by Sarah Black
"A quick hand job, Colton. I got to be in surgery in twenty minutes. That's enough time for you, boy. You're on a hair trigger. Don't worry," he'd said, reaching between Colton's legs with a wink, long fingers busy, "it's just another hernia repair. I never get enough. I'm the hernia king of Tucson."
Colton stuck his head under the shower, rinsed the sweat from his hair. He slid the foreskin back again, the head engorged and purple, glistening with that thick liquid.
"Oh, fuck the hand job,” Diego had said, shoving him back against the exam table and reaching behind him to lock the door. “On the table, quick. We've got to hurry.” He'd shoved Colton back on the table, pushed his knees up and apart. “Just lie back and relax.” He was laughing. “Hey, stick your feet in the stirrups like the ladies do."
"No fucking way.” But somehow Colton had his feet in the stirrups, and Diego was guiding his knees apart.
"Oh, yeah, that's right. Spread those legs. I'll be gentle, ma'am. I've got small hands.” He reached for Colton's balls, rolled them between his fingers, and hefted his cock in the other hand. “Ma'am, your baby's growing very nicely."
Colton laughed and swiped at his head, and Diego lowered his mouth and sucked Colton's cock deep in his throat. He gave a hard suck on the shaft, let the cock slide out until the head was between his teeth.
"That's good, Colton, you're so sticky and sweet, man. I love that fruit, can't get enough. Come on, now. Hurry, I've got to go.” And he lowered his mouth, sucked hard on the head, his tongue worrying the slit and Colton knew he was pumping out the juice, he always did. Then Diego surprised him, like he always did, with tenderness. He reached for Colton's hand, slid their fingers together, so they were holding hands when the passion twisted and caught, came boiling up and emptied his balls.
"Gotta go, baby.” He stepped back, studied Colton lying on the exam table, feet in the stirrups and knees splayed out. “We need one of these at home.” He slapped Colton on the hip. “Later,” and he left him there, sprawled out and limp as a jellyfish.
Home. Not now, he thought, his big hand working his cock, and it wasn't as good as Diego's hand, but it would do.
Chapter Five
Colton phoned Sanchez, asked him to meet him down at the deli on the corner. He was eating an onion bagel with smoked salmon and capers, and hoping no one could smell tequila on his breath at nine o'clock in the morning. He was gonna have to toughen up a bit. He couldn't be holding his head and moaning, jacking off in the shower when Diego needed him.
He read through Diego's deposition. He'd come home, and the door of the loft was open a bit. He pushed the door open, saw the boy chained to the post, covered in blood. Tried to check a pulse, found the boy's throat cut. Reached for the table with the phone to call 911. Two men came through the door after him. They threw a towel over his face, then each one grabbed him by an arm and dragged him into his bedroom. It was the sheriff of Pima County who pulled the towel off, wrapped a big hand around his throat, squeezed until he started to black out. Then he took his knife out.
"You made a mistake getting near my family.” That was all Jeremiah Wheeler had said before he jammed the point of the knife into Diego's eye.
Colton could feel his mind wanting to shut down, collapse in on itself like a house of cards. Okay, stop. Think.
Sanchez came in the door of the deli with Lieutenant Miriam Boxlighter. She was the only female lieutenant in the department, and Colton thought she had never liked him much because he was a man. She was in charge of sex crimes and domestic violence. Cops who worked those fields too long started looking at all men like they were scum-sucking dogs. She was a black-and-white, by-the-book-cop too, but she understood the gray areas, and had come to him a few times for help when she didn't want to ask her own unit to do something that was a little iffy. Still, there was a reserve in her manner he had never really tried to get around.
Sanchez handed him a file folder and pulled up a chair. “Budgets, requests for new equipment, the rookie evals with statements from the trainers.” Colton nodded. And whatever else was in the folder, it was for later. From the look Sanchez gave him, he wasn't sure, either, why Lieutenant Boxlighter had joined this party. She took a seat at the table, dumped a packet of Splenda into her steaming cup of chai tea.
