They Thought He was Safe

by P. D. Workman

  Skinheads who had followed him from a gay bar.

  Zachary’s short walk to his car had taken him farther away from the crowds and the bright lights. There were a few people around, but not many, and they walked quickly, heads down, not looking at each other. Zachary looked quickly around. He needed somewhere with more people. He would be safer in a crowd. The skinheads would get bored and go away, looking for other quarry.

  But his walk had taken him away from the bars and storefronts into an area that was single family homes and low-rise apartment buildings. Nothing where crowds of people gathered. All was quiet and still, except for the clomping of the jackboots behind him.

  If he ran, they would give chase and would bring him down. He’d never been a good runner, and since the car accident, he hadn’t regained the ability to go much faster than a trot. The more he thought about his gait, the more likely he was to trip and fall. If he stopped to engage with them, they might draw the confrontation out longer, but they weren’t going to be dissuaded from their goal by any argument from him. They would just be amused by him trying to talk them out of a beating, and then they would hurt him.

  He tried to increase his speed just a tiny bit, so that they wouldn’t notice. Put just a few more feet in between them by the time he got to his car. They didn’t know which car was his, so they wouldn’t know when to start closing in on him. If he could keep going at a quicker pace until he got to his car, he might be able to jump in before they had a chance to catch up. If he were lucky.

  But he knew that wasn’t going to work.

  They could probably tell by his quickened pace and his narrow focus that he was getting close to his car. There were a couple of laughs as they spoke among themselves, planning out the fun ahead. Zachary swallowed hard. He fingered his phone in his pocket. He wasn’t going to be able to get it out and call emergency or someone to help him before the skinheads managed to get it away from him. He couldn’t figure out any other plan. Throw his wallet on the ground and hope that it distracted them and that one of them would go after it, giving him another half-second to get into his car? Yell at them like he was crazy and see if they were freaked out by it or he could attract the attention of some passerby? His throat was so dry, he didn’t know if he’d be able to raise a croak, or if it would be like those dreams where he screamed and screamed and no sound came out.

  His car was just three spaces away. Zachary found his keys in his coat pocket and pressed the unlock button.

  The taillights flashed and his car gave a friendly chirp.

  If he survived, he was going to have to take it to Jergens to get that feature disabled.

  The skinheads were on him in a second, before he could get past the first car. A couple of them slammed him into the side of a red Nissan crossover with a crunch that shook Zachary from head to toe. He expelled a puff of air and a groan that sounded like a dying warthog. Zachary tried to fight back, to protest, but they had his arms pressed back against the car so the was spread-eagled, unable to move. He could try to kick them, but they’d know what he was doing as soon as he shifted his weight.

  “What’s going on?” Zachary demanded. “Let me go!”

  “Little fairy thought that he was home free,” one of them mocked, getting right in Zachary’s face, eyeball to eyeball so that Zachary could smell his foul breath and see the tattoos inked all over his face. Swastikas, teardrops, numbers that Zachary didn’t know the meaning of. He struggled to free himself, but they weren’t going to let him go that easily.

  “Thought no one saw him coming out of the den of iniquity,” the man in his face crooned. “Thought that he’d pulled one over and no one would know what filthiness he’d been up to. Well, we know, little fairy. We know what you’ve been up to. And we’re not going to allow it. It’s an offense against God.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Zachary protested. “I was looking for someone. A missing person. I’m not gay, I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “I was looking for someone,” the man echoed in a high voice. The others were egging him on, throwing in their own remarks and encouraging swift and severe violence. “You were looking for someone, alright. Someone to fill your unwholesome desires.”

  “I’m looking for a missing person. He used to go to that bar.”

  They laughed again. Zachary tried to pull out of their grips, but he knew it was useless. His body wouldn’t hold still even though his brain knew he couldn’t get away.

  “You want to know why he’s missing?” the chief skinhead asked. “Maybe he’s one of the ones that we got.”

  “Let me go. I don’t have any problem with you guys. Just leave me alone.”

  “We have a problem with you. And you need to be taught a lesson. You need to be taught not to sin. Man shall not lie with man. It’s right there in the Bible. We can’t allow this to go on. Just because the government says that two fairies can get married to each other, that doesn’t make it right. We’re here to defend God and the Constitution.”

  Zachary knew they were just mouthing the words. They didn’t believe in anything. He tried to tell them that Lorne and Pat were better people than the skinhead neo-Nazis would ever be. Simultaneously, he fought to hold the words back and his impulsive brain tried to push them out, so that he just stammered, which was probably the best possible outcome.

  “Just let me go,” he begged. “I’m not from around here. I’m not going to be back here again. I am just looking into a missing persons case.”

  “You’re not no cop.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I’m just trying to help out a friend.”

  “Yeah, a friend,” one of the skinheads sneered, and he was the first one to hit Zachary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  H

  is fist hit Zachary’s cheekbone with a crunch and Zachary’s head hit the van behind him. He saw bright stars and dark splotches and fought to stay conscious. Though why would he want to be conscious for the beating? The skinhead stood there shaking out his hand, obviously having hurt his poor knuckles on Zachary’s face.

