He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a khaki jacket that was obviously too small, something that had perhaps once fit around him but would never again. He was a big man, not just tall, but overweight. And between the top of his blue check shirt and his green cap the skin of his neck was red and aged from years in the field.
What could Todd say? How, wondered Todd, clutching his phone in his sweaty hand, could he comfort this stranger?
Breaking the silence, John said, “The night I found out my boy was gay was the night I nearly beat him to death. And I would've, too, if my wife hadn't stopped me. I was so angry at him. I was so upset. I mean, I failed that boy. I wanted him to be happy and healthy. I wanted him to have a good, decent life. I wanted—”
“I met him, you know. And he was a good boy. He was happy and healthy too. And decent.” In all his infinite wisdom, Todd couldn't keep his mouth shut. “He was all of that, plus gay.”
“Maybe. Maybe he was. But, oh, Lord Jesus, I tried. I just didn't want that for him, that life. It's not good, not right. I saw it coming of course. I knew he was a homo. Knew it years ago, but—”
“It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. It's just a matter of fact that your son was gay. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Shit… You know why I beat my boy that night? You know why?” asked John Lyman, turning around for the first time.
Todd saw a face that was worn and fallen. And eyes that were red and glistening. How much, wondered Todd, had he had to drink? Or wait, was he not drunk? Were his eyes red with tears?
“No,” replied Todd. “Why?”
“I beat my boy because I was trying to beat out of him what I hated most about myself, that's why.”
It took Todd a half-second to comprehend what he was saying, for he'd never heard someone place their sexuality in so awful a context. But he was saying that, wasn't he?
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Well, I'm married, but…” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Let's just say I haven't been faithful to my wife.”
Todd understood perfectly now. Understood that John Lyman would sooner kill himself than say he was gay There was obviously no way in hell he was going to say he was homosexual, queer, a fairy, a pansy, a fudge packer, a corn holer, or whatever the kids these days said so easily but that not so very long ago all but equaled death, and in fact sometimes still did. John Lyman had lived an isolated life in rural Minnesota, obviously terrified of his personal truth, and that he had said as much as he had to Todd was amazing. Then again, it had taken the death of his son to pry open his closet this much.
Still, Todd knew of the profound difference between the unspoken and the spoken truth, and so he asked it in as non-threatening a manner as he could, saying, “You mean you've been having a same-sex affair?”
Nodding as he stared at the floor of the stall, John Lyman said, “I been seeing the same guy ever since high school.”
“Really?”
“Not all that much, not really. Maybe three or four times a year. Sometimes more.”
So, like father, like son. Incredible.
But why was he telling Todd this? Because Todd was openly gay? Because he had perhaps witnessed Todd's own outing live on TV? Perhaps. Perhaps even though Todd was a complete stranger he saw him as an isle of safety, even compassion. After all, didn't we all just want to be understood?
“This is obviously a very difficult time for you,” said Todd. “Is there anything I can do? Anyway I can help?”
John Lyman nodded, closed his eyes, and said nothing.
“How?” asked Todd.
“Shit, I wondered if it was really going to come to this, if I could actually go through with it.”
He sighed deeply, reached into the right pocket of his khaki jacket, and pulled out something small and metal. At first in the faint light Todd could only make out a mellow glint of metal. Then he saw something round and long. A barrel.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Todd, taking a half-step back.
This, of course, was what he feared. Something exactly like this. He glanced around, saw nothing, realized that the only thing he had to defend himself with was the stupid phone.
“We can talk this out,” insisted Todd.
“You don't understand, there's nothing to talk about.”
“You don't have to do it, John. I know these are bad times, but you don't have to hurt anyone. There are other ways.”
Raising the gun, he said, “No, I'm afraid there aren't. I been thinking and thinking, and I got no choice.”
“John, wait. Please.”
