Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Todd crumpled the letter into a ball and slumped against the wall of the elevator. Right. This was what he'd been afraid of. What people would say about him. How they would hate him if they knew the real Todd. And no matter how much he jogged, no matter how often he worked out at the gym, no matter how many Emmys he won, he just wasn't strong enough to face up to this kind of stuff. Never had been. And he doubted he ever would be. This was his kryptonite. What people thought about him had the same mysterious effect as that glowing green stuff had on Superman.

  The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and Todd scurried toward his door. A horrible voice in his head was screaming. See, you fool, I told you so, there's always been a reason, people hate you now, you have no more friends, your life is over, get back in the fucking closet. This very thing, this stupid note, was the very reason he'd always been so secretive. He couldn't be openly gay because his life was just too public; Michael had never comprehended that.

  Rushing into his apartment, he sensed his exhaustion transforming into paranoia, yet he couldn't stop it. He slammed the door, bolted it as if someone were right behind him, ready to barge in, to slice him to pieces. Nearly delirious, he threw the mail on the kitchen counter, turned on the small light over the stove, then dropped his coat on the floor and hit the power button on the CD player. The deep, melodic music of Seal filled the apartment, and Todd rushed to his bedroom, where he stripped at a manic pace, yanking off his sweater, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. He tore everything away—throwing pants, black socks, blue-striped underwear everywhere—as if it were burning his skin. Then he ran naked down the narrow hallway and back to the kitchen, where he grabbed a pack of matches from a drawer. Next he grabbed a candle from the dining room table. He turned up the stereo even louder and rotated one of the speakers so that the song “Prayer for the Dying” was blasting toward the bathroom.

  Seconds later the hot water was beating down on him. He stood in the shower, the gentle light of the candle flickering through the glass shower door, the water steaming all around him. Just relax, he told himself. Let go of it. All of it. Go back to the basics. Go back to what really matters. Mom said it was okay. Thank God for Oprah. Mom still loves you. And she said Dad knew, somewhere in his heart. He knew and he only came down so hard on you because he wanted you to fly beyond him. Well, damn him, thought Todd, pounding the tile wall of the shower with his fist. Didn't that stupid bastard understand that you don't teach someone to fly by telling them what they're doing wrong?

  The images came whisking out of the dark. There was Michael's coffin at the front of the chapel. All those people. The deep hole Michael was to be dropped into. The pumping music at the Gay Times. The queens with the big lips and big hair. Ethel Merman's voice crawling through his ears like a worm. And then, of course, the blood. Michael's blood in the apartment. Rawlins, too, grabbing him, pinning him down. And the letter. He'd gotten fan mail, lots of it, but never hate mail. Let go of it. Just let go of it.

  The shower pounded down on him, massaging his neck, his shoulders. Soothing his head, his back. Nearly twenty minutes later he reached down, turned off the water, and toweled himself off. He felt jet-lagged. One moment exhausted, the next overwhelmed and confused and longing for some sleeping pills, something to slow his heart and mind. Something to knock him out, if only for a few hours.

  There was a pause between songs, and in this break there was banging. Oh, Christ, he thought, standing there at the edge of the bathroom. Someone was beating on his door. For a moment he didn't move, fearing Michael's murderer, or the letter writer, Former Fan. Wrapping a blue towel around his waist, he slowly proceeded down the hall, then stopped by the doorway to the kitchen, where the only light in his apartment, the stove light, was still burning. Another song started but had the knocking ceased?

  No, definitely not.

  Above Seal's deep, smoky voice he heard a fist pounding on his door. Who was it? Cindy Wilson, Mark Buchanan, and the roving camera of Channel 7? Another search squad? Someone with malicious intent? Or perhaps merely a neighbor complaining about the music?

  Taking the cordless phone from the kitchen counter, he readied himself to punch in 911. Todd switched off the stereo. And stood completely still.

  “Who's there?”

  A muffled voice from the hallway called, “Todd, it's me.”

