by Greg Herren
But he couldn’t remember even coming back to the hotel, so he wasn’t going to be much help to them.
So, when Venus said, “So, you can’t think of a reason why Taylor might want to kill Eric Brewer?”
I guess what I was thinking reflected on my face. Venus held up a hand. “I’ve got to cover all bases, Scotty.”
“Taylor,” I said coldly, my voice dripping with contempt as I sat up straighter and crossed my legs, “would never kill anyone or anything. He’s the victim here, Venus.”
She nodded. “I know, Scotty, and I’m sorry but I have to ask these questions. You don’t know how sorry I am this happened to him. I’m not trying to upset you.”
I nodded. I knew she was right but couldn’t wrap my head around it. Taylor couldn’t have killed Eric. He was drugged and out of it, for one thing, and he wasn’t that kind of person. He never got angry—not even when talking about his horrible parents who’d disowned him for being gay.
You’ve just never seen him get angry. And he might be making up the whole thing about being drugged, as a cover.
I pushed that hateful voice out of my head. “Go ahead.”
I answered the rest of her questions. No, Taylor had just met Eric last night. No, they’d never been involved before, and as far as I knew, they met at the after-party for the first time. I was with Taylor all evening before we came to the penthouse. Taylor didn’t hate Eric, if anything, he was a fan—which was why he went out drinking with him after the party started to break up. No, I don’t know where they went or if anyone saw them who could back up Taylor’s story. I didn’t hear from Taylor until this morning when he called me.
On and on and on, answering the same questions over and over again, only asked in a different way. I knew she was just doing her job but…
“There’s an ambulance waiting,” she said finally, closing her notepad and slipping it back into her purse. “We’re going to have a rape kit done.”
A rape kit.
I wanted to throw up.
But Eric was wearing his underwear under his robe. I remembered seeing his underwear on.
Would he have put his underwear back on after raping Taylor?
“Blaine will drive you to the hospital.” Venus stood up.
“Can’t I ride in the ambulance with Taylor?”
She shook her head, and her face was sad. “Storm and I will ride in the ambulance.”
Terrific.
It was raining again as I rode over to Touro Infirmary with Blaine in Venus’s black SUV. Blaine’s a good guy, really good looking, but I don’t trust him completely. He tried to bond with me once by pretending like we’d slept together or made out on the dance floor at Oz or something like that.
I suppose it says something about me that I didn’t remember but couldn’t be certain it hadn’t happened. Like I said, good looking and totally my type—deep blue eyes, square jaw, olive skin, muscular, a little taller than me, and bluish-black thick hair.
He’s a nice enough guy for a cop, but it’s always been hard for me to get past him trying to pull that on me in order to get me to spill dirt about my family. He’s got a much older partner who owns a gallery in the Arts District, and they live in a gorgeous house on Coliseum Square in the lower Garden District.
We made small talk on the way, him mouthing the empty platitudes everyone coughs up when something bad has happened.
Over and over that judgmental voice kept saying, You knew Eric Brewer was a dirtbag and you should have stopped him from going with him.
I knew there was no point in feeling guilty. There wasn’t anything I could have done to prevent this. But that’s part of being a parent, even a pseudo-parent like me: you can’t help blaming yourself when something bad happens because emotionally you feel like it’s your job to always protect your child from all the horrible things in the world.
Even though you can’t.
Because it’s impossible.
But knowing that doesn’t make the feeling go away.
The ride seemed to take hours, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. Blaine parked illegally and put some kind of police plate in the window, but I was already out of the car and hurrying up the sidewalk to the emergency room entrance.
Then came the fun part of doing the paperwork and handing over insurance information and a credit card, just in case. The woman asking me all the questions was trying to be kind, but I was monosyllabic and impatient. I finally signed the credit card slip.
She gestured to the waiting area. “The doctor will be with you as soon as she can.”
I started to protest, demand to be allowed to see Taylor—but none of this was her fault. So I got up, walked numbly into the waiting area, and took a seat next to Blaine, who was scrolling through his phone.