"Colton, you look well. I just heard you were released from the hospital."
He nodded. “Yeah, I'm good, Miriam. Not really up to much yet, but I can probably do some paperwork before I have to go lie down and take my nap."
She raised an eyebrow at this, and Colton thought she might be hiding a grin. “Really? A nap?” She put her tea down, and pulled out a tiny tape recorder, and flipped open a memo book. She pushed the button without saying anything.
"Lieutenant Colton Wheeler, did you know that your statement has disappeared regarding the murder of Jesus Martinez, and your own assault?"
"No, I didn't."
"Have you seen the murder book, Lieutenant, or any of its contents?"
"No.” His hand was sitting on top of a thick folder of papers, and he willed himself not to look down at it. Sanchez was staring off into space, a picture of a cop up to something.
"I can confirm that you have not signed out any materials pertinent to this investigation as of this morning. I need to take your statement again."
They went through it carefully, finding Marti, his throat already cut, hearing Diego screaming, Colton, no! Then just Diego screaming.
She leaned back in her chair, and Colton could see that something he had said mattered to her. She punched the off button on the recorder. “I need to remind you that you and your unit cannot be involved in this investigation.” Yeah, right. In whose lifetime? “Since hate crimes are federal crimes, I have been asked to assist a federal task force investigating these allegations."
Colton felt his mouth drop open. “A federal task force? You're fucking kidding me.” He looked at Sanchez. “Besides Diego, the rest of the victims are young Mexican meth-heads, as far as we can figure. Why is the assistant DA paying attention, getting the feds involved?"
"Maybe it's because the president of Mexico called the president of the United States this morning. He requested an immediate investigation into the maiming of a young Mexican doctor by the Pima County sheriff. A young doctor who just happens to be the nephew of the attorney general of Mexico."
Colton, who had been taking a sip of his coffee, nearly spit it across the table. “He's what?"
"The FBI jumped on this puppy with both hands. They're just dying to take the new hate legislation for a spin. And they are always happy to find somebody else who is screwing up more than they are."
"Is the warrant vacated? His arrest warrant?"
"Not yet, but soon,” she promised. “This would be a good time to stand down, Colton. Whatever you've got your unit doing, pull them off. Don't screw things up."
He scribbled his e-mail on a napkin and handed it over. “What I care about is that he can come home safely. That's my main concern. I'm not going to fuck up anybody's case. Can you let me know right away on the personal e-mail?"
She held up the napkin, and carefully copied the info into her memo book. “You need to get some business cards, Lieutenant Wheeler. I feel like Deep Throat."
Sanchez stared after her when she shouldered her tidy briefcase and left the deli. “What'd you say that put that cop in such a good mood?"
"Let's find out,” Colton said, opening the file folder. He dug under the pile of paperwork, requisitions, and written evals, and pulled out the statements given by the first two cops on the scene, Robbins and Gilbert. They claimed they had been watching the loft, waiting for Dr. Del Rio to get home from the hospital to question him about Marti's allegations of kidnapping and sexual abuse. How did they know about the allegations?
"Well, look at this,” Colton said, scrolling down the page. “Those two geniuses claim his throat was cut when they got there, but he managed to croak out ‘Diego did it.’ And that I was already l
aid out on the floor, my neck broken. Jesus, Sanchez. These two are dumb as rocks."
Sanchez leaned forward, read where Colton was pointing. “The autopsy report is in there.” He pulled it out, scanned through a couple of pages. “Must have been a miracle. But in the absence of a miracle, I believe the autopsy showed that the kid couldn't talk once his throat was cut. Which one of them broke your neck, Colton?"
"I don't even give a shit. They'll turn the sheriff over in a New York minute to cut a deal and try to save their sorry asses."
"You going back to the loft? I'm going into the office, listen in on the radio to the federales when they swoop into town and take the sheriff into custody. You don't do anything stupid, boss."
"Yeah, yeah. I hear that a million times a day. Hey, what's with that woman? Do you get the feeling she doesn't like me?"
Sanchez shook his head. “It's probably Lydia. You know, she wants to keep things professional, since you're Lydia's boss."
