A Casual Weekend Thing

by A. J. Thomas

  Christopher felt his mouth drop open. It took a minute for the world to stop reeling. Then he shut his mouth. “What are the dogs looking for?” he asked.

  “Hell if I know. They ain’t even said hello, much less bothered to respect our fucking jurisdiction. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t go anywhere but the living room?”

  “I went into the kitchen too. I opened every window I could find. Two in the living room, two in the kitchen,” Christopher insisted. “I checked for rotting food too. My prints would be on the door of the fridge, the windows, and the counter. I told them everything I touched. Plus, Doug Heavy Runner was with me the whole time.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” When Christopher gaped at him, he smirked. “Think about it, son…. The house was empty for two weeks, and then it burns down right when you show up to move in. If you were called in to investigate that fire, who would you want to talk to first?”

  “Whoever had access to the scene,” said Christopher quickly. Then his brain caught up with his mouth. “Doug. It was his case and he had the key.”

  Brubaker nodded slowly.

  “But due process will clear him,” Christopher insisted.

  “Will it?” Brubaker looked surprised. “Because so far, the only thing those feds back at the station are convinced of is that there’s a huge chunk of his weekend that he’s not willing to talk about. Did he say anything to you on Monday?”

  Christopher wanted to track Doug down and smack him. The man was so far in the closet that he had gotten too used to lying about who he was. If it came down to being arrested and held until the investigation was over, or telling a few federal agents he preferred men, it shouldn’t have been a difficult choice. What did it matter if he told them they had spent the weekend fucking each other senseless?

  Brubaker looked back at the house. “If he said something to you, son, I’ve got to know.”

  Christopher shrugged. “Nothing. Is he at the station? I need to talk to him about my brother’s truck anyway.”

  “Truck?”

  “There was one listed in the will. I don’t know if he sold it, never owned it, or if someone took it.”

  Brubaker nodded slowly. “Pete drove a white single cab. Older truck, but I don’t remember seeing it sitting around like a junker. I didn’t even think about that. Maybe Dougie had it hauled down to the impound yard and just forgot.”

  The use of his brother’s first name hit Christopher hard. It left a hollow feeling in his stomach. He wasn’t going to get upset over Peter, not again. The man was so far beyond an asshole that he wasn’t worth mourning. Whatever Peter had been to him when they were children didn’t matter—nothing about the man Peter had become was worth crying over.

  “Son, are you all right?” Brubaker asked, nudging him in the shoulder.

  When Christopher opened his eyes, he saw the sheriff staring between him and the burned-out house. Twenty feet behind the sheriff, in the shadow of two tall pine trees, was a skinny young man with dark blond hair. He was in ragged jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and a black leather biker vest that looked like it had been through hell. Christopher would have guessed his age to be around eighteen, but he could have been younger. He was staring at them both, his face pale and frightened.

  When Christopher met the boy’s gaze, the boy bolted. Brubaker turned around to see what Christopher was looking at, but by then the boy was gone.

  “I said, are you all right?”

  Christopher nodded. “Yes. Like I said, I’ve got to go ask Doug about the truck. And I’ve still got to try and organize a funeral.”

  Christopher started walking back toward the house, and Brubaker fell into step beside him. Christopher wondered just how much access he had to the federal investigation. He probably had access to more than he would admit to. The more people who knew about the investigation, the more likely it was that there would be interference and chain-of-custody problems for any evidence the FBI did find.

  “I’ll call and let him know you’ll be by later. Take care of yourself,” said Brubaker, returning to his men while Christopher crossed the street back to his rental car.

  There was only one thing left on his to-do list, and it was the one task he dreaded most.

  A large white and orange warehouse took up half of a city block—it was hard to miss. Reader boards on each corner announced the name of the church, and the times of services, Bible study, Sunday school, and skate-park hours. Beside the church was a parking lot nearly as large as the building itself, and behind it was a large grass field. Well-used playground equipment sat in one corner of the field. Another section was dominated by a wood and concrete skate park, complete with a giant half pipe. The entire area was empty at the moment.

  Christopher parked in the lot near a familiar-looking blue luxury car. He got out of the car and stared at the building, trying to force himself to step toward the two large metal double doors. He wasn’t sure how much time he wasted standing there. When he’d just about decided to give up and get back into his car, the doors opened from the inside. A very large man in a meticulous cream-colored suit stepped out backward, then pulled the door shut and locked it behind him. He turned around, keys in hand, and froze when he saw Christopher standing in the parking lot. The man cocked his head to the side, his white hair swishing with the movement. He strolled up to Christopher as if they were old friends.

  “I should have guessed that was you on Monday,” he said, without any kind of introduction.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I imagine you know you’re nearly the spitting image of your brother. Or you would have been, if either of you had lived different lives. You are Chris, aren’t you?”

  “I am Christopher Hayes, yeah. I haven’t gone by Chris since I was a kid.”

  The fat man nodded. “He always called you Chris, when he spoke about you.”

