Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  “Baby, are you all right?” he murmured, and Michael’s throat thickened. He wanted to answer, he really did, but he couldn’t. Instead, he shook his head as Gil held him upright.

  “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

  “No,” he finally managed. “No, I’m not hurt.”

  “Gentlemen.” Slater had apparently approached, because he sounded close. Michael glanced over and found him standing right beside them. “Mr. Crane, do you need medical assistance?”

  “Are you going to be able to walk?” Gil asked.

  That was the question that brought Michael up short. What was he going to do? Let Gil carry him, like he was some sort of damsel in distress? Michael took a deep breath, forcing strength back into his knees. He’d never been so scared, but he’d never been weak either. He swallowed, straightening away from Gil’s body.

  “I’m okay.” He looked over into Slater’s face. “I’m okay.”

  “Shall we take this in the house, then?”

  Michael nodded, following him when they started back inside. He’d never tell a living soul how grateful he was for Gil’s hand on his lower back. Particularly when he saw the blade of the shovel driven into the windshield of his Impreza, the wooden handle sticking straight out.

  “Jesus,” Gil muttered.

  Michael turned his face away, mounting the steps with as much dignity as he could. He stopped abruptly, staring.

  Someone had sprayed an upside-down triangle on the soft gray siding, clearly in reference to their company logo, with a swastika over it. At his elbow, Gil made a disgusted sound.

  “That’s so ugly.” Michael shook his head. “Who would do that?”

  Large hands closed over his biceps and he felt Gil along his back. “We’ll paint it out as soon as the cops say it’s okay.”

  Michael turned his face away as they entered the house.

  After Gil introduced himself to Officers Slater and Preston and presented his ID voluntarily, Michael sat on the couch while Slater took his statement. While they talked, Gil went into the hallway to comfort the unhappy Scooter, then into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he approached Michael with a mug in his hand. He handed it to him, and the scent of chamomile lifted to his nose. He inhaled gratefully, wrapping cold palms around the hot mug. He gave Gil a grateful look as he sat beside him.

  “So you have no idea who this might have been?” Slater went on.

  Michael paused. “No. David had some trouble with his ex in the beginning, but that’s been over for a while.”

  Slater flipped back through his notes. “Mr. Snyder is the owner?”

  “David, yes.”

  A man cleared his throat and they all looked up.

  Michael recognized Detective Dennis Mitchell standing in the doorway. He’d met him when he went to court with David for Trevor’s sentencing. He came into the house, and Michael thought even if he hadn’t known he was a cop, he’d still have figured it out. He was the stereotypical aging, balding detective in a bad brown suit. He looked like someone right out of central casting.

  “Detective Mitchell.” Michael stood and offered his hand.

  “Michael, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mitchell turned to Gil. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Gil stood, and he towered over everyone in the room. Mitchell’s sparse brows shot up. “Gil Chandler.” He shook Mitchell’s hand.

  “Sounds like you’ve had a busy night.” Mitchell dropped his hands into the pockets of his baggy slacks, his arms holding back the sides of his jacket. “Care to start at the beginning and catch me up?”

  Michael took a deep breath and did as Mitchell asked. The detective listened patiently, asked pertinent questions, but mostly he just let Michael talk. At one point, when Scooter’s whining became particularly loud and pitiful, Michael asked if they could please let her out. When they opened the door to the hall, Scooter streaked through and went straight to Michael, going up onto her back feet to put her front paws on his knees.

  “Aw, baby girl.” Gil bent and picked her up, setting her in Michael’s lap. “He’s okay, see?”

  She licked Michael’s chin and neck, pressing her muzzle against his face. It was the first time since Gil arrived that he felt tears threaten.

  “Is she injured?” Mitchell asked gently.

  Michael shook his head, took a moment, and then cleared his throat. “She protected me.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Mitchell leaned forward to rub her head. “Corgis are a very protective breed.” He glanced toward the front door. “A couple of my forensics guys have been processing the scene outside and on the porch, but if you’re done with your statement, I think you should probably take a look.”

  Michael grabbed Scooter’s leash, then clipped it to her collar. He wasn’t leaving her behind. He followed the officers out through the front door, Gil close enough behind him he could feel his body heat. Mitchell paused and studied the graffiti just outside the door, while Michael pointedly turned his face away, his stomach turning at the thought of it.

  “I’m afraid it gets worse,” Mitchell said apologetically. They went down the steps and paused in front of Michael’s damaged Subaru. “I think you might have interrupted him, because he didn’t write anything on the car. Just jammed the shovel through the windshield. But….” He turned with a gesture.

  Michael turned to the garage door, and he felt cold slip down his spine, clear to his toes.

  DIE FAGGOTS.

  The letters were four feet tall and ragged. Floodlights lit the driveway now, so there was no mistaking the ugly message.

  “Well, that’s direct.” Michael tried to sound casual. It didn’t work.

  “How soon can we get rid of it?”

  Gil’s voice was so raw that for a moment Michael wasn’t certain it was him. He turned and looked up, startled by the rage he saw on the usually gentle man’s face. Over the months that he’d known Gil, he’d seen a lot of different emotions on his face. He’d never seen rage before.

