Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

  Jamie was negotiating with one; so he led with his strengths. “I’ve got a big dick and I love to fuck. I’m also a virgin up the ass. I’ve always been a top, left side keys. My ass has never been touched.” Jamie looked down at Tommy Ford’s jock, then back at his eyes. “Maybe you can teach me how to like it. Maybe I can teach you.”

  “Wow,” Ford gasped. “To be with somebody like you. You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then come away with me. Right now.”

  “Randy’d never let me get away with it. He’d find me. He’d launch an international manhunt.”

  “He doesn’t have the power. Stop letting him intimidate you. Tommy, I’ve got millions at Merrill Lynch. We can make it, come on! This is the best offer of your life. The cops are coming, they heard your message at the same time I did. I was just closer to your location, they’ve got a huge task force. If you stay, you’ll die here. Every minute counts! Decide now. Take the best offer of your life. Do it right now!”

  Randolph Scott Crum took out a petite handgun and aimed it at them. “Don’t try anything, Foster. We’re in this together, Tommy.”

  Jamie’s heart sank. Ford looked at the gun, had to step away. “He was telling me his theory about animal tranquilizers, doc. He knows all about ’em. It’s important. If he figured it out somebody else may too. What if he’s already told the cops?”

  “Kill him, so he doesn’t tell anymore.”

  Jamie stood there alone.

  More photos from different angles. Everyone had a camera and he had a face.

  Another knifeblade was on his right asscheek. Then slice, no jeans there. Soon the same on the other side.

  I love you, Rick. I love you, Mom. I love you, Danny, Stoney too.

  I love you, Casey.

  The blade was on his left hip, cutting a swath across his crotch. He held his breath, didn’t want his sex cut off.

  The jeans fell to his ankles, but he still had the waistband and his dick.

  I love you, Jamie.

  Then he thought of someone else, who crowded his mind.

  He swallowed. It was his last living chance. There was no reason not to now. Electrical charges shot down his body. His sweat popped out.

  He pictured him at the Slough, shaking Jamie’s shoulders and demanding why. In the car, speeding him to the hospital; at the house, bringing groceries and a homemade pie.

  At the Victory, making him laugh, vowing to wear a tiara if necessary, taking command, “you won’t out-commitment me!”

  And on a pallet, smelling of sweetness, gently snoring.

  I love you, Kent. Thank you for these two weeks.

  Now get these guys!

  Camcorders whirred. “Heh-heh-heh.” High-pitched voice: “God, he’s a pretty one, Randy!” “Yeah, heh-heh. Like a fashion model, ain’t he.” Jamie winced. “You guys, come around here and get his face. He’s—it’s quite a face.” “And his dick! He’s hung, Jesus.” “Get him from all angles! He’s gorgeous.” Jamie was almost pleased with that; shooting pictures takes time. Get

  all you want, boys, I’m not going anywhere. He posed and flexed and gave them a show.

  There was movement behind him. A hand was on his left shoulder. He tightened up. “Easy,” Ford whispered. His hand traveled down to grasp Jamie’s naked ass. The touch was perverse, but Jamie didn’t cry out.

  Ford stepped around. “Act human, you fool. The Angel of Death will only raise his price the braver you are. Break down a little, it’s your only chance. Please, Jamie.”

  Jamie stared at him. “The best offer you’ll ever get.”

  Ford paled, looked down at Jamie’s pumped body. “I know.”

  They abused him with their lascivious remarks, small minds and free gropes, as they took shot after shot. Jamie’s mind’s eye pictured a cauldron, red-orange lava boiling over the sides, scorching everything, consuming everything, the whole earth opening up in fury.

  Ford’s hated hand stroked his butt again. Jamie hardened his mind. Finally the others moved away. Tonight I dominate. “Hey,” he called out, “if I’m going to die anyway, why not make this fun?”

  Ford stared. “Are you insane?”

  “Let’s have fun. Let’s get off,” Jamie replied. Loudly he called, “Line up, cocksuckers. Down on your knees. Take advantage of the beautiful blond stud who’s tied up to the tree. Show me what you can do, be a movie star.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ford muttered.

  “Or maybe you’d rather get fucked. That’s even better, just bend over and climb aboard. But take turns, no pushing, I’ll do the shoving. Who wants to be first?”

