The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  He opened it, saw his own picture, and flinched. He deflated like a balloon. "I — I'm going to die."

  "No. You're not. I promise you. I promise you."

  "But I did. I mean, I will, won't I? I mean —this?" He looked suddenly terrified.

  "No. You won't."

  "But how do you know? I thought time was — "

  "Time is mutable. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be here. I couldn't be here. Neither could you."

  He accepted that, but only because he wanted to. He wasn't convinced. After a bit, he reached over and took the other folders, opened them one at a time. He recognized two more of the boys, none of the rest. Not surprising. The last disappearance was only fourteen this year.

  "All right. Now, tell me —do you go anywhere else besides Gino's?"

  He shook his head. "There's a club down in Garden Grove, for eighteen-and-up. But I've never been there. Um, there's the tubs. The Y-Mac. I've only been there two-three times. There isn't any place else. I can't get into any of the bars."

  "So mostly you go to Gino's?"

  "That's where everybody goes."

  "All right. Here's the deal. You don't go to Gino's unless I go too. I want to see who talks to you. And if somebody asks you to go home with him—we'll work out a signal. You'll tug on your ear. And I'll… I'll do what's appropriate."

  Matt nodded. He seemed grateful to have a plan. He took a breath. "I saw some knockwurst in the freezer. Should I make that for dinner?"

  I wasn't that hungry, but I nodded.

  He clattered around in the cupboards for a bit, looking to see what else he could put on a plate. "There's some baked beans here, and some English muffins. I can make a little salad and open a couple of Cokes… ?"

  "That sounds good." I gathered up the photos and slid them back into their respective folders.

  "Mike …?"

  "Yeah."

  "If I don't go home with anyone, how will you know which one's the killer?"

  "I'm still trying to figure that out."

  "You'll have to watch Brad-boy too, won't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe I'm not getting this right. But the only way you'll know who the killer is… will be by letting him kill someone. Brad. Right?"

  "Well, no. I have a pretty good idea which night Brad disappears. So whoever talks to him on that night, that's probably the killer. But if I can keep Brad from going off with him, then I can save his life."

  "But what if it's the wrong guy. I mean, if he doesn't get a chance to kill anyone, how will you know he's the killer?"

  I got up, put the bottle of scotch back in the cupboard. Leaned against the wall and looked down at Matt. He was cutting up lettuce. "There's another part to the problem. Let's say that I give Brad a flat tire so he can't go out that night. Or something like that. Let's say I keep Brad from tricking out. Then that means Mr. Death—that's what I call him—picks up someone else. And maybe not that night, maybe the next night, or the following week. Maybe the whole timetable gets interrupted, screwed up —then this whole schedule is useless."

  "So you have to watch Brad…"

  "Yeah. And I'll have to tail him to wherever he goes and… and hope it's the real deal."

  "That's not fair to Brad."

  "It's not fair to any of you guys. I'm only hired to save one boy—but there's a dozen others, and maybe more, who are equally at risk. I told you, time is mutable. If I jiggle it too hard, I lose the whole case. I can save you and Jeremy and Brad, but who else dies in your place?"

  He got it—it was like a body blow. He laid down the knife and said, "Shit." And then he reacted to his own vulgarity with a softly spoken, "Well, that wasn't very ladylike, was it?"

  He put dinner on the table and we ate in silence for a while. Finally, I said, "This is very good. Thank you."

  "You like it?"

  "It's a whole meal. It's more than I would have done for myself."

  "I had to learn how to cook. My mom — " He shrugged.

  "Yeah, I saw."

  "She's not a bad person. Neither is my dad, except when he drinks too much — "

  "And how often is that?"

  He got the point. "Yeah. Okay."

  Later, after the dishes were put away, I took a quick shower. I came out, wearing only a towel. He looked at me, then glanced away quickly. He said something about a long soak and hurried into the bathroom. I heard the sound of bath water running. After a moment, he stuck his head out. "Towels?"

  "Hall closet. Top shelf. Here." I pulled the yellow towels down for him. "Anything else?"

  "I don't think so." Still not looking at me.