Todd was worse than a sitting duck. He could make a break for it. He could tear for the door, and perhaps he'd make it. Then again, thought Todd, his heart taking off at a gallop, he probably wouldn't. John Lyman was sure to be a good shot.
“Why?” demanded Todd.
“Because I can't face it, the truth.”
“But—”
“And if it ever comes up I want you to go see my wife.”
“Do what?”
“Go see my wife, Martha.”
Suddenly this wasn't making any sense. Was this perhaps not headed in the very direction that Todd feared?
“What do you mean?”
Raising the gun higher, Lyman said, “I want you to tell her how much I loved her. Tell her in my heart I was true to her.”
As Todd watched Lyman's elbow bend he suddenly understood. Oh, God. He'd called Todd here for a kind of last confession.
“John, don't.”
“There's no other way. I got no other choice.”
“Your son's dead, don't make things worse.”
Lyman lifted the handgun to his right temple and slowly let his eyes drift shut. “It's all my fault too. Somehow I made that boy a homo. And… and I definitely drove him away from his home. He's… he's dead because of me.”
Tears started rolling from his eyes, big, fat drops that traveled down his large cheeks. No, he didn't want this. He really didn't. And Todd knew what he had to do, just keep him talking.
“No,” said Todd, “he's dead because some insane person killed him.”
“If I hadn't drove him away he'd still be alive. He shoulda been home with us. He woulda been safe there. None of this woulda happened.”
The other man's trigger finger started to flinch, and Todd knew he'd lost, that there was no way of stopping this, that Andrew Lyman's death was going to be like a chain accident, one death piled upon another. And all for nothing.
The phone.
There was nothing else Todd could do. No other course, none that he could see. And so, as John Lyman stood there with the pistol to his right temple, Todd slowly brought back his arm. This was perhaps the stupidest thing, but he was determined to do something, anything, to change the course of the next few seconds. Wasting not a moment, Todd tossed the small black phone at the other man.
“It's for you, John!”
John's eyes popped open in surprise and instinctively he reached out to catch the little plastic phone hurtling his way. And catch it he did, the small phone clattering against the barrel of the gun.
Desperate, Todd blurted, “If you shoot yourself, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to do a story on television about you and your son. I'm going to say that Andrew was an incest victim. I'm going to say that you had sex with him.”
“That's not true!”
“Of course it's not, but that's what I'm going to say. And that's what the world will think because you'll be dead and you'll have no way of defending yourself.”
“No!”
“I'll do it. If you kill yourself, that's what I'm going to do.” Oh, Christ, what was Todd about to unleash? “But if you don't hurt yourself, if you push through all of this, then all I'll do is tell the truth, that you loved your—”
“You bastard!”
Lyman threw Todd's cellular phone to the floor, smashing it in a half-dozen pieces, and then charged forward, a bull of a man o
verflowing with rage and self-hatred. Todd, seeing the gun aimed at him, leapt to the side, and an instant later a bullet blasted deep into the thick wood of the stall. But rather than running for the door, Todd twisted around and used his foot to trip Lyman just as he came rushing out. Lyman fell forward, landing on the hard concrete floor with a deep groan, and the gun flew from his hand and went sailing through the air. Racing after it, Todd bent down, grabbed the butt of the gun, and scooped it up.
“You asshole!” roared Lyman as he scrambled across the floor. “I'm gonna kill you!”
Just then a hand locked onto Todd's left ankle and pulled with the force of a draft horse. Before Todd knew it, he went flying forward and the gun went hurtling out of his hand. He landed smack on his stomach and all the air exploded out of him. He knew he had to move, to get out of there, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't even manage to push himself onto his hands and knees. And the next moment Lyman was pulling him back. Todd managed to twist over, to cover his face, as Lyman lunged at him, striking Todd on the chin once, twice. Todd tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but it was too late. Before he even had time to think, his head exploded with a blast of pain and everything plunged into quiet darkness.
32
Rawlins was the first one to crack.