  One of them pushed the first aside and kicked a knee up into Zachary’s solar plexus. He would have hit the ground if he hadn’t been supported by the gentlemen who had his arms pinned to the side of the van. As it was, he drew his feet up off the ground, all of the wind driven out of him, reflexively trying to curl up into a ball. There was laughter from the little group. There was nothing Zachary could do to protest or to fight back. He couldn’t draw in a breath to reinflate his lungs. His legs were so weak that even when his feet touched the ground again, he couldn’t hold his own weight or kick one of the men in the knee.

  His head was spinning. There was a flurry of other blows. Zachary couldn’t keep his eyes open or break the beatdown into a blow-by-blow analysis. They came from all directions at once and he couldn’t even cry out.

  There was a shout from somewhere. Zachary’s head was spinning so badly he didn’t even know which way was up.

  “Let’s go!” one of them said.

  Another shouted something in German.

  They dropped him to the pavement, kicked him a few times for good measure, then were off and running.

  The Good Samaritan, whoever he was, didn’t chase after them, but stopped to examine Zachary.

  The first word out of his mouth was a curse, and Zachary knew he probably didn’t look too good. He still couldn’t get his breath back, and it seemed like a long time since he had breathed. His body should be reinflating his lungs and taking in oxygen, but he seemed to have forgotten how. Maybe the skinheads had reinjured Zachary’s spine. Maybe there had been some small flaw in it that the doctors weren’t aware of, and he would be paralyzed for life.

  Which wouldn’t be long if he didn’t start breathing again soon.

  “Can you hear me?” the man shouted, kneeling over him. “They’re gone now. You’re safe. I’m going to get help.”

  He clutched at the man’s coat, not wanting to be left behind. If the man
went to find help and left Zachary there on the ground, the skinheads might come back again and continue their lesson on morality.

  “It’s okay,” the man told him again. He patted Zachary’s clutching hand. “I’m not going anywhere. Just let me get my phone out.”

  Zachary loosened his grip and the man went through his various inside and outside pockets before he found his phone and called for help. He described his location and Zachary’s condition the best he could, and then knelt there over him, murmuring soothing words and trying to keep Zachary quiet until help could arrive.

  Zachary wasn’t sure when it was he started breathing again.

  “It’s going to be okay,” the man said. “Did you know those guys? Were they trying to mug you?”

  Zachary shook his head, which made him woozy. “Skinheads,” he breathed. “Thought I was… gay.”

  His savior swore again. He tried to make Zachary more comfortable, straightening out his splayed limbs and wadding something up under his head. “They shouldn’t be very long. They’ll take good care of you.”

  As Zachary lay there, he thought that it probably wasn’t the worst beating he’d ever suffered. It was superficial. He’d have bruises for a few weeks, but no permanent damage. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. He’d be perfectly alright once he could get on his feet again. But it was going to be a while before he felt steady enough to get to his feet. He raised his hand and touched his face, feeling the sticky, warm cut over his cheek. It was bleeding. But it had been a punch and not a cut with a blade. Probably wouldn’t need stitches. Maybe just a strip of suture tape.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, unconsciously echoing the man’s own words, trying to reassure him that there was no permanent damage. He was breathing.

  When the ambulance approached, Zachary thought his head was going to split right open, the discordant sound of the siren bouncing around between his ears, making them pulse and his head throb and swell. Then the siren turned off, and the paramedics got out of their ambulance.

  Ever so slowly. He didn’t know why it was that on TV paramedics were always running and moving quickly, when in real life, they always seemed to go super slow, as if they were on a reduced speed from the rest of the world, carefully considering every step, getting their medical kits out, surveying the scene and discussing risks before they even got close. There was another set of sirens and a couple of police cars arrived. The cops moved faster than the paramedics, asking the rescuer what he had seen and if either one of them had any weapons.

  “Weapons?” the man demanded. “Do you think I did this to him? Do you think he’d let someone do this to him if he was armed?”

  “We have to ask,” the cop said irritably. “You don’t know how many times police get to a scene and find that people are armed when they aren’t supposed to be and all kinds of bad stuff can go down. What about him? Are you armed, sir?” he asked Zachary loudly, bending down over him and opening up his coat so that he could check for himself.

  “No,” Zachary assured him, breathing heavily. The attack had happened too fast for him to get really scared and to think about what could happen to him in realistic terms. But the cops kept asking for more details, and each question ramped up Zachary’s anxiety more. How many of the skinheads had there been? Which direction had they gone? Were they carrying weapons? Had they said anything? Were they known to him?

  Once they had determined there were no weapons on the scene and that Zachary and his rescuer were not going to leap up and attack anyone, they allowed the paramedics to get in close to assess Zachary’s injuries. They shone lights in his eyes, looked at his face and his head, and kept asking where it hurt the most. Zachary’s head throbbed from the sirens and their demanding voices as much as from his injuries. He tried to shake his head, but that hurt too much.