“He’ll be okay,” Blaine said, not looking up from his phone. “It’s going to be okay.”
I didn’t answer him because I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t start crying.
And I’d be damned if I’d cry in front of Blaine Tujague.
Waiting there, drinking hellishly bad coffee that gave me heartburn, paging through worn magazines without seeing what was on the well-thumbed pages, was an entirely different kind of hell. I kept taking my phone out of my pocket, thinking I needed to text or call Frank…but would put it back in my pocket because I couldn’t think of what to say. Maybe I was being a coward, but wouldn’t it be better to tell him in person? Telling him on the phone would just stress him out, and there wasn’t anything he’d be able to do until he got home, anyway. But every few minutes I’d finish paging through Good Housekeeping or People and would pull out my phone…only to put it back and reach for another magazine.
“Scotty Bradley?” a lightly accented voice said.
“Yes?” I scrambled to my feet. The doctor was a woman of indeterminate age, wearing green scrubs, her dark hair pulled back into a braid. She was slight, barely over five feet tall, and looked wispy inside the baggy scrubs.
“I’m Dr. Desai,” she said, holding out her hand. “Please come with me.” After shaking her hand, I followed her into an empty examination room. “Please, sit.” She gestured at a chair.
I sat. “How is he?”
“As good as can be expected,” she replied. “There doesn’t appear to be any tearing, and I found no traces of lubricant or semen in his rectum.” My eyes filled with tears at the thought of the exam Taylor had undergone—how humiliating it must have been. But I wiped at my eyes as she continued, “I have prescribed him something to help him sleep, and something for depression. I have also prescribed a regimen of PEP. Are you familiar with PEP?”
“Vaguely.”
“It’s a post-exposure prophylaxis to prevent HIV infection taking hold. I know I said I don’t believe there was any penetration, but it’s a precaution that should be taken. It will have some side effects.” She ran through a list. “Some people experience none, some experience more. It depends on the person.” She shrugged her small shoulders. “I have given him a precautionary treatment for other STIs, but I would recommend that he get tested again in three months—a full panel of everything.”
“Of course.” I nodded. Numbness was spreading through me and I could hear that roaring in my ears again.
“I strongly urge you to have him see a therapist. Even though I saw no evidence of penetration, your nephew has been through a trauma, and this is not something he can work through on his own or with the help of family and friends.” She handed me a folded slip of paper. “These are some local therapists who primarily work with sexual assault victims.”
“But if he wasn’t actually assaulted…”
She touched my arm sadly. “He was drugged, Mr. Bradley, and would have been assaulted had circumstance not intervened. He doesn’t remember anything that happened after a certain point in the evening last night. He may not have been legally assaulted, but he is still the victim of a sexual predator. Now, I will take you back to see him.”
&nb
sp; I wiped my eyes and followed her back into the emergency ward to an area closed off behind curtains. Taylor still looked green, his eyes red and watery. He was sitting up on the bed and wearing a hospital gown. “They took my clothes,” he said in a very small voice. The light that was usually in his eyes wasn’t there, and my heart broke more than just a little bit. “Scotty, I’m so sorry.”
My heart broke. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do a damned thing wrong, understood?”
He wiped at his eyes and nodded. He looked like a child.
Storm put his arm around me. “I called Mom to go over to your place and pick up some clothes for him. The police needed his clothes.”
I just nodded. I hadn’t thought of that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
“He gave a statement to the police,” Storm went on. “Although I think it’s pretty clear what happened. He was drugged and doesn’t remember anything.”
“I’m so sorry,” Taylor said in a voice that broke my heart, tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop that, okay?” I replied, sitting on the side of the bed and taking his hand—it was so cold—in mine and squeezing it. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and I won’t hear anything else, okay?”
He nodded as another tear fell down his cheek.
Eric Brewer was so lucky he was already dead.
Someone outside the curtains cleared his throat. “Um, Scotty,” Blaine said, staying outside the curtain, “would you mind if I asked you some questions now?”
