
A Deadly Game
A Nick Fallon Investigation
J.P. Bowie
mlrpressThis book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2010 by J.P. Bowie
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:
www.mlrpress.com
Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Editing by Kris Jacen
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN# 978-1-60820-143-3
Issued 2010
Laguna Beach. California
The early morning sun, rising in the east behind the hills and canyons that separate the town of Laguna Beach from the rest of Orange County, spilled its light onto the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean, touching the whitecaps with silver as they broke gently on shore. It was early October, but a Santa Ana condition had kicked in the day before, bringing a warm, dry, off-shore wind from the desert that could already be felt, despite the fact it was not yet six a.m.
The runner on the beach churned up the sand as he ran with a long, loping style. Tall, broad shouldered, with lean, hard muscles gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration, he drew admiring glances from the scattering of men and women likewise engaged in their early morning exercise. As he approached Main Beach he stopped, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, then pulling off his tank top, he ran into the ocean before diving headfirst beneath the waves. He swam with strong, sure strokes against the tide, enjoying the coolness of the water, feeling energized by the tugging of the riptide. For a time, he floated on his back on top of the rolling waves, gazing up at the azure sky, his mind turned off to the rigors he knew the day would eventually bring him. This he considered his just reward for getting out of bed at the crack of dawn and running for an hour every day.
The roar of a speedboat's engine close by shattered the early morning quiet, and he was caught in the undulating wake created by its passing. His reverie interrupted, he flipped himself over, and with a strong kick of his legs, headed back to shore.
Nick Fallon waded from the water and stood for a moment surveying the pleasant view in front of him, his hazel eyes squinting against the glare of the morning sun. From his vantage point, he could look across the sand to the boardwalk and the green swath of grass beyond, dominated by palm and cypress trees. At this time of day, the town was still quiet, affording him a relatively relaxed run back up the hill to the apartment he shared with his lover, Eric. He bent to pick up his tank top, shaking the sand from it then using it to wipe his face and chest, before he set off at a leisured pace toward home.
Nick and Eric had moved to Laguna from New York the year before, mostly at Eric's urging, but also so that Nick could take advantage of the offer from Jeff Stevens to become his business partner in Stevens' Investigations, a thriving private investigative business. Jeff had insisted he needed help with his ever increasing client base, and had dispelled Nick's notion that he'd be bored with the on-the-surface sedate Orange County lifestyle. Nick had learned very quickly that all is rarely as it appears to be, and that wealth and refinement do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. Some of the more lurid cases of larceny and fraud were perpetrated by the extremely well heeled of society. Greed, not need, was their motivation. Still, that's what kept people like him and Jeff, along with the police force for that matter, in business.
Jeff and his lover Peter Brandon, a celebrated local artist, had taken off on a well-deserved vacation, leaving Nick in charge of the investigative business and Eric looking after Peter's art gallery in downtown Laguna. They'd be in Europe for a month, maybe longer if they weren't needed for any urgent business back home. Rounding the corner of the apartment building, Nick bounded up the steps and flung open the front door.
"Hey, stud!" Eric smiled at him from beneath the towel he was using to dry his light brown hair. He was naked, and Nick paused for a moment to drink in the sight of his boyfriend's lightly tanned, lithe and compact body. In New York, where they had met two years before, Eric had been a paramedic, a job that had kept him in great physical shape. Now that he had what he called the "cushy life," managing Peter Brandon's art gallery in town, he worried about getting soft and had joined a nearby gym to keep himself toned, working out regularly with Peter and Andrew, a mutual friend. From the look of things, Nick thought carnally, it was paying off.
"You're the stud," he whispered. His voice husky with desire, he pulled Eric's smooth skinned, still damp body into his arms, and delivered a scorching kiss to his mouth.
"Those early morning runs sure seem to agree with you," Eric gasped when they came up for air. With a sensuous curl of his lips, he ran his tongue over Nick's left nipple, tasting the salt from the sea mingled with the sweat of his body. "Mmm...look at you. You're all sweaty, and I'm suddenly all horny---"
Nick pulled him closer. "I can take care of that for you."
"I knew there was something I liked about you," Eric said, wrapping his arms around Nick's neck and pulling him in for another long and hungry kiss.
Later, after they had showered together, Eric made some pancakes while Nick perused the morning paper. "Jeez," he muttered, looking at a gruesome photograph of yet more carnage in the Middle East. "When the hell are we ever going to get some good news?" His eyes were suddenly riveted to a piece on an inside page:

Death Row Inmate Escapes From Pa. State Prison:


Francisco Garcia, sentenced to death three years ago for the drug related murders of two Pittsburgh homicide detectives, escaped from prison yesterday during a riot that prison officials are now calling a smoke screen to cover the escape...

"Aw, shit---" Nick exclaimed.
Eric turned to look at him with concern. "What is it?"
Nick closed the paper quickly. "Nothing."
"Nothing? 'Aw shit' about nothing?" Eric narrowed his light blue eyes. "I can see on your face it's a lot more than nothing."
Nick rose from the table. "I gotta get dressed and get to the office."
"Nick." Eric advanced on him, his eyes glittering. "You do not get to do this, my friend. You are not skipping out of here without telling me what just bothered you. That was the deal remember? Anytime we have a problem, we share."
"Eric," Nick groaned. "Don't push this. I really don't want to talk about it right now. Later, maybe..."
Eric could not quite conceal the hurt look that shadowed his face, but he turned away quickly and went back to the stove. "Pancakes to go then?"
"Eric, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to piss you off."
"But ya did, Blanche. Ya did!" Eric tried to keep his voice light as he imitated Bette Davis, then he turned round to look at Nick and smiled. "Okay---tell me when you want to."
Nick took him in his arms. "Thanks Eric. I love you, you know."
Eric kissed Nick's chin. "I know. Now go do what you have to do."
§ § § §
Nick pulled into his allotted space outside the office he and Jeff shared. For a moment he sat in the car, mulling things over in his mind, then with a sigh he climbed out and pushed his way through the heavy glass doors that led into the reception area.
"Hi, Nick." Monica Kwan, their secretary, gave him a wave as he entered.
"Monica. Any messages?"
Monica gave him a shrewd look. "That kind of day already?" She handed him a couple of telephone messages.
"Mmm." The smile he started became a grimace as he thought of the calls he had to make. "I'll be on the phone for a time. Just take messages. Okay?"
"You got it."
"Thanks, Monica." He went into his office and closed the door behind him quietly. He looked over at Jeff's empty desk and wished like hell his partner was sitting there so he could talk with him. Jeff was the kind of guy who remained calm under attack, resilient when pushed, and usually had a sensible spin on situations that seemed crazy at times. Nick felt he could certainly use some of that calmness right about now. Francisco Garcia somewhere out there on the loose. This was not good. Not good at all. He punched in a number on his phone, then sat back listening to the ringing tone.
"Detective Hawkins."
"Andy, it's Nick Fallon."
"So you heard, huh?"
"Read about it in the paper this morning."
"How are you?"
"Okay. Yourself?"
"Fine, until all this shit happened. Margo's threatening to take the kids over to her mother's 'til he's caught."
"That might not be a bad idea, Andy."
"You think he's crazy enough to try something?"
"Yes, I do. You know what he threatened to do when we brought him down, and you know he's capable of just about anything. The guy's a killer first and a homicidal maniac second."
"Jesus," Andy blew the word out on a long breath.
"What's the word, anyway? How did Garcia manage this?"
"Beats me---he was on death row. It should never have happened."
"He had inside help then."
"That'd be my guess. They've got search teams all over the state looking for him of course."
"Let's hope they get lucky." Nick drummed his fingers on his desktop as he spoke. "Andy, make sure you take precautions there. Don't go anywhere alone. I have a bad feeling about this. Garcia---that son-of-a-bitch is clever."
"Not so clever. He got caught."
"And we got lucky, Andy. Don't forget, he still managed to take out two of ours."
Andy was silent for a while then he said, "Maybe I should take Margo and the kids to her mother's house."
"Good idea."
Nick felt like saying he should have done it right away, but Andy was a stubborn guy who thought he could handle anything that came along---even someone like Garcia. Nick wasn't so sure he could, but he didn't want to voice that opinion right then.
"So, you don't have to worry way out there in sunny California, right?"
"Andy, just watch your back. If you hear anything, let me know. Okay?"
"You bet."
"And tell Margo I said hello."
He hung up and rose slowly from his desk chair to look out of the window at the now bustling activity on Coast Highway. Pittsburgh sure seemed a long way away, he thought. Once it had been his home, where he had gone to school, to college, to work, and where he and his family and friends had gathered to celebrate birthdays and Thanksgivings. Where he had met Martin and lived with him for close to ten years. And then all that had changed in such a short space of time. Martin had died in a plane crash, and Francisco Garcia, along with his henchmen, had shot two of Nick's associates to death. Yes, they had brought the gang down, but at a terrible price.
Nick had never really been able to find closure in the death of his lover and friends. His move to New York and his year with the NYPD had helped because it had brought Eric into his life. That he had found a man as loving and as caring as Eric had seemed to him, at the time, to be something of a miracle. Nick knew he wasn't the easiest guy to live with. He could be quick-tempered, pig-headed, sullen even---but Eric rarely seemed fazed by Nick's moods. Sometimes, showing a great deal of patience, he would just wait quietly for the mood to pass, then other times he would use humor or start a lively discussion to distract Nick.
And then there was the sex, or rather the lovemaking, as Nick preferred to call it. Those moments of sheer bliss when they were alone together, when they could express their love for one another, making everything seem right and worthwhile. That was why he could not tell Eric of what he had read in the paper that morning. He would have to eventually of course, but right then, he had felt that cold shudder of fear when someone you cherish might just be taken away. In the years since Garcia's trial, Nick had almost forgotten the man's existence. Now, the events of the past had come back to haunt him.
Francisco Garcia was a cold, lethal killer with many options for revenge. Nick knew there was a network of like killers in almost every section of the country---there just for the paying. Garcia had vowed revenge on the men who had brought him, and his empire, down.
But there was a greater need for vengeance in Garcia's heart, because of the fact that his son had died in the shootout that had claimed the lives of the two detectives. Nothing would appease him, he had said at his trial. His soul would never rest until his son's killers had all been destroyed.
That meant Andy Hawkins---and Nick Fallon.
Nick was worried about Andy's being on the front line. If Garcia was not apprehended in the next couple of days, it put his friend's life in a great deal of danger. Nick did not doubt for one moment that Garcia would attempt to carry out his threat. Despite the man's need for obscurity at this point in his escape, no matter how risky it would be for him to get close to a police detective, Nick innately knew that Garcia would gladly take that risk. He had seen him in court, railing against those who had "murdered" his son. The man's eyes, small, dark and glittering with hate had met Nick's from the other side of that crowded courtroom, and Nick had been left slightly shaken by the malevolence in the prolonged stare Garcia had cast upon him.
Garcia had been sentenced to death, but it had not stopped him from delivering his own sentence on the two remaining men he considered guilty of taking his son's life. Before he was led away in the shackles he had worn during his entire trial, Garcia had pronounced his judgment across the courtroom on those who had taken his son's life. His son would be avenged, he had yelled as he was hustled out amid a rush of reporters and photographers, intent on capturing the moment for the headlines of the day.
Nick could still see the photograph that had appeared in the paper later that day. Andy and himself, standing side by side in the courtroom under a headline that had screamed, "Garcia Threatens Arresting Detectives!" The reporters had a field day recounting Garcia's threats and promises to "seek out and destroy the men who had taken his young son's life." Nick knew that the cops in Pittsburgh would be doing everything they could to find the escaped prisoner, but would it be enough? He also knew that Andy would be given protection until Garcia was caught and back behind bars once more. But what if Andy let his guard down before that happened, and what if Garcia could get through the protection?
"Christ," he muttered, running his hand through his dark brown hair. There were just too many possibilities, and all of them not good. Garcia was clever. Clever enough to engineer his escape from a maximum security prison and still be on the loose. Nick did not like the feeling he was getting from this. Instinctively, he knew this was going to be bad. Returning to his desk, he pulled a name from his Rolodex and quickly dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a voice with strong nasal overtones answered.
"Tom Carradine."
"Tom---Nick Fallon."
When Nick was still a detective with the Pittsburgh Police Department he, and a couple of his associates, had used Carradine as an informant. Once upon a time, Carradine too had been a police officer. He'd been fired several years before for taking bribes. The popular opinion among his fellow officers was that Tom was not a bad guy, just stupid. He'd managed to get a private investigator's license, but his propensity for trying to make a quick buck frequently got him into trouble. On one occasion, when a man he was dealing with turned ugly, he'd run to Nick for help. Nick had stepped in and made the man back off, earning Carradine's undying loyalty---or at least as loyal as Tom Carradine could ever be.
"Hey, Nick..." Carradine's voice took on a wary edge. "What's up?"
"Garcia escaped from prison."
"I heard."
"What else have you heard?"
"Nothin'---too early yet. All's I heard was what you read in the papers. Looks like an inside job, so they say."
"It had to be, Tom. And he has to have people helping him on the outside. I need a favor."
"Yeah?"
"Talk to the people you know. Anything you hear, get back to me right away."
"Nick..."
"I mean it, Tom. Don't forget what you owe me. I'm pulling in all my markers on this one. Andy's right there in the line of fire. You hear anything, you let me know. Got that?"
A deep sigh sounded on the other end. "Okay," came the mumbled reply. "But Nick... Garcia...man...he's---"
"I know what he is, Tom," Nick said, his voice harsh. "I know only too well what he is. That's why I need you on this. Andy's life could depend on what you can find out. You owe him too, don't forget."
"I don't forget. Okay, I'll be in touch." Carradine paused then asked, "You all right?"
"I'm fine, Tom. Just help me with this one." Nick put the phone down and sank back in his chair. He closed his eyes...and let himself remember.
Pittsburgh: 4 years earlier.
The hunt was on. It had taken the FBI and the Pittsburgh Police Department a long time to put it all together, but now there was no calling it off. Francisco Garcia must go down. The man who had spread a network of drugs, corruption and murder throughout the East Coast for close to twenty years was about to be stopped.
Nick Fallon, Andy Hawkins, John Petrosky, and Sam Valance had worked on this case together, and in conjunction with the FBI, for over a year. Now it was a go---the stakeout had begun. All they needed was the word to go in. And so, they waited. To get to this place had been a nightmare for all of them. Covert meetings with the dregs of the earth that had made Nick feel unclean for weeks; forced cohabitation with pimps, hookers, drug dealers, and anyone who had a legitimate beef with Garcia. The evidence against the man had piled up, and it was a constant source of amazement to Nick that nothing like this had ever been done before.
Why had law enforcement waited so long to bring Garcia down?
The answer became evident as they became more and more embroiled in the case. The law enforcers who had preceded them had been as corrupt as the man they now sought to apprehend. So many bad cops with outstretched and empty palms ready to do anything Garcia wanted. For Nick, this case was the answer to a prayer---something to totally consume his mind and everyday life. Something to take away the pain and loss of losing the one person in his life he could never have imagined living without.
He had nursed his grief in the early days after losing Martin. He had nurtured it almost, unwilling to let it go. For in his mind, he felt he had never really deserved a man as wonderful as Martin. He had loved him of course. He had never doubted that---but had he really appreciated all that Martin was?
After he'd received news of the plane crash, Nick had stumbled home, unable to believe that only that morning they had sat across the breakfast table from one another and Nick, ever quick-tempered, had become indignant as Martin tried to explain his reasons for accepting an invitation for the weekend with friends, without consulting Nick first.
"It never occurred to me you wouldn't want to go," Martin had said with a gentle smile. "I thought you really enjoyed the guys' company. I'm sorry."
And Nick had replied, in an offhand, desultory manner that eventually led to shouting and then a cold silence as he drove Martin to the airport, later that morning. There had been no last minute apologies, no hug, not even a kiss on the cheek. Just an abrupt, "Thanks for driving me..." Then he was gone.
When Nick got home that night, numb with grief, still unable to believe the news of Martin's death, the answering machine light was flashing. Listlessly he had pressed the play button, then had fallen to his knees as he listened to Martin's voice for the last time in his life.
"Sorry, babe. Sorry we left each other that way. I'll make it up to you when I get back---I promise. Love you..."
He had keened aloud then, a long and anguished cry of grief and rage and, above all, of hatred for himself---for what he had not done. It had taken him weeks just to try to start living again. His sister Doreen, his brother-in-law Rich, and his close friends, Jim and Donna Hollister, had gathered round him, trying to comfort and support him, but he could not shake the tremendous feeling of guilt that pressed down on him night after night while he lay, unsleeping, in the big bed he had shared with Martin.
A year after the accident, the loss, and the memories, were still fresh in his mind. And so, when he was assigned to the Garcia case, and on seeing the dedication the other men were bringing to the job, he finally decided he had to try to pull himself together. If one thing was clearer than anything else, it was that this would only succeed if all of them worked as one. There could be no weak link. It was all or nothing, and he was determined that he would die, rather than let any of the other men down.
Why then, had it all gone so wrong?
§ § § §
Joseph Garcia was in love.
The man he had met had captured his soul and made it his own. Joseph knew, as he always did, that it had to remain his secret. His family was not the kind that would accept his sexuality, even though their love for him was unconditional in all other respects. This affair, however, went beyond the merely unmentionable---the man Joseph loved was a cop.
They had met so innocently, almost as if the Fates had decreed it, or so Joseph wanted to believe. One afternoon, in a coffee bar on Liberty Avenue, he had seen him and was instantly attracted. Always reticent, shy almost to painfulness, Joseph would never have made the first approach, but their eyes met and the man smiled, such a sweet, beguiling smile, and Joseph was lost. The man rose from his table by the window, slipped into the seat opposite Joseph and introduced himself.
"Hi," he'd said, holding out his hand. "Sam Valance..."
Joseph had taken his hand, mesmerized by Sam's beautiful smile and, somewhat shakily had answered, "Joseph. I---I'm very pleased to meet you."
They talked for hours. After leaving the coffee bar they strolled together down to the river where they sat on a bench, gazed at the city skyline and each other, and talked some more. Joseph had been startled when Sam told him he was a police detective, and took care to tell Sam only that he was at NYU studying law, avoiding any mention of his family. The fact that he was the son of a notorious criminal was not something he wanted to use as small talk on a first meeting. Joseph knew that he should not have let their friendship go any further. He knew he should have smiled politely and murmured something about getting together at some future date---and then run like hell. But he did not---he could not, for he was already imagining what it would be like to be held in Sam's arms, and to taste the sweetness of his lips. It was so easy to slip into the affair he knew could only end badly.
Yet, he could not resist. Sam was so incredibly sexy, with those big brown eyes, those full lips that were forever parting in the sweetest of smiles. Joseph hungered for him night and day, pined for him when they could not meet, longed only for the times when they could be together, their naked bodies entwined, their desire for one another always insatiable. And so it went, neither one of them knowing the complete truth of one another, content only in their meeting, their passion and their love.
Sam told Nick of his happiness and his friend was glad for him. As far as they knew, Nick and Sam were the only two gay cops in the precinct and they had bonded, not only because of their sexuality, but also because of a deep respect they had formed for one another soon after they had met. They had both suffered from the homophobia that was rampant in the police force, but by sheer force of will and perseverance, they had survived the initial ordeals, the caustic remarks, the "fag" jokes and the put-downs from superior officers.
Nick admired Sam for his supreme optimism and confidence. Whereas the tension at work could make Nick moody and hostile, Sam would find humor in some of the remarks thrown at them, and had a knack for turning the slur back on the name-caller. Once or twice, out of frustration, Nick had come close to locker room fistfights, but Sam had diffused the situation with a well-placed humorous remark. Things were marginally better after they had shown they were worthy of the badge they wore and some of the guys, like Andy Hawkins and John Petrosky, had even extended the offer of friendship.
