Fatal Shadows

by Lanyon, Josh

  We’d left the lights on when we had retired, and I had a clear view of Riordan standing at the far end of the hall. He had his gun out. It looked like a cannon. He stared at me for a long moment. Then he gestured soundlessly, beckoning me toward him: Get out now.

  Bruce sat up in the bed behind me. I froze.

  “What are you doing?” He sounded fully awake.

  “Nothing.” I hesitated. Everything in me said “run.” But the realization of what was about to happen ... it’s difficult to explain how terrifying I found that vision of impending violence. I don’t know if I thought I could avert it, but I was compelled to try and postpone it.

  “What are you looking for? Come back to bed.”

  I said huskily, “It’s late. I should go.”

  “Come back to bed, Adrien.” There was something in his voice. A short while ago I had lain in his arms. I could still taste him. I came back to bed. Sat down as gingerly as though on broken glass.

  He said tenderly, indulgently, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Even I could hear the strain in my voice.

  Silence.

  Then he said flatly, “Oh.”

  One scant syllable, but I knew. I knew and he knew. All evening we had pretended. Postponed what we both knew in our hearts.

  In one fast, lithe movement, Bruce was off the bed. He walked over to the bedroom door and slammed it, shutting us into total darkness. I could hear my quick breaths and the scratch of the twigs at the window. There was just enough light from the waning moon to see his silhouette unmoving where he stood by the door.

  I sat there wordlessly reassuring myself that he couldn’t have seen Riordan hovering down the hall. Riordan would have ducked back, right?

  “Bruce,” I began.

  “I know, Adrien.” He spoke consolingly, as though he understood why I had done what I had. His silhouette moved over to the dresser and vanished into the deeper shadows. I heard the slide of the drawers. The soft rustle of clothes. It was more terrifying not to be able to see him. Then I caught his reflection in the mirror, the pale glimmer of his body. He turned, and in the gloom I could just discern the outline of white — a grim smile that wasn’t Bruce. Wasn’t human in fact. A mask. A skull mask which he was unhurriedly adjusting over his head.

  I backed off the bed, knocked into the bedstand and reached automatically to save the lamp. Bruce felt around in the drawer, the mask still staring my way. Hypnotized I watched him raise something up, saw the glint of light on silver. A blade.

  “What are you doing?” I was surprised to hear my voice at all, let alone sounding almost level.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” He walked toward me, knife upheld. It was stagy. Unreal.

  I reached over and turned on the lamp beside the bed.

  Like a true creature of the night he paused. There’s something about light. Even 60 watt household variety.

  “Turn that out,” he said hoarsely.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the knife. It looked huge. Sharp. A butcher’s knife. I pictured it sliding into my chest. With an effort I kicked my brain into gear.

  “Bruce, why are you doing this?”

  “Now that’s a silly question.”

  “Bruce —”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What do you want me to call you? Grant?”

  He stood motionless as though testing the power of his name on himself.

  “Take the mask off,” I said. “Since we’re not pretending.”

  “I like it. You know why? Because it’s symbolic. You know? Everyone wears masks. Everyone puts on a face of what they want you to see. Even death.”

  Murdered and lectured in one night. It really was too much.

  He laughed muffledly. “And the main thing is, it scares you. I like that. You should see your face. I’m surprised you haven’t keeled over yet. That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t think ironic is the right word.” I wondered what Riordan was doing. What was he waiting for? In five minutes I could be dead. In three minutes. In fact, it wouldn’t take Bruce more than a minute to take care of me. I tried to imagine wrestling him for the knife and knew talking was my best bet.

  “What is the right word?” Bruce inquired. “Betrayed? Fucked?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “What? No famous last words?” Bruce advanced. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” He gave that unnerving rubbery laugh. “So does this, by the way.”

  I licked my lips. “Don’t I get to hear why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you killed Rob and the others. Andy … .” Suddenly I couldn’t remember their names.

  “I didn’t kill Andy.” He sounded offended. “God killed Andy. That was the sign I was on the right path.”

  “You think God wants you to kill people because of a high school prank?”

  “Prank? That prank destroyed my life. Ruined me. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “So explain it to me.”

  His eyes studied me through the eye holes in the mask. “Believe me, you won’t agree with my reasoning. I’ve tried explaining before. How’s this? Everything that has happened to me happened because of Robert Hersey and his sycophantic buddies. Everything.”

  “That’s not reasonable, Br — Grant. You’re too smart to believe —”

  He interrupted casually, “But enough about me. This is about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. YOU, YOU, YOU!” He started jabbing at the air, yelling it.

  Something horrifyingly like a sob tore out of my throat.

  Bruce stopped. “Don’t cry,” he said kindly. “Everything dies eventually.” He pointed the knife at me, like a professor with a pointer.

