A Party to Murder

by John Inman

  “How’d you manage that?” Jamie asked, but Derek touched his sleeve to silence him. Cleeta-Gayle caught the movement and slipped a grateful glance in Derek’s direction. She pulled herself to her feet, and once again, with the flames behind her, her naked outline showed clearly through the folds of her nightgown.

  “I’m going upstairs to get my robe,” she said, averting her eyes. A shiver coursed through her body as if the cold had finally reached her. “Tommy’s up there now, so I’ll be safe enough on my own.”

  Derek hesitated. “If you’re sure.”

  She seemed suddenly desperate to escape the conversation, the questions. She clutched at her flimsy nightgown, wadding the bodice into a ball at her throat. Derek noticed tears on her cheeks that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Don’t fret about me.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Five seconds later she was gone from the room, leaving nothing behind but the swish of cotton fabric and her padded footfalls on the stairs.

  “Should I go with her anyway?” Jamie quietly asked.

  Instead of answering, Derek stood and pulled Jamie up into his arms. The storm outside had quieted a bit, but not by much. The house was still being sledgehammered from all angles by wind and rain. Derek wondered how Banyon was faring out among the trees. Or had he hunkered down inside one of the cars to escape the rain and cold? Or better yet, had he kept going so far into the trees that he was now hopelessly lost and would never in a month of Sundays find his way back to the house no matter how hard he tried? Like they should be so lucky.

  “It’s after midnight,” Derek said, nuzzling Jamie’s ear.

  “I know,” Jamie answered. “The witching hour. I hate this bloody darkness.”

  “At least we’re safe inside the house.”

  Jamie reared back with an ironic leer that held very little humor. Acidly, he asked, “I wonder if all the dead people in the house used that argument as well.”

  Derek offered him a lopsided grin. “You’re a glass-half-empty sort of guy, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Jamie grinned right back, “I’m as cheerful as a woodpecker. I’m just able to recognize reality when I see it, unlike some people I know.”

  Derek studied Jamie’s soft mouth. It was still turned up in a smile that Derek ached to kiss. And he ached to do more than that. “I miss making love to you,” he said.

  Jamie’s smile widened. “It hasn’t been that long ago.”

  Derek puckered his chin and offered a phony pout. “Even two minutes is too long.”

  Jamie dropped his head to Derek’s chest and laughed. “Your recuperative powers aren’t that good.”

  “No,” Derek said, “but yours are.”

  Jamie snorted. “True.”

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, they peeled themselves out of each other’s arms and spun toward the door.

  Tommy stood there gazing at them. He was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt over tennis shoes, like he was about to go jogging or something. Maybe he chose them because they were the warmest clothes he had.

  “Lovebirds,” Tommy muttered sarcastically. He whirled and headed for the bar. “I think I need a drink.”

  “Go easy on that,” Jamie said.

  But Tommy ignored him, pouring a deep dollop of bourbon into a large wineglass, then dumping a couple of ice cubes into the amber liquid.

  A moment later, they were joined by Cleeta-Gayle. She wore a flannel robe over her nightgown. Tartan. Well-worn. Unflattering. She glanced uncomfortably at Tommy, still at the bar, then even more uncomfortably at Derek and Jamie standing in each other’s arms by the fireplace.

  Tucking her hands deep in her robe pockets, she moved toward the fire.

  As if pleased as punch that everyone was together again, the storm decided to batter the house a little harder. To keep things interesting. The wind fairly howled through the eaves outside, and the windowpanes rattled under a sudden onslaught of hail. It sounded like a dump truck full of gravel was being poured over the house.

  “That’s new,” Derek commented on the hail, but no one responded.

  Jamie sighed longingly, staring at Tommy’s drink. Seeing the look, Derek frowned and gave his head a shake.

  BY THE time Tommy was on his second wineglass of bourbon, Jamie was ready to wring his neck. Jealousy and thirst will do that. He turned beseeching eyes on Derek, but Derek said flat out, “No. We shouldn’t drink.”

  Jamie clapped his mouth shut and wondered, in a life-and-death situation such as this one, how churlish it would be to actually whimper. He stuffed a cookie from a plate on the sideboard into his mouth instead.

