Outburst (13 page)

Leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes, Douglas Simms was beginning to understand what he had to do. He'd worked much too hard to get this far. His plans were proceeding perfectly, and, yes, things were just about to fall into place. And there was no way in hell he was going to let some young bitch ruin it.

Right. The sooner he got Kris Kenney out of the picture, the better.

After spending several hours
at the downtown police station, Rawlins went directly home and watched [email protected] from beginning to end. In the rather tattered living room of his second-floor apartment, he sat quite still in an old red leather chair that had once belonged to his grandfather. Right at the top of the show came Todd, of course, then a few more comments by the anchor, followed by the general news, weather—a Minnesota obsession, and rightly so—and finally sports. As he sat there in the low and worn chair, his fingers rubbing on the cracked leather of the arms, as the news concluded and moved into another episode of
M*A*S*H
, which seemed stuck on eternal repeat, Rawlins thought how pissed he was. How totally pissed. He picked up the remote, clicked off the TV, and walked over to the phone. He glanced at his watch, knew of course that it was too soon for Todd to have made it home—which was exactly what he wanted, because after all they weren't supposed to be talking—and then, unable to stop himself, dialed the number he knew better than his own. After four rings Todd's Voice Mail picked up.

When prompted for a message, Rawlins took a deep breath. And then slammed down the receiver.

“Fuck,” he cursed to himself.

He wanted to yell at Todd. He wanted to tell him he was a fool. And he wanted to tell him how much he loved him. Instead, he said none of it.

It kind of scared him. Rawlins had had too many boyfriends in his life, too many dates, too much casual sex in his search for something, or rather someone, that Mr. Right. Not long ago he'd given up, come to the realization that there was no singular perfect guy out there who'd fit the bill completely and totally. And he believed that now, today, more than ever. Todd was by no means perfect—like tonight, he could be a stubborn, self-centered pain in the ass—but for some inexplicable reason Rawlins knew that that didn't matter in the greater picture of things. And Rawlins had never felt like that before, he'd never been blinded, let alone knowingly so. Maybe that was love, meeting someone and being instantly able to forgive them so much—almost anything, really. Yes, pondered Rawlins. Right from the start he knew that there was nothing he wanted more than Todd Mills, that there was lust of course, buckets of it, but so much more. The very moment he'd met Todd was what Rawlins still called “the day the earth shook.” Now thinking back on it, Rawlins recalled how awful that day had been for Todd, how exposed and naked he'd been to the judgment of the world. And perhaps that was why Rawlins had fallen so fast and so hard for him, because for the first time Rawlins had been able to see someone without a trace of pretense. Rawlins had been able to look at Todd and in a split second see and understand who Todd really was, and then fall in love with that very same person.

Rawlins crossed the living room and turned off a standing lamp. There had never been, nor was there now, a question or doubt in his mind. Rawlins wanted to spend the rest of his life with Todd, whether given his health status that be five days or, with any luck and by the grace of God, fifty years. He was in love, wasn't he? Yes, absolutely and totally. So for now it was kind of good that Lieutenant Holbrook had ordered the two of them to stay apart until this case was resolved. An enforced separation until things cooled off wouldn't hurt either of them.

He didn't know diddly, Rawlins realized, about how you made a relationship good, let alone how you kept it alive and well. He was confident, though, that what Todd and he had going was great, and the last thing he wanted was to blow it. Right. He feared that if he went to Todd's tonight, as he was so tempted, he wouldn't be able to hold his temper, that he would get mad at Todd and things would escalate from there. All too easily he could picture this erupting into a huge fight, and the last thing Rawlins wanted was to blow this out of proportion. Maybe Rawlins was being just a tad paranoid, but he didn't think it was worth it, arguing over the murder of a cop who was already dead and gone, when what mattered most to Rawlins was their future, his and Todd's. Far better, Rawlins mused as he passed through the dining room and pushed the old OFF button of the small chandelier, to stay here and let things cool off.