  Both alarmed and concerned, Todd tightened the towel around his waist and edged toward the door. What was he doing here so late? Hesitantly leaning against the door, Todd peered out of the peephole. Steve Rawlins stood there, and as far as Todd could tell his visitor was alone, unless of course a team of cops was waiting just down the hall.

  “How did you get in the building?” Todd asked.

  “I showed the doorman my badge.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Let me in. Please?”

  Todd knew what it was about, knew what he wanted, but Todd didn't want to get into it. Particularly not tonight.

  “It's late,” replied Todd, still not opening up.

  “This is important.”

  Todd placed his hand on the bolt, was about to twist it open, and hesitated. “Are you alone?”

  “What do you think? Of couse I am.”

  He shouldn't be doing this, he thought. It was a whole can of worms, insidious ones at that. A mess that was sure to grow only worse if he opened the door. Yet even though Todd wanted to tell him to go away, to leave him alone, he couldn't force those words out. He found his hand compulsively twisting the bolt, turning the knob, pulling back the door. In an instant the dark figure darted through the opening. Todd relocked the door, turned around, and stared at the back of his late-night guest. Nervously scratching his naked chest, Todd reached down, firmly held the knotted towel in place around his waist.

  Looking away from Todd, Steve Rawlins was leaning against the entry to the kitchen. His head was hung.

  Todd demanded, “Why are you here?”

  “I … I …” he began, shaking his head. “Shit, I'm sorry. This is really stupid of me, coming over like this.'”

  “It's not a good idea.”

  “Of course it isn't.”

  Still without turning around and seeing Todd, Rawlins moved forward toward the living room. He stopped, stared across the space and out the windows at Lake Calhoun.

  “I need to talk to you,” began Rawlins, sounding troubled, even pained.

  “So talk.”

  “There's something I need to tell you.”

  Oh, God, thought Todd, I don't want to get into this. Not now. Not tonight. Michael hadn't even been in the ground twelve hours.

  “You need to know something,” continued Rawlins. “There's something I haven't told you.”

  Todd was suddenly wide awake. Suddenly trembling. And he couldn't steady himself, couldn't make his body quit jittering. Oh, shit. This was heading for trouble. You don't want to be doing this. No. Go back to the door. Open it up. Tell Rawlins to get out of here.

  “It's kind of complicated, and I really don't know how much I should tell you,” said Rawlins, his voice almost quivering as he turned and faced Todd for the first time. “But—”

  Todd's half-naked body was grazed by Rawlins's burning stare, and a prick of adrenaline shot Todd's heart. Michael said the chemistry of homosexuality was simply floating in the air, pheromones just lingering out there waiting for queers to pick up on them. Todd sensed it otherwise. The eyes. If the eyes met and held for a fraction of a second too long, he could see the truth. And looking into Rawlins's, Todd saw not only his sexuality but the depth of his lust.

  An instant later he felt the eyes on his chest, where both his muscles and hair were the thickest. Then Todd sensed the stare upon his biceps, which Todd had worked and worked until they were full and round and hard. And next Rawlins's eyes were following the thin trail of hair that zipped down Todd's stomach, over his navel, and on down beneath the towel
. Todd trembled as if Rawlins were caressing him with much more than those X-ray eyes. Oh, God, thought Todd. This wasn't right. This was a big mistake. Michael was barely in the grave. Michael? Did he matter now? This wasn't like cheating. Michael was forever gone and … and he'd been seeing someone else, hadn't he? Well, hadn't he?

  Todd knew it was a helpless situation. There was no stopping it, and both men moved forward silently, abandoning words, recognizing that these events were way beyond their control. Something quite a bit stronger was taking hold, gripping the two of them, pulling them magnetically together. Todd moved farther into the living room, Rawlins stepped closer, and the last rational thought Todd had, albeit brief, was, why hadn't this lust been there for women? And then a little voice within him blurted: Shut up, Todd, who the fuck cares?

