by Greg Herren
I considered joining him, but decided not to. It would be weird with Mom in the living room, for one thing, and there was that whole “day of the match” thing.
Tonight, though, was going to be a different story.
“What are you watching?” I asked after the bedroom door closed.
“I keep hoping there’s going to be some more news about Mike,” she replied between bites. “They’re calling it a tiger-napping.” She rolled her eyes at me and gestured to the coffee table where the morning paper sat. “I suppose that’s what everyone is going to call it now,” Mom said with a sigh. “Tiger-napping. Seriously. Why must they always invent words?”
“I don’t know. I guess kidnapping didn’t seem dramatic enough.” I picked up the paper. The headline on the front page of the Baton Rouge Advocate screamed MIKE KIDNAPPED!!! Right below that was a photo of him in his habitat, yawning and looking totally bored. “Besides, it’s not every day a tiger is kidnapped. Did it make the national news?”
“Shh.” She turned up the volume just as the video of a frightened-looking young girl being walked up the steps of the police station by two uniformed cops played on the screen. Across the bottom of the picture was the caption VETERINARY STUDENT IN CHARGE OF MIKE HAS TIES TO ANIMAL RIGHTS ACTIVISTS.
“Hope Porterie is the daughter of the notorious Veronica Porterie, who founded the AFAR group back in the 1980s.” The newscaster’s voice was breathless, her tone screaming Can you believe this? A really horrible photo of Veronica Porterie—her mug shot from her arrest for the security guard’s murder—popped up on the screen. “When AFAR broke into the animal-testing facility for Flax Cosmetics, they released all the animals, but a security guard was killed. Veronica Porterie was tried for his murder, but the result was a hung jury. The district attorney chose not to try her again.” Now her voice was disapproving: Can you believe he didn’t throw the book at this lunatic? “And we here at WBRZ News have recently learned that AFAR has been threatening to ‘free Mike’ for more than a year. And the group founder’s daughter somehow managed to insinuate herself into caring for Mike—and was with him when AFAR kidnapped him. Things are not looking good this morning for Hope Porterie. Back to you, Jim.”
“That’s really bad,” I said as Mom muted the television. “But I suppose it was just a matter of time before the connection turned up.”
“Guilty until proven innocent,” she said, picking up her cell phone. “I’m going to text Storm.”
“You don’t think there’s a connection?” I replied, a little dubiously. “I mean, come on, Mom. Her mother runs AFAR.”
“Nobody knows for a fact that AFAR took Mike, Scotty. What kind of private eye are you, anyway? Automatically assuming guilt based on circumstantial evidence?” Mom replied. “Besides, don’t you think the FBI has had Hope’s phone tapped for years now?” She fumbled with her phone for a moment before giving up and dialing.
I was glad Frank was in the shower. Frank adores her, but as a retired FBI special agent, Mom’s paranoia about the Bureau sometimes got a bit under his skin. He never said anything when Mom went on one of her tears, but his face would always flush a bit and that vein in his forehead would start throbbing. Both Dad and I had talked to Mom about it—to at least ease up on the feds or just bite her tongue in front of Frank—and she had gotten a lot better. But once she’s wound up there is no turning back the tide.
“Storm, it’s your mother. The cops have taken Hope in—we just saw it on the news. You need to get down there!” She paused, listening, and started talking again. I got up, tuning her out, and walked over to the bedroom. I didn’t hear the shower running, so I went inside. Frank was shaving, naked, in the bathroom with the door open. He turned his head and smiled.
“I called my sister,” he said, going back to shaving. “I told her to send Taylor down as soon as possible. She’s going to put him on a flight from Birmingham to New Orleans.” He smiled back at the mirror. “I called Rain, she’s going to pick him up tonight for us and take him home with her. She’ll bring him over once we get back home tomorrow.”
I sat down on the bed. “Wow.” That was quick.
He rinsed the lather off his face and walked over to me, kissing the top of my head. “It’ll be fine, Scotty.” He started getting dressed. “I haven’t seen Taylor since he was a little boy.” He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and laughed. “You should see your face—you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He finished getting dressed and walked back over to me.
