Whatever this guy was about to do wasn't good, that much was more than obvious, and Rawlins rushed back to his bedroom, pulled on his jeans, then went to his closet, where his shoulder holster hung. He took his gun, flipped open the barrel. Yes, fully loaded. Barefoot, he turned, started across the room, then froze. There was a different noise, this one more distinct, much closer … and definitely not from outside. Holy shit, thought Rawlins, with a shock of realization. Someone was in his apartment. What the hell was going on here; was he about to be hit from front and back?
It was all instinct. His years on the force clicked in, and he raised his gun, clasping it between both hands in a prayerlike grasp, and swept across the room as silently and effortlessly as a ballet dancer. He paused at his doorway, pressed himself against the door trim, and listened but could sense nothing. Holding himself perfectly still for what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, his breathing slowed to next to nothing even as his heart throbbed. Okay, you bastard, what the fuck are you doing in here and where the hell are you?
Rawlins moved his shoeless right foot an inch or two ahead, slipped forward, and peered around the doorjamb. There. Down the hall, through the kitchen and dining room, Rawlins saw a figure move. Rawlins couldn't tell if the guy was armed, but he was definitely coming this way, there was no doubt about that. Yes, and one of the maple floorboards creaked as the intruder boldly maneuvered from the living room, around the dining-room table, and toward the kitchen.
That's right, thought Rawlins, his finger tightening on the trigger. I don't know how the fuck you got in here, but come on. Come all the way. I'm waiting.
Rawlins slunk back in the doorway, surprised that the guy wasn't hesitating, wasn't checking out his color TV or CD player. And that fact alone sent a shiver of fear up Rawlins's spine. What the hell was this all about? Why would one guy be lurking in the backyard while another was brazenly moving through his apartment? Rawlins's mind whipped back through the cases he was working on, tried to think who might have put out a hit on him. And why.
The soft sound of rubber-soled shoes moving over linoleum reached Rawlins. The kitchen. Jesus, he thought. The guy obviously thought Rawlins was asleep, and he was making straight toward the bedroom.
Rawlins slunk away, pressing his naked back against the cool plaster wall. It was only a matter of seconds, a matter of moments, before the guy would round the corner and enter the room. But would he just slip in? Or would his entry be more dynamic? His heart pounding thick and hard, Rawlins raised his pistol, ready to fire away. And then it happened: Without hesitation the mysterious figure turned from the hallway and proceeded into the bedroom. In the spark of a second, Rawlins bolted out of the darkness.
“Freeze!” he shouted as he flew forward.
Using all his weight and strength, Rawlins hurled himself against the other man, catching him totally unsuspecting. The intruder yelped and fell back with surprising ease, and Rawlins plowed forward, smashing the guy against the other wall and jabbing his pistol against the guy's temple.
“Jesus Christ!” cried the man.
Rawlins had lusted after that voice, had caressed that body, and in horror he demanded, “Todd?”
“Rawlins … what the hell are … are …”
“Oh, shit!” Rawlins jerked away nearly as quickly as he had first seized Todd. “What the fuck are you doing sneaking in here? I could've killed you!”
Todd's eyes were large and shocked, and he started to say something, stopped, then said, “I wanted to apologize and … and I was afraid if…if I called you wouldn't answer. So I just came over. I know I'm not supposed to see you, but I have a key, you know.”
Of course. More than once Todd had come home late from work, entering not this apartment but his condo, slipping quietly about, undressing, and then crawling in bed with Rawlins, who was already asleep. And that apparently was exactly what he'd been planning and hoping to do here.
But, thought Rawlins. “Who's that other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“The one in the backyard.”
“The hell you talking about?”
This wasn't adding up, not by any means. Not wasting a moment, Rawlins, still clutching his gun, abandoned Todd and rushed out of the bedroom and down the short hall. He hurried up to the window in the back door and looked down. The figure obviously hadn't heard Rawlins shout and was now disappearing around the side of the garage. Clutching his gun and still wearing only his jeans, Rawlins ripped open the door and burst out. Taking the old wooden steps two at a time, he raced downward, leapt onto the grass, and tore across the yard.
