Outburst (21 page)

Racing past a side door, Todd cut into the backyard and to his right saw a flurry of red and white light as a cop car rocketed down the alley.

“Where the hell are they?” gasped Bradley.

Panic started to rise in Todd's throat, until he caught a glimpse of Rawlins leaping a chain-link fence. “There!”

While Bradley briefly paused to get a shot of the speeding squad car, Todd took off. He followed Rawlins's course, running past a single-car garage, through one lawn, straight through a small vegetable garden, and over the low fence. He cut to the right, darted around a garage, ducked down the alley, and there it all was, a vortex of three cop cars, their lights swirling and screaming. And in the center of all that stood a half dozen cops with their guns drawn as Rawlins pinned the young woman to the ground.

“You can't do this to me!” she shrieked, twisting and bucking with panic. “I didn't hurt anyone! Let me go, you asshole!”

“Are you Christopher Kenney?”

“Let me go!”

“Are you—”

“Fuck off!” she screamed as she wrenched one of her manicured hands free and swiped it across Rawlins's neck.

As Todd watched, as Bradley got it all on film, Rawlins tumbled to the side, desperately clutching his neck. Blood. Free-flowing blood. Not that much, but certainly plenty enough to terrify anyone with HIV.

Todd rushed forward.

“No!” shouted Rawlins, holding his hand out like a linebacker. “Stay back! Don't touch me!”

Todd spun to the side, hurried over to Bradley, and demanded, “Give me your handkerchief!”

Grabbing it from Bradley, Todd rushed to Rawlins, who in turn snatched it and pressed it to his neck.

Behind them the young woman burst to her feet and screamed at the cops now encircling her, shouting, “I didn't do it! I didn't hurt anyone!”

She turned to run, but the circle grew tighter and two of the cops lunged after her, seizing her with ease. And then for one long, strange moment all the cops just stood there, staring as her femininity melted away.

“Oh, Jesus!” she sobbed, her voice surprisingly deep.

Rawlins pressed the cloth against his neck and shouted, “One of you guys get a first-aid kit and clean her fingernails—now, on the double!” He then turned to her, demanding, “Are you Christopher Kenney?”

“What if … what if I am?”

“I want to ask you some questions. I—”

Kris looked up, mascara streaking down her face, and snapped, “Fuck off! I didn't do anything!”

“Then why the hell,” he demanded, exploding, “did someone see your car down by the Mississippi the other night and—”

“That's a lie!”

“And why the hell did you run away?”

“Eat shit! You fucking pigs can't do this to me again! You can't!”

“If you'd just—”

“I'm not going anywhere with you assholes!” she yelled, and then spit into Rawlins's face.

Wiping the slime from his cheek, Rawlins shouted, “That's it! Cuff her, we're taking her in! You're under arrest for—”

“Fuck off!”

“You're under arrest for the murder of Police Officer Mark Forrest!” boomed Rawlins.

“No! No!” Kris screamed.

Two cops descended upon Kris, now easily pinning her arms behind her back and handcuffing her wrists.

“Be careful, for Christ's sake!” shouted Rawlins, who then looked frantically around. “Where the fuck's the first-aid kit? You've got to get her cleaned up right now! Now, damn it all! We need some alcohol! Some disinfectant! What the fuck's taking you so goddamn long? You!” he yelled at the cop who'd gotten a kit from his squad car. “Get the fuck over here—now!”

Todd had never seen this, never seen Rawlins blow, and he came up behind him, touched him on the elbow, and said, “Rawlins—”

“Don't fucking touch me!” he snapped, ripping his arm away.

Todd jerked back. And there staring at him was not a person, but the Cyclops lens of Todd's own world.

Slapping his open palm over the eye of the camera, he snapped, “Jesus Christ, Bradley, not now!”

As he paced back
and forth in his hotel room, as he clutched at his short brown hair with his right hand, he recalled how desperate he'd been to get Mark Forrest out of his life. But now that the young cop was gone, now that he was dead, dead, dead, he saw it, his error. Oh, sweet Jesus. In his haste to get away that night he'd left something behind that was sure to become a trail as wide as a freeway.

Now what?

Dropping himself on the edge of his bed, the man stared straight ahead, unable to believe this disaster. And unable to eat the other half of the turkey club sandwich he'd ordered from room service. Why the hell had he done it? Why the hell did he have a thing for cops, for handsome guys in uniforms? A couple of years ago he'd been involved with one, but that had also ended in disaster. Just as this one had.

Shit, if only he'd broken things off earlier with Forrest. If only they'd split up after the fight last month.

“Get the fuck away from me!” the man had shouted not five minutes after they'd climbed out of Mark's bed.

“I just wanted your phone number. I just wanted some way of reaching you when—”

“No! You can never call me at home! Never!”

“But—”

And that's when he'd struck him.

He'd always wanted guys, always liked them. The first time he sensed something, though he didn't know what, was when he'd been utterly fascinated by one of his teachers, Mr. Lawson. He couldn't wait to see him every day, made sure that he was in the front row of his science class, was amazed by his strong arms, his warmth. It was a crush, of course, his very first one and totally innocent, though he didn't understand what it was until years later. And later on that thing, that same feeling, stirred within him a lot, particularly in the locker room.

And finally in his junior year of high school he'd consummated that desire with Steve, another kid on the baseball team. After everyone had left they'd done it, right there in the showers, and he'd never experienced something so whole, so complete, a total fusion of his lust and desire, body and mind. After the fact, though, he was horribly confused, for he'd been dating one girl, Teri, and now he felt nothing for her and everything for Steve. A mere six days later, however, it all became perfectly clear just what he should feel, for that was when he and five other guys from the team discovered Steve doing it with some other guy in the shower. The guy—some kid from another school—had fled, but Steve had stood up for himself, which was a mistake, for all of them had descended upon Steve and beat the crap out of him.

