Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink

by Nicole Kimberling

  “Who the fuck cares where they put it? Now that these assholes have moved it, this entire thing is over. We can report that we’ve seen it without endangering Shawn—”

  “Assuming that Shawn didn’t tip them off,” Peter put in.

  “That is my working theory at the moment. So, like I said, now we can call the cops to come recover the piece before it gets more damaged.”

  “I know I’ve gotten into some scrapes—” Peter had his hand on the door latch.

  Nick autolocked the door. “Scrapes? You’ve tried to get yourself killed at least once a year for as long as I’ve know you. What I’m saying is this is different.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll be in public the whole time. No one here seriously wants to do anything to me. Especially not in front of so many people.”

  “You don’t know that. I think I can see at least ten candidates for people who would try and do any number of things to you anywhere that was convenient for them. And you know what? No one here is going to stand up for you if that happens.” Nick’s gaze was intense. “I love you, Peter, and if you go in there, I’ll go with you, but you should know that I can’t protect you from this many people. So please don’t go into that building. A photograph just isn’t worth it.”

  “I honestly do not think I’m going to be killed in there, Nick,” Peter began.

  “I’m not thinking you’ll be killed, really,” Nick said. “I just don’t want you to be hurt by what you see. Don’t think you won’t be. No one can stand in the face of such naked hatred and not feel it.”

  Nick unlocked his door, sat back, and stared forward, waiting.

  Peter could see from the resigned set of Nick’s jaw that he fully expected Peter to go, and he expected to have to follow—that he would follow even if Peter didn’t want him to.

  And what if something did happen? What if Nick was hurt? He already had the story.

  He gazed out at the shifting shadows the bonfire cast across the crowd. Despite their costumes, they weren’t monsters. They were just people.

  People who very likely feared and hated him.

  People who very well might turn on him if they suspected that he was merely gay, let alone a gay reporter hostile to their event.

  Well, that’s what reporters did, didn’t they? Go into situations where other people wouldn’t go? How could he respect himself if he didn’t go in there now?

  And yet the knowledge that Nick would follow him inside was unbearable.

  So, was getting the photograph really worth it?

  Not this time.

  He took his hand off the door handle, pulled out his phone, and started to dial. He glanced at Nick, still sitting rigid in the driver’s seat. “We should start heading back before our guests think we’ve abandoned them.”

  Nick’s stiff shoulders relaxed.

  The police answered and immediately put Peter on hold. Halloween was a busy night for them. Glancing across to Nick, Peter caught Nick pulling a strange smile that he couldn’t quite fathom. “What are you grinning for?”

  Nick’s eyes flicked over to him. “I guess slutty nurses do have honor after all.”

  He cranked the ignition, put the car into reverse. Peter gazed at the black truck, watching as the blonde girl got out and walked around the back of the truck. She lowered the tailgate to reveal a slim, dark body lying in the back.

  “Oh my God,” Peter breathed. “They’ve got Melinda.”

  Nick’s foot came down hard on the brake. “You mean the goat?”

  “Look, she’s right there.”

  Nick shook his head. “It has to be a different goat.”

  “She’s got Shawn’s head wrap around her neck.”

  “Do you see him there?”

  “No.” Peter craned his neck around, trying to get a clearer look. The girl was pulling Melinda by a rope tied around her neck. Eyeliner boy got out on the driver’s side. Initially, Peter thought he would assist her. Instead, he lifted a video camera and started filming. From the back door of the church, a collection of costumed people emerged and gathered around. One had a heavy-duty hand truck.

  Melinda balked and seemed to be bleating, though he couldn’t hear her over the noise of the crowd.

  “Why are they filming this?” Peter wondered aloud.

  “Kids film everything these days.”

  Peter squinted harder at eyeliner boy’s form. He definitely seemed to be giving directions. “What if these guys aren’t really Satanists?”

  “You think they’re not?”

  “They could be making a movie about Satanists.”

