by Lisa Henry
“Daniel?” Fuck, was he bleeding?
Daniel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood over his chin. “Can we go now, Bel? Please?”
“Yeah.” Bel lifted the hem of Daniel’s shirt to his mouth, cleaning him up like he was a little kid. Maybe this had been a mistake after all. Too much, too soon. Because sure as shit it would take a long time before he saw relaxed Daniel again. Before he could pretend again that anything about this was normal. “Okay, let’s go.”
Bel took him back to his house. He was quiet, which Bel had expected. Daniel got on his computer, and Bel left him in the living room while he went to shower. He wasn’t sure what to say. As a cop, he had to give bad news, talk to people about a lot of awkward things. But if he offered comfort, it was almost always surface level. He said the words he’d been trained to say: “Sorry to tell you this.” “Take all the time you need.” “There’s resources available if you need them.” “We’ll do everything we can.”
He wasn’t so good at figuring out what to do or say for people he cared about when they were hurting. Much as he loved his mother, she worried too much, and it made Bel uncomfortable not knowing how to reassure her. He preferred to hang out with Dav, who, if something went wrong in her life, dealt with it head-on. Didn’t ask for help.
Yet there was some part of Bel that wanted to protect, wanted to reassure, wanted to be needed. It was why he’d become a cop, and it was maybe why he liked being in charge with Daniel.
Fucked that up, though, didn’t you? Bein’ in charge don’t mean you get to push him to do whatever you think’s good for him.
He wondered how far back the trip to town had set Daniel.
But what if Daniel needed to be pushed? Wasn’t that why he’d given Bel this control?
Thinks he needs to be contained, but that ain’t what he needs.
Daniel needed to be pushed to accept freedom. To reclaim his place in the world. He was an odd mix—self-sufficient to an extreme, strong, angry, and alone. And more in need of help—of company—than anyone Bel had ever met.
And now what was Bel supposed to say?
“Sorry your whole town still prays for the guy who beat you half to death.”
“Sorry, but there’s gotta be some consequences for you killing him.”
Shit, that wasn’t fair. Daniel lived with the consequences every fucking minute. His nightmares. His fear of going out. His shitty—no pun intended—janitor job, when he had a college degree. The noose, the fire, the pig’s head, the whispers. Daniel was paying. And Bel was half-terrified to realize he’d all but forgiven Daniel Whitlock for committing murder.
Bel finished toweling his hair and put on some sweatpants. Headed downstairs to where Daniel was doing something on his computer.
“I’m gonna sleep awhile,” he told Daniel. “But make yourself at home. Food, drink, anything.”
“Gotta go to work in a few hours,” Daniel said. “Sorry. Shoulda had you take me home. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Wasn’t saying it to get rid of you,” Bel said. “Just, after night shift, I tend to crash real fast. Only so much that a sugar high can do, you know? I meant what I said. You’re welcome to stay. I’ll be up in time to take you to work.”
“Don’t want company, do you?”
Bel felt a rush of heat in his groin. He couldn’t think of anything more appealing than Daniel joining him in bed. He also knew if that happened, he wouldn’t be getting any sleep. “I’d love company. Just figured you were sick of sleeping.”
Daniel gave him a tentative smile. “Got years of sleep debt to pay off.”
“All right, then. Come on.”
Daniel shut his computer, but before they could head to the bedroom, there was a knock at the door.
Bel went to the hall and answered it.
Jim stood on the porch. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Bel said.
“This a bad time?”
“It’s all right. Whatcha need?”
“Wanted to see if I could borrow your mower. I got the truck here.”
Bel glanced past him at the big navy-blue pickup in the driveway. “Sure. It’s in the garage. Thought you and Dav fixed yours.”
“It quit again.”
Jim had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and was shifting back and forth. Bel had never quite understood his brother—got along with him without getting him. But he knew that look and had a feeling Jim hadn’t come just for the mower.
“Sue-Ellen said you was at the diner this morning.”
“Yep. Daniel Whitlock and I went over.” Bel figured it was better to go ahead and say it like there was nothing weird about it than watch Jim try and figure out how to ask.