“It’ll be fine,” he said, stroking my arm and kissing my head again. “We can’t just abandon him. Where else will he go?”
I nodded. I knew he was right, and really—how awful could an eighteen-year-old gay boy be?
But I still had a knot in my stomach.
I followed him out into the living room.
“Taylor’s coming down tonight on a Southwest flight,” he announced.
Mom grinned and bounded over to him, her braid bouncing. “That’s so wonderful!” She hugged him and looked at me with a strange look. She reached over and took my hand. “You really don’t need to worry so much about Taylor,” she said. “You and Frank—and Colin, when he’s here—are great role models for him, you know.”
“Yeah,” I replied, not convinced.
“I have to get going,” Frank said, kissing me on the cheek. “I’ll see you guys at the arena, okay?”
I smiled until the door shut behind him. I let out a sigh. “Mom, I’m terrified.”
“You’re being ridiculous, you know.” She shook her head. “You’re going to be fine. Really. He’s just a kid, and think about where he grew up. He has a lot to learn.”
“He spent the last few months in Paris. He could probably teach me a few things.” I walked over to the sliding glass door and put my forehead against the glass. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t help myself. “I—I have nothing to show for my life, Mom.” I blew out my breath and looked back at the river. A barge was slowly passing, on its way to New Orleans. “Before I met Frank, what was I? A personal trainer and stripper who could barely pay his bills—and wasn’t even capable of having any kind of relationship with another guy. I was sexually active, I slept with total strangers who picked me up in bars, I used to dance on bars in a thong for dollar bills. I mean, yeah, that’s exactly the path Taylor should take, don’t you think?”
Mom patted my hand. “Are you ashamed of your past, Scotty?”
I thought about it for a moment—the one-night stands, the nights spent dancing on Ecstasy until the sun came up, and grinned. “Well, no, not really.”
“You were always a good person, Scotty, and isn’t that really the most important thing?” She gave me an odd look. “What’s this all about, anyway? Are you really that nervous about Taylor coming down here?” She smacked the side of my face lightly with her hand. “Think about this poor kid for a minute, Scotty. He’s grown up in some horribly repressed small town in northwest Alabama, where everyone goes to church and acts holier-than-thou while sinning in the worst possible ways behind closed doors. He’s probably hated himself for most of his life, having to hide who he really was because he was afraid of exactly what has happened—his family turning on him. I don’t know much about the University of Alabama other than they have a good football team, but I can’t imagine anywhere in Alabama being really gay-friendly, can you?”
I shook my head.
“So what Taylor really needs is acceptance and to see that gay people aren’t evil, aren’t going to hell, are decent human beings who live their lives without hurting anyone else. And I can’t think of anyone better to show him that than you and Frank.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I put my head back. “What did Storm say about Hope?”
“He’s on his way to the police station.” She scowled and sat up. “What time is Frank’s match?”
“The show starts at seven,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. I didn’t like the determined look on her face, or the tone of he
r voice. She was up to something. “Frank’s the headline match, of course, so he probably won’t be on until at least nine thirty. The whole broadcast is supposed to be over by ten. Why?”
“You mind taking a little drive with me?” Her face took on an air of affected innocence. “A little adventure with your old mom? Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Where to?” I raised my eyebrows. “What are you up to, Mom?”
“We’ll be back in plenty of time to have dinner and make it to Frank’s match,” she said in a wheedling tone, ignoring my question and glancing at her watch. “Come on, I just have a hunch I want to check out.” She patted my arm and gave me an enormous smile. “If it doesn’t play out, well, we’ll get to spend some quality time together.”
Now I was really suspicious. “Quality time” almost always meant doing something I didn’t want to, and without fail it turned out to be something terribly unpleasant.
But truth be told, I didn’t have anything to do until it was time to head over to the arena.
And I hadn’t spent any time with Mom alone in a while. “Okay, I’m up for whatever. Let me get cleaned up—just a quick shower.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, we were in her car flying down I-10 heading back in the direction of New Orleans.