“I already talked to Venus.” I looked at Storm, who just nodded. I’d been taught since I learned how to speak to never talk to the cops without a lawyer present, but in this case, I guess it didn’t matter. “I’ll be right back to take you home, okay?” I kissed the top of Taylor’s head and walked back outside.
“The, um, nurse said we could sit in here.” Blaine gestured toward a door. I walked through it. There were some chairs, a table, and shelves of bed linens. “I think they use it for quick breaks,” Blaine said, shutting the door behind him. “I’m sorry we have to do this now, but we need to know more about what happened last night. I know Venus asked you some basics…”
“It’s okay, Blaine, I know the drill.” I waved my hand tiredly. I was so tired. “Let’s get this over with.”
“How did Taylor wind up with Eric Brewer last night?”
“We went to the premiere party for Grande Dames of New Orleans last night, Serena Castlemaine is a friend and she got us the invitations,” I replied. “And there was an after-party at Eric’s suite at the Royal Aquitaine. She got us invited to that as well.” I explained how we were all given keys that worked the elevators. “And at the party, Eric took a liking to Taylor and asked him to take him clubbing, show him the real gay French Quarter.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t really comfortable with it, to be honest—Eric is older than me, and Taylor’s just a kid, but I also figured…” I exhaled. “I figured Taylor was an adult and could handle himself. I didn’t know I was letting him leave with a predator.”
But that Brandon guy tried to warn you, didn’t he? a voice whispered in my head. And you let him go anyway.
“A guy named Brandon went with them,” I said slowly. “What happened to Brandon?”
Blaine bit his lower lip. “Apparently he left Taylor and Eric alone at the Brass Rail. And what did you do? After the party?”
“I was tired, so I went home.”
“By yourself?”
“Frank and Colin—” I couldn’t tell him when I got home Colin was there with the dead body of a foreign agent. “They’re both out of town.” Grief overwhelmed me again. “And left me in charge of Taylor. That was a big mistake, wasn’t it?”
“Scotty. Listen to me. Listen. To. Me. You are dealing with something most people never have to deal with, and there’s no way to prepare for it, and there’s no right way to deal with it, okay? Do you understand me? You couldn’t have known what would happen. And if you did know, you would have prevented it. I know you well enough to know that.”
I wiped at my eyes and nodded. “Sorry. Go ahead.” I took a deep breath.
Seriously, Scotty, hold it together.
“So, you went home alone?”
“Yes. I didn’t go back out again, I went to bed, and was sleeping when—when Taylor called me this morning and told me that he needed help.”
“And then?”
I took a deep breath. None of it seemed real. It was hard to believe it had been only a few hours. It wasn’t even noon yet. “I got dressed and I went to the Royal Aquitaine. I called Storm to meet me there. He—he told me not to go upstairs, but I didn’t wait for him. Once Storm arrived, we called the police.”
“How did you get up to the penthouse level? Didn’t you need a key card?”
I fished it out of my coat pocket and waved it. “I still have mine from last night’s party. No one asked for it back.”
Blaine stared at me. “Are you telling me no one collected the cards back after the party?”
I stared back at him. “Really weird. It didn’t occur to me last night but yeah, once I used my card to get the elevator to go up to the penthouse floor, I just put it back in my pocket. When I was walking to the hotel this morning, I realized I still had it.” I shook my head. “I mean, the whole point of a penthouse floor is security, right? Why did the hotel let Eric Brewer give these out in the first place? And then he didn’t collect them?”
“I imagine the hotel had the numbers logged and could deactivate them.” Blaine took the card from me and put it inside an evidence bag, writing on the outside label. “But yours still worked?”
“It did this morning. I imagine everyone who was at the party still has theirs, and if mine still works, doesn’t it stand to reason everyone else’s keys still work?” I exhaled. “Someone at the hotel is getting fired over this.”
“Probably.” Blaine shook his head. “So, anyone who was at the party could have gone back up there and killed Eric.”
