Short Stories

by Lanyon, Josh

  I nodded. Pushed up to standing position. I think Jacob may have even helped. By then I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember ever being this tired and wrung out before. I was going to take his word for it that this was temporary and I wasn’t having a breakdown. Just like I’d taken his word that I wasn’t having a heart attack.

  “Why don’t we do this,” Jacob suggested. “Why don’t you get into bed and I’ll fix the Ovaltine. I’m going to call Rob and tell him to hold off. I can sleep on your sofa. I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

  I wasn’t so sure about the sofa. I was sure I didn’t want to be alone. “Yeah, sure. There are extra blankets in the hall closet.” I gestured vaguely.

  “Okay. I’ve got this.” He fished the saucepan out of the sink of dirty dishes and turned on the faucet.

  It was hard to think of anything he wouldn’t be able to handle. I stumbled tiredly to my room, threw the clean laundry off the bed onto the floor, pulled my clothes off and added them to the pile. I dragged back the comforter and crawled between the sheets.

  I moaned in relief. But a few seconds later I was wide awake and listening uneasily to Jacob rattling around in my kitchen. Shouldn’t I offer to help? Shouldn’t I make some effort…?

  Jacob tapped on the half open door. “Can I come in?”

  I sat up. “Yeah! Of course.”

  He navigated around the books and clothes, handed me the Ovaltine and offered a pill on the palm of his hand.

  I tossed the pill back, swallowed some Ovaltine.

  Jacob sat on the foot of my bed watching me. It felt natural. He didn’t seem like a stranger anymore.

  “I don’t think I even thanked you for everything you did tonight.”

  “Part of it was my job. Part of it, I wanted to,” Jacob said.

  “Is Rob your boyfriend?”

  “Rob’s my brother.”

  The weight that lifted off my chest made me think I might make it to thirty after all.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,” Jacob observed.

  “You’re not seeing me at my best. I even have a sense of humor most of the time.”

  He was smiling. “Good.”

  I finished the Ovaltine, handed him the empty cup. We smiled at each other again.

  “I work a lot of hellish hours,” Jacob said. “It can be hard on a relationship.”

  “I work a lot of hellish hours too.”

  “I’m not a big party guy.”

  I pointed at myself. “Introverted writer. Not a big party guy either.”

  Jacob looked down at the empty mug. He said carefully, “You’re going to be down for the count in about two minutes. Would you—did you want me to hang around till you wake up or should I just let myself out in the morning?”

  He looked up. I reached out and took his hand. He squeezed my hand back.

  I said, “I want you to stay.”

  In Plain Sight

  In Plain Sight

  Funny how we always find time to attend funerals, no matter how inconvenient the timing, and yet typically can’t find opportunity to visit loved ones when they’re still alive and we could all enjoy spending time together. That’s not exactly what the story is about, though.

  I was trying to achieve a kind of Rashomon effect, whereby the reader tries to put together a picture of what happened — and the central character — through a variety of sometimes conflicting accounts. But that’s also not exactly what the story is about!

  Nash did not believe in love at first sight.

  He wasn’t sure he believed in love at all. He believed in lust. He believed in sex. He believed in a lot of things. Friendship, companionship, partnership. But none of those things worked long distance. And two thousand miles was, by any reckoning, long distance.

  So there really wasn’t any option here. He had come to Bear Lake County, Idaho, to conduct a road school, a week-long, compressed FBI training course on everything from behavioral psychology to community relations for the local police department. He’d tacked on another two days because…because he hadn’t wanted to leave. But time was up and Nash was on his way home to Quantico. Or he would be in a couple of minutes. In a couple of minutes he’d board his plane. They were announcing the boarding for Flight 2359 right now.

  But first he had to say goodbye.

  He looked at Glen — Lt. Glen Harlow of the Montpelier Police Department — and Glen, seeming to feel his gaze, looked up and stared right back at Nash. His eyes were the color of smoke or a stormy sky. He didn’t smile. The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. Wasn’t even a real try at a smile. They had smiled about a lot of things during the past week, laughed more than Nash could remember laughing in years. But there was nothing to laugh about now.

  Glen went back to staring at the electronic board listing the incoming and outgoing flights. Everybody was arriving and departing right on time. Everything working the way it was supposed to work.

  For a second Nash let himself look, really look, at Glen. What did it matter now? He could look as much as he liked — and he did like. He liked the way Glen’s brown hair curled just a bit behind his ears no matter how hard he tried to keep it slicked down. He liked the straight, chiseled perfection of Glen’s nose. He liked his wide, thin mouth and the way it turned down at the corner when Glen was trying not to laugh. He liked the sound of Glen’s laugh and the color of Glen’s eyes and the taste of his mouth. Hell, he didn’t even mind the fact that Glen wore Old Spice aftershave. In fact, he was probably never going to smell Old Spice again and not remember Glen.

  “Now boarding all passengers for Delta Flight 2359,” announced the blurred voice overhead.