Late one afternoon, Nick stopped in at a Starbuck's, just off Liberty Avenue. As he looked around the small group of tables hoping he'd find one by the window, he found himself staring at the back of Sam's head, and his eyes met those of the young man who sat opposite his friend. He watched as the young man murmured something that made Sam turn around.
"Hey, Nick...join us," he said, beckoning his friend over. "Joseph, this is my best buddy, Nick. Take a load off, Nick."
They sat talking for a while. Joseph was intelligent, slightly shy, but without a doubt, totally infatuated with Sam. Nick smiled to himself often during their conversation, noting the number of times Joseph would defer to Sam and how many times their eyes would meet in that soft, secret way that lovers have. Later, after he had left them and walked alone toward the station, he remembered how he'd felt sharing those same, early romantic moments with Martin, and his heart ached with loneliness. Still, he could not but hope that Sam and Joseph's future held nothing but happiness.
So, it was a bitter blow for Nick when he discovered Joseph Garcia's true identity. Garcia was a common enough name in Hispanic circles, and the files they had on Francisco Garcia generally mentioned only his older son, Alfredo. Alfredo Garcia was his father's son---a major part of the Garcia operation. In almost every file Nick had researched, there was no mention of Joseph Garcia, until an updated report was brought to his notice. Included was the name, Joseph Garcia, Hispanic, aged 24, 5'9", black hair, green eyes, olive complexioned, currently studying law at NYU.
"Christ." Nick had stared at that description, hoping against hope that he was wrong. It sounded exactly like the Joseph he had met just days before. Could it be that much of a coincidence? Nick didn't think so, and did a little digging on his own.
"We got a photograph of the younger Garcia son?" he asked the records clerk.
"Not officially," she told him. "No mug shots. The kid hasn't got a record---yet, but I dug one up out of a college yearbook though." She flipped through her records. "Here it is." Nick's heart sank as he gazed at Joseph's photograph.
"Can I put this in the file I just got?"
"Sure. Anything else?"
"No, that's it. Thanks." He went back to his desk and sat looking at the photo for a time. Damn, he thought. How could this sweet-faced kid be a part of Francisco Garcia's family? What the hell kind of future was he going to have when his father was arrested, and most likely sentenced to death? Everything he aspired to would be overshadowed by the scandal of having a murdering drug dealer for a father. One thing was certain; Nick had to bring this to Sam's attention immediately.
Walking over to Sam's desk, he put his hand on his friend's shoulder as he placed the file in front of him. He watched as Sam's face turned pale and the hand holding the file shook with nervous emotion.
"Oh my God, Nick," he whispered, looking up at him with tortured eyes. "What the hell can I do?"
Nick's first reaction was to tell him to drop the kid like a hot potato and never see him again, but the anguished look on Sam's face told him he already knew.
"It's for the best, Sam."
Even as he uttered the words, Nick shared Sam's pain. The end of a loving relationship, whether by accident or design, is seldom a cause for rejoicing. Nick had been there and was still grieving. He knew it would take Sam a long time to get over this. To put his duty first was his only option. All else would be jeopardized if he continued seeing Joseph. They might be seen and recognized---it amazed both Nick and Sam now that it had not yet happened. How many occasions had there been when someone from either camp could have spotted them in a bar or restaurant, or walking in the park or by the river? Sam shuddered as the realization of what was at stake sank in. Leaving Nick with the assurance he would talk to Joseph right away, Sam went back to his apartment and made the call.
"I have to see you right away," he told Joseph.
"Sure." Joseph sounded pleased. "Your place?"
A half hour later they were together, and Sam, his senses once more inflamed by Joseph's mere presence, told himself that he could not do this without making love to him one last time. For Sam, the sex, wonderful as it always was, this time filled him with bittersweet emotion.
For Joseph, not knowing what was to come after, it was simply another joyous time in his lover's arms. He loved Sam. He loved the bigger man's arms around him, the feel of his warm muscular body pressed hard against his own. Locked in that strong embrace, he felt released from all the pressure that surrounded him at home and at university. For the time he was with Sam, he could forget everything that was wrong with his life. He could even pretend his father was not a high profile criminal, but was just another loving parent, willing to let his son have the life he craved. With Sam deep inside him, bringing him to the brink of ecstasy, he could forget everything. Everything but the moment when Sam's lips crushed his in a kiss of love and longing, when their bodies cleaved together as one, when their pent up passion exploded in a mutual, tumultuous climax that left them spent and breathless in each other's arms.
But this last time was different. Joseph sensed it in Sam's caress, saw it in the tears that filled Sam's eyes as he gazed at him, oh so tenderly.
"What's wrong, Sam?"
And Sam, so loving, so sad, said, "I know who you are, Joseph."
And Joseph, not understanding, smiled up at him and put his lips to Sam's ear. "I know who you are too, Sam," he whispered, nipping playfully at Sam's earlobe.
"No, Joseph, you don't---"
Sam sat up in his bed and looked away, across the room to the window through which he could see the sky, darkening with the threat of approaching rain. How fitting, he thought, that the night would be as somber as the mood that was fast coming upon him.
"I know your father is Francisco Garcia---and because of that, I can never see you again."
Joseph lay still and quiet beside him for a long moment, until Sam turned to see if he had heard what he had just said; and then his heart broke into a thousand tiny pieces when he saw the stricken look on Joseph's face.
"No, no, no, Sam!" Joseph threw himself into Sam's arms, holding him so tight that Sam had to struggle to free himself.
"I'm sorry, Joseph---so sorry," he panted, holding the young man at arm's length. "I know this is a lousy situation, but there's nothing we can do to change it. You and I are on opposite sides of the law."
"No, we're not," Joseph exploded, tears welling in his eyes. "I've never broken the law. I can't help what my father is."
"No, you can't, I know that---but I'm a cop," Sam said, trying to remain calm. "I have sworn to uphold the law, and my being with you in this kind of...relationship...it throws both of us into jeopardy."
"I don't care," Joseph yelled through his tears. "I love you, Sam. Don't do this, please." He clutched at Sam's arms. "Come away with me," he said, his voice filled with desperation. "We'll find somewhere to live where no one will know us. We can have a life together. I'll make you so happy, Sam."
"Aw, Joseph---" Sam felt as though he were being ripped to pieces. He held him in his arms, letting Joseph shower him with kisses, wet with his tears. Why did it have to be this way, he thought, feeling Joseph's shuddering breath against his chest---why couldn't he have just been any other man's son? But the grim reality was he was not just any man's son. He was the son of the man they were planning to bring down in just two days. For a crazy moment he thought, maybe after all this is over---maybe then they could get a life together. Maybe. But then Sam's heart twisted with despair, knowing it was impossible.
"Joseph..." he murmured, gently wiping Joseph's cheeks with his fingertips, and Joseph, raising his head to look into Sam's eyes, nodded his understanding.
His arms tightened around Sam as he whispered, "Just make love to me once more---and then I'll go."
§ § § §
Sam called Nick later and told him, "It's done."
Nick listened to the desolation in his friend's voice. "Sam," he said, hearing the sadness in his own voice. "I'm sorry, man---I really am."
"I know..." Sam blew out a long sigh. "It was rough, Nick. I think it killed something inside both of us, you know."
"Don't Sam. Just give it some time. It'll get better."
"But it hasn't for you, has it?"
Nick had no reply. He could have said, "Yeah, but Martin and I were together for ten years---you've only just met this guy." But he remained silent, unwilling to add to his friend's despair.
Almost as if Sam had read his mind he said, "I know I've only been seeing Joseph for such a short time, but somehow that makes it even worse. Not knowing, I guess, if it could have worked for us. For a crazy moment there, after I'd told him we had to split up, I had a vision of what our life could have been together. He wanted us to run away together, leave town---and just for a second, I was so tempted, Nick. As nuts as it sounds, I wanted to do it. It just seemed he was everything I wanted and needed in my life."
"Except for one thing," Nick reminded him.
Over the next forty-eight hours, their time was consumed by the necessary preparations for Garcia's arrest. Information gleaned from FBI sources had confirmed that Garcia, his son Alfredo, and three of his men were to meet with the leaders of a drug cartel out of Mexico. The time and the place had been deemed accurate, and the plan to apprehend Garcia was set in motion. Two FBI agents headed the operation. Four Pittsburgh Police Department detectives and a SWAT team formed their backup.
The tension was palpable that morning. Nick kept throwing worried looks at Sam, who seemed preoccupied during the briefing. It crossed his mind to say something to the Chief. Maybe Sam should be replaced---but he knew it was too late for that. He could only hope that Sam pulled himself together once they were in position. Nick was partnered with Andy, Sam with John Petrosky. Nick knew he could not afford to let his mind dwell on whether Sam was going to be okay---there was just too much at stake here. Every man had to be totally focused on the job ahead.
He prayed that Sam knew that too.
It should have gone well. The element of surprise was theirs. The building Garcia and his men occupied was surrounded on all sides. There was no way out for them. When the door was broken down and Nick and the rest of the team rushed into the room, Garcia and his henchmen were taken totally unawares. The hollered command, "FBI, nobody move!" echoed through the large unfurnished room, momentarily freezing everyone into immobility---and then all hell broke loose. Two of Garcia's men went for their guns and started firing. The SWAT team opened up with their firearms. Screams of the wounded rent the air. Nick fired at one of the gunmen, bringing him down.
What happened next was imprinted on his memory forever. From out of the group of Garcia's men, a slim young man appeared running toward Sam, his arms outstretched.
Joseph.
He was shouting something, but Nick could not make it out above the din of gunfire and furious shouts. Nick saw the expression of horror on Sam's face as he recognized Joseph.
"God, no...Joseph, get down," Nick heard him yell, his voice frantic with fear and desperation. Then Sam staggered back as a bullet hit him in the middle of his chest. Joseph's scream of despair was cut off as a bullet from John Petrosky's gun entered his heart. He pitched forward, falling alongside Sam's body, his left arm resting on the other man's chest. Nick heard a guttural shout, "Bastard!" then saw Petrosky thrown backwards by a blast from Francisco Garcia's shotgun.
Suddenly, it was over. Garcia's men were surrounded and disarmed. A terrible silence fell upon the room as the smoke cleared and the carnage was revealed. Three of Garcia's men lay dead on the floor; two were badly wounded, including Alfredo Garcia, who lay in a pool of blood, moaning desperately. His heart pounding, his stomach churning with dread, Nick walked over to where Sam lay. In his dying moment, he must have put his hand on Joseph's arm, for now he held it tight against his chest.
"What's the story here?" Andy was standing next to him, staring down at Sam and Joseph.
"I have no idea," Nick said, turning away, feeling at any moment he might just jump right out of his skin. His eyes met those of Francisco Garcia, who stood at the other end of the room, his hands being wrested behind his back and handcuffed as an FBI agent read him his rights. Garcia's eyes glittered with hatred as they tried to stare Nick down, but Nick would not give him that satisfaction. He held Garcia's stare until the man was escorted from the room. The paramedics who had been standing by outside the building were now everywhere, putting bodies onto gurneys and tending the wounded with disciplined efficiency.
One of the FBI agents approached Nick. "What happened over here? How come Valance didn't shoot the guy running at him? Did he know him?"
Nick looked at the agent dully. "Know him? Hardly..."
"Well, he fucked up," the agent said, his face a sour mask. "Got himself and his partner killed."
Nick wanted to smash his fist into the agent's face, even though he knew the guy was right. Sam had fucked up. He had let his love for Joseph get in the way of his duty, with the result that he, Joseph and John Petrosky were now dead. And yet, Nick had to ask himself, what if that choice had been mine? Could I have shot down the person I love, knowing that he was not about to do me harm? What horrors had gone through Sam's mind as he saw Joseph in that room? Somewhere he was never supposed to be.
Sitting alone at home later that night, nursing a glass of neat Scotch, Nick found himself reliving those moments over and over in his mind. The ear-splitting crack of gunfire still echoed in his head; he could hear with devastating clarity the shouts and screams that had rent the air, and each time he closed his eyes, he could see Sam and Joseph fall in a hail of bullets. That night, and for many more nights to come, his sleep would be invaded by the memory of all that had happened that day.
Both Sam and John Petrosky were given funerals with full honors. Nick and Andy received commendations for their part in Garcia's arrest. An investigation was held concerning Sam Valance's apparent unwillingness to shoot one of the criminals, resulting in his and his partner's demise. Without a clear story from an eyewitness, however, the investigation went nowhere, and was mostly forgotten as Garcia's trial went forward.
It was a long and drawn out affair. Garcia's lawyers tried to paint a picture of a loving family man, bereft at the loss of his younger son, but the District Attorney's office and the FBI had evidence enough to have Garcia stand trial over and over again. The jury found him guilty on all charges of murder and drug trafficking, and recommended the death penalty. Nick and Andy felt that at last it was over and could be put to rest.
§ § § §
The day after Sam's funeral, Nick found a note on his desk. "An appointment has been made for you with Dr. Norman Phelps at 2pm this afternoon. His office is at 310 Beech St. Suite 810B."
Nick read the note and heaved a long sigh. He didn't want to see a shrink. He didn't need counseling. He didn't want to sit in an office while some stranger tried to get him to bare his soul. Reparative therapy they called it; mandatory after the kind of situation he and Andy had just been through. No point in arguing, complaining, or trying to get out of it. Just go and get it over with. He crumpled the note in his fist and threw it in the trash. He looked up as Andy approached his desk, a large coffee mug in his hand.
His partner rolled his eyes. "You too, huh?"
Nick nodded. "What time's your appointment?"
"Three this afternoon."
"I'm two."
"Just sit and nod, and agree with everything they say. It's a bunch of junk anyway."
"Right." Nick looked at Andy. "How're you doing?"
"I'm okay." Andy put his coffee mug on Nick's desk and sat down. He looked troubled. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What was with Sam and that kid?"
"What d'you mean?"
"You saw what happened, Nick. It looked like they knew each other, for Pete's sake."
Nick shook his head. "How could Sam have known Garcia's son, Andy?"
"I dunno. It just looked funny the way he ran out to Sam, and Sam just kinda froze...you know?"
"You saw more than I did, I guess."
"But you saw how they were lying there on the floor---like Sam was holding onto him."
"Sam was dead, Andy. The kid fell on top of him, is all."
"It just looked kinda weird to me. It didn't to you?"
"No, it didn't. Death does funny things to people. I can't explain it---neither can you."
Andy looked at Nick for a long moment, and then he shrugged and stood up. "Okay. Damnedest thing though..."
"Andy, did you say that in your report?"
"No. I said the kid panicked and ran into Sam."
"That's more or less what I said---and it's probably the truth."
Andy sat down again. He had more to say. "Nick...I know you and Sam were close, and I'll understand if you don't want to discuss it here, but my gut tells me there was something more going on between him and the Garcia kid."
"Andy, think about it." Nick looked at his partner with a cool eye. "If Sam was involved with a criminal's son, what do you think he'd do when he found out what he was mixed up in?"
"He'd get out."
"Right---he'd get out."
Andy nodded. "Okay." He stood up again. "Whatcha doing for lunch?"
"Going to Louie's with you?"
"Let's go then."
It was never mentioned again.
As he drove toward his two o'clock appointment, Nick mulled over what Andy had said regarding Sam and Joseph. Nick had deliberately withheld evidence in the investigation into Sam and John's deaths, and he knew that what he had done could get him in serious trouble. Yet, he reasoned, what good would have come of them knowing that Sam and Joseph had been lovers? It would merely have confirmed the suspicion that Sam had put John Petrosky's life at risk by not reacting faster. Revealing Sam's relationship with Joseph would not remedy anything, nor would it bring any of them back. It was best left alone---unsolved, and eventually forgotten.
The name on the door read, Dr. Norman Phelps, Ph.D. Sighing, Nick pushed it open and walked to the reception desk where a gray haired woman sat, busy on a keyboard.
She glanced up. "Can I help you?"
"Nick Fallon to see the Doc. I have a two o'clock."
"Take a seat, Detective Fallon. Dr. Phelps will be with you in a moment or two."
Nick nodded, but instead of sitting, he walked slowly over to the window and looked out at the city, spread out below him. For as many times as he could remember, he found his mind slipping back over the last year when everything that mattered to him seemed to have ended. Just how much more grief could he take? How many more deaths of friends was he supposed to endure? Was there a warning in all of this for him? An image of Garcia's face floated in front of him---cold, ruthless, filled with hate---and despite himself, Nick shuddered.
Was he scared? Not of death, surely. After Martin had died, he'd wanted to die too. He'd seen death many times---stared it in the face, held it in his arms, seen too much of it...
"Detective Fallon?"
Nick turned from the window and looked at the man standing in the doorway of his office. Slim, tired looking, with straight, sandy colored hair neatly combed and parted to one side. Gay, Nick thought as he walked toward him. Phelps held out his hand; it was warm and dry and his shake was firm and reassuring.
"Come on in and take a seat."
"No couch?" Nick asked, smirking.
"There's a couch if you prefer," Phelps said, smiling. "You look more like the upright chair type to me though."
"Right." Nick sat and looked around as Phelps took the seat opposite him. "Nice office," he remarked.
"Thanks. I spend a lot of time here, so I feel I owe it to myself to have something pleasant to look at."
Their eyes met and Nick winced at what he figured was the man's attempt at flirtation. Get on with it, he growled in his mind.
"So, Detective...you've been through a rough time recently."
"You could say that."
"I understand you were close to the two men who were killed. Detectives Valance and Petrosky?"
"Sam Valance was a friend of mine, yes." Nick's gaze wandered around Phelps' office as he spoke. "John Petrosky and me, we were more work-related than buddies. I liked him well enough, though."
"How close were you and Detective Valance?"
Nick sighed. "Look, let's not waltz around the issue here, shall we? It's in my psychological profile that I'm gay---Sam too. That doesn't mean we were fucking each other on the side."
"I didn't mean to infer that, of course---"
"Of course you did." Nick couldn't quite keep the sneer out of his voice. "You probably get off on the idea of two cops doing it."
Phelps let out a long, low laugh. "Detective Fallon, you take yourself way too seriously."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Nick pushed the chair back and stood up. "Look, Dr. Phelps, I'm sure you're a nice enough guy. Probably got a nice guy at home you can swap stories with at the end of the day. But I'm not in need of your help. To me, this is a sham. I'm sorry, but that's the way I feel. I can deal with what happened in my own way---"
"And just what precisely is that?" Phelps interrupted. "Go out and get drunk? Stagger home and sleep it off till you have to go back to work the next day---then do it all over again?"
"You don't know me very well, Dr. Phelps." Nick turned to go.
"I know that you're very angry, Detective." Phelps got up and walked in front of Nick, preventing him from opening the office door.
"Don't do this, Doc," Nick said, glaring into Phelps' eyes. "Don't try to stop me from leaving."
"Or what?" Phelps met his stare coolly. "You're going to deck me just so you can avoid facing what's really troubling you?"
Nick sighed. "Of course not."
"But you've already decided I'm the enemy, and can't be trusted."
"No Doc, it's not that." Nick tried to ease the tension from his shoulders as he looked at the earnest expression on the psychologist's face. "It's just that I feel I have to deal with this on my own. I've been here before."
"I know." Phelps put a hand on Nick's arm. "Why don't you try sharing some of this? I'll just sit and listen." He exerted a small amount of pressure on Nick's arm. "Come on. Sit down and tell me only what you want to. I promise there will be no psycho-babble, no clever little clichés. I'll just listen."
Despite himself, Nick walked back to the desk, and with some reluctance, sat down again. Phelps leaned back in his chair, a smile of encouragement on his lips. Nick shook his head.
"I can't do this."
"Yes, you can, Nick. Can I call you Nick?"
"Sure. Sorry for blowing off like that. I was out of line."
"Forget it. You've been through some pretty traumatic times." Phelps looked at him with sympathy. "I know you also lost your lover, Martin Keller. Do you want to talk about that?"
Nick froze. He'd hardly talked to anyone about Martin's death. Not to Jim or Donna, his oldest friends; not to his sister, Doreen; not to Andy. Only Sam had been able to squeeze some of how he felt out of him---and that had been over several Johnny Walkers. He'd felt, right or wrong, that Sam, being gay, would understand better what he was going through. Now Sam was dead too...
