by Rodd Clark
“It’s possible . . . I’ve thought about it. I just never allowed myself to bring it up because it was just plain wrong. You think you had reasons to murder those innocent people, but you didn’t. Each and every victim deserves to see justice for your crimes, but I can’t imagine life without you now.”
Christian was relieved to finally shed the garment he’d been wearing since the two had met. Exhausted from carrying it around, it now lay at his feet, leaving him breathy, confused, and tangled in ways he couldn’t understand.
“You may’ve been some dark figure that I was never meant to fully understand, but you are more than that to me now. I want to be with you. But I simply can’t imagine only seeing you through thick glass and bars.”
GABE STEPPED away, trying to gain some perspective. As they’d been walking, twilight had fallen, and the expansive sky of robin’s egg blue was quickly turning dark. Lights twinkled from the boats on Elliot Bay. The water tours were underway, and the horns from sea traffic beckoned from the distance. Gabe looked down at the pavement confused. This was not how he wanted to close their evening. All he wanted now was to fade into nothingness, leave Chris standing there less than a mile from his car and a quarter mile from the coastline. It hadn’t been that long since he’d asked Chris to join him on his next killing, but now Chris was asking him to stop altogether. He began to get angry at the writer who’d thrown some wrench into his plan, which had always been to have someone else see that he wasn’t completely mad. Someone who had the wherewithal and knowledge to prove that fact to others—a writer who could tell his story as it truly was, so that it didn’t fade into the annals of history without someone knowing he had been right all along. Gabe didn’t like confusion, it was a rare occurrence, and he was unaccustomed to how angry it made him.
How could such a good day turn so horribly bad, so quickly?
CHRISTIAN TRIED to bridge the distance, moving tentatively closer to Gabriel. He wanted to pull the man into his arms, to get him to understand just how much he wanted to stand next to him. Maybe even to show him he had a chance at a very different life—if he’d only make a step in that direction. But even after that misting of humid Seattle rain, Gabriel had turned ice cold. Neither man could remember a time when there wasn’t this very question hanging between them. They had forgotten all their time in the sack, holding hands at the Pony, or those sweet moments spent at the Mayflower Plaza. It was just this moment in time, and it seemed to drag on endlessly.
“I thought you heard me before, but now I know you didn’t,” Gabriel said under this breath, barely audible to Christian’s ears. “I’m going home . . . and I’m going alone.”
With that, he turned and headed back in the direction of downtown on foot. It was clear that Christian wasn’t supposed to follow him as he stormed away. Gabriel never turned back around, and even now, yards away, the writer could sense the emotions coming off him in waves. Gabriel was angry and confused, and now it had been Christian’s turn to say something that broke the mood.
Christian stood alone and watched as the image of the killer became smaller in his eyes. His heart finally began to beat at a normal speed, and he hung his head and in a swell of anguish began to cry. The sounds of gulls and the ferryboat whistles filled the air. He had overstepped and done so early, but even in his sadness he knew it had been time to say those things. After what Gabriel had asked him earlier, he knew he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He had to try and stop Church from killing, or lose him altogether. As sad as that was, it was still very clear that he had to at least try.
Chapter Twenty-one
IT WAS AFTER ten when Gabe passed through the courtyard headed to his door. But as he reached it, he noticed a large paper tacked face down in the center of his door. In his anger he suspected it was an eviction notice, but his mind played back, What the hell, I’m paid up for another month! Pulling the paper down, he fumbled with his keys, he wanted to be inside when he read the notice. But it wasn’t anything from his fat landlord, Rusty, it was a sketch drawing. Closing the door behind him and clicking on his light, he looked at the drawing. It was him. At first he thought it was something from Chris, and that idea pissed him off because it meant that he had been followed home and his privacy invaded, despite his decree their space be separate for the moment. But holding the parchment he realized it didn’t come from Chris. He could tell it was a drawing of him standing at his balcony—it was surprisingly good. It captured his essence, he thought, and seemed a flattering representation.
The drawing would have taken time to complete and came from a perspective of someone drawing him from across the piazza. Someone in this complex had drawn it, he figured. So who was the artist, and why had he been the subject of their talent? He vaguely remembered standing in that pose at his balcony a couple of days ago, so whoever drew it, must have been watching him that night.
He stared at the sketch longer—it was a charcoal pencil drawing, and the eyes made him appear pensive and distant. In the drawing he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and whoever had spent time illustrating him seemed to have spent a lot of time concentrated on his chest hair and the loving portrayal of muscles. Maybe he had a fan, he thought. But since it hadn’t come from Christian, that meant someone else was fixated on him; considering his history that wasn’t as benign a thought as one might understand. When you try and live your life in the shadows, unnoticed, having someone draw your picture and deliver it to your door was a little unnerving.
Carrying the picture to the balcony he tried to gage the perspective, it wouldn’t be hard finding the artist if he could figure from what angle best suited which unit. Staring out at the other apartments, he didn’t see lights coming from any of the living rooms across the way. He didn’t know how many units were occupied or available. Actually he’d never even cared enough about his surroundings to take note of any of his neighbors, but now he was concentrating on angles of light and viewpoints, and he guessed it was one of the apartments in the southwest corner. Both possibilities were currently dark, and he wondered if someone was staring back at him at that very moment, watching him with some kind of lustful, calculated eye.
