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Authors: Gred Herren

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“Of course you couldn't do it.” I was taking deep breaths as emotions washed over me. I felt nauseous. My eyes were filled with tears.
“His eyes haunted me,” Colin went on, like I hadn't said anything. “I took a leave and went away. To Greece. I hadn't felt anything in so long, Scotty. I'd been dead inside . . . but that kid . . . all I could think of was Noah, and my mom, and Rachel, and Abram. What would they think of the way I'd turned out? Would they be proud of me? And I knew. I
knew
they'd be ashamed.
I
was ashamed. I thought I was avenging them, protecting other families from what had happened to us, but the truth was I'd turned into a killer—and my job required me to kill
their
children. There was so much blood on my hands . . . I knew I couldn't go back. I knew I couldn't keep doing my job. I couldn't. Where was it all going to end? Hatred breeds hatred, violence only breeds more violence, and you just keep piling hate on violence and it can only end in a bloodbath, with everyone on both sides dead. On Mykonos, I met a Greek boy, nineteen, named Alexandros. I always knew I was gay, you know, but I'd never ever acted on it.” He laughed. “I was a twenty-six-year-old virgin, if you can believe that. All I'd ever done was jack off when I got horny, but this kid . . . he was beautiful and he was very aggressive. . . wouldn't take no for an answer . . . and I wound up spending a couple of weeks with him. He taught me how to live again, how to feel—that life was something to be cherished and enjoyed. I called my superiors and told them I was resigning my commission and staying forever on Mykonos. I wasn't going back to Israel . . . and it was on Mykonos that Angela Blackledge approached me.”
My head was spinning. I couldn't absorb it, take it all in. Colin, my sweet, loving boy with the big smile and the devilish sense of humor, was a killer—had killed. This same guy, who could make awesome brownies and always fixed my sister's car, in whose arms I'd lain and slept, whose warmth I'd cuddled up to in bed at night, and always, somehow, managed to make me feel safe and protected, had killed mercilessly—who knew how many people? How many innocents?
I remembered David once mockingly saying to me, “You know, you're the fag most likely to sleep with a serial killer.”
He'd meant it as a joke, but he'd been right.
“So I went to work for Angela,” Colin said. “And it was great, you know? Being a private eye, righting wrongs, and you know what? I'm good at it—and I can be proud of being good at it—but I could never really be proud of myself before. Oh, sure, I could always tell myself about all the lives I'd saved, but I was a killer—that was the bottom line. But all the skills I'd learned, to survive, actually came in handy for this line of work. And I never killed again, Scotty.” His voice broke. “And then I met you . . . and Frank, and I found that I was capable of loving again, of falling in love and having some kind of normal life. And your family . . . taking me in and treating me like a member of the family without question . . . it was almost as though it were
meant
to be, you know?”
“Why didn't you tell me any of this before?” My voice was hoarse.
He looked at me. “Because . . . I never wanted you to look at me the way you are right now—like I'm some kind of monster.” His voice broke, and he started to cry. He put his hands over his face and his body shook.
I sat there for just a moment and then threw my arms around him and pulled him in close, kissing the top of his head, my mind racing. I didn't say anything because I couldn't think of a single thing to say. He put his arms around me and we just sat there for what seemed an eternity in silence.
He's a stranger; you don't know him at all,
kept going through my head.
This man you've loved, you've made love to, been intimate with, has killed Goddess knows how many people, the hands that have explored your body have blood on them, and how many of them were innocent?
And then a kind of calm came over me.
Imagine yourself in his place. Imagine being a teenager and finding out that your entire family was killed, blown up, for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . that you could have been with them, but for the random choice of fate. How would you feel? What would you have done differently? Yes, he's killed, but is it any different from him being a soldier? Can you love someone who's served in a war and killed? Of course you can. Try to be a little more understanding. He's suffering, and he is a good person. He's proved that to you over and over again, and you couldn't have loved him if that were not the case. He needs you. He's just revealed himself to you, opened himself up the way you've wanted him to, and you can't just reject him—after everything he's been through in his life, you can't do that.
