Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  His hand was oily and grimy from leaning against the tank, and he wiped it on his pants as he trotted toward the corner of the house. Reaching the corner of the clapboard structure, he hesitated one more time, listened. Throbbing music still emanated from the house. Todd could hear it seeping from the windows. But no voices. Could Jeff be upstairs? Sure. He could be bathing or changing, perhaps slipping into some gown or caftan. Todd stepped back a bit and spied the upper windows, which were all dark. Still, Jeff could be in another room up there, perhaps on the far side of the house. Or he might yet be in the kitchen.

  He saw the rear stoop, some four steps that led up to a small enclosed porch and then the back door. As Todd neared that he peered through another window and spotted a round fluorescent light attached to the middle of a ceiling. Obviously the kitchen. So Jeff must be back here. And with any luck the back door would be open. If not he'd have to go around, try to slip in through the front door. And then? Locate them both, then corner and confront them? Something like that, and all before fifteen minutes expired and Janice made the call. All before Todd got himself killed as well.

  Hesitating in the dark, Todd studied the kitchen window, saw no movement from within. Silently Todd moved closer to the stoop, froze, and spied into the kitchen, now clearly seeing a counter and the corner of a stove. A wisp of steam was rising from a kettle. But where was Jeff?

  Todd climbed up the steps, pressed down on the old handle, pushed open the flimsy door, and entered the back porch. A pair of muddy shoes against one wall, some empty flowerpots next to the shoes. A broom in the corner. Todd took a step, froze when the floorboards creaked. With great care he moved toward the rear door of the house, a wooden door with a large, curtain-covered window, and reached for the brass handle. He twisted the knob, hoping against the improbability of it all. And it caught. Sure. Why shouldn't it be locked? Shit, cursed Todd. That meant he'd have to try the front door. Or perhaps the basement windows. Perhaps he'd be able to kick one in, crawl in that way.

  Then, however, his attention was caught. The window in the door was mostly covered by a red-and-white-checkered curtain. But there was a crack. The two pieces of material didn't quite meet, and Todd leaned forward, peered in. Shit, was that a leg? Hell, yes. And an arm. Good God. He pressed against the glass. It was Jeff, lying unconscious in the back hall.

  So, thought Todd, his heart racing with fury, this was all becoming clearer by the moment.

  36

  A big grin on his face, Rawlins rapidly went through the stack of papers, amazed at how much it was totaling. Much more than he had expected. He sorted through three more statements and calculated that on an average it totaled about $23,000 per month. Quite a substantial sum, no doubt about it. And all of it pure profit.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered with a smile on his face. “Someone's getting filthy rich.”

  And he knew who, of course.

  Good God, who wouldn't kill for this kind of money? This operation was nearly perfect in its simplicity. A scam like this could go on just about forever. A true cash cow, one that kept on giving. Reaching for the calculator, Rawlins started crunching the numbers. At $23,000 per month times twelve months, that equaled $276,000 a year. Multiply that times 3.3—all this had been in place and working without flaw for over three years now—and you had over $900,000. Shit. Almost a million bucks as of now. If you added in interest, then maybe it was a million. No, you had to take out taxes too.

  After all, even a crooked operation like this had to have a clean face.

  He sat back, ran his hand through his short brown hair. Who would have ever thought that embezzling could be so easy? It was as surefire a way to get rich as any he'd ever seen, and he'd seen and studied a good number of ploys in his years on the force. Of course, there were any number of ways to make bigger money, and faster too. But in his opinion this was far superior. The tortoise way: start slow, finish first. Nothing so big that it would attract attention. You don't want the feds descending from the heavens. And you definitely don't want to go strutting around in a glitzy diamond-studded tiara as Queen Jeff had suggested. To act like that was as foolish as it was ignorant. A way to send up fireworks. Yo, cops, yo, IRS, over here, look at all the money I got. Diamonds and gowns too. Come and arrest me, pleeaasse.

  No, to quote one particularly nasty little asshole, evil was patient. Most definitely so.

