“Everybody here special,” he replied, his tone guarded.
Yusuf had neither Ivan’s conversational skills nor any apparent interest in engaging her in conversation. She returned her attention to her food and, with the last triangle of bread, scraped her plate clean. The moment she finished, Yusuf jumped up and moved quickly to pour her tea.
“Now you must drink.” Though his smile stretched all the way across his face, his dark eyes bored into her, glittering in a way that made her go cold inside.
“What kind of tea is this?” She frowned. This man was standing too close, pouring the tea too readily.
“Turkish tea … make you feel good … sleep.”
She remembered her last sleep, where she’d crossed a magic land, conversing with dogs. As wonderful as it had been, she didn’t want to go back there—not now, anyway.
“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I’ve slept enough lately.”
Yusuf acted as if she hadn’t spoken a word. He stood there, staring at her, holding out the teacup.
“No.” She shook her head, wondering if he was having difficulty understanding her West Virginia accent. “Thanks, but no tea.”
Still he remained there, implacable, tea in hand. “You drink now.”
“No!” she repeated. This time she pushed his hand away. He moved the tea quickly out of her reach, then, with his free hand, pinched the fleshy top of her right shoulder. Pain shot up into her face, making her eyes water.
“You drink tea, ho-kay? You no get Yusuf in trouble!”
“But why?” she cried. “Why do you care if I drink tea?”
“My job keep you strong and healthy.”
“What for?”
“Soon you will be in new home. Far away.”
For a time, she’d forgotten—she was an American virgin … a rare delicacy for a man with enough money to buy her. “No!” she cried, panicky, trying to squirm away from his grasp. “I won’t go!”
He stepped closer, giving her shoulder another squeeze, showing her that the pain could get considerably worse. “Yes. When it’s time, you will go.”
“No, I won’t,” she cried, as tears began to flow from her right eye.
“Yes, you will.” He released her shoulder and pulled out another smart phone. This one he did not offer to lend, but to show her pictures on the screen. As he held the thing up, she gasped. He had a photo of her mother in her work uniform, going into the nursing home. Her head was bent down, her face drawn in sorrow.
“Where did you get that?” she cried.
He grinned proudly. “I take, yesterday.” He swiped a finger across the screen and pulled up another image. “This, too.”
The second picture showed Chase getting the mail from Gudger’s yellow ribbon–clad mailbox. He looked quizzical but timid, as if he were afraid some car might stop and scoop him up, too. Her mouth went dry with terror. “How do you know about them?”
“We know all about you. You give trouble, these people pay.”
She closed her eyes. All the time she’d been teaching Ivan about French braiding, she’d talked about how much she missed her mother and her brother. He’d patted her hand, told her he knew how hard it was to be without your family. She thought he’d honestly sympathized—instead, he’d just been pumping her for information. She bit her lower lip—not from the pain in her shoulder, but for the fact she’d been such a fool.
“Come,” Yusuf said, putting the phone back in the pocket of his jeans. “Drink the tea. You will not sleep too long—just more happy.”
As she gazed at the cup, her heart shriveled. The police were not coming for her. She could tell that by her mother’s sorrowful, beaten-down posture. And Chase was getting the mail scared, his gaze fearful of strangers in cars. He must have not heard her when she called. Either that, or Gudger had simply convinced everyone that he was lying again.
She took Yusuf’s tea and drank it in two gulps. What did she care how long she slept? Soon they would ship her out as bit of precious cargo. If she fought that fate, her family would suffer; better that they never see her again than that she cause them any more pain. She handed the cup back to Yusuf in slow motion, the room already beginning to spin. As she flopped back down on the bed, she caught a quick glimpse of the shattered bathroom mirror, the shards that would slice a willing vein like razors.
It’s all up to you, Sam-I-Am, she told herself as she sank into a frothy cloud of sleep. You can cancel this deal anytime you want.
Thirteen
Mary slept late the next morning—she’d left Galloway mid-way through his third beer and returned to her hotel, spending the rest of her night studying the case file on Bryan Taylor. For a non-employee to have an active file was irregular, unethical, and probably illegal, but Galloway hadn’t blinked when she’d asked him for it. She guessed being the governor’s envoy had its advantages—everybody seemed happy to give her whatever she wanted, no questions asked.
So she’d studied the case that had, along with Reverend Trull’s video, brought the governor’s wrath down on Campbell County. The similarities between Bryan Taylor and Alan Bratcher’s murder were striking. Both young men were gay, both had been visiting their families from out of town, had died of blunt-force trauma to the head. Where Bratcher had died in a bar fight, Bryan Taylor’s body had been found dumped along Jackson Highway, his car fifteen miles to the east at an I-85 truck stop. His body had not been mutilated, as was the case in some gay murders, nor were there any tears or wounds around his rectum.
“But would a newlywed go looking for love at a truck stop?” Mary had whispered. “After texting his spouse that he couldn’t wait to see him? And why dump him so close to town, with all his IDs? Why not drive thirty miles across the state line and drop him in some nameless ditch in South Carolina?”