He did what anyone would do; he waved back at the darkness and smiled there as he stood in the open French doors. Half expecting a light to come on and a person to be standing there but knowing whoever gifted him that picture had no intention of introducing themselves in such a manner. Church suspected he would have to keep his curtains drawn more closely now; after all, it wasn’t uncommon for him to walk around naked, and although he didn’t much care who saw him while he was in his apartment, he didn’t relish the idea they were sketching him in all his glory. He wondered how long it had been since he’d jacked it in the shower and possibly walked around with a hard-on, and wondered who’d witnessed that.
He could have carried the drawing across the courtyard and knocked on a couple of doors, but he was tired. He’d walked a long way home in a hurry, and the mood that Chris had left him with had not dissipated entirely. He tossed the drawing on the table and headed to the shower; the idea of getting off under the hot steam seemed instantly appealing.
BACK AT his loft Christian wasn’t in any better mood than before. His mind raced with every detail of his conversation with Gabriel. He’d thrown his keys on the table carelessly, unable to shake his frustration. He opened cabinets and pushed back dry goods, trying to locate a bottle of bourbon before he remembered a half-full bottle of vodka in his freezer. Hadn’t it been a gift from Ruth, or more likely a stash for her own amusement? He filled a glass with the chilled Vodka and popped in a couple of cubes, but he couldn’t find any clear soda. He didn’t like drinking straight booze, but he wanted to shove back questions and regrets from earlier . . . so straight it would be.
The whiteboard stood like a monolith in the corner of the living room, a constant reminder of what had started his fucked up journey. The news articles and loose Post-it notes on his wall were not making him feel any better either. T
hey were a recap to his obsessive nature and a memento of just how he far he’d fallen. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Gabriel had headed to “whatever hole” he called home or whether he’d headed to a bar. It was easy to imagine Gabriel going to a club—he was the type to seek out sex with a stranger as some consolation, a chance to change his mood. He hated the pictures that played out in his head, but more importantly, he wished he were the type to do the same. He envied anyone who could fuck so freely without remorse or connection.
If he’d kept his mouth shut, they would be lying in the bed together right now, maybe stroking each other or humping like bunnies. Why hadn’t he just waited for the morning to talk to Gabriel? But as he considered that, his eyes were drawn to the wall covered with news accounts of recent unsolved murders, and the sheer volume of papers littering his wall made him realize how stupid he was.
Christian’s memory flashed on a crappy TV talk show playing in the background while he’d been getting ready for work one morning a year or so earlier. He remembered the topic of heated debate had been on women who stayed with addicted lovers. He remembered being disgusted at the panel of overweight, frumpy women, remembered the bile on his tongue as they labored on about being in love with someone dangerous, someone who was spiraling out of control. He hadn’t been drawn to the TV because of the show, he’d merely stopped in front while tying his tie, but he watched a portion of the show and sensed how stupid those fat women were to still be in a relationship with someone like that.
That memory came back to him now, changing his perspective slightly, even though he doubted there had ever been a topic like his.
I’m in love with a serial killer. Tell me, Oprah, what am I to do? How do I get him to stop his murdering ways and stay home with me?
He wasn’t in the mood to judge now; he’d seen too much, learned too many particulars of just how sick the world was around him. He knew he loved Gabriel, despite what he’d done, but he couldn’t imagine a tougher life than loving someone addicted to killing. Those fat chicks on talk show panel had nothing on him. If he was smart he would pick up the telephone and call the police. He would confess that he knew a killer; he would come clean. Was that really an option though? It was as stupid a concept as writing a book from a killer’s perspective. Who the hell did he think he was?
Dropping all his weight into his sofa, a few small droplets of vodka flew out as if they were escaping confinement. One landed on his wrist, but he didn’t care, he didn’t wipe it away. He stared at the wall and the whiteboard blankly—he felt like he was being buried under new information and strong emotions, realized how much he had in common with those fatties who claim to love junkies. What a strange relationship he had, if you could even call it a relationship. In reality it had only been a few days of fucking and slow interviews. He had learned a great deal about the man, but he didn’t know as much as he needed. He suspected Gabriel cared for him, he had shown it in many smaller ways, but he was still a killer, still an unpredictable animal backed into corners of Gabriel’s own making.
Gabriel was an enigma. He was a wild pony. Christian even tried to ride him once, but Gabriel wasn’t broken to ride. That was clear during their time under the sheets, and the forceful way Gabriel’s hand pushed Christian backward, allowing him to hover over him all stony eyed as he thrust his phallus to gain entry. He was the type of individual who bounced from showing love incarnate, to someone outside our society, one unaffected by our laws and traditions. If there had ever been a mold to draw from, it had been destroyed at the forge right from the start, and wisely so. It was incalculable to Christian that he could admire and fear someone in the same breath, but he did. Maybe because all the awful horror he’d created single-handedly, he’d done so with a broken but analytical mind. In his intellect he hadn’t killed randomly, and hidden there somewhere in his personal reasons, he’d felt some unknown justification. It was easier to see him as saint than sinner when you considered how Gabriel looked at things.