And so he started there, with Sam's friendship and what it had meant to him to have a close confidant in the force.
"We were rookies together at the academy. We made detective round about the same time. We knew right from the start we'd be friends. We worked out together. I took him to meet Martin. They got along great..."
"Says here you made detective in four years. Quite an achievement."
Nick shrugged. "Maybe they were short-handed," he said, with a trace of a smile.
"Tell me about Martin."
A frown creased Nick's forehead and he shifted uneasily in his chair. Did he really want to talk to a total stranger about the man he had loved with all his heart? It had been almost two years since the accident, and still he found it hard to talk about.
Phelps smile was gentle. "It might help."
After another moment's hesitation Nick said, "He saved me. I don't know what I'd have been if I hadn't met him. I was screwing around...you know...into getting laid...trying dumb stuff---"
"Drugs?"
Nick nodded. "Like I said, he saved me. Found me stoned one night. We knew each other from before, but I thought he was too old for me..." He paused to laugh at that. "He was only two years older, but what he was, was mature and sensible---things you couldn't say about me in those days. Anyway, he took me home that night, told me I was killing myself with that shit. He said I was just trying to compensate for my low self-esteem. I moved in and never left. I was always kinda interested in law enforcement, and he encouraged that; supported me while I went to school."
"He sounds like a helluva guy."
"He was---a helluva guy." Nick's voice broke slightly. "You know, I've always tried to come across tougher than I really am. I guess it's my way of dealing with being a gay cop. You put on the fierce look, the intimidating stare-down, and people back off. Martin just used to laugh when I tried that on him."
"That's because he knew you."
"Yeah, he knew me." Nick ran his hand over his eyes, feeling the moisture there. "Sorry..."
Phelps leaned forward, placing his clasped hands on his desk. "When Martin died, did you blame yourself in some way?"
Nick stared at the wall at a point above Phelps' head. "I blamed myself for the shitty way we said goodbye that day. He would have died even if we'd had sex in the car at the airport, but at least I'd have that to remember, instead of the crap I gave him that morning. Then when I got home, he had left a message apologizing to me. I sat there and played that message over and over, and I knew I'd never forgive myself."
"That's what you have to let go, Nick."
"I know, I know." Nick rubbed his face with his hands. "Just before Sam was killed, he broke up with a guy he'd been seeing. I told him he'd get over it and he said, 'You never did,' and he was right. I can't get that memory out of my mind. When we took on the assignment that got Sam and John killed, I was glad of it---the assignment, I mean. I thought that it would help me forget just how miserable my life had become since Martin died. And it did help, for a while. But now it's all come crashing back in on me. Martin gone. Sam gone. It just doesn't make any sense...you know? Like nothing's working out anymore."
"You have to let go of your anger, Nick. Nothing is going to seem right until you do. You're angry because people you held dear have been taken from you. That's understandable, but at some point you have to let go and move on."
"I've tried, Doc, I really have."
Nick fell silent and Norman Phelps let him sit quietly for a moment before he asked, "Have you thought of the future? What you might want to do now?"
Nick nodded. "I've been thinking I might apply for a transfer to New York."
"Why New York?"
"Well, close friends of mine just moved there. Jim Hollister; we were in high school together. He and his wife, Donna, they're like family to me."
"You have a sister..."
"Yeah, Doreen. She won't like it, but she's so wrapped up with her kids and all. I just have this urge to get out and try to start over." He paused for a moment, then seeing the expectant expression on the doctor's face, he continued. "I owe Doreen a lot." He told Phelps some of his family background; about his mother dying when he was still a kid, about his deadbeat father, how Doreen had practically raised him, and how happy he'd been when she had found a good guy to love her. "Best thing that ever happened was when Rich, my brother-in-law, came into her life."
"Is your father still alive?"
"I wouldn't know---and I sure as hell don't care."
"Do you blame him for your mother's death?"
"Well, let me put it this way." Nick's face became grim. "The man never did a day's work in his life after he married my mother. He thought his Irish charm was enough to excuse his laziness and the fact he was a drunk. We had no insurance, and when she got sick, he took off. I think if I ever ran into him...well, let's just say it wouldn't be pretty."
Before he knew it, the session was over and Phelps was scheduling another visit for the following week.
"Doc, thanks." Nick held out his hand. "You must have thought I was a total jerk, earlier."
Phelps took his hand in a warm grip. "What do you mean, 'earlier'?"
His good-natured laugh made Nick smile. "So, a comedian in a shrink's clothing, no less."
"It's been a pleasure, Nick," Phelps told him. "If you need to talk in between times, don't hesitate to call me."
"Thanks."
"Don't forget."
"I won't."
The session with Norman Phelps had brought a lot of what Nick had been hiding for a long time finally to the fore. As he drove away from the doctor's office, he found himself grudgingly acknowledging that talking about the things that still troubled him had indeed been beneficial.
Talking... Something he and Martin had done a lot of over the course of their time together. Open communication, Martin had insisted, was the key to a successful relationship. Partners should be able to share their innermost thoughts---no matter how inconsequential they may seem. It had taken Nick a long time to find his comfort zone in that aspect. Never much of a talker, he had always preferred to listen. That way, he reasoned, he could learn more about people---and who wanted to hear what he had to say anyway? He soon found out that Martin did, as his lover broke down Nick's reticence about voicing an opinion.
"Everyone's voice is important," he'd told Nick, early in their relationship. "I want to know what you think, whether pro or con, whether you agree with me or not. You are important to me, so what goes on in that head of yours is important too."
After Martin's death, Nick had found himself clamming up again, finding it difficult to express himself, and certainly not baring his soul to even his closest friends. Only Sam had he let in, and his friend had listened with compassion and sympathy in his eyes. But now, Sam was gone too...
Nick stopped at a nearby florist's shop and bought a bouquet of red roses. He then drove to the cemetery and checked the directory. He knew, of course, where Sam lay, but had no idea where Joseph had been buried---or if he had even been interred in the same cemetery.
An attendant moved forward asking if he needed help.
"Yeah, I'm looking for the grave of Joseph Garcia. He'd have been buried in the last couple of days, I think."
"Garcia, Joseph..." The attendant ran his finger slowly down one of the pages he'd flipped to. "Yes, he's here." He gave Nick directions to the gravesite. "It's on the west side, Plot 225."
Nick nodded his thanks then walked the short distance to where Sam was buried. The funeral flowers had been laid to one side and the earth freshly raked. As yet, there was no stone, but Nick knew it would read, "Killed in the line of duty." He pulled a couple of the roses from their cellophane wrapper and placed them on the dark brown earth.
"Bye, Sam." His voice caught in his throat. "You know I miss you, buddy. I only wish things could have turned out better for you and Joseph. I know you believed there's something better after this shitty life. Right now, I'd like to believe that too---just so I'd know you and Joseph are together again..."
Nick didn't believe in the "afterlife," though at that very moment he wished he did. Sam had, on occasion, kidded him about it. "Sure now, you being a good Irish Catholic boy, and not believing in Heaven or Hell," he'd joked, his expression full of mischief. "What would your family priest say, begorrah?"
"He'd say he knew I was a lost cause the day I asked him why he was wearing a dress," Nick had replied straight-faced, and Sam had rolled his eyes and said a couple of Hail Marys in mock dismay.
Despite everything, Nick found himself smiling at that memory. "Sam," he whispered, "I really will miss you, buddy."
Carrying the remaining roses, he walked quickly over to the far side of the cemetery where he'd been told he'd find Joseph's grave. He stood staring at the narrow strip of earth surrounded by banks of flowers and for the umpteenth time since Martin died, he found himself thinking how fragile life was and how easily it could all be taken away.
"Sorry Joseph," he said, laying roses on the earth. "Sorry I didn't get to know you better. I was remembering how Sam used to kid me about being a 'heathen.' He said one day I'd find out he was right---and I sure hope he was..."
What a boon to believe that one day all of them would meet again---he and Martin, Sam and Joseph. What a concept, he thought, standing up and making his way through the rows of gravesites.
Just one more stop...
The stone read, "Martin Keller 1967-2001. Loved by everyone who knew him."
"Hey Martin," Nick murmured. He knelt and laid the last of the roses at the base of the stone. "Look, I think I'm going to be leaving Pittsburgh real soon. Too many bad memories here now---and you're not around for me to vent on." He felt the tears prick the back of his eyes. "You understand, don't you? I'm going to New York, try to make a new life. Wish me luck..." For a long time he simply stared at the stone bearing Martin's name, then he bowed his head and let the tears flow.
§ § § §
Nick went forward with his plans to transfer to New York despite the opposition he met from his superiors and his friend Andy Hawkins. Andy could just about understand why Nick wanted to move away. "What with all that's gone down," he'd said. "But, Noo Yawk?"
Nick tried to explain his reasons---his friends Jim and Donna having moved there---but Andy, sounding hurt, had argued with him about those reasons.
"You've got friends here, family too---your sister Doreen, Rich, the kids. You got me and Margo. Who do you know in New York beside those two, huh?" Andy had never liked Jim Hollister's wife Donna, considering her too "uppity," as he called her.
"I'll be fine," Nick had told him. "And I'll call you when I'm in town to see Doreen and the kids. We can get together for a beer..."
Strangely, when his transfer to New York was approved, he'd found it almost as hard to share the news with Norman Phelps as he had with his sister Doreen. He'd ended up liking the guy very much. In each successive visit, he'd felt himself opening up just a bit more, finding it easier to talk about things he'd once considered no one's problem but his own. Just before he left for New York, Nick asked Norman to join him for a drink and was somewhat surprised when the man politely turned him down.
"I thought we'd become friends," Nick told him, trying to hide his disappointment.
"We have, Nick."
"Well?"
"Okay, I'll level with you." Norman stood and walked round his desk to where Nick sat. "Not that this is going to change your mind about leaving, and as you're a patient of mine, I don't have the right to say what I'm about to say."
Nick looked up at him, smiling but puzzled. "What the heck are you talking about?"
Norman knelt down so that his eyes were level with Nick's. "Nick, over the past several weeks, I have grown fond of you---too fond of you. If this was not our last session, I would have to have recommended you start seeing someone else."
"Doc..." Nick looked at him, his eyes widening.
"You don't have to say anything. I know it's way too soon for you to be interested in anyone else---I'm probably not even your type."
"Doc..." Nick said weakly.
"Let me just finish. You're a great guy, Nick. You have your problems, sure, but you're going to be just fine. You'll meet someone, one day, who will make you very happy. I just wish that guy could have been me." He stood up and Nick rose from his seat to face him. Nick remained very still as Norman Phelps put his arms around him and kissed him gently on the lips. "Good luck in New York," he whispered. "Think of me now and then, won't you?"
Laguna Beach: Present day
As Nick had walked from the office to his car that day, he could scarcely believe what had taken place. He figured he had to have been deaf and blind not to have seen Norman's growing affection for him. His confusion was made easier by the fact that he had never seen Dr. Norman Phelps again. They had talked on the phone a couple of times after Nick had moved to New York, but Norman never knew that what he had prophesied had come true. Nick found himself wishing that he had called him to let him know that he had indeed found the guy who made him happy.
"Nick..." Monica's voice on his intercom brought Nick back from the past. "Uh...it's lunchtime. I'll be out for about an hour, if that's OK?"
"Oh, yeah go right ahead, Monica. Thanks." Nick rose from his desk and stretched his stiff muscles. "Been sitting way too long," he muttered to himself. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that it was indeed lunchtime. He punched the number for the gallery and smiled as he listened to Eric's mellow voice.
"Peter Brandon's Gallery. How may I help you?"
"Let me count the ways," Nick said, his voice low and husky.
"Hi. You must be hungry."
"Am I that predictable?"
"Only when you're hungry," Eric replied, chuckling. "Wanna meet for a bite?"
"Uh huh. Only, I'm expecting a call. Can you pick something up and bring it over?"
"Hmm. Well, I did have this other invitation to lunch at the Ritz-Carlton---but gee, you make your offer sound so much more inviting. So, I'll be right there!"
"Thanks, Eric. I'll show how grateful I am when you get here."
"That's why I love you. See you in a few."
Nick was smiling as he put the phone down and walked over to the window, throwing it open and breathing in the fresh, slightly salty air. Nick liked living in Laguna Beach, even though it was as different from Pittsburgh and New York as it could possibly be. He missed his friends, Jim and Donna, Andy and his wife Margo, and he missed his sister Doreen, her husband Rich, and their kids. But he had friends here in Laguna; more importantly, he had Eric, and that made everything all right. He thought Norman Phelps would be happy for him.
He turned away from the window as the phone rang. Glancing at the ID screen he grunted. "Hey Tom, whatcha got for me?"
"So, here's the scoop." Tom's voice sounded even more nasal than usual. "Garcia had help on the inside."
"Figures."
"Yeah, two guards from all accounts. They're up on charges already, dumb schmucks. One of them said Garcia was heading for Florida, trying to get to Puerto Rico, but word is he's still in Pennsylvania. Cops have the roads and airports under surveillance."
"You talk to Andy?"
"Yeah. He's shipped the wife and kids out, and he's pretty much living at the precinct."
"I'm glad he took this seriously."
"He had no choice, Chief's orders till Garcia's caught. So that's all I got, but I'm still working on it."
"Thanks, Tom."
"So, you like it out there in Caleefornia?"
Nick chuckled at Tom's take on Arnold, the Governor. "Yeah, it's good."
"Okay. I'll be in touch."
§ § § §
Pittsburgh: Same day
Francisco Garcia looked carefully at his companion, and then at his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced with satisfaction. The disguises they had been provided with were perfect. It changed them sufficiently enough that either one could escape detection by even the most keen-eyed cop or airport official. Now he was free to carry out what he had sworn to do every day of his captivity. He would avenge his son Joseph's death, and he would set Alfredo free. He knew that the tasks he had set for himself would take every ounce of his cunning and ingenuity---but the need for revenge burned deep in his heart and had done so since the day his son had died. He still blamed himself for Joseph's death. For the past three years, as he had festered within the confines of the state penitentiary, he had suffered the deep remorse of having put his son in harm's way.
If only he had not insisted the boy accompany him to the meeting on that fateful day. He had never asked him to do that before; he had always kept Joseph apart from the necessary negotiations that were an integral part of his "business." But Joseph had become rebellious and distant and had to be brought to heel. Perhaps, Garcia had thought, it was time for him to understand where the money that paid for his education and good life came from. It would do him good to see what his father and brother had to face in order to provide all that he took for granted.
Garcia winced now as those memories jarred in his mind. He turned to the third person in the room. "You have the IDs?" he asked, looking at the shabbily dressed man who stood watching him, a wary look in his eyes.
Frank Costello, a diminutive figure with a nervous tic in his left eye, shuffled toward Garcia holding out a dirty envelope. For many years, Costello had been employed by a major film studio as a make-up artist. His mastery of the craft had made him one of the most sought after men in the business, but years of alcoholism had eventually rendered him unemployable. Now he peddled his talent to felons on the run, far from the glamour of Hollywood.
"Everything you need is in here," he said, his eye fluttering madly. "You have my money?"
Garcia slid the fake driver's licenses from the envelope and scrutinized them with care, then nodded with satisfaction. "You do good work." Costello smirked and held out his hand. Garcia tucked the envelope into his inside pocket, then pulled out a handgun and shot Costello in the forehead. Quickly, he stepped over the fallen man's crumpled body. Signaling for his companion to leave ahead of him, he turned off the light and left the room. Running down the stairs to the street, he threw himself into the black Saturn parked outside and drove away, heading toward Centre Avenue.
§ § § §
From inside the Saturn, Garcia had a clear view across the street to the police headquarters' entrance. He sat patiently waiting, watching the comings and goings of police officers, civilian employees, parole officers, and the many complainants and detainees that spilled in and out of the police station. He wondered if he would immediately recognize the man he wanted. It had been a long time since he had last seen Hawkins, but he felt the man's face was forever imprinted in his memory. And, of course, the other one. Fallon---the maricón---the queer. He had moved to California, but that would not save him. Garcia's mouth lifted in a cruel smile, his eyes glittering as he saw Andy Hawkins, flanked by two detectives, get out of a car on the other side of the street and enter the precinct.
Perfect. He picked up his gun, already equipped with its silencer, and stepped out of the car. He walked with a quickening pace across the street and up the steps, pushing through the doors and into the congested lobby. His eyes quickly scanned the crowd ahead of him. He could see Hawkins talking with the two detectives who had accompanied him into the building. Beside them, an overweight blonde woman was arguing with a man---presumably her husband.
Garcia did not hesitate. Striding forward, he pretended to stumble, pushing the overweight woman up against one of the detectives. With startled cries, they both crashed to the ground.
"What the fuck---?"
Hawkins started to laugh at the sight of his friend floundering under the weight of the woman. Few people heard the pop of the gun that sent two bullets into Andy Hawkins' chest and stomach. He fell forward onto the fat woman's back, staining her white sweatshirt with the blood that now poured from his wounds. People were staring, some were laughing, so it took many seconds before anyone realized just what had happened. It wasn't until Andy's body rolled off the fat woman, revealing his blood soaked clothing that the screaming started. Immediate chaos broke out, with people trying to escape through the precinct doors, and cops swarming everywhere endeavoring to restore order. In all that confusion, no one even noticed Garcia, who had already slipped out and was driving away from the scene.
Coasting down a darkened Liberty Avenue, his lips parted in a parody of a smile, Garcia sent a silent prayer to the blessed Virgin for her help in sending one more of his son's killers to the fires of Hell. Now, only one remained, and soon, Joseph's soul would be appeased.
§ § § §
Laguna Beach:
Nick stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off then pulled on a terry robe that hung on the bathroom door. He padded out into the bedroom still rubbing a towel over his hair.
"Hey Nick," Eric called from the living room. "Better come watch this."
"What's up?" He poked his head round the bedroom door.
"There's some kind of live report from Pittsburgh. Looks like a shooting at the police precinct."
Nick sank down onto the couch next to Eric, his eyes glued to the TV screen. Even before the newscaster said the words, he knew what had happened.
"Oh no," he whispered as Andy's image appeared on the screen.
"Detective Andy Hawkins was gunned down by an unknown assailant today in front of his fellow officers and approximately upwards of twenty witnesses, yet no one could identify the shooter." The reporter, yelling into his microphone, looked bug-eyed with disbelief at his own statement.
"According to those looking on, there was some kind of altercation and when it was over, Detective Hawkins was found shot in the chest and stomach. He was pronounced dead at the scene."
Nick was aware of Eric moving closer to him. "Was he a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"Eric---" Nick grasped his arm. "You have to get out of here."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"It's not safe for you to be around me right now." Nick tightened his grip on Eric's arm causing him to wince. "The guy who shot Andy is going to come looking for me. I can't have you in the line of fire. You have to go. Maybe Andrew and Dave can put you up for a while. I'll call them right now---"
"Nick, stop!" Eric pried Nick's fingers from his arm. "You're not making any sense. How do you know who killed your friend? The report said an unknown assailant."
"I know who killed Andy. It's a guy called Francisco Garcia. He escaped from Penn State Prison a couple of days ago."
"But why would he be after you?"
"Because four years ago, I was part of an operation that put him away. The guy's been on death row for three years, Eric. Some bastards helped him escape and now he's already gotten to Andy. Jesus!" He leaned back into the couch and stared at the wall, his mind churning with anxiety. "Eric, I have to get you out of here. He's not going to stop until he's tried to kill me too."
"Then I'm not leaving you," Eric said with a quiet firmness. "If you think I could do that when some maniac is threatening your life, you don't know me very well."
"Eric," Nick groaned. He took Eric's hand in his own. "Please listen to me. Things went really wrong when we went in to arrest Garcia and his cronies. His youngest son was shot and killed. Two of the men I worked with were also killed. But that wasn't enough for Garcia. He vowed to get Andy and me---right there in the courtroom he made a vow to avenge his son's death. He meant every word he said, Eric. And Andy, with all the protection in the world, is dead. Unknown assailant---you see how clever he is? They didn't even see him come into the precinct, or leave. He's probably on his way here right now."
