McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

  After a minute there was a heavy clunk, and I pushed the gate open. Then I got back in my car, drove through, and closed the gate behind me to protect Runnells from the spying eyes of rival concessionaires. The paved drive was a quarter mile long, flanked by trees on either side. In some places I could see through the trees into huge fields of brush, and I wondered if Runnells did much hunting. The grounds were perfect for it.

  At last the road came into the open, and I saw the house. It was gigantic, as I had imagined, and made of the same thick red stone as the gateposts. Only here the mortar looked as solid as the rocks themselves. The architecture was a kind of farmhouse Gothic, if such a thing is imaginable. It was big and impressive and heavy, but it was also plain and practical and solid, and I suspected that Christian Barnes had had a lot to do with the design. I parked my car in the circular drive in the front of the house, and got out. The afternoon sun made the house look somewhat bright and cheery despite its natural ponderosity, and I felt lighthearted as I walked toward the door. Whatever this job would be, it meant money, and even if it petered out I would at least have had a chance to peer within the confines of Ravenwood, no mean accomplishment in itself, and a topic of conversation for years to come.

  There was no doorbell, so I lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. The brown, paneled door was opened almost instantly by a tall, blocky man with bad teeth who looked at me with a curious half smile on his face. "You McKay?" he asked in a rough, growly voice that fit his appearance.

  I nodded and smiled. "McKain."

  "Sorry. McKain." He smiled more broadly and stuck out his hand. I shook it. It was strong and wire-muscled, yet the flesh was deceptively soft. "I'm Mike Eshleman. Glad to meet you. Carlton's ready to see you. Come on."

  We walked across the short entrance hall into the first of several nicely furnished rooms before we got to the one Runnells was in, and as we walked I wondered about Mike Eshleman. He didn't seem the type to be the majordomo of a place like this. His dirty-blond hair hung to his shoulders, and a scraggly Abe Lincoln beard wreathed his chin. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt, a pair of faded Levi's, and well-scuffed, ankle-high walking boots. Hardly the type I expected to be greeted by.

  The sunroom/bar was all the way at the back of the house, and through its windows I could see across the wide green lawn, replete with gazebos and a platoon of red stone barbecue grills. To the right was a field that looked as though it had once supported corn, and to the left a copse of trees, thick and dark with late-spring leaves. As my eyes became accustomed to the bright light pouring into the room, I was able to make out the form of a man sitting in a rattan chair in a corner near the ornately carved wooden bar. His back was to the window so that his face was in shadow. I think now that he planned it that way. Carlton Runnells had a flair for the dramatic.

  "It's not much," a velvety voice drawled, "but it's home." He sounded like I've always thought Philo Vance would have. It was a voice of studied arrogance, as though he was uncomfortable in a role but determined to play it nonetheless.

  "This's Mr. Runnells," Mike Eshleman said. "Carlton, this's Mr. McKain."

  "Thanks, Michael. A drink, Mr. McKain?" To his credit, he did stand up and offer me his hand. It was as soft as Eshleman's, but not as strong, although he squeezed harder than the younger man.

  "Maybe just a Coke, thanks." I like to drink, but not with clients. It doesn't impress them if you start snuffling up the booze when they want to talk business.

  "Michael, get Mr. McKain a Coke, please." Michael went to the bar, smiling all the way. "Did you find the place all right?"

  "No problem." I smiled, and we waited for Michael to prepare my Coke.

  I guessed that Runnells was in his mid-forties. He was full-faced, going to fat a little, but looked to be in good shape. His black hair was cut short, and I saw no traces of gray in it. The shirt was Izod, the jeans were of the designer variety, and he wore them both well. When he sat down again, he put his feet up on a leather ottoman, revealing virginally soled Docksiders, and lit a cigarette with a slim gold lighter engraved with a Gothic C. Dunhill, of course. In brief, he looked like a man who, although not born to the purple, always knew exactly how he would live once he got there.

  Eshleman brought me my Coke, and I sat in a leather wing chair next to Runnells. I couldn't help but notice that the seat of his chair was much higher than mine, so that I had to look up at him while we sat. It didn't bother me. Enough to notice it, maybe, but no more than that. Eshleman stood beside us, smiling uncomfortably now, unsure of himself. I thanked him for the Coke.

