Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

by Lanyon, Josh

  It was blessedly dim and warm inside. A fire crackled welcomingly in the fireplace, classical music was playing softly, the wooden blinds stirred in the draft, finding a way through the window casement. A stack of printed pages sat neatly beside a desktop and printer. It hadn’t changed.

  Finn dropped down on the long leather sofa, put a hand over his eyes. Con hovered.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Finn looked at him and failed to think of anything intelligent to say. He agreed, though. Quite fucking unbelievable that he was here.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Ouch. No.” Finn shifted gingerly. Dropped the cane.

  Con retrieved the cane and propped it within Finn’s reach. Con straightened, and Finn realized he was staring at the bones of Finn’s knees poking at his Levi’s, at his wrists, which still looked too thin for the rolled cuffs of his sweater.

  “I heard about your accident,” Con said. “Are you… You’re all right now?”

  “I’m fine.” He looked away.

  “Relax, Finn. You look like you’re going to fly up the chimney any second.”

  Finn’s mouth curled. He didn’t fly so well these days.

  “Sit back,” Con was urging, and Finn cautiously lifted his leg onto the sofa. Easing back, he sighed relief. Yeah, whatever made Con doubt he was in great shape?

  He became aware that Con still hovered over him. He looked up warily. Con asked, “Do you have anything you can take?”

  “Huh?”

  “For the pain.”

  “Oh.” Finn grimaced. “This isn’t that bad. Anyway, I don’t like taking that crap. It makes me dopey.”

  “So? I’ll run you back. Go ahead and take the stuff.” Con strode out of the room. From the kitchen, Finn heard water running, the sound of ice cube trays cracking open.

  He closed his eyes, trying not to give in to the hot, throbbing poker of pain jamming into the base of his skull. Overexertion, that’s all it was. Maybe there was something to that not-rushing thing.

  “Here, Finn.”

  His eyes flew open. He hadn’t heard Con return, but he stood over the couch with a glass of water.

  Finn inched up against the cushions, found his pills, palmed two, and reached for the glass.

  He handed the water back to Con, who set it aside and pulled up a footstool.

  “Finn…I’ve been waiting three years to talk to you.”

  Goddamn. If that wasn’t just like Con. After three years, it was all about getting off his chest whatever it was he’d forgotten to say the last time.

  “Oh, man. Please don’t.” Finn shut his eyes, leaning back. He really did not have the strength to deal with this now. Why the hell had he walked down this way? Why the hell hadn’t someone warned him Con was back?

  Con’s voice dropped. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Yeah?” He grinned faintly at that.

  “Please hear me out.”

  “I can’t exactly run away.”

  Silence.

  Finn opened his eyes. Con looked as though he were in more pain than Finn. Meeting Finn’s gaze, he said, “I’ve thought about that day a million times.”

  A million times? Why, in three years, that would be nine hundred times a day. Impressive. Finn said, “Forget it. Ancient history.”

  Silence. Anger began to bubble up inside Finn. Why did Con have to start this up again? It was over. Done. Why couldn’t they preserve a polite fiction…like neither of them remembered or cared? What the hell did Con want from him?

  But Con plowed on. “To this day I don’t know why… I don’t understand how I let it happen. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him.” His voice sank so low, Finn hardly recognized it.

  He said wearily, “We both know what it was, and it doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  “I can’t forget it. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember what a fool I was.”

  Finn said irritably, “Well, you need to forget it. It was three years ago. What’s the point of bringing this up now? It’s over.”

  “It’s not over for me.”

  Finn stared at him, torn between shock and outrage. His heart was starting to slug his ribs like an angry prizefighter preparing for a match.

  “What are you talking about?” He pushed up on an elbow and realized he was already starting to feel the effects of the pills. “You’re not going to pretend— This is such bullshit. Do you need me to say I forgive you? Fine. I forgive you, Con. I chalked it up to a learning experience.”