"But surely the cops will be watching the airports for any sign of him," Eric protested.
"I'm sure they are, but like I said, Garcia is clever. He knows where the cops will be watching for him."
"So he can't get on a plane."
"Not a commercial flight, for sure."
"You mean he could charter a private plane," Eric said. "But since 9/11 all those flights are carefully monitored. You just can't fly out of a major airport without the proper clearance."
"Right, but there's a bunch of private airfields he could use. Believe me, Garcia has connections everywhere. There's nothing he can't get hold of when he wants it."
Eric was quiet for a moment or two then he said, "If that's true, why has he waited this long to get his revenge? Why didn't he just arrange a hit on you and Andy?"
"Because it was his son, Joseph, who was killed that day. Word was he loved that boy more than his own life. He has to do the job himself in order to feel that Joseph has been totally avenged."
"God," Eric whispered, then louder said, "but I'm still not leaving you."
Nick's expression turned dark. "You have to, Eric."
"No."
"Eric!" Nick rose from the couch and paced with frustration. "Don't fight me on this, please. I can't protect you every minute of the day. I'm going to tell Monica to take some time off in case Garcia shows up at the office. I will not have anyone else in danger. Do you understand?"
Eric stood to face him, tears stinging his eyes. "Nick, I can't leave you on your own."
"Believe me, you'll be doing us both a favor."
"How can you say that?"
"Because on my own, I only have my own back to watch. If I have to worry about him seeing you here with me---"
"But if he's so well-connected," Eric interrupted, "don't you think he knows about that already?"
"He may not. He didn't know Joseph was gay."
"Huh?" Eric wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "How did you know?"
"Sam Valance, one of the detectives who was killed that day, was having an affair with the kid."
"Wow...and Garcia didn't know this?" Eric smirked slightly. "Maybe he's not as clever as you think."
"Fathers tend to not want to see that in their sons."
Eric nodded. "Right. Anyway, I'm still not leaving."
Nick's shoulders slumped with despair. "Eric, please."
"Even 'pretty please' won't do it." Eric put his arms around Nick and held him tight. "I love you, Nick, and I will not leave you to face this alone. We've been in tight spots together, before. Two against one are better odds, don't you think?"
"You don't know what this guy is capable of," Nick said, his voice muffled against Eric's hair. "This isn't some over-the-top moron like that joker, Lefevre, we tangled with last year. This guy is cold and calculating." He could not suppress a shudder as he thought of Garcia coming anywhere close to Eric. "Please go stay with Andrew and David, just for a few days."
Before Nick could say anything more, his head jerked toward the sound of his cell phone ringing in the bedroom where he'd left it. He pulled away from Eric. "I have to take that," he muttered, striding into the bedroom and picking up his phone.
"Nick Fallon."
"Nick, it's Tom. You seen the news 'bout Andy?"
"Yes."
"Tough break. Garcia of course, though no one saw him enter or leave. So, here's the thing..." Tom paused to blow his nose. "Some retired makeup artist into supplying disguises and fake ID's was found dead a couple of hours ago. Shot in the head. Coincidence?"
"Probably not," Nick said. "You're thinking Garcia?" The silence on the other end was the answer Nick expected. "So, he's disguised and has a fake ID. He could be anywhere by now."
"I'm thinking on a plane headed for California," Tom said. "Look out for yourself, Nick."
"Yeah, thanks Tom."
Eric, who had followed Nick into the bedroom, watched him as he threw his cell phone onto the bed. Nick met his eyes and shrugged. "Well, he's most likely on his way here."
"How could he get through without the police seeing him?"
"He's disguised, and has fake ID."
"So it's that easy?" Eric asked in disbelief. "You just put on a false beard, dye your hair and you can fool all of Pittsburgh's finest?"
"I told you, Garcia is clever---very clever, Eric. His disguise will be anything but obvious. Now, will you call Andrew and tell him you need to stay for a while? Just don't tell him why."
"Nick, I can't do this. I can't leave you alone."
"Okay, Eric." Nick stared at him, his eyes hard as flint. "I'm only going to ask you one more time. If you don't do what I ask, then we're through."
"What?"
"You heard me. If you can't respect me enough to do what I think is best for you, for me, for the both of us, then I don't want you in my life anymore."
"Nick!" Eric looked at him, fury in his eyes. "You're twisting this around. Of course, I respect you. Why would you even question that?"
"Then do what I'm telling you to!" Nick all but thundered at him. "Stop being a stubborn little prick and call Andrew---now."
"All right!" Eric yelled back, ashen-faced. "You win, Mr. Macho-man. Have it your way. But if you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you. You hear me?" Shaking with emotion, he picked the nightstand phone, punching in Andrew's speed dial number. "Hi Andrew, it's Eric."
"Hey, Eric..." Andrew's voice held concern. "You sound upset."
"Nick and I just had a major fight. He's being an asshole. D'you think I could crash with you guys for a couple of days? I just need to get away from here right now."
"Of course. How serious is it?"
"Serious. You don't mind?"
"Of course not. Come on over. The sooner he misses you, the better."
Despite himself, Eric smiled. "You're the best, Andrew. I'll be right there." He hung up and turned to face Nick. "Happy now?"
"Eric, don't be mad. You know I'm only doing this---"
"Because you love me," Eric finished for him. "I know." He stepped into Nick's embrace. "Oh my God, please be careful, Nick, please..."
Nick silenced him with a long, hard kiss. When it was over, they managed to smile at each other. "So," Nick whispered, "I'm being an asshole?"
"Sorry." Eric looked contrite for a moment then a sly smile flitted across his face. "Maybe before I go...?" He slipped his hand inside Nick's robe, gently teasing Nick's right nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Nick shucked off his robe and pressed his naked body to Eric's, holding him in a fierce embrace. Their lips came together in a bruising kiss, tongues sweeping inside each other's mouths, swirling, probing, leaving no part of their moist heat untouched.
Nick pulled at Eric's shirt, ripped at the waistband of his shorts, pausing only so Eric could step out of them, then sank to his knees to take Eric's hard and throbbing cock into his mouth, sucking the pulsing flesh all the way to the back of his throat. Eric writhed and moaned, his fingers tangling in Nick's thick, dark brown hair as Nick's big hands cupped the round swell of Eric's butt, his middle finger sliding into the cleft, pushing gently at the puckered hole, causing Eric to gasp.
"You have to fuck me, Nick," he panted. "Want to feel that hard cock of yours deep inside me."
Nick released Eric's erection and stood up. He gathered Eric in his arms then lowered him onto the bed, covering his naked body with his own, their hard dicks moving over one another with a slow, sensuous rhythm. Nick reached for the lube, coated his fingers then inserted first one, then two into Eric's tight hole. Eric groaned and wrapped his arms around Nick's neck, his legs around Nick's lean torso, lifting his hips as Nick withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the head of his rock-hard shaft. He pushed in slowly, his eyes locked on Eric's, his breath catching in his chest as he slid into Eric's heat.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Oh yeah, you feel so wonderful right there."
Nick could still remember with thrilling clarity the first time he had fucked Eric without protection. After both of them had tested negative for over a year, they had made the decision to dispense with condoms, and that first time had been an experience neither man would forget. Just like then, the almost wanton-like smile on Eric's face told him that they both shared this rapture. That every slow thrust he made into Eric's hot core brought his lover the same mind-blowing sensations he felt in every particle of his body.
"Oh babe..." His voice sound thick to his ears. "You are so fucking beautiful when you smile at me like that."
Eric's hands slid down the length of Nick's back, caressing each taut, straining muscle on the way. His smile deepened as he cupped Nick's butt, pulling him in and at the same time pushing his own hips higher, taking Nick balls deep inside.
"And you are truly fucking sensational," he whispered, licking his lower lip.
Nick stared at the soft glistening flesh and groaned, plundering Eric's mouth with long, hot sweeps of his tongue, while his cock now thrust harder, faster, the rhythm perfect, each push of his pelvis bringing moans and whimpers from Eric. The feel of his cock sliding back and forth inside Eric's silken heat was enough to bring him to the edge.
And even closer when Eric's lips touched his ear with an urgent whisper. "Oh Jesus, Nick, gonna come." He stared up at Nick, his eyes wide, as if in wonder. His arms tightened around Nick, his body spasmed and convulsed as he came, shooting a stream of cum between their torsos.
Nick's own orgasm gathered in his balls. He buried his face in the hollow of Eric's neck as his body suddenly stilled, every muscle stiff with tension, then he arched, plunged even deeper until, with a muffled cry, he exploded inside Eric. Stars spun in front of his eyes, dizzying in their blinding intensity.
"You are incredible..." Nick stretched his body slowly over Eric's, covering his jaw, his throat, his chest with kisses.
Eric stirred in his arms, his lips brushing Nick's. "I love you," he whispered.
Nick figured Garcia would not waste any time in trying to track him down. Early next morning, he went to the office and had all calls transferred to his cell phone. He had already called Monica, his secretary, and told her not to go anywhere near the office until he contacted her again.
"I'll check in with you every day on your cell," he told her. "If by any chance you hear from Jeff, don't put up any red flags. Okay?"
"Okay, Nick. D'you want to tell me what this is all about?"
"No. Not until it's over. The less you know right now the better, believe me."
He called Joe French at the Los Angeles Police Department and apprised him of the situation. It wouldn't hurt to have some official backup. Joe was a close friend of Jeff's and ready to do as much as he could to help.
"Why'd you figure Garcia was on his way to California?" he asked Nick, surprised at the news.
"I'm next in line, Joe." Nick was blunt in his explanation. "Andy Hawkins was my partner. I'm the only one still alive that Garcia swore to kill. He's not going to be easy to find. He's disguised and carrying fake ID. I don't know if I'd know him right now."
"Jeez," Joe muttered. "Maybe you should talk to the OC Police Department and get some protection?"
"Uh, uh...that didn't do Andy any good. Garcia got to him in a room crowded with cops. I'm better off covering my own back."
"Well, good luck Nick. Meanwhile, I'll alert security at LAX."
Before he left the office, Nick checked LAX and San Diego Airport for arrivals from Pittsburgh. If Garcia was using a commercial flight, United had one arriving at 8:35am and American at 9:20am at LAX. It was still more likely though, Nick thought, that he would use a private plane and some out of the way airfield to avoid any chance of being spotted. Whatever method he used, it didn't really matter. His arrival was inevitable and Nick knew he had better be prepared for it if he was going to survive the next couple of days. He drove from the office, through downtown Laguna and along Forest, checking out Peter's gallery. He was gratified to see the door was open and the lights were on. Though sorely tempted, Nick did not stop to say hello to Eric. In his mind, it was imperative for the time being to keep as much distance between the two of them as he could. Garcia must not see that connection.
He drove down to Dana Point, parked the car, then walked at a leisurely pace through the Marina. This was one of his most favorite places. Soon after he and Eric had moved to Laguna, Nick had found this spot to be a salve to his soul. Whenever things got problematic at the office, some case was proving to be particularly troublesome, he would drive down here by himself and spend time watching the boats or wandering through the small shops, stopping to have a coffee, and just generally chill out. Here, he found it easier to think things through. Eric and he had often talked of getting a boat and renting a slip so that they could take it out at weekends or whenever they had the time. Thus far, they had got no further than looking at ads in the Sundays.
"Maybe when this is over," he muttered to himself, sitting down on a wooden bench near the fish restaurant he and Eric liked. He had a sudden mental picture of himself at the helm of their sailboat, and Eric, looking really cute in white shorts, running up the rigging. Eric. God, but he had missed him last night.
"Damn," he said aloud, startling a young woman pushing a stroller in front of him. She gave him a wary glance and picked up a little speed in order to distance herself from him. He gave himself a shake and tried to focus on what he was going to do if and when Garcia confronted him. Chances are there would be no confrontation. Garcia's modus operandi was to shoot and disappear, not giving the other guy the opportunity to defend himself. Still, he had a sneaking feeling that because he was the last remaining target, Garcia might just want to take a deal of pleasure in his execution. That was why it had been so important to get Eric out of the way.
There was no doubt in his mind that Garcia knew how to find him. He wasn't about to fly three thousand miles and then look in a phone book. He would also, no doubt, know of Nick's association with Jeff Stevens. For all Nick knew, he could have already checked out both the office and the apartment. Instinctively, he reached inside his bomber jacket, finding comfort in the feel of his gun resting in its shoulder holster. Time to go, he thought. Time to find out if his worst fears were to be realized. Time to face the devil. High noon---except it was closer to three in the afternoon. He stood, then sat down again as his cell phone rang.
"Nick Fallon."
"Nick..." The woman's voice was filled with pain.
"Margo? I'm sorry. I meant to call you soon as I heard the news."
"How could it happen, Nick? How could he get past all those people and manage to kill Andy?" Her voice was thick with her tears. "I just don't understand it, Nick."
He had no answers and gave none. "I'm so sorry, Margo. How're you holding up?" he asked awkwardly.
"Not so good. The kids are devastated. His mother is screaming. God, Nick, I always thought I was prepared for this---being a cop's wife. It was always there on the cards, but when it happens---" She broke off and he could hear her muffled sobs, then she asked, "You comin' out? The funeral's Friday."
Nick bowed his head, feeling slightly ashamed. "Yeah, I'll be there. I'll call you from Doreen's."
"Thanks Nick. I'll see you then."
"Yeah. Bye, Margo."
He closed his cell phone and leaned against the bench's hard wooden back. He had not made any plans to fly to Pittsburgh for the funeral. Had he been trying to avoid it? Or had he just been too caught up in trying to protect Eric and figure out Garcia's next move? But, of course, this would be his next move. He'd be waiting for Nick to show at the funeral. He didn't have to fly to California to finish what he had started. He'd simply wait.
This is what Garcia would want. Nick, back on his old turf---the last sacrifice to complete his son's revenge. Well, if that's what he wants, that's what he'll get, Nick thought, his jaw set in a grim line. At least this way, he won't be coming near Eric.
As he drove north on Coast Highway, his cell phone rang again.
"Nick Fallon."
"Nick, it's Tom. So, the news is, it looks like our friend has dropped outta sight."
Nick slowed as he neared the congested intersection with Crown Valley Parkway. "What do you mean?"
"No one seems to know his whereabouts. I've checked every reliable source and come up with nothing. Maybe he's lying low?"
"That doesn't sound like Garcia. He doesn't care if he's caught after he gets what he wants---namely getting rid of Andy and me."
"Well, I tend to agree, but maybe after three years in the slammer he's not anxious to go back. Could be he's heading for Puerto Rico."
"I'd like to believe that," Nick said, easing his car through the press of traffic.
"Word is, he won't be happy till his son, Alfredo, is free. He might be working on that."
"Mmm..." Nick wasn't convinced.
"You comin' out for Andy's funeral?"
"Yeah. I talked to Margo and told her I'd be there."
A pause. "Right. Okay, take it easy, Nick."
"Will do."
A car he didn't recognize was parked in Eric's space outside their apartment. Parking was always a headache round the area they lived in, but it still pissed Nick off that someone would just blatantly park in a designated space. He looked with disgust at the beat-up Volkswagen as he climbed the stairs to their apartment, then froze as he saw the front door was slightly open.
Had he been wrong in assuming Garcia wouldn't come to California? Had Tom given him bad information? Had Garcia perhaps sent someone else to make the hit? All his police training kicked in as he stepped back from the door and pulled his gun from its shoulder holster. Taking a deep breath and pushing the door open, the gun held in front of him, he quickly entered the apartment. It took him a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the half-light that filtered through the living room window blinds, but as he crouched low, scouring the room, his gun at the ready, he could see no sign of an intruder. He breathed just a little more easily as he stood upright and walked down the hall toward the bedroom. Had he forgotten to close and lock the door when he left that morning? Entirely possible, his mind had been filled with so much.
Then he heard it. A soft noise from the bedroom---the sound of a drawer being opened. Shit, he thought. He's in there. Every muscle in his body coiled and sprang to attention as he kicked the bedroom door open.
"Freeze!" he yelled.
The startled yelp that answered him was not at all what he had expected. "Nick, it's me!"
"Eric---for fuck's sake. I almost killed you. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I live here, remember?"
"You're supposed to be at Andrew's." Nick realized he was trembling. Jesus, he'd come so close...
"I needed some clean underwear." Eric stared at Nick, his eyes widening as he became aware of what had almost happened. "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry."
"Why didn't you call and tell me?"
"I tried, but your cell was busy."
"Where's your car?"
"I walked up from the gallery."
Nick nodded, holstering his gun, feeling drained and vaguely foolish.
"I'm sorry, Nick," Eric said again, seeing his lover's obvious distress.
"No, don't be. You didn't know." Nick sat down on the bed. "I was just on the phone with Tom---"
"Tom?"
"Yeah. He's a guy I knew in Pittsburgh, helped me out a few times. Anyway, he seems to think Garcia might be headed for Puerto Rico."
"That's good, isn't it?" Eric sat beside him on the bed.
"If it's a fact." Nick put his hand on the back of Eric's neck and caressed it gently. "I'm flying to Pittsburgh tonight for Andy's funeral. I'll be back in a couple of days."
Eric leaned his head on Nick's shoulder. "Please be careful," he whispered. "I should come with you."
"You can't leave the gallery. I don't want the guys to know something's wrong. I told Monica just to tell them I'd be out of town on business for a couple of days. If they knew there was a problem, they'd cut their trip short and---"
"Don't worry, I won't say anything."
"There's nothing they could do, anyway. The ball is in Garcia's court. I just have to play the waiting game."
"But if he's still in Pittsburgh---" Eric looked at him with sudden alarm. "He might figure you'd come for the funeral."
"There'll be a hundred cops at that funeral, Eric. Garcia would need an army to get to me there." He drew Eric into his arms. "Please stay with Andrew and David until I get back. It'll be easier for me, while I'm gone, if I know you're there with them."
"Okay..."
Nick smiled and kissed Eric's lips. "I missed you last night."
"Missed you too," Eric murmured, unbuttoning Nick's shirt and peeling it back over his shoulders. He lowered his head to Nick's chest, his lips fastening on a nipple, sucking gently, his tongue swirling round the small stiffening point.
Nick shuddered as he gave in to the sensation that flooded over him like hot fire. Aching with desire, he fell back on the bed, pulling Eric on top of him. Their mouths met in a hot and hungry kiss. Feverish hands tugged at each other's clothing, lips and tongues laving each other's skin.
"Oh my God, Nick---" Eric's voice was filled with love and fear. "I would die if anything happened to you."
"Sssh..." Nick soothed him, holding him in a fierce embrace. "Nothing's gonna happen, I promise." His mouth found Eric's again, his tongue sliding between his lover's parted lips, into his moist, welcoming warmth. Their lovemaking was bittersweet, for even as they consummated that love for one another, neither of them could completely erase the feeling of the inherent danger that surrounded them.
§ § § §
Andrew and David were just finishing dinner when Eric returned after taking Nick to the airport. "Hey guys," he muttered, dropping down into a chair at the table. He looked across at his two friends, who stared back at him, their expressions filled with concern. Eric felt a surge of affection for them, knowing that they truly cared for his and Nick's well being.
Early on in their friendship, Eric had felt a strong bond with Andrew and David. To him, they were role models. As disparate as they appeared to be physically, being at either end of the ethnic gene pool, Andrew with his corn-fed wholesomeness and David darkly Italian, they nevertheless looked like they belonged together. After almost ten years, they still remained affectionate and loving toward one another. He had never heard either one criticize the other, except in jest, and Eric had been extremely impressed with David when he gave up a lucrative job in New York on discovering that Andrew truly hated it there. Eric had determined that his relationship with Nick would be as strong and loving as theirs.
"There's some leftovers in the oven, if you're hungry," Andrew said, touching his hand.