  "Sure," he said. "S'okay."

  "Michael, didn't you want to do a bit of hunting later this afternoon?"

  "Uh . . . yeah."

  "Then why don't you go and get the guns ready?"

  "Oh. Yeah, okay." Still smiling, he nodded at me. "Nice meeting you."

  I returned the compliment and he left. "What do you hunt this time of year?" I asked Runnells.

  "Oh, almost anything. There's a lot of land here, all private. I don't allow anyone to hunt on it except for a few friends of mine. We really don't pay much attention to hunting season here. Do you hunt?"

  I shook my head. "Not anymore."

  "You did once?"

  "With my father. A long time ago."

  "Animals."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "You hunted animals, you mean. I assume you'll still hunt people."

  I didn't answer for a moment. Then I said, "Is this a missing person you're talking about?"

  "Yes. There's someone I want you to find for me." He looked at me.

  "I'll try," I said.

  He smiled coyly. "Do you want to know who it is?"

  "Yes."

  "That would help, wouldn't it?" I always let my clients come up with the cute lines.

  "It would."

  Runnells leaned back with his head against the rattan, as if he was finally ready to talk. "His name is Christopher Townes. Have you ever heard of him?"

  I told him I hadn't.

  "He's a designer. Well, not really a designer, he calls himself a situational environmentalist. You haven't heard of that either, have you?" Smoke drifted from his nose.

  Of course I wanted to pop him one, but I didn't. Clients don't tend to pay you when you do things like that. "No, I've never heard of that."

  "It's silly, really, but fun. He comes in and redoes your place as if something had just happened there."

  "Something. Like what?"

  "Oh, a burglary, or a fire—nothing major of course. Maybe painters leaving all their garbage around the night of your party . . ."

  I had to ask. "Why?"

  He looked surprised. "Fun, why else? At first it gave people something to talk about, the person giving the party pretended it was all real, and everyone would go ooooh, aaaah, and start telling stories about how the same thing had happened to them once or to a friend of theirs, and bang, the party was off to a roaring start. But now everyone knows about it . . . well, almost everyone . . . and tries to outdo the last party with an even weirder scenario."

  "And this Townes plans these things?" I caught on fast.

  "Yes. He was the originator of the whole idea."

  "And where is he located?"

  "If I knew that, I wouldn't need an investigator now, would I?" I had heard that one before.

  "I meant . . ."

  "I know what you meant, and his offices are in New York City." He gave me the address, a location in the east eighties, and I jotted it down.

  "You've tried to get in touch with him there?"

  "I have. And his secretary tells me that he's gone away without telling anyone at the firm where."

  "You believe her?"

  "Him. And I don't know whether I do or not."

  "Why do you want to find him?"

  He took a deep breath, looked at me, looked down, looked at me again. "I was afraid you were going to ask that."

  I tried a sympathetic shrug. "I
really should know."

  "Are you confidential?"

  "Like a priest. Only difference is that I've got to report any laws I see broken to someone other than God."

  "But if nothing illegal's going on . . ."

  "I keep my mouth shut. I didn't, I wouldn't work. By the way, who recommended me to you?"

  He smiled. "I'm confidential too. I'll just say someone who was pleased with your work."

  "Fine," I nodded. "Now, back to my question?"

  "Yes. Why do I want to find Christopher Townes?" He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and went to the bar. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. McKain?" he asked, pouring himself a Glenlivet on the rocks. I saw very easily which way the land lay.

  "Yes. I've been married for twelve years, and I've been in love all that time."

  "To the same woman?" He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sorry, that's a very old joke, isn't it?" He came back with his drink and sat down. "Would it surprise you, Mr. McKain, to learn that I was gay?"

  "No."

  He cocked his head and looked at me, humor trying to hide his concern. "I look gay then? Act it?"

  "No, you don't," I said, meaning it. "I just meant that I don't surprise easily."

  "Does it bother you?"

