Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  But much like his victims, the writer had become a tangled part of his story and surprisingly awoken feelings that Gabe had thought buried. Not about being gay, in his mind he wasn’t really homosexual. But if he had been, it wouldn’t have bothered him or changed his course in any way. What was new was how he could feel about another person. He’d felt next to nothing for anyone since the day he slipped from Bennett’s grasp and took to the highway. His discomfort with leaving his sister and mother quickly faded through time. They were transmuted into spirits, just a flash from some forgotten memory that no longer had value. Gabe didn’t know if either of them was even alive, although he had wondered a few times during his time on the road if his little sister had met anyone special or had ever married.

  On one side, he felt nothing for others, but he had felt something akin to indebtedness to every victim he had encountered—the ones who’d been bathed in their white glow—and equally he felt obliged to Chris. They were all fragments of who and what he’d become. The writer in particular had some major part yet to play. Maybe that was why the image of Chris bounding out of bed and begging for coffee made him smile. He’d figured Chris’s role had always been one thing, but maybe, in reality, it was something else.

  He crawled from his bed and stretched his naked form. His arms reaching high over his head to break the stiff, inflexible sleep from every ligament. He turned the water on high in the tile-stained, dilapidated shower of his rented room and bent under the steam to wash his body, using a mostly vanished bar of soap he’d stolen from a gas station restroom. He wanted coffee too. He’d never been much of a coffee drinker before he met Chris, but apparently the writer left his vestige wherever he traveled, because he craved morning caffeine and imagined what his friend was doing in that very instant. Gabe contemplated putting his anger aside and calling Chris to invite him for coffee. The only way this thing was going to work was if he learned to acquiesce more than he usually did. He decided he wanted to see his new lover, regardless of how they’d left it.

  ACROSS TOWN, Christian had arisen about the same time. Without knowing it, both men had modified their schedules to meet a singularity. Both men woke wanting coffee, both wanted to see the other, and individually, both regretted how they’d parted the night before. It was almost no surprise when only fifteen minutes later Christian’s cell began to vibrate.

  He paused for a beat before he answered. He didn’t recognize the number but suspected Gabriel was standing outside at one of those rare payphones one almost never sees anymore.

  “Good morning,” he said calmly. “I was hoping you’d call this morning.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” Gabriel whispered. “I just wanna see you, and I suspect you need a morning jolt of java just like me.”

  “Well, I have coffee here . . .” but even as he said it he knew it came too early, “then again, I can meet you at that same café where we first—”

  Cutting him off, Gabriel said, “I’ll be there in twenty. If I’m late you know how I like it.”

  And he did, he thought, as Gabriel hung up unceremoniously. He knew how he liked a lot of things. Besides his neighbor, Ruth, Gabriel was the only other person Christian knew how they drank their coffee. He couldn’t even remember how his parents drank theirs, or even if they did. But Gabriel liked it black with two sugars. He wondered how something as infinitesimal as how one liked coffee could become so paramount a consideration. He never even wondered why it made him smile just knowing that.

  Christian knew only the vaguest points of Gabriel Church’s travels before they’d met. He had studied the trail of murders in his earlier research, but he had yet to cover most of that with his killer companion. There always seemed like too much to discuss whenever they were alone. He knew Gabriel had spent his childhood in Tennessee. He knew he’d jumped into his Chevelle and put a backwoods state in his rearview. He knew that he had committed his first murder in Texas and from there he’d traveled out west and bounced around California for a time.

  In truth, Gabriel Church had crisscrossed this country more than once. He had gone as far as he could without ever passing the borders into Canada or Mexico. One thing he’d wanted to see was the beaches of Southern California, which he had . . . early on. Another highpoint had been the highway into the ocean heading to the distant Florida Keys, and he’d seen that as well. But committing forty or so murders takes time, and it takes great distance and many miles. If Church had ever stayed too long in one spot, he always knew he’d be tagged to one of his own murders, simply because he fit the part—aimless drifter.

  To get from the hill country of Tennessee to that golden state of California, it takes merely jumping on four or five major interstates. You could trace a line of murder with your finger on a map with Church watching, and he would simply nod and smile as if some great achievement had been met, then surpassed. There were backwater towns along the coasts of Texas and rural shitholes that were barely evidenced by the road kill you traveled over, as well as hilly canyons throughout Southern California that looked out to an endless expanse of water. At times it had been glorious, and for Church it always represented an adventure. Thinking back on it now, Church would never have chosen another existence.

  But Christian wasn’t aware of all the miles Gabriel traveled, or of even many of the murders. He knew of about six that he guessed were credited to Church. He had been told of one he hadn’t been aware of; that being Gabriel’s first foray into homicide. That man never fit the pattern of future kills, he simply was there when it all began, and even now he and Church were the only ones who knew who’d murdered him. Gabriel Church was a spider web that the writer couldn’t quite shake off. No matter how he jiggled he couldn’t shed that creepy crawly feeling from the back of his neck. He was a flicker that he couldn’t distinguish its distance, but it was a light that still drew him like a beacon. It had been his candle in the window calling him home, but even he never believed that was how life was supposed to be. He could see the sickness spreading and the virus was none other than Gabriel Church. But knowing a thing and breaking a thing from your life were two separate things; he was addicted, and Christian had never been the type of person to be addicted to anything before now.