They'd all but killed him.

Picturing it all as he now sat in his hotel room, he realized he'd never forget it, would never forget how Steve, naked and bleeding on the floor, had looked up at him, started to say something, and how he, terrified of just what that would be, had kicked Steve so hard that he threw up blood. Steve had spent two weeks in the hospital and was then expelled; all six guys were questioned by school authorities but, as if they were justified, never reprimanded.

The man now closed his eyes, blocked out everything, this pisser of a world around him, and went back to the last time he'd been with Mark Forrest. Yes, handsome. Yes, young. Always half smiling. They'd been in bed, the two of them, right here, right in this very hotel room, right in this fucking bed, making love not thirty minutes before Mark went to meet that stupid reporter. And then he'd ridden with Forrest down to the Stone Arch Bridge. They'd kissed briefly in Forrest's car; Mark had gotten out. And then …

That storm.

There'd been so much rain. And, God, the wind. In his mind's eye he saw him, beautiful Mark Forrest, walking down the Stone Arch Bridge. Alive and so very, very vibrant one moment. So dead the next.

Afterward, after the storm had passed and Mark Forrest was gone, he'd run all the way back to his hotel, making it just in time for her phone call too. So no one could possibly suspect him. He'd gotten away.

Or had he?

Maybe, maybe not, for his singular error, so glaring now, was that he'd left one thing behind. Not a piece of clothing. Not a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. No, what he'd left behind was something far worse: his fingerprints. Shit, he'd forgotten to wipe down the interior of Mark Forrest's car.

As much as he
wanted to call it off, at least for a while, there was no stopping it. As much as Todd wanted to brush away all the television nonsense, then rush to Rawlins and tell him the wound was nothing, no one had been endangered, there was no way Todd could. They were all caught in a rockslide—one that Todd had helped let loose—and both Rawlins and he were swept away, overwhelmed as much by the arrest of Christopher Kenney as by their jobs.

The six o'clock show was well under way, and, in the world of television at least, breaking stories like this were the gifts of the gods.

“We're all set,” called Bradley from behind.

Todd was turned the other way, focused on Rawlins, who was filling out some paperwork and conversing with several police officers. As if an artery had been cut instead of his neck being merely scratched, Rawlins continued to keep the handkerchief firmly pressed against his neck.

“Hey, man, come on,” pressed Bradley. “We don't want to lose this.”

“What?” said Todd, turning around.

“We're ready. Let's do it.”

From Bradley's camera a long cable snaked across the green lawn, down between two identical houses, and to the ENG van down on the street. So this was it, thought Todd. They were going to get what they'd come for, a live shot from the scene. Later they'd edit the tape of Christopher Kenney fleeing and resisting the police, perhaps use it on the [email protected] broadcast, but for now they were going to show the police stuffing Kenney into a squad car.

Todd took a deep breath, for this was happening way too fast. He wanted to tell the police to slow down, to wait just a few more seconds, to hold that pose and that suspect right there. But of course that was impossible. Any news that was worth its weight could never wait.

“Here,” said Bradley, thrusting out both a stick mike and an earpiece.

Todd took them, grasping the mike and jabbing the small clear plastic device into his ear without even thinking. Just as he was positioning the wire behind his neck and out of sight, a voice started bleating into his ear.

“God, this is so great!”

Todd lifted the mike to his mouth, looked at the camera now trained on him, and said, “Nan?”

“Todd,” replied the producer from the station in the distant suburb, “you're the best. I mean, this is so hot. I can't believe it. This guy's a drag queen, isn't he? Isn't that what he is?”

“I … I …”

“Do you really think he killed that cop? I mean, like, wow! I mean, this is the first gay drag-queen killer I've ever heard of!”

Todd flinched, and all he could say was, “Who said he's gay?”

“Well, he's a drag queen, isn't he?”

“Nan, technically I think a drag queen means someone who's a performer, but the politically correct word for this guy—”

“Oh, come on, Todd.”

“—is transgendered.”

“Look at him, for Christ's sake! Just look!” she demanded, unable to hide the joy in her voice. “You know, I bet the nationals are going to pick this up.”

Nan's words made it all so clear, and suddenly Todd was terrified. Whatever he spit out in the next few minutes would stick. Whatever he said about Chris Kenney, whatever they soon showed on TV, would be how viewers would judge him for weeks, if not forever. And judge him they would, no doubt about it. In particular, if the public now saw Kenney as something different from them, as someone from beyond their world and understanding, they would take his deviance as definitive proof, pronouncing him guilty for the murder of Officer Mark Forrest.

Shit, Todd wanted to pull the plug on Bradley's camera, for he couldn't think, couldn't figure how to come at this.

“Todd!” called Bradley. “We're going to lose him!”

“Don't you dare!” hollered Nan in Todd's earpiece.

Todd turned around, saw them leading the handcuffed Kenney to one of the squad cars.

“Listen,” she barked from the control room of the station, “Tom Rivers is going to do a quick lead-in and toss it to you, Todd. We're five seconds away.”

It was happening. The producer was doing a countdown, Todd could hear Rivers's voice in his earpiece. And then Todd was live. He opened his mouth, but for a terrifying split second his mind went blank. Nothing. Empty. What the hell was he supposed to say? He stared at the lens.

“Go, Todd! You're on! For Christ's sake, you're live!” screamed Nan via IFB transmission.

They weren't there. The words—they weren't forming. This had never happened before, and all of a sudden his heart took off in a panic. Shit! A second of silence on television was equal to an hour.

“Todd!” Nan shouted.

Todd opened his mouth but … but nothing. Then he looked to the side, saw what the camera was also seeing, and then amazingly everything kicked in and his mouth went on autopilot.