  They were totally confused. A victim enjoying himself? Jamie smiled. Ford told Crum, “He’s crazy.”

  Jamie said,“Believe me,Tommy,it really is more fun with a guy who’s alive. Get down on your knees and grab a mouthful. Taste that big young blond muscular cock.”

  It hit Jamie, the psychodynamics of these scumbags. They were all so self-hating they couldn’t give a blowjob to the living.

  But Jerry Lash appeared. “How about me?”

  Jamie eyed the slob. “Sure, Jerry. Down on your knees, suck my cock. I’ll give your mouth a workout you’ll never forget.”

  Crum called, “We don’t have time for this.” He was upset, his movie wasn’t going as planned. He was losing control.

  Ford said, “I should fuck you instead.”

  Jamie said, “No, for that you’d better kill me first. So I don’t mock you for how little your dick is.”

  “You’ll pay for that, faggot.”

  Crum yelled, “Get on with the whip, Tommy. Jerry, get the hell out.” But Jerry didn’t, he knelt in front of Jamie instead.

  Jamie knew it was the right thing to do, but he couldn’t imagine tolerating it for one second. Dominate! “Hey Crum, come over here and get some closeups of my cock. Take a real good look at it. Come over and suck it. It’d turn me on. I’d love to get a blowjob from you.”

  “It would mess up my movie.”

  “Did you ever hear of editing? Come on! Let’s have fun. Guys, now’s the time for every gang-bang fantasy you’ve ever had. Come suck the hot blond muscleboy.”

  Crum said, “I’ll shoot any cocksucker who tries it.”

  With that, Lash got up and left, and Ford said, “I have to use a bullwhip on you now. Randy will be taping as you pass out from the beating. Once you’re unconscious, then, well, we bring out the knives. In honor of Roger. But you won’t feel that, I promise.”

  “In honor of a man who murdered 21 people. You have the brain of pond slime, trying to convince yourself that killing me won’t hurt. Victims hurt, Tommy! You’re not just a psychopath, you’re an idiot.”

  “You’re a wise ass.”

  “Last chance, Tommy. Just circle around Crum, take your knife out and kill him. Get his gun and let’s leave. No one will stop us. Kill him, Tommy, and be done with it. You know it’s all his fault. Let’s make a new life at our villa in Mexico.”

  “It’s too late, Jamie, I’m in it too deep.”

  “No, you’re not, you have 60 seconds to escape.”

  They looked in each other’s eyes. “But I like killing.”

  That was the essential problem. “Then tonight you find out what dying feels like. Enjoy it! Kent kills you tonight.”

  They heard distant gunshots. Trees, snipers? Ford, in fury and fear, flipped his whip. “Then tonight we all die!”

  On Jamie’s back, a searing pain—but inside his head, a very bright flash, an organ chord at fortissimo. He saw Kent’s face; his courageous, sensitive, avenging face.

  Ford began a frenzy of whipping. Over and over he punished his worst enemy on earth, the one who wrote the truth about him.

  Another strike, and blood trickled down Jamie’s back.

  More lashes, terrible pain; he dreamed of Kent holding him, comforting him. A voice, desert-dry and very old: Let not your heart be troubled.

  Horror now on his ass, his sex; t
he Devil himself appeared in the thickest mist, smiling without a face, a red-dressed pope.

  Sharp new pains in Jamie’s back and side, reaching all the way inside him. “Take that, you motherfucker!”

  Jamie didn’t cry out. Littleknife. And more pictures. God, look at that blood spurt.

  His vision began to blur. Waves of weakness washed over him. He retched with the pain; but he didn’t cry out.

  “Didja get me stabbing him?” Littleknife cried. People seemed to be running around, there was confusion.

  Crum was pissed. “You weren’t supposed to do that till I said so! You start hacking, I’ll blow you away.”

  A leather tie was wrapped around Jamie’s neck. He could not breathe. Life was spilling out his side. He watched it in a daze, somehow alert. Oh God, I’m dying. My heart will not be troubled.

  His legs gave out. He separated from his body.

  Distantly he knew a pair of hands picked up the tie. He heard something, smiled slightly. His body passed out.

  A helicopter zoomed over the treetops. “Police, don’t move! Put your hands up,” Slaughter ordered. Kent wanted as many alive as possible.