From the top of the stairs, Todd screamed, “Behind you!”
The danger registered in a single instant, and Rawlins threw himself forward and hit the ground, his chest skidding on the grass. The very next moment a blast exploded behind him. Rawlins rolled over, twisted around, in those seconds already thinking, realizing, thanking God that he'd missed, that whoever had fired had failed to hit him, his target. Flattening himself, Rawlins stretched his arms before him, trained his gun on the dark figure lurking in the bushes. Squinting, he took aim.
And then his target was gone. Vanished.
Rawlins sprang to his feet, his bare feet digging into the ground. As fast as he could, he tore across the small yard, jumped through the bushes. He saw him, saw the last of the guy racing into the alley, and Rawlins wasted no time. Clutching his gun in both hands in front of him, he rushed after him, pausing at the edge of his neighbor's garage. Peering around the corner, he ascertained the guy wasn't right there, then charged into the alley. In the faint light Rawlins scanned the old garages, the cars, the garbage bins. But there was nothing. No one. Hearing something up to the left, he tore back into a run. Then slowed to a defeated halt.
Now sensing distinct steps behind him, Rawlins turned, saw Todd running out from behind the Taurus.
“Holy shit, are you all right?” Todd demanded, his face much too pale.
“Yeah.”
“That asshole took a shot at you!”
“I know … and he missed.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Todd, don't worry. I'm okay. He fired at me and he missed.”
“But who the hell would do something like that? Who'd—”
“I don't know,” said Rawlins, his chest heaving and sweat blistering on his forehead. “Maybe … maybe he wanted to steal my car.”
After a long moment Todd said, “We both know that's bullshit.”
“Yeah, I suppose we do.”
18
Should she really tell him?
“I … I …” Kris began.
Ten minutes into her early-morning session, Kris sat in her shrink's office as Dr. Dorsey ran one of his hands through his shock of thick hair and stared at her. Buckling under his intense eyes, Kris turned and gazed out the window, noting the morning pedestrian traffic on Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis. Well, what the hell was she supposed to say? Should she really tell Dr. Dorsey about Stuart Hawkins, that a soiree of sorts had evidently been set up for this evening? And that Kris wanted nothing more than to run right into the arms of that gorgeous man?
“Go ahead,” urged Dorsey in his soft voice as he sat in the hard wooden chair opposite her.
Even though this was only something like her fourth session, she knew his game, his ways, she thought, staring out at the bright sun. The voice might be easy and gentle, but it didn't belie the truth. No, shrinks were so uptight. So reserved. And while pretending not to be, so judgmental. They always prided themselves, she was absolutely sure, on having heard everything. But would Dr. Dorsey have heard anything like this, that she'd finger-fucked the most widely known judge in the state?
“Is there something you'd like to tell me?” asked the good doctor, crossing one leg over the other.
Kris couldn't help but grin. In fact, she had to stuff it, an urge to burst into a huge laugh. Unbelievable—Hawkins hadn't read her as a guy, she'd passed as a woman
, and she'd actually penetrated him!
“What is it?”
Kris averted Dr. Dorsey's dark, intense eyes. She wanted to tell him, this diminutive man in his tweed coat, blue shirt, and khakis, she really did. Kris knew precious little about him, only that he was married, and secretly she wanted to make him jealous. She wanted to tell him not simply about her crush on Hawkins, but how she'd actually been with him, just what they'd done and where, every little sordid detail, hoping for a reaction of some kind from Dorsey, hoping that once and for all she'd find out what Dr. Dorsey really thought of her. But, no, she thought, she couldn't tell him. Right. And instead Kris looked at the four framed duck prints on the beige wall, then focused on the book-crammed teak bookcase standing on the opposite side. Okay, okay, she told herself. Get a grip. Get to the point. Don't be an idiot. This guy's costing a fortune by the hour. So why are you here?