  "All right. I'm going to bed. I've got a meeting in the morning. When I get back we'll go get a bed for you."

  "Urn. Okay. Thanks." He disappeared back into the bathroom.

  I like to sleep with the windows open. Here, just off Melrose, the nights were sometimes stifling, sometimes breezy, sometimes cold. Sometimes the wind blew in from the sea, and sometimes the air was still and smelled of jasmine. Tonight there was cold wind, the last wet remnant of a gloomy drizzly day. The air smelled clean. Tomorrow would be bright.

  I got into bed, listened for a while to the water dripping from the corners of the building, to the occasional wet swish of a car passing by, to the distant roar of the city, and maybe even the hint of music somewhere. Got up, went to the closet, pulled out an extra blanket and dropped it on the couch. He'd need it.

  Got back into bed and listened to the roar of my own thoughts. Matt had put his finger on it—what I already knew and hadn't been willing to say. I had no way to ID the perp. Not unless I let someone die.

  For a while, I wondered how the other operatives would handle this case. But I didn't wonder too long, I already knew. They'd save the Weiss kid and ignore the other dozen—because the Weiss kid's family were the only ones paying. That's why Georgia had given me this job. Because she knew I didn't think that way. She knew I wouldn't be satisfied with saving only the one. She knew how I thought. You don't leave any man behind.

  And whether anyone recognized it or not, this was a war zone.

  These people; they knew they were living in enemy territory. They were terrified of the midnight knock—the accusations at work, the innuendoes of friends, the gossip of neighbors, and all the awful consequences. The soft boys, they start out sweet and playful, almost innocent, but time would erode their spirit. The older they grow, the heavier the burden becomes. Day by day, they learn to be furtive, they become embittered and their voices edged with acid. You can stand in the bar and watch it happening in their eyes, night after night, the shadowed resentment, the festering anger. Why do we have to hide? Pretend? The question—what's wrong with me?— was backward. Pretty soon it turns into what's wrong with them? And the chasm grows, the isolation increases. The secret world digs deeper underground.

  But not for too much longer. The summer of love is already exploding, next year the summer of lust, and after that the frenzied summer of disaster. But that summer would also bring the Stonewall revolution, and after that—this would start to change. All of it.

  I almost envied them.

  Because, they knew what they wanted.

  I still had no idea.

  There was a soft knock at the bedroom door. It pushed open with a squeak. Matt stuck his head in. "Are you asleep?"

  "Not yet. Are you all right?"

  "Mike… ?" He stepped closer to the edge of the bed. "Can I sleep with you tonight? Just to sleep. That's all. The couch is — "

  "Kind of uncomfortable, I know. Yeah, come on." I slid over and pulled back the edge of the blanket for him. He slipped in next to me. Not too close.

  We lay on our backs, side by side. Staring at the ceiling.

  "This isn't about the couch, is it?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "Didn't think so."

  "You don't have to worry—"

  "I'm not worried."

  "I mean — "

  "Matt. It's all right.
You don't have to explain." I thought about those nights in Nam where soldiers hugged each other closer than brothers. Of course, rifle fire, mortar shells, explosions, napalm, mud, blood and shit—and the threat of immediate death — can do that to you. The moments in the jungle when the patrol would stop for break, collapsing into heaps, sometimes lying in each other's laps, the only closeness we had —and the nights in cheap Saigon hotel rooms, when there weren't enough mattresses to go around, you shared with your buddy, and you felt glad he was next to you. The touch of a squad mate in the dark. You learned to feel safe in the stink and sweat of other men. They were your other half. You couldn't explain that either, not to anyone who hadn't been there.

  "I'm sorry, Mike."

  "For what?"

  "For being such a — " He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't say the word.

  "Matt… ?"

  "My mom used to call me Matty. When I was little."

  "You want me to call you Matty?"

  "If you want to."

  "Matty, come here." I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer, so his head was nestled against my chest. I couldn't see what he was wearing, but it felt too soft. Nylon something. I ignored it. Whatever. "C'mere, let your Uncle Mike tell you a bedtime story." He wasn't relaxed, he lay tense next to me. Waiting for me to push him away in disgust… ?