Entering the kitchen, he glanced at the wall clock, saw that it was approaching eleven. Almost the end of another day, he thought thankfully. The sinus infection that had alerted him and his doctor to his HIV status had long ago faded after a third course of antibiotics. When neither amoxicillin nor Augmentin had worked, he'd switched to a third, clarithromycin, which had done the trick, and he'd felt nothing short of perfect since. Even the gunshot wound in his shoulder had healed beautifully. But there were going to be plenty more challenges in the near future, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a year or two or three. Sure, now he had a viral load just under five thousand, a T-cell count of about 450—a tad below normal, it indicated moderate immunosystem suppression—but sooner or later he'd be on some protease inhibitor, taking this cocktail and that. For the time being, his doctor, choosing a somewhat radical and risky position, had advised against any of the current meds.

“We don't want you building up resistance to anything,” his doctor had said. “There are three new drugs coming down the pike, and I think they'll work best if you're a treatment virgin.”

And even though that approach made Rawlins rather nervous—he liked to tackle things and deal with them right away—he also didn't mind, for entirely the wrong reasons. Going on a strong course of medication would mean medical-insurance claims. Medical claims would eventually mean coming out as an HIV-positive cop on the Minneapolis police force. And who knew what that meant, whether they'd fire him, demote him, or just assign him nothing but desk work, for no one had yet come out of that closet.

Rawlins had gone to the U—the University of Minnesota—and received his B.A. in English. He couldn't quite remember what had prompted him—trying to make order out of chaos?—but the following year he'd enrolled in the police academy and gone through seven months of classroom and skills training. And, no, he hadn't been out back then. Anything but. During all his years as a patrol officer, later as a sergeant working juvenile, he'd been terrified that someone would find out he was queer. After all, he hadn't been able to escape his own homophobia, nor for that matter other threats, like the one made during FTO—the field-training program—when the guys bragged how they felt sorry for the first faggot to come out, because they were going to beat the shit out of him.

But then a dyke had done just that.

Bravely leading the way, the first Minneapolis police officer to come out of the closet was a lesbian, who did so back in 1992. The first gay man to come out wasn't until a full year or two later. Rawlins was the fourth, and it had been a horrible, awful hump for him to go over. But it had gone without a hitch. Contrary to his fear, Rawlins didn't have then—nor had he since—any problems as a result of his sexuality.

But would he as an HIV-positive man? Would any of the cops want to work with him again? There was no way of telling, of course. Not until he got there.

Heading to the bathroom at the end of the hall, Rawlins splashed his face and brushed his teeth. Out of habit, he then checked the lock on the back door, glancing out the window as he did so.

His bedroom wasn't anything special, a small box of a room with a futon on a low platform, a long bookcase made up of bricks and boards beneath the windows, a single small closet, and his old desk. Even to Rawlins, who'd never been much attuned to these things, his place was beginning to look shabby and in need of much more than just a coat of paint. It was unbearably stuffy too. And hot. He took off his shirt, ran his fingers over the thick, still-red scar on his left shoulder, then slipped off the rest of his clothing. He lifted open both windows and climbed naked into bed. Yes, he thought, glancing about the pathetic room, they'd ended up spending their nights at Todd's condo for much more than just the central air.

Picking up a copy of a thriller set in Berlin, he read until his eyes began to close almost thirty minutes later. He put down the book, turned off the light, but no sooner was his head settled on his pillow than he was suddenly awake all over again.

Why hadn't that bastard called?

In the back of his mind Rawlins had thought Todd would at least try. He'd envisioned staring at the phone, smugly letting it ring, though now he rolled on his side, saw the old dial phone on the floor next to his bed, and knew that if it rang this moment he'd jump on it. But nothing happened. That's right, Rawlins thought. And nothing's going to, for Todd's nothing if not resolute. Or, more accurately, a stubborn son of a bitch. Rawlins had told Todd they were supposed to talk only in a formal setting, so Todd sure as hell wouldn't call. No, Mr. Control himself wouldn't be the first one to crack. So would Rawlins?