  Moments later, Tommy banged his empty wineglass down on the sideboard, not quite hard enough to break the stem. In a slurred voice, he announced he was going to bed. Without waiting for a response, he quickly left the room, not quite steady on his feet, but not exactly reeling either.

  Cleeta-Gayle watched him go, then equally quickly announced she would go to bed as well.

  “Lock your door,” Derek reminded her. “Don’t let anyone in if they’re alone.”

  “No,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I won’t.”

  Jamie watched her disappear into the gloom, carrying a candle with her to light her way. When she was gone, he turned and stared, hypnotized, as the flickering firelight shifted soft streaks of shadow and light over the planes of his lover’s face. In Derek’s dark eyes, the flames on the grate were transformed into golden specks of light that wavered and flared in the shadows. Jamie slid his thumb over Derek’s brow, smoothing out the worry lines he saw there.

  “We’re all right,” Jamie said. “We’re still together. We’re still alive.”

  Derek gave a sarcastic grunt. “For the moment,” he grumbled, before tilting his head back and kissing Jamie’s hand.

  Jamie’s lips twisted into a grin. “So you’re a glass-half-empty sort of guy.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  In unison they tore their eyes from each other and stared into the fire for a change. Derek took the opportunity to toss another log onto the grate. Sparks shot up the chimney. They lowered themselves to the floor before the fire and crossed their legs, getting comfortable. The heat felt heavenly to Jamie. And having Derek there beside him to share it was even more heavenly.

  “You can still have a dog,” Derek said out of the blue.

  Jamie shared a secret smile only with himself. “I would have got one anyway. With or without your permission. You know that, right?”

  Derek sighed. “Yeah. That’s why I said it.”

  Their eyes met, and they both laughed. Minutes of silence followed.

  “A big dog,” Jamie reminded him, killing the quiet.

  Derek groaned but didn’t say anything. A sharp crack of thunder split the sky above the house, but after two days of storm, they hardly noticed.

  Jamie laid a hand on Derek’s knee and dropped his head to Derek’s shoulder. His eyes seemed to be trying to close up shop whether he wanted them to or not.

  “I don’t care if our room is cold,” he said quietly, suppressing a yawn, “I think we’d better go upstairs and go to bed. I need sleep, and I’m pretty sure you do too.”

  Derek nodded, twisting his head to plant a kiss in Jamie’s hair. “You’re right. We’re not accomplishing anything down here. And we both need rest. If we lock ourselves in, we should be okay.”

  “What about Banyon?” Jamie asked, keeping his eyes on the fire, refusing to turn to the menacing shadows surrounding them, shadows that could be hiding anything. Or anyone. “What if he gets into the house?”

  Derek cupped Jamie’s face and coaxed it toward him. Locking gazes, he said, “Then we’ll deal with him when he does.”

  Jamie tried to absorb some of the bravery he saw staring back at him from Derek’s eyes, but he failed miserably. In truth, he had never felt more chickenhearted in his life. “He has a gun, don’t forget.”

  �
�I know.”

  “Tommy’s lucky to be alive.”

  Derek blinked, interrupting the golden sparks reflecting from his eyes. “I know that too.”

  They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment, listening to the fire crackle at their feet.

  “I wish I knew why he chose us,” Jamie said.

  “When I see him, I’ll ask him,” Derek said, and unfolding himself like a pocketknife, he rose to his feet, pulling Jamie up as well.

  Jamie eyed the fire one last time to assure himself it was well laid and wouldn’t burn down the house. Burrowing under Derek’s outstretched arm, he let himself be steered from the room. But for the wailing and the clatter of the storm, and an occasional flash of lightning through the foyer windows, the house lay dark and silent around them.

  Wearily, they staggered up the stairs, still arm in arm.

  At the landing, they gazed down the long hallway, buried deep in shadow. Only one light shone. It was a flickering stream of candlelight that spilled from a doorway farther down. It was Cleeta-Gayle’s door. And it was standing wide open.

