Walking still faster, Jordy pushed on. Out of nowhere a sprinkle of rain came, spraying chilly water across his face. Shit, he realized, the storm was going to come sooner than he thought. Just a couple of seconds later the sprinkle turned into a steady rain, and Jordy pinched his collar shut, bowed his head even more, and broke into a quick trot. Scurrying across the bridge, he glanced back, saw the dark figure behind him break into a run as well. Holy shit, he thought. He's following me. It's probably the same guy who'd been watching back at the cafe, and it very well might be the same guy who got Andrew. And now he's going to do it, he's going to get me too.
There was a crack of lightning and an almost instant explosion of thunder, and Jordy started running as fast as he could. As if a single huge switch had been flicked on, the rain came down in sheets, now falling so hard that Jordy could barely see the other end of the bridge. But then what? Where would he go from there, how would he get away? Maybe there was a bar up there. Or a grocery store. Just someplace that was open that he could duck into.
He glanced over the bridge, saw the freeway traffic below now crawling along through the storm. Wiping the water from his brow, he checked over his shoulder yet again. Oh, shit, the guy was gaining on him! What if he didn't just have a knife? What if he had a gun? Oh, God, thought Jordy, now running as hard as he could. Why had he ever left home? Why had he ever run away? He just wanted to be back there, back with his parents and his brother and their dog. He'd never do it again, never have sex with another guy, never get in trouble, if only he could get back home. Please, God! Please, just don't let this guy get me too!
Reaching the far end of the bridge, he looked up the street, but through the pouring rain all he could see were apartment buildings and some big old houses, all of them dark and lifeless. There were no businesses, not as far as he could see, no public place he could duck into. No, those were all on Nicollet and this was LaSalle. Looking back, he saw the guy charging through the rain right at him. Oh, shit, Jordy was never going to be able to outrun this guy, never. He climbed up on the railing of the bridge, saw the steep bank and the edge of the freeway below. There were cars down there and people. He could slide all the way down. Someone would stop. Someone would help.
Only ten or fifteen feet away now, the stranger started shouting, yelling, “Hey!”
Through the pouring rain Jordy glanced back, thought he recognized him, and cried, “You're not going to get me too!”
But then the man was upon him, and the next moment Jordy was tumbling head over foot down the steep hill and into the busy stream of traffic below.
25
Way in the distance and far to the east, Martha Lyman saw the late night sky spark and snap with a bravado show of lightning. Not just one or two pops, but a bunch of them, one right after the other. Yes, she thought, leaning on the fence behind her house and gazing across their farm at the huge storm, someplace was getting hammered. Someplace like The Cities. And Andy, her Andy, was up there beneath that storm, his body covered by a white sheet and stored in some refrigerator.
She couldn't sleep, not with the image of her dead son burned into her mind. In fact, she wondered if she'd ever be able to sleep again. How could she? How could she when all she could see whenever she closed her eyes was the ashen face of her boy? Oh, Andy. He was never that pale, not her baby. He used to be so tan from being outside, from working the fields. His skin was so rich and healthy-looking, his hair so golden blond. What a handsome boy. Her pride. Often she just looked at him, marveled at his strength and his beauty and his youth, and she'd think: Good God, did such a handsome boy come out of me? Did I really make him?
She was glad she went up there today, glad she drove all the way up to The Cities. She had to see him one more time, especially before they hacked him apart. Just hours after she'd left they were supposed to have started the autopsy, cracking his chest wide open, pulling his insides out and slipping all that mess into plastic bags. The very thought of it was more than she could bear, butchering her boy up like he was a side of beef. She asked them not to, pleaded with the detective to leave her boy alone, that he was dead and nothing was bringing him back, but he told her that he had no choice. It was the law. An autopsy was required when someone died of unnatural causes. Good Lord, what a final indignity, being split open by some total stranger.
Aside from the lights that continued to pound in the distant sky, Martha saw headlights way down the road and coming this way. Was it him? Was her husband finally coming back? It had to be going on two or three. Two or three in the morning, and she was still the only one home.