  “There’s no reason they can’t be doing both simultaneously,” Nick pointed out. “We know for a fact that they’re dealing to Shawn, so they’re not innocent little kids.”

  “True, but the old guy standing behind eyeliner boy looks enough like him to be his father. Do you really think that teen Satanists perform rituals in front of their parents?”

  “Good point.”

  “Holy crap. Here comes Shawn.” Nick pointed to the beige Westphalia barreling down the dirt drive. “When did the cops say they’d be here?”

  “As soon as possible. They have a lot of calls,” Peter repeated dutifully. “Maybe half an hour or longer?”

  “Goddamnit.” Nick sighed and parked the car again. “I guess we have to back him up.”

  Peter suppressed a whoop of joy as Nick reparked the car. He got out and flagged Shawn down. He bounded out of his van, wild-eyed. “They took Melinda!”

  “We saw,” Peter said. “How did they get her?”

  “I went back to my place to pick up some of my stuff, and they were there.” Shawn hung his head miserably. “They grabbed her and took off while I was inside. They’re going to kill her, I know.”

  The blonde girl had managed to get a rope around Melinda’s neck and had her out of the truck bed. In half a minute she disappeared through the back door. Once the goat was out, the others hopped up and tilted Untitled Five onto its side. The rolled it down a pair of two-by-fours down into the dirt and then onto the hand truck.

  They appeared to be moving it toward the same door Melinda had disappeared into.

  Peter looked at the long line of revelers waiting to get in the front and said, “I’m thinking that we go in the back.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking, but what are we going to do once we get in there?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t—” Peter stopped short because Shawn was away, weaving through the lines of parked cars toward the back door. “Oh, hell.”

  The pair took off running.

  If Hell House had been a dance club in LA, none of them would have gotten in. But it wasn’t. No bouncers with giant forearms blocked their way.

  Armed with only a polite Excuse me, Peter and Nick pushed their way through the back door and into a small meeting room. Two rectangular tables draped with orange paper tablecloths filled most of the room. A cooler stocked with soda and spiked with dry ice sat at the end of one table, leaking spooky mist over various trays containing cookies and sandwiches. Assorted teenagers in gory outfits lounged on folding chairs, munching. Melinda stood in a clot of three girls who had an aura of 4-H about them. One girl was feeding her a wilted piece of lettuce. At the far end of the room was another open doorway draped with black cloth, around which strobe lights flashed and through which stilted dialogue could be heard.

  All that stood between them and the goat were partially demolished party trays and a short kid wearing way too much eyeliner and holding a video camera. Not an intimidating figure at all. Still he managed to stop Shawn in his tracks. “I don’t want any trouble, Rory.”

  Rory’s eyes flashed wide and darted toward the older man who resembled him.

  Peter could imagine this introduction: Hey, Dad, this is the guy I sell drugs to and whose life I threaten every now and then…

  Shawn didn’t seem to make the connection between them and pulled out a wad of cash—the same cash Nick h
ad given him. He peeled off three hundreds. “Here, this is it.”

  The older man, plainly curious, stepped up. “What’s going on here?”

  Rory lowered his video camera and said, “This is Shawn. He was doing some fundraising for the haunted house for us.”

  Instantly, Dad’s face brightened. “We sure do appreciate it. We didn’t know if we’d have enough cash to finish off the week.”

  A thunderous crash shook the room. Rory’s dad said, “That’s my cue. It was nice to meet you, Shawn.” He fitted a latex “face of death” mask over his head and went to make his entrance.

  As he disappeared Peter heard the unmistakable sound of cop voices asking who was in charge. Two deputies stood in the doorway. Beyond them, Peter could see Untitled Five lying on its side in the damp earth, abandoned.

  “How about this, Rory?” Peter spoke in an undertoned rush, eyes fixed on the approaching deputies. “You give me that goat, and I don’t tell them how that sculpture outside got here.”

  Rory smirked at him. “What do I care? Shawn gave it to me as a present.”

  “Do you really want to reveal your relationship with Shawn?” Peter asked.

