Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  NICK NOLAN

  DOUBLE BOUND

  A NOVEL

  LITTLE EDEN PRESS

  2008

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, thanks to Jaime--my partner of twenty-one years. How could I have been so lucky to have found you? Aside from being my best friend and lover, you helped me hone both stories, and supported me through their conceptions, as well as their protracted births. I can't thank you enough for listening to me drone endlessly about this al . no one but we wil ever know what this journey was like, and I'm so happy to have shared this al with you. Thank you for arguing with me and making me see your point, although in my head they'll always be together. .

  Thanks to my dear friends Arlet and Margo, once again, for their tireless cheerleading.

  I hope you like the story, and you felt it was worth the wait. I love you both, dearly.

  Batcheeks!

  Big thanks to Art and Claudine, my beta readers and our alpha friends. Sometimes fate is a wondrous thing. Thank God for that old ping pong table!

  Once again I need to acknowledge groundbreaking author Kathleen McGowan, who already sees me as the successful writer I aspire-- humbly--to be someday, and who has shared so generously every resource at her disposal. They were lucky stars, indeed, my dear. And speaking of Kathleens, I am forever grateful to my wonderful sister who, after an arduous workday and caring for her kids, drove across Los Angeles to my book signing and got lost, but stil managed to walk in the door smiling, even as the tables and chairs were being carried away. no one but you knows the truth on these pages.

  And thanks to Kirk Frederick for championing Strings to everyone he knew, and for suffering through that early unedited version of DB (sorry about that!); and thanks to Joe Clapsaddle, who fortified my confidence. Also thanks to Jim Fain for providing suggestions for the 'zombie' drug used on Ryan and Jeremy.

  Thanks to my editor, Eileen Chetti, for her invaluable input on these sentences and dots and dashes and apostrophes. Thank you for your hard work and sparkling expertise, as well as your open mind.

  And where would we be without our friends David and Larry,Judie and Marty, Lee and Andre, wonderful Courtney, newlyweds Mark and Gordon, Michael and Kel y, John and Jennifer, Henry, Brian and Rose? And especial y Kalua and her husband Celso, who provided me with the Brazilian Portuguese phrases. (What would I have done without you?) And I haven't forgotten you, Jason, and what you did for me with the photo on Strings. We both wish you the best.

  I'm always grateful to my author friends DC Elmore, who is as charming as she is talented and beautiful, and fellow ForeWord Magazine award winner Nick Poff, whose The Handyman's Promisestole my boyfriend from me one weekend.

  I also want to acknowledge those who wrote such wonderful reviews of Strings on Amazon, most notably Amos Lassen of Literary Pride, Paul Minafri, Bob Lind, Elton Elliott, R. Rutar, Michael Brown, Jerome Lowe, T. Cullens, Foster Corbin, Lawrence Coles, Matthew Boger, David Means, our friend Jonathan Taylor, and Jeffrey Schmidt. Huge thanks go to my hero Richard Labonte, and Rich Wiesenthal, for their glowing press reviews. Your effort and praise will be appreciated by me until my last day on this earth. And thanks to Stan Thompson, who provided me with a comprehensive list of errata from Strings, and volunteered to proofread this manuscript.

  And last but not least I thank Pam Castle, my cyber best friend. You have been a continuous source of love and support through this process. I treasure your input, your intimacy, and your trust. You know the magic of the written word better than anyone.

  Finally, to our darling Emma Lou, who passed away during the writing of this story, a year to the day after our beloved Margaret left us. You were here for me the way you are there for Arthur. We had such a short time together, but you touched my heart so much that I have tears in my eyes as I write this. I am so glad to have been able to give you some new life in these pages. I look forward to seeing your sweet brown eyes and happy grin again, while feeling your hot breath on my chest, once I cross over that proverbial "rainbow bridge."

  Thank you, dearest readers, for taking a chance on my work.

  Nick Nolan

  August 2008

  nick@nick-nolan.com

  For a complete explanation of the symbolism underlying Double Bound, please visit nick-nolan.com

  "No matter how old our eyes may look on the outside, on the inside they are always seventeen."