“Where are we going?” I asked for probably the thousandth time since we’d gotten into her car. “I’m in the car, Mom, so it’s not like I can change my mind.”
“I have a hunch, okay?” She glanced over at me and back to the road as she swerved into a lane and around a slow-moving Cadillac. “The Porteries had a cabin on the north shore, just outside of Rouen, in the Manchac Swamp near Lake Maurepas. Her father and his buddies used to use it for hunting and fishing. If Veronica was behind the tiger-napping, she had to have a place to take the tiger, right? And it had to be somewhere relatively close but out of the way. What’s more out of the way than the Manchac Swamp?”
She had a point, I had to give her that. “But, Mom, the swamp is almost all the way back to New Orleans.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s an hour drive, at most. We’re just going to head out there, take a look around, and head back, okay?” She patted my leg. “It makes sense, though, doesn’t it? The tiger was taken on a back road—a back road that might have been on the way to Rouen. No one has seen Mike since he was kidnapped. How is that possible? How do you hide a tiger? Wouldn’t it make sense for Veronica and her goons to take him to the old hunting cabin?” She moved over into the left lane. “It’s easier to get there from I-12, if I remember correctly. We take the Pumpkin Center exit, and take 22…” She wondered for a moment. “I think I can remember where the turn into the swamp is…I just know it’s easier from I-12 than from 55.” She laughed. “I always thought her father’s devotion to hunting had something to do with why Veronica became such an animal rights activist.” She grinned at me. “Kind of like how you’re such a determined meat eater because your dad and I are vegetarians.”
“That’s not why—most people eat meat,” I protested. “And once you’ve had bacon—well, there’s no turning back.” When we were kids, both sets of grandparents were horrified that Mom and Dad were raising their kids as vegetarians, so they fed us meat at every opportunity.
I swear to God if I never eat tofu again it will be too soon.
“I do miss bacon,” Mom replied in a dreamy voice. “Sometimes I dream about it.”
“You don’t have to be a vegetarian, Mom.”
“I know you find it hard to believe, but your father and I actually like tofu.” She winked at me. “But every once in a while, I slip down to the Rouse’s and buy some bacon, okay? And if you tell anyone I said that I’ll call you a liar.” She shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about how awful your brother would be if he knew.”
She veered off to the left—cutting off an enormous pickup truck on jacked-up tires that blared its horn at her—and got onto I-12. She reached down and turned up her satellite radio, which she had set on a classic rock station. I rolled my eyes as we hurtled along I-12, through the towering pine trees lining both sides of the highway. She flipped open the ashtray and pulled out a half-smoked joint.
“You are not going to get stoned and drive,” I said, grabbing it out of her hand. “Seriously, Mom. Do you want to get arrested again?” I dropped it into my shirt pocket. “We can smoke it when we get back to Baton Rouge.” I leaned back into my seat as she passed another eighteen-wheeler like it was standing still. “So, tell me about Veronica Porterie.”
“I’ve pretty much told you everything already.”
“Sure you have.” I smirked at her. “Do you really expect me to believe you haven’t spoken to her since that security guard was killed? I know Storm didn’t believe it, either.”
“You’re too smart for your own good,” she snapped. “Yes, I’ve spoken to her from time to time. I’ve even given her money sometimes, when she needed it.” She sighed. “The security guard was an accident—they thought the lab would be empty. They didn’t want anyone to die. It was an accident, Scotty. I believe her. Veronica might be a little unhinged when it comes to animals, but she’s not a killer.” She bit her lower lip. “I have to believe that.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. We sped along in silence for a while. We passed cars and exits at a pretty fast clip while the stereo blared Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice,” followed by “Carry On Wayward Son” by Kansas. Mom slowed down—not enough for my comfort level—to take the exit marked PUMPKIN CENTER with BAPTIST below it. She didn’t slow down even as we flew down the off-ramp, even though there was a stop sign clearly visible at the bottom of the ramp. She slammed on the brakes, throwing me forward—if not for my seat belt I probably would have gone through the windshield.