After she'd been at the morgue, she'd been interviewed by the police. But after that Martha really wasn't sure what she'd done. Somehow she got into the skyway system downtown and just started rambling around the indoor system of walkways and pedestrian bridges. Eventually she'd found her car. And then she'd just started driving. It had taken her hours to get home, and when she did there was no one here, neither her daughters nor her husband. Only a simple note.
Martha—
I've taken the girls to their grandmother's for the night. I'll be back later, I don't know when.
John
So was this him, was that his truck now speeding this way? Her eyes, dazed and achingly tired, focused on the vehicle, watched it as it flew across the flat terrain that stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. But it didn't slow as it neared their farm. Rather, as if she and her life hadn't ever existed, it just went flying right on by, disappearing into the depth of the night.
When she'd come home to no one Martha had in one simple moment realized that the life she had known would never exist again, that it was gone forever. She'd picked up the note and understood that her husband could have been and probably had been gone all day. He hadn't put a time when he'd left, nor had he said when he'd be back. And looking around the farm, she saw that nothing had been done. The tractor was just where it had been this morning, over by the metal pole barn. There had been no more tilling, no more bailing. She'd looked around, calmly taken it all in, and it just came to her, easily and simply: I want a divorce.
Yes, she thought hanging on to the white fence, that was going to be the fallout from all this, the complete and utter dissolution of their little family. It wasn't Andy's fault, not at all, but the trauma of coming to terms with his being gay and running away had forced upon them a test of greater magnitude than she could ever have imagined. Sure, it was a test they might not ever have faced, and certainly one they need not have taken. And if they hadn't, they probably would have just marched on, working the farm, raising their kids, and growing old together. Or maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a test at all. Maybe all of these travails had simply shone a light on the truths she had previously chosen not to see. Whatever. Without all of this, though, she doubted anything would have changed. But instead everything had, most definitely so, especially now with young Andy's death. It was just kind of one of those before and after things. Tonight she saw everything quite clearly, just who her husband was to her, what role he really played in her life, how much she could or couldn't depend upon him. And she understood that all of this was a storm too great for them to handle, that this was something from which their marriage could not and would never recover.
So where had he gone, and where was he now?
It was not a question of dark jealousy, not even one of bitter curiosity, but merely a point in need of simple clarification. That was the lie. His lie. And she'd chosen to ignore it, turned away, pretending not to see something that was lying right before her. Why had she thought to never question him? Because she was afraid of the answer? John, her husband of almost twenty years, hadn't gone with her today to identify the body of their murdered son, and he wasn't home tonight when she was drowning and needed him more than ever. And suddenly it all made sense. All those stupid stories. Martha, I'm going to go look at a small feedlot this morning, I think it might be a great investment, but, don't worry, I should be back by dinne
r. Sweetheart, there's a tractor I'm thinking about buying, don't hold lunch. Honey, I'm going to play some poker with the guys, don't you wait up on me, okay? At least once or twice a month something like that came up, and not once had she ever doubted him. You fool, she told herself. You absolute fool.
So who was she?
26
The following morning Todd still wasn't sure who he should be more flipped out about, his lover, Steve Rawlins, or film sensation Tim Chase. Sitting at his desk in his small office at WLAK, he sipped a cup of coffee and stared at the list of e-mail on his computer screen. Presuming that he'd be assigned a follow-up piece on the Lyman murder for tonight's six o'clock, he had a pile of work. All of that, however, seemed oddly remote and definitely not of interest.
Todd hadn't been simply glad that Rawlins had chosen not to stay at the condo last night, he'd been relieved. Coming home, Todd had checked his answering machine, finding just a single message from Rawlins saying not to expect him tonight. While that could have meant that he'd be working late on the Lyman murder, Todd didn't take it as such. Yes, for more than one reason they needed a breather, and apparently both of them knew that.