"No thanks. What I'd really like is a beer."
"Things still rough with you and Nick?" David asked, getting up from the table.
"No, actually everything's fine." Eric smiled, remembering what had passed between them only hours before. "Uh, no, it's just that I'm really worried about this Garcia character." He paused as David handed him a beer. "Thanks, Dave. Nick's gone to Pittsburgh for his friend's funeral and I have a bad feeling about it. Garcia seems to be capable of just about anything. Being able to walk into a crowded police station, gun down a cop and then just vanish, is just plain scary. Nick says there'll be hundreds of cops at the Andy's funeral, but that didn't stop Garcia before."
As Eric chugged his beer down, Andrew and David exchanged worried glances, then Andrew said, "You know Nick can take care of himself. He's been in tight spots before..."
"I know, and we've been there with him in some of them. But this feels different. Garcia is a lethal killer on a vendetta."
"What does he have against Nick?" David asked.
"He blames him for the death of his son. The kid was caught in the crossfire of a shootout. According to Nick, the son was having an affair with one of the cops involved in the raid."
"Wow," Andrew murmured. "Did the father know that?"
"Apparently not." Eric frowned as he thought that over. "Jeez, if he ever found that out, he'd probably go even more ballistic. He sounds deranged, but Nick says he's clever---and to me, that sounds like an even more dangerous combination."
David's dark, brooding eyes were filled with concern as he looked at Eric. "No wonder you're worried. I wish there was something we could do to help."
"Just being here for us means a lot, David." Eric smiled at them both. "Peter always says you're the best friends anyone could have. He was right about that."
"We're just glad you and Nick decided to move out here," Andrew said. "When we all met in New York I wanted us to become good friends, and we would have even if you'd stayed there---but having you both here just makes it so much easier."
David nodded in agreement. "And we know it's easy for us to tell you not to worry, but believe me, we know that if either one of us was in that same predicament we'd be just where you are now---and you'd be trying to console us."
"When does Nick get back?" Andrew asked.
"Saturday, I think. He's going to call. I hope you don't mind my staying till then. He said he'd feel easier knowing I'm with you guys."
"Stay as long as you like," David told him.
"We'll feel easier, too," Andrew said. "There's just one condition," he added, getting up from the table and heading for the kitchen.
"What's that?"
"You have to eat my cooking when I say so!"
Pittsburg:
After he'd made a plane reservation for early the next morning, Nick had called his sister, Doreen, to let her know he'd be in town for the funeral. She had wanted him to stay with her, but Nick had nixed the idea. He would never feel comfortable staying with his sister's family, knowing that Garcia just might be watching every move he made.
The cab, pulling up in front of him, brought him out of his reverie. "Marriott, Downtown," he told the cabbie, climbing into the back seat. He sat, gazing from the window, at a town that had once meant home to him, and, he supposed, because of Doreen and Rich, a small part of him would always belong here. Looking out at the familiar streets and buildings, he felt a deep longing for things to be as they once were. The cab surfaced from the Fort Pitt Tunnel and cruised down Liberty Avenue. Nick, looking out through the cab window, recognized some of the familiar bars he'd frequented in his youth. Liberty Avenue had gained a certain amount of notoriety through the TV series "Queer as Folk," though Nick had had to disappoint his friends in California by explaining that the real Liberty wasn't anything like the one portrayed on television.
The cabbie turned onto Penn Avenue and stopped outside the hotel. After the cab pulled away, Nick stood looking around him, knowing that only a few blocks away was the police station where he, Sam and Andy had once worked---and where Andy had been shot dead only a couple of nights before. He wondered if Garcia was watching him now, if the man had tracked him from the airport---or was all this just his own paranoia. Maybe Garcia had left town, figuring his job done and moving on to more important things than killing Nick Fallon. Somehow, he doubted that. With a shrug of his shoulders, he made his way across the hotel foyer and checked in.
He called his sister and left the hotel phone number and his room number on her answering machine. He lay down on the bed and called Eric to let him know he'd arrived safely. They talked for a while, Nick assuring him that he was fine and he was just going to take a nap.
"What about when you go out?" Eric couldn't quite keep the tremor from his voice. "Do you have someone to go with you?"
"Eric, don't worry..."
"But I am worried, Nick. I'll be worried till you're back safe. I miss you already..."
"I miss you too. Just relax, babe. I'll be back in a couple of days. Love you."
"Love you, too."
After he put the phone down, he turned on the television and closed his eyes. He must have drifted off, for he was suddenly brought to alertness by an insistent knocking at his door. The room was dark. He turned on the light by the bed and glanced at his watch. He must have been asleep for over two hours. The knocking continued, then a voice, "Nick?" He hurried to the door and swung it open.
"Rich? What're you doing here?"
His brother-in-law grinned at him. "Some greeting that is!"
"Sorry, come on in."
"We got your message," Rich said, giving Nick a hug. "I thought I'd stop by and take you to dinner." He stepped back and looked Nick over. "You look beat."
"I just woke up..."
"So, this is not so good, huh?" Rich looked around the room as he spoke, his good-natured face creased with concern. "You have some protection?"
"No." Nick sat on the bed and Rich sat beside him. "What good did protection do for Andy?"
"How's Eric?"
"He's fine. Worried, now he knows about Garcia being on the loose. I just talked to him."
"We're all worried, Nick. That's why I'm here, to keep you company." He pulled a bottle of Scotch from his coat pocket. "I brought us some refreshments," he said with a grin.
Nick took the bottle and poured two generous shots. They clinked glasses. "Just like old times," Rich said after he'd drained his glass.
"Take it easy, brother-in-law." Nick grinned at him. "I do not want my big sister blaming me for getting you soused."
"No chance." Rich poured himself another shot. "You know me. Where d'you wanna eat?"
"I think Deluca's, if they're still there."
"Still there." Rich stood up. "Let's go then. I'm starved."
Deluca's, a family owned Italian restaurant in downtown Pittsburgh, had been a favorite haunt of Nick's, along with what seemed half of the Pittsburgh police force. Now, as he and Rich entered the warm and boisterous atmosphere the restaurant provided, he recognized a few familiar faces.
"Hey, Nick!" The call came from a corner table where two couples were seated. As he and Rich found a table, he acknowledged the caller with a wave of recognition.
"A cop?" Rich asked.
"Yeah. Danny Villiers."
Villiers, slim and dapper, rose from his table and approached them, hand outstretched. "Good to see you, Nick. Sorry for what brings you back, though."
Nick took his hand. "Hi, Danny. Danny, this is Rich, my brother-in-law." The two men shook hands, then Danny sat with them.
"I won't hold you up. I just wanted to let you know that Garcia's been apprehended."
Nick gaped at him. "You're shittin' me!"
"No. 'Bout two hours ago. He was tryin' to get on a plane. They're holding him overnight then sending him back to the State pen in the morning."
Rich beamed at Nick. "Oh man, that's good news. You got nothing to worry about now."
"Yeah..." Danny grinned at him. "I thought that would make your day." He squeezed Nick's shoulder. "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow at the funeral."
Nick nodded and watched as Danny returned to his table. He turned to look at Rich. "I would have bet that Garcia would never have been caught this easy." He shook his head. "Shows what I know."
"But that's great, Nick." Rich's warm brown eyes glinted with relief. "Doreen can stop worrying herself sick."
"Right." Nick pulled out his cell phone. "I'll call her right now and let her know."
"Better call Eric too," Rich prompted him,
Nick flicked a smile at his brother-in-law. "Hey Doreen, Nick. Pretty good, I'm at Deluca's with Rich. One of the guys here told me they got Garcia all locked up again. So you can relax. Yeah, you bet it's good news. Okay, I'll call you in the morning. Bye..." He caught the waiter's eye and ordered a bottle of red wine. "What's the special tonight?" he asked.
"Lasagna," the waiter said. "And it's terrific."
"I'll have that...Rich?"
"Make that two."
The waiter nodded and left to get their wine.
"Eric," Rich said.
Nick chuckled. "You wanna call him and give him the good news?"
Rich reddened. "No. I'm just tryin' to keep you on track, you know?"
"I know..." He smiled as he speed-dialed his home number. "Eric, it's me. We just heard they got Garcia back in the pokey. Uh, huh...Yeah, it sure is. Hey, someone here wants to say hi." He passed the phone to Rich, who looked at him wide-eyed.
"Uh... Hi Eric, it's Rich. How are you? I'm good... She's good...yeah, and the kids. Mmhmm... Well, don't be a stranger. Come out and see us. Yeah, anytime, you know that. Okay, here's Nick."
As Nick closed his cell phone after talking some more with Eric, Rich fixed him with a beady-eyed look. "Why'd you do that?"
"I figured Eric would be happier knowing you were here with me."
"Oh." Rich was quiet for a moment. "I thought you were just razzin' me."
Nick looked up as the waiter delivered their wine and poured two glasses. "Lasagna will be right here," he told them then went to bus the table next to them.
"So you and Eric, you're doin' good?"
"Very good, Rich, thanks for asking."
"You still miss Martin, sometimes?"
"I'll always miss him, Rich." Nick's smile was tinged with sadness. "Some people just make a huge impression on your life. One that changes you, and you can never forget. I know you thought the world of him."
"Yeah." Rich looked down at his wineglass as he spoke. "Sometimes I think about him and how he made it easy for me---you know, not knowing any gay guys 'til I met you and him. How I had all these preconceived ideas about how you'd be. Doreen told me I was going to like you when we met, and I didn't believe her for one minute, and then, that first time---" He looked at Nick and smiled. "Remember? We were all at Joe's bar. I was so damned nervous meeting Doreen's little brother, who I thought was going to be some prissy schmuck who wasn't going to like me and try to cause problems with Doreen and me. I knew you were a cop and I just couldn't put the two together, you know. A gay cop---what was that about? I always thought gays were hairdressers, designers and such. Then you and Martin walked into the bar, and here I'm looking for two fruits, and you were both so...so...like regular guys."
Nick laughed out loud. "Rich, I have never heard you say so much all at once." He broke off as the waiter brought their food. "Boy, smells good," he said, thanking the waiter. He looked at Rich over his wineglass. "Two fruits, huh?"
"Sorry." Rich gave him a sheepish grin. "You know I didn't mean that."
"I know. Cheers."
"Cheers. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is... Jeez, what am I trying to say?"
"I think you're trying to say that you felt comfortable around Martin and me."
"Yeah, that...but there's more. You guys kinda opened my eyes, made me think and make up my own mind about things, not listen to some of the crap I used to just nod my head and agree with. Know what I mean?"
Nick nodded and smiled at him. Where the heck was all this coming from, he wondered, chewing his lasagna thoughtfully. Rich was usually the quiet man of few words, content to let his wife take center stage in conversations. He tried to remember if he and Rich had ever had this kind of talk before, and he was sure they hadn't. But Rich and Martin---that was different. While he had spent time with Doreen and the kids, they had bonded over the Steelers, the stock market and a growing admiration for each other. Nick knew Martin's death was a tremendous blow to Rich. One he had kept carefully hidden in order to give all his support to his brother-in-law.
"So when are you and Doreen coming out to spend time with Eric and me?"
"Funny thing..." Rich said between mouthfuls, "we were thinking of going to San Diego for a kind of a second honeymoon. That's not far from you, right?"
"Less than an hour away. That'd be great. Have you set a date yet?"
"I'm leaving that up to Doreen. We have to get the kids taken care of and all."
"Right. Well, let me know."
After they had settled the bill and walked out into the chill night air, Rich said he'd get a cab home, so they walked back to Nick's hotel together.
"Betcha you're feeling a lot easier now Garcia's locked up again."
"You could say that, though I'd feel a helluva lot better if they'd caught him before he got to Andy. Margo has to be thinking the same thing. You going to the funeral tomorrow?"
"I gotta work, but Doreen says she's going."
"Tell her I'll see her there then."
"Come back to the house after."
"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow night." Nick put his arms around Rich and held him tight. "Thanks, bro...it meant a lot, you being here."
Rich held him, patting his back affectionately. "You take care, now," he said as a cab pulled up outside the hotel entrance. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The morning of Andy's funeral dawned cold and gray. By noon, a steady rain began to fall. Nick and Doreen stood together, huddled under her umbrella, waiting for the graveside service to begin. Nick, having forgotten Pittsburgh's famously changeable weather, was wearing a raincoat he had borrowed from Rich. Even though the circumstances were far from ideal, Nick had been happy to see his sister again. Eight years his senior, she had been his rock in his formative years, taking the place of the parents he had hardly known.
Nick glanced around at the fifty or so mourners, mostly cops wearing grim expressions and their wives trying to look brave for Margo's sake. All these women knew that it could be their husbands they had come here to bury---one or two even wished that were so.
"Nick..." He turned at the sound of the gruff voice behind him.
"How've you been, son?"
"Captain Fitzpatrick," Nick murmured, shaking the hand extended to him. "Good to see you, sir. This is my sister, Doreen."
Fitzpatrick shook hands with Doreen and smiled. "I would have guessed that," the Captain said, taking in Doreen's lush, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. "But you're a deal more winsome than your brother."
Doreen laughed lightly. "A true Irishman, I see. Full of the blarney."
"Only when it's deserved." Fitzpatrick eyed Nick carefully. "I know you and Andy were friends, Nick. How are you holding up?"
"Better now I know Garcia's behind bars again. I'm just sorry they didn't get him before..."
Both Nick and Fitzpatrick paused in their conversation as Margo approached them. Fitzpatrick removed his cap and inclined his head as he took her hand. "My sincere condolences, Mrs. Hawkins. Andy will be very much missed by us all."
Margo nodded, accepted a hug from Doreen then looked at Nick. He thought he could detect a momentary flicker of resentment in her eyes as she stared at him.
"Good of you to come, Nick, you too, Doreen. Come by the house later, won't you?"
Nick watched her as she walked slowly away toward where her mother and children were standing.
Fitzpatrick cleared his throat. "She's taking it really hard, of course," he said.
Nick shrugged. "She's probably wishing it had been me."
"Oh, Nick..." Doreen tugged at his arm. "She wouldn't feel that way."
"I would, if I was in her shoes."
Fitzpatrick coughed politely. "Well, I think they're about to start. Good seeing you Nick. Take care, now."
"Why did you say that?" Doreen asked as soon as Fitzpatrick was out of earshot.
"I know she's feeling bitter, Doreen." Nick put his arm round his sister's shoulders and led her closer to the graveside. "She's thinking about everything that Andy's left behind---her, the kids, their home. She asked me once, after Andy had told her I was gay, what my legacy would be. What would I have brought to this world when I would never marry and have kids to follow me..."
"She said that?"
"Mmm. So now she's probably thinking why the hell wasn't it me Garcia gunned down, instead of her husband."
"Oh, Nick." Doreen fell silent as the service started. The rain had stopped, though ominous black clouds remained overhead. Doreen lowered her umbrella and took Nick's arm, pressing close to his side as she listened to the minister's opening statement. Nick felt her shiver as the air was suddenly filled with the eerie lament of a lone piper standing nearby.
From his vantage point, some hundred yards from where the mourners were gathered, Garcia looked down the sights of his rifle until he had found the man he had come to kill. He rested the barrel on top of a marble gravestone and smiled grimly. What fools the police were, he thought, his thin lips twisted with perverse pleasure, how easily duped. They thought he was the man they now held in jail, waiting to be transported back to the state penitentiary. How soon, he wondered, would it be before they realized the man they were holding was not Francisco Garcia, but an imposter, a loyal man who would be greatly rewarded for his participation in this part of Garcia's masterful plan.
A sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips as he drew Nick's face into full focus. There he is, the last one responsible for my Joseph's death. How fitting he should be at a graveside when he dies. His finger tightened on the trigger as he drew aim.
Nick, trying to concentrate on the words the minister droned, was momentarily startled by the hand that gripped his shoulder. His reflexes, fine-tuned even more by the events of the past few days, made him turn swiftly to face what may well have been an adversary. Instead, he saw the gentle, smiling face of Dr. Norman Phelps, the psychologist who had counseled him after Sam's death.
"Doc," he whispered, letting himself be pulled into the other man's embrace. He sensed rather than felt the bullet that missed the back of his skull by a mere millimeter. Even as he put his arms around Norman, he heard the scream of a man behind him, and the off-key whine of the pipes as the startled piper ran for cover. And then pandemonium broke out. A deafening crack of thunder shook the cemetery and, for a moment, drowned out the screams and shouts of the people that rose from almost every throat, as they realized just what had happened.
Sheets of torrential rain lashed down on the crowd, adding to the confusion as some of them dived to get out of the way of any other bullets, and others fought to restore order. Nick grabbed both his sister and Norman and pushed them behind the trunk of a giant chestnut tree.
"Wait here," he said, then ran to where Captain Fitzpatrick was trying to organize a search party. "The shot came from over there," he yelled, pointing toward a small rise covered in marble and granite tombstones.
"Get over there!" Fitzpatrick ordered the men who had gathered around him. He grabbed Nick's arm. "Not you!" He shook his head to free his eyes of the rain. "That shot was meant for you, boyo. You'll stay close to me---"
But Nick pulled himself free and sprinted toward where he was sure the shooter had been positioned. He reached the group of off-duty cops as they searched the area at the top of the rise.
"Here," Nick yelled, wiping the rain from his face. "He was here." He indicated the footprints left in the mud behind one of the tombstones.
"Looks like he went that way." One of the cops pointed back toward where the mourners were now attending to the wounded man.
"He couldn't have," someone else said. "He'd be seen and apprehended."
Nick looked sharply back to the graveside, a horrible realization dawning on him. "Damn him," he muttered. "He's even more clever than I thought. Garcia!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Where are you, you bastard?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Fitzpatrick barked at him. "Are you mad? Garcia's on his way to the state pen."
Nick gave him a long, hard look. "I will bet you everything I have that the man you're holding is not Garcia."
Fitzpatrick gaped at him. "Not Garcia? What crap is this?"
"This has Garcia's trademark stamped all over it," Nick replied, his eyes locked on Fitzpatrick's. "For sheer nerve you can't beat him. He most likely disappeared into that crowd and got away in the confusion---just like he did when he killed Andy." He paused for a moment, thinking. "It could be that he thought he'd got me. That downpour might have prevented him from seeing that he missed me."
"Check out the parking lot," Fitzpatrick growled at his men. "And one of you call the station. Find out just who we have being transported to the penitentiary." He threw Nick a dark look. "If you're right, the media will crucify the Department. I may as well resign today!"
Nick shrugged and walked slowly back down the hill to where Norman and Doreen were anxiously waiting. The downpour that had drenched the cemetery earlier had dissipated, leaving only a fine drizzle, but the sky remained a leaden gray and low growls of thunder could be heard in the distance.
He took Norman's hand and held it in both of his. "You saved my life, Doc. Thank you." He turned to look at his sister. "What's happening over there?" he asked her.
"They're waiting for an ambulance to come for the poor guy that got shot." She looked across to where Margo and her family stood talking with the minister. "He took a bullet in the chest."
Nick walked over to where the injured man lay, his head cradled in the arm of one of the other officers. "How is he?" he asked.
"Not good. We need the medics here right now. He's losing a lot of blood."
"What's his name?"
"Officer Williams, Grant Williams. He's only been on the force a year."
Nick knelt by the young officer's side and stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. He watched as they did their best to stabilize Williams' vitals before carrying him to the waiting ambulance.
"How do you feel?" Norman asked, touching Nick's arm.
"Okay, I guess---and damned lucky."
He paused as Fitzpatrick approached. "No sign of him anywhere," the captain seethed. "He must have had a car waiting in the parking lot. Son-of-a-bitch!" He glared around him. "We've radioed the van that's supposed to have Garcia in it. They're headed back to the station---then we'll find out what in hell is going on."
"Looks like the minister is trying to get the service going again," Doreen said.
"Yeah, let's get over there." Nick steered his sister and Norman back to the graveside where Margo stood, ghostly pale, holding her children close to her side. A now smaller group of mourners bowed their heads as the minister concluded the service. Nick went over and put his arms around Andy's widow, holding her while she sobbed against his chest.