Now, in the morning light, she was rereading the file, just to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. The guy she’d met yesterday—Crump—had been first on the scene, then called in a Detective Smithson, who was apparently within a month of retirement. Crump had roped off the crime scene, and Smithson had spent his last month of his career interviewing truck stop employees, truckers who’d bought gas that night, even the driver of a Greyhound headed to Virginia. Nobody had seen anything unusual that night.
“Nobody ever sees anything,” Mary said aloud, as she finished her second cup of coffee. “That’s what makes police work so much fun.”
Still, something niggled at her—Bryan Taylor’s death seemed more than just a gay tryst gone bad. She grabbed her briefcase, deciding that a visit to Taylor’s parents might be helpful, when she remembered the little hitchhiker who was so upset about his sister. Thumbing through the phone records Galloway had copied for her, she found the number of the boy’s landline. Quickly, she punched it into her cell phone. Her news would not be what he wanted to hear—that his sister had called from Charlotte and was very likely with some unknown boyfriend—but at least it would reassure him that his stepfather hadn’t sold her to gypsies. As she walked out the door, his phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times—on and on. No one answered, no machine ever picked up. I’ll call back later, she decided, heading for her car. Right now, Bryan Taylor is at the top of my to-do list.
The Taylor home was a comfortable red brick rancher, set back from the street among tall maple trees. A twirling copper garden sculpture glittered in the front yard while a rainbow flag hung from the front porch. The house had a settled look about it, and Mary noticed that the door knocker she lifted was cross-shaped, with the inscription As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. She was wondering if everybody in this county wore their religion like a brand-new hat when the door opened. A tall, gray-haired man stood there, dressed in a black shirt with a cross dangling from around his neck.
“Uh, I’m looking for Bryan Taylor’s father,” said Mary, assuming the man was a pries
t.
“I’m Bryan’s dad.”
Mary hesitated, looking at the cross. He smiled gently at her obvious confusion. “Episcopal. Our guys can marry.”
“Of course,” Mary blushed, thinking she should have take a crash course on religious denominations before she’d stepped foot in Campbell County. “I’m Mary Crow, special prosecutor for Governor Ann Chandler. First let me say how sorry I am for the loss of your son.”
“Thank you.” His smile faded as his face settled into newly familiar lines of grief and worry. “You’re from Raleigh, you say?”
“The governor sent me here to investigate possible anti-gay conspiracies. Could we talk for a few minutes?”
“Certainly.” He opened the door wide. “Please come in.”
She stepped into a living room that could have been the front parlor of a funeral home. Potted plants clustered around the windows while rainbow-colored Mylar balloons hovered near the ceiling. A dozen fruit baskets stood unopened, the smell of overripe apples rank in the air.
“Who was it, Eddie?” called a hoarse female voice from the back of the house. “More flowers?”
“Someone from the governor’s office,” he called. He fingered his cross, then turned to Mary. “Please have a seat. That was my wife, Carrie. I’m Edward.”
They shook hands. Mary sat down on the sofa just as a woman dressed in torn jeans and a dirty sweatshirt entered the room. Her blond hair curled in greasy strands around her neck and dark circles underscored her eyes. Had she been clean and healthy-looking, she would have been considered pretty; now she looked like someone in the last stages of a disease. Such is grief, Mary thought as she gave the woman a sad smile.
“She’s from the governor?” The woman stared at Mary, then turned to her husband as if he were making a joke.
“I’m Mary Crow, the governor’s special prosecutor,” Mary explained. “Governor Chandler is very concerned about anti-gay sentiment in this area. She sent me to investigate your son’s death.”
“My son’s murder,” Mrs. Taylor corrected, her eyes blazing. “At least get it right. Somebody beat his brains out. He didn’t just die.”
“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Do you have any new leads in the case?” Reverend Taylor tried to redirect his wife’s close-to-the-surface rage.
“Not as yet,” replied Mary. “But your police force is excellent and they are determined to find his killer.”
“If they’re so great, then why are you here?” asked Mrs. Taylor. “Why does Ann Chandler suddenly give a shit about my boy?”
Mary didn’t quite know how to answer. She couldn’t tell this woman that it was basically all about bringing jobs to an out-of-work county and getting Ann Chandler reelected. Instead, she decided to tell her the same thing she’d told the two DAs. “Your son is the second homosexual homicide in this area in the past eight months. Governor Chandler is determined to add sexual orientation to the hate crimes statute, and make sure that no more North Carolinians die because of whom they chose to love.”
“Well isn’t that just dandy!” Mrs. Taylor threw back her head and gave a bitter laugh. “I’m so glad my little boy’s murder got Ann Chandler on the bandwagon.”
“Carrie,” Reverend Taylor said gently, long fingers again going around his cross. “Ms. Crow’s here to help—”
“Ms. Crow’s too late, Eddie. Maybe if Ms. Crow and Ann Chandler had come here a year ago—or even two months ago—they could have done something—but it’s too late now. All those posturing fools in Raleigh can shove their statutes up their asses—nothing will bring my boy back.” She walked over and picked up a small photo from the end table beside the sofa. She traced the outline of a young man’s face—then she started to sob. Clutching the photograph, she ran out of the room crying.
