"Yes."
"Now pull yourself together. You've got important work to do in the next forty-eight hours. The Dalai Lama's talk is in three days. I'll be damned if you're going to run off now and let whoever's trying to ruin his little party blow his head off with a long-range rifle. I don't want another 'grassy knoll' incident on my hands."
"I'm with you all the way."
"And, Red..."
"Yes?"
"That blue-haired boy you're with?"
Brad felt a lump in his throat. He waited.
"He checks out. As far as we can see, you can trust him on all counts. Just... look after him."
For a moment he couldn't speak. "Thanks," he croaked.
He put the phone down and sat looking out across the marsh. Had he really suspected Grace had something to do with it? He had. When she didn't return his call the night before Hayden was murdered, he wondered if she'd slipped away to arrange to have someone put a bullet through Rosengarten's forehead and leave Agent Red holding the bag. She'd have no problem justifying it to the organization. Now he saw how idiotic that was.
He stepped onto the ladder and stood watching Zach breathe. You're such a beautiful guy, he thought. Zach turned his face toward him and murmured.
"What was that?" Brad asked.
Zach's eyes opened. He smiled. "I dreamed I fucked you last night," he said. "It was the most wonderful dream I've had in ages."
"I'm glad you stayed last night, but I have to say you're about as stubborn as a donkey."
"I'm hung like one, too," Zach replied, raising his eyebrows and pulling back the covers to reveal a whopping morning erection.
"You are so twenty-one," Bradford said, climbing back in beside him as a bell chimed the hour.
31
An hour later they were on their way to the Pilgrim Monument, the granite monolith that glowered over P'Town's landscape. Erected three centuries after the arrival of the pilgrims, the tower commemorated their effort to bring the ideals of freedom and democracy to the new land. In its dedication ceremony, however, no mention was made of the people who were displaced by those ideals. As the Indians learned, democracy is one tough cookie.
"I need a day off," Brad declared when Zach asked the occasion for the visit. "I think it only right I should celebrate getting plundered by a donkey with a pilgrimage to Provincetown's biggest phallic symbol. Though I have to say you were only able to take advantage of me last night because I was drunk."
Zach snorted. "If your legs point due north every time you get drunk, I'll gladly pay for the shots whenever we go out."
At the museum entrance they startled a sleepy-looking attendant. She handed over their tickets and change, reminding them to save time for the museum's displays after their climb.
"We currently have a very exciting pictorial history of Provincetown's sand dune formations," she enthused. "As well, you'll find a compelling 'who's-who' of fashion in pilgrim times."
Inside, the tower was eerily silent, the air cool and undisturbed. No one else seemed to be braving the hundred-and-sixteen-step ascent that early on a sunny morning. Markers embedded in the stone bore the names of Massachusetts' earliest communities. As they climbed, an occasional window slit allowed brief views to the outside.
Before they reached the halfway point they found themselves panting with the exertion. "And we call ourselves 'young'," Zach scoffed.
"Speak for yourself," Brad said. "I'm over thirty."
They stopped to peer over the railing to the ground below. Brad lurched back and gripped the wall behind him. He took a deep breath and looked up at Zach's inquiring face. "Fear of heights," he explained sheepishly.
"You're kidding," Zach said, leaning over the railing and looking down. "We're not even that high yet."
As he stepped back a shot tore up the center of the tower and pinged off the stairs above, sending a shower of stone and mortar dust into the air.
"Holy crap! Was that what I think it was?" Zach exclaimed.
They turned to face one another at the sound of pounding footsteps from below.
"Let's go!" Brad commanded quietly.
They raced upward, taking the stairs two at a time. "What will we do when we get to the top?" Zach whispered loudly.
"I don't know," Brad answered. "I'll think of something."
Another shot rang out, echoing inside the tower's hull as they lunged the last few steps to the top. Brad pushed Zach through the doorway. Hesitating a moment, he leaned over and looked back down the stairwell. A pair of gloved hands gripped the railing several floors below as a hooded figure raced swiftly upward.
