Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  Gil looked at Michael and gave him a soft smile. “Yeah. I really am.”

  FIVE DAYS after Gil fell, Michael’s phone rang, displaying a local number he didn’t recognize. Gil was napping, so he stepped into the hall.

  “Hello?”

  “Michael Crane?”

  “Yes?”

  “Michael, this is Detective Mitchell. We met at David Snyder’s home?”

  “Oh yes. Hello, Detective.”

  “How is Mr. Chandler?”

  Michael leaned against the wall. “He’s doing well. They’re discussing releasing him tomorrow.”

  “That is good news.” Mitchell paused for a moment, and Michael could hear papers rustling. “Michael, we’d like for you to come in for a few minutes at four this afternoon.”

  Michael frowned. “Why?”

  “We’ve arrested a suspect in the vandalism of Mr. Snyder’s home.”

  He stiffened. “You have?”

  “Yes. A patrol officer actually picked him up tagging a bridge downtown last night. We recovered some other evidence from a backpack that was in his possession that leads us to believe he might have been involved in your attack. We’d like to put him in a lineup and see if you can pick him out.”

  “He was wearing a ski mask, Detective. How would I be able to identify him?”

  “You said you thought his eyes were distinctive.”

  The angry black eyes flashed through his mind, the red discoloration on his right eyelid. Could he identify the man from just that? He thought perhaps he could.

  “What about the vandalism on the scaffolding?”

  There was a pause. “We haven’t been able to tie him to that yet, but believe me, we’re working on it.”

  When Michael walked back into Gil’s room, he was awake and looked up at him with a soft smile. His face was still black-and-blue, more green and yellow slipping into the vivid bruising, but the swelling had gone down enough that he looked more like the man Michael fell in love with.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Michael sat down beside him, and Gil reached for his hand.

  “I’m getting used to this.” He squeezed Michael’s fingers. “When I wake up now, and your hand isn’t within reach, it feels weird.”

  Michael lifted the big hand. “I just got an interesting phone call.”

  “Oh yeah? Who from?”

  “Detective Mitchell.” He watched Gil’s gaze sharpen. “They’ve arrested someone in connection with the vandalism at David’s.”

  Gil’s hand twitched in Michael’s grip. “Do they think he might have tampered with the scaffolding?”

  Michael ran his thumb over the scraped knuckles. “They aren’t sure, but he said they’re working on it.” He looked away from Gil’s close scrutiny. “They want me to come down and see if I can identify him in a lineup.”

  A weighted silence settled between them.

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “Honestly?” Michael squeezed Gil’s hand. “It kind of scares me. But do I want them to be able to hold him? Yeah, I do.”

  Gil sighed. “I wish I could go with you.”

  “I wish you could too. I need to call David. I might be willing to do their lineup, but I’m not leaving you alone.”

  Gil linked their fingers. “Babe, I’m fine. What are you afraid is going to happen if I just lie here and take another nap?”

  Gil had the head of the bed elevated, and Michael leaned over him until their faces were inches apart. “Gilbert, I’m not going to leave you here alone. Am I being overly cautious? Maybe.” He ran his index finger over Gil’s full lips, and they parted slightly. “The only thing worse than watching you fall would have been losing you, right when I figured my shit out. If I’m a little overprotective for a while—I’m afraid you’re just going to have to live with it.” He closed the distance between them and kissed Gil, planning for it to be a short, sweet kiss, but Gil apparently had other plans. He lifted one of his hands to the back of Michael’s head, and circled his shoulders with his other arm. He slipped his tongue along Michael’s lips, not demanding but requesting, and with a soft sigh Michael opened to him.

  Michael’s hand moved to Gil’s cheek, barely touching, his thumb stroking beneath his chin. He angled his head slightly, deepening the seal between their lips. Gil’s fingers slid into Michael’s hair, and he sucked on his tongue, trapping it against the roof of his mouth.