  Maybe that was a cheap shot. Con swallowed hard. “Finn. God.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You hate me, don’t you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He heard his tone: polite. Con heard it too.

  “I was afraid you would feel like this if I didn’t—” His jaw worked. “But you were so…adamant. I thought…give him time to cool down. I tried writing…”

  Finn had received the letters—he’d tossed them.

  The medication was kicking in big-time, the sofa beginning to glide in slow, lazy swoops. Finn dropped back in the cushions. All at once he felt quite relaxed. He felt like being candid. Why not? What did he have to lose? Nothing. “I don’t know why it mattered so much, Con. I know how Fitch is, and I always knew it wasn’t anything more than a summer romance for you—”

  “Finn.”

  “You made it pretty clear, really.” He smiled faintly at unfocused memory. “You were scrupulous about never saying you loved me or anything, so I don’t know why I feel the way…the way I did… Maybe I was embarrassed because it meant so much to me—”

  Con kissed him, his mouth covering Finn’s, warm and insistent. Finn was too narcotized to do more than murmur a vague protest. Con released him immediately.

  “I’m sorry. Damn it to hell. I’m sorry, Finn.”

  “Me too,” he said woozily. “Love to chat. Have to…sleep now…”

  He thought Con answered that, but by then Finn was whirling away into a comfortable blankness.

  When he woke, it was to a complete absence of light.

  Panic gripped him, and he threw out a hand for the lamp beside his bed, but there was only empty space. Instead of sheets, there was a giving stiffness beneath him—leather. At the same instant he realized he was dressed, although his shoes were missing, and that he was tangled in some kind of afghan. Desperately, he struggled up, saying, “Turn on the light!”

  Even as Finn absorbed that the room was not in complete darkness—embers burned molten orange in a grate, and platinum moonlight filtered through slats of the blinds—a darker shadow detached itself from the sable nothingness.

  A light snapped on.

  Bright, inarguable light, golden warmth turning the room from a threatening unknown to a collection of comfortable old furniture and familiar paintings, one of them his own.

  Con was crossing to him, saying, “I’m sorry. I thought you would sleep better with it off.”

  Finn scrabbled to collect himself. Between the dark and Con, it was a rocky awakening. He tried to hide that moment of naked fear, pushing into the corner of the sofa and raking a hand through his hair.

  “I didn’t know where I was.” He tried to say it casually; his heart still racing and bounding like a deer in terror. Given the way Con was looking at him, he wasn’t sure how successful he was. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”

  Con ignored that. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re quite sure?” Con was frowning, studying him.

  “I’m sure.” Actually, now that the unreasoning alarm was receding, he realized that he had slept well, and the nap had refreshed him. His head had stopped hurting, and his back was about as pain free as it got these days. Self-consciously, he smothered a yawn under Con’s searching gaze. “What time is it?”

  “After five.”

  “Oh hell. Martha is going to think I fell off a cliff.” He glanced around the cott
age. “You haven’t—”

  “Installed a phone? No.” Con liked being incommunicado when he was working, and that was the purpose of the cottage—although they had used it for other things once upon a time.

  Better not to think of that now.

  “You still don’t carry a cell phone?”

  “I’m morally and ethically opposed to cell phones.” Con was smiling, but Finn knew he wasn’t entirely kidding.

  “I left mine in Manhattan.” Then, “What?” he asked edgily as Con continued to stare at him.

  “You can’t know. It’s…to see you sitting there again. To hear your voice. You don’t know how long I’ve—”

  “Don’t.”

  Con nodded tightly. After an awkward pause, he said, “I’ll run you back now if you like.”

  “I like.” He reached for his cane. Con slipped a hand under his elbow, giving him a lift to his feet.

  Finn appreciated the no-fuss tact of that, but he resented needing help. Where Con was concerned, he was a mess of contradictory feelings. He freed his arm, not rudely but pointedly enough that Con’s face tightened.