  Glen looked at Nash again, and Nash felt the dark unhappiness in Glen’s eyes like someone reached into his chest and rearranged his internal organs, turned his stomach upside down, shoved his heart into a cramped and painful corner where it had no room to beat.

  Don’t.

  He almost said it aloud, but Glen hadn’t said a word. Neither of them was going to say a word because what words could they say? It was impossible. It was ridiculous.

  It wasn’t…real.

  No, that wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. It was real enough. It had been real from the minute he’d stepped off the plane a week ago and found Glen, tall, dark and serious, waiting for him in this very same airport lounge.

  What did you call that kind of instant connection? It was just another kind of gut instinct, right?

  The road schools were different from the typical, often territorial interactions between local law enforcement and the Bureau. Police and sheriff departments welcomed, even vied for the privilege of having Nash and his fellow special agents share their National Academy training. So long as you knew your stuff — and Nash knew his stuff — you could count on an engaged and enthusiastic audience. It wasn’t a surprise that the nine-person police force of Montpelier had been delighted to have training from the FBI; the surprise had been Glen. The surprise had been Nash’s reaction to Glen.

  From the first minute they’d met, there had been that…affinity. As much as Nash knew about behavioral science, he couldn’t explain that powerful and immediate rapport. It wasn’t just chemistry or sexual tension. He wasn’t unused to encountering either of those things, being a healthy, single, experienced male — even in the aggressively heterosexual milieu of law enforcement . But this had been something more. Something new, something unexpected, something exceptional. Rapport. Yes, that was it. Rapport.

  And suddenly, for the first time in his life, Nash hated goodbyes.

  Glen drew in a harsh breath. “Well…”

  Nash said around the obstruction in his throat, “If you ever want a personal tour of Quantico…”

  “If you ever want to go fishing for steelhead…”

  That had been the official excuse for staying the extra days. Idaho had some of the best fishing in the West. They never had got around to fishing, though. Nash didn’t even like
fishing.

  And Glen had never been out of Idaho.

  So this was goodbye.

  A public goodbye. Well, they had already had their private goodbye, not that they had said goodbye. But it had been quiet and tender when they had made l—the second time that afternoon.

  Nash shifted his safari bag to his left hand, offered his right. Glen took his hand, his own grip hard, tight. They held on too long, and then they both laughed. Nash could hear the shakiness in his own voice.

  “Fuck this,” he muttered, and slung an arm around Glen’s shoulders, pulling him close. For an instant they held each other and then Nash pulled free and walked away.

  He didn’t dare look back.

  * * * * *

  Nash had a ninety minute layover in Salt Lake City. He grabbed tuna tacos and a beer at Squatter’s Pub, checked his email, answered a couple of priority communications, then checked his cell phone messages.

  There was no message from Glen. Nash had not expected one and was irritated with himself for feeling disappointed. What else was there to say?

  He spent the next fifteen minutes struggling with himself over the desire to phone Glen. For God’s sake. It had only been two hours since they’d said goodbye.

  But hell. Why not just call and say thanks again for a nice time. Okay, that would be transparent and lame. But was there any legitimate reason he couldn’t call and say hello? Was there any legitimate reason they couldn’t talk?

  If they lived closer they would certainly be friends.

  They would certainly be a hell of a lot more than friends.

  Nash pressed Glen’s number — he had the number programmed into his phone for a reason, right?

  The phone rang a couple of times and went to message. Nash cleared his throat. “Yeah, hi,” he said gruffly. “Just wanted to say…you know.” The loudspeaker was primly announcing boarding for Delta Flight 7429. “I’ve got to go. I’ll maybe give you a call tonight.”

  Or maybe Glen would call him, so Nash wouldn’t have to feel like he was turning into a stalker. Like the kind of nut he warned other law enforcement about.

  He fell asleep on the flight to DC. He’d slept very little over the past week. Neither of them had. He and Glen had not wanted to waste a moment of their time together.

  When Nash landed in DC, he collected his luggage, his G-ride, and headed home to Fredericksburg, stopping only to pick up a quart of milk.

  At home, he unpacked, checked his landline messages, checked his cell phone again, did laundry, checked his cell phone, checked his email, checked his cell phone.

  Nothing.

  It seemed Glen had a better grasp of the meaning of the word goodbye than Nash.

  But then Nash thought of Glen’s face at the airport. No, he couldn’t believe Glen wouldn’t want to hear from him. They were in agreement long distance didn’t work, but that didn’t change the fact that something had sprung to life between them. It didn’t have a future, true. Any more than cut flowers had a future. But they were beautiful while they lasted.

  Oh, man. If he was getting poetical, he must be…lacking in vitamins.

  But not Vitamin S, that was for sure.

  Nash grinned at a certain memory, checked the contact info on his cell for Glen’s home number, and pressed call.

  After a couple of rings, the phone was picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Glen?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  The voice didn’t sound like Glen. It was higher, more nasal. In fact — shit — it sounded like Officer Ryan Walker of the MPD. Nash had had plenty of opportunity to hear Walker’s voice over the past week’s training session, Walker being one of those know-it-all types who just couldn’t believe his personal experience wasn’t the be-all and end-all for everyone else.