All afternoon as he'd been going about his work he'd been wondering if Todd would call and perhaps chat awhile, maybe even apologize or simply, without admitting guilt, voice his regret for their argument last night. Actually, Rawlins half expected Todd would phone and insist they get together if not sometime this afternoon, then certainly for dinner. But now, checking his watch as he sat in his cubicle at CID, it was after six o'clock and of course Todd hadn't called, which really didn't come as any great surprise to Rawlins. Todd was that stubborn. That resolute. Or more to the point, that determined to be in control.
Well, screw the bastard.
Rawlins had caved not quite an hour ago. He didn't know what he was going to say, he didn't actually know what he wanted to happen, but he couldn't stand this separation, this odd quiet between them. Over the course of their young relationship they hadn't argued that much, but they'd certainly never run into a stupid brick wall like this one. And it was this silence that scared Rawlins, because for the first time there didn't seem any desire on Todd's part to work through their differences. What was going on? Could Todd really have gone on a date last night? Might he be sneaking out of their relationship? Yes, it was certainly possible.
From his desk on the second floor of City Hall, Rawlins had first tried Todd about forty-five minutes ago, calling him at WLAK. When he'd been dumped into voice mail, Rawlins hadn't left a message but simply hung up. He'd then tried Todd's condo, where he'd reached an answering machine and likewise left no message. Finally he'd called Todd's cell phone, which just rang and rang until some recorded message came on stating in much too bright a voice that, thank you very much, the phone was either turned off or out of range. The frustration brewing, Rawlins went for a cup of coffee, then returned to his desk some twenty minutes later and tried all the numbers again, yet again had no luck. It wasn't that unusual, Rawlins supposed. He could almost always get Todd on the phone, particularly if he called him on his cellular, but there were those times when Todd was doing an interview, when he was in an editorial meeting, or when he was in the studio doing some taping.
Frustrated, Rawlins compulsively tried the numbers a third time. When he still had no success, Rawlins began to wonder if Todd was doing this on purpose. Could he be avoiding Rawlins? Perhaps, even probably. He had caller ID on his cell phone—who knew, maybe even on his phone at work as well—and it would be just like the son of a bitch to take note that it was Rawlins calling and not pick up.
Damn him.
That bit of paranoia—the distinct possibility that Todd was avoiding him—started twirling in Rawlins's mind until it reached tornadic confusion. He got up and started pacing up and down CID, from Homicide all the way down to Juvenile. And he kept at it for a good ten minutes until he came up with an idea. Calling the front desk at WLAK, he asked for Nan, the six o'clock producer whom he'd met on several occasions.
“I'm sorry,” replied the receptionist, “but she's busy with the evening news right now.”
Rawlins glanced at his watch, saw that it was not quite six-thirty. Oh, shit, was it that simple? Was that why Todd had been unreachable, he'd been busy with the evening news?
“Well, tell her Steve Rawlins called. And tell her it's an emergency. Here's my number,” he said, determined to figure this out. “Okay, you got it? Just make sure she calls me right away.”
He sat there, rubbing his face and wondering what the hell he was going to do next, when just a few minutes later his desk phone rang, and he grabbed it, saying, “Homicide, this is Sergeant Rawlins.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“Nan?”
“Yeah, it's me. Where the hell's Todd?” she ranted. “He was supposed to be on at six and he just blew us off. I mean, blew us off completely. Unbelievable. Let me tell you he's got a lot of people really pissed at him. You just can't do that. Do you know how hard it was to fill his slot just minutes before we were supposed to go on? Do you? I mean, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell happened?”
“Actually, Nan, I don't know. I don't have any idea,” replied Rawlins, his tone a bit sheepish. “That's why I called—I was hoping you could tell me. I haven't been able to find him either.”
“But… but…” As if seizing on a novel idea, she said, “God, I hope he's okay, I hope nothing happened.”
“Me too,” replied Rawlins, his anger quickly dissipating, only to be replaced by a deep current of worry.