"I'm so...sorry, Nick," she stammered, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
"Hush, Margo," he whispered. He knew that what she was feeling at that moment was guilt mingled with her grief. "You couldn't have known that was going to happen."
"I know...but I feel I wished it on you somehow, Nick. Thank God you're all right."
Over the top of Margo's head, Nick's eyes met those of his sister, who looked slightly stunned by what she had just heard.
"I don't think I'll ever doubt your ability to 'read' people again," Doreen said later, as she, Nick, and Norman walked slowly from the cemetery.
The rain had stopped once more, and a few weak rays of sunshine had managed to break through the dark clouds.
"What did I miss?" Norman asked.
"Nick said he felt Margo resented the fact her husband was killed instead of him. Something about Nick not having a legacy to leave, like Andy did."
Norman nodded. "I see..."
"You mean you understand what she was saying?"
"It's a fairly common opinion," Norman told her. "Those of us who don't fall into the category they see as the 'norm,' most often don't leave anything of substance behind---like a family. That's what she probably meant by 'a legacy.'"
"So we're expendable, kind of," Nick said, with a wry chuckle.
"Oh, she didn't mean that," Doreen protested.
"Yeah, that's kinda harsh, Nick," Norman agreed.
"The truth often is." Nick looked over his shoulder at the group who accompanied Margo from the cemetery. "I don't think they'd ever admit it, maybe not even to themselves, but it's there, nevertheless."
"You want to get some lunch?" Norman asked, with an abrupt change of subject.
Doreen shook her head. "You guys go. I have to get back home for the kids. They'll be getting out of school shortly. I think I'll skip going over to Margo's. I'll call her later." She looked up at her brother, then kissed his cheek. "Stay safe, Nick. We'll see you at the house later. Nice meeting you, Norman."
They watched her as she got in her car and drove off, then they walked to where Norman had parked his car.
"So, who do you think took that shot at you earlier?"
"Garcia, without a doubt." Nick replied. "That guy is just way too clever. When he finds out he shot the wrong guy, he's going to be on my tail again."
"Isn't he taking a helluva chance? I mean, won't the cops have every escape avenue manned?"
"It didn't stop him before," Nick reminded him, shucking off the borrowed raincoat. "He won't stop until he's got what he wants---me on a marble slab."
Norman shuddered. "God, Nick. You need some protection." He unlocked the car doors and they climbed in. Nick squeezed his friend's arm as they sat together watching the mourners disperse in their cars.
"Thanks again for saving my life, Doc."
Norman looked at him with glistening eyes. "I'd hold you in my arms forever, if I thought it would protect you from that madman."
Nick smiled gently. "Let's get some lunch, and I'll tell you what's been happening in my life since I last saw you."
"Have you met someone?" Norman asked, starting the engine.
"Yeah. His name is Eric, Eric Jamieson. I met him in New York. It'll be two years this Christmas."
"That's great," Norman said, with a certain lack of enthusiasm.
"You said I'd meet the right guy one day, remember? That last session I had with you. I thought you'd be pleased."
"Oh, I am." Norman gave him a rueful glance as he pulled out of the cemetery gates. "I've missed you, Nick. It's been a long time since we've talked."
"Yeah, sorry. That's my fault. I've always been bad about keeping in touch. Just ask Doreen."
"She seems nice."
"She is, and her husband, Rich, too. I'm lucky to have them as family."
"And now you have Eric," Norman said, looking straight ahead.
Nick sighed. "You seem down, Norman. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, and everything." Norman laughed at himself before continuing. "I'm tired of what I'm doing; tired of listening to other people's problems. I'm sick of this city. Sick of so many things."
"Wow," Nick muttered. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."
"How could you have? Like I said, we haven't talked in a long time. Not that I'd have laid this on you anyway, long distance. It's just that...seeing you again reminded me how much I wanted something else in my life. You---or someone like you. Crazy, huh?"
Nick was silent as he tried to deal with what Norman had just said. Jeez, he thought, I figured he'd be over me by this time. I thought he'd have met someone, and forgotten all about me long ago.
"Have I scared you with that confession?" Norman asked him, laughing lightly.
"No, of course not. I'm uh...very flattered. I just thought you'd have forgotten about me by this time."
"Forget you? Are you kidding? There's no way I could ever forget you, Nick. I have to confess that there were times I wished I had, 'specially when I was trying to get interested in someone and all I could see was your face, instead of the guy sitting opposite me. I pissed off quite a few prospects that way." He was laughing again and Nick smiled at him, shaking his head.
"God, I'm sorry, Doc."
"Don't be." He pulled into a parking lot outside a restaurant that was unfamiliar to Nick. "This place is pretty new. Like to try it?"
"Fine," Nick said, anxious to get out of the car. He was at a loss as to how to deal with what he had just been told, and found himself wishing that Norman had kept it as his own little secret. Selfish of me, I know, he thought, as he held the restaurant door open for Norman, but I really wish he had. Thankfully, after they had been seated, Norman did not seem eager to continue with that particular subject.
"So, what's your next move regarding Garcia?" he asked as they looked through the menu.
"I thought I'd go over to Centre Avenue and see what they've found out. See if I was right about them having the wrong guy locked up."
"How could he have managed that?"
"Like I keep saying, he's a clever son-of-a-bitch. An associate of mine told me that Garcia had gotten himself some kind of disguise. I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to convince one of his cronies to go along with a disguise that made him look like Garcia."
"You mean like plastic surgery?"
"He didn't have time for that, but there are some makeup artists who're really good at transforming faces with prosthetics and the like. It only had to last long enough for Garcia to carry out his dirty work."
"What about fingerprints?"
"I'm guessing the police didn't bother with that when they caught the guy impersonating Garcia. All that was already on file in prison. They probably just threw him in a cell till he was going to be transported to the pen today..." He looked up at the waiter hovering by their table. "I'll have the chicken Caesar salad and a coffee, thanks."
"The patty melt and iced tea," Norman said, handing over his menu. "So, if you're right about all this, how long d'you think it will it take Garcia to realize he didn't kill you?"
"Good question," Nick replied with a grim smile. "I'm hoping he's on a plane to Puerto Rico before he finds out---and they catch him when he gets there."
"I share that hope," Norman said fervently. "When are you flying back to California?"
"Tomorrow."
"So soon?"
"Yeah. I have a business to run. My partner's on vacation---and then there's Eric. He'll be worried."
"Of course. I really am happy for you, Nick. You deserve to have someone in your life who cares for you."
Later, as Nick walked along Centre Avenue toward the police headquarters, he couldn't help but be concerned about Norman's attitude. There was no doubt the doctor was depressed, a marked change in someone who had always been so upbeat and positive in his approach when counseling Nick. Now, it could be that the counselor needed counseling. He had promised Norman he would be more in touch in the future, and now he made a vow to keep that promise to the man who had helped him through the dark times of his life. Perhaps having someone to vent to, even if it was just on the phone, would help work off his frustrations.
Fitzpatrick, looking decidedly grim when Nick knocked on his office door, beckoned him inside. "Come on in. Take a pew." The captain sat back in his chair and leveled a sour look at Nick.
"You were right, goddamn it. The guy we're holding is Garcia's cousin, made up to look like Garcia. Fucking clever job too, I have to admit. It helped they're both the same age, height and coloring. Put them side by side, they could be twins. Made us look like goddamned---well, let's just say the fallout from this won't do the department any good."
"So where's Garcia now?"
"Still out there. This other guy, his cousin, José Romano, says he's on his way to Puerto Rico. We've alerted airport security at both ends."
"He's not going to get on a plane flying to Puerto Rico."
"Right. He'll try some roundabout route to throw us off. Don't worry, we've got everything covered."
Nick tried to feel reassured by Fitzpatrick's words, but where Garcia was concerned, Nick knew there was always room for doubt.
After he left the station, he called Eric to let him know about the shooting at the cemetery. Loath as he was to worry Eric any more than he had to, he knew Eric was an avid CNN watcher, and if he heard the news on television, he would assume the worst. The police had already omitted giving any names to the media, or the condition of the injured man. If Garcia presumed that it was Nick in the hospital, he might just make another attempt on his life, and the police were ready for just such a possibility. At this point, Nick could only hope that would be enough. He pondered the wisdom of going over to Rich and Doreen's later for dinner. He hated the idea of putting them in any kind of danger, but when he called Rich and told him of his concern, his brother-in-law insisted they get together.
"It'll be okay, Nick," he said. "With all the cops in town looking for him, Garcia's probably gone to ground. He's not going to risk getting caught again so soon."
Of course, the topic of their conversation that night after the kids had gone to bed was Garcia's deft avoidance of recapture. Rich was again uncharacteristically vocal about, as he put it, "The dumb ass cops, screwing up, once again."
"Be fair, Rich," Nick said. "They couldn't have known it wasn't Garcia right away when they picked the guy up. His cousin fitted the description to a tee."
"Yeah, but like you said, it was too easy. They could at least have checked more closely---fingerprints or something."
Nick sighed. "Yeah, that was definitely an oversight on their part."
"What do you suppose he'll do now?" Doreen asked, giving her brother a worried look.
"I wish I knew."
"But if you were him," Doreen pressed.
"I'd go to ground for a time, I guess," Nick said. "Wait till the smoke cleared then try to get out of the country. It's not going to be so easy for him now with every police department and the FBI on his tail."
"Won't he have some help from his old cronies?" Rich asked.
"Depends on just how much they want to help." Nick tapped his empty beer bottle and grinned at his brother-in-law. "What happened to the good service I used to get here?"
Rich grunted and rose to get him another bottle. "But he must still have some contacts out there," he said when he came back in from the kitchen.
"Garcia's been off the scene for three years," Nick told him. "Three years is a long time to be out of circulation in the drug business. I have no doubt he has contacts, but they've gotten along without him while he's been in prison. Remember, he was on death row. His friends, if he still has any, weren't figuring on him getting out, ever. Could be he's found out he's on his own, apart from his cousin."
"So that might make him even more desperate," Doreen remarked.
"And that could make him careless," Nick said.
"Yeah, so careless that he took a pot shot at you in a cemetery, and managed to get away." Rich looked at Nick with concern. "We know you're making light of this for our sakes, Nick. But we read the papers and hear the news. Garcia's reputation is, in a word, scary---and you can't make light of that."
"Believe me, I would never underestimate Garcia's cleverness, Rich." Nick took a long pull on his beer. "I know just what he's capable of, but I really do think he's going to have a problem rallying his old allies. He's a cop-killer and those guys are going to steer clear of him, because of that. Now, how about we change the subject, and talk about when you're coming out to California?"
Nick stayed over that night. Doreen made up the sofa bed in the den for him, promising to get him up good and early for his early morning flight. For a long time after his sister and brother-in-law had gone to bed, he lay unable to sleep, the events of the day crowding his mind. Garcia, still out there somewhere. The lucky break that had helped him dodge that bullet. And what would Garcia try next?
It was early morning. He was running on a beach. It was not a beach he knew. The shoreline seemed to extend beyond him to an almost impossible distance. He could discern no sailboats on the glass-like ocean. The only sounds he could hear came from the scrunching of his feet on the sand beneath him, and his own steady breathing. What was this place, he wondered, and why was it so deserted? Where was everyone?
His pace was measured and controlled. He felt as though he could run forever. There was no fatigue, no constriction of his breath. He ran, and ran... Up ahead he could see two men standing near the water, watching him approach. As he neared where they stood, they stepped aside to let him pass, then joined him in his run, one on either side of him. They ran in silence, each keeping apace. Nick wanted to run faster, to distance himself from this unsought companionship, but as hard as he tried, he found he could not pull ahead of the two men.
"Who are you?" he yelled.
"Hey Nick, glad you could join us, buddy."
Nick turned and looked at the man's smiling face. "Sam?"
"Yeah, it's me. You remember Joseph?"
Startled, Nick turned to the young man who ran by his side. "But---how? I thought you guys were dead."
"Oh, we are!" Joseph's voice was filled with laughter. "But we're still together. See, even death couldn't part us."
"That's impossible," Nick gasped.
"Not impossible, Nick." Sam grabbed his arm. "You'll understand one day."
Nick woke with a start and sat up, rubbing his arm. It was as though he could still feel the pressure from Sam's fingers. He stared into the semidarkness of the room. What the hell was all that about? He hadn't dreamed about Sam in years. After the shootings he had relived those desperate moments night after night. Crazy dreams in which Sam and Joseph's deaths were replayed over and over in his mind, leaving him mentally and physically exhausted---but he had never dreamed of them being alive again, running on a beach, laughing and kidding with him. Only, they weren't really alive. They'd said they were dead. Shit!
He rubbed his eyes, punched the pillow a couple of times then lay back down. Maybe it was Andy's funeral, and coming that close to Garcia again after all these years. Yes, that must have triggered the dream. Perhaps also because his mind had been so filled with thoughts of the past. Okay, he told himself, no more dreams like that. But as he drifted back to sleep, he fancied he could still feel Sam's hand on his arm, and Joseph's words echoing in his mind, "Even death couldn't part us..."
John Wayne Airport, Ca.
Eric had insisted he pick Nick up at the airport, and Nick felt himself filled with an almost overwhelming sense of longing and relief when he saw Eric's beaming smile light up the baggage claim area. Disregarding the press of people all around them, they flung their arms around each other.
"God, I've missed you," Eric whispered in Nick's ear, the touch of his lips sending a visceral thrill through Nick's body.
"It's only been two days," Nick chuckled, hugging Eric to him.
"Three nights," Eric corrected him. "D'you know this was the first time we've been apart since we moved in together?"
"And still you talk to me," Nick said with wry amazement. He steered Eric toward the exit, his arm around his lover's shoulders. "It's good to be home."
"How was it?" Eric asked him.
"Pretty grim, just like you'd expect a funeral to be."
"But not every funeral has some madman lurking behind the tombstones," Eric was quick to point out.
"Doreen sends her love," Nick said, trying to change the subject. "I had dinner with her and Rich last night."
"That's nice." Eric wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "So, tell me. What's the latest on Garcia?"
"Well, they haven't caught him yet, if that's what you mean."
"What a surprise." Eric's tone was heavy with sarcasm.
"They're doing all they can, Eric. They've got every airport, train station, bus station, car rentals, all covered---"
"Great," Eric muttered, unlocking his car doors.
Nick threw his bag into the back seat. "Want me to drive?"
"No, I got it." He started the engine, then turned to face Nick. "I am not going to stay over at Andrew and David's, so don't even suggest it."
"Eric..."
"No, Nick. I'm going to live up to my reputation of being the stubborn little prick you so nicely called me the other night. I am staying close to you no matter what."
Nick's lips tightened with frustration. "We've been through this---"
"Yes, we have," Eric interrupted. "And I have a say in this also." His eyes glistened as he caressed Nick's thigh. "I don't know how many ways I can say this without sounding like a broken record, but I love you, Nick---more than my life. If anything happened to you... When you told me about what happened at the cemetery, how close he came to killing you, well, it was as if the world had stopped for me, and all I could think was, I wasn't there. I wasn't with you---where I should have been." He looked away as a sob caught in his throat.
Nick pulled him into his arms. "Hey, come on," he said gently. "I'm here, nothing happened. It's going to be all right."
"This time, nothing happened." Eric pulled away from Nick's embrace. "This time you were lucky. But what if Garcia gets you in his sights again?"
"That's not going to happen," Nick snapped. "Look, chances are he managed to get back to Puerto Rico. If he did, he's not going to risk everything just to get a shot at me."
"I hope you're right," Eric said, putting the car in gear and reversing out of the parking space.
"You sure you don't want me to drive?" Nick asked.
"I'm fine." After he had paid the attendant, he glanced at Nick. "Well, if what you say is correct, there's no need for me to stay over at Andrew's, now, is there?"
Nick groaned and slumped against the headrest. "Okay, you win. But, if there's the slightest sign that I'm wrong, I reserve the right to change the conditions of this contract."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that I will carry your cute little ass over to Andrew's myself, and there you will stay until it's safe for you to come home."
"Okay. I could argue the point, I suppose, but I'll agree to those terms---for right now."
"Eric."
"Okay, okay." He took Nick's hand in his own. "But only 'cause I love you."
"So hurry up and get me home," Nick growled. "Then you can show me just how much."
§ § § §
Pittsburgh: the same day.
Garcia flung the newspaper he had been reading to one side in disgust. So, the police already knew that the man they held was not him. How had they discovered the ruse so quickly? José had been perfect. All their lives, they had often been mistaken for brothers, and now, when it mattered the most, the resemblance, so skillfully enhanced, had not been enough. He had counted on the police not bothering with fingerprints. Why would they bother? They already had all of that on file. He had counted on their eagerness to get him back into the State penitentiary---and it had almost worked.
Who could have been astute enough to call the jail van and have it return to the station? Not Fitzpatrick, the man was a cretin. One of the other officers---or, could it have been Fallon himself? Yes, badly wounded as he was, he might have imparted his suspicions to Fitzpatrick. In his mind's eye, Garcia relived that moment when he had pulled the trigger, having a clear shot to Fallon's head. Not for one second had he doubted that he had hit the man. A head injury of that magnitude was always fatal. The newspapers had reported that he was in critical condition. Amazing, really, that he would still be alive. The sudden downpour that had immediately obscured his vision after he had fired the shot had robbed him of the satisfaction of seeing Fallon fall---yet, he was sure he had not missed. Or had he?
What if the man in the hospital was not Fallon at all? Garcia's brow furrowed as he scowled at the thought that Fallon might still be out there, alive and well. This he could not live with. Once again, he drew a mental picture of the shooting. Fallon was standing with a woman, listening to the words of the priest. He, Garcia, leveled the rifle sights on the middle of Fallon's forehead, but at the crucial moment, Fallon had turned to look at someone. Still, a shot to the side of his head would still have been enough to kill him, or at least render him brain dead. Garcia drummed his fingers with an edgy impatience as he mulled this over. He stood and walked to the window of the hotel room he had been using since his escape. The man he had shot was in the hospital only a few blocks from the hotel. He had to find out if it was Fallon or not. He could not follow through with the rest of his plans until he was sure that Fallon was either dead, or, at the very least, unable to live the life he had previously known.
Alfredo waited to be set free. He had promised him that. Alfredo's wife waited for him in Puerto Rico. She had been waiting a long time---too long, Garcia thought now. A woman like Rosa could not be trusted to wait in purity for her husband's return. He should know---Anna, his own wife, filed for divorce the day he was sentenced to death. The bitch could not even wait for his demise---may God send her to hell! Garcia turned from the window and fell back onto the bed, where he lay gazing up at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting back to the son he had loved more than his own life. Joseph, so full of promise---young and eager for life, handsome, intelligent, born to be someone of importance and above all, bring respectability to the Garcia name. That had been his dream for his son, a dream that could never be fulfilled. His young life cut off forever by bullets from an assassin's gun.
"Joseph," Garcia murmured. "Are you yet avenged? Has the sacrifice I made in your name, appeased your soul?" Deep within himself, Garcia felt an aching void of loneliness. So many things did not feel right anymore. His years of incarceration had done nothing to diminish the hatred he felt for his son's killers, but now, alone and cut off from those he needed to sustain him, he felt almost disabled. The network of confederates he had so painstakingly built up over the years was now closed to him. His colleagues, wary of being involved with a convicted cop-killer, had disassociated themselves from him and his family. Only his cousin José had stood by him---and now even that link had been severed.
His mind was in turmoil. Where to go from here? Was his work really finished? Could he go peacefully to his hideaway and the money he had secreted so many years ago? Was it safe? One thing he knew, before he left America he had to make sure that the man in the hospital was indeed the one responsible for Joseph's death. Dead or incapacitated forever---either would do.
Nurse Rachel Adams switched on the reading light over her desk at the nurses' station on the third floor of Pittsburgh General. So much paperwork, she groused to herself. How was she supposed to get through all this and see to the numerous needs of the patients on her floor? Time they hired some decent staff to take care of the overload she had to deal with every night.