"Lydia? What the fuck are we talking about?"
"You know, they're girlfriends. Boyfriends, whatever you call it."
"What, you mean partners? Holy fucking shit. Lieutenant Boxlighter must have balls of steel, she lives with Lydia. Maybe we'll get lucky, and she can be the next sheriff."
* * * *
Colton had one little stop to make before he went back to the loft like a good boy, did his budgets and evals and let the big federal dicks who did not have broken necks sweat those stupid fucks until they gave up the sheriff. Things were bound to get ugly very quickly, and Colton thought he had better go see Aunt Margaret. Something she had said at the hospital, when she was having her meltdown, about it all being her fault. Pinky saying his piece about the old white ladies and their medications—that had reminded him about what she'd said. How exactly was Aunt Margaret mixed up in all this? It seemed ludicrous, but it was a loose thread, and he would have to pull it.
Colton pulled his pickup up to the curb, rang the doorbell on their small cream and brown ranch. No flowers in the flowerbeds, and the shrubs in front were looking dried out and dusty.
Aunt Margaret answered the door, her short, curly helmet of old lady hair slightly flattened on one side, the marks of the pillowcase on her cheek. “Did I wake you up, Aunt Margaret?” Colton bent and kissed her cheek, smelled her Shalimar powder.
"How are you, Colton? I can't hardly believe you're up and walking around! When I saw you in the hospital, strapped down in that horrible contraption...” Her hands were fluttering around, and he could see the pulse beating in her throat, thready and quick as a bird's.
"Let's sit down, Aunt Margaret,” he said, leading her to the couch. “I just want to talk to you for a minute before Uncle comes home for lunch. Is he coming for lunch?"
"I don't think so, Colton, but I don't really know, darling."
"Aunt Margaret, you remember my friend? Dr. Del Rio? We went out for lunch for your birthday, do you remember?"
Aunt Margaret nodded, her blue eyes filling with tears. “He was so lovely, Colton. So gentle and understanding. I knew he would understand if I explained it all to him. And now look what's happened to him!"
Colton's stomach was twisting itself into a knot. He kept his voice soft. “Explained what, Aunt Margaret?"
"About my nerves! These doctors, they just want to take my medicine away, they don't understand how bad my nerves get! It didn't used to be that way, Colton.” She leaned forward, tapped his wrist to make her point. “It used to be that doctors listened and they believed their patients! That's why I went to see that nice Dr. Del Rio. I thought he would understand."
Colton sat back on the couch, ice filling his chest. “And did he understand?"
"Yes! But he only gave me six pills. He said keep them for emergencies only. I've still got two left. Six pills.” She laughed a bit, her voice hollow. “Can you believe that?"
Colton pushed off the couch, went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Bottles and bottles and bottles. Librium, Paxil, Thorazine, imipramine, Haldol, Valium. He found the bottle Diego had given her, Xanax, six pills only, no refills. Most of the bottles were from pharmacies across the border in Mexico. Some of the labels were obvious forgeries. Colton closed the mirrored door, rested his forehead on the glass. When he went back into the living room, Aunt Margaret was still sitting on the couch, knees together, tears making pale tracks through the powder on her cheeks.
"Did the sheriff see the bottle? Is that what happened? Diego gave you six little tranquilizers because he wanted to help you. Because you've got a problem with your medication, Aunt Margaret. I don't know why I've been thinking this had something to do with me."
"I don't give a fuck about you.” The sheriff was suddenly standing behind him, in uniform, his hand resting on his gun belt. “You make me want to vomit, you're a perversion, but the law doesn't let us do anything about the freaks like you and that doctor you like to fuck. So I'm doing a little prevention, my own way. Get rid of the queers and the drug pushers. Get the word out, let them know we don't want them down here. It's what we call working in the gray areas."
He didn't get any further. Colton wasn't wearing a gun, and he might have had a newly healed broken neck, but he was still strong enough he could reach down and pick up the coffee table, smash it into his uncle's face before he could move or say another word. He went down, the crack of splintering wood like gunfire.