  They stopped when they were less than a foot apart. Todd felt the other man's deep, hot breath on his neck and then trickling downward. He inhaled the now-familiar odor of smoky, musky cologne. And as Todd stared into the eyes of Steve Rawlins, the intensity excited as much as frightened him. Todd couldn't be alone, not now, not tonight. He needed comfort. Yearned to be held. Warmed. Taken care of. And he liked this strength, this power now before him. Had to touch it. Had to have it. Hesitantly raising his fingers, he was more than eager to explore. He was desperate to. Yes, explosion and release. Now. His fingers sensed the heaviness of Rawlins's jacket. And then, almost simultaneously, Todd felt a hand on his waist, a sure hand that rubbed his skin, then reached for the knot of the towel and popped it loose.

  20

  He was surprised to see so many men out here so very late. As soon as one guy succeeded in his pursuit and scurried away, another appeared, eager for the touch that would bring the release. Yes, these deep bushes along this dark stretch of Lake Calhoun were a beehive of sexual business, all of it desperate, all of it gay, and ninety-nine percent of it unspoken. Just do it and get out of here.

  It was a notorious spot, this area that ran behind the gay beach. The streetlights were way up along the road, and the large cottonwoods, elms, and thick bushes sucked up most of the light. While the young straights were busy screwing on the Spoon Bridge in the Sculpture Garden or beneath a shrouded table in one particular bar, this was one of the prime gay cruising areas of Minneapolis, the other being along the steep banks of the Mississippi. Or it was, anyway, for just a few more weeks. The next heavy winds would blow off the last of the leaves and there would be no more hiding. To be sure, this dark, chilly fall night was one of the last of the season.

  He stood on the grassy edge of the park alongside a towering elm. It was so dark and so still that he could barely see anything. But there was a still figure standing beside another tree. Or was there? He studied the spot, suddenly couldn't see anything. Wait, no. The figure moved, slipping into the bushes that climbed up the small hill and to the road.

  And, yes, the man liked what he saw, for that guy, the one who'd just disappeared into the bushes, appeared none too tall or hefty. It didn't make that much difference, but why take on a big guy, someone who might make a bit of a struggle or even holler out? No, somebody like this guy was better. Do him and be done. Simple.

  More important yet, thought the man, slipping forward and touching the knife cradled inside his jacket, was the fact that no one else was over here. Right. Some guy had strolled by in a suit not long ago, but he'd kept on going. And two guys in jeans and jackets had disappeared into the bushes way down there, some fifty feet away. But unless someone else was lying prey in this particular spot, the area should be quiet. Less chance of being seen.

  Heading toward the hillside, he glanced from side to side, saw no one else, and then proceeded across the bike path to the very edge of the bushes. Just in front of him, perhaps only some ten feet within the bushes, there was a rustling. Yes, thought the man. This shouldn't be too difficult. Just be matter of fact about it. Very direct.

  He ducked beneath a branch, followed a well-trodden path. It was a narrow passage that led into an inner chamber of sorts, a room trampled within the innards of the bushes. Stopping in this space, he realized he was alone in here. Had his friend-to-be disappeared, slipped out another way? His eyes scanned the faint light of the area, spotted another dirt path leading up and around a tree. It was a real maze down here. Not more than twenty minutes ago he'd followed one guy into another set of bushes, tailed him as he weaved in and out of these little outdoor bedrooms until he finally cornered him. Or thought he had, because then someone else appeared out of nowhere, a tall, thin guy with glasses, and the two of them had paired off.

  A voice out of nowhere whispered, “Hi.”

  He jumped, spooked by the unseen man. Glancing to his immediate right, his eyes drank in the short, lithe figure. Yes, it was the same one he'd seen enter the area. And now getting a closer look, the man thought how perfect this guy was going to be. Very doable.

  “It's getting kind of quiet down here,” said the man.

  “Yeah, it is kind of late.”

  But then for a brief second he didn't think he could do it again. Eyeing the shadow of the guy, sensing the fearful pulsing of blood within himself, he wondered if he could actually go through with it again. But, shit. He had to. He'd thought of every way to stop it, but there was none. This was the only choice. Just be smart about it. And quick.

  He volunteered, “I'm kind of … of nervous.”

  “Me too.”