Brad burst through the door and into the tiny stone maze high above the town. The Cape's tail stretched as far as the eye could see. In the blue distance, boats crisscrossed the harbor, while the streets of Provincetown slumbered below. If he'd had time, Brad could have identified every landmark in the town. But there was no time. Their pursuer would reach them in seconds.
Birds fluttered past in the clear air as he searched for a way out. The tower's giant bell hovered overhead. If they could climb onto it, it might afford a momentary hiding place. Unfortunately, it was enclosed in mesh. Cutting through the wire would take too long and any movement of the bell would alert whoever was after them.
The only way out was down. With his fear of heights, Brad wasn't much of a candidate to leap over the tower wall and cling to the stonework by his fingernails in a merry game of cat and mouse with the killer till one of them eventually fell to his doom and the other climbed victoriously back to the top. It might happen that way in the movies, but he wasn't Tom Cruise. He wasn't even short. And chances are it wouldn't be the hero who survived in real life.
There were many ways to die, most of them unpleasant. And this was surely one of the worst. But at least it was P'Town, he reasoned, watching a sailboat glide over the horizon. While it might not make for a skillful death, it promised to be aesthetically pleasing.
Brad looked at Zach, who stood waiting for him to make a decision. He might be able to rush the killer and grapple with him as he entered, giving Zach time to run down the stairs and save himself. But he already knew Zach well enough to know the boy wouldn't abandon him. He'd stay and they'd both be killed. Or maybe with luck they could overcome the assailant together. But it was risky.
Think! Bradford commanded. How could they escape? In his dreams, he'd merge with the blue alien and they'd fly across the harbor. But that wouldn't cut it in the waking world.
Silence reigned as the wind blew through his hair. They had seconds at most. Brad pressed against the wall and peered around the corner. He watched as a gloved hand slowly pushed the door open and the hooded figure emerged. The pursuer's other hand was sunk deep in his pocket, bulging with readiness. Don't tell me, Brad thought. There's a gun in your pocket and you're glad to see us.
He motioned silently to Zach and they slipped around the stone partition. And that's when they discovered they weren't alone! A crowd of expectant faces stood before them, mouths open in silent wonderment. At precisely that moment the bell tolled and the choir of nuns, those gentle penguins of goodwill and innocence, broke into song.
"I know that my Redeemer liveth..." came the glad tidings.
Bradford looked up. Hallelujah! he thought. Saved by the bell!
From somewhere deep inside the tower came an antiphonal response. Assassination in stereo! Brad and Zach ducked behind the choir with barely a ruffle of feathers or misplaced note. The movie had switched from Mission Impossible to a Dick Lester caper featuring the zany antics of two of the Fab Four.
Brad peeked through the black and white folds to see their would-be assassin skirting a corner of the maze. The figure turned with deadly agility, working his way around the choir and its unexpected musical accompaniment to the scene.
Brad and Zach took advantage of the moment to sneak along the row of frocks to the tower's farthest end. It would be a matter of seconds before their pursuer realized they were hid
den in the nunnery. Even worse, whoever it was might have enough ammunition for the entire group, and Brad couldn't take that chance.
They crept toward the door as the hooded figure skirted the chorus in search of his prey. With the would-be killer's back turned, Brad and Zach ducked toward the stairs. Dick Lester had just given way to Buster Keaton and an entire troupe of Keystone Cops.
Brad held back, waiting just inside the exit while Zach raced down the stairs. From outside came shifting footsteps as the killer approached. At the last second, Brad threw himself full force against the door, slamming into the body on the other side. Someone let out a roar and Brad heard metal skidding across concrete.
He raced down the steps two at a time, keeping far from the open stairwell and out of target range. He caught up with Zach and they made their way through the second choir slowly climbing to join their singing sisters above.
The door at the top opened and slammed shut again. The boom echoed through the cavernous interior, a glorious bass note resounding with the lilting chant wending up the stairs. Their would-be killer was now book-ended by a double choir of holiness proclaiming the arrival of the Savior.