  - Arthur Blauefee

  "I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love."

  - Mother Teresa

  "Quien engaña no gana."

  - an old Spanish proverb

  "He that believeth in me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water."

  - John 7:38

  Author's note:

  English translations of foreign phrases are listed on the final pages.

  For Jaime--My Partner, And My Best Friend.

  Thank You, My Love.

  PROLOGUE

  The rain soothed his ears, even as it called him gently from his sleep.

  He opened his eyes.

  Had it really happened? He didn't need to look over at the sleeping form next to him to know it had. He'd been dreaming about it even before he'd awakened; his mind had been running it over and over the same way it did a beautiful song while it's playing, and then even after it ends, with a melody so sweet that you can't let it go--you keep humming and humming it until you get tired of it.

  But he knew he wouldn't get tired of this.

  Tired of him.

  He was a song he'd been singing all his life, even before he knew the melody.

  Before he knew the words. For so long now, he'd been harmonizing with silence.

  Until tonight.

  He smiled in the darkness, then reached over to smooth his warm,muscled shoulder.

  His lover shifted, and rolled onto his back.

  Then he sighed.

  A sigh of contentment is what it sounded like.

  No, a sigh of elation--like the sigh you make when you see the grand finale at a fireworks show. Or maybe it was the kind of sigh like wind winding through a cave...the sound of emptiness filled with God's breath.

  He'd never heard a sigh like that before.

  Or had he?

  Yes, he had.

  Once, a long time ago.

  CHAPTER 1

  The dirty yellow and blue cab rolled to a stop at the curb, idling noisily.

  "Are you sure about this?" the blond one asked his friend.

  "Don't be a dick, Ryan. We talked about this already. You said you wanted to do this, so let's do it. We'll just look around for a while, and then grab another cab outta here. I've got it with me," he said as he patted his belt where the revolver was tucked, "so we're safe. Everyone here's fucked up on drugs anyhow, so what could happen?"

  "Ten minutes," Ryan demanded, staring him down. "We look around for ten minutes, and then we're gone."

  "Twenty," Kris replied.

  They nodded at each other, and then Ryan slipped a black ski cap over his yellow hair as Kris paid the driver and they scooted out of the car.

  The city on the hill looked almost welcoming at night; the sparkling lights higher up, as well as the yellow glow coming from some of the nearby windows, beckoned the young men up from the street. And the darkness did a pretty good job of hiding the debris and the filth and the poverty and the ramshackle state of the shelters and cheap structures jammed together like some crazy urban jigsaw puzzle, as well as the suspicious stares of the dark faces that followed their trajectory up the stairs.

  "I can't believe people actually live like this," Ryan nearly shouted over the din of Portuguese rap music, co
mbined with dogs barking and people yelling and traffic honking in the street below.

  "What the fuck is that smell?" Kris asked. "Jesus Christ, it smells like someone's cookin' shit for dinner."

  "Maybe they are." Ryan laughed nervously. He glanced at his watch: they still had fifteen more minutes before they could flee. But then at least he could say that he'd been in the heart of a favela. He considered that for some American college students like himself, the exploration of the slums of Rio de Janeiro had become the bungee jumping of their generation. And he could see why. The fear he was experiencing at this moment was better than the thrill he got watching some slasher movie; his heart pounded and his flesh was crawling and every sense--especially his sight, hearing and sense of touch--was heightened. It was like those few times in high school when he'd done meth, but without the phantom skin bugs.

  He felt as terrified as he was giddy.

  The unmistakable thump-diddi-thump-diddi-thump of faraway reggae music met their ears, as well as some raucous laughter. The boys turned to each other. "Ever been to a party in Rio, my friend?" Kris asked.

  "I'm not so sure if we should--" Ryan began to protest.

  "Life is short," Kris cut him off. "We'll stick our heads in and say hi, smoke some ganja and then leave. Just so we can say we did."

  "You are so fuckin' crazy," Ryan told him. And with that, they began picking their way along the labyrinth of paths toward the music.