  Hearing Walker’s voice on Glen’s phone confused and irritated Nash. “Is Glen there?”

  “Who is this?”

  Nash said crisply, “Officer Walker, this is Special Agent West. Where’s Lt. Harlow?”

  There was a pause. The silence prickled across Nash’s scalp and down his spine.

  Walker retorted, “Well, Special Agent West, that’s the question on everyone’s mind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means nobody knows where Lt. Harlow is. He’s disappeared.”

  Chapter Two

  MONTPELIER — Police Chief Ervil Collier is asking the public for help locating a Bear Lake Valley police officer who went missing earlier this week.

  Lt. Glen Harlow, of Bear Lake, was last seen between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. Sunday when he left Pocatello Airport for his shift. Harlow, who has been with the Montpelier Police Department for more than 10 years, never showed up for work and has not been heard from since.

  Police Chief Collier said the department has been working since Monday morning to determine whether Harlow left the area voluntarily.

  Harlow is described as Caucasian, 6 feet 1 inches tall, with slender build. He has brown hair and light blue or gray eyes. Police have not ruled out foul play.

  “Anything is possible. We don’t know,” Collier said. “Officers have been kidnapped before or taken against their will. We’re just trying to figure out exactly what happened.”

  Montpelier Crime Victim Advocate Marilyn Bennett said Harlow, who oversees day-to-day operations and personnel, is a conscientious, responsible officer, and his unexpected departure is “not typical.”

  “For something of this nature to happen obviously has us concerned, and his family is very concerned,” Bennett said.

  There is no indication that struggles at home, frustration or danger from his work as an officer, or threats contributed to Harlow’s disappearance.

  Harlow is a healthy, fit person who often enjoyed camping and fishing in his spare time, Bennett said.

  The Montpelier Police Department is leading the investigation, with assistance from Bear Lake Valley Sheriff’s Department. MPD will request assistance from State Police if Harlow is not located within 48 hours.

  Collier stated that at this point, police don’t have any leads. Harlow was last seen wearing light jeans, a dark blue hoodie, and Nike basketball shoes. He was driving a silver 2007 Nissan XTerra SUV.

  “I’m asking Glen, if he’s out there, to call us and let us know what’s going on,” Collier said. “I’m asking the public, if they’ve seen Glen, if they think they’ve seen Glen, to give us a call.” Anyone with information can call Montpelier police at 208-847-4000.

  The Montpelier Police Department is currently under scrutiny as the District Attorney office investigates charges of improper use of force within the department. Police brutality concerns led to the dismissal of two investigations led by one officer, who the Idaho State Lodge of the Fraternal Order of Police identified as Detective Lon Previn.

  Collier said Harlow is not connected to the investigation into those two cases.

  Glen Harlow had walked out of the Pocatello airport, climbed into his SUV, and vanished off the face of the earth. The last person to see him had been an airport security guard who had waved to him in passing.

  Nash’s request to officially assist in the investigation was refused. A missing cop, especially one who might be voluntarily AWOL, was not an FBI matter; nor was the MPD asking for Bureau assistance. So Nash took his unused annual leave and returned to Bear Lake Valley.

  By then, it was thirty-six hours into Glen’s disappearance. If Glen had not purposely disappeared, the window was closing on the chances of a safe recovery. If Glen had purposely disappeared, the window was closing. The suicide rate for police officers was almost double that of the general population. Officers were two to three times more likely to take their own life than die at the hands of a criminal. And most of the time, friends and family never even saw it coming.

  Nash didn’t want to let that thought form a picture in his mind, the picture of Glen sitting in his car out in the middle of nowhere with half his head blown away. But he
’d examined a lot of crime scene photos through the years and it was too easy to imagine every awful detail.

  “Glen was — is — a quiet guy,” Chief Collier told Nash. “He could be moody. Off hours, he pretty much kept to himself.”

  “What kind of things was he moody about?”

  They were in Collier’s small and cluttered office in Montpelier. In 1896 Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch had tried to rob the local bank, and it didn’t look like Collier’s bulletin board had been updated since. The chief took a mouthful of coffee and set his mug down with care. “I don’t know. Like I said, he kept to himself. Mind if I ask your interest in this case, Agent West? You’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”

  Are you out? Nash had asked, and Glen had grimaced and said, It’s not that cut and dried. I’m not in the closet, exactly, but there isn’t anyone to be out for either. You understand?

  Yeah, Nash had understood. That’s how it was for a lot of gay law enforcement in small towns and rural areas. No point making an issue of your sexuality if there wasn’t any opportunity for sex, anyway.

  It wasn’t Nash’s place to out Glen to his boss, not when Glen might still be coming home, not unless there was no other choice. Nash said, “I liked Glen. We hit it off. I feel sort of responsible, seeing that he disappeared after dropping me off at the airport.”

  “Yep, you’re practically the last person to see Glen.” Collier’s dark, knowing gaze studied Nash.

  Nash smiled. “You don’t mind an extra pair of eyes, do you? I’m trained, willing, and available.”