  "When I was twelve, my dad brought home a puppy for my birthday, just a few weeks old. He was a black Labrador retriever and he was so clumsy he tripped over his own shadow. He couldn't walk without stubbing his face, but I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him. My dad asked me if I liked him and I said he was just perfect. I called him Shotgun. The first night, he whined for his mommy, so I took him into bed with me and held him close and talked to him and petted him and he fell asleep next to me. He followed me everywhere and he slept with me every night. Then Monday morning, we took him to the vet for his shots. The vet examined him and examined him and examined him, and he just started frowning worse and worse. Finally, he says there's something wrong with Shotgun; he's defective, his hips are malformed, he's going to have trouble walking, he's going to go lame, a whole bunch of other stuff. Then, he took my dad aside and talked to him for a long time. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but my dad just shook his head and we took Shotgun home."

  "The vet wanted to put him to sleep?"

  "Yeah. My dad wouldn't let him. But I didn't find that part out until later. We went home, but I didn't want to have anything to do with Shotgun anymore. Because he was broken. He wasn't perfect. And I wanted a dog that was perfect. Shotgun kept following me around and I kept pushing him away. That night, he kept trying to jump up onto my bed and he kept whining, but I wouldn't lift him up and let him sleep with me. Finally, my dad came in and asked what was wrong and I said I didn't want Shotgun anymore, but I wouldn't say why. My dad figured it out though. He knew I was angry at Shotgun for not being perfect. But he didn't argue with me, he just said, okay, he'd find a new home for Shotgun in the morning. But… for tonight, I should let Shotgun sleep with me one last time. I asked why, and my dad picked up the puppy and held him in his lap petting him for a moment, and I asked why again, and my dad put Shotgun in my lap and he said, 'Because even ugly puppies need love. In fact, ugly puppies need even more love.' And when he said that, I started to feel real bad for pushing Shotgun away, and then my dad said, 'Besides, Shotgun doesn't know he's ugly. He just knows he loves you a lot. But if you don't love him and you don't want him, then tomorrow we'll find someone who doesn't care how ugly he is and who'll be happy to have a dog who will love them as much as Shotgun can.' That's when I hugged Shotgun close to my chest and said, 'NO! He's mine and you're not giving him away. Because I can love him more than anybody. I don't care how ugly he is.' And that's when my dad tousled my hair like this and whispered in my ear, 'That's the exact same thing your mom said when you were born.'"

  Matt snorted. Then curled up with his backside pressed against me. I couldn't figure out if he felt like a girl or a boy or something of both —or neither.

  All these queerboys—some of them were girlboys, yes; but the rest, they were still boys. Soft boys. Men without… without what? Some quality of maleness? No. They were male. They just didn't do all that chest-beating. Hmm. Of course not. Chest-beating is for dominance —it's to drive away all the other males from the mates. That's counter-productive in this environment. Here… they want to be… friendly? Affectionate? But chest-beaters can't do that, can't afford to do that without losing dominance. No wonder the queerboys were the targets of bullies. Bullies are cowards; they pick victims who won't fight back. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if this train of thought would bring me any closer to Mr. Death. I couldn't see how.

  After a while, I stopped worrying about it and fell asleep myself.

  The next morning, we pretended everything was normal. He went to work, I drove up to Hollywood Boulevard.

  Georgia looked grim. She met my eyes briefly, jerked her head toward the office. "Mr. Harris wants to see you."

  "Mr. Harris?"

  "Ted Harris—the man whose name is on the door?"

  "Oh. I didn't know there was a real Ted Harris. I thought he was a fictitious business name, or something."

  "There's a real Ted Harris. And he's waiting for you."

  Shit. They'd found out I'd visited Dad. I had that called-to-the-principal's-office, cold-lump-in-my-gut feeling.

  I knocked once on the door, no answer, I turned the knob and went in. I'd never been in this room before. Desk, chairs, lamp, and a middle-aged man with his back to me, staring out the half-circular window that faced the boulevard. The window was grimy, but the morning sun still broke the gloom with blue-white bars of dust. Harris turned around to face me. I recognized him.