I turned his face up so he was facing me. I reached over and wiped the tears off his face and gave him a smile. “Colin . . . how awful for you. How absolutely awful.”
In a small voice, he said, “I do love you, Scotty.”
I leaned in and pressed my lips against his and smiled. “I love you, Colin.” I brushed my hand against the side of his face. “How horrific it must have been.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “How you must have suffered . . . it breaks my heart.”
And once those words were out of my mouth, I knew I was right. He didn't need judgment; he needed compassion and love; he needed me.
One of the basic tenets of my belief system is that love and intimacy are the ultimate healing power. And if anything, Colin needed that healing.
“I love you so much,” he finally said, stroking my hair.
“I love you too,” I said. “I'll always love you, no matter what.” I kissed his cheek again. “You can always count on that.”
We lay down and I slid my arms around him.
I held him until he fell asleep.
And then I allowed myself to cry for him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Page of Swords, Reversed
an impostor about to be revealed
 
 
 
I woke up in the late morning.
The light coming through the windows was grayish, like it was going to rain at some point. I hadn't slept well—no big surprise there. I didn't feel completely rested but was wide awake—that horrible middle place where you know you're really tired but you won't be able to get back to sleep. I lay there for a few minutes more, hoping I was wrong, that sleep was still possible, but finally just gave up and got out of the bed.
Colin was still sleeping, his mouth open, his breath coming softly and a look of complete peace on his face. I stood there for a moment, watching him almost in wonder. Some glitter still glinted in his hair in the dull light. I don't know why I watched him. I still loved him. Was that crazy, knowing what I now knew? My mind kept darting back and forth, arguing with itself. I wondered how soldiers' wives did it; how they coped when their husbands came home from war. Obviously, they had to know that their husbands had killed people. Maybe they pretended to themselves that their husbands hadn't actually, that it was someone else who had done the killing. I couldn't pretend to judge Colin. I didn't know how I would have reacted in the same situation. He was a good person. My family wouldn't have taken to him so strongly otherwise; we may be a family of nutcases, but we're usually pretty good judges of character. I remembered, standing there, one afternoon when we'd dropped in on my parents and had lunch. I could picture it so vividly, he and my mother standing in the kitchen making a salad together, how easy they were with each other, just talking and laughing and having a good time. No, in spite of what he'd done in the past, he was a good person. No one was good enough of an actor to fool my mother, which also gave me pause about the whole Sasha situation. I was pretty sure he wasn't telling us the whole truth; but Mom seemed to believe everything he said. So, maybe I was wrong about him.
I walked down the hall to the kitchen and started grinding beans for coffee. The entire house was silent. There wasn't much noise coming from the street. Lundi Gras, Fat Monday, wasn't as crazy as the weekend. Even the tourists seemed to take the day off, until the parades started again that night. A lot of locals have cocktail hours around five for friends, and everyone usually winds up wandering home around nine to rest up for Fat Tuesday. The locals, from years of experience, know that it's best to turn in early and not overindulge on Lundi Gras. Fat Tuesday starts early in the French Quarter. Some people get up early to head down for Zulu and Rex on the parade route. Others get up as early as four to start putting on their costumes and make-up. The Society of St. Ann, a foot parade of celebrating people in costume, begins its bar-hopping route through the Quarter somewhere between eight and ten—one of its great traditions is its unpredictable start time. By eight, people in costume are everywhere—heading to breakfasts with mimosas, Bloody Marys, and Irish coffees, cheerfully toasting those up on the balconies, wishing each other a happy Mardi Gras—and it lasts all day until the bells of St. Louis Cathedral begin to toll at midnight, announcing the end of Carnival, and the streets empty. That's why the locals try to retire early on Lundi Gras. So, on Lundi Gras night, the vast majority of people out are from out of town, the ones who don't know that the best part of Fat Tuesday is the morning, which is fine with the locals, because that means the morning still belongs to us—well, us and the tourists who've stayed out all night.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and took it out to the deck after spiking it with Irish crème. There was a bit of a chill in the air, but it was also damp, the air heavy. The sky was full of gray clouds, but here and there the sun's rays shone brightly through holes, like the image of God in a religious painting. My parents' deck is a rarity in the Quarter. A door in the kitchen opens out onto it, and they have deck chairs and a table with a rainbow-colored umbrella. The deck can't be seen from the street. The house rises up all around it on every side. In the summer with direct sun, it can be completely unbearable out there. But on a cool morning, it is a little piece of heaven. There are ferns and plants in pots scattered everywhere; my father created a misting system for when the sun is strong to keep them from frying to a crisp. I sat down and sipped my coffee, trying to will myself to relax.