  Saying nothing, he helped Finn into his jacket again, the juggle of cane and flapping sleeves, and then Finn was doing up his jacket and Con was going to the cottage door.

  He walked out of the cottage ahead of Finn, feet crunching on the shell-strewn path, a small, angry sound. It was a relief to Finn to realize that he didn’t care that Con was upset. Time had been he would have been racking his brains for what he’d done, how to fix it, whether it was going to end between them. He could even spare a small twisted smile now for that insecure boy.

  Con opened the Land Rover door and stood back. This was the tricky part, climbing up into the seat while hanging on to both his cane and dignity. Finn knew Con wouldn’t offer help unless he asked for it.

  He requested gruffly, “Will you give me a hand up?” and knew Con felt like a bastard for forcing the request.

  Con took the cane from Finn’s hand, set it aside. Finn turned nervously, not sure what to expect, and then Con slipped one arm around his waist, half lifting him into the seat without any apparent effort. Unnecessary and startling, but certainly efficient. Finn flicked him a quick, uncertain look, but Con’s face gave nothing away.

  He handed Finn his cane; then Con shut the door and walked around to his side of the vehicle. Finn buckled himself in; his heart was beating fast, and he knew it had something to do with being in Con’s arms again for those brief heartbeats.

  Con started the engine. Neither of them looked at the other or spoke as the Land Rover bounced over the potholes and rocks. Out of the corner of Finn’s eye, he could see Con’s profile, grim as that on an ancient and imperial coin. Like an emperor of ancient Rome with a rebellious senate on his hands.

  They hit a bigger hole in the road, and the truck came down hard. Finn must have caught his breath, because Con glanced his way.

  “Sorry. Does it give you a lot of trouble?”

  “What’s that?” he managed to ask calmly.

  “Your leg. What do the doctors say?”

  “It’s fine. Mostly. I’m supposed to exercise it regularly. Which is why I walked too far today.” In case Con thought he had deliberately strolled down memory lane.

  Silence.

  They passed Gull Point. Across the bay, Finn could see the ghostly white tower of the old lighthouse. He looked away.

  Con said slowly, “Or is it driving in general? Is it still difficult getting in a car?”

  Funny that Con would understand that. Finn didn’t have to answer; one sharp look had confirmed Con’s guess. His foot eased off the gas, and Finn relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the armrest as they slowed to a sedate jog.

  After another mile or so, Con questioned, “Do you remember anything about the accident?”

  “I remember thinking oh shit as the truck plowed into us.” He added wryly, “Famous last words.” Finn glanced at Con and was startled at how green he looked in the lights from the dashboard.

  The rest of the short drive to The Birches passed without further discussion, which was a relief to Finn.

  Con parked in the shell-shaped drive in front of the long porch and opened his door.

  “You don’t have to get out,” Finn started quickly, but Con ignored him, coming round to his side.

  He opened Finn’s door, waiting in silence as Finn fumbled with the seat belt. Yanking it open at last, Finn reached to steady himself on the hand rest. Con took his other arm, ignoring the exasperated look Finn threw him.

  “Can I see you again?” Con asked as Finn clambered awkwardly out of the Land Rover and grabbed for his cane.

  “I’m sure we’ll run into each other.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” It was hard to look away from the pain in Con’s dark eyes.

  “I still care for you, Finn.”

  Finn’s hand was clutching the cane so tightly his fingers hurt.

  “I want to make things right.”

  Finn bent his head. Took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said and met Con’s gaze. “I don’t feel the same.”

  Con stared at him, then nodded curtly.

  Finn waited politely as Con got back into the Rover and reversed in a smooth, neat arc.

  That had been easy enough. The only problem was, he thought, watching the taillights as Con drove away—he knew he hadn’t told Con the truth.

  Chapter Three

  They had not spoken of Fitch. Not even said his name. Later, sitting at dinner with Uncle Thomas, that seemed strange.