  “Oh, God, run!” Crum yelled. Kent, shoulder braced against the open door, aimed his weapon and squeezed. Tommy Ford screamed in agony, then experienced death first-hand.

  Bulldog squeezed. Lash fell wounded.

  Jack Snyder pivoted and fired. A photographer twitched and left.

  More shots exploded. Barry Hickman got someone’s leg. Lash’s high-pitched voice screamed, “I surrender!” Others ran for the darkness.

  “I surrender too!” Crum cried.

  Eight feet before Slaughter landed the aircraft Kent jumped out, trained his sights on Crum. Other officers poured out of the chopper.

  Someone else tried to flee and Phil Blaney dropped him, Gay on Gay, bang!

  Gunsmoke singed Kent’s nostrils, tears burned his eyes. The semiautomatic felt too small, he suddenly wanted an Ouzi, as many dead as possible. Then he saw Littleknife trying to escape and he squeezed. The stabber died.

  “I’m on Crum, Kent,” Helmreich yelled, weapon drawn, hand pushing Kent’s arm down. His arm was trained, so it dropped, but his legs wouldn’t run yet. He stared at Jamie. His naked body hung on the tree, but his spirit seemed to be airborne.

  38

  Blood

  It only lasted a split second. Kent ran and the sensation was gone. “Victim!” he commanded, dashing to get Jamie free. Someone radioed HQ.

  Armed officers—soon to be 50—brought survivors into the clearing. Helmreich, weapon drawn pointblank, snarled at Crum, “Who’s missing?”

  Crum looked around, petrified as his peter drooped. “Let’s see, oh, don’t shoot.”

  “How many total?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Count bodies!” Slaughter yelled as he ran to Jamie.

  “Systematic sweep,” Kent shouted. “Core group on the victim.” Stop the bleeding!

  “We’re gettin’ ’em,” Hickman whooped. He came to snap cuffs on Crum, tried not to beat him to a pulp.

  Jamie, on some unknown plane of existence, saw a bright red vision; his ears heard the roar of consuming fire. The famed TV preacher was done up like the Devil himself, blood-freezing; speaking in tongues of hatred, smiling on cue. Devil had no horns—he had satellites, advertisers, a studio audience and ten billion dollars.

  His eyes were furied, ecstatic; his set was dressed with skulls stacked from here to Cambodia. His throne built of Bibles burned without ceasing, the heat flesh-melting. His angels rent bodies scabbed of lavender sarcoma. His fire stole oxygen from gasping lungs. He was a sadist. He enjoyed murder as much as Tommy Ford did.

  Kent saw, heard, smelled it all too; shook it off, searching for arteries to squeeze shut.

  Then Jamie saw a white pinpoint of light, far off, intense; getting bigger, welcoming and wise. Rick. He watched his rescue with reportorial detachment.

  Kent felt hot blood spurt onto his chest. He pressed his hands on the wounds while Doc Helmreich sawed the rope. Kent felt open flesh, hot, soft and mooshy. He tried to find those arteries.

  Jamie’s arms dropped free from the branch overhead as Doc cursed.

  Gently, quickly they laid the body face down on the ground. Hickman felt the neck for a pulse. It was there, but irregular, weakening fast. They had no blankets. “Cut off my sweatshirt, Doc,” Kent cried. “Wrap it around him to prevent shock.” Helmreich chopped at the fleece.

  Kent found a blood vessel on Jamie’s side, squeezed it; felt his guts try to vomit. The spurting there stopped, but continued from the back like a hydrant flushing. “Stay with me, Jamie!” he shouted. “Help’s on the way. Stay with me, partner!” He kissed a swoop of blond hair.

  Jamie stopped being able to see anything but the light.

  Blaney finished checking Ford’s body, hurried over. Campbell came running with a stretcher. Doc got the sweatshirt round Jamie’s back, obscenely striped.

  Where’s that other artery? Kent couldn’t find it.

  They got the body onto the stretcher. Campbell and Hickman carried while Kent kept pressing down, down, watching the sweatshirt get soaked. With a stick Bulldog grabbed Crum’s videocam, ran to load it on the aircraft. “What’s the nearest hospital?” Kent cried. They ran, he held on. There! He squeezed, the bleeding stopped.

  “Shawnee, and it’s got a pad,” Phil said.

  Kent yelled, “Hang on, Jamie! Let’s go, let’s go!”