  College educated, morally strong, and from a good Christian background, but now he was immoral, and he was tainted. There would never be ample words that could even begin to describe the events of his recent life for his family. If it broke badly, and he knew it would, he would be ostracized, awarded the moniker of the “Maxwell Family Black Sheep,” but given his new fledging sexuality that may not be all that disappointing a prospect to them. Alienation from the clan might prevent him from explaining just how close he’d become to someone who had murdered, someone infamous within news reports, somebody dragging him, as well as the Maxwell name, through the unprecedented muddy chatter of the unwashed public. That was a conversation he didn’t particularly relish having with his mother. He could already see her gingerly holding a cocktail glass, sternly looking at him without a solid directness over her eyeglasses . . . washing over the sordid events of his latest affairs as if he were in confession with a pastor who regarded him as something corrupt or unclean.

  But he found strength in knowing there wouldn’t be a substantial conversation regarding religion. His mother’s convictions rested singularly on the family’s reputation. Her dogmas seemed steeped in appearance and respect more than the worry of all-eternal damnation. He would be more likely to go to hell, not by his sexuality, but more likely due to his sordid affiliations and his membership with the criminal ilk. She would never consider the deeper pools, the essence that he was “special” or different. Gay people were an accepted effect to the wealthy, but then again, scandal was an entirely separate matter.

  As Christian raced to dress for his appointment with Gabriel, his mind played out all the possibilities . . . but none seemed good. Then again, Gabriel was never the sweetheart one takes home to meet the in-laws. Even with the d
arker consequences to their meeting, he was excited. A nervous energy was brewing, even before the caffeine. He dropped a shoe on the floor as he sat on the edge of his bed, and when he picked it up he stopped his harried pace long enough to consider what their meeting would be like. Would Gabriel break apart the stony rocks of their prior conversation, or would he just put it behind them as he had done so many times before? With Gabriel you could never tell.

  As Christian weaved through the heavy Seattle morning traffic, he hoped the man might offer up some slivers of insight about his future. Whether he might accept the offer to quit his murderous ways and get far from Seattle with Christian at his side. Perhaps, he thought, we could get out of the country, some Panamanian village or Costa Rican getaway. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected no one was on Gabriel’s trail—it seemed he might have gotten closer with his insignificant investigation than even the feds. He had plenty of resources to draw from, and in that part of the world, they might prosper for years.

  This was an alternative, but only if the man could swear the killings were behind them. Christian knew if he could be convinced the murders were done, both could move forward and never speak of their past lives or those mistakes and misfortunes that lay buried there. Remembering an article, Christian seized on something he’d read in college about the San Blas Islands off the coast of Panama. There were hundreds of tiny islands, but only about fifty were inhabited with people. It was a gift now, the flashing memory of all he’d read: the coconut trees and sandy beaches where turtles came ashore at night to bury their eggs, the crystal blue waters of a vast Caribbean Sea. He remembered reading the soil was so famously rich there that you could grow just about anything worthy of planting. It was as if it was eager to sprout up and blossom or bear fruit, all simply for your pleasure and to grace your dinner table with a zealous bounty. He pictured a shirtless Gabriel sweating beautifully under a midday sun, working in a planted field beside a wee cabin of cut lumber, under a thatch and palm frond roof of green leaves. A small but homey place where the two would toil during the day and spend their nights fucking, talking, and relaxing under stars.

  Thinking about such a possibility stirred and twisted his insides, but in a good way. It might be just the type of thing a man like Gabriel would go for. He had to consider the best way to propose such a plan. While he was wondering how much a good satellite phone would cost them, a woman in a white Audi cut him dangerously off, nearly sending him into the side rail of one of the many Seattle bridges and forcing him to maneuver rapidly just to remain on the road. Tires squealed and time froze instantly around him just as he was able to regain the wheel and allow his heart to settle back into place. It wasn’t exactly life and death, but it could’ve been, and that made him realize how tenuous life was. That he might be planning a future with Gabriel at the exact moment where his life was terminated. After his heart found its normal speed, he continued heading toward the café but conscious that life had its own set of ironic twists and turns. He was grateful to be alive in that moment, but the near collision had set in concrete that he would make his proposal again . . . and hope this time the man listened.

  By chance, Gabriel was already at the Cherry Street Grinder. Christian saw him sitting alone near the large pane window at the entrance. He looked pensive and frayed, a look that seemed an unfamiliar garment for him to be in. Still, it produced the faintest of smiles. He thought Gabriel looked the role of a youthful, nervous suitor, fidgeting apprehensively on the sofa while waiting for his date to make an appearance downstairs.

  Of course, didn’t that make him the date coming down the stairs in that scenario, wondered Christian?

  “She was quite a lovely picture bounding down the stairs in her lovely rose-colored taffeta gown and her shy, girlish smile.”