  The whole day—the whole trip so far—had a strange dreamlike quality to it. Maybe that wasn’t surprising given the meds he was taking and the fact that he’d spent a good part of the afternoon napping on Con’s sofa. What had he dreamed there? He couldn’t recall, but he had slept deeply and well. Better than he could remember sleeping for a very long time.

  He’d had to tell Martha, of course—she had been giving him an earful about vanishing without a word, listing in Martha fashion all the terrible things that she had imagined happening to him. He’d stopped her at falling off the ledge at Gull Point.

  “I didn’t go to the point. I walked down to Con’s cottage.”

  Martha had fallen silent, eyeing him a little doubtfully. “That’s too far for you to walk yet,” she scolded feebly.

  “Con’s back,” Finn told her. “I spoke to him. In fact…”

  She waited, and he could see the worry in the back of her eyes.

  He said, “It’s not a big deal. I overdid it walking down there, and he let me rest on his sofa. That’s what took so long.”

  “Is…everything all right?”

  Finn’s smile was rueful. “It’s okay. He said his piece. I said mine. We’re never going to be pals again.”

  He was surprised when she turned away from him and began rolling out dough on the lightly floured breadboard. Without turning to face him, she said, “We’re not so backward as you might think, Finn. We still get the newspapers and now days we get satellite TV and the Internet. We’ve heard of gay people all the way out here, and we’re not all as closed-minded as you might have been telling yourself these three years.”

  Finn couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Martha, still not looking at him, said, “It wasn’t ever any secret that you and Fitch were a little bit different, and I was glad when it turned out how you felt that young Mr. Carlyle was a little bit that way too.”

  The rolling pin made a comfortable and familiar thump on the board as she rolled with ferocious energy.

  “I know something happened with Fitch to spoil it. I don’t know what, but you both left the island—Fitch that very day and you the next. And Mr. Carlyle went around looking like a thundercloud for a few weeks, and then he left too.”

  Thump. Roll. Thump.

  “I don’t know what happened, and I guess it’s none of my business—”

  “I didn’t t
hink you’d want to know,” Finn managed, finally.

  “I don’t! That is, I don’t want to know about anyone’s personal business like that. But I don’t want you feeling like you have to go around pretending or telling me lies. It’s your own business who you’re…you’re sweet on. No one here ever thought any the worse of you or Fitch for that. And if that’s why you’ve been staying away all this time…”

  Thump. Roll. Thump.

  Finn cleared his throat. At last he said, “It wasn’t anything to do with that. At least…I don’t know. Maybe it was a little. But the main reason was I couldn’t be around Fitch or Con anymore. That’s all.”

  Martha stopped rolling. “Do you think that’s why Fitch went away?”

  Finn said astringently, “Fitch had everything he wanted. I don’t know why he went away.”

  * * * * *

  Later, thinking of that conversation while he and Uncle Thomas ate beef pot pie at the long dining room table, he asked, “Did Fitch say anything to anyone when he left that day?”

  “What day?” Uncle Thomas asked, preoccupied, glancing over a review of the book he’d written on practical art criticism.

  “The summer I went away. Fitch had left the day before.”

  Uncle Thomas looked into the past and said, “I wasn’t here. I’d gone to Portland. I was flying to San Francisco.”

  “But you came home that evening,” Finn said. “I remember your car was parked in the drive when I got back that night.”

  He remembered because he had been grateful that there was no sign of his uncle when he’d let himself into the house and begun packing.

  There had been no sign of anyone.

  Mostly he had feared an encounter with Fitch, and when there had been no sign of him—no light beneath his door—Finn had guessed that Fitch was waiting in the cottage for Con. Because despite all Con had said—even if it was all true—Fitch would see things differently.

  Fitch always did see things differently.

  “I don’t remember,” Uncle Thomas said. He looked thoughtful now, but not unduly concerned. “I think my flight was canceled. Or maybe… Was I giving a guest lecture? Something happened, I remember, and I didn’t need to fly out after all until later in the week.”