Last night hadn't been the first night I'd slept alone with Colin since the boys had moved to New Orleans, but it had felt strange. I didn't know if that was because of what Colin had told me—and I was still processing that—or if it was because Frank had voluntarily left with some guy last night. Something about that didn't feel quite right to me; somehow I'd never thought that
Frank
would be the first one to stray. Maybe I was arrogant, but it felt like I'd been betrayed. I guess I'd always thought I was the slut most likely to. Frank was such a stand-up guy, so committed to both Colin and me. Sure, he'd been on Ecstasy, which threw everything out the window. I guess I'd figured that Frank would never do it.
Which was incredibly self-centered and selfish of me.
“Get over yourself, bitch,” I said out loud.
The door opened, startling me a bit. “Do you mind if I join you?” Colin asked. He was holding a cup of coffee in his hands. His hair was tousled, and there was still sleep in his eyes. He was bare chested with a pair of my old gray sweatpants covering him from the waist down. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept well.
“Of course not,” I replied. “You have to ask?”
Colin pulled out a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the table with me. He wouldn't look at me, keeping his eyes down on his coffee cup. An uncomfortable silence began. I took a drink out of my coffee and Colin finally said, “About last night, Scotty . . .”
“Colin.” I put my cup down and reached over, curling my right hand over his. I took a deep breath. “Thank you for telling me, for talking about something really painful. It was very brave of you.”
“Oh, Scotty.” His voice was quiet. “I was so afraid to tell you—and Frank. I mean, I
knew
I was going to have to at some point, but I just kept hoping I would never have to.” He gave me a sad smile. “In a way, I feel better now . . . like a burden's been lifted off me.”
“I love you, Colin.” I meant it. “About Frank—”
“Scotty, I know how you feel.” He gave a sad little laugh. “I know it's wrong, that we all agreed we could pretty much do whatever we wanted to, no explanations needed, no questions asked, but I really didn't like seeing Frank with that guy last night. I didn't like it one bit.”
I stared at him. “I know what you mean. I've been sitting out here slapping myself around for being bothered by it. And this whole thing with the uncles . . . I don't know what to think of all this.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “Well, we can always do some more investigating.” He finished his coffee and got up, rubbing at his eyes. “You want some more?”
I stood up, shaking my head. “No, honey, I think I want to go home. Let's grab some clothes and get out of here.”
On the way back to the room, I opened the door to Rain's old room. Sasha was sleeping on his stomach, snoring softly, wearing nothing but a pair of green-and-yellow-checked boxer shorts that reached down halfway to his knees. I stared at his back. Yes, there were the scars from the steroid-induced acne I'd noticed before.
My uncle,
I thought and then closed the door back again with a sigh.
Why did you tell me your name was Misha?
It was a
fucking
lot to take in. No wonder I was feeling tired.
We found some old LSU sweatshirts of mine in the closet in my old room, and we put on our gold-painted shoes. We looked completely ridiculous, but we washed our faces and combed our hair before climbing down the back stairs to Dumaine Street. But one of the nice things about living in the Quarter is that no matter how disheveled you might look, no one even looks at you twice. After all, it's not like it's not a common sight. We're so used to seeing strange sights we don't even blink. You see someone wearing what they were wearing the day before and you just assume they haven't been home yet. During Mardi Gras it's also not unusual to see a man walking back to his hotel in just his underwear, having lost his pants sometime during the night. It's never happened to me, thank God, but I've seen it a few times.