Jim’s eyes widened for a moment. “Oh. I didn’t know you—didn’t know you knew him, really.”
“Mm-hmm,” Bel said.
“Well, uh. Obviously Sue-Ellen wasn’t the only one who saw you. Couple folks saw you on Main Street, out by the church.” Wiping Daniel’s bleeding lip. Keeping his hand on Daniel’s shoulder as they went back to the car. Bel stared at Jim. “Just wanted to let you know there’s some talk.”
“It’s Logan. I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t.” Bel glanced over his shoulder.
“He here now?” Jim asked.
“Yeah,” Bel said, trying to sound nonchalant. Not quite succeeding.
Jim’s face colored. “All right. Sorry to bother you. I’ll grab the mower.”
Bel nodded.
Jim turned and headed for the garage. Bel shut the door. He felt a little funny, but overall, he was all right. Of course people were gonna talk. Talk about Bel hanging out with Whitlock the killer and talk about Bel hanging out with Whitlock the fag. Talk about Bel the fag. So fucking what?
The pictures of Daniel after Kenny Cooper had beaten him flashed in Bel’s mind. You took a chance in a town like this, because people could be cruel. But no point in lying. Hiding.
He returned to the living room. Daniel was still sitting on the couch. He looked at Bel.
“My brother,” Bel said. “Wants to borrow the mower.”
“And people saw us in town?”
So Daniel had overheard. Bel tried to smile. “Like a celebrity sighting, huh?”
Daniel twisted his mouth. “Not exactly.”
No. Bel’s smile faded. Not exactly.
Bel polished his boots for Kenny Cooper’s vigil and scraped the bugs off the grill of his cruiser. Not that the police were invited—after Daniel’s lenient sentence, most people in Logan were wary of any representatives of the law when it came to Kenny Cooper—but Uncle Joe liked to put a few cars along the route just to show some respect.
The vigil started with a church service, then people walked the four blocks down to the park on Main where they waited until their candles burned out. Far as Bel could tell, that was the extent of it. Mostly it was quiet, decent folk who remembered that Kenny had been a good-looking kid who played high school football and missed out on a scholarship to college because he’d wrecked his knee. In another life, he could have been a football star. Stayed in Logan instead, took a job with his dad, and then got burned to death by Daniel Whitlock. Mostly that was the only side of the story people remembered.
There was the other side, too. Bel didn’t know if people had forgotten on purpose the sort of man Kenny Cooper had been, or if the horrible way he’d died had magically cleaned his slate. You didn’t speak ill of the dead, Bel knew, but why lie about it? Kenny hadn’t been anything special. He hadn’t been a good person. Kenny had beaten the shit out of Daniel, given him nightmares that lasted to this day. Didn’t deserve to die the way he had, but what was the point of pretending he’d been a saint?
Maybe he did fucking deserve to die that way.
Bel had been having more and more thoughts like that lately. Scared him to realize he might have felt this way all along.
Bel parked on Main, at the intersection of Cartwright. They’d come this way as soon as they w
ere done at the church: Kenny’s parents, still hanging onto their grief, reliving it freshly every year like a scab they got to pull off over and over again, and his sisters, and his friends, and the sort of people who hadn’t known Kenny that well, or at all, but knew the law had fucked up Daniel Whitlock’s prosecution. Bel’s mother would be in the group somewhere. She’d once worked with Kenny’s mother. Billy would be there as well, not because he’d been Kenny’s friend, but he’d been a classmate, and that was enough. Showing their respect, same as Bel.
Except this year, showing respect felt like a betrayal.
Daniel’s message earlier hadn’t given anything away: Hi, Bel. It’s Daniel. I’m digging the garden. Might plant onions.
Sounds like a good idea, Bel had sent back, when he’d really wanted to ask Daniel if he remembered what day it was. What he’d done, four years ago. How he’d walked into Harnee’s, and Bel had sold him a lighter with his Twix and Mountain Dew.