  “I’m okay,” he told them. “I’ll just go home.”

  “You’re not going home. Where did they hit you? Just in the face? In the body?”

  They felt all over his arms and legs and body, looking for blood and feeling for any breaks or flinching that would direct them to more serious injuries.

  “Please…” Zachary just wanted them to stop touching him. “Please stop.”

  Eventually, they got a gurney out. Zachary didn’t know where the police had taken the man who had rescued him, but once the paramedics had Zachary on the stretcher, the Good Samaritan appeared over Zachary’s face once more.

  “You’re going to be okay,” the man said, smiling reassuringly. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  Zachary gave his best attempt at a smile and thank you before the man disappeared from his range of vision again.

  “He said it was because he was gay,” he told the police as they continued to ask him for more details. “He must have come from that bar a couple of blocks away and they followed him. We don’t usually have gang activity in this area. It’s supposed to be a safe place to live.”

  Zachary tried to protest that he wasn’t actually gay, but no one was listening to him. They couldn’t care less what his sexual orientation was. The paramedics rolled the stretcher into the ambulance, and one of them got in back with him while the other got in front to drive.

  “Hang in there, bud,” the one in the back said to him, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you to the hospital and get you all checked out. You’re safe now.”

  He felt a lot better when they got him to the regional medical center and got some Demerol into him. The pain receded to a more bearable level and his heart rate started to slow. He tried to relax his muscles, aware that he had been gripping the bars of the gurney tightly as if he might fall off. The nurses twittered over him and washed the blood off his face and put an ice bag over his cheek. He was parked in a hallway where they were waiting for someone to take him to x-ray. One of the cops towered over him, trying to get a coherent story out of him.

  “I was in the bar,” Zachary repeated patiently. “But I’m not gay. They just thought I was. The skinheads. But I’m not.” He wasn’t sure why it was so important for him to establish this point. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with being gay. He admired Mr. Peterson and Pat for their devoted relationship and all of the good things they did with their lives. But he didn’t want to be misidentified. He wanted them to see the person he really was, and not a role he had just been playing.

  “Then what were you doing at the bar?” the cop asked impatiently, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m investigating a missing person. Jose Flores. He frequented that bar, so I was asking questions about whether anyone had seen him or where he might have gone, if he disappeared on his own.”

  “You were investigating this. You’re not a cop.”

  “No, I’m a private investigator.” Zachary tried to slide his fingers into his inside pocket, but they wouldn’t seem to work the way they were supposed to.

  “May I?” the cop asked, his hand hovering above Zachary’s.

  “Yeah. Just… my pocket there…”

  The cop inserted a couple of fat fingers and pincered Zachary’s notebook and small stack of business cards between them. He drew them all out and looked at them. Zachary couldn’t see them very well as the cop spread them out over Zachary’s chest. His business cards, a few other cards he had collected during the investigation. His notepad. The cop picked up the notepad and started to flip through the pages without asking. Zachary supposed that he had already given the man permission to look at what he wanted to, so he held his tongue. It wasn’t like there was anything incriminating in the notepad, or even anything very interesting. Just the messy, somewhat cryptic notes that he had made as he found out little tidbits about Jose’s life and thought of more questions and avenues to investigate. He supposed it probably didn’t look much different from the cop’s own duty notepad. As the cop gathered everything back together into a stack, Zachary’s phone started to ring.

  “Can I keep one of these?”
the cop asked, holding up one of Zachary’s business cards.

  “Yeah.” Zachary patted at his pants pocket, trying hard to corral his phone. The cop didn’t offer to help this time. Zachary eventually managed to pull it out and answer it before it went to voicemail. He saw Philippe’s number on the screen. “Hello.”

  There was a silence for a moment from Philippe. Maybe he had already hung up, thinking that Zachary wasn’t going to answer.

  “Philippe? Are you there?”

  “Is this Zachary?” Philippe sounded confused.

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “You sound weird. Where are you?”

  There was a call over the PA system for a doctor, and Zachary didn’t think there was any point in trying to keep his location a secret. “I’m at the medical center. Did you get ahold of your friend?”

  “Yeah. He says he’ll talk to you. I told him it’s gotta be tonight. Is that still okay? Did something happen?”

  “That’s good. Thanks.”

  “Why are you at the hospital? Did you find Jose?”

  “No… I, uh, ran into some trouble.”

  “Are you okay?” Philippe’s voice cracked like he was still thirteen. “What kind of trouble? Is it the guy you think killed Jose?”

  “No…” Zachary looked at the cop, who was listening with interest, and wondered how much of Philippe’s side of the conversation he was able to hear. “At least… I don’t think so. I think if it was these guys, they would have just left him there, like they did me. I don’t think they would go to the effort of dragging him away somewhere.”

  “These guys? What happened? What guys?”

  “Skinheads. Neo-Nazis. Followed me from the bar.”

  “I told you to be careful! Didn’t I tell you not to walk alone?”

  “I never saw them until it was too late. I was being careful.”

  “You never know who is going to be hanging around these places.”