  “He’s helping me with a fundraising project.” Rory’s expression was all defiance.

  At the end of his patience, Nick leaned close. “Listen, you little fuck, that statue is stolen and worth half a million dollars. Unless you want to be charged with receiving stolen property, just give us that animal.”

  Rory recoiled slightly, not sure whether to believe them. From the next room came the sound of Rory’s dad’s voice, reading some sort of scripture. Real loud.

  He said, “Why do you want that goat so bad?”

  “Why do you care?” Peter countered. “The cops’re coming right now. Make a decision.”

  Shadows of anger and panic crossed Rory’s face. He grabbed the rope around Melinda’s neck and yanked her toward Peter, thrusting the rope into his hands. “Here, take it, you sick goat fucker.”

  “Thank you very much.” Peter inclined his head cordially.

  Nick said, “Now get the fuck out of my sight, you little twerp.”

  Rory sneered and gave them one final single finger salute before he slid behind the black curtain and vanished.

  Peter handed Melinda’s lead to Shawn, but there was no need. She lunged for him, yanking Peter’s arm nearly out of the socket with the force of her enthusiasm. Shawn embraced her, nuzzled her. With teary eyes he whispered, “Thank you.”

  Peter said, “You’re welcome.” Then, to Nick, “I think I hear a martini and a slutty nurse costume calling my name.”

  Nick gave a curt nod. “After we call your cop friends and tell them about the cage of cats.”

  “Agreed.”

  * * *

  As Peter saw the last of their drunken guests into the waiting limo at three o’clock in the morning, he reflected that the hard part about throwing an epic Halloween party was not the decor, the drinks, or the costumes. It wasn’t attracting the bespangled and bewigged guests or choosing just the right music that allowed people both to dance and not dance whenever the mood struck them.

  No, the hard thing was not drinking so many martinis that his slutty nurse costume would go to waste.

  But this, he managed. He had imbibed only two of the magic elixirs and declined to drink any of the holiday-themed shots in favor of this moment, when he, tired but not too drunk, would turn to Nick and utter the words, “Well, Doctor, do you need me for anything else?”

  Nick, also relatively sober and wearing a set of blue scrubs that were too tight for his shoulders, looked him up and down. Sometime during the night, Peter had abandoned his shirt and wore now only tight white pants and the white latex platform boots. His cheesy nurse’s hat with a red cross on it had been lost on the dance floor. He shuddered as the chill October fog rolled off the bay and moved across his chest.

  Immediately Nick looped an arm around his waist.

  “I do need some assistance turning down a bed.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “That’s candy-striper work. Call me when you’ve got a real medical emergency.”

  Nick leaned close. “I’ve got a great big case of priapism that no candy striper within five miles has the credentials to help me with. I need a professional slutty nurse, stat.”

  Peter snickered, trailing his hand down Nick’s abdomen, past his drawstring waist. “Dealing with problems like this is my specialty. Let’s get you into a bed right away, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Taking Nick by the hand, Peter led him back inside the house, picking his way through the carnage of the party and tiptoeing past the sleeping Gigi to their room. Peter quietly closed the door.

  “So just get out of those things and lie down right over there.” Peter indicated the bed with a gesture reminiscent of Vanna White revealing the location of the letter E on Wheel of Fortune. Not exactly nurselike, but Nick didn’t seem to mind. He stripped off his scrubs, crawled onto the bed, and lay down on his stomach.

  He said, “I hope I don’t have to get some sort of injection. I’m afraid of them, you know.”

  Peter paused. This was new.

  “Don’t worry, it will only hurt for a second.” He ran his hand along the curve of Nick’s shoulders, following it from the dip in his lower back and back up the rise of his buttocks. A shiver went over Nick’s skin. “Are my hands too cold?”

  “Not too cold.”

  “I just need to prepare my instrument, and I’ll be right there.” He almost managed to say this without laughing, and Nick laughed too, slightly nervously. Peter wished he’d thought ahead enough to have a pair of latex gloves on with him, but alas, he had not. Instead he made a production of fetching lube and warming it in his hands. “Now if you’ll just ease your legs apart, I can examine you.”