Instantly, it all came flooding into this tiny room, swirling around her and drowning her in memories. Her smile vanished.
Wearing a tight black skirt and an apricot-color knit top, she shifted in the chair. What is it? Fucking everything, that's what it is! Everything! Kris wanted nothing more than to smile again, but suddenly she was blotting a tear from her left eye. Gazing again out the window and at the mall, she saw a handful of people rush by, evidently late for work. Next came two old women, out for an early stroll. Then two buses dieseled by, one after the other.
“When … when …”
“Yes?” he pried in his shrinkly way.
“I've been taking hormones for a long time now,” said Kris, who still got them quite illegally from her source in California. “My beard is gone, I have breasts now, but …” Searching for hope, she turned to him. “But when are things going to get good? When am I going to be happy?”
Dr. Dorsey nodded, jotted a quick note on his clipboard, which rested on his knee, then said, “That's why you're here, Kris. You're residing in an extremely difficult land. Gender dysphoria is—”
“No, don't say that!” she snapped. “Don't use that word dysphoria! It makes it sound like I'm sick, like I'm mentally ill. I'm not. I'm just confused and … and I'm questioning, but I'm not crazy.”
“Of course you're not. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that.”
“Yeah, but … but …” She took a deep breath. “I don't know, there was a big stink about that last year on the Internet. All these trannies objected to that—the use of the word dysphoria to describe us—and I mean talk about girlfight girlfight. Maybe it doesn't make sense to you, maybe you don't understand ‘cause … ‘cause, you know, you're straight, but in the T community it's just not PC, not PC at all.”
“Kris, please trust me. Of course I understand. And thank you for correcting me.”
“Well, I … I just want you to know that I'm not crazy and that I think I can be good, and … and that I want to be happy.”
She was desperate for him to agree, to say, yes, you are good, you are loved, you are worthy of life. And yes, you will be happy. She needed his blessing. His encouragement to keep on. Instead, Dorsey shifted in his chair.
“Kris, sexual expression and gender expression are two totally different things, and their definitions are much broader than society sees them. We've been taught that there is only the male and female, and that the first is masculine and the second is feminine. The first is assigned the blue color, the second pink. And the male is supposed to sexually desire the female, and the female only the male. The spectrum, however, is much broader.”
“I know, I know.”
“Keep in mind that it wasn't so very long ago when people believed women were supposed to do the cooking and men were supposed to do the yard work, just as they believed that gay men only wanted to wear dresses. But is any of that true?”
“No, of course not.”
“Exactly. Everyone, Kris, has the right to their individual place on the continuum. Everyone has the right to contradict what society expects—to be different, to be ambiguous even. And everyone has the right to be honest about who they are.” Gently,
Dorsey said, “Kris, you've been quite brave in your life. You've transgressed a boundary society used to say you could not. You were born a boy, but as I look at you now your gender expression is female. That makes you truly a transgendered individual.”
“But … but do I keep on gender-fucking like this—after all, I do have both breasts and a penis—or do I need to make a decision? I mean, everyone's always asking me if I'm a boy or a girl, if I'm gay or straight.”
“You know what? It doesn't matter. Trust me, you don't need a label to be at peace within yourself. I do understand, though, that this is a confusing situation, that it's complicated by another fact. Something terrible happened to you, didn't it?”
Kris laughed and choked back tears. “No shit.”
“I think we need to look at that some more.”
“What the fuck does that mean, that you want to look at my empty scrotum? That you want to see the boy without balls? The chick with a dick?”
Kris looked at him. The doctor stared back, his face blank and emotionless. Oh, shit, she thought. She was always trying to get some sort of reaction out of him, but clearly she'd overdone it.
“I'm sorry, I guess I'm just a little defensive. I … I didn't mean to …”
“Kris, all I'm saying is that you have an immense amount of pain surrounding what happened to you—and rightly so. And I think we need to look at that further. Frankly, you haven't dealt completely with your pain, and I think that's causing a lot of the anxiety you're presently experiencing. You need to do that, too, to deal with that pain so you can get to the good stuff in life.”