Oh, shit. Was this stupid or what?

Rawlins tossed from one side to the other, kicked off the top sheet, pounded a fist into his pillow. Why the hell was he here alone and boiling hot when he could be there with him in air-conditioned splendor? Damn it, they should just forget Holbrook's stupid orders. They were grown men; they could observe a boundary.

Shit. At the very beginning of their relationship Rawlins hadn't been able to sleep all that well with someone else in the bed—Rawlins couldn't stretch out as much, Todd hogged the blankets, Todd breathed too loudly. Now, Rawlins realized to his frustration, just the opposite was true. This was lonely, being here by himself. No one to kiss, to touch, to grope. Was he going to be able to sleep at all tonight? Probably not.

Which was why he heard it, that first sound, a rattle of sorts.

Rawlins was lying in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, when it came. For a moment he was quite still. Were those his downstairs neighbors, Mike and Amy, stirring about? No, it was from outside. Jesus, he realized. Someone was out there.

And suddenly he couldn't have been more awake.

Opening the refrigerator, Todd
pulled out an old, half-drunk bottle of white wine and poured himself a glass. Oh, brother, he thought, taking a sip. His mind was still racing—he'd been on the air barely an hour ago—and at this point he felt as if he was going to be up half the night.

Leaving the sleek, all-white kitchen, he moved into the hallway and called, “Girlfriend? Girlfriend, where are you?”

When the black cat, which defined the word
fickle
, failed to appear, Todd took his wine into the living room, grabbed a legal pad and pen, then slid open the balcony door. Stepping outside, he stared at Lake Calhoun, the oval body of water just across the street. Transfixed by the moon and its light shimmering on the still waters, he took several sips of wine and sat down on one of two metal chairs.

So how was he going to do this and what exactly was he going to pursue tomorrow?

Though Todd would have been surprised if Forrest had been anything but queer, it was now confirmed. Their eyes had caught in that way, hitting and holding a mere fraction of a second too long, each of them thinking, I'm one, are you one too? And Todd was sure of it, certain that someone like Mark Forrest—young, handsome, and out—had a Mr. Wonderful, someone who wasn't going to let him go. But if so, who was he, where was he, and why hadn't he come forward, either reporting Forrest as missing or now wanting to identify the body or some such? Or was Todd all wrong, was Forrest in the middle of his fuckathon days, going through guys on a daily or weekly basis? Perhaps.

In the glow of the light from the living room, Todd started jotting it all down on the yellow pad. He began where it all began, with that phone call, the very first one Todd had received, the one begging Todd to meet down on the Stone Arch Bridge. He recorded the approximate time, paused, and then added a note. Yes, that caller and the killer were surely one and the same, just as the killer and the man who had called Todd this evening were undoubtedly one and the same. If he would only call again, mused Todd, then he'd be ready, he'd be certain to get a recording of the voice. He kicked himself for not having been so prepared earlier, but who would have thought the killer would call out of the blue?

Moving on, Todd went through it all, every event, every time, from the meeting on the bridge to the shooting to finding the body to tonight's phone call. He was going to have to be methodical about this. Obsessive too. Over the next few days he knew he'd write this over and over again, adding a bit more each time, always looking for a connection or a hole or something. Everything had to tie together, there had to be some link. So what was it, who was it? Exactly, which led Todd back to his first thoughts—who was Forrest doing?

Fixated on Forrest's sex life, Todd took another sip of wine, then slipped back inside and grabbed his cordless phone from the coffee table. Dropping himself on his leather couch, he thought for a moment, recalled the number, and dialed.

On the second ring a voice said loudly, “Hello, hello?”

“Jeff?”

“That's
moi
.”