  A piercing cold stabbed Jamie’s chest. A wash of pure terror splashed over him. At the same moment, Derek tensed beside him. He must have seen it too.

  No, Jamie thought. Not now. Not yet.

  With not a breath stirring between them and their hearts hammering with sudden dread, they approached the block of light that poured out into the hall.

  Before they reached the lighted doorway, they stopped. But for the storm, the silence was profound. A chill traveled up Jamie’s spine and made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  Then he saw it. A bloody handprint on the jamb of the door. And on the floor, peeking into the hall, a splash of tartan fabric, also steeped in glistening red. It was the hem of the woman’s robe.

  “Oh no!” Jamie gasped, this time out loud. His vision darkened, and he swayed on his feet. Afraid he would fall, he clutched at Derek’s arm. Together, they stepped forward on shaky legs.

  The coppery reek of fresh blood wafted out to greet them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DEREK HISSED in pain as Jamie’s fingers dug into his arm. Too tight. Too tight. “Easy,” he whispered, and Jamie’s grip relaxed.

  Derek stared down at the floor, at that slip of tartan bathrobe soaked in blood. Creeping closer, he and Jamie peered around the doorjamb together. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jamie instantly look away. With Jamie’s hand still on his arm, Derek forced himself to finish the journey, and he stepped forward, planting himself directly and firmly in front of the open door.

  The scene inside was heartbreaking. And horrific.

  Lit by a candle burning in a saucer on a small table by the door, Cleeta-Gayle Jones lay at the foot of her bed, her arms and legs thrust out in agonized angles across the blood-soaked carpet. Her head, eyes open, mouth peeled wide in a silent scream of terror, lay twisted to the right. Her hips, bent sharply at the waist, pointed left. One bloody slipper had fallen from her foot and was nowhere to be seen. Derek suspected it was under the bed.

  In the flickering candlelight, her throat was an open gash, a gaping wound that exposed parts of the human anatomy never intended to see the light of day. Bone. Sinew. A severed tendon. Great gouts of blood pooled among the damaged tissue. More blood had spilled out across her body, puddling around her, seeping into the carpet, drenching her clothes and hair. Blood spatter had sliced through the air all the way to the wall, more than six feet away. There, it etched sharp lines of color across the faded wallpaper, and when its momentum was spent, sent crimson droplets slipping down toward the floor, forming little puddles by the baseboard.

  Untouched by the spray of blood, her open eyes, unseeing, stared out at a world she could no longer claim as her own. Derek gazed into those empty eyes, expecting to see the residue of pain there, the residue of fear. But he saw nothing. Her eyes were expressionless orbs. No humanity remained inside them at all. None of the horror of her final moments had survived. Maybe that was a good thing.

  The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. That wasn’t a good thing at all.

  Derek felt Jamie’s chin at his back. Jamie’s words fell weak and shattered on his ear. “Her throat’s been cut.”

  “Yes,” Derek muttered. “And we didn’t hear a thing.”

  He turned to study the open door. “She didn’t have time to lock herself in. She must have died the minute she walked inside. He was waiting for her.”

  Suddenly Derek stiffened. Surprised by the sudden movement, Jamie jumped.

  Derek grabbed at him, mumbled an insincere “sorry,” then raced out into the hall.

  “What?” Jamie cried. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Tommy!” Derek hissed. “Where is he?”

  Jamie blinked back fresh terror. “Oh my God.”

  They raced deeper into the shadowy hallway. Tommy and Banyon’s room had been the last one on the right, two doors down from theirs.

  Derek slid to a stop outside the door, which was closed. He reached out and tried to twist the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn.

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” Derek whispered. “The door’s still locked.”

  He looked down at his hand and realized he was clutching the knife he had swiped from the kitchen hours ago. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember pulling it from his pocket. When Jamie saw what he was looking at, he retrieved his own knife as well.

  Jamie pressed his ear to Tommy’s door. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered.

  “Then we’d better knock,” Derek said, and stepping forward, he brushed Jamie to the side none too gently and started pounding on Tommy’s door.

