by Josh Thomas
He gathered speed. “You’re a reporter, I know you’d like to hear the rest of the story. That FBI agent you talked to up in Canada, Jamie, remember him? He told me the whole conversation, dumbass. About how there’s no such thing as snuff films?”
He waited as long as the clock allowed, timing it perfectly. “Take it, bitch. Take it up your ass like you love it. The guy at Quantico’s the fuckin’ Angel of Death, Jamie. The CEO of Killer Video!”
The hysterical laughter curdled even Slaughter’s cold blood.
37
Dominate
Jamie leapt a quantum. “E.T. Call home.”
It wasn’t a movie, not strategy and tactics, it was Thelma and her illuminated finger at Hoosier Hospital. He redialed HQ, got a patch to his Mom’s house, punched in the code. Noted the directions to the motel. Wished for fast-forward. When he got to the beating heart, he dropped the phone, whomped the gas, back onto the highway.
“Jamie, don’t go anywhere!” Kent yelled.
Jamie had 19 minutes before Davey met Providence.
***
His watch read 3:06. The smell of armpit reached his nose. He couldn’t go fast enough; too many hills and curves. “Goddamn southern Indiana. Where’s the prairie when I need it?” he said to the sweatshirt, as if it still contained a microphone. No wonder I have lousy karma—what else could I have in an IU sweatshirt?
He lowered his window. A tractor trailer rolled toward him. Left hand on the wheel, his right hand reached over his shoulder and yanked. The sweatshirt came over his head and his contacts readjusted. Steer!
The big truck barreled past, horn blaring. He switched hands, pulled again, flung the sweatshirt out the window.
Flashed briefly on the heart that was beating in his chest. His cell phone rang. He grabbed it, “Hello? Hello?”
It was nothing but static. He beat it against his chest. “Hello?” He listened to static, then the line went dead. A red light came on, Batt Low. Open-mouthed, he tossed the phone onto the back seat.
Close now. Very quiet. No evidence of snipers. Were there gunners in the trees?
His watch said 3:11. He hoped it was right.
There was the motel on the left; rundown, seedy, impoverished, the sign not lit up, only a neon NO for vacancy. There was one car in the lot, a brown econobox.
He pulled off the road opposite the place, turned off his lights, waited. Nothing happened.
When his watch hit 3:15 he eased into the gravel lot, parked close to the office. He cut the ignition, stepped out into the night. The nearest light bulb was six doors away.
The office looked abandoned, not even a soft drink machine to break the darkness. He looked back at the sign and noticed a name on top he hadn’t seen before: Crum’s FAMILY COURT MOTEL.
Everyone’s been killed right here. To be eaten by Southern Indiana bugs. Tonight, I dominate.
He dropped his voice-activated recorder in his pocket, then crept toward the room. Tried the knob. It moved. “Tommy. I’m here.” No answer. “Alone.” Crickets without long to live chirped in the still night air. He waited, praying for Davey. Slowly the door opened.
Jamie saw black boots, a bare White leg, jockstrap, hunting belt with Bowie knife; leather harness, mouth, teeth, and mocking, delighted eyes. “You,” said Thomas Alan Ford, “are one beautiful specimen of manhood.”
It was revolting to Jamie, but Ford meant it as a compliment. “Nice touch, coming with no shirt. Your picture doesn’t do you justice. Look at those muscles. Man, you’ve got a great body. Too bad I have to kill you,” he smiled. “So let’s get to it.”
He flipped on a 15-watt bulb and Jamie stepped inside. Naked Davey lay face down, butt-plugged and handcuffed on the bed, a rag around his eyes, a narrow leather tie wrapped loosely around his neck.
He snored. Jamie could only wait, extend time. John-Mark, Christopher, Glenn flashed before his eyes. “You weren’t fooling. You’d have killed him.”
“Damn right. Help me move him. You got here in the nick of time. I thought we were going to have to settle for him tonight and get you later.”
“Where are we taking him?”
“The woods behind this place. Let him sleep it off.”
“How do I know you’ll trade?”
“You don’t,” Ford grinned. “Still, he’s not who I want. You are. So I’ll trade. I always told you we were nice. But you’ve never gotten it through your thick Ivy League skull. How someone so smart could be so stupid I never have understood.”