  “Whoops!”

  Michael jerked back and looked over his shoulder into the very red face of the woman who’d been lining up the hospital bills with Gil’s insurance carrier.

  “I can come back,” she offered apologetically.

  “No, that’s okay.” Michael sat back, knowing his face must be as red as hers. Gil took the whole thing in stride, signing the forms she gave him and giving her a sweet smile when she gathered her things to leave. Michael thought she had a bit of a crush on Gil; walking in on that must’ve been an education.

  “Well, there’s one thing I found out from that little exercise,” Gil muttered, “before she interrupted it.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gil caught Michael’s hand, pulling it beneath the blanket over his lap. When his hand reached Gil’s groin, he encountered the tangible proof of his arousal. His big cock was half-hard.

  Gil’s grin was impish. “Everything still works.”

  Michael curled his fingers around the thick shaft just as a nurse bustled in, and he snatched his hand back, feeling the tips of his ears burning. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn into David.

  Gil chuckled, obviously pleased with himself.

  JACKSON ARRIVED at the hospital to sit with Gil while Michael was gone, and he walked out into the bright sunlight. It was after three, and the sun had yet to set, the best indication spring was finally there in earnest. He hadn’t left the hospital before dark in days, and he slipped on sunglasses before he backed out of his parking place. It took him twenty minutes to drive downtown to the main police office connected to the courthouse and the county jail. He parked in front, taking a deep breath before entering through the double doors. There was an officer sitting at the reception desk, and Michael went up to him.

  “I’m here to see Detective Mitchell?” he said when the man looked up at him. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Michael Crane.”

  “One moment.”

  The officer picked up a phone, and Michael walked away slightly, looking through the window at the view of the Gothic courthouse. More than anything it resembled a Scottish castle with its round towers and turrets, and while Michael appreciated the architecture, he bet being taken in there in the back of a squad car was frightening. He turned away, his hands slipping into his jacket pockets.

  A door opened to the right of the desk and Detective Mitchell entered. His dark suit was wrinkled and his patterned tie had a small stain on it. He gave Michael a weary smile.

  “Michael, come on back.”

  He held the door open, allowing Michael to pass, then walked ahead. Michael followed him through what felt like a rabbit warren of desks and ringing telephones. “Leo, Carell.” Mitchell gestured with his head, and two of the busy people stood, one a woman in a pencil skirt and a boxy jacket and the other a middle-aged man with bright red hair. Mitchell led them into an office and closed the door.

  “Mike Leo, Clare Carell, this is Michael Crane. He’s here for the lineup, including a perp from the tagging last night.” He opened a file on the beat-up wooden desk. “His name is Brent Wiley. He’s not in the system, but I get the feeling he’s responsible for some of the more creative art left around town.”

  “Where did they finally catch him?” Detective Carell asked.

  Mitchell leaned his hip on the desk and picked up the phone. He hit several buttons and then waited. “He got picked up tagging the bridge across from the Methodist church next to the McDonald’s.”

  The woman officer lau
ghed. “Gotta give him credit for balls.”

  “Well, yeah,” Mitchell agreed, “except they’re suing for damages. This poor bastard is up to his neck in it. Yeah,” he said into the phone. “Get the lineup ready, please. Thank you.” He looked at Michael. “They’ll call when they’re ready.”

  Michael felt twitchy under Detective Leo’s steady regard.

  “You were at David Snyder’s the night of the vandalism, so you’ve actually seen this guy, haven’t you?”

  Michael shrugged self-consciously. “Well, as much as you can see when a man is wearing a ski mask.”

  “But you thought there was something distinctive about him?”

  “He has a mark on his eyelid,” Michael answered, nervously rubbing his fingers on the side seams of his jeans. “I think I’d recognize it if I saw it again. I just wish there was a way to connect him to the vandalism that almost killed Gil Chandler.”

  “The scaffolding collapse?”