  Thump-diddi-thump-diddi-thump. It grew louder and louder until they could tell that the party was just over a wall.

  "How do we get over that?" Kris asked, pointing to the peeling plaster with the broken bottles set into cement on its ridge. "There's no fuckin' way."

  Ryan looked at his watch. They were already way past their agreedupon twenty minutes. "Kris, let's go."

  "No way, man. We've come this far. Let's go back how we came and see if we can find a way around this wall."

  They made a U-turn and began their descent down a flight of stairs, where Kris discovered a path leading off to the right. "let's try this one." He pointed excitedly into the darkness.

  "I'm leaving," Ryan replied. "You do whatever the fuck you want, but I'm outta here."

  "Ryan, come on! "

  He shook his head and began making his way down to the street, walking at first and then nearly running.

  "Ryan!" Kris yelled after him, but when his friend didn't turn around he began following him down. "OK, OK--just slow up!"

  Ryan kept running.

  "Wait! It's not that way; it's over this way!"

  Ryan sprinted, terrified--there were no thrilling goose bumps or mild euphoria or anything even remotely good about this; he felt like a lost dog with its tail down running along a busy highway.

  And then something tripped him. He flew chin first through the air, landed with a whump on his chest and then skidded headfirst along the ground and came to a rest just as something sharp dug into his forearm. He couldn't breathe. Wind knocked out, one part of his scrambled brain reported to the other. And in a moment, Kris was behind him, kneeling down.

  "Jesus, are you OK?" Kris asked, suddenly panicked.

  "Ow, oh," Ryan answered from the ground, rubbing his arm.

  "He'll be OK," a woman's voice advised. Or was it a man's?

  Kris heard the flick of a lighter, and then at once a masculine face adorned in heavy drag makeup--painted arching eyebrows, spider's legs eyelashes, darkly rouged cheeks and scarlet lips--emerged from the darkness. The creature held the yellow flame to what looked like a cigarette, and then he caught a whiff and realized that it had just sucked down a huge toke, which it held in its lungs for what seemed an eternity, and then blew out in a foglike plume.

  Then Ryan looked up from where he was sprawled to see what was clearly a frail man dressed in tight jeans and a halter top and wearing a long, frizzled, black Disco Diva wig. This is a nightmare, he thought as he touched his forearm and felt the warm, sticky wetness of his blood emanating from the raw, throbbing skin.

  This is a shittin' nightmare. "What do you want?" he demanded.

  Kris leaned over and held out his hand. "Come on, let's go!" he whispered. "Get up! Now!"

  "Meninos?" it asked in its creepy, sultry voice, and then Ryan's eyes made out the silhouettes of four young men as they emerged from the darkness.

  "Stand back!" Kris turned and shouted at them as he pulled the gun from his belt.

  But he didn't shoot--he intended only to scare them.

  POP-POP-POP--accompanied by triple flashes of light--issued from a gun held by one of the young men, and Kris jerked and spasmed as the bullets tore tiny, ragged tunnels through his body.

  He slumped down beside Ryan, and then his head hit the cement with a sickening crack.

  Ryan's chest heaved and he nearly hyperventilated as he threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Don't shoot me! Please don't shoot me! Don't shoot me! Please, don't!"

  "You have the gun?" the creature asked him gently.

  "No, no, no!" he exclaimed, waving his hands wildly and shaking his head.

  It held out its hand. "Then come with us," it offered.

  Ryan refused the hand, and shook his friend's shoulder instead. "Kris? Kris!"

  The boy's head only jiggled limply, while his blank eyes stared at nothing.

  Jesus Christ, he's dead!

  Ryan pushed himself up off the ground. "Where are we going?"

  "You are losing blood," it answered. "You must not lose the blood." Then it began to pick its way slowly down the path into the darkness, limping as if one of its high heels had broken off.

  Ryan followed behind it, his hand applying pressure to the wound on his arm, while the meninos--mumbling cheerfully in their velvety, completely unintelligible tongue--followed right behind.

  Chapter 2

  "Where are you taking me?" Ryan asked the creature, trying not to sound panicked.