Jamie thought about it, took his time. “If you don’t trade you’ll have no ability to claim, to yourself or anyone else, that you’re a nice person.” Ford glared. “You’ll trade, all right.” Dominate. “You have to. After you kill me you won’t want to be anywhere near here.”
“I can kill you both.”
“I won’t let you. You’ll trade, you’re a nice guy.”
Ford’s eyes got big. “Now you get it! I always told you we were nice guys.”
You’re human puke.
Ford stepped into moonlight, opened the Toyota’s back door. Jamie spotted a handcuff key on the dresser, grabbed it, dropped it in his pocket. Ford re-entered and Jamie said, “Take his cuffs off. It’ll be easier to carry him.”
“Shit, I know that. Think I’m stupid, Mr. Phi Beta Kappa?” Ford looked for the key, “Where is that thing?” But when he couldn’t find it he just used another on his key ring.
Jamie got the ankles, Ford the shoulders. Jamie feigned weakness. “Gee, he’s heavy. We’re carrying dead weight.”
“One, two, three,” Ford said. They swung Davey off the bed, snoring uninterrupted.
Walking backwards, Jamie felt the threshold, then cement, now gravel under his boots. He looked behind him, ducked, stepped into the car, hoping for slow motion.
They laid Davey on the back seat. The car stunk horribly. Jamie knew from what. God bless Glenn and Gary. He opened the other door, stepped out a split-second before he vomited.
Ford’s knife caught the moonlight, glinted hugely. “Get in the car.”
“No. We should get a blanket.”
“What for?”
“For your nice-guy scenario. Since you’re going to trade, why should he wake up and find himself naked? Give him something to cover himself with. Why should he suffer the indignity?”
“Oh, jeez,” Ford complained. But he went to fetch a blanket. The keys weren’t in the ignition or Jamie would have driven Davey away. Ford came back, threw the blanket in the back. “Get in.” Jamie didn’t. “Or else I’ll stab him right now.” Ford unbuckled his knife. “You decide. You don’t get in, you’re the one who killed him.”
“I won’t stab him. Don’t blame me for your actions.”
“Get in the car or I’ll stab you both!”
Jamie finally got in, stuck his head out the window for air. “How can you stand this stench? I may faint.”
“It doesn’t smell good. But it reminds me what I’m here to do.” Ford drove to a lane in back of the parking lot. Its ruts led into woods. After 500 yards he parked. “Last call for alcohol,” he chirped.
They settled Davey under a willow tree as comfortably as they could. Ford didn’t recuff him. “He’ll sleep it off, won’t remember a thing. Won’t know how he got here, but that’s his tough luck.”
“Thank you for trading.”
“Thank you for noticing. He won’t even remember what I look like.”
Jamie laid the blanket around Davey like he was tending a newborn. Slowly he removed the butt plug; the sphincter didn’t want to give, then finally it did. What is more intimate than easing a stranger’s ass? He tossed the dildo into the trees. Ford took the leather tie from Davey’s neck, hung it around his own. “Are you still using animal tranq?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my business to know.”
“No, tell me, how’d you know that?”
“The victims showed no signs of a strugg
le. Why not? They were already unconscious when you killed them, that’s why. What did you use? Something seldom traced. You got animal tranq from your D.V.M. sugar daddy. Tell me, was Crum always so creepy?”
“Yeah, but he makes a good living. We were young, who wouldn’t want to live in a nice house, even if some old troll owns it? We had the run of the farm and we could fuck whenever we wanted. All we had to do was let him take pictures.”
“Roger topped you, didn’t he? That’s how you got into this. You’ve been competing with him ever since.”
Ford frowned, “We topped each other, damn you.”
“Walking around in his boots and fatigues, like he didn’t buy them from army surplus. I guess he felt like a real big man. Then he’d come home and fuck you.”
“We fucked each other, goddamn you.”
“While Crum took pictures? And sold them?”
“It was fun. We were in a bunch of magazines, got paid for it. I’ve still got everything we were ever in. Hey, enough of this talk, this ain’t no interview.” Ford’s eyes shone. “This is your execution.”