“I know.” She closed her eyes and nodded. “I know I have to accept the past before I can go into the future.”
“Or enjoy the present.”
Recalling the boy side of herself, it all came flooding back with amazing speed and ease. “I was only fifteen when it happened, and I never even got the chance to do it with a guy. Shit, I remember jerking off to pictures of guys but that's as far as things went, as far as—”
“Slow down.”
“Sometimes I think I should just give in, that I should just go the whole M to Froute. All they'd have to do is turn my penis inside out and make me a nice little … nice … well, you know, vagina.” She tugged at one of her gold hoops. “On the Internet I read about a hospital out in Colorado they call Trans Central Station, and they've done almost five thousand operations there! For not even ten thousand bucks they make you a vagina that's almost three inches deep, and if you have enough tissue—corpus spongiosum, whatever that is—they even make you a functional clitoris.”
“Kris, you might in fact decide to have the operation. You might feel better and more complete as a post-op transsexual.”
“Maybe. I don't know. But I just hate the way our society thinks. Male or female, black or white, straight or gay, innocent or guilty—it's just so…so binary!”
“It's very restricting, isn't it? But you know you can decide to stay just the way you are. And that's why you're here. All I want is to help you sort all this out so you can find your own happiness.” Dr. Dorsey moved ever so slightly forward, focused all of himself upon Kris, and said, “Let's go back to the beginning again.”
“You want all the gory details?” She took a deep breath, because she never talked about it. Never. “It's not pretty, you know. And let me tell you, it hurt like hell, but I'll—”
“No, I want you to start earlier than that. You said last week that you always knew you were gay.”
“Right. The truth is that I never wondered if I was ‘different’ or any of that crap. I always knew I was. I always knew I was gay, right from the start. By that, I don't mean puberty. No, I'm talking age five, maybe six.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Me? I felt totally normal. It was fucking everybody else that had a problem with it.”
“Your—”
Kris held up her hand and just kept barreling along. “I was never masculine, not at all. It just wasn't part of me. I was way at one end of your spectrum, you see. Way at the fem end of things. I feel sorry for gay guys who are more the other way, you know, the butch ones, the masculine types. Sometimes they have a lot to sort out—you know, how to be queer and butch at the same time—whereas with me it was pretty clear-cut. I mean, this stuff,” she said, tugging at first her skirt, then her blouse, “comes real natural to me.”
He asked it so bluntly that it didn't even hurt: “Do you think you would have dressed in women's clothes if you hadn't been castrated?”
Kris shrugged. “I don't know. Probably. I mean, I'm sure I would have at least done drag. After all, I was awfully interested in my mother's cosmetics and clothes. Even as a kid I was obsessed with the idea of disguise. Of putting something on and becoming someone else. That was what was fun about it.”
“Okay, tell me more about your family.”
Kris opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, “Unfortunately, they're as good as dead to me.”
“Yes, you've said that. You told me how they cut you off after you went to California.”
“Right …” she said, her voice all but nonexistent. “Most people are born one way and either accept that or struggle with it. I was struggling, of course. A lot. Both with my sexuality and my gender expression. But then there was the accident, which in a weird, awful way opened up everything, all the possibilities, you know?
“So … so I went out to California to try living as a woman, and that's when my family disowned me. After the accident the doctors put me on testosterone—I guess technically it was androgen—and my parents wanted me to keep taking that and get a pair of fake nuts, but … but that just didn't feel right. I've always been very effeminate-looking, so I decided to go that way, toward my natural tendencies and my natural strengths. So I quit the one and started taking estrogen and dressing only in women's clothes. Then, of course, things went from bad to horrible, you know, because of what happened out in L.A. Now my parents tell their friends that I'm dead.” She bit her lip, tried not to cry. “They're shits, you know. Real shits. My cousin, the one I'm living with here, is my one and only relative who will talk to me, and we're not getting along so great now either.”
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