So was Tim Chase gay or wasn't he? And had he or hadn't he been hitting on Todd?
The way straight men reacted around gay men varied in a most predictable way. Though by no means a majority, there were straights who were entirely comfortable and cool with it, guys who weren't the least bit threatened by the presence of homosexuals. Not only were they the most secure in their sexuality, they were also the straightest. Simply, it was a non-issue, primarily because they instinctively knew that territory was one where they'd never travel. On the other hand, there were men, a great many actually, who just couldn't handle it, who felt deeply threatened. At a mixed party, they tended to steer clear of gays, cling to their wives, or just get obnoxiously fidgety, as if they might be attacked and raped by a queer at any moment. This second group, Todd believed, tended to be composed of guys who'd done it once with another guy, usually as kids, and they were still deeply ashamed and terrified about what it meant, when all it really did mean was that they'd been trying to understand how their bodies worked. There was, after all, nothing much weirder than a penis, this thing that grew into a hunk of rock-hard salami in the heat of the moment, then shrank into a piece of limp macaroni when, say, swimming in Lake Superior. It was this second bunch, those who were the most threatened, that Todd had always found the most obnoxious, guys that used homophobia as a means of defending their heterosexuality Didn't they realize that there was nothing less appealing to a gay man than another who sported his sexuality as comfortably as a nerd wearing Jockeys that were four sizes too small?
And then… then there were straight men who enjoyed the company of gay men. Perhaps they were among the lucky few who saw sexuality as not a binary thing, not an either/or, straight or gay kind of fixed deal, but something much more fluid. Maybe they enjoyed the broader interests of gays, interests that ran the gamut from the traditional male territories of baseball, football, and grilling all the way to cooking, gardening, and opera. Or maybe they just enjoyed the flirt, being admired, even sought after.
So in which group did Tim Chase belong? Any of the above? Or none?
No, thought Todd, if Chase was straight, he definitely belonged to the latter group. That guy was a flirt, a tease. Or was that not it at all? Perhaps he was merely a master at making not simply everyone and anyone like him, but love and desire him. Perhaps the sexual chemistry he put out was the true secret of his charm and broad appeal.
But those hands—so strong. Those hips—so lean. And the face— so gorgeous. His heart even now charging with lusty excitement, Todd recalled looking into Tim Chase's eyes and how the gaze had stayed steady and deep for that all-telling split second too long. Todd s gaydar warning had gone off major league, wailing as loud as a Berlin air raid siren. Oh, brother, if that guy wasn't gay then… then…
But what about Gwen Owens? Did she know? Was it just something she tolerated, a dally she put up with as dutifully as a president's first lady? If her husband was indeed gay, though, Gwen had to know. It could be no other way. She certainly wasn't that dumb, nor were her own handlers, who were certainly crafting her career every bit as carefully and masterfully as her husband's. But why would one of the most beautiful, most successful actresses in the world put up with it? Why would she play his beard, unless of course he was playing hers as well? Could theirs be a match made only in Hollywood?
Like an obsessed courtier—had Chase really been rehearsing or had he been in the early steps of seducing Todd?—Todd had to know everything. Not just the box office deals, the star parties, and the lavish banquets and homes and cars and yachts and horses. No, Todd had to know all the dirt, which pretty much boiled it down to one thing, the only scandal to publicly break through the perfect veneer of Tim Chase, Inc.
Forgetting all about Rawlins and the murder of the young man, Todd turned to his briefcase and pulled out the thick manila folder containing the stack of articles he'd collected on Tim Chase. Flipping through them, he paused at one of the bios which not only made extensive mention of his mother, but used her full name. God, thought Todd, wouldn't he love to talk to her? Wouldn't he love to hear what she had to say about her son, Mr. Wonderful? But how in the world would he get her phone number? It just might be buried somewhere in the layers of information of Lexis-Nexis, but that was doubtful. He could try one of the other search engines. Or he might ask Rawlins if he'd check the National Crime Information Computer, though Rawlins, Mr. Ethical, sure as hell wouldn't do anything like use the NCIC to dig up any dirt for someone in the media.