  The phone rang and Mitchell answered it, listened, and grunted in response. “Good. We’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone. “Okay, folks. Let’s do this thing.”

  A man in an expensive suit waited for them outside the door. He sneered at Mitchell. “Detective.”

  “Counselor. What are you doing here?”

  “I believe you plan to have a lineup including my client.”

  “And how did you find that out?”

  The lawyer gave him an oily smile. “Now, that would be telling.”

  Mitchell scowled and turned away. “This way, Michael.”

  They entered the lineup room. It was small and they were crowded once the door was closed behind them. A large one-way window offered anonymity as they looked into an adjacent area. Mitchell pushed a button and six men walked through a door, lining up against the far wall.

  “They can’t see or hear you, so don’t be afraid to step closer.”

  The men were all relatively young, dark-haired, and when they stopped and turned forward, Michael could see they all had dark eyes. The lighting wasn’t great, and it was almost impossible for Michael to tell if the one who’d terrorized him was there.

  “I don’t know. I can’t be sure.”

  “Take your time, Michael,” Mitchell said. “We aren’t in a hurry.”

  He did take his time, studying each face. After several minutes, the lawyer made an exasperated noise. “He can’t pick him out. Are we done here?”

  “Wait.” Michael zeroed in on one face, the man on the end to the right. “Can number six come closer?”

  Mitchell pushed the button again. “Number six, step closer, please.”

  He clearly didn’t want to, but he took a couple of shuffling steps.

  “More?” Mitchell asked. Michael nodded.

  “More,” Mitchell ordered. And then it was close enough. Cold slipped down Michael’s spine.

  “It’s number six,” he announced, taking a step back. At this distance there was no mistaking the rage and the small liver spot on the lid of his right eye.

  Mitchell pushed the button again. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He turned to the lawyer with a smile. “Looks like your client will be hanging around for a bit after all, counselor.”

  The others walked toward the exit, but Michael hesitated. Most of the men in the other room filed out, but the one on the end, the one Michael had identified, hadn’t moved. He stared, almost as if he could see right through the glass. Michael backed up another step.

  “You’re sure he can’t see me?”

  “Absolutely.” Mitchell saw him standing at the glass and pushed the button. “You can go.”

  Still, Wiley didn’t move. Just stared, the black eyes filled with rage. Michael took another step and felt the wall at his back. A uniformed officer came in. He handed Mitchell a note, and spared Michael a slight smile and a nod as he left again.

  “Michael.”

  Michael tore his eyes away from the man on the other side of the glass. Mitchell gave him a grim smile.

  “They found his car parked in a lot downtown. There was a hacksaw in the back seat.”

  Michael blinked, his heart beginning to thump hard. He looked back at the angry man in the other room in time to see the black eyes snap with barely leashed fury. As Wiley stared into the two way mirror, the corner of his lips curled up in a sardonic, almost vulpine smile that sent a chill the length of Michael’s spine. Another uniformed officer came in behind him and touched his elbow. Shaking him off, Wiley turned away.

  “He could hear us.” Michael looked at Mitchell. “For that last part, about the hacksaw. Did you see his face?”

  For the first time since Michael had met him, he saw a genuine, satisfied expression on Mitchell’s careworn face.

  “Yeah. I sure did.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GIL WAS released from the hospital on the sixth day after the accident. He’d been up and down the hallway on crutches, and the swelling had gone down on his face a lot, allowing him to open his right eye. It was still a Technicolor wonder of bruising. Michael drove him home in his little car, which was almost impossible. They had to scoot the front bucket seat almost into the back seat, but they were finally able to give him enough leg room. Michael bought him sweats to wear, but they had to cut off the right leg at the knee in order to get them on over his cast. Gil didn’t care. He was more than ready to be out of the hospital, and Michael was anxious to get him home.