“I’m sorry.” Reverend Taylor stood there looking confused, as if he didn’t whether to go after his wife or remain in the living room, talking with Mary. “It’s been hard on Carrie … Bryan was her baby.”
“I understand,” said Mary. “I’ve spoken with grieving parents before—losing a child is the worst kind of pain. If you’d like to talk some other time, I could come back later.”
“No.” He held up his hand, as if that could stop the sound of his wife’s tears. “Let’s talk now … it might help Carrie handle this a little better if she knows the governor’s involved. She thinks the police aren’t interested in finding who did this to Bryan.”
“I can assure you that good people are working on it, Reverend. I’ve talked to them myself.”
“I suppose.” The man sighed. “But I also know cops don’t go overboard protecting gays. Bryan told me that years ago.”
“Well, you’ve got the governor’s full attention now, so that should help. Can you tell me a little bit about Bryan?”
The priest shrugged. “He was the third of our three boys. He was a good kid, made good grades, played shortstop on the high school baseball team. He came out to us after his freshman year in college.”
“And were you surprised?”
“A little. He wasn’t an effeminate boy. He dated in high school, had friends of both genders.”
“Did he have any same-sex relationships in high school?” Mary wondered if this wasn’t some secret, long-term gay relationship gone sour. An old love upset that Bryan had married someone else.
“Not that I know of.” Taylor shook his head. “Being gay at Campbell County High is the last thing a kid would admit to. I think going away to a more liberal college gave Bryan the courage to be honest about what he’d apparently known for a long time. He said as much, when he told us.”
“So he knew Campbell County was not safe for gay people?”
“Apparently.” Sudden tears came to the man’s eyes. “We never talked about homosexuality when he was growing up. But I should have … I should have addressed it from the pulpit and told all my parishioners that God doesn’t care who you love … God only cares that you love.”
Mary could tell that Bryan’s father was grieving just as deeply as his mother was—he’d just turned his anger inward on himself. “Should is an awfully burdensome word, Reverend Taylor,” she said softly.
“I know.” Embarrassed, he wiped his eyes. “I just should have listened more. I didn’t worry about him at all until he came out; then I worried about him all the time. I remember one time he told me to relax, that they’d never 74 him here.”
Mary shook her head. “I’m sorry—I’m not familiar with the term.”
The priest shrugged. “Nor am I. I started to ask him about it, but he was on his way back to school, in Winston-Salem. In a hurry, as usual.”
Mary made a note on the little pad she carried. “Was he happy in his personal life?”
“He graduated from North Carolina School of the Arts and went to New York after graduation. He was a cinematographer. He’d just married his partner, Leo, and was filming documentaries.” He walked over to a bookcase, returning with a photograph of a group of young men in tuxedos, all gripping Oscars. He pointed to a muscular young man with blond hair. “That’s Bryan.”
Mary frowned at the picture, astonished. “He won an Academy Award?”
“For Orange Julius. A documentary about slave labor in the Florida agricultural industry.”
“You must be very proud,” said Mary.
“He put his gifts to good use.” For the first time, his father’s voice cracked. “He couldn’t stand unfairness—people taking advantage of others.”
“And what is his partner doing now?”
“Leo’s in Brooklyn, trying to put his life back together. He was devastated, just like the rest of us.”
Reverend Taylor gazed at the floor, his fingers twisting the cross around his neck. “You know what’s ironic about all this?”
“What?”
“Br
yan had no intention of playing baseball that night. He was really excited about a new film and wanted to get started on it here, but the team captain called—they were one player short. Bryan didn’t want them to forfeit.”
“Did any of his teammates report any strange behavior after the game that night?”
“No. They all went to Clancy’s Grill. Bryan had a hamburger and a beer. He told everybody good-bye—he was leaving for New York the next day.”
“Yet they found his car at a truck stop on I-85,” said Mary.
“I know the police think he drove there for sex, but I think someone moved his car there after he died. He wasn’t looking to hook up with anybody—he loved Leo, they were newlyweds.”
Mary sighed. There was a lot about this case that didn’t make any sense. “What was his new film about?” she finally asked.
Taylor shrugged. “He said it was about lizards.”
“Lizards,” Mary repeated. “Like reptiles? Skinks?”
“I guess so. He was really pumped up about it. I can’t help but think that he’d still be alive if he’d just stayed home and worked on that movie.”
Mary cautioned the heart-broken father. “That kind of thinking is right up there with the word should, Reverend.”
“You’re right, of course. Some questions are not answerable. Our friends and neighbors and the community of faith have certainly shown us the love of God in all this.”
“Really?”
“The local churches have all helped out. The Presbyterian ladies bring over casseroles every day, two Methodist ministers have taken over some of my pastoral duties.” He gave a sad smile. “It’s the grace of God in action.”
Mary had to ask the question. “Have you had any help from the One Way Church?”
“From the infamous Brother Trull?”
Mary nodded.
“They’ve come by,” he replied. “Offered to cut our grass, water our flowers.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Carrie has a hard time with them—”
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