At the bottom, Brad and Zach raced through the museum entrance toward the front door.
"Don't forget the displays!" the ticket seller shouted after them. "They're included in the admission price!"
Brad placed Zach in a waiting cab. "Don't go home," he instructed. "Meet me at the A-House. You'll be safe in a public place. I'll get there as soon as I can."
He turned and strode back inside.
32
Zach was waiting at the bar when Brad came in. His face showed pure relief.
"Are you all right?" he cried as he sprang up and crushed Brad in a hug.
"I'm fine." Brad held Zach at arm's length and looked him over. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, but scared shitless. What happened back there?"
"Give me a minute."
Brad turned to the bar. A young dolphin of a waiter came toward them, all eyes and limbs. Brad ordered a gin and tonic and the boy returned to the bar.
"When I went back, I waited till whoever was shooting at us left the tower. I hid in the bushes, but I didn't get a clear view of him. He wore his hood up like some skater punk. He jumped into a waiting car and took off before I could catch the license."
"It had to be the same guy who murdered Ruby and Ross and Hayden!" Zach said. "But what connection do I have with the guesthouse?"
"Your connection is through me. I'm the one they want, though I have no doubt they would have killed you, too."
"But why?"
"It has to be because of someone I met there, but I still can't figure out who."
"Who else did you meet?"
He told Zach briefly about the Hollywood megastar who'd recently separated from his wife and kids.
Zach shrugged. "Everyone knew he was gay. Even his wife."
Right, thought Brad. Everyone but me. Why do I always learn these things standing in line at a supermarket checkout?
"There was a singer." He tried to remember the name. "Rufus somebody or other..."
"Wainwright? Skinny, grungy guy about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, looks closer to sixty?"
"Sounds right."
"He's about as queer as Bush is... well, challenged. Nobody on earth would be surprised to hear it. Nobody on any other planet, either. His songs are like a gossip column about his life. He's all sex and drugs and bad affairs. I doubt he's got anything left to hide."
"All right, so he's a worst-case-scenario candidate," Brad said. "And I think the senator, for all his gun-slinging homophobia, isn't really much of a candidate, either. If you're running for president, usually you wait till after you win the election to start killing people, don't you?"
Zach shook his head. "All those closet cases! Are the rich and famous really that scared to be themselves?"
"Scared enough to kill, apparently," Brad said, looking around the bar. "Hayden said discretion was an absolute necessity for making his clients feel safe."
"If you include every gay man who's been there," Zach said, "there'd probably be no B-list celebrities left."
"True enough."
"What if it's someone who went to the house that we don't know about?" Zach asked.
"Then why come after me?" Brad said. "I wouldn't have seen him, so I couldn't tell anybody about him."
"Maybe Ross knew who it was. And Ruby and Hayden, too. And maybe the killer knows you're going to figure it out eventually."
"Hayden mentioned having entertained what he called a 'very queer fish' the night Ross died. I gather he was talking about someone important."
"Maybe Ari Fleischer was in town."
Brad's gag reflexes kicked in. "If he's gay, I'll go straight!" Zach started to speak, but Brad put his hands over his ears. "Stop! I don't want to hear this. I pray you're wrong!"
The waiter returned with his drink. Brad tipped the boy and sent him on his way.
"What about one of the employees?" Zach asked.
"There was a thug named Johnny K. He was Hayden's bodyguard. Come to think of it, he's about the same size as whoever followed us to the tower. Grace said he's a suspected killer-for-hire, although there's no proof. Yet."
Zach sat listening. "Go on."
"I now think it was Johnny K. who killed Ross, but I don't know why yet," Brad said. "I also think he killed Hayden. The night you were waiting for me outside my house, someone tossed a videocassette through my window. It showed Hayden sitting in his bathtub when someone came in and pulled a gun on him."
"A snuff tape!"
"Whoever it was had a tattoo of a snake on his shoulder."