  “Do you do this very often?”

  “Hell, no,” laughed the short guy. “Only my second time.”

  “My first.”

  “Really?”

  Yes, that was the right thing to say. Put the guy at ease. Make him feel like you were the shy, inexperienced one, and he had nothing to fear. Like he was the teacher, the one in control.

  “Well …” said the guy, stepping closer, “let's have some fun.”

  “I saw a good spot over here.”

  The man backed down the trail, leading the way into the clearing. This was the right place. Plenty of room to move. And fall. Nothing to get in the way. Very secluded.

  The short guy followed him, then came right up and kissed him on the cheek, saying, “You're cute.”

  He couldn't help but flinch. Of course there was no way he was going to be able to get excited. Think fast, he told himself. Don't lose him. He's perfect. How exactly are you going to do this?

  “Like I said, I'm a little scared,” said the man. “I'm kind of new at this.”

  “Hey, don't worry. This'll be just nice and sweet. Okay? A little fun in the woods.”

  “Okay, but … but I might need a little help getting started, if you know what I mean.”

  “No problem.”

  “Just at the beginning. Once I get hot, then … then … well …” The man's heart was trembling. “Would you mind opening, you know, my pants, and … and …”

  “Trust me, I'd be delighted to just nuzzle right in there.”

  Oh, God, this was perfect. The short guy was kneeling down, reaching out, tugging at the man's belt, popping the top button of his pants. And here it was, he realized as he stared down at the other. His little window of opportunity. Perfect. Yes, go for the neck. One quick slice should do it. Just be sure and lean into it. Lots of pressure.

  It was only as he reached into his jacket for the long kitchen knife that he saw it. The slim band of gold on the short guy's left ring finger. Oh, well. All this would really be one hell of a curveball. Particularly since the man was going to leave behind one ratty old baseball cap.

  21

  Something started ringing, and Cindy Wilson started twisting in her dreams. She had been floating in this huge, placid lake. All so still. So black. And then this shrill, hideous sound came at her like a shrieking bird, a creature that plucked her out of that lake and thus out of her sleep.

  In an instant she was sitting on the edge of her bed. Dear Lord. She opened her eyes for a brief second and saw the digital alarm clock: 5:13 A.M. No, it wasn't the
alarm clock ringing reveille. It was the phone, and the stupid thing kept crying out. She forced her eyes open a bit more, forced herself to reach out for the receiver, knowing most definitely who it had to be. She just wondered what it was about.

  “Yeah?” she mumbled into the phone.

  “Cindy, it's me, Bonnie,” said the young woman on night duty at the Channel 7 news desk.

  “I figured.”

  “We just got a call.”

  “Oh?”

  “It came right here, to the news desk,” said Bonnie.

  This was sounding familiar, and Cindy asked, “What?”

  “I mean, whoever called in didn't do so on the CrimeEye line.”

  Cindy was waking up as quickly as if she had jumped into a cold lake. Could this be her second lucky break?

  Cindy asked, “Another murder?”

  “Right. About—”

  “And you answered the call?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male,” replied Bonnie. “At least I think so. The voice was kind of deep and hoarse.”

  “Just like the first one. Where?”

  “Lake Calhoun. In the bushes up between 32nd and 33rd Streets.”

  “Oh, my God. That's the gay beach. Did he say anything else? Did he—”

  “Hang on,” said Bonnie, a tad frustrated by Cindy's impatience. “It went like this: The phone rings, I pick it up, this hoarse voice says there's another one. I say, another one what? He says, another body. In the bushes. By Lake Calhoun between 32nd and 33rd. I start to ask something else, he hangs up. And then I call you. That's it.”

  “So you haven't called the police yet?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Give Mark a call, tell him to meet me at 33rd and Lake Calhoun Parkway in ten minutes,” instructed an eager Cindy. “Then wait two minutes and call the police. Got it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, and don't forget to save a spot on Sunrise Seven for us,” she added, referring to the 7:00 A.M. news program. “I can feel it, this is going to be good. Call Locker too. Tell him I think we can begin Plan B.”