Skipping the mother as a bad idea, Todd continued through the stack. There were a few articles from the Los Angeles Times, an interesting profile of the moneyed star in The Wall Street Journal, a couple of more articles from some smaller regional papers. And then the bombshell article from the supermarket tabloid The National Times, with the searing headline, “Mean Queen Chase Denies 7 Year Gay Romance & Buries Boyfriend in Poverty.” Not even trying to stop himself, Todd tore through the piece, reading all over again about the supposed romance between Tim Chase and the handsome blond Rob Scott. In searing judgmental prose, the journalist described their great love, which had begun before his marriage to actress Gwen Owens and then continued right on until, for some unknown reason, everything exploded in a ball of fury. Apparently Chase, otherwise known for his even temper and kind disposition, totally lost it. One neighbor claimed he heard Chase screaming at Scott, another claimed the police were called, and a nurse from a nearby hospital said she treated Rob Scott for bruises to his mouth and left eye on that very day. The writer went on to detail how the following day Chase's bodyguards, under the direct instructions of Tim Chase himself, had then kicked Rob Scott out of the condo the star had bought as their little love nest, allowing Scott to take no more than a single suitcase of clothing.
What a bitch, thought Todd. If this was really true, then the tabloid was certainly right, Tim Chase was in fact a mean fucking queen. But what had happened? If this was all true, what had ignited the situation, what had caused the alleged love affair to blow up? And if Rob Scott had really been Tim Chase's lover, what had Scott been trying to do by selling the story to The National Times for one hundred grand—simply make a pile of money or get revenge? Or both?
Todd wanted to see pictures, none of which was here of course because he'd pulled virtually all of these articles in this folder from Lexis-Nexis, which reprinted articles only in simple text. There were no telltale graphics, no sizzling snapshots, yet Todd wanted to see visual proof. Famous for its paparazzi-style photographs, The National Times—or The National Dirt, as it was so often called—was sure to have printed some doozies. And flipping to one of the last articles, which another paper had done as a follow-up to the lawsuit Chase had brought against The National Times, Todd saw that mention was even made of scandalous photos of the actor in the arms of anothe
r man. Chase's lawyers had been furious over this, claiming that the pictures were nothing but fakes, images that had been doctored on a computer.
“Go on the Net,” the star's lawyer had fumed. “See what's out there. Look at some of that porn and you'll see what they can do, moving body parts this way and that. This is no different. This is just some sicko's wishful thinking. We're going to win this case, and we're going to win big. You'll see, my client will be vindicated.”
However, the journalist who had written the original story, Maria Glore, stuck by it all, ranting at one point about the vast conspiracy of silence from, in particular, the Los Angeles media.
“They won't comment even though what I've written is the truth—and they know it too,” Glore had heatedly said. “What it boils down to is that they're not only afraid of the major studios, they're also terrified of being blacklisted by the Hollywood public relations firms.”
But in the end, after a short trial, Chase was, in fact, “vindicated” to the tune of over eight million dollars, which of course the star needed about as much as a hole in the head.
Todd turned to the last article, again a follow-up to the lawsuit, that People magazine ran as their cover story. The gist was that, yes, it's been proven now. Tim's our guy, he's straight and in love, a wonderful actor, a smashing husband, an adoring father. America is safe. He's vanquished over evil. He's our prince.
It kind of made Todd's stomach turn. It just felt too forced, too contrived, like the Christmas all of us dreamed of but never had. Yes, as a culture we wanted and needed someone like Tim Chase, whose image, albeit secretly manufactured, embodied so much of what we wanted for ourselves as well as for our country.
Knowing his next step, Todd picked up the phone and dialed information for New York City. He didn't know why, but he assumed, and correctly so, that The National Times was located right in the heart of it all, Manhattan. Moments later he had their number, which he dialed.
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