She looked up as a shadow fell across her desktop. "Oh hi, Fred." She beamed at the burly police officer assigned to watching room ten, where the victim of the cemetery shooting still lay in critical condition. "How's it going?"
"Boring as shit, Rachel. I hate this kind of duty, if you must know."
"Well, stick around, I'm making some coffee. It'll help keep us awake."
Police Officer Fred Johnson nodded and eased his considerable bulk into a chair by the nurses' station. He watched Rachel's spare and efficient movements as she prepared the coffee. Nice, he thought, taking in the nurse's trim body. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated whether she'd be up for a little fooling around. He'd been assigned this type of hospital duty before, and had struck up a pleasant, chatty relationship with Nurse Adams, but he'd sensed something else in her easygoing demeanor. Something...flighty, he mused.
Garcia stood at the corner of the long corridor, watching the police officer and the nurse, neither of whom had noticed his presence. Certain that their involvement with one another had their total attention, he eased himself round the corner, keeping close to the wall, and walked quickly to the room where the injured man lay. Pushing the door open he moved silently to the side of the bed and looked down at the prone figure lying there. A sound of disgust escaped him through clenched teeth as he gazed at the man's face.
This was not the man he had vowed to kill. Had he come to the wrong room? Was Fallon lying in some other bed, in another part of the hospital? With a mounting anger he grabbed the chart at the end of the bed and studied it. The patient's name was Grant Williams, police officer. Injury: a bullet wound to the upper chest.
With a curse, Garcia flung the chart to the floor and stormed from the room. His work was not yet done---his son was not fully avenged. He had failed him! The bullet meant for Fallon, the bullet he had sent to end the life of the man who had taken away his son, had missed its mark.
At the other end of the corridor, Officer Johnson leered over the top of his coffee cup and licked his lips as Nurse Adams bent over to retrieve some spilled paperwork. Maybe he'd get enough nerve up to ask her tonight.
Laguna Beach: Saturday morning, one week later
When Eric was able to look back on the events of that morning, he would blame himself for being so gullible. The tall, heavily built man who entered the gallery shortly after Eric had opened for business seemed at first to be merely browsing. But after he acknowledged Eric's cheerful, "Good Morning!" with a slight nod of his head, he moved with great deliberation from one painting to another, studying each one with an air of authority.
Was he a potential buyer? Eric wondered, feeling the prickle of excitement selling one of Peter's paintings always brought him. In the year that he had managed Peter Brandon's gallery Eric had gathered a great deal of knowledge, and had found himself to be gifted with a naturally discerning eye. Peter was the one who had first noticed this quality and had encouraged Eric to hone and fine-tune his ability.
After the man had stared at one of Peter's landscapes for some time, he turned his dark, glittering gaze on Eric. "The Scottish Glen, is it for sale?"
"They are all for sale, sir." Eric rose from his desk and approached the man.
"Are you the artist?"
Eric chuckled politely. "I only wish I were. Peter Brandon is on vacation in Europe. I manage the gallery for him."
"Ah..."
Eric extended his hand. "I'm Eric, Eric Jamieson."
The man inclined his head in a slight bow as he took Eric's hand in his own. "Federico Gonzales." He looked back at the painting. "I think I would like to buy this one. Can you deliver it to my house tonight?"
"Certainly. May I congratulate you on your choice? It's also one of my favorites."
The man calling himself Gonzales nodded. "Mr. Brandon has a unique flair, a cunning use of the cerulean blue makes all the difference, no?"
Eric was impressed as he nodded his agreement. This man was obviously not one who chose a painting as a décor accent. Nor did he balk at the price, but apologized for not bringing his checkbook with him.
"I can pick it up when I deliver the painting," Eric said. "If I can just have your address...?"
"I'm renting a home on Mystic Hills for a short time. I will be there tonight after seven. Is that convenient?"
"Sure." Eric wrote down the address and phone number then smiled as the man held out his hand. "I'll let Peter know this one has gone to a man with great taste," he said as they shook hands. "See you at seven, then."
"I will look forward to it," Gonzales said with a slight bow. He turned to go, then paused as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Do you have a cell phone?"
"Yes, I do."
"Good. Please call me when you arrive. I have trouble hearing the doorbell sometimes."
"No problem," Eric assured him as they walked to the door. "See you later, sir."
Eric almost skipped back into the gallery. Oh boy, he thought, Peter for sure will be delighted with this news when he calls next time. He just had to remember to let Nick know he'd be home late. He hurried to his desk as the phone rang. Speak of the devil, he thought, glancing at the caller ID screen.
"Hello, gorgeous!"
"You're in a good mood," Nick said, a smile in his voice.
"Aren't I always?"
"Yeah, amazingly when I think of all you have to put up with."
"Nick, would you please stop putting yourself down?"
"Who says I was talking about me?"
They laughed together. "Hey, I just sold one of Peter's landscapes."
"Fantastic. Who to?"
"Don't you mean, 'to whom'?"
"Smart-ass," Nick chuckled. "So, to whom?"
"Some guy living up on Mystic Hills, a Mr. Gonzales. Which reminds me, I have to go deliver it after seven tonight, so I'll be a bit late getting home."
"Okay. I won't start anything without you."
"You'd better not," Eric chuckled. "See you later, honey. Love you."
"Love you too." Nick smiled as he put the phone down. God, I'm a lucky so-and-so, he thought. He had relaxed considerably since returning to Laguna. There had been no sign of Garcia. He seemed to have dropped out of sight, and the word was that he had somehow been successful in his attempts to get back to Puerto Rico. If that were so, then he must have given up on his plan of vengeance. As sure as Tom Carradine and Fitzpatrick had been about this, a modicum of doubt had lingered in Nick's mind, but as the days went by, the likelihood that they were correct grew stronger. He was glad he had given in to Eric's insistence that he come back to the apartment.
"Andrew's getting sick of me hanging around anyway," Eric had said with a smile. Nick knew that wasn't so, still it was good to have Eric close to him. Their few days apart, and the element of danger that had suddenly enveloped them, seemed to have strengthened their already deep bond and love for each other.
If any one thing bothered him since his return, it was the conversation he'd had with Dr. Norman Phelps the day before he left Pittsburgh. During and after their talk, Nick had been gripped by an uneasy sense of guilt. Should he have been more aware of the doctor's feelings for him? Had he been an insensitive ass by avoiding the subject?
After they'd had lunch that day, Norman and he had driven back to the doctor's office, and once alone with Norman, Nick had sidestepped the issue as subtly as he was able. He had felt Norman's sadness when eventually he told him he had to go. They had hugged goodbye, but Nick had gently resisted Norman's attempt to kiss him on the lips. He had left the office feeling like a heel, yet what was the point in raising Norman's hopes? He loved Eric, and there was no room in his life for another romance---long distance or otherwise. Nick hated cheaters. During his career with the police force, he had seen too many marriages and relationships ruined by the inability of some guys to keep their zippers closed. He had listened to the whining and the self-justification when things fell apart, and he'd had to force himself to keep his mouth shut instead of telling them how he really felt.
Norman was an attractive guy, Nick thought, and maybe if he'd never met Eric, and maybe if he'd gone back to Pittsburgh and maybe if they'd picked up their friendship---who knows? But that's not the way things worked out. He had met Eric, and had fallen in love with him---end of story. Or rather, the beginning. But still, Norman was hurting, and what kind of friend would just ignore that? He was about to reach for the phone when Monica buzzed in.
"Jeff's on line one, Nick."
"Thanks, Monica." He grabbed the phone. "Hey, partner. How's it going in sunny France?"
"We're actually in Switzerland," Jeff chuckled. "But it's just great. They've had the first snowfall of the season, so we're going to take advantage of it and get some skiing in. How're things going with you?"
"Just dandy. Well, there's been a couple of incidents, but nothing that won't keep 'til you're back."
"Nothing serious I hope."
"Like I said, it'll keep, Jeff."
"Everything good with you and Eric?"
"Couldn't be better. Hey, tell Peter he sold a painting." He listened while Jeff passed on the news.
"He wants to know which one."
"A landscape, that's all I know. Eric said it was a favorite of his if that's any help."
"Yeah, Peter says he thinks he knows which one. Okay Nick, I won't keep you. I just wanted to check in. We'll be back next week."
"Great. Look forward to seeing you. Hey, don't go breakin' a leg or anything on those slopes, will you?"
Jeff laughed. "I'll try to stay upright. Take it easy. Bye."
"Bye, Jeff." He put the phone down with some reluctance. A part of him had wanted to tell Jeff just what had been happening the last few days, but he didn't want to put a damper on his friend's enjoyment. There would be plenty time for talk when Jeff and Peter got back.
§ § § §
Eric, humming "Come Away with Me" along with Norah Jones, drove his Mustang convertible up the steep inclines that led to the prestigious area of Laguna Beach, known as Mystic Hills. Despite the chill in the early evening air, he'd had to take the convertible top down so as to accommodate the large framed landscape painting that now sat propped up on the back seat. He had wrapped it in thick brown paper to avoid any scratches on the glass or frame.
Several years before, Mystic Hills had suffered a devastating hillside fire that had destroyed many of the town's most expensive and luxurious homes. Now the homes had been rebuilt, the natural greenery had, for the most part, overtaken the once blackened hills, and the lush landscaping that fronted many of the homes Eric passed lent an air of serene and permanent beauty.
Eric parked his car outside the house Mr. Gonzales had said he was renting. From the street, all one could see was a high adobe wall, broken only by a solid oak door. He flipped open his cell and dialed the number he'd been given earlier in the day.
"Mr. Gonzales? It's Eric Jamieson from the gallery. I have the painting with me."
"Ah, yes. I have unlocked the gate. Please come down. I will be waiting on the terrace."
Eric pocketed his cell and heaved the heavy painting out of his car. He pushed the door open and walked carefully down the long flight of tiled steps, balancing the painting in both hands. The house, like so many in the area, was built into the side of the hill that overlooked the town. As he reached the terraced courtyard at the foot of the steps, he could see the house boasted an incredible view of downtown Laguna and the ocean beyond, with just a glimpse of Catalina Island made visible by the rays of the setting sun.
"Nice," he muttered, panting slightly from the effort of carrying the awkward package. He put the painting down and looked about him. "Mr. Gonzales?" he called. He sensed rather than heard the man behind him. He turned quickly and caught Gonzales studying him, a faint sneer on his lips. Eric felt a shiver ripple up his spine as he saw hostility in those cold glittering eyes. Then a smile flickered across the man's face as he gestured toward the house.
"Good evening, Mr. Jamieson. Let us go in, shall we? I do appreciate you going out of your way to deliver this to me." He now seemed the epitome of the gracious host, his hand on Eric's shoulder, steering him toward the massive front door. They stepped into the hall that led to an enormous living room with beamed cathedral ceilings. The room was made even more cavernous by the fact it was almost totally devoid of any furnishings. "Just put the painting down, anywhere will do."
Eric propped the painting against a wall. "The owners didn't leave you much, Mr. Gonzales," he remarked, staring at the bare walls and floor.
"It suits me for the moment. I am here for only a short time." He walked over to a small table and picked up a bottle of wine. "I would like to seal our contract with a toast."
"Uh... I really should be getting home, Mr. Gonzales."
"But I insist." Eric watched him pour the wine into two crystal glasses. "In my country," Gonzales continued, "the purchase of something of value is always celebrated with a good wine." He held out one of the glasses to Eric.
"Okay, just one." Eric took the proffered glass. "I am driving."
"Of course. Salud." Gonzales raised his glass and then slowly sipped the wine, his eyes never leaving Eric's as he too, lifted his glass to his lips.
"A fine wine, yes?"
"Very nice," Eric agreed, though it was not really to his taste. A bit bitter, he thought.
"So, Mr. Jamieson..." Gonzales smiled as Eric finished his wine. "How long have you been employed in the gallery?"
"Just under a year. Peter Brandon, the owner, is a friend of mine and was good enough to give me the chance to---"
"How interesting," Gonzales interrupted. "Tell me, is Mr. Brandon a faggot like yourself?"
Eric frowned. For a moment, he thought he had misheard what the man had just said. "Excuse me?"
"You are what we call---a maricón---a queer, a pervert."
Eric felt his face flush. "I really don't know what that has to do with our business transaction, sir," he replied with a hint of anger. "My personal life should be of no concern to you."
"But, as you will see, it has everything to do with me." Gonzales gave him a wicked smile. "Now, I suggest you sit down on that small chair there. In a moment you are going to feel very tired indeed. You will not be able to stand, and I would not want you to crack your head when you fall."
"What?" Eric gasped as the glass was removed from his hand. "But you drank the wine too," he said as cold realization swept over him.
"But not from the same glass. An old trick, I'm afraid, but of course, you are naïve in the ways of drugging your opponent."
"God..." Eric staggered back as a wave of nausea washed over him. He tried to make his way to the door.
"Sit down, Mr. Jamieson." Eric seemed to hear the voice from far away. "Sit down, I implore you. You will only hurt yourself."
Eric thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, and then the floor beneath him disappeared and he was falling into space. Francisco Garcia smiled down at Eric's inert form slumped in the chair he had guided him to. Reaching inside Eric's jacket pocket, he removed Eric's cell phone and tossed it lightly in the palm of his hand.
"Now, Detective Fallon," he murmured. "I will wait to hear from you."
§ § § §
Nick, pulling on a pair of sweatpants after his shower, glanced at his watch, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Eight o'clock. Didn't think he'd be this late, he groused to himself. Should he call Eric on his cell phone? No, he might be in the middle of a conversation with his client. That might be kinda rude. Besides, he'll probably call when he's on his way.
He found a sweat top, slipped it on, then ambled into the living room and flung himself down on the couch to watch TV. After some channel surfing he settled on a news program, but after a few minutes he became restless. Something didn't feel right. He glanced at his watch again. Ten after eight.
"Cut it out," he muttered to himself.
He rose, walked into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. He peered at the array of packaged food that Eric had no doubt planned on using to fix them a meal when he got home. With a sigh, Nick pulled out a beer then searched one of the cabinets until he found a box of crackers.
"This'll do..."
He settled down in front of the TV again and waited. Sometime later, he realized he must have dozed off, for when he awoke and looked at his watch, it was almost nine. He jumped to his feet.
"Damn...what the heck is he doing?" he said aloud. Okay, so now he was worried. Shit, what if he'd had an accident or something? He grabbed his cell phone and punched in Eric's speed dial number.
"Good evening, Detective Fallon."
The voice that answered sent a chill over Nick's skin. "Who the hell is this?" he rasped.
"You do not remember me, Detective?"
"Garcia---"
"That is correct, Detective Fallon."
Garcia answering Eric's cell phone! He had Eric. The painting---having it delivered---it had all been a goddamn set-up!
"Eric..." The involuntary moan that escaped his lips was met with a snigger on the other end of the line.
"Indeed, Detective, your little friend is here. Not very good company, I'm afraid. Not very talkative at all."
Nick shuddered at the thought of Eric alone somewhere with this madman. "Garcia, please. Your beef is with me. Let him go."
"My beef?" Garcia's voice was filled with hatred. "You killed my son. My son---and you make it sound like it is nothing more than a passing nuisance."
"No, believe me. I know it's more than that. I understand how you must feel. Joseph was a good---"
"Silence," Garcia hissed. "You will not speak of him---ever. How could you know what my son was? If you wish to save your friend, you will come here and face me man-to-man. Or at least as much of a man as you can be."
Nick felt a cold anger build inside him. "You mean the same way you faced Andy Hawkins, man-to-man, by creeping up behind him, and never giving him a chance to defend himself---is that the kind of man you are Garcia? What are you going to do, shoot me in the back, like you killed so many other men? You're not a man, Garcia. You're a sniveling coward."
"You are in no position to insult me, Detective Fallon. I have what you love, remember, and whether he lives or dies depends solely on your cooperation, and my whim."
"If you hurt him, I swear---"
"Nor are you in a position to threaten me, Detective. Come to the house where your pretty friend sleeps, oh so soundly, and then we shall see who is the better man. Of course," he added with a chuckle, "you will come unarmed, and alone. If you call for assistance, Mr. Jamieson will die immediately."
"I'll be there---alone," Nick told him. "What's the address?"
On his way up to Mystic Hills, Nick mulled over his options. He could try to get into the house unseen and take Garcia by surprise, but as he didn't know the layout, that might prove difficult. One mistake on his part and Eric's life would be forfeit. He could call Louis McKenna, a detective with the Orange County Police Department. Jeff had worked with McKenna on a couple of occasions and spoke well of him. Only problem with that, he'd want to send in backup and that would put Eric's life in even more danger. Garcia would surely kill him if he thought he'd been double-crossed.
He could meet him face-to-face as Garcia wanted. That of course would most likely be suicide, but at that moment Nick felt he had no choice. He had lived on his wits and gut instincts for years, and he had survived, just barely, a couple of times, he thought with a rueful grimace, but he just might be able to pull something off this time too. First thing was to make sure Eric was unharmed, and somehow get him out of there.
Seeing Eric's car parked on the side of the road, he pulled in behind it and, as instructed, called the number Garcia had given him.
"I'm here," he muttered when Garcia picked up. "What now?"
"Come in, of course. I will meet you on the terrace."
As he pushed his way through the door at the top of the steps that led to the terrace below, Nick could see Garcia looking up at him. He stopped halfway down, and for a wild moment thought of diving from his vantage point onto the man below him.
"Careful, Detective..." As if he had read Nick's mind, Garcia raised his hand and Nick could see the black snub-nosed Beretta he held. "Please do not try any heroics. You would be dead before you reached me."
Nick descended the rest of the way and stood facing his enemy. Garcia had changed radically since the last time Nick had seen him. He now wore a full beard, black as his hair, but shot through with gray, and he was much heavier than Nick remembered. Back in the days of his trial, when Nick observed him in the courtroom, Garcia had been tall and slim with an air of elegance and distinction. He was still tall, and his added weight made him look all the more powerful. However, in Nick's mind, heavier meant slower.
"Lift your shirt, Detective, and turn around."
"I'm unarmed." Nick said.
"That is for me to determine."
Nick stood still while Garcia patted him down. "You may turn around and face me again, Detective."
"Where is Eric?" Nick asked, his voice pitched low and quiet.
Garcia's smile was cruel. "He regained consciousness a few minutes before you arrived. He was extremely offensive, so I had to restrain him." He waved Nick forward toward the house, keeping his gun trained on him.
"Let him go, Garcia. He's no threat to you."
"But of course he is. After I kill you, he will want to avenge your death, just as I must avenge Joseph's. So you see, I have no choice but to kill him first."
"You bastard," Nick muttered.
Behind him, Garcia gave a mirthless chuckle.
"Nick..." Eric struggled to free himself from the chair he was tied to. "Nick, I'm so sorry."
He looked pale and ill and Nick felt the first stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach. Eric could die here, he thought. He swung round and glared at Garcia with eyes as hard as stones.
"What have you done to him? He's sick---"
"Just a little sleeping draft to stop him being a nuisance while I waited for you," Garcia said. "Unfortunately, it can make a person feel quite ill. Not that it matters. Soon he will sleep again---this time for good." He waved his gun at Nick. "Go sit beside him and comfort him if you wish, but I am afraid he will need much more than comfort, when he sees what I have in store for you."
Nick walked quickly to where Eric sat, slumped forward, supported by his bonds. "Let me untie him. He's too weak to be of any threat to you."
Garcia's mouth twisted with displeasure, but then he nodded. "Very well, but if he makes one move that I dislike, I will shoot him. Understand?"
He watched intently as Nick untied the rope that held Eric to the chair. A sinister snigger escaped his lips as he watched Eric fall forward into Nick's arms.
Nick laid him gently on the floor. "Eric, listen to me," he whispered. "Don't make any sudden moves. Just lie there and rest till you feel better." He smoothed Eric's hair back off his damp forehead.
