by P. A. Brown
Too late he tried to deflect Tom’s arm. It slid around Chris’s throat.
Chris tasted blood and bile. Light exploded behind his eyes. His lungs screamed for air that wasn’t there. Shadows lurched through the dazzling lights and he thought he heard David shouting something. Then Chris’s scrabbling fingers encountered cold metal.
A gun. His hand closed convulsively on it and he jerked it up between them. There was another explosion and almost instantly the tightness around Chris’s throat vanished.
Tom staggered backward. His hand tried to stem the gush of blood from his chest. He collapsed.
Chris fell to his knees, gasping hungrily for air that now poured freely down his throat.
His eyes were closed tight while he fought to grab all the sweet revitalizing air he could suck in.
David groaned and Chris scrambled to close the distance between them. “David!” His lover’s mouth was a bloody rictus that might have been a smile. His swarthy face was pale.
“David.” It emerged as a strangled whisper. Chris rubbed his throat and winced at the sensation of ground glass in his chest. “You look like shit.”
“Hey. At least I don’t look half as bad as you.”
“Oh, right, flatter me.” Chris tried to hold his arms out but he couldn’t move.
“David.”
He lifted Chris up gently, his arms feeling wonderfully strong around his bruised shoulders. He stroked Chris’s cheek.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?” Chris murmured. “I thought you were dead.”
“Just a flesh wound.”
“Liar—”
They both heard the crunch and clatter of gravel as a car raced down the narrow drive.
They didn’t have much time.
“I love you, David.”
David stared down at him for several heartbeats. Then his face lit up in the most beautiful smile. How the hell had Chris ever thought he was plain?
“God, I love you too—”
“Drop the weapon.”
Both David and Chris stared at the khaki-shirted sheriff who crouched as he leveled his own weapon at them.
Belatedly Chris realized he still held Tom’s gun in one shaking hand.
“Drop it. Now.”
Chris let the weapon tumble from his hand. The sheriff held his weapon trained on them. The yard was suddenly filled with uniformed men. Red light strobed from a black-and-white parked on the grassy verge between the house and the driveway.
A voice said, “Put that away, maricón.” For the first time since he had met the man, Chris was glad to see Martinez. “First you can’t even get here on time, and now this?
He’s a God damned cop, you idiot.”
The sheriff’s gun wavered and the uniformed man straightened, eying Chris uncertainly. Martinez waved him toward the house.
“Go secure the place. Take your storm troopers with you.” Only when the others had gone did Martinez turn his attention to his partner.
“Call an ambulance,” Chris managed to croak.
“On its way.” Martinez knelt by David’s side. “Hey, buddy. I thought you knew how to duck.”
“Messed up this time.”
Martinez’s gaze moved from David to Chris. His eyes held a speculative warmth that surprised Chris. He studied Tom’s unmoving body, then he stared down at the innocuous-looking gun lying on the trampled grass.
“Did you shoot him, Davey?”
Chris and David looked at each other. Martinez shook his head. He stared at Chris.
“You shot him?”
Chris nodded.
“You realize you both brought a shit storm down on you.”
“Hey,” David said. “Keeps things interesting.”
In the distance an ambulance siren shattered the night.
“You guys got about five minutes before all hell breaks loose.” Martinez straightened.
“I’d say whatever you gotta say, because it may be a while before you can say anything to each other.”
“But—”
“I’ll be in the house if anyone needs me.” This time his eyes locked on Chris’s. “You did good, man. I underestimated you. It won’t happen again.” He pointedly looked from Chris to David. “You better call Bryan Williams. I got a feeling you’re gonna need his clout when FID comes sniffing around.”
“Who’s Bryan Williams?” Chris asked.
“Someone with enough political savvy to keep your boyfriend from getting fragged by FID, just eats this OIS kind of shit for breakfast.”
“FID?”
“Just make him call, Chris.”
“I’ll call,” David said.
Martinez abruptly turned away. Chris took advantage of the lack of watchers to lower his mouth to David’s. Just before they kissed he said, “I love you, David.” The kiss didn’t last anywhere near long enough. Chris sighed when they broke apart. “Get dressed,”
David said.
Chris found the jacket David had covered him with earlier and slipped it over his shivering shoulders. Fortunately it hung far enough below Chris’s ass to let him keep a small shred of dignity. The ambulance crew came around the back of the house with stretchers five minutes later.
They checked over Tom, but Chris wasn’t surprised when they couldn’t revive him.
They loaded both Chris and David into the ambulance and with the siren blazing, descended to the coast highway.
“Hey, this is yours.” David ignored the protests of the EMTs and handed Chris his BlackBerry.
Chris stared down at the hand held device. “Not anymore, it’s not.”
“What—”
“I talked to Petey.” He let the device slide from his fingers and lay back down wearily.
“I quit.”
“Well.”
When David didn’t say anything else, Chris struggled back up. He found David staring at him, his face unreadable.
Suddenly David smiled.
“Well,” he repeated. “There goes my dream of being a kept man.”
Return to Contents
CHAPTER 26
Wednesday 11:30 am, Santa Monica Hospital, Santa Monica FAMILIAR SMELLS. HOSPITAL smells. Chris groaned and opened his eyes.
