthy—I’d venture to guess that’s his dad.”
“Well I’m not going to take the time to try my armchair psychology out on him,” Victor breathed, daring to peek over the dashboard. Indeed, Beard, still wearing the knee-long Cher headdress, was hauling a small cage from the back of the van along with what looked like a meat hook, the sort butchers or hunters used to hang big game from trees. Victor shuddered. “Yeesh. I wonder if he’s got any human bodies back there. This whole thing is starting to take on a Leatherface aura.”
Ian dared to peek over the dashboard, too. “Yes. Like, why the van? He must be using it to transport the exotics.”
“Right. He must’ve had the ostrich in the cage in back of his truck, but I can’t see him cruising down State Route 95 with an ostrich kicking its cage, so he must use the van for that sort of transport.”
“Can’t you just shoot him now?” Ian asked.
“We really try not to do that.”
“But he just shot at us! Several times, might I add! Isn’t that fucking self-defense?”
Victor glared at his partner. “Ian, you work for mercenaries and commandoes. I work with marine biologists and conservation officers. Sure, we sometimes have to shoot people. But—”
“There!” Another explosion, and a bullet sounded as though it whizzed right by the Division of Wildlife truck. “Take that, you fucking wife-beating asshole! You’re never taki
ng us alive! I just want you to know, you motherfucker! You were the one who drove me to this! I never would’ve been forced to sell rare animals if I didn’t need a zillion dollars for this surgery!”
Jerking the cage as though it weighed a hundred pounds, Beard staggered off into the desert. He wobbled back and forth like Herman Munster, barefoot, his hairy legs caught up in the folds of the wedding skirt.
The men were freer to speak now. “Surgery?” Victor wondered, sitting cautiously upright. “Not that I care. No kind of surgery is justification for black market trade in prohibited species. I hope to hell he’s not going to hurt whatever’s in that cage.”
“Wait,” said Ian, also sitting upright. “What’s he ranting about?”
Victor strained to hear as Beard continued his rampage into the desert. He swung the meat hook like a tetherball from one hand and held the cage aloft with the other. He definitely was ranting something about Madonna. “You did this to me, Dad! Why couldn’t you just keep your fucking mouth shut? Why’d you always have to criticize me? Now the insurance won’t cover my Madonna surgery and who’s got that kind of money floating around? Only criminals! You’ve forced me into the criminal underbelly of existence!”
“Wow,” sighed Ian. “I was right about the Dad. Well, what should we do now?”
“I heard eight shots, but he could easily have another magazine on him. Besides, neither one of us is driving anywhere soon with our tire shot out. I say let’s hang here as long as we can.”
“Maybe he’s suicidal.”
“That could be. Depending when he was bit, he’s going to die from that rabies. Once clinical symptoms are present, it’s 100 percent fatal. I shudder to think we were going to let Felicity purchase a rabid aye-aye.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Ian soothed. “He could be plain old daft.”
“That, or he’s channeling Ed Gein.” No amount of squinting now could bring Todd Beard into focus. The evening was becoming too dark. They no longer heard Beard ranting out there in the desert, either. Victor punched Perry’s speed dial number, got his voice mail, and told him to bring the lodge’s tow truck to where they were.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Ian. “It might actually be possible for me to move out here. That is, if you and Felicity don’t think I’m butting in. I mean, I’d only do it if…” Ian trailed off uncertainly, his blue eyes brimming with emotion.
“If Felicity and I wanted to include you in our lifestyle,” Victor finished.
Ian seemed grateful for Victor’s mind-reading abilities. “Yes. I wouldn’t want to give up my job just to be shunted aside by the two people I’m pretty sure I love.”
Victor’s heart was warmed to hear the word “love.” At the same time, he squirmed uncomfortably. He and Felicity hadn’t even discussed love, much less any sort of homosexual love he and Ian might feel for one another. It just hadn’t been done yet. All three of them were too inexperienced in real relationships. Felicity was still too raw from her beloved husband’s death—Victor still in shock from the failure of his marriage. And Ian—well, Ian seemed to have never had any relationships at all of real depth. He seemed to be a workaholic whose excitement lay in fantasizing about Rowan O’Shea. And now, perhaps, in actually making love with Victor.
Victor took Ian’s hand. Suddenly it didn’t seem that corny to be holding hands with another man. “I love both of you, too, Ian,” Victor said quietly. “And it scares the hell out of me. Sure, move here to Utah. I’m going to see Felicity as often as I can. But I’ll still be stuck working out of the Salt Lake office, and I fly around the world quite often lecturing or to Africa studying critters, so that’d be good to have you keep an eye on her for me.”
They looked lovingly in each other’s eyes for what felt like a very long time. Suddenly Ian had scooted so close to Victor he was practically in Victor’s lap. They were in a close lip-lock, Ian threading his fingers through Victor’s hair. Victor eagerly licked Ian’s plush, shapely lips. Yes, Victor had fucked around with a good share of men in his time. But he’d never kissed another man, and he’d certainly never sucked another man off.
Things were changing rapidly. He had faith that everything was for the best.
Ian broke the kiss first, sighing with contentment. His words belied his happy, satisfied tone. “We should at least check the van.”