  “You’re John Liedes?”

  “That I am, that I am. I assume you’re here to talk about arrangements for Peter’s funeral?”

  “I… I was,” said Christopher. “But I don’t know that a funeral is such a good idea. Mostly, I came because I heard he worked for you, and I didn’t know who else might know if there is anyone in town who would want a service. I already contacted a funeral home, and I told them this was his church. I hope that’s all right?”

  “Of course it is,” Liedes said with a smile. “And to be honest, I don’t know if a public service is the best idea either. It’s been plaguing me, though. I keep looking back to the last few times I saw him and wondering why I didn’t notice anything different, why I didn’t catch the signs that he was thinking about hurting himself.”

  “If he was ever honest about his past, you might not think it was all that much of a tragedy,” Christopher muttered.

  The minister shrugged gently. “I believe he was honest. I can’t imagine any man would want to claim the things he talked about. You don’t need to convince me that he made mistakes, or he did terrible things. I’ll tell you this, though—I hear a lot of people pray for forgiveness every day, but I don’t hear all that many sinners actually repent. I don’t hear true guilt in many voices. He was always sorry. He always loved you.”

  Christopher ground his teeth together and tried to control his rising anger before answering. “Do you really think that saying sorry to some myth, just to make himself feel less guilty, somehow makes amends for the things he did?”

  “You don’t believe in the Lord?”

  “No,” Christopher said quickly. “My life is a hell of a lot better without any god.”

  “May I ask, how so?”

  “Because if I believed, I would never be able to stop being angry. If my childhood, if Peter’s life, was all part of some divine plan, then, Reverend, I think I would have to devote my entire existence to finding a way to kill whatever fucked-up holy father orchestrated it all. Life as an atheist means I’ve got no one to blame but the actual people responsible, and I don’t have to go through each day fe
eling like the entire universe is in the hands of a sadistic monster who likes to torture innocent children as a punishment for the sins of their supposed ancestors!”

  Liedes shook his head, but he was smiling. “Every parent plans for their children to grow up strong, good, and successful. They put money into college savings accounts, then make heirloom quilts for grandchildren they may never have. If they have a plan that doesn’t come to fruition, it doesn’t mean they themselves are held accountable for the crimes their adult children commit.”

  “Your god decided that children should be held accountable for original sin, so shouldn’t accountability go in both directions?”

  “I suspect we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one,” Liedes said with a diplomatic and patronizing smile.

  “I suspect you’re right. It’s not something I talk about, usually. You asked why; I told you.”

  “So I did. I can perform a secular service, if you’d like. There are a few people who might like to attend. The staff here at Mission Mountains, I know, would like a chance to say good-bye. Speaking of”—Liedes nodded to a small, beat-up pickup truck slowly turning into the parking lot. The driver slowed the truck down and stopped about fifty yards away from them.

  Behind the wheel of the truck, a young man in a black leather biker vest gaped at them with his mouth open. Then he shifted the truck into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot fast enough to make the tires squeal.

  “Who is that?” Christopher asked. “I saw him outside my brother’s house, not even an hour ago, and that truck looks like an old white Toyota, like—”

  “It Peter’s.” Liedes confirmed what Christopher had already guessed. “The young man’s name is Micah.” The old man shut his eyes and grimaced. “He worked here part time while he was in high school. Peter taught him to drive a stick. He said Micah was planning on buying his truck from him. He’s been upset, since Peter died. I’m surprised he didn’t stop—I know he wanted to meet you.”

  “Did he have a key to Peter’s house?”

  The grimace deepened. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nineteen. And before you start making assumptions, I don’t know if they were involved… like that. Micah was teased in school for being queer, ever since he was fourteen. Peter was the only other openly gay man in Elkin. Micah needed a role model who wasn’t some kind of flaming drag queen like they show on television.”

  “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying…. You sent a young gay man to a pedophile because he needed a role model?”

  “Peter’s crimes were horrible,” Liedes said as he backed up slightly, “but they were decades ago. He worked for me for years, off and on, and I never allowed him to be alone with any child, including Micah. I never encouraged Micah to so much as speak to Peter, but I did point out how Peter was gay but still a man. He was still strong, worked with his hands, and he watched football like everybody else. Children do grow up, though. And with Peter gone, does it matter now?”

  Rage was not the appropriate way to respond to this situation, Christopher’s brain told him. Under no circumstances would it be appropriate to pick this asshole up and throw him into a wall. Not that Christopher could; the man was probably twice his weight. A lecture about the methods of pedophiles might be enlightening, along with a few nasty comments about how people like Peter framed their abuse so even their victims thought what happened between them was either consensual or their own fault. Christopher even thought about explaining just how often victims grow up to be abusers themselves, particularly when no one steps in to tell them that it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

  “How about we plan on next weekend? Saturday, maybe around ten? That way I can announce it at my Sunday and Wednesday services, and give the funeral home a chance to run an announcement in the paper. Which funeral home did you decide on? You going with a burial or cremation?”