  “Anyway, it’s your own fault, isn’t it? I want you to know that I would never have hurt you. Never. You made this happen. Not me. I always liked you, even though you never noticed me.” His hand slashed through the air. “NEVER NOTICED —”

  I flinched as the knife carved a long rip through the flowered wallpaper. I tried to think what to do if he came across the bed. I’d be cornered. I was cornered now. I’d be cornered in a tighter space. Less time to die in.

  He calmed again. “I tried to get all my classes with you. I used to always sit behind you. Remember? Pathetic, isn’t it? You even came to this house once, you know. I couldn’t believe you didn’t remember.”

  I got control of my voice. “Did you want me to remember?”

  He seemed to consider this. “When I saw you in the church I wanted to protect you from those fucking cops. But the truth is, you like those fucking cops, don’t you? You like that blond one.”

  “Speaking of cops,” I got out. “Bruce, you have to know you aren’t going to get away with this. They will lock you up forever.”

  “I don’t want to get away with it. Not anymore.” He added, “And no, they won’t.”

  Keep him talking. Riordan had to be on the other side of that door. If I could just get to it before Bruce stabbed me. “If I can figure it out, the cops can.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  I edged toward the door. “Tell me something. Why Claude? What did he ever do to you?”

  “Who? Oh, the black dude. Well, that was your fault too, Adrien. You canceled our evening together, didn’t you? You wouldn’t explain why, you just blew me off. So I followed you to see where you were going. I was parked down the street the whole time we were talking. I was on my cell phone.” He sounded innocently pleased with his own cleverness. “Call forwarding.”

  “You were spying on me?” Don’t ask, but my life probably forfeit, I still felt a flare of indignation.

  He answered defensively, “I couldn’t wait to see you again. I used to park there under the trees and watch that asshole Robert. And then I started watching you. I followed you that evening to see what you were up to, and once I knew, I took care of that black bastard.” He shrugg
ed. “I thought that would get your attention.”

  My nerve gave out and I ran for the door. Bruce got there first and blocked it squarely. He raised the knife. His laugh was coming out weirdly behind the plastic face. He adjusted his grip on the knife handle, the better for slicing me to ribbons. I took a step back.

  “I wondered what this would feel like when it happened,” he said slowly.

  “Me too.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the knife.

  “I think it could have worked for us.”

  My heart was pounding so hard in my throat it was hard to get the words out. “It would have been hard with you murdering my friends every time you needed my attention.”

  Bruce reached up with the knife to scratch his forehead. The point punctured the mask and a tiny drop of blood showed. As I stared, it welled and then trickled slowly down the skull face.

  “I do love you,” whispered Bruce. “There’s nothing left for me without you.” There were tears in his voice.

  “Bruce,” I pleaded, “Think it through.” Riordan, where the fuck are you?

  “We’ll die together like true lovers should. Like Romeo and … .” unnervingly he giggled. “Romeo.”

  Blabbing the first thing that came to me, I said desperately, “Sure, but then what happens?”

  “What?”

  There was movement outside the window. We both looked around and then Bruce grabbed me with his free arm, dragging me in front of him as an iron lawn chair came crashing through the bedroom window, followed by Riordan.

  It was like in the movies. He hit the floor in a shoulder roll and came up on one knee with his gun aimed at us. The detached part of my brain that was still taking notes admired the smooth efficiency of that.

  Bruce kept me pinned close, arm about my throat using me as a shield. His breath was hot in my ear, his cheek resting against mine. I could feel his sweat against my skin — or maybe it was my own sweat. I could also feel that he had a hard on, and that was the most unnerving thing of all.

  I was pretty sure that I was really going to die in the next minute or two. I’d thought a lot about death over the years, but I never pictured checking out like this.

  “Put down the knife.” Riordan sounded calm and instructive.

  Bruce on the other hand was shaking with excitement. The hand holding the knife to my throat was so rigid it had a tremor.

  “No! Put down the gun. I’ll kill him if you don’t!”

  I heard myself say, “He’ll kill me anyway.”

  A bar seemed to clamp down, closing off my windpipe. “Shut up!” Bruce said from underwater. Stars shot through the darkness flooding up around me. I wheezed, let myself go heavy.

  Bruce’s arm eased up. I gulped oxygen. Heard Riordan soothing, “No he won’t. That wouldn’t be smart. Bruce is too smart for that, right Bruce?”

  “Shut up,” Bruce said again.

  I gulped oxygen. Regained my footing.

  Riordan was still trying to reassure us all that it was under control. “Bruce doesn’t want to hurt you, do you, Bruce? Let’s talk for a minute. Let’s talk about —”

  “Let’s talk about this!” Bruce made a sudden gesture. There was a bright pain beneath my ear.

  At the same instant Riordan yelled, “Bruce — I’ll blow your fucking head off!” He was standing just a few feet from us. The gun aimed at my head seemed huge. I could look right down the barrel. It was like a tunnel.

  Riordan said, “I’ll splatter your brains all over that goddamn wall.” He sounded a little breathless.