  Okay, so you start a business, a little one, perhaps, just as they had. And it's all legit. You even get in some outside money. And then you set up another company, a phony one, say, the ABC Corporation. Next you get some nice fake bills printed at one of those instant places—the kind that do the work nice and cheap and don't ask questions—and then you get a mailbox, preferably at a big anonymous post office like the one downtown. Lastly, but most important, you start billing the legit company on a monthly basis. For consulting services rendered. Sure. That's it. Twenty-three grand. Okay, that's a lot, so you pull a few little punches. You vary the monthly bill every now and then—maybe only $18,000 in August, then nearly $30,000 in November when new product development is on the front burner. As long as the first company shows a profit, however, everything is fine. All is good. The investors would be delighted. After all, you can't go broke making a profit. Then you deposit the funds in the ABC Corporation's money-market account, declare taxes and so on, and live happily ever after. Oh, sure, there were a few expenses, like paying off the accountant at the legitimate company. But that was peanuts. The important thing was to keep quiet, be steady and consistent, and eliminate any obstacles along the way.

  Right, thought Rawlins, you always have to get rid of the obstacles, the things that want to trip you up.

  Rising from the table, Rawlins stretched, then stepped over to the stereo and turned it up even louder. Too bad about Michael. Murdered merely because he'd asked a few questions and followed up on a few things. So smart. Too smart. He was one of the obstacles that had to be gotten rid of, for he'd garnered too much information, thereby threatening the entire arrangement.

  Who would have thought their trio—Michael, Jeff, and Rawlins—would have ended like this, in murder? As boys they'd been such innocents. Devious little shits, true. But innocents first. Three little boys, laughter rising from their throats as they bombed around Linden Hills on their Schwinns. But now … now nothing but tragedy. He never would have imagined such a sad ending.

  Rawlins shook his head, forgot all about the money, and thought about Michael. The first and only person Rawlins had ever truly loved. Nothing had been as pure nor as intense as what he had felt for him, for handsome, wonderful, funny Michael. He'd been the first person that Rawlins had ever slept with. And while he'd known right from that instant—what were they, nineteen?—that Michael was the only person for him, he'd made one critical mistake. He'd pushed too hard. He'd come on too strong. And that had sent the young Michael, who had yet to accept his homosexuality, fleeing as fast and as far as he could. Which had devastated Rawlins. Like a broken wing, it proved a rejection that Rawlins had never been able to get over. From then on every potential suitor was judged against Michael—against his charm and warmth—and all of them came up short in one way or another. Well, nearly all. After his tumultuous break with Michael the two had avoided one another, seeking out separate friends, different parties, entirely distinct careers. In the three or four times that they had bumped into each other over the years, they had turned quickly and silently away, scowling, even fleeing the situation. Until, of course, the other evening at the Gay Times, in a conversation initiated by none other than Michael. Michael, who'd seen Rawlins across the bar and come over to him. Michael, who'd begged his counsel. Things are souring with my lover, Todd, Michael had sobbed. I can't take the pressure of being with someone so uptight, so closeted. Rawlins had listened, said little, stood there smirking, thinking, Now you know what it's like, asshole, let me see you cry, and … and silently wondering if Michael, the object of his obsession, even realized that Rawlins
had never, not for a moment, fallen out of love with him. But of course Michael hadn't, as Rawlins had learned later when he'd stopped by Michael's.

  Oh, forget it, thought Rawlins, moving toward the window. It was far too late. There was no fixing things. Nor would there ever be. That time had come and gone, an opportunity missed yet again, this time forever.

  There was a brief pause between songs on the CD, and in that instant of silence Rawlins heard not only the screaming of the tea kettle from within the kitchen, but something else. He froze. What the hell was that? A sound of some sort from outside. Running, pounding steps. Someone was out there. He automatically moved away from the window and pressed himself against the wall. And there it was, a figure, that of a man scurrying through the dark. Oh, shit. This was no ordinary burglar, Rawlins sensed at once.