  "Eakins — ?" Every time I met him he was a different age. This time he had silver highlights in his hair, but he still looked young.

  "Sit." He pointed. I sat.

  "Your real name is Harris?"

  He sat down behind the desk. "My real name is Eakins. There is no Harris. But I'm him. When I need to be. Today, I need to be."

  "All right, that makes as much sense as anything—"

  "Shut up." I shut.

  He had a folder on his desk. He tapped it. "This case you're working on—the lost boys… ?"

  "I'm making progress. There's a common connection among the victims."

  "Tell me."

  "There's a gay teen club on Melrose. I think the perp is finding them there. It's in my reports. There's also a secondary location — "

  "You have to drop the case."

  "Eh?"

  "Is there something wrong with your hearing? Drop the case."

  "May I ask why?"

  His voice was dispassionate. "No."

  "But these boys are going to die — "

  "That can't be your concern."

  "It already is."

  Eakins took a breath, one of those I'm-about-to-say-something-important inhalation/exhalations. He leaned across the desk and fixed me with an intense glare. "Listen to me. Life is empty and meaningless. It doesn't mean anything — and it doesn't mean anything that it doesn't mean anything. Drop the case."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only answer you're ever going to get. This conversation is over." He started to rise —

  I stayed sat. "No."

  He stopped, half out of his chair. "I gave you an instruction. I expect you to follow it."

  "No."

  "I wasn't asking you for an argument."

  "Well, you're getting one. I'm not abandoning those boys to die. I need something more from you."

  He sank back down into the chair. "There are things you don't know. There are things you don't understand. That's the way it is. That's the way it has to be."

  "I made a promise to one of those boys that nothing's going to happen to him."

  "You got involved — ?"

  "I made a promise."
/>   "Which boy?"

  "Number two."

  Eakins opened the folder. Turned pages. "This one?" He held up Matty's picture. I nodded. Eakins dropped the picture on the desk, leaned back in his chair. Held up the other pictures. "He's not part of this case."

  "Eh?"

  "The others are part of this case. That one isn't."

  "I don't understand."

  "And I'm not going to explain it. The case is over. Disengage. We'll send you somewhere else. Georgia's got a courier job up in the Bay Area — "

  "I don't want it."

  "That wasn't a request. You'll take the courier job and we won't say anything about where you were Sunday night."

  "No."

  "We're paying you a lot of money—"

  "You're renting my judgment, not buying my soul. That's why you're paying so much."

  Eakins hesitated—not because he was uncertain, but because he was annoyed. He glanced away, as if checking a cue card, then came back to me. "I knew you were going to refuse. But we still had to have the conversation."

  "Is that it?" I put my hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to rise.

  "Not quite. This ends your employment here. Georgia has your severance check. We'll expect the return of all materials related to this case by the end of business today."

  "You think that'll accomplish anything? You can't stop me from saving their lives as a private citizen."

  Eakins didn't respond to that. He was already sorting files on his desk, as if looking for the next piece of business to attend to. "Close the door on your way out, will you?"

  Georgia was waiting for me. Her face was tight. I knew that look. There was a lot she wanted to say, but she couldn't, she wasn't allowed. Instead, she held out an envelope. "The apartment and the car are in your name, we've subtracted the cost from your check. The bank book has your ancillary earnings. You'll be all right. Oh —and I'll need your ID card."

  I took it out of my wallet and passed it over. "You knew, didn't you?"

  "There was never any doubt."

  "You know me that well?"

  "No. But I know that part of you." She pressed the envelope into my hands. Pressed close enough for me to tell that she still wore the same sweet perfume.

  Went down the stairs slowly. Stopped to have my shoes shined one last time while I looked through the contents of the envelope. A fat wad of cash, a hefty check, a surprisingly healthy bank account, several other bits of necessary paperwork—and a scrap of paper with a hastily written note. "Musso & Frank's. IS minutes." I sniffed the paper, recognized the perfume, nodded, tipped Roy a fiver, and started west on the boulevard. I'd get there just in time.