Jamie felt a knifepoint in the small of his back. Time suspended itself.
He breathed. He could barely see among the thick trees. “Harch one two three,” Ford said, carrying his bag of tricks. Jamie found a path and slowly harched.
But he knew one thing: Now I dominate.
He owed it to Glenn, to a dozen other guys who never got the chance to defend themselves. He didn’t know how he’d do it, he didn’t expect it to save him; but he wouldn’t be Tommy Ford’s passive queer.
***
After some distance through forestland, there was a large, circular clearing, and the moon shone on it. Steel touched his neck. “You see that oak tree on your left? The one with the big branch running parallel to the ground? Perfect height, ain’t it?”
The tree was just like the one Schmidgall and Crum tied Barlow to, before they hacked him to death. “There.” Ford poked Jamie with the butt of his knife.
Jamie moved. First his right foot, then his left. “Come on, move it,” Ford growled. “We ain’t got all night.”
“I can’t see well in darkness,” Jamie protested. “Terrible night vision.”
Ford seemed to buy it. Jamie’s boots found dry leaves.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Come on, Kent.
And you were right. I should have taken the gun.
“Right up there.”
On his left, Dr. Randolph Scott Crum popped out from behind a tree, all jelly belly, white disheveled hair, grinning yellow teeth and camcorder. His fly was open, and Jamie looked away.
Then he turned and stared the man full in the face.
Here was evil. Here was a homosexual who used money and position to entice two young men into a life of pornographic murder.
Dozens of Gay men had paid for Randolph Scott Crum’s bloodthirsty perversions. Jamie stared at him. Crum recognized him from the Barlow trial. He did now what he did then, looked away nervously, in the face of accusation and truth.
Jamie spat on him. There was a flash of light. When his sight came back he saw Jerry Lash behind a camera.
“Hands behind your back, Jamie,” Ford said. His voice took on a wannabe-hypnotic quality. “Assume the position.”
“What position is that?” Jamie, far from hypnotized, played stupid and bored.
“You know. The submissive position.”
“I wouldn’t know what that is.”
“Like you’re not a bottom,” Ford muttered, grabbing Jamie’s wrists and yanking them behind his back.
“I’m a top, ace. See these keys on my left? You like tops. You liked it when Roger fucked you.” Cuffs clicked anyway.
His boots were kicked apart. He struggled to maintain his balance. Then camera lights were thrown on, phoosh! Phoosh! Phoosh! And they stayed on. The clearing became an outdoor set for a nighttime photo shoot.
Jamie smiled. They made it easy on you, Kent. You’ll be able to see where you’re going.
Lash’s high-pitched voice: “Are you getting him, Randy?”
“Yeah, heh-heh. Every bit of him.” Jamie started counting. He found seven people. It’s all about pictures.
“String him up. Then cut off his jeans. Let’s get that pretty little ass out there,” Crum said, directing his movie, squinting into his camcorder.
There was a guy in front of Jamie now, dressed in camouflage, who had a smaller knife on his belt.
Jamie didn’t much believe in Christianity anymore, but he had a need for God whether He exists or not. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
Ford led him to the tree, grasped his hand, unlocked the cuffs to tie him up. Jamie elbowed Ford’s gut, leapt free, kneed Littleknife in the nuts, went for the weapon. It was locked by some kind of clasp and the guy was writhing, doubled over. Jamie turned, kicked Ford in the stomach, sent him flailing backwards. Crum shouted, “Get him, somebody!”
Lash came at Jamie, who swung, caught a shoulder, sent him flying back on his ass. Jamie kicked Littleknife’s jaw, flipped him up and over on his back. But the damn clasp would’t yield. Others ran at them. Ford grasped a wrist, yanked it. “I’ve got you now!”
Jamie punched his jaw, got his other hand free, unsnapped the little knife and started to run, go go go! Crum stormed at him, taping it all. Jamie karate-kicked Crum’s fat gut, decked him. And Jamie ran, ran, ran.
But there were others in front of him, “There he is!” He veered right, behind a tree—then someone was six feet away. Jamie stabbed and took off again. But two others were converging. He juked, dodged away. “Get the son of a bitch!” Crum yelled, struggling back up. “Don’t let him escape!”