"He was trying to help her, you stupid fuck! Don't you know fuck-all about drug addiction?” One of the legs of the coffee table was still in his hand, and he threw it down on top of the mess on the floor. Aunt Margaret was rigid, screaming, her heels drumming against the sofa. “You liked it! Maybe you used her and me as your excuse, but you did it because you liked it. How many others? You had somebody follow her down across the border, then whoever she got her drugs from, you..."
Colton pushed the pieces of the broken coffee table aside, stared down at his uncle, dazed on the floor. He could kick him in the eye. He could dig his thumb into that mean bastard's eye socket and pop it out like a skinned grape. No. No, Diego wouldn't like it.
Six pills for emergencies only. He ought to take one himself. This felt like an emergency. When he saw Jeremiah shake his head like a bear waking up, reach down to his belt for his service revolver, Colton kicked him so hard in the nuts that he rolled in a ball, puking, his face nearly black. Colton spat on his face, stormed out of the room.
When Colton turned the corner, his hands still shaking on the steering wheel, he could see a line of black SUVs, shiny federal government vehicles coming down the block. That was fast. The sheriff wasn't going to be in very good shape to get arrested.
* * * *
Diego wasn't coming back. Colton, this has nothing to do with me and you. You know how much I love you. But I can't live in that world. I'm not living in a world with VICTIM painted in big red letters across my face.
Colton didn't even know where he was. Esmeralda wasn't talking and Colton thought she was secretly pleased that Diego seemed to be giving him the slip.
Of course he wasn't alone, and Colton didn't want him to be, not really. He needed someone with him, somebody strong to lean on. But that was supposed to be him, not some old boyfriend. No one could take care of Diego like he could, events of the past months notwithstanding.
Who was this artist, this first lover, anyway? Colton had never heard of him, but he could picture him clearly enough: dark, suave, good manners, handsome. In his forties, probably, with some gray streaking his hair, just enough so he looked wicked. Probably a mustache. Wicked enough he would appeal to Diego, who would follow a devil into the fires of hell. Probably related to the President of Brazil. Or God himself.
Fuck it. After a couple of days of sorrowful e-mails that sounded a lot like Diego was trying to talk himself into saying good-bye, Colton threw his boots and jeans into the back of his pickup and drove out to his ranch. Everything looked like he had never left.
One of the mothers was h
anging sheets on the line. The boys were running through the courtyard, playing tag. The teenager, with his curly black hair drooping into his eyes, was in the stables, shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow. The old woman was asleep in the corner of the kitchen, and there was a pot of pintos on the stove, smelling like onions and garlic and bacon.
Colton got his bottle, took a couple of glasses and found Manuel under the palo verde tree at the far edge of the courtyard, reading a paperback novel with a picture of a cowboy on the front, riding a horse, guns blazing. The river looked like the Rio Grande.
Manuel put the book down, took a glass of tequila, leaned back with his head against the trunk and listened while Colton told him all about it. It took some time to tell the story right, and Maria Goretti had to call them twice before they would come to supper.
Their teenager, whose name was Samuel, would make a good wrangler, Manuel said. He knew a rancher down outside Sonoyta, might take him on next year. Samuel was just fifteen.
"Maybe we'll go look for some scrubby old mare nobody else wants, so he can practice being a vaquero,” he said, staring off across the garden. “The peppers look like they're coming up good."
The next morning Manuel climbed into Colton's pickup and they drove into town to find an old horse trailer.
"So what's happening now? Where's the sheriff?"
"They've got him in a federal prison somewhere back east. I must have had twenty smirking, smart-ass feds interview me. It's a wonder I didn't punch one of them in the teeth and get hauled away myself. They kept looking at me like, How the fuck could you be so stupid, you didn't see this? I wonder about that myself. The press is going nuts, they don't know if this is a gay hate crime or a Mexican hate crime or just a horrible crime against a beautiful young doctor. Diego's face is fucking everywhere except in our bed! And now he says he's not coming back."
Manuel grinned out the side window.