  When they pulled into the driveway, the front door to Gil’s house opened and their friends spilled out onto the porch. Even Shirley and Beverley were there. Michael was reminded of the weekend they’d painted David’s house. There was a full meal of chicken and all the fixings, and three different kinds of pie, no doubt courtesy of the moms. The beer was obviously the result of the guys, but Michael decided if Gil wanted one, that was okay. Any more than that wasn’t happening. Nearly every one of the four medications that came home with him read “Do not take with alcohol” on the label.

  But Gil drank iced tea with his pain pills, and once a raucous meal in front of the local broadcast of the hometown basketball team was over, the guys headed out. Shirley and Beverley lingered, cleaning up the kitchen, while Gil dozed on the couch.

  Michael hadn’t really had an opportunity to speak to Gil much while their friends were there, and he approached him now, studying the still-bruised face, taking advantage of the fact his mouth was open to lean in and kiss him.

  “Hmm.” Gil’s eyes opened, and he gave Michael a sleepy smile. “Hey, handsome.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Gil snorted. “I look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. All those blues and greens.”

  Michael touched his face. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It scares me, you know. How good of a liar you are.”

  “Pfft. You ready for your bed?”

  “Oh God, so ready.”

  “Okay, let me get your crutches.” Michael went to get them from the corner as the moms came out of the kitchen.

  “We’re going on home, Gil.” Beverley came to him. “Now, you listen to your doctors and Michael; they’ve only got your best interests at heart.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a lazy salute, and she pressed a kiss to his very discolored forehead.

  Shirley grabbed his chin and peered into his eyes. “You take good care of yourself, Gilbert Chandler. I knew your momma, and she’d have kicked your ass if you don’t. I might not be able to do it”—he leaned and touched his nose with hers, closing his eyes—“but Bev here can.”

  Bev laughed. “What she said.”

  Gil grinned and kissed Shirley gently, and Michael walked them out to their car. He waited until they were locked inside with the ignition started before he backed away, waving as they left the house. He went inside and armed the burglar alarm Jackson had installed, then went to Gil, who was pushing up with his crutches. He’d gotten really good at getting around on them, but he was tired and Michael stayed right behin
d or beside him, stepping under his arm for the three steps up into the dining room.

  Gil was leaning on him pretty heavily, so Michael stayed under his arm as they passed the painting of the old man. “Is that your grandfather?” he asked, gesturing toward the portrait.

  “Yeah. My dad’s dad. What a character. He was a rumrunner during prohibition, then drove race cars in the thirties and forties. Never met a curse word he didn’t love. Taught all us kids to shoot a gun and tune up a car.”

  Michael smiled. “My mother’s dad was a forest ranger, not that you’d ever hear her admit it.”

  They were in the bedroom now, and Michael helped Gil as far as the edge of the bed. He sat heavily with a deep sigh.

  “What do you sleep in, big boy?” Michael asked.

  Gil gave him a lazy grin. “Usually just my skivvies.”

  “That’s easy.”

  Michael helped him pull off his sweats and sweatshirt.

  “You staying?” Gil asked, catching Michael’s wrist when he would have walked away.

  “Until I know for sure Wiley is put away in a big cement cell for a very long time. Attempted murder is typically fifteen to twenty, according to Mitchell.” Michael was sure Wiley would be convicted, but he didn’t want to tempt fate.

  “Why just until then?”

  “What?” Michael helped Gil stand long enough to pull back the bedding, then helped him sit and took his crutches to lean on the wall by the bed.

  “Why are you only staying until he’s convicted?”

  Michael looked away as he folded Gil’s shirt. “I have a place, Gil. And a lease.”

  “Don’t you like my house?” Michael looked back at him, his mouth slightly open. “I know it’s not for everybody,” Gil went on.

  “Are you nuts? I love midcentury modern, and I love your house.”

  Gil smiled. “Oh, good. I’m glad.” He lay back against his pillows.

  “And we’ll discuss anything else when you’re well.” Michael covered him to his chest, tucking the blankets under his arms.