  A bellow of fury rose up from the other side of the door, and the next thing Derek knew, the door flew open in front of him. Caught by surprise, Jamie stumbled back and almost fell.

  Not sure who would be coming through Tommy’s door, Derek braced himself and held his knife out in front of him. It was a stupid little knife, and it didn’t give him much confidence. But happily, there wasn’t much time to worry about it.

  Before he could plan or anticipate anything, Tommy Stevens hurled himself through the door and confronted them in the hall. He was bleary-eyed from too much booze and too little sleep. He stood naked in front of them. His hair, damp with perspiration, stuck up off the top of his head like weeds. His features were torn between fury at being wakened and fear that something horrible had happened. In the long run, it was his fear that seemed to win the war.

  “What is it?” Tommy cried, concern etched deep in his voice. His eyes darted about like frightened mice. He tried to rub the sleep from his face. “What the hell is wrong? What’s happened now?”

  Derek studied him closely. He made a concerted effort to keep his eyes trained on Tommy’s face, although even in the midst of all the drama, he had to admit it was tempting to glance down and survey the naked rest of him. He doubted if Jamie had managed to resist the temptation so easily.

  “It’s Miss Jones,” Derek said. “She’s dead.”

  Somehow, in Derek’s opinion, that simple statement didn’t do justice to the facts. In fact, it was the understatement of the century. Cleeta-Gayle wasn’t just dead, she was fucking annihilated. Apparently, Jamie agreed.

  “Banyon cut her throat!” Jamie cried, his voice far too loud. Even he seemed to know it. When he sputtered “she—she’s dead” all over again, he did it more gently, more calmly. And with considerably reduced volume. The minute the words were out, Derek watched a tear spill from his eye.

  Tommy’s eyes were fixed on Jamie too. Still blinking back sleep, his expression grew somber. Almost detached. “Show me,” he demanded quietly.

  Derek and Jamie stepped aside and let their eyes travel back along the shadowy hallway to the candlelit doorway, beyond which chaos lay. Tommy blinked, seeing the light.

  Before stepping away from his doorway, he reached back into the room, snagged a pair of blue jeans off the floor, and
slipped them on. Carefully dragging the zipper over his unprotected dick, he stepped out into the hall and headed for the light.

  With Jamie still at his back, Derek followed Tommy down the darkened hall. When he reached the candlelit doorway, Tommy stopped and stared inside. Derek heard no intake of breath, no muttered curse, nor any show of horror whatsoever. Tommy simply stood there—not moving, not breathing, taking it all in clinically.

  “Did you hear anything?” Jamie asked. When Tommy didn’t answer, he tried again. “Tommy? Did you hear anything?”

  Derek watched from the back as Tommy shook his head. “I was asleep. I drank too much, I think. I sort of passed out.” He cocked his head and fell silent for a moment, listening. “It’s still storming,” he said.

  Jamie nodded. “Yes. It’s still storming. It hasn’t stopped. I don’t think it ever will stop. Not the storm. Not the killing. None of it. It’s all just going to go on and on and on.”

  Derek slipped his arm over Jamie’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Shush,” he breathed, his lips in Jamie’s hair. Jamie was crying. His tears spilled onto Derek’s cheek as Jamie nestled against him, trembling in his arms. “Cry if you want,” he whispered. “Somebody should be crying. It might as well be you.”

  Derek stood comforting Jamie, and as he did, Tommy turned away from the horrors inside the room and watched them. There was no sadness in his own eyes. Only a sudden, wary anger.

  His words bubbled out of him, like a seething, rising froth. “He’s in here with us, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question; it was a furious statement of fact. “Oliver’s inside the house.”

  Derek stared back at Tommy over the top of Jamie’s head. “He must be,” he said quietly. “But how did he get in without us knowing?”

  Jamie lifted his head from Derek’s shoulder. He turned and, palming the tears from his eyes, stared past Tommy to the blood-drenched body on the floor.

  A steely look entered Jamie’s eyes. His body tensed. “We have to go,” he announced, as if he’d thought it through and there was nothing else to do. “We have to leave. We have to run. We have to get out of here as soon as we can. Now. Tonight. Right this minute.”