Instantly David was at his side. The poor guy looked positively haggard. Chris reached for him, but his arm came up against the restraints of an IV and a nest of monitoring cables holding him down.
“Don’t try to move,” David said. The sleeve of his jacket hung loose; his arm was bound against his chest. “They’ve got you pretty well lashed to that bed.”
“What gives?” Chris’s throat felt like caustic sand had been poured down it. He swallowed and tried again. “David—”
“You’re okay. You’re in the Santa Monica Hospital.”
“When—”
“It’s Wednesday. You were in surgery Monday, but the doctor says you’re okay now—”
Chris flexed his shoulders and groaned at the pain that sliced through him. Was David kidding? His insides felt like they’d been run through an industrial meat grinder. He said as much.
“The fact that you can complain so succinctly means you must be getting better,” was David’s laconic response. He seemed oddly reluctant when he added, “How much do you remember? About Tom, I mean?”
“Do you mean did he rape me?” Chris started to shake his head then froze. Would it make a difference to David? Chris searched his face, but all he saw was pain and a naked love that made Chris wonder how he had ever doubted him. He reached his hand up and David grasped it in his good one. “No, he didn’t. I think he just lost it at the end. He still thought he could get away with it. What happened... after?”
“They got a warrant and did a full search of all the houses, his and his uncle’s. Found it all, his trophies, a stack of newspaper clippings on all the previous victims, he even kept a journal of each, ah, hunt. We also found Bobby’s Palm Pilot, which went a long way to corroborating things.”
Ch
ris didn’t bother telling him he’d had it in his possession briefly. Maybe later.
“Once we started looking,” David said, “we found missing men up in the Berkeley area that coincide with the time Clarke was in school there. The Berkeley police will be taking another look at those in light of what we’ve told them. Apparently he was in trouble years ago for cutting up neighborhood cats.” David glanced toward the TV set hanging above the end of the bed. His next words were casual, too casual. “You been watching the news? They’ve been covering it pretty extensively.”
Something in David’s voice alerted him. “What?”
Martinez strode into the room and answered the question. “They can’t decide whether they want to crucify David or make him the next marshal in the Santa Claus parade.”
His obvious good humor only serving to emphasize how weak and sick Chris felt.
Even David looked wan beside his robust partner. He also looked pissed.
“You’re early,” David snapped.
“No I’m not,” Martinez said, pulling up a chair and straddling it, facing the bed. “I’m right on time. How you doing, Chris?”
“Fine. What’s this about crucifying him?”
Martinez looked at David; Chris could tell he didn’t want his partner talking.
“There’s a segment of our fine citizenry that thinks Tom Clarke only died because of vigilantism, and that,” he said solemnly, “has no place among the ranks of the new and enlightened LAPD.”
“Vigilantism? Are they forgetting this guy was trying to kill both of us? That he butchered Bobby and Kyle—”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t think that enters their equation. His rights were violated by the, ah, precipitous actions taken against him.”
“So they don’t care what that asshole did—” Chris’s voice broke as ugly memories stirred and roiled in his brain. “How the hell can they vilify anyone for killing that monster?”
“Probably better you don’t tell that to the press,” Martinez said. He clearly approved of Chris’s sentiments. Then he grew serious.
“You up to answering a few questions, Chris?”
“Martinez—”
“He has to do this, David. Better me than one of the other guys.”
Martinez’s gaze met Chris’s. “I need to get your formal statement. It will probably be used in the inquest.”
“Inquest?”
“FID wants to clear up the shooting. It’s routine.”
“Bull,” Chris snapped. “It’s not routine if they decide they want to hang David out to dry.”
Martinez looked apologetically at David. “Give me half an hour.”
In the end it took forty-five minutes and left Chris totally drained. By the time David slipped back into the room he was already dozing fitfully.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Chris.” David picked up Chris’s hand where it lay atop the thin hospital blanket. “Don’t let Martinez get you down. Even he thinks it will be a cakewalk.”
Christmas Day, 6:10 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles The phone rang. Christopher Bellamere rolled away from the warm body he’d been cuddling in his sleep and fumbled for the bedside phone.
He squinted at the caller ID window, recognized the number, and grinned.
“It’s Christmas,” he grunted. “This had better be good.”
“Hey,” Des said. “Can’t a buddy call and wish two of his best friends Merry Christmas?”
Chris glanced over at the shape concealed by the rumpled bedclothes. David was still sound asleep. Not surprising, after last night’s performance. Who knew domestic champagne could be so inspiring?
“We still on for dinner tonight?” Des interrupted his heated thoughts.
“Sure.” Chris checked the bedside clock. He winced. “In twelve hours. God, you’re as bad as David, getting up at the crack of dawn.”
Des laughed.
The sound still made Chris smile. It had been a long way back for Des. He had spent nearly four months in therapy, dealing with the trauma of his loss and the aftermath of the vicious rape. Chris had been luckier. His physical wounds had been relatively superficial and he had been released to David’s tender care after three days of observation.