We held hands as we walked home, and his hand felt nice in mine. There were a lot more people out than I would have thought, but they were carrying plastic shopping bags rather than big-ass go-cups. Their necks were still adorned with beads, and every once in a while we'd pass a balcony with people out drinking and tossing beads down. The damp air got thicker as we walked, becoming almost a mist, not quite rain but wet enough to dampen my hair and form beads of water on the back of my neck. My legs ached from all the dancing and the blister on the back of my right heel had burst at some time, and it stung with every step I took. Finally we turned the corner at Decatur, and I got out my keys. I unlocked the gate and we headed for the back stairs. Millie was picking up trash in the courtyard, and she just gave us a wave as we started climbing the steps. She also gave us a bemused smile as she took in how we were dressed. I knew that look—she'd want details later, assuming we'd been on some sexual escapade.
The first thing I did when I got inside my apartment was check for Frank to see if he'd come home yet, but the place was empty and still. I stood in the living room for a minute, looking at the empty glasses we'd left and the empty tubes of gold body paint. Just over twelve hours ago we'd been getting ready for a fun night out on the town. I choked back a sob and then noticed the answering machine light was blinking.
Maybe he had called.
The only message was from Venus, unfortunately.
“I don't care what time you get in, Scotty, I want you to call me as soon as you hear this message. Do not, I repeat,
do not
go to sleep without calling me.”
Colin was starting another pot of coffee in the kitchen. “There's a message from Venus,” I called to him as I dialed her cell number. He nodded as her line started ringing.
She answered on the third ring. “Casanova.”
“Venus, this is Scotty Bradley.” Colin brought me a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch. “You called me?”
She let out a long breath. “Scotty, are you at home?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I'll be there in five minutes.” She hung up before I could say anything.
I put the phone down. “She's on her way over.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.” I shrugged. “Who knows what's going on anymore?”
“Scotty”—he kissed me on the neck—“I know you're upset about all this family stuff, and I don't blame you. They shouldn't have kept it from you. But that wasn't your choice, you know.”
I was getting really annoyed. “That doesn't make it right—and one of my uncles I didn't know about is dead.”
He gave me a big hug. “It'll be okay, baby.”
Venus was wrong. It was closer to fifteen minutes before I opened the door to let her and Blaine in. “Do you want some coffee?” I asked as we walked down the hall to the living room.
“I'll have some. Just black is fine,” Venus said, taking off her jacket and sitting on the couch.
I went into the kitchen to get it, and Blaine followed me in. I got down a cup and started pouring while he watched me. I put the pot back and looked at him. “You don't have to watch my every move, you know.” I knew it was procedure—they had to know where everyone in the apartment was at all times—but it wasn't like I was going to pull a gun on him or anything.
I was about to say that when he half smiled. “You
really
don't remember me, do you?”
“Of course I remember you.” I rolled my eyes. “You're Blaine Tujague. You're a homicide detective. Sure you don't want any coffee? It's no trouble.”
He shook his head. “And all this time I thought you were just being an asshole.”
“What are you talking—” I broke off and stared at him. He'd always looked sort of familiar to me, but I'd never really given it much thought. Everyone looks familiar in New Orleans, and I knew I'd seen him in the bars a couple of times. I kept staring at him, and I got a sudden mental flash of him naked. “I've seen you naked,” I blurted out.
Okay, I have to admit, I've seen a lot of men naked. I am even willing to admit that fact sounds pretty bad. I will even go so far as to say, yes, I am a slut. But just because I've seen a man naked doesn't mean I've slept with him. I was a personal trainer and aerobics instructor for years. I've spent a lot of time showering in gym locker rooms. One night, when I was at the Pub with David, I looked around the room and realized with a start that I'd seen almost ninety percent of the men in the bar naked. But I've seen more straight men naked and in their underwear, I would dare say, than gay men.
BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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