That wasn’t such good news for the cops, but it was great news for Taylor. But there was probably security video.
Taylor was lucky to be alive.
I started shaking as I realized that the killer easily could have killed them both.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to get a nurse?”
I shook my head, my teeth chattering. “No, no, I’m okay.”
Blaine slipped his notebook into his pocket. “If I think of any other questions, I’ll give you a call. And if you think of anything—”
I nodded. “I got your numbers.”
Blaine slipped out of the linen closet and the door clicked as it shut again. I sat there, trying to get my head together. I couldn’t let Taylor see me losing it. I had to be strong for him. I could always have my own breakdown later, when I was by myself in my room with the door closed.
Be strong. Be strong.
I wiped my eyes and exhaled. I got to my feet and walked back outside.
Mom, Dad, and Storm were all standing outside Taylor’s cubicle. I’ve never been so glad to see my parents in my life. They looked a little worse for wear, but were holding it together. Mom and Dad enveloped me in a group hug, my mom patting my head and my dad rubbing my back as they both murmured “it’s going to be okay” over and over like a mantra.
“Taylor’s getting dressed,” Mom said, “and Dad’s going to drive you home while I run get his prescriptions filled. Do you want to just come back home, or do you want to go to your place?”
Fuck.
My apartment was a disaster area. Sure, I’d cleaned up most of the mess, but the rug was gone, and the television was destroyed and who knew what I’d missed in the process?
And it might not be safe there for any of us.
Fuck.
Too many questions to answer.
“Do you mind if Taylor stays with you tonight?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Mom replied, putting her arms around me. “I was hoping you’d let us
take care of him. Not that you aren’t great with him,” she added hastily, “but I think he needs a mom right now, too.”
So, Taylor and I rode back to the Quarter with Dad and Storm, while Mom ran to CVS to get his prescriptions filled. Taylor didn’t say anything the whole way. I kept looking over at him, but all he did was stare out the car window. His color was getting better, but the bags under his eyes… Dad dropped us off at the back gate to their place and went to park the car. I took Taylor upstairs and set him up in my old bedroom. “Can I get you anything?” I asked, once he got under the covers.
He shook his head. “I just want to sleep for about a week.” He rolled over onto his side, facing the wall, with his back to me. Not knowing what else to do, I turned off the light and shut the door.
Was he blaming me for letting him leave with Eric?
Dad was loading the big glass dragon-shaped bong when I got back to the living room. “How’s he doing?”
I shook my head, willing myself not to cry. “Not well.”
“And you?”
“Not well.”
He held the bong out to me. “Being a parent is rough, Scotty.”
I debated not taking it from him, but then figured at best it would make me feel better, at worst it would make me fall asleep. I took a hit, letting the weed work its magic. I blew out the smoke. “I’m a terrible parent.”
“No, you aren’t.” Dad shook his head, his long loose hair swinging. I’d never noticed how gray his hair was before, and it hit me with a shock how old Mom and Dad were getting. I was in my forties. That meant they were in their seventies. And their parents…
No, I didn’t want to think about that.
“And you were totally unprepared for it,” Dad was saying. “I mean, we had months to prepare for babies, and we learned as we went, you know? You just do the best you can. You had a nineteen-year-old dropped on you, fully grown and fully formed, and you love him and take care of him the best you can. All he needed from you—all he needed from any of us, was love, Scotty. And you’ve given him that.”
I remembered the first time I saw Taylor, after Frank had dropped the bomb that his nephew was coming to live with us because he had nowhere else to go. Of course we were going to take him in. That was never in question. My heart broke for this poor kid whose parents had thrown him out, cut off all financial support, disowned him, for the crime of being gay. Frank and his sister weren’t close, and he’d never come out to his own parents, who pretty much felt the same way about homosexuality as his sister. He always brushed it off, never talked about his family, changed the subject over the years when I’d bring it up, but it had to be hard on him. And I felt like taking Taylor in had helped heal some of those wounds for Frank…