They agreed to keep in touch and then hung up. Rawlins immediately picked the phone back up and dialed all of Todd's numbers yet one more time, this time leaving a message at home and work.
“Todd, it's me, Rawlins. Where are you? I'm kind of worried. I've got my cell phone with me—call me as soon as you can.”
There was, thought Rawlins, shrugging as he hung up, nothing more he could do, at least not before his seven o'clock meeting.
33
It was the concrete that woke Todd.
Cool and smooth against his left cheek, it was as refreshing as a cold, damp washcloth on a hot summer day. And just as invigorating. His eyes fluttered, then popped open. Lying on his side, he didn't move, just gazed around at the huge empty space and saw a small bird, a sparrow, flutter toward a window and bang its body over and over against the glass.
Where the hell was he?
The stale odor of horse manure and straw sparked the memory that his eyes could not. He was at the State Fair in the horse barn. And his head hurt like hell. Right, he'd come here to meet John Lyman, and then… then…
Using both hands, he pushed himself up and then sat there, looking around, sure that John Lyman's body would be lying just a few feet away, bloody and lifeless. Instead there was no one and nothing. Todd turned toward the horse stall against the far wall, wondered if he'd done it in there, gone back to the small space and blown his brains out. Groaning and rubbing his head, Todd got up and started moving slowly, not at all eager to discover someone's remains.
“John?” he called rather feebly.
As he approached the stall he expected to see the large man laid out within the four heavy wooden walls of the stall. Instead, except for Todd's cell phone, which lay smashed in pieces, it was perfectly empty. There was no sign of John Lyman, nor for that matter the saddle he had so lovingly tended.
Leaning against the stall, Todd touched the side of his head and felt the epicenter of the pain, which, like a hangover, was thick and nauseating and rippled from his head to his stomach. At least Lyman wasn't dead. At least Todd had prevented that—although perhaps only temporarily. And that, Todd thought, was a good point, for if Lyman hadn't killed himself in here, then perhaps he'd gone off and done the deed elsewhere. Perhaps he'd stormed out and done it
in the front seat of his truck. Pretty.
As his senses regrouped he realized he had to get to the station. He had a broadcast to do. Checking his watch, he stared at the small face and thin hands. Oh, shit. It was a quarter past six. He hadn't lain on the concrete for five or ten minutes, but almost an hour.
Panicking, he bent down and started grabbing at the pieces of his cell phone, the main body right in front of him, the battery over on one side of the stall, and then a couple of small pieces scattered like marbles. His hands shaking, Todd tried cramming the battery in, but it wouldn't stay. He jammed something into something, but the plastic body was entirely cracked. It was beyond hopeless.
Clearly, he'd missed his spot. There was going to be hell to pay for this, but what could he do? It was, he thought as his head throbbed, already too late to simply warn them.
Turning, he started for the door, moving none too fast. As he stepped out into the evening light, he saw his Cherokee sitting right where he had left it. John Lyman's pickup, however, was gone, which meant, of course, that he'd been alive when he'd left. Thank God for small miracles.
Todd rubbed his brow, went around and unlocked his truck. He tossed the broken pieces of his cell phone on the passenger seat and climbed in. What he needed now was a long, hot shower. And then? Something about seven-thirty. Right, he was supposed to do something. Be somewhere. Meet someone.
Of course. He had a date with Tim Chase.
34
Slipping his cell phone into the pocket of his jacket, Rawlins headed across the rough, potholed parking lot. His first major worry of the night was Todd and if he was alright. His second was this guy, the witness, and if he was actually going to show.
Jam's was a freestanding building, a green box of a place with black glass windows on one side and a pair of red neon cowboy boots on the roof. Known for its country music DJ, its tiny dance floor, and its half-dozen pool tables, it was a popular pickup bar, and Rawlins wasn't at all surprised that the witness had suggested it.
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