  "No. Not at all." And it didn't. I've known a number of gay people, both through my work and socially. In the first few years I worked on the newspaper, fresh out of college, my best friend there, Tom Lyons, was gay. Ev and I used to have him over for dinner. Sometimes he'd bring a friend, sometimes not. When we went to his place it was the same thing. He finally moved to New York, where the pressure to be straight was nonexistent, and has since settled down with a permanent roommate whom Ev and I approve of heartily, and, I must confess, with relief.

  "Would it bother you to work on a gay-related case?"

  I smiled. "No. Not as long as I don't have to participate sexually."

  He grinned. "Oh, there's no danger of that. Unless you care to, of course." His tone was teasing, almost seductive. Perhaps I only imagined it, perhaps it was some remaining trace of homophobia that I only thought had been banished from my psyche, but in fact I think not. I think that Carlton Runnells was a seducer, if not physically, then at least psychically. He was a man who likes to feel power over people. I saw it in the way he dealt with Michael Eshleman and in the way he dealt with me.

  "Christopher Townes," I prompted.

  "Yes. Christopher Townes. Not a word to anyone, now." I shook my head. "Last summer I met Chris up in Provincetown. You know it?"

  "Yes. We vacationed in Truro two years ago."

  "Well, nothing happened then, though I must confess I was very much attracted to him. We just met, I found out who he was and what he did, and that was about it. I was fascinated by his situational environmentalism thing, and he asked me to a party one of his clients who was also a good friend was having in September in the city—New York," he clarified, and I nodded. "So I went, and to make a long story short, we became lovers—I went back to his place that night. I went home the next day. There were no promises, no entanglements. In fact, he told me about his roommate and about how jealous he would get if he thought Chris was sleeping around. So at first I tried to dismiss it as just one of those things, you know. But I couldn't. I was in love, Mr. McKain. I was very much in love with this man, and I didn't know what to do about it."

  He cleared his throat and took another sip of his scotch. "I . . . am not an . . . indiscriminate homosexual, Mr. McKain. I don't do bathhouses or bars. I'm a romantic. I have to be a little bit in love, or I'd just as soon forget the whole thing. And most of the time I do. I was very lucky to end up living the way I'm living—Leona, God bless her, was very good to me—but ever since she died, I've been looking for someone to share it with. There were times I thought I'd found someone, but it always turned out that their talent for fidelity couldn't equal mine. I don't want a lover or a roommate, Mr. McKain. I want a lifemate. I want someone to be for me what your wife apparently is for you. I want to be in love and stay in love."

  He sat back and looked down at the floor. It was quite a speech, and it would have wearied me too. I sympathized with him, though, as he intended I should. "And Townes?" I asked gently. "How did he feel about all this?"

  "Much the same, I could tell. It struck me that he was afraid of his roommate in some way, that while there might have been an attraction there once, it was long gone. I knew I had to see him again. So I did the logical thing. I contracted him to design an environment for me—a party I have every January second."

  "January second?"

  "Yes. Sort of a post-New Year's Eve bash. Everyone has New Year's Day to sit around and recuperate and watch bowl games or whatever. Then they come over to my place and get swizzled all over again. Good clean fun. So I called Chris, told him what I wanted, and he came down just after Christmas."

  "Does he bring his roommate along on these business trips?"

  "No. Ben—that's his name, Ben Arkassian—doesn't like to leave the city for some reason. Chris said he has some kind of business there. He was very closemouthed about it, as though he didn't really approve of it."

  "You have no idea what it was?"

  Runnells shook his head impatiently. "No. So anyway, Chris came down here, and what happened in the city happened again, and I fell in love even more deeply. This time, I'm glad to say, my feelings were reciprocated. He told me he loved me too, but that he was afraid to leave Ben. He didn't come right out and say it, but I think he was afraid Ben might harm him in some way." Runnells gave an exasperated laugh and ran his hand over his short black hair. "This must all sound very decadent to you—the trials and tribulations of an aging homosexual . . ."

  I gave him my best official man-of-stone smile. "I handle a lot of domestic cases, Mr. Runnells. This is nothing new to me. Please don't feel self-conscious. I'm here to help you, not to judge you or your life style."