"Does Johnny K. have a snake tattoo on his shoulder?"
"That remains to be seen. My guess is that Hayden found out Johnny K. murdered Ross and became worried about his house's reputation for discretion. You can't have murders happening at a place like that. If he roughed up Johnny K. the way I saw him do to another guy, Johnny K. might've been angry enough to kill him."
Zach was staring at Brad. "There's still something you haven't told me about all of this, isn't there?"
Brad sighed. Grace had said he could trust Zach, but just how much could he tell the kid before he was no longer safe?Safe? After that morning's excursion, it was already too late.
"Come on—out with it. I think I deserve to be told why someone just tried to murder us."
Brad looked cautiously around. There was no one within earshot. In a whisper, he told Zach about his real mission to make sure the intended killer of the Dalai Lama didn't complete his objective.
Zach was incredulous."Holy crap! Who would want him dead?"
Brad cocked his head. "Think about it," he said. "Which government is indicted every time the Dalai Lama appears in public as the real spiritual leader of the people of Tibet?"
Zach nodded. "So they're going to kill him in Central Park? You can't be serious!"
"I'm very serious," Brad said. "Grace believes that whoever's murdering people here is connected with the assassination plot."
"Why?"
"Because they all knew something that we obviously don't."
"But what could that be?"
Brad shrugged and sipped his drink. There were so many things that could be. But what he really needed was a solid lead. It might be the videotape, but then again it might not. There was something odd about how it just stopped. If it was truly the tape of a murder setup, then why not show the actual killing?
He remembered his father's words of advice: Everyone has a reason for the things they do. Someone was being blackmailed, Brad thought. That was the reason for the murders. It had to be. Hadn't it? He needed to get back into the guesthouse for one last look around. Then he might have something concrete to go on.
"Well, this is all kinda cool!" Zach enthused. "At least, now that we're not being shot at."
"How's that?"
"Well, it kind of makes you Batman, whi
ch kind of makes me Robin," he said, grinning. "I always wanted to be someone's Boy Wonder."
"OK, you can be my Boy Wonder. But you've got to promise to be very careful every minute of every hour from now on. I got you into this, and if anything happens to you like what happened to Ruby I'll blame myself for the rest of my life."
Zach's eyes grew large. "Then I'd better stay with you at all times so you can protect me."
33
Brad and Zach stopped in front of a house on the outskirts of town. From outside it appeared fairly ordinary but for the sign over the front door designating it a Buddhist temple. Inside, they were met with the smell of incense and the murmur of solemn voices. Ruby's wake had commenced.
They stood in a crowded room lit by dozens of gently flickering candles. People sat or knelt on the floor, chanting quietly before a pallet where Ruby's body lay like a broken bird. Monks in purple cloaks and saffron robes intoned throaty sounds. Brad was touched to realize that all these people were Ruby's friends, customers, and fellow Buddhists. When it rains, it pours, he thought.
He recognized Ruby's Rinpoche sitting cross-legged on the floor to one side of the body, facing the gatherers. His voice was solemn as he read from texts laid out before him. Bill was there, too, standing guard on the other side of the pallet, the Rinpoche's canine twin.
"What are they chanting?" Brad whispered.
"The Rinpoche is reading from the Tibetan Book of the Dead," Zach said. "Buddhists believe that the dead can hear. He's telling Ruby that she has died and needs to move on instead of clinging to the past. The reciting of sacred texts helps the soul on its journey through the bardo."
A woman seated nearby suddenly broke into tears, her sobs welling up loudly. The Rinpoche stopped chanting and gently raised a hand.
"Please not to cry," he said. "Crying only confuse the dead one and pull her back. The mind must stay clear and untroubled to cross over successfully."
Brad saw Halle kneeling in the midst of the mourners. She glanced up and caught his gaze. He hadn't seen her since Ruby's death. She didn't look surprised or frightened to see him. Nor did she seem as distraught as he would have expected. During a break in the chanting, she rose and came toward them. They offered their condolences.
P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery Page 19