  He chuckled openly with that odd image he’d created by placing his head on that poor unfortunate girl’s body, whoever she was. Next he thought how strange it was that Gabriel had beaten him to the cafe. But he didn’t even know where the man was staying, which was another extraordinary aspect to all of this, and the question of whether he should even propose that they grab their passports and leave the country for good, or not. It was hard to not see the exploding realization facing him of just how little he knew about Gabriel—he was, after all, the one he wanted to share Panama with.

  “Hey, babe, I already got your coffee,” Gabriel said as he pushed a Styrofoam cup across the table. He stood up quickly and before Christian could adjust to the scene Gabriel was hugging him. It was a typical straight guy kinda hug, that of a close friend or brother; the fast grip, and then the one-second release. Chris was not yet comfortable with public affection. He only found himself secure to be so unabashed when the men were alone. But he would get there, in time.

  “I’m glad you called me. I wanted to apologize for the other night,” Christian whispered under his breath as he took the rail chair across the table. “But I was hoping we might be able to go somewhere else more private later. I’ve something I want to talk about and thought it best done . . . alone.”

  Gabriel exhaled deeply, a look of hurt on his face. He may have mistaken my urging us to another location as some spot where I could dump him, thought Christian.

  “It’s probably not what you think. I just want to talk to you alone. I might have a plan for us, something I want to go over with you.”

  Gabriel rested his elbows on the table on either side of his coffee and leaned close to Christian. There was pain hidden just below the surface; it was rising, bubbling, and threatening to overflow.

  “I got here earlier than I thought I might . . . had some time to think myself.”

  Gabriel always maintained a strong persona. One of the things that Christian admired about him was his self-assured nature and the powerful control he sustained between his childlike bursts of joy and wonderment. But at this moment, he was alarming; whatever words he was struggling to unleash were stronger than even his usual disposition.

  “I kept hearing your voice in my head last night . . . kinda hard to sleep thanks to you. I know you began all this with an intention of research for a book about a killer, but even I could see it became much more than that. You wanted to know about my mama and my daddy, you wanted to know about my first awkward fuck in the back seat of my Chevelle, you wanted to glimpse deep inside to find out what made me turn out so friggin’ special! That to me says you weren’t just researching the man but . . . I don’t know . . . falling in love.”

  Gabriel’s head was slumped, a dismal shame hidden in the edges. Christian wondered how a man could feel disgrace or indignity at the concept of being loved. How sad, he thought, that a man would get to Gabriel’s age without ever feeling like someone cares for him. How miserable his childhood must have been? Reaching across the table he took Gabriel’s hand in his and craned his neck to see the face Gabriel tried to conceal.

  “I did fall in love . . . and I still find myself falling,” he whispered over the din of the crowd and coffee-clutching patrons breezing past their table. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you, hopefully more alone,” he said, turning his head from either side to indicate the noisy throng. “I was hoping to offer a way out, a way we could be together and free from all this.”

  By the time Gabriel responded his voice resonated over the clatter of dishes and idle conversations around him.

  “Before we bounce, I wanted to explain that I was sorry about storming off the other night . . . but I wasn’t sorry for what I said. I thought you knew me better. I thought we were on the same plane . . . wavelength . . . whatever. I’m not so sure anymore.”

  The writer could see Gabriel was putting brick to mortar and building his defenses. If he didn’t stop the progression, it would be harder to scale later. “Don’t jump to conclusions just yet. Give me a chance to explain myself,” he said strongly, “but in a more private fucking location than this!”

  He leaned back disgusted with being in a crowded coffee bar and not being
able to pull Gabriel into his arms; his public embarrassment seemed stronger than he was. If he could get him alone, he might be able to sway him to consider his proposal. He could break his defenses by holding him close and allowing Gabriel to seize control of the moment. As if in tandem understanding, both men rose from their chairs simultaneously and headed to the entrance without uttering a single word.

  Since they had met, they’d only spent a couple of nights apart, but as their feet hit the sidewalk, Christian had to fight the urge to ever be separated from Gabriel again. He was an addict, this much seemed clear. Even in Christian’s sheltered, ivory-tower upbringing he’d seen addicts. Two male friends from college had fallen into that hole. He’d seen them transform into something darker before his very eyes. He’d noticed how anxious they became whenever they were about to score. He’d even noticed their blatant erections, barely concealed under denim jeans, as he’d watched them shift nervously with baited anticipation of that next shot of crystalline heaven to their veins. At the time, years before, he hadn’t understood it, but walking now on the sidewalk, turning down the street with Gabriel in tow, it all became a filmy haze that was suddenly lifted. He was carrying his own drug, and it was standing at his side.

  Drug users frequently mistake the pleasure of sex with being high. Once a dick gets hard, they fail to see its just chemical anticipation and not arousal. Whenever Gabriel was close to him, or whenever he wasn’t, he felt the same confusion. He had that “nervy stomach with butterflies bouncing around his insides” feeling whenever he thought about the man. His cock grew stiff with the expectancy, just like a meth-head’s. Both drugs were dangerous, both had strong effects and risks of annihilation, but he couldn’t control the damage because he couldn’t shake the man from his life.