  He rushed over to his leather jacket, which was thrown over a chair in the living room, and lifted his department-issued gun from its holster. Then he slipped back over to a side window, pushed aside the curtain, stared into the dark night. There was nothing, only his car, the deserted lot next door, and the thick bushes beyond.

  Wait, no, up there. By the front bush. Yes, whoever was out there was now crouched by the corner of the front porch. Rawlins studied the figure, but couldn't ascertain who it was. He had an inkling, for sure, and most definitely feared who it might be. And when the man outside moved from behind the bush and around the front of the porch, Rawlins immediately rushed through the living room and into the front hall. For an instant he thought about charging outside, but then he thought far better of it. Right. Just let the unsuspecting bastard in. Make sure he was the vulnerable one.

  With that in mind Rawlins bent over and scurried to the front door, which he silently unlocked. Then he slipped deep into the back hall. And waited. Just let him come to me, he thought, lifting his gun.

  37

  “Oh, crap,” muttered Janice as she sat in the dark vehicle. “Crap, crap, crap.”

  She opened the door and climbed out. Standing on the tips of her toes, she tried to see over the bushes. Just what in the hell was going on down there in the big house? While there were a few lights on, she couldn't make out any movement or even the faintest sound of life. Where in God's name had Todd gone and what kind of trouble was he in now? Fifteen minutes was nearly up. So what was she supposed to do, go ahead and call the number, or go right on up to the house and find out what was going on?

  “Come on, Todd,” she said to herself. “Give me a signal. Let me know you're okay.”

  Todd had nothing, no weapon of any kind. Still, he knew that he had to gain entry to the house. Perhaps Jeff was merely knocked out. On the other hand, perhaps he lay dying.

  He couldn't stop himself. Inside the house was the nugget of truth, the reason why Michael had been killed and Todd's own life thrown into such disarray. If only he could get a closer glimpse at the papers Rawlins had been sorting through in the dining room. It might reveal the true nature of what Rawlins and Jeff were involved in. As the tension rushed through his body however, Todd knew he wanted much more than to simply find out what this was all about.

  Edging up to the front door, he hesitated, then stared at the large window to the right. He moved closer, but the curtain was thick and he couldn't see through, so he turned back, making it to the front door. Reaching for the old brass handle, he turned it, found that it gave easily, and pushed. It was the first of two doors however, and he entered a tiny chamber that was meant as a stopgap to the cold Minnesota winds. Todd gently closed the door behind him, stood still on the tiled floor. Then he moved up to the next door, which was made of thick oak and had a large curtained window set into it. Looking through the thin window covering, he could make out the lights of both the living room and dining room. But there was no sign of Rawlins. Was he still in the living room? Had he slipped back into the kitchen?

  He turned the doorknob and to his surprise and relief felt it click open easily. Pushing it open a crack, Todd slipped quickly inside. He closed the door and was standing in the front hall, his heart thumping along, every one of his senses keenly piqued. To his left, the Victorian fireplace, a gas affair surrounded with a heavy mantel and extensive woodwork. Next to it, a dark wooden staircase with an ornate balustrade that rose up to the second floor. A dark hall right in front of him that might lead to the rear stairs or a back door. And the living room on his right.

  For maybe thirty seconds Todd stood completely motionless, listening for any sound of Rawlins. He moved several feet forward and glanced into the living room and then into the very edge of the dining room. An assortment of papers was still spread across the table, a calculator. The papers on the table were bank statements—active ones, by the long lists of numbers. Todd slipped forward, moving out of the dark entry and through a corner of the living room. He paused at a large round column that marked the passage into the dining room. If only Rawlins were seated right there, his back to him.

  He heard something, movement of some sort, perhaps from the kitchen. Quickly he pulled back, slipping out of the dining room, back into the dark entry hall. He pressed himself up against a wall, heard nothing else. It would be foolish to try to make it through the dining room, which was so open and well-lit, and he turned. Yes. This other hall, the dark one, had to lead to the rear of the house. Surely it connected to the kitchen. Perhaps he could sneak up on Rawlins from this side.