  “I don’t care,” sobbed Bruce. He could cry and still hold the knife in place. The pain at my jaw seemed to pause. I could feel something hot trickling down my neck. Jesus, had he cut my throat?

  “Yes, you do. You want all the world to know how smart you are. You want Adrien to know how smart you are.”

  “Wrong again. WRONG! You don’t know shit!”

  “I know that I’ve radioed for help. I know that in minutes this place will be swarming with cops. Listen.”

  We listened. The wail of sirens had been growing steadily louder, but I don’t think I’d heard it until then. Now it was earsplitting.

  Bruce’s hold shifted. “It doesn’t matter.” He said, and all at once he sounded calm. Serene. Not a good sign, I recognized instinctively.

  I met Riordan’s eyes. Up until now he had not looked directly at me. I didn’t know if I was reading him right or not, but I dug my fingers into the pressure point of Bruce’s forearm. At the same time I hooked my right foot around his and yanked him off balance. Textbook Tai Chi. I couldn’t believe it when it worked.

  There was an incredible explosion that seemed to ricochet off the walls. Plaster peppered the side of my face and hair. The arm holding me fell away. The blade at my throat dropped, scratched a crescent across my chest and ribs, tore the fleshy part of my forearm as it sliced downward.

  I stumbled away in a kind of daze.

  Riordan fired again looking like a poster boy for the NRA. Perfect stance. Perfect aim. As I stared a great red bloom seemed to blossom in the center of Bruce’s chest. The crimson spread. In slow motion he slid down the wall. Languidly he sprawled onto the carpet. Red black smeared the wall behind him. The bedroom door opened, swinging silently wide.

  Bruce’s fingers slowly released the knife, uncurling gently. The eyes behind the mask were closed.

  The dead don’t close their eyes. As this thought ran through my brain, Bruce’s eyes opened. They gazed at the carpet with a fixed look that living eyes never have.

  “Okay, baby?”

  Riordan was walking toward me. I realized he was talking to me.

  I rummaged around inside my head. Found words. “Yeah.” My voice cracked and I had to try again. “Thanks. Thank you.”

  His hand slid across my bare shoulder, fastened around the back of my neck, drew me forward. I reeled against him, my head resting for a moment in the curve of his neck and shoulder, tried to catch my breath. His heart was thudding a million miles an hour. His chest rising and falling. Neither of us said a word.

  The sirens sounded like they were in the kitchen. The banging on the front door seemed to shake the whole house. Riordan holstered his gun, pulled his ID, and stepped in front of me as the front door gave with a crash and a dozen uniforms burst into the living room with weapons drawn.

  * * * * *

  “It was a righteous shooting,” Chan said for the third time.

  It was close to dawn. I was dressed. My chest was taped and my arm and throat bandaged by the paramedics. I had answered a million questions, and now I stood with Chan outside the house while the crime scene team bustled about their grisly business.

  Black-and-whites were angled all over the street. The Landis yard and sidewalk had been sectioned off. Even at this hour of the morning a crowd was forming behind the yellow crime scene tape. Overhead, birds were starting to twitter in the trees.

  “I’ve been writing a book myself,” Chan said confidentially, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “I was wondering if you might be willing to read it sometime. You know, give me your honest opinion.”

  “Sure.” Vainly I searched the swarm of uniforms and plainclothes for Riordan.

  “It’s a police procedural.”

  I nodded, not listening.

  Riordan materialized before us. He said to Chan, “I think I’ll drive Mr. English home, Paul.”

  Chan had a funny look on his face. “Uh ... What about IA?”

  “What about ’em?”

  Chan glanced at me and shrugged. Flicked the cigarette onto the porch and ground it out with his heel.

  We slipped under the crime scene tape. Made our way through the crowd that parted warily before us. In silence we walked down the shady street to where I’d left the Bronco — a lifetime ago.

  Riordan reached his palm out. I handed my keys over. He unlocked my door. Walked around, unlocked the driver’s side, and climbed in beside me.

  He started the
engine.

  I said, “I don’t know your first name.”

  “Jake.” He looked at me briefly. Looked away.

  More silence while the engine warmed. Riordan yawned hugely, scrubbed his face with his hands. His glance slid my way. “You know, this won’t be an easy thing, Adrien.”

  An officer-involved shooting was not going to be fun, righteous or not.

  “The investigation you mean?”

  “No.” He gave me that crooked smile. “No, I don’t mean that.”

  I stared out at the first blush of sunrise lighting the surrounding Chatsworth hills.

  Despite myself, I started to smile.

  About the Author

  A distinct voice in gay fiction, multi-award-winning author JOSH LANYON has been writing gay mystery, adventure and romance for over a decade. In addition to numerous short stories, novellas, and novels, Josh is the author of the critically acclaimed Adrien English series, including The Hell You Say, winner of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT Fiction. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist.

  Find other Josh Lanyon titles at www.joshlanyon.com

  Thank you for buying this book. It is only because readers like you continue purchase fiction that writers can still afford to write.

  ~ Josh Lanyon ~