  “We need to take some pictures, and we should probably speak to the owner.”

  “I’ll call Jackson,” Michael and Gil said in unison, then looked at each other.

  “Seriously,” Gil went on. “Can’t we do this without discussing it with David?”

  “He’s already so jumpy,” Michael added, speaking to Mitchell. “You know what dealing with Trevor did to him, what handling the break-in has been like.”

  Mitchell rocked back onto his heels, his hands still in his pockets, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “If we’re able to determine who did this, the property damage is yours, Michael, and Mr. Snyder’s. You should both be able to receive recompense.”

  “I have insurance on the car,” Michael said. “Fortunately David and Jackson have friends who paint houses, and I’ll buy the damned paint if I have to.”

  “The hell you will,” Gil growled.

  “I’m just saying we’re all willing to take care of it. I want you to find as much evidence against whoever did this as possible. But I don’t want Jackson and David coming home to this after the first chance they’ve had to get away in months. And I don’t want David to know I was here by myself and someone tried to terrorize me. He was already afraid something like this could happen.”

  Mitchell frowned. “Has there been another incident?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He says he still feels like someone is watching the place, but I don’t know how much of that is left over from Trevor. I just know he’s been afraid.”

  Mitchell studied him for several seconds, then turned to the officers around him. “Let’s make sure we get everything, including photos, tonight.”

  “There’s also a can of spray paint under the bushes, over there.” Michael pointed. “He threw it.”

  “Make sure to get that. Oh, and brush both the can and that shovel handle for prints.”

  “There won’t be any,” Michael said. “He was weari
ng gloves.”

  Mitchell studied him. “You knew Trevor Blankenship, right?”

  Michael grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

  “Could this have been him?”

  Michael wanted, so very much, to say yes, it could have been Trevor. The guy had been wearing a ski mask too, after all. And Michael loathed Trevor. In David’s agreement with his ex, made at sentencing, the district attorney stipulated that Trevor was supposed to stay at least five hundred feet from David and his house, or the deal between them would be null and he would be heading off to serve five-to-twenty.

  The guy wearing the ski mask had been taller than Trevor by at least four or five inches. He’d also had a bulkier build, and his eyes, the eyes Michael still shuddered to remember, were a completely different color than Trevor’s.

  “No.” Michael sighed. “Much as I’d like for it to be, it wasn’t Trevor. But whoever he was—” Michael shuddered. “—whoever he is, he’s really pissed off.”

  “At who?” Gil turned to stare at the garage. “At David and Jackson, or at all of us?”

  “I’m not sure there’s any way to know.”

  There was a pensive silence; then Gil pulled his phone out of the pocket of his cargo pants. “I’ll see if I can get ahold of Jackson, find out if it’s okay if we paint tomorrow. Do you need to talk to them, Detective?”

  Mitchell nodded. “But one day next week is soon enough.”

  Gil paced a few feet away.

  “Detective,” Michael said. “Do you think these attacks are the same person?”

  “Which attacks, Michael?” he asked mildly.

  “Jackson’s truck, David’s car, now this.”

  “Blankenship did maintain that he’d never damaged David’s car.” He looked thoughtful. “I honestly don’t know. We have a certain amount of hate crime here, but these are more serious, with a higher amount of property damage. And where your group of friends is concerned, if there is a common denominator, they seem to be escalating. I mean, you did say you thought this man would hurt you if he’d had the opportunity.”

  Michael remembered again running, certain that shovel was about to cleave his head in two, the face so close to his, the rage. He swallowed heavily.

  “He would have, yes.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that tonight, because he isn’t getting anywhere near you.” Gil held the phone out to Detective Mitchell. “This is Jackson. He’s going to give you his permission for us to paint over the graffiti.” The detective took the phone.

  “Is he on the mortgage?” Mitchell asked Gil.

  After the detective took the phone and walked away a few paces, Michael looked up into Gil’s face. “When did David put Jackson on the deed?”

  “When they got engaged,” Gil answered. “And I meant what I said. You won’t be staying alone tonight. You can either stay here or come home with me, but you will not be staying alone.”

  “Gilbert,” Michael complained.

  “No, dammit.” Gil advanced on him, his square jaw hard and his gaze flinty. “There’s such a thing as being heroic, and there’s being a damned fool. This guy might not want anything more than to spray paint on the house and chase you with a shovel. What will keep me awake nights, Michael, for a long damned time, is what he could have done to you with that shovel if he’d caught you.”

  Gil’s voice rang on the cold night air, and Michael shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it, because he knew. He’d have hit him in the head, and God only knew what he’d have done to Scooter. She sat and leaned against his leg, and Michael scooped her up, burying his hands in her fur, pressing his face behind her head. He couldn’t think about it; he couldn’t.

  “So pick, Michael. Here or at my house, but you aren’t staying alone right now.”

  He sighed into Scooter’s fur, and she wiggled around to lick his face. He set her back on her feet.

  “Here,” he answered finally. “I told David I’d keep an eye on things. I may have done a piss-poor job of it so far, but I won’t give up.”