Bel could still remember hearing about it the next day. He hadn’t believed it, not at first, and then he’d been horrified, he guessed. And something else. He’d felt a strange vicarious thrill from having touched the lighter that crazy Daniel Whitlock had used to kill a man. Like a brush with a celebrity might feel, given that Whitlock was the closest thing to famous that the people of Logan were ever going to get. Logan was a small enough town that everybody had some story about Daniel or about Kenny, but Bel was the only one who’d sold Whitlock the murder weapon.
Bel had recounted the story exactly twice—once for Uncle Joe, and once at trial. Because he was going to be a cop, not a fucking gossip. So that thrill he’d felt, he’d kept it all to himself and got the bonus of feeling sanctimonious as well.
Bel got out of the cruiser.
It was just dusk, so they ought to be winding up at the church soon. Bel wondered if Clayton and R.J. and Brock would be there, wearing ties and trying their hardest not to cuss in church. And he wondered if they’d ever told Kenny’s family what they’d done to Daniel Whitlock to make the need to hurt Kenny run bone deep in him, or if it was something Kenny’s parents already knew. They had to know. Daniel claimed not to have seen his assailants, but everyone knew. Had Kenny’s parents forgiven their son for his crime? Or had they convinced themselves that Daniel had deserved it? That all Kenny had done was put a fag back in his place?
Bel had thought not too long ago that Daniel had deserved a smack in the head for being stupid enough to come on to Kenny and giving the homophobic asshole ammunition. You kept your head down and your mouth shut. You didn’t draw attention.
Now here he was thinking he’d probably have torched Kenny’s house himself, if he’d been in Daniel’s place.
So much for not taking sides.
There was no point even pretending now, was there?
He was on Daniel’s side. Couple of people suspected it: Dav and Jim, his mom, Uncle Joe. Everyone who’d been in the diner that day. Pretty soon the whole town would know it, if they didn’t already. There were no secrets in a place like Logan. Sometimes there were things that people didn’t talk about, but there were no real secrets.
Mrs. Henley? Got beaten black-and-blue every time Mr. Henley’s team lost, as though she had something to do with it.
That girl in tenth grade who acted weird? You knew her daddy was doing something.
Mr. Pickering? You didn’t go into his house alone.
It seemed arbitrary to Bel, the things that were talked about and the things that weren’t. Bel had always tried not to give people anything to talk about. Until now, he guessed, because he’d taken a side.
He’d stand here and watch Kenny Cooper’s mourners pass, and he’d feel sorry for them because they’d lost someone they loved. Didn’t mean that Bel couldn’t acknowledge the truth: to the rest of the world, Kenny Cooper wasn’t worth mourning.
I’m digging the garden, Daniel had texted Bel, but it was a lie. He hadn’t slept the night before—couldn’t, not with the knowledge of what day it was. Surprised him that he’d almost forgotten about the vigil until he’d seen the church board. Had been too busy with Bel to think about it. But since that moment, hardly a second had gone by without seeing the date on his mental calendar circled with a big red pen. Red, like blood. Like fire. Like whatever, but it was enough to keep Daniel from sleep. Wasn’t going to go under, not when it was all so fucking close again.
The police had woken him. It was like a crazy dream. They were lying to him, or something, except his hands hurt. Why the hell were his hands blistered like that? What did they mean Kenny was dead? Kenny couldn’t be dead, because Daniel wasn’t a killer. Couldn’t be.
Because if he didn’t know that about himself, how could he know anything? Killing wasn’t something you should be able to forget, to sleep through.
He’d been too keyed up to sleep last night, too afraid because Bel was working . . .
Too fucking reliant on Bel.
Couldn’t expect another man to save you, not when the thing you needed saving from was inside. That was too much of a burden. His parents hadn’t been able to stop him from painting the living room green when he was a kid, and Marcus hadn’t been able to stop him from wandering every time. Wasn’t fair to expect Bel could keep him on a leash when he couldn’t keep himself on one.
Daniel didn’t need a caretaker or a boyfriend. He needed a fucking jailor.
He sat on his bed, holding up the cuffs that Bel had gotten him from the hospital: thick, padded, soft. The sort they made for crazies, not fetishists. Daniel probably should have been wearing them for years, instead of looking for something in leather, right?