Chris felt a fierce joy at Des’s ongoing recovery, both from his injuries and from the loss of Kyle. Chris knew he still missed the younger man, but he was coming along, talking about the future now. Chris had even caught him looking at a couple of good-looking guys on the street with more than casual interest.
The bed shifted. David’s muscular arms came around him and his thickly furred chest pressed against his back.
“Hey, I gotta go, Des,” Chris said as David’s unshaved cheek came down against the back of his neck. “Er, something’s come up.”
“Six, then?”
“Six.” Chris nearly groaned when David’s hand closed over his erection, stroking him into readiness. “Yeah, six, ah, don’t forget the wine.”
“Like I’d ever.”
Chris hung up and rolled over. He reached down and wrapped his fist around David's cock and brought David’s face down to his.
“Merry Christmas, sleepy-head. About time you woke up.”
*****
Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney crooned about dreaming of a white Christmas as snow fell on a sleepy Vermont village and an ex-general’s inn was saved. Chris curled against David’s side, sipping a glass of Zinfandel, while they nibbled from a bowl of mixed nuts. The doorbell rang. Chris glanced at the digital display above the plasma TV. Four-thirty. “Expecting anyone?” David shook his head and stood up. He reached the front door two steps before Chris.
It was Martinez and a short Latino woman with dark, gentle eyes and oil-black hair piled atop her head. Even with her hairdo, she barely reached Martinez’s shoulders.
Chris pulled his silk shirt tighter as he shrank from the cool dampness flowing through the open door around his bare ankles, wishing he’d been smart like David and worn a sweater. Low threatening clouds looked ready to discharge another cold rainfall.
Christmas in Southern California was never like a Vermont postcard.
David rarely talked about either his job or Martinez, but Chris knew a reticence had grown between the two partners. A reticence he knew bothered David.
The woman smiled anxiously before tugging on Martinez’s arm.
“I hope we didn’t interrupt—”
The woman poked him again. Martinez grimaced.
“My wife, Inez Yolanda Diego.” He drew out a bottle of wine and handed it to David.
“She wanted—we wanted—to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks,” David said. He held out his hand to Inez, who shook it. “Would you like to come in?”
Chris extended his hand. She smiled shyly at him.
“Hello! You must be Christopher. I have heard so much about you both.” Inez spoke with a soft Spanish accent. She held his hand and smiled at David and Chris. “Feliz Navidad.”
Chris laid his other hand atop Inez’s as he guided her into the living room. David and Martinez followed.
“Gracias, señora. Feliz Navidad. Espero teniendo un día de fiesta maravilloso y esprero que su familia este bien. ” Chris spoke passable Spanish. A lifetime in L.A. had seen to that. He wished her and Martinez a great holiday and hoped her family was well.
She brightened. Beside her Martinez murmured, “We can’t stay long. The kids are at my mother’s—”
“Martinez Diego,” Inez said.
Her husband stared down at his feet. “But before we go, we’d like to invite you both to our place for New Year’s.” He raised his eyes and looked from Chris to David. “There are a few other guys and their wives dropping by. Nothing formal, and I know this is last minute... but we would really like it if you both could come...”
Where they would spend the evening being stared at by a bunch of off-duty cops and their spouses, like specimens at a freak show? What was Martinez up to? Ch
ris’s first reaction was to say forget it. Neither of them needed that hassle.
A quick glance at David and he knew the older man was startled by the invitation, but wanted to accept.
Could Chris deepen the wedge between the partners? Was he prepared to isolate David even more because of his insecurities?
Could he do that to this man he loved more than life?
He produced his most beguiling smile. “We accept. Aceptamos su invitación.” He reached out to take the bottle of wine from David. “Now, let me break this open. You can stay for a glass, right?”
“We’d be happy to,” Inez said.
David hung back when Martinez and Inez stepped into the living room. He slipped his hand into Chris’s, who smiled up at him.
“Merry Christmas,” David said, stooping to catch a quick kiss under the mistletoe Chris had hung in the alcove. “Love you.”
“Hey, love you too. Now let’s go and take care of your guests.”
“Our guests, you mean.”
Chris squeezed his hand. Then they followed their visitors into the living room.
Return to Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
UNTIL IT’S FINISHED, a novel is a work in progress. Thanks to all the members of NovelDoc and NovelPros for their endless patience with my requests for help and for letting me know when it was time to let go. The critiques I got were immeasurably helpful in molding this work into the novel you hold in your hands. A special thanks to Jamie Lankford, Dave Shields, Jo Ann Hernandez, Sue Asher, Gloria Piper, Derek Armstrong, James McKinnon, Art Tirrel, Vicky Hunt, Rashmi Shankar, Alan Jackson, and Kate Johnston.
I would also like to express my endless gratitude to the Stratford Writing Group, especially Norah-Jean Perkins, Patti Miller, Meg Westley, and Beth Pratt, for always having an encouraging word even when they offered criticism.
To my daughter, Victoria Bruce, who's been a great source of inspiration to me over the years.
And to Nick Archer, Mark Jesko, John Windham, and Lavenderquill, who have been there from the first iteration of Chris and David and always encouraged me to go further.