  “You didn’t do a piss-poor job at anything,” Gil growled. “I need to get my phone back from Mitchell so I can call Vern and get some guys here in the morning. If it doesn’t rain and if we all hit it, we can have this done by Sunday morning, and it’ll look as good as new.” He paused, searching the driveway for Mitchell among the other police officers. “I’ll be right back.”

  Michael watched him walk away, all six-foot-four muscled inches of him, and knew he would feel safer with him in the house. There was something reassuring about Gil that went beyond his size. There was also a sense of the inescapable, as if all the time he’d spent keeping his distance from Gil had just delayed the inevitable.

  Tomorrow, Michael thought. Tomorrow, when he didn’t feel so raw, he’d remind himself of all the reasons he’d had for staying away. Tonight he was just glad Gil was there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE POLICE were in the driveway for what felt like hours. They turned off the strobing red and blue lights, and after a while the patrol cars left, but the detectives and the crime scene people were there for a long time. Gil tried to interest Michael in his popcorn, in maybe making dinner, but Michael had no appetite and couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the windows overlooking the driveway. He watched the cops do their meticulous work, digging a trash bag from beneath the bushes, an empty can of spray paint from beside the trash cans. Every few moments he’d look back to the garage doors, and he’d read the ugly message.

  DIE FAGGOTS.

  Who thought like that? Were there actually people who wished someone dead, just because they were different? He knew about homophobia; he wasn’t an idiot. And he’d survived high school, which hadn’t been easy. He’d looked gay in sixth grade, apparently, although if that meant clean and fastidious about how he dressed, well then, so be it. By high school, the kids he’d gone to private school with had been divided into categories: jocks, nerds, geeks, and apparently queers. He’d even admit he was as guilty of stereotyping as the next person. But had he ever wished anyone dead? Not even Trevor. He’d hated him, but he didn’t wish him dead.

  But someone did, badly enough to spray-paint it all over his best friend’s garage. Michael exhaled heavily and wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering, wondering if he’d ever be warm again.

  “I wonder how long they’re going to be?” Gil murmured at Michael’s shoulder, looking out at the police, who didn’t seem anywhere near done if sheer numbers had anything to do with it. When they’d started there’d been three, but now there were at least a dozen. Mitchell had told them there was a new task force in the city, appointed by the mayor, to investigate all hate crime incidents. He’d put special emphasis on it and alerted the police department that he expected all hate crimes to be thoroughly investigated and taken seriously. Michael supposed they should be grateful, but now all he wanted was the floodlights gone from his friend’s driveway and the crime scene tape out of the front yard.

  “I don’t know,” he replied in answer to Gil. “I can’t imagine the neighbors are real excited about all of this.”

  “I think the neighbors are in bed. It’s nearly 1:00 a.m.” Gil leaned against the window frame. “I am sort of surprised David and Jackson’s moms haven’t been down here.”

  “The bedrooms and den where they watch TV are in the back of the house. They wouldn’t see any of it.”

  “That’s probably a good thing.” One side of Gil’s mouth curled up. “Can you imagine Beverley and those cops?”

  Michael laughed, feeling a weight lift in his chest. The thought of David’s helicopter mom and Detective Mitchell in the same room was pretty hilarious.

  There was a soft knock on the front door, and they exchanged a quizzical look before Michael went to answer it. Detective Mitchell stood under the porch light, his balding head shining slightly. “We’re wrapping up out here.”

  “Can we paint over that crap?” Gil had come to stand behind Michae
l’s shoulder.

  Mitchell gave him a wry smile. “That’s fine.” He gave Michael a polite nod. “I’ll be in touch next week. Sooner if we catch anything on this guy.”

  “Thank you.” Michael was surprised by how much he meant it. “I don’t think I’ll ever take the police for granted again.”

  Mitchell grinned, a surprisingly youthful expression on his careworn face. “People always like us better when they need us. Talk to you soon.”

  Michael watched him go, then closed and locked the door.

  As the bolt slid home, it dawned on him that he and Gil were actually completely alone for the first time. His heart began to pound a slow, steady rhythm in his ears, and he pressed his palms to the oak door, sliding them out from the center. He was so tired his skin vibrated, but Gil was right behind him. He sagged and took a deep breath. Would Gil expect something from him, some sort of gratitude? Michael was grateful, but he couldn’t even think about it, not tonight.

  “I’m not going to hit on you.”

  Michael went still, his shoulders stiffening.

  “Come on, Michael, this isn’t the time. I can see how raw you are. I’m not stupid.”

  Michael turned slowly, his hands nervously tracing the wood grain of the door, then linking, white-knuckled, at his waist when he looked up into Gil’s face. “I didn’t….”

  Gil shook his head, expressive hazel eyes rolling. “You did, and I think I sort of resent it. Yeah, I tease you, and I hit on you because frankly, and I don’t know what it is about your snarky ass, but I really like you. Jesus, what kind of guy do you think I am? You’ve had a hell of a rough night, and all I want to do right now is provide you with some reassurance so you can relax and go to sleep.” Guilt made Michael’s stomach roll. “You think I can’t see you’re so wired you’re shaking?”