  Slaughter jumped into the captain’s seat and in seconds they were away. ***

  They made Kent leave him once they got Jamie onto the table and clamped.

  He stood aside to watch the doctors prep the body. Then a gloved nurse and a chaplain forced him into a scrub room to wash off. “Get in the shower. You’ve got it the worst. We’ll give you a hospital gown,” the nurse said.

  “Forget it,” Kent growled, “I ain’t wearing no gown.”

  The blood on his jeans caked. He didn’t let the nurse touch him. Someone threw him a towel. He wiped off his chest and arms. He caught himself in a mirror and froze.

  The other officers were led to a room for those who wait. Kent stared at rusty blood on his lips.

  Everyone looked up as he was brought into the room. He shook off his escorts politely, stood motionless a second. Slowly he walked over to the near wall, in front of a bank of windows with heavy drapes drawn. As a police officer he was trained to die. He was not trained to have Jamie do it for him.

  Kent moved deliberately, almost in slo-mo. He reached up, yanked the curtain rod out of the cement blocks and screamed into the night. There lay Jamie, pale and naked as death. ***

  Someone was holding Kent down. Others patted his shoulder, held his hand. He was still wracking; his eyes ached. In a minute he would try to open them. He gasped for air.

  He made out that it was Slaughter who was holding him down, holding him. The hand in his right was soft, so it had to be Julie’s.

  He didn’t want his hand held, so he let go. Bulldog was above somewhere, murmuring comfort. Kent could feel wall on both his shoulders. They had taken him to a corner. He sat on cold tile with his knees to his chest. Someone had taped blankets over the windows.

  He gained the ability to look at George. “They’re doing all they can,” Slaughter said.

  Another round of sobbing overtook Kent. “Oh, man, no!”

  At some point he convinced them to let him stand. Slaughter hung on his shoulder. Kent needed to walk, get the stiffness out of his knees. He was keening softly now. Slaughter patted Kent’s chest as they walked together.

  Campbell was frightened. She had never seen her partner lose it like this. She had never seen any officer lose it like this.

  A chaplain spoke quietly at the table with Blaney and Bulldog. Doc Helmreich stood away from everyone, illegally smoking. Jack Snyder joined him. Hickman asked about coffee.

  The nurse came back, or maybe hadn’t left; he leaned against the
back wall. Kent walked up to the guy, looked him in the eye, then down and away. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?”

  Kent mumbled, “Getting there.”

  “Everybody has to get an AIDS test.”

  Kent turned slowly to confront this. “Why?”

  “You came in contact with a lot of blood,” the nurse replied, palms up like the answer was obvious. “Look at your britches.”

  The room was silent for a minute. Kent just shook his head; shook it and shook it.

  Campbell spoke up. “Think about it, Kent. He was a homosexual. I sure as heck want that test.”

  He looked at her. She was standing only six feet away.

  If she were a guy he’d have slugged her. It didn’t matter that she’d been in on the rescue, he’d have slugged her.

  “He is my partner! He is my living partner!” He slammed his fist into his other hand in lieu of her face.

  Campbell stepped away, tried to make amends. He turned his back on her. She put her hand on his shoulder. Carefully, firmly and in control, without turning around, he removed the hand. He paused, felt the tightness of his grip, let loose.

  It did not violate him again.

  The nurse said something about making arrangements at the lab, and how everyone would have to be retested three and six months later. “I refuse,” Kent told Slaughter. The chief looked at him, made no reply.

  “Kent, maybe we should listen to what the nurse here is saying,” Bulldog offered. “I’m pretty sure Jamie’s negative, but a little needle-stick won’t hurt anybody. We’d know that way, have peace of mind.”

  “I refuse,” Kent repeated to Slaughter.

  “Okay, son. Okay. You’re on the record. Relax now.”

  Kent tried to, couldn’t. Jamie’s in there dying and they’re worried about themselves? Puh-lease.

  In the corner, Campbell complained to anyone who would listen about how scared she was of getting AIDS. “I told you we should have worn our rubber gloves,” she told Hickman. “These damn homosexuals scream bloody murder if you try to protect yourself from them. God, what a night. First it’s a gaybar and then we get doused with a homosexual’s blood.”

  As nearly as Kent could make out, the most she’d gotten was two drops on her right boot. How selfish can you get? “Bloody murder,” huh?