I come by my bad driving habits naturally. It’s clearly in my DNA.
“Drama queen,” Mom said, turning right and flooring it to pick up speed as we passed a gas station and a building with a sign that—and I am not making this up—read FORMAL WEAR AND BAIT.
“Now, that’s a reality show just waiting to happen,” I commented.
“Don’t give them any ideas.” Mom rolled her eyes as the car picked up even more speed. “It’s bad enough they’re doing one of those Grande Dames shows in New Orleans.”
I chose not to tell her Frank, Colin, and I watched the Grande Dames shows religiously and were looking forward to the New Orleans version like kids waiting for Christmas. The road we were on dead-ended at State Road 22, and Mom turned left, speeding up again as we passed through a more residential area. I glanced at my watch—it wasn’t quite noon yet. There was still plenty of time for us to get back. The odds that Mike the Tiger was at this old hunting cabin were slim—hell, for that matter, the cabin itself might not even be there anymore. Mom hadn’t been out there herself since she was a teenager—and that was a lot longer ago than she wanted to think about. Even in a worst-case scenario, I didn’t have to be there for the first matches—I didn’t have to be there until Frank got into the ring—but the truth was I’d been getting into the matches somewhat over the years as Frank’s star rose.
To be honest, I had thought it was kind of silly that Frank had wanted to become a professional wrestler. I would never say that to him, of course—I’m not that big a dick. But I was a wrestler in high school and had always seen the professional style to be rather silly and cartoonish. But it took all of his courage to tell me he wanted to try it. It was in the days after the storm when the city lay in ruins and we didn’t know if New Orleans was going to rebound from the horror. I don’t know how long it took him to drum up the courage to bring it up, and he was so absolutely adorable when he told me—I didn’t have the heart to tease him or say it was ridiculous. He got accepted into a top training school in the Midwest and was gone for about two months.
And when he started e-mailing me photos of him in the outfits—well, he looked fucking smoking hot in the trunks, knee pads, and the boots.
&nbs
p; Porn star hot.
And who knew Frank, so quiet and reserved, was charismatic enough to win the fans over and rock the interviews where he threatened maiming mayhem for his next opponent?
She slowed and made a right turn on a dirt road.
“How much farther is this place?” I asked. “Are you sure it’s still accessible?” Dirt roads leading into swamps didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. “We’re not going to get stuck out here?”
“Relax already.” Mom waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll be back in plenty of time. I don’t want to miss it, either. Dad’s taping the pay-per-view, too.” Mom and Dad were two of Frank’s biggest fans, taping every broadcast. They’d even hung a signed poster of him in trunks and wearing his title belt in their tobacco shop, the Devil’s Weed.
“If you say so,” I grumbled. Mom was not the best when it came to time management, so I knew I was going to have to keep an eye on the clock and nudge her along.
About twenty minutes later we were definitely getting into the swampy area nearer the lake. The road narrowed until there was barely room for our car. Less than a foot from the side of the road on either side was murky water and marsh grasses. Spanish moss hung from the huge limbs of massive live oaks. She was driving slower now. I couldn’t get over how silent it was out there. Finally, she turned into a dirt driveway with a rusted metal mailbox on the side of the road. The door hung open, and the little plastic red flag was hanging at a weird angle alongside. Mom didn’t speed up, and dust rose behind us in our wake. I saw an alligator’s head in the water alongside the road and shivered a bit. I’ve never been a fan of swamps, and that long-ago Southern Decadence weekend when I first met Frank, I’d been kidnapped by some very bad guys and taken out into a swamp to their camp. I’d had nightmares about that experience for quite a while afterward. Even though it had been eight years, I still got squeamish around swamps.
Eventually, though, the driveway turned back toward I-12, and the swamp was left behind a bit as we moved into a thick pine forest. Everything was so silent that the tires sounded really loud crunching on the dirt beneath us. “This is their hunting place?” I said, barely above a whisper.