Then someone flew at Jamie from behind, wrestled him down. Jamie’s knife fell away, hidden in the darkness, while he pummeled the guy. Three others ran up, caught his arms.
With adrenaline-strength, he elbowed the guy on his right, got an arm free, did the same to the guy on his left even harder. He twisted his trunk and smashed the guy behind him with both fists. Jawbones crunched, the guy screamed in agony.
Jamie’s legs kicked at inhuman beings. But he was down on the ground, someone on his shoulders, two on his left, someone on his legs, pinning him, punching his guts.
He shut his eyes and exploded in all their directions. He sent two reeling, but not all five. They fought, kicked, yelled. Jamie willed himself into a dynamo, punching every which way. Filled with vengeful hatred, he murdered homophobia.
Then finally they got him; subdued him, immobilized him. This time, Dr. Webster, there are signs of a struggle. They dragged him by the arms, face down over rocks and exposed hard roots, back to the killing tree. Crum taped it all.
Jamie knew then that he would die. But in his head his readers cheered; Mr. Ferguson gave him a standing O.
They turned Jamie over. Lash sat on his stomach, so Jamie clenched his abs. His arms pushed up against four of his opponents’. “Jesus, he’s so strong!”
“Sit on his arms!” Crum ordered, gasping and taping. His other hand rubbed his sore, saggy gut.
They did. Jamie pushed and kicked and snarled. One opponent fell back, but two more grabbed that leg.
“Damn, what a fighter!” Ford said, stepping onto Jamie’s hands with heavy boots. He unleashed his Bowie knife and pointed it down at Jamie’s nose. “Top this.”
Knife glinted; resistance ceased. Jamie looked up at Ford, wondered why it took Mr. Brain Surgeon so long to remember his knife. Criminals are stupid. The tip of the Bowie knife, however, was not.
Lash struggled his fat ass up and kicked Jamie’s hard oblique.
“Got him? Wow, this is the most fun we’ve ever had,” Crum shouted. “I can sell this one for an all-time record!”
Rope came from somewhere, tied Jamie’s feet together, bound his hands. Ford hung his obscene knife back on his belt, then lifted him up. They stood there panting.
Ford rubbed leaves and
dirt off Jamie’s face and kissed him right on the lips. Jamie groaned and leaned away, but Ford grabbed him and pulled him to him. Ford stood there in cheap jock strap drag and ground their crotches together, hands all over Jamie’s ass.
Jamie said, “You waited to fuck ’em till after they were passed out. You can’t get it up otherwise. What’s your day job, prepping bodies at the mortuary?”
Ford sneered, “You’re the only one who’s lived this long. But your clock’s ticking.”
“Yours will stop in five minutes.”
Littleknife kept writhing on the ground and moaning, “He stole my good knife.” Finally he staggered up, switched on a flashlight, limped around looking for it.
“Stop it, Tommy,” Crum yelled. “Straight people buy these movies too, this ain’t your private sex show.”
Ford scowled, lifted Jamie’s arms up and tied them to the branch overhead. He untied his feet. Then he kissed him, stuck his tongue in his mouth and sucker-punched him.
Jamie gasped for air. When he finally got his breath back he sang, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, died of AIDS up on Death Row!”
“I hate you, faggot.” Ford slapped Jamie’s face so hard he left a bruise.
Jamie whispered, “You love me,faggot.Can’t keep your hands off me. Why hurt this hot body when you want me so bad?” Ford looked confusedly at Jamie’s chest. Jamie flexed for him. “Admit it. It’s the best body you’ve ever seen.”
Ford fingered one of Jamie’s big nipples. “It sure is.”
“So let’s do this right. Come on, stud, you’re the only one with a weapon. Let’s get out of here and go to Mexico, where we can be nice to each other and forget this stuff.”
“How?” Ford whispered.
“Cut me down, brandish your sword at these wimps and let’s escape. Run to the car and get out of here. Show me your nice side, the one I want to believe in.”
“What’s all this talk about?” Crum yelled, back at his tripod. “Get on with the action.”
Ford eyed Crum. “I can’t,” he whispered to Jamie. “He’s got records on me. If you think I’m bad, he’s a cold-blooded killer.”
