by Dorien Grey
“What’s the matter, baby?”
The damned gun’s not loaded! I realized with another jolt of emotional electricity.
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve got a lover and…”
“I just want to kiss you.” Nowell’s hands reached toward Jonathan’s face, his palms gently cupping Jonathan’s cheeks. Then they began a slow rotation, the fingers moving past Jonathan’s ears toward the back of his neck.
Shit! I threw the gun as hard as I could into the living room. It smashed into a glass bowl on the end of the coffee table. As Nowell spun around, I charged across the room and tackled him in the mid-section, knocking him to the floor. Jonathan scrambled out of the way and I lost sight of him.
I was far too preoccupied with Nowell to know or care. We rolled around on the floor, both getting in some pretty solid punches whenever we could manage to swing. I managed to get on top of him for a moment and raise up far enough to give him a good punch in the face, causing blood to spurt out of his nose, but he raised his legs up and somehow flipped me over until he was on top. I felt his hands on my face, trying to reach behind my head. Then I heard a dull “thud”, and Nowell toppled off me to one side and lay still on the floor. I looked up to see Jonathan staring down at us both with a heavy saucepan in his hand.
“He was going to kill you,” he said, incredulous.
“Ya think?” I asked and for some reason burst out laughing.
*
Well, to wrap it up, Nowell was carted off to jail and the concrete slab between the Qualicare buildings was dug up to reveal the body of Andy Phillips. The other five bodies were never found, and probably won’t be until the rebuilding cycle begins again. Then they’ll show up, one by one. At least their lovers have an idea where they are.
Nowell pleaded insanity and probably has a very good case for it. From what Nowell did tell the police and the D.A., he was referred to Brian Oaks for counseling by social services after the deaths of his mom, sister, and stepfather. Whitaker had been photographed at the scene of the accident, and his picture had run in the Journal-Sentinal, the city’s scandal-mongering tabloid. When T/T and Whitaker’s sister convinced him to see a psychologist he had, by one of those totally bizarre twists of fate, made an appointment with Brian Oaks. As soon as Oaks realized who he was, he told Whitaker he could not see him as a patient because he was already seeing Nowell. Whitaker was leaving Oaks’ office as Nowell came in for an appointment and…well, you know what happened then.
When Oaks started the Qualicare alcohol counseling group and needed a receptionist, he asked Nowell if he would be willing to work as partial payment for his private counseling. I think Oaks thought that, by exposing Nowell to basically normal guys who dealt with alcoholism on a daily basis, he might realize that an alcoholic wasn’t necessarily a monster. Oaks had no idea that Whitaker had disappeared, and apparently he never put two and two together until I mentioned Whitaker’s name at the meeting.
Each of the victims had apparently been killed somewhere on the Qualicare complex. As for exactly how Nowell had managed to lure them there without anyone else knowing, that might never be known for sure, but most probably he knew enough about the couples’ schedules—as he had known about my trip to St. Louis—to know when the victim was likely to be alone. Quite possibly, he called to tell them that Brian Oaks wanted to see them at Qualicare. As I say, we’ll never know for sure. The thing is, he did it, killed them, and buried them in areas where concrete would be poured or rebar laid the following day.
Again I can’t say for sure, but most likely Oaks had some sort of confrontation with Nowell after the meeting. Nowell went over to Oaks’ home, probably killed Oaks in his office, and then killed Chad Bleeth when he came downstairs from his studio.
As I say, a lot of this is conjecture, but it makes pretty good sense. So logic isn’t evidence: it’ll do.
*
Jonathan and I got our lives back. I talked him into sharing some of our horticultural bounty with our friends so now we can actually walk through the apartment without a machete. And I bought him a bigger aquarium so that Tim and Phil (the fi…ah, you know) could get some new playmates. (They all have names, but don’t ask!)
About a week after everything had calmed down, we were lying in bed when Jonathan said: “You know, we haven’t played a game in a long time.”
“Yeah. We’ve been kind of busy. Got one in mind?”
“Well, I know a game I never want to play!”
“What’s that?”
“The Construction Worker and the Alcoholic.”