  "Please, I haven't done anything to you. Just tell me what you're gonna do." He looked around for someone who might be able to help him, but anyone who materialized either ducked into a doorway or skittered away at their approach.

  It laughed casually. "Do not worry, if you do what we say. You should be much honored to have been chosen."

  Chosen?

  They made their way down a set of stairs, past a shack where some girls were screaming with laughter, and then stepped out onto a busy street. There Ryan spotted a big white Mercedes amidst the tiny cars, looking like a cruise ship amongst dinghies. leaning against the car was a heavily muscled black man, with bulging arms crossed over his massive chest. When they got closer he jerked to life and pulled the doors open for them.

  The gun pressed into Ryan's back, as well as the image of Kris lying dead, forced his cooperation. So he sidled into the rear seat between the creature and two of the boys. After the other two climbed in front, the driver pulled away and began threading his way into Rio's crazed nighttime traffic.

  "I'm so sorry," it told Ryan at last, while withdrawing some bandages from a purse and handing them over. "I am Rosa." She held out her gloved hand and Ryan shook it weakly. As she smiled at him disingenuously, he saw that she wore badly stained dentures, and the exaggerated crust of makeup on her skin made her look half silent film star and half mummy. "What is your name?"

  "Ryan," he mumbled icily, peeling the paper cloth from the adhesive. Then he pressed the bandages carefully to his wrist.

  "You are very handsome, Mr. Ryan," she said, and then withdrew a black, Spanish-style lace fan from her purse, unfurled it with a zzziiip and began fanning herself exaggeratedly with it.

  "Where'm I going?" he demanded once again.

  She parted her lips in what had once been, centuries ago, a good imitation of a coquettish smile. "You will meet my good friend. He is very fond of such handsome boys like you."

  He squinted disgustedly at her. "I'm not a queer!"

  She shrugged her shoulders. "It no matter," she said, withdrawing her cigarettes an
d lighter from her purse. "You make everyone so, so happy."

  " I'm an American! You can't do this to me!"

  "We all American, Mr. Ryan," she said, placing a cigarette between her lips. "You North, we South; no difference--we all laugh at the same Jim Carrey."

  The driver raced the Mercedes through the crush of nighttime traffic toward the outskirts of the city, where the favelas and apartment buildings and businesses and hotels gave way to high-rise condominiums, and then merged into sprawling houses behind gates reinforced by lush tropical overgrowth. Then Ryan felt the road begin to climb and twist and bank from side to side as they came to a place where the land dropped precipitously on one side all the way down to the water, while on the other only a tall stretch of iron fence ran parallel to the street in either direction as far he could see.

  The Mercedes slowed before making a sharp left into a driveway, where three men holding Uzis stopped them. The driver put down the back window; then, with a reassuring nod from Rosa, the twin gates parted for them.

  As they motored upward, Ryan saw the shimmering crescent September moon reflected upon the black bay far away to his right, as well as the gargantuan Cristo Redentor lit up like a psychotic hallucination just beyond them--on the mountain peak to the left. Finally an immense, bland white structure loomed, and the Mercedes ascended the last section of steeply inclined driveway before stopping under a porte-cochère at the top.

  Rosa opened her door and got out, as did the silent henchmen. But Ryan didn't budge. "Come," she demanded. Reluctantly, he scooted out of the seat and stood, secretly relieved to stretch his tension-cramped legs.

  He looked around.

  This mansion or compound or abandoned library reminded him of that place he'd visited once with his parents while on vacation in los Angeles--what was it called?

  The Music Center. Those three huge white buildings: the Someone's First-and-last-name Pavilion and that cool round forum place and then that other theater--with the fountains and the shallow reflecting pools and the brilliant up-lights and those dizzying concrete colonnades that surrounded the place like a rectangular aerial racetrack. That's kind of what this looked like. only smaller. And dirtier. The once shimmering reflecting pools were now olive green with algae,and vines crept up the chipped white walls; where there were rows of lights at the base of the buildings, many were burned out, the concrete below his feet was buckled in places and weeds flourished between the cracks.