  “Mortens,” said Christopher, before he could think better of it. “Cremation.”

  Liedes nodded. “I’ll give them a call. Are you planning on interring the ashes, or scattering them?”

  Throwing Peter’s ashes in the trash probably counted as scattering. “Definitely scattering.”

  “I assume you’re going to want something outside of the church? We can use Morten’s. They’ve got a lovely little room for wakes and viewings. It should be available—I know I would have heard if they had any other business this week.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Christopher, remembering Micah’s frightened expression. “I’m sorry, Reverend, there’s something else I need to take care of before five. Can I stop by Monday to go over the details?”

  “How about Wednesday? Anytime in the afternoon would be fine.”

  “Wednesday.” Christopher nodded. He waved absently and got back into his car.

  When he got to the sheriff’s department, he learned that Doug was once again stuck in the conference room with the two FBI agents. Christopher said hello to some of the deputies who were stuck in the charge room and sat down on Doug's desk. He waited a whole ten minutes before he couldn’t keep himself from bouncing and walked out. He wandered back to the park where he had gone for a run on Monday. In the late-afternoon sun, the park was packed. The playground was full, a little league team was on the baseball diamond, and half a dozen guys were shooting hoops.

  Christopher was a bit surprised when one of the guys playing basketball called to him by name and waved him over. Soon, Christopher was meeting the entire Elkin Volunteer Fire Department again, and was making a complete fool of himself playing alongside them. It was definitely not his sport, but at least he had the stamina to keep up with them. By the time he began to sweat, he was already feeling better. He managed to outpace an older fireman and took a shot from the three-point line. Every one of them groaned and laughed as it sailed over the backboard and bounced into the grass beyond. “I never said I could actually play!” Christopher said, laughing with them.

  He ran off the court to get the ball. When he turned around, he saw Doug, along with both FBI agents, watching from the sidewalk. Special Agent Belkamp had his arms folded across his chest in obvious impatience. Christopher passed the ball back to the firefighter and jogged over to them. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Mr. Hayes.” Special Agent Shaffer smiled. “My partner needs a few more minutes of your time, off the record this time around.”

  “Off the record?” Christopher met Doug’s gaze. Doug shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. Christopher wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that. “Sure.”

  “Can we talk over here?” Agent Belkamp asked.

  Christopher followed him to an empty section of the park. He glanced back and saw Doug fold up his suit jacket, then step onto the basketball court. A few of the firemen slapped him on the back before they began to play. Doug motioned for Agent Shaffer to join them, but the FBI agent shook his head and watched from the sidelines.

  “What’s this about?” Christopher asked, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Doug.

  “Detective Heavy Runner. Do you know where he was Friday and Saturday?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Agent Belkamp waited nearly a full minute before he continued, “It’d be a bit of a help if you’d elaborate.”

  Christopher flexed his right hand. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, focusing on the spots where he knew he should be feeling pain. He could sense pressure against his skin, but it didn’t hurt. “We spent the weekend together, in Missoula.”

  Agent Belkamp stared at him. Normally, Christopher would have stared right back. Something about this skinny federal agent shook his confidence, though. “You want me to elaborate?”

  “If you would, yes.”

  “We had a few drinks at a local bar. We went back to my hotel. He had to work Sunday morning, so he left Saturday night.”

  “He stayed with you, in your room?”

 
“Yes.”

  “In your bed?”

  Christopher shut his eyes. “Why does it matter?”

  “I’m trying to correlate your account with his. I assumed you’d be familiar with the idea.”

  “So I need to spell it out for you, for you to correlate our stories?” Christopher growled. “Lots of sex was involved. How much do you want me to elaborate? Do you want details on how deep he can take a cock in his throat? How many times we fucked each other? Maybe who was on top each time?”

  “That you are lovers is enough,” Agent Belkamp said, trying to hush Christopher. He had gotten a bit loud, but there was no one around to hear it.

  “Were. We were a casual weekend thing. The weekend is over.”

  That surprised the FBI agent. He glanced meaningfully at Doug and then looked at Christopher again. “Are you sure?”

  “I live in California. Plus, in police work, there’s no such thing as a solid relationship unless you’re straight, and the odds are against it even then. If that doesn’t mesh with whatever he told you, then he misunderstood.”

  “No,” Agent Belkamp said quickly. “He didn’t actually say whether or not you two were together. I just didn’t get the impression it was a casual hookup. You guys seem pretty solid.”

  “Yeah, well….” Christopher shrugged. There really wasn’t anything he could say. Christopher glanced back at Doug as he wove between two firemen and tossed the ball over the head of another. The ball slipped into the net with a smooth whoosh. Christopher wished Doug had changed clothes. Watching him play and get sweaty in a pair of basketball shorts would have been incredibly sexy. Doug being willing to get his clothes covered in sweat meant he was probably done for the day, though, and that meant that Christopher could try and talk Doug into letting him take that suit off fairly soon.