Even those tiny seconds of rational thought about the murders made Christian queasy from the depths of his stomach. It was obvious this would be his life with Gabriel, the flip-flop from anguishes to explanations . . . excuses to vindications. Somehow he knew it wasn’t right looking at Gabriel under a different microscope than how he looked at others. He knew it was not like Gabriel was some undiscovered tribe of Amazonian Indians who had not yet been tainted by a civilized white society. He was not unblemished because he was special. In fact, it was because he was different that he should be examined under traditional scrutiny. But where did his very personal sickness come into deliberation?
Gabriel didn’t hate the world. The victims who suffered under his hands were not chosen because they were terrible people, quite the opposite from what he could gather from their long conversations. They were specifically unique as far as people go, but they were particularly special to Church, somewhere in his bent ideology. Christian knew Gabriel had crossed state lines in his murderous spree. The chances were, once arrested, one of those states would carry the death penalty, and he knew Texas already did. There would be a speedy trial in one of those conservative southern courts, and he would enter one of their death row wards. It was a righteous and sane resolution. Christian understood this, but it wasn’t something he thought fair, and certainly nothing he wanted. If caught, Gabriel would be put to death—that much was clear in his mind.
But even knowing what he knew, he didn’t want Gabriel to die. Gabriel had changed him too drastically and too quickly not to be spared. Christian had only ever allowed himself to see the future where Gabriel was arrested, maybe even tried and convicted. He had never allowed himself to see past that point. All of a sudden he had begun to equate himself, rather grandly, to the writer Truman Capote during his writing of In Cold Blood. It was long conjectured that Capote became “unusually attached” to the killer, Perry Smith, during the trial and eventual hanging. He wondered if he was to become some twisted death row widow. Someone who could only love another person who was standing so dangerously close to the veil. He had always questioned Gabriel’s sanity, but in the last couple of days he had learned to question his own, and he suspected if Gabriel took the electric chair or accepted his hanging or offered his veins up for chemical injection, he would be sitting right there next to him . . . as guilty as he was.
SHEA SAT in her apartment with baited anticipation, hoping the stranger across the way would get her message and come knocking. But no one did. Pulling back the curtains she had seen him enter his apartment. He seemed disgusted as he pulled her drawing down, choosing not to look at it before turning the key and gruffly entering his apartment before slamming the door behind him. It made her wonder if he even looked at her gift at all. But eventually her curtains fell back into place, and she slipped back into the darkness and decided he wasn’t coming.
She didn’t have a prepared speech if he knocked at her door. She didn’t know what she’d say to him if he’d deduced who’d left the sketch, in lieu of flowers. The image of him enveloped in her doorway at night was titillating because it bordered on insane. She’d never approached a man before, not in that way, and doing so now made her feel nervous, yet somehow invincible. She figured she would have been speechless, but in her secret desires having him framed in her doorway at night sent shivers of electric pulses throughout her body. Would he quietly enter her apartment then close the door behind him? Would they embrace without any spoken words? Would he take her into her bedroom and make love to her there in the hollow vacuum of silence? Could she be strong enough to lay with a man with whom she’d never exchanged the smallest of words?
In her own bed, surrounded by artwork strewn on the floor, her easel in the corner and numerous tiny jars of paint and sticks of charcoal, Shea rubbed herself intimately, allowing her fingers to play along her nether lips, all the while dreaming of what might happen with the stranger across the way. It seemed he was no longer just an artistic subject in her mind; he had f
ormed into something more tangible. The physical model was the subject of masturbatory fantasies that her mind played to satisfying endings.
Chapter Twenty-two
AUTUMN REDS AND browns were lining the trees along the waterways that surrounded the city. It was a good time of year for Gabe, who liked the brisk, clean air of the fall season. He had left the French doors open when he’d crawled into bed the night before, and the smell of dew and honeysuckle beckoned like a crooked finger, enticing him up and out of bed. His first thought was of Chris, whom he knew would be rising with a powerful desire for coffee. He smiled at that strong image before remembering, almost as an after-thought, that he’d been exceedingly angry at Chris only hours earlier.
But the writer seemed to invade his brain more and more these days, never far from being plucked into view and focused with a clarity Gabe had never known. It had not been a glacial change either, it simply wasn’t one day . . . but by the next, it was. There wasn’t a line designation where Gabe could witness the man becoming important in the grander scheme of his life, and it certainly had never been his plan from the onset.
If one were to ask Gabe about his sexual orientation, he would easily have said he was straight. If you asked him today he might still claim that, but Christian Maxwell was becoming important, and he didn’t comprehend why exactly. The writer was supposed to be a character in his own play. He’d intended on finding someone capable of giving him a solid voice . . . because he desperately wanted his story told. He also never assumed there would be a trial, because after his confession had been captured on paper, somewhere before the book would see print, he’d intended on snuffing out his own candle.