  As Todd entered the passage a board moaned under his right foot. He froze. Fortunately the music was loud enough to have drowned out the sound of his step. He moved forward again, carefully avoiding that particular floorboard, and soon the basement stairs loomed to his left. Pressing on, he came to a corner, saw yet another door, this one partially open. Light poured through the crack. The sound of a kettle rattling and steaming. He edged toward it. Were those steps he heard? Was Rawlins right there in the kitchen? With surprise as his only advantage, he paused and calculated every movement.

  He moved to the open doorway, toward the light. There was the refrigerator. The sink. Several mugs on the counter. And the kettle, heaving with steam. Yes, and the other hallway, the rear one that led to the back door. That was where Jeff now lay, either unconscious or dead. Todd's eyes returned to the counter. A wooden knife holder sat near the stove. Todd just needed to rush over there, grab one of the large knives. A weapon. He pulled back the door a bit more. Peered into the room. Still no sign of Rawlins. He could make it if he rushed, he thought.

  But just as he was nudging back the door, he heard the sound of someone clearing his throat behind him. Todd spun around to see a dark figure standing in the lightless hallway. Aiming a gun at Todd, the man couldn't stop himself from laughing.

  “Surprise, surprise,” whispered a hoarse voice.

  Acting on reflex, Todd turned and dove through the door into the bright kitchen. He desperately felt along the wall, hit a switch that blackened the lights, and dove to the floor, which probably saved his life. A second later there was a gunshot, and a bullet went whizzing somewhere over him, passing out the kitchen window with a clean, hard noise. On his hands and knees, Todd slid across the floor and then clambered around the corner of the stove.

  “Good try, sport,” called the voice from the doorway of the kitchen. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  As the tea kettle continued to scream on the large gas flame, Todd's mind scrambled for his next move. His hand sensed something on the floor, and in the faint light he saw a dropped spoon. With shaking fingers he picked it up, then hurled it toward the other side of the room, where it hit the counter with a distinct clatter. The other man leapt from the doorway and fired twice. Todd sprang up, grabbed the boiling teapot from the stove top, and hurled it at his assailant, who screamed as the scorching pot smashed into his shoulder. Todd then dove to a counter and groped for a thick meat cleaver, which he took from the knife block.

  But when he turned back, he saw the gun whirling in his direction.

  Todd hurled h
imself toward another doorway as a bullet ricocheted off the refrigerator, then another appliance, and finally into a wall. Rushing frantically, Todd tore past the back door, where he tripped over a bag of charcoal. He stumbled, nearly fell, and his left foot landed squarely on a plastic container of lighter fluid, which burst, spraying its contents across the back hall and down the basement stairs. Todd scrambled through the slick puddle, jumping over Jeff's lifeless body. As steps rushed in from behind, Todd shoved on, reaching another door, which he yanked open. Suddenly he found himself in a dark bathroom, a long narrow space with a toilet and a huge old claw-foot tub. Meat cleaver in hand, he slammed the door shut behind himself and fumbled unsuccessfully with the lock.

  “Oh, you're dead now!” called the voice, racing after him like a ghost. “No mercy from me—I'm going to make sure this hurts!”

  Todd spun around and raced blindly through the small room. At the other end was yet another door, a line of light seeping beneath it and up one side. That had to be the dining room. As he groped in the dark for the knob, however, he hit something soft yet firm. A shoulder. In response, a flaccid hand flopped across Todd's leg, and he jumped back in fright. A body crumbled into him, and Todd grabbed it as it fell to the floor. He knew it wasn't Jeff, and as Todd fumbled to catch the body his hands ran awkwardly through short, thick hair, then lumbered over a broad, muscular back. A familiar scent hit his nose.

  “Shit!” muttered Todd.

  The door behind him was kicked open, and a dark figure said, “Don't worry, your pal's not dead yet—”

  A light switched on. In his arms Todd held Steve Rawlins, a line of blood curling around the back of his neck.

  “—but he will be soon,” continued the man from the doorway. “You're going to shoot him with this gun and then …”