  There was a brief flare in his eyes that died down as quickly as it had come. "I appreciate that. Well, Chris did the party. It was wonderful—he used the after-the-ball idea, which fit perfectly. It was the recreation of a frat house after a positively tremendous party. If you saw Animal House, you'll have an idea. Empty liquor bottles, discarded togas, ripped streamers, banners with Gamma Gamma Gamma on them, well, it was a hoot, and everyone loved it. The last guests left about three-thirty in the morning, and then Chris and I went to bed together.

  "I woke up after ten, and he was gone, along with his bags. No note, nothing. I didn't know what to do. Michael said he left shortly after dawn without saying a word."

  "Michael," I interrupted. "Does he live here with you?"

  "Yes. Michael is very good to me. He's sort of my man of all work—everything, that is, except sex. Michael is fiercely heterosexual, a result, no doubt, of his good Church of the Brethren upbringing. So instead of picking up boys, Michael goes to the Seventh Ward in Lancaster and picks up Spanish girls." He sighed. "At least he never brings them here, I will say that."

  "Did you try to get in touch with Townes after he left?"

  "Sure. And I talked to him."

  "And?"

  "He told me he couldn't see me anymore, that it had been a mistake, and that he didn't want me to call him again or to write to him. But I could tell that there was more to it than he was telling me. I asked him if he was in any danger from Ben, and he said he wasn't. But I could tell he was lying. I was crushed, but I told him that I'd do what he asked me. And at the time I fully intended to. I loved him, you see. I didn't want to see him hurt. And I knew that some of the gay crowd in the city can be pretty rough. Maybe Ben was into S and M, I didn't know. Chris was very submissive in bed, maybe that was why I thought that. So I decided that Chris would no longer be a part of my life." Runnells snorted a laugh. "That noble stance lasted all of two months. I wrote him a letter, waited two weeks, and got no answer. Then I called his office, figuring that if I called him at home Ben might answer. His receptionist said tha
t he was out of town. When I asked where, she said that she didn't have that information. So I called his apartment. Someone answered, I assume Ben, and when I asked to talk to Chris, he told me the same thing, only much more rudely."

  He shook his head jerkily, and when he pressed his lips together, they were white. "I'm afraid for him, Mr. McKain. I'm very much afraid something might have happened to him. I want you to find him for me. I can't go to the police, I mean, for what? They'd think I was crazy, and maybe I am. But I love him and I want to see him again. It's that simple. If he's happy, fine. I won't bother him. But I've just got to know that he's all right. Can you find that out for me?"

  I nodded. "I can try. I can't straighten out any personal problems you might have, but I'm sure you don't expect me to do that. What I can do is let you know where he is and if he's safe. Beyond that, you'll have to be on your own."

  Runnells nodded. "I can't ask for any more than that, I guess. No, that's all I need, really. That's exactly what I need."

  "All right. You've given me his name and address. How old is he?"

  "Mid-thirties."

  "Do you know exactly?"

  "Let me see . . ." Runnells sucked his lower lip. "I think he told me he was thirty-seven . . . yes, that was it. Thirty-seven."

  "Do you have a photo?"

  He passed me a small assortment of snapshots he took from his pocket. "You can take these with you. Some of those are from the Cape, others from the party here. There's something else that might help you."

  Runnells stood up and led the way through several rooms until we arrived in a dark wood and leather den. He opened the doors on a large cherry-wood unit, revealing a twenty-five-inch TV monitor and VCR. While he loaded a tape, I glanced at the pictures. The first was of Runnells in a brief bathing suit that did little to disguise his burgeoning paunch. Beside him, smiling at the camera, was a man I took to be Christopher Townes. He was taller than Runnells, and much thinner. His skin was pale, anemic-looking. There were no visible scars on the body. The face was boyish. The eyes squinted against the summer sun, and the thin-fingered right hand was on Runnells's shoulder. The sandy-colored hair was receding, and the ears stood out a bit, a trait made more obvious by the close-cropped hair. He and Runnells looked like they went to the same barber. In the next shot Townes was in profile, and I got a better glimpse of the nose. It was quite aquiline, and pointed at the end.