Victor sighed too, with regret. From the gun rack in his truck’s rear window he removed a shotgun. All Division field personnel who were assigned a truck were also assigned the shotgun as well, and he pumped a round into the chamber before handing it to Ian.
Victor said, “I presume you and Rowan went to the shooting range at some point? Or don’t tell me. Rowan had a shooting range inside his man cave.”
Ian’s face was lit up like a little boy’s at Christmas. “Not quite. But you’re right, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. He had an indoor archery range, after all.”
Victor nodded at Ian to indicate he should disembark the truck. He liked that Ian interpreted the gesture and got out. He wouldn’t have to explain a lot to Ian. Already they were on the same wavelength.
Chapter Sixteen
“You know,” said Felicity, “Ian is very jealous of you.”
Perry Donovan nodded, unruffled. “I thought as much. I had a feeling he had a massive crush on Rowan for who knows how long.”
Felicity didn’t want to admit that flat-out to Ian’s rival—that was Ian’s business. “Well, now Ian’s got an even bigger crush now on Victor Reznik, MD. I know I do.”
“Yeah, about that,” Perry said casually as he drove slowly through the dark, slushy mountain pass. “This afternoon Xandra and Sasha were talking. I’m sure they won’t mind me mentioning it to you, because they planned to mention it to you at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“What, what?” By the tone of Perry’s voice, Felicity knew it was something good. Or at least, something her sisters imagined was good.
“They want to propose that you manage the lodge’s spa. We know you’re no layabout, you like working, and you might get bored easily. The spa seems to be a good fit for your background.”
That idea had never occurred to Felicity before. Spa, bondage club. Bondage club, spa. Yes, the two did seem to go hand in hand. “There are a lot of similarities,” she admitted. “Clients coming at appointed times, expecting to be catered to, accommodated, coddled.”
“In a certain way,” Perry added.
“I haven’t visited the lodge’s spa yet. But it does sort of sound intriguing. I assume they have an existing manager, though?”
“That’s the thing. The current—or rather, recent—manager just quit. Apparently the Furry convention was the last straw for her when they had to call plumbers to unclog extensive faux fur from the pool and hot tub pipes.”
Felicity scoffed. “I could roll with that. I’ve seen much worse at Fett Axel.”
Perry added, “Oh, and it may have been the used condoms she discovered strewn about the pools, sauna, and massage rooms.”
Felicity shrugged. “I’ve dealt with that, too. It comes with the territory.”
“Well, that part wasn’t during the Great Utah FurFest. The condom-a-palooza occurred during a more recent AARP conference.”
“Oh.” Felicity looked straight ahead, blankly. “Well. It’s a good thing our seniors are being responsible, too, don’t you agree? Oh, there’s Victor’s truck.”
Perry pulled the tow truck up behind Victor’s work truck. His headlights showed Felicity’s two lovers apparently rummaging through Todd Beard’s van. Several animal cages sat on the road next to the van. The strangest thing was that Ian held a shotgun.
“Darling!” Felicity found herself running toward Victor, nearly slamming into him in her excitement.
He squeezed her tightly but said against the top of her head, “Baby. I didn’t want you coming here. I’m going to have a word with Perry for bringing you.”
Ian was getting behind the wheel of the wildlif
e truck. He said tersely to Perry, “Back that thing up so I can get this truck into position to be towed.”
Felicity had to giggle. Ian would never feel warm toward Perry. “We were just discussing a possible job opening for me. Spa manager at the lodge.”
Victor raised his eyebrows with delight. “Well, now. That could definitely come in handy. I can see you doing that.” He kissed her forehead—now wasn’t the time for shenanigans. “I have no choice other than to walk out into the desert and look for Beard. He just wandered out there with the lemur and a meat hook, and that’s the last we saw or heard. Look what Beard’s got in this van.”
Victor shined a flashlight into the van’s interior. There were two other cages that held lemurs with rings around their tails. Their giant eyes looked back at Felicity, unblinking. Most disturbing was a leopard cub, spotted like the faux fur bikini Victor had shipped for her. Felicity was pretty sure this sort of great cat was only to be found in Africa.
She said, “So he’s sitting around singing ‘Like a Virgin’ while these poor creatures suffocate to death in his stupid van? I hope he gets thirty years in jail.”
Victor said, “Unfortunately, he’ll probably just pay the fine or do a very short sentence. Oh, it’s a fucking awful business, as you can imagine. They tape parrots’ beaks together and stuff them into tubes. Turtles are taped into their shells and shoved into suitcases. About ninety percent of smuggled animals die during transport. Even the few animals that make it into private homes, when the new owners decide they’re unsuitable they either set them loose or even try to release them in zoos.”
“I really never thought about it,” Felicity whispered. “It just always struck me vaguely that keeping any animal in a cage was wrong, including birds. Dogs and cats, okay. They get some relative freedom. But who would want a lemur in a cage? It would just make me too sad looking at the creature caged up like that.”
“Well, don’t get close to these animals. Who knows what diseases they carry? One of these monkeys—may have been your aye-aye—bit the hell out of Beard’s hand, and I’m suspecting he may have rabies.”
Two Sirs, with Love [McQueen Was My Valley 4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 15