  Nick shifted, allowed him access. Peter made a slow and careful assessment of Nick’s anatomy, murmuring reassuring phrases he’d heard on medical dramas. Finally holding Nick’s rigid flesh in his hand, he said, “This seems to be the problem right here.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “There is an experimental treatment, but I’m afraid you will need an injection. Shall I call a specialist, or do you trust me to give it to you?”

  “I trust you,” Nick glanced over his shoulder. “You come highly recommended by the International Sisterhood of Slutty Nurses.”

  Peter smiled, stripped off his boots and pants, freeing his own cock from the confines of the now very tight pants. He settled himself between Nick’s legs. “Now I’ll just start with a couple of fingers. You tell me if this is getting uncomfortable.”

  Peter took his time working first one and then two fingers inside Nick. The construct of his role allowed him to be careful and ask questions that would seem timid or amateur out of context. When he finally pushed his own stiff cock inside that tight, hot entrance, Nick stilled against that blanching shock of pain Peter knew so well.

  “Just take your time,” Peter breathed into Nick’s ear. “This injection could take a little while. Relax.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a treatment like this,” Nick said.

  “I know.” Peter wrapped his hand around Nick’s erection, running his thumb gently across the glans. “I’ll monitor your progress by this. You’ll be just fine.”

  Nick began to move, at first almost shy. Then, thought processes consumed with making friction, Peter’s character broke. He moaned against Nick’s back. Then they weren’t a nurse and doctor turned patient, just two men fucking.

  Nick bucked back against him, and Peter responded pumping faster and harder, chasing release inside this mass of hot muscle beneath him. Nick came first, ejaculating into Peter’s hand while Peter kept pushing into his clenching body until he broke through that barrier of effort into ecstasy.

  He collapsed onto Nick, breathing hard, his own heartbeat hammering through his ears. Peter rolled off him to lie flat on his back
. Then he regained himself enough to ask, “Are you feeling a little better now?”

  Nick moved to kiss him—a grateful, appreciative kiss. “I am. Thank you, nurse.”

  He pulled the covers up around them both. Hovering on the edge of sleep, Peter heard a quiet scratching and meowing at the door. He was about to rouse himself when Nick gently disentangled himself, rose, and went to open the door.

  Gigi was scaling the side of the bed in half a second. Upon reaching the summit of Mt. Bed, she trundled across the plateau of twisted covers until she reached the head. She gave Peter one vexed meow and settled in the hollow between two pillows. Nick followed, slipping back into bed, gathering Peter against him, breathing softly into his neck.

  Peter asked, “So, how does it feel for the doctor to become the patient?”

  “I’m feeling some relief, but I’m not sure I’m completely cured. You’ll probably have to repeat your treatment a few times for me to be sure it’s working.”

  “Anything you say, Doctor.”

  Epilogue

  Whatcom County deputies recovered Walter De Kamp’s famous missing sculpture Untitled Five, from property owned by the Whatcom County Church of Christ on East Pole Road just before midnight on Halloween. When questioned, organizers of the church’s Hell House event claimed to have no knowledge of how the sculpture came to be in their possession, though an anonymous witness claims to have seen it being unloaded from the back of a black pickup truck decorated with extensive flame decals.

  “It could’ve been brought there by the Devil himself for all I know,” stated the witness. “It seems like his kind of mischief.”

  No charges have been laid.

  Peter stopped typing, marveling at how nearly accurate that witness had been. On November fourth, four months to the day after Untitled Five had been removed, it was cemented back onto its pedestal in the university’s sculpture garden. Both Nick and Peter were in attendance, as were Stephano and Dr. Gerholt, both of whom seemed nervous and unusually quiet.

  Though he wanted nothing more than to expose them for their crimes, the fact was he had no proof. The only witness who could place the statue at Gerholt’s house had fled the state with his enlightened goat.