I’m not crazy.
He’d almost believed it, up until Kenny.
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment and drifted before he realized. He felt himself falling and pulled himself back with a jolt.
He was dangerously close to sleep. So close that it took a moment to climb back up into awareness and make sense of his surroundings. His bed, his table, his tiny kitchen, his bathroom door. His cabin, that still smelled a little of smoke overlaid with fresh paint. Everything just where he’d left it.
Except that can of bug spray on the table.
He’d put that beside the sink, hadn’t he?
He stood. Stared at the can.
Hadn’t he?
Fuck, he couldn’t remember. Easy to confuse himself when he was this tired. What was crazier? Not remembering where he’d put the bug spray, or thinking someone had been in here and moved it?
Someone?
Clayton.
No. No proof of that. Daniel could have moved it. Could have gone to sleep and done it without realizing.
He stared around the cabin.
The bug spray had moved. So had the magazines on the table. He’d left them stacked, and now they were fanned out. Daniel rose from the bed and went over to them. One of them was open. A glossy picture of a naked guy with an erection. Someone had scrawled the word faggot over the guy’s cock in stark, angry capital letters.
It wasn’t Daniel’s handwriting. He thought it wasn’t, but fuck, he couldn’t be sure. He’d once drawn the Bridge of Sighs in his sleep. He’d once killed a man in his sleep. He couldn’t be certain of anything.
He closed the magazine. Wouldn’t look at it again. Wouldn’t jerk off to it. It was ruined now.
He unlocked the door, went outside, and checked the nail under the porch railing. The spare key was still there. No one had taken it, at least. He brought it inside. He couldn’t leave it out there anymore.
Had he left the cabin unlocked? He wouldn’t have. Had someone gotten in without a key?
Were the magazines really there? He checked again.
Still there. He touched the cover of the ruined one. This was real. He was awake. He went back to the bed and sat down. Picked up the cuffs again.
Faggot.
Daniel had never hated being gay, just wished that he’d been normal enough to do what other guys could: keep it quiet
until he was out of Logan. But he couldn’t, even in high school. Because everyone said he’d stared through Bobby Grant’s bedroom window, even though Daniel didn’t remember doing it. And when he was awake, he’d stolen glimpses he shouldn’t have; glimpses he was sure would be followed by shouted accusations.
Faggot.
So fucking hard not to look, when you were a teenager. When your whole fucking life was hormones and hard-ons and jerking off. When everyone else got to look at who they wanted to fuck, even if they hadn’t figured out the mechanics yet, but you didn’t because it was dangerous.
Faggot.
In high school, he’d had wet dreams about Kenny Cooper. A hundred different variations that usually started with Kenny, in his football gear, telling Daniel to get on his knees and suck his cock.
Four years ago, he hadn’t understood when Kenny and the others had cornered him that night: “Hey, Whitlock! You still wanna suck my dick?”
How the hell could Kenny know about those dreams? But then, just when he was wondering how the fuck he was supposed to respond, the truth hit him: he must have asked. He’d asked Kenny if he could suck his cock. Not in a dream, but in his sleep. And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could say to defend himself.
After the beating, he told the police he didn’t remember what happened. They knew anyway—whole fucking town knew. Strange. He’d been going to tell the truth, going to tell everything, right up until his parents came to visit at the hospital, and his father had held his hand, carefully because of his broken fingers, and said, “Daniel, what did you do?”
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
So he kept his mouth shut, pretended he’d never seen his attacker. Told himself he hated himself as much as he hated Kenny and his buddies, and almost believed it too. Except he hadn’t tried to kill himself when he was sleeping, had he? No. He’d gone and found some gasoline, bought a lighter from Bel, and driven over to Kenny Cooper’s place.
Woken up the next morning with blistered hands, and the police knocking on his bedroom door.
Daniel hunched over. The memory hurt. Not like the twinges and aches he still got when his body remembered his injuries, but in a different way. Like nausea. It sickened him. There was something monstrous inside him, something that he couldn’t control, and it wasn’t fair to expect Bel to control it either.