"Such a touching scenario." Garcia's voice was filled with loathing. "Tell me, Detective Fallon, what does he enjoy more---you sucking his cock, or taking you up his ass?"
"Why would that interest you, Garcia?"
"It does not. It is merely that I have never been able to understand what one man can see in another."
"Then perhaps you should have asked your son, Joseph," Nick said with a certain relish. Garcia was going to kill them both anyway. Maybe he could take away some of that pleasure from him.
"Ask Joseph?" Garcia's face darkened. "What are you talking about?"
"Your son was gay, Garcia."
"Liar!" Garcia screamed. "You would defame him in your last hour alive? You are an even greater abomination than I thought."
"I don't care what you think of me," Nick said, his voice calm and steady. "But I'm not lying. Joseph was gay, and he was in love with a friend of mine, Sam Valance. Sam was killed in the same raid that took Joseph's life."
A sudden realization seemed to dawn on Garcia. His face twisted as he remembered that moment when Joseph had been shot. He had been running towards one of the detectives. He had always believed Joseph was attacking the man to protect him---his father. But now? He shook his head, wrenching that memory from his mind. "You're lying," he finally gasped.
"No, Garcia, it's not a lie. Sam and Joseph were shocked to see each other in that room. Neither one had any idea that they would both be there at the same time. It should never have happened---"
"You are telling me that my son was a faggot? That he was being fucked by a cop?" Garcia's scream of high-pitched laughter prickled the short hairs on the back of Nick's neck, while beside him, Eric moaned in distress.
Christ, Nick thought, I have to get him out of here and into a hospital. Garcia's going to flip!
"You." Garcia aimed his gun at Nick's head. "You will tell me you are lying before you die. Tell me that what you say about my son is a lie. My son was a good boy."
"Yes, he was a good and loyal son," Nick said. "And he loved Sam Valance. They were lovers."
"Noooo!" Garcia screamed again. He grabbed Nick by the hair, shoved the gun into his face and forced him to his feet. "You will die all the harder for this," he hissed, his spittle spraying Nick's face. "You will suffer before you die. You will beg me to kill you!"
"Listen to me Garcia," Nick panted, looking squarely into the other man's eyes. "The only one responsible for your son's death is you. You put him in harm's way. He died because your crimes resulted in a police raid that you should have seen coming. You were sloppy, Garcia, careless and sloppy, and as a result of that a lot of people died, including your son and two good cops, one of whom your son loved. You've destroyed a lot of lives, Garcia. I hope you're not a religious man, because no amount of prayer is gonna save your ass from hell!"
With a cry of outrage, Garcia pushed Nick away from him. His face was almost black with fury and tears of rage welled in his eyes. "Do you think for one moment I believe any of these lies? How easy it is to defile another's name when they are gone and cannot defend themselves."
"You may see the truth as defilement, Garcia," Nick countered. "But I don't. Joseph was a good kid, and he loved you. The fact he was gay doesn't change that."
"Stop saying that word or I'll kill you now." Garcia's voice was flat and deadly. "You have denigrated my son's name enough. No more. Not one more word." He waved the gun in the direction of the chair. "Sit there."
Nick knelt by Eric's side and put a hand on his forehead. His eyes were closed, but his breathing appeared regular. Probably better that he's passed out again, Nick thought. If this ends badly for us both, at least he won't know anything.
"I said sit," Garcia barked. "Leave your bitch alone."
"He is not my bitch," Nick said quietly. "He is my lover. You're not in jail now, Garcia."
"I saw a lot of your kind in there," Garcia sneered as he glared at Nick. "They were everywhere, preying on the innocent boys."
"Innocent boys? How innocent could they have been? They were in jail for Chrissakes."
"But they were innocent of perversion."
"Whatever." Nick shook his head with impatience. "Are we about to have a philosophical discourse on the need for prison reform?"
"You are much too impertinent for a man in your position, Detective Fallon."
"So, bite me. And you can cut the Detective bit. I'm not a cop anymore, just a PI." He gave Garcia a long look. "This isn't your usual style, is it, Garcia? You don't usually play around with your victims, just shoot 'em and get out quick. What's the deal here? What kind of game are you playing?"
"You're forgetting the near miss at the cemetery, De---Mr. Fallon. If I had killed you that day, there would have been no need for my coming all this way to finish what I had started. But, since I had to invest a lot more time attending to your demise, I thought I would have a little fun, at your expense, of course. A game, you called it. I like that---a deadly game. One that will end with your death."
"And how much fun has it been so far?" Nick asked with a smirk. "It's certainly been a barrel of laughs for me. And then, you got to hear a bit of family history that had been hidden from you---"
"I warned you," Garcia snarled, advancing on Nick, gun raised to strike him on the head.
This is what Nick had been hoping for, an enraged Garcia, about to lose control and become careless. As the big man swung the gun down at Nick's head, Nick blocked the blow with his arm and drove his fist into Garcia's crotch. His breath exploding from his body in an agonized moan, the bigger man stumbled backward, but did not fall as Nick had hoped. Clutching his groin with one hand and wincing with pain, Garcia aimed the gun at Nick's head and fired.
Eric, regaining consciousness, gasped with horror as he saw Nick's body jerk back from the impact, then slump to the ground and lay still.
"No," he groaned. "Please...no."
He was standing in a long darkened hallway. From somewhere, perhaps in a room at the end of the hall, came the low murmur of voices and the sound of deep but gentle laughter. He moved with caution toward the sound, feeling his way by running his fingertips along the wall's rough papered surface. The voices, though still only whispers, came more clearly to him as he approached a door at the end of the hall. He paused. There was something very intimate in those sounds---a sigh, a soft moan, a murmured response. Perhaps he shouldn't be there, listening.
He felt a prickle of embarrassment as he stood outside the door, which he could now see was slightly open. With a gentle touch of his hand, the door swung open and Nick's eyes widened as he recognized Sam and Joseph lying on a bed in the center of the room. They were both naked and totally immersed in one another. Nick took an involuntary step back, yet his eyes remained riveted on Sam's muscular back as he moved in a steady, sensuous rhythm over the young man who lay beneath him and who gazed into his face with loving, tender eyes. Nick gasped as the two men turned their heads and saw him standing there watching them. They both smiled, then Sam said, "Nick, come join us."
He stepped into the room...
"Nick, please wake up."
He was aware of someone lying close to him. He could feel the warmth through his clothes and cool lips on his cheek.
"Eric, is that you?"
"Nick. Thank God you're awake."
His eyes fluttered open and Eric's pale, anxious face came into focus. Sam and Joseph---it had all been a dream. He struggled to sit up, then yelped as a knife-like pain arced through his head.
"Don't move," Eric muttered. "He shot you in the head."
"How come I'm still alive?"
"I guess his aim was off. The bullet grazed your skull and knocked you out, but I can't see any serious damage. It didn't bleed much, but you're gonna have a helluva bruise there."
"And who said being hard-headed was such a bad thing?" Nick grabbed Eric's arm. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I came to just before you punched him in the balls. I'm glad I saw that part. But when he shot you, I thought you were dead, and I just lost it. Then he started yelling at me to shut the fuck up. He looked at you, said something about you being hard to kill, and I realized you were still alive. I told him I used to be a paramedic and I could stop the bleeding. He said okay, because he wanted you to feel real pain when you woke up."
"Nice guy," Nick muttered, sitting up. "Ouch. Jesus, that hurts. How long have I been out?"
"Ages---it's after midnight."
Nick looked around him at the bare room lit only by a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. "Where the hell are we?"
"Downstairs, in a kind of a basement. The door's locked. I tried it earlier."
"Windows?"
Eric shook his head. "Looks like we're trapped till he comes to get us... Uh, Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"He said something about you defiling his son's name."
"I told him Joseph was gay, and that he was in love with Sam."
"Was that a good idea?"
"What difference does it make? He's planning to kill us anyway. I just wanted to put a little crimp in his style." He put his arms around Eric and held him close. "Just now, I dreamed about Sam and Joseph. They were making love, and then they---" Too much information, he thought. "Well, then it got fuzzy and I came to, thank God." He kissed Eric's forehead. "I'm sorry I've gotten you into this mess. This is like my worst fears come true. I tried so hard to stop him from knowing about you..." Nick paused, his brow furrowed in thought. "Come to think of it, how did he know about you working at Peter's gallery? Only Doreen and Rich knew that---and Tom Carradine. That son-of-a-bitch. He must have told Garcia where to find you."
"Maybe he had no choice," Eric said.
Any further conversation was stilled by the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door was thrown open, and Garcia entered the room.
"Up, both of you," he commanded. He trained his gun on them and then handed Eric a length of rope. "Tie his hands behind his back. Quickly, and don't try to fake the knots. I'm watching you."
Eric looped the rope around Nick's wrists and tied it off. Garcia gave the rope a vicious yank to tighten the knot and then swung a length around Eric's neck like a noose.
"So now I have you both nicely corralled," he chuckled. He tugged the rope, leading them toward the door. "The game continues, Mr. Fallon. Let us go back upstairs and see what I have prepared for you both."
In the living room above, Garcia had lit a fire that cast a cheerful glow on the walls and ceiling. The irony of that was not lost on either Eric or Nick. In the center of the room stood a table covered with a plastic sheet.
"The previous owners were good enough to leave some items in their garage that I have found useful." As he spoke, Garcia unloosed the rope from around Eric's neck and pushed him toward the table. "Lie down there." He looked at Nick and smirked. "Let us see just how much pain your friend can endure."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Garcia sniggered. "We're going to have a little fun with your friend."
"You're going to torture him?" Nick yelled. "What the hell is with this hokey crap?"
Eric, looking at the implement Garcia held in his left hand, was not quite sure that there was anything hokey about what Garcia intended. Garcia's smirk grew more pronounced as he waved a pair of garden cutters at Nick.
"No, Mr. Fallon, I'm not going to torture him---you are."
"Now you're really out of your mind," Nick said, struggling to free himself. "If you think I'm going to hurt him, you're insane."
Garcia sighed loudly. "If you refuse me my little pleasures, I will have to put a bullet in your knee, then perhaps somewhat higher. So why don't we start with your friend's little finger---then after he stops screaming, we will consider what our next cut will be."
Nick stared at Garcia, trying to determine the next step he should take. If he agreed to torture Eric, Garcia would have to untie his hands. He could stall...
"Okay, Garcia." His eyes met Eric's as he walked toward the table. He hoped he had managed to convey in that one look the fact that he had no intentions of going through with Garcia's demands. "I'll do it. Cut me loose."
Garcia's laugh was bone chilling. "You see, Mr. Jamieson? Do you see just how deep his love is for you?"
"What are you playing at?" Nick rasped.
"I was experimenting," Garcia said with a deal of smugness. "You profess to love one another---be in love. Yet, at the first sign of physical danger to yourself, Mr. Fallon, you are prepared to inflict considerable pain on the man you say you love. Of course, I knew all along that such a thing could not be. No maricón is willing to die for another."
"Really?" Nick smiled and shrugged as he positioned himself so that Eric was blocked from Garcia's sight. "I think your son, Joseph, would argue that point with you. He was willing to die for Sam." He flicked his bound wrists at Eric.
"Be silent!" Garcia leveled the gun at Nick's chest. "I told you to never speak of that again. You will not cast shame on his memory with this filth."
"Sorry you see it that way, Garcia." Nick could feel Eric tugging on the rope knots. "They really did love each other, you know." He flexed his wrists as the rope came loose, but kept his hands behind his back.
"Enough," Garcia barked. "I tire of this. Both of you, stand together."
His lips parted in a smile that made Eric shudder. Garcia's finger tightened on the trigger and Eric closed his eyes, waiting for the shot that would end his life. He moved closer to Nick. A flurry of movement beside him and he opened his eyes as he felt himself being pushed violently to one side. He sprawled across the table, which collapsed under his weight. He rolled over onto his back and saw Garcia and Nick struggling hand-to-hand. He leapt to his feet, looking around for something to arm himself with.
The ear-splitting crack of a gunshot resounded through the room and shattered the glass of the French doors that led to the terrace. Garcia swung the gun at Nick's head. His greater weight bore down on Nick, forcing him to the floor, but Nick hooked his arms around Garcia's legs and brought him crashing down. The gun fell from his grasp and skittered across the wood floor. Garcia reached to grab it but Eric kicked it away and Nick threw himself on top of Garcia, inflicting a painful headlock on the larger man. Garcia writhed and bucked beneath Nick, his hands clawing at Nick's arms and head, but still he could not free himself.
Eric picked up the gun. "Okay," he yelled. "That's enough Nick, I've got him covered." Nick relaxed his grip and rolled away from Garcia, who struggled to his feet, cursing. He moved toward Eric, but Nick jumped in between them, taking the gun from Eric and aiming it squarely at Garcia's head.
"Don't make me return the favor," he said through clenched teeth. "Although killing you would be the best bet all round. Eric, our cell phones are up on that mantelpiece. Call 9-1-1 and have them send a squad car to pick up Mr. Garcia here."
With an agility that belied his size and weight, Garcia spun on his heel and charged at Eric, trying to cut him off. The two of them crashed to the floor, then Garcia was on his feet, holding Eric in a stranglehold in front of him.
"Drop the gun Fallon, or I'll break his neck."
Nick did not drop the gun, but advanced on Garcia, the gun held firmly in both his hands and aimed directly at Garcia's face. "I'll kill you before you can make a move," he yelled. "Let him go---now!"
Garcia screamed with rage. Using all his immense strength, he picked Eric up off the floor and flung him at Nick. Nick felt all the wind being knocked out of him as Eric's body slammed into his. Instinctively, he closed his arms around Eric to protect him from further injury, and he took all of his weight on top of himself as they both thudded to the ground. They heard the sound of splintering wood, of breaking glass, and when they struggled to their feet, thoroughly winded, Garcia was gone.
"Christ!" Nick ran to the French doors that were now hanging off their hinges. He raced out onto the terrace, gun at the ready.
"Nick, be careful," Eric yelled, running after him. He grabbed Nick's arm. "He could be anywhere out here---"
"Sssh, listen." From somewhere behind them, they heard a car door slam and then the squeal of tires as a car sped off back down the hill. "Son-of-a-bitch," Nick muttered, running back through the living room and up the steps to the street. "He's taken my fucking car!" he ranted, looking at the spot where he'd parked.
"We can use mine."
Nick looked at Eric grimly. "Keys?"
"Oh, Jeez."
"Right. He's got those too." His shoulders slumped. "Okay, time to call in the cavalry."
§ § § §
Detective Louis McKenna walked silently around the room for a few moments, before turning to face Nick and Eric. "So, you're saying you were held here by Francisco Garcia, the escaped convict from Pennsylvania state penitentiary."
"That's right." Nick felt a twinge of impatience at McKenna's skeptical tone. "What... you don't believe me?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying? I called you because Jeff Stevens always speaks highly of you, Detective."
"That's why you dragged me out of bed at one-thirty in the morning?"
"Okay, McKenna." Nick threw his hands up in disgust. "I've told you the history between Garcia and me, how he killed my ex-partner Andy Hawkins just a couple of weeks ago, how he duped Eric into coming up here, knowing he could just wait for me to show up and finish me off."
"But it didn't work out that way."
"No, because the son-of-a-bitch is just a deal too arrogant---and this time he underestimated the maricóns he hates so much."
"Maricóns? What the hell is that?"
"It means faggots, McKenna." Nick put his arm around Eric's shoulders and pulled him close. "You know what that means, don't you?"
McKenna blinked then looked away. "Yeah, I know." He cleared his throat, then looked back at Nick. "So, you managed to escape."
"No, Garcia managed to escape, McKenna. Thanks to Eric, I'm not lying stretched out on this floor with a bullet in my head."
"So, knowing that you were walking into a trap, why didn't you call me earlier? I could have had backup here to arrest him."
"That's exactly why I didn't call you," Nick interrupted. "If he'd seen me arriving with a bunch of cops, he'd have killed Eric on the spot."
McKenna's expression was grim. "So now he's in your car, heading God-knows-where. Or do you have some idea where he might go?"
Nick shrugged. "Garcia's not familiar with Southern California, but I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that he mapped out this area as soon as he got here. He wouldn't leave himself without an escape route. I'd also bet he has a contact here he can rely on, someone who'll give him shelter, till he either gets out of the country, or he has another crack at me."
"At least he's unarmed," McKenna said, looking at the revolver Nick had handed him when he arrived at the house.
"Not for long," Nick remarked. "Like I said, he's bound to have someone out there he can go to for help."
"Right." McKenna pocketed the weapon. "Okay, I'll pass on this information to the FBI and let them deal with it. Meanwhile, I'll take you guys home, and I'll talk to surveillance to get you some protection. What make of car are we looking for?"
"A 2006 BMW sports, light blue and silver."
"Okay, I'll put in a stolen car report."
"Thanks McKenna," Nick said, then added, "I'd appreciate there being someone keeping an eye on the gallery where Eric works."
"What about you?" Eric asked. "It's you he really wants."
"That's what I'm counting on."
"Wait." Eric grasped his arm. "You can't be serious. Surely you're not going to set yourself up for another confrontation with that maniac."
"Your buddy's right, Fallon," McKenna said. "And I can't be allowing you to put yourself in harm's way."
Nick glared at him. "Someone's got to stop this bastard."
"Then let the police do it." Eric gripped his arm harder. "Nick, he almost killed us in there."
Nick turned his gaze on Eric and saw the concern and fear in his eyes. He sighed with resignation. "Okay, let's go home. We'll come back in the morning and pick up your car."
McKenna stared at him for a moment as if he was wondering why he'd caved so easily. Nick avoided the detective's gaze, opened the door of McKenna's car and climbed in. Eric slid in alongside him, his eyes never leaving Nick's face. He knew Nick's mind was set on catching Garcia and he knew he wouldn't be able to talk him out of it. He also knew Nick had made it look like he'd given up for McKenna's benefit. He wasn't about to have the cop stop him from pursuing Garcia. Eric felt himself tremble at the thought of Nick and Garcia coming face-to-face again. He had to admit he'd never been as scared as when Garcia had him in that choke hold. The man was a cold-blooded killer and Eric was convinced he would not rest until he had finished what he had set out to do.
Nick turned to look at him but remained silent as McKenna drove them through the darkened streets toward their apartment. "We're on Cleo," he told the detective, his voice strangely flat. "You know it?"
McKenna nodded. "Off Glenneyre, right?"
"Right," Eric said. "If you just drop us at the corner, that'll be fine."
A few minutes later they watched the taillights of McKenna's car disappear onto Coast Highway. Together, they walked slowly toward their apartment building. Eric reached for Nick's hand and felt gratified by the gentle squeeze on his fingers.
"How's your head?" he asked.
"Okay."
"I'll get you a pain-killer when we get home."
Nick nodded, but said nothing.
"Say something, Nick."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry."
"Yeah, I do." Nick paused at the bottom of the steps that led to their apartment. "No key, right?"
"There's one under the plant pot by the door."
Nick raised an eyebrow at Eric, then walked up the steps ahead of him. He fished the key from under the pot and opened the door. "This is not a good idea, Eric."
"I know. It's just that I've locked myself out so many times, I figured I had to have backup."
"Anyway," Nick closed and locked the door then turned to face him. "Like I was saying, I am sorry for what you've been through tonight."
"Nick, it's all right."
"No, Eric it's not all right."
"Let me get you that pain-killer." Eric made for the kitchen where he got a glass of water and a pill bottle from one of the cabinets. "Here..." He watched as Nick swallowed the pill.
"Listen to me, Eric." Nick's face was etched with pain as he spoke. "No one should have to go through what you did tonight---no one. No one should have to be drugged by a madman, held at gunpoint and threatened with torture. No one, least of all you. I put you in danger and I hate myself for it. I almost lost you and---" He broke off and looked away. "And I would never have been able to forgive myself."
"Nick." Eric stepped toward him and put his arms around him. "None of that was your fault. I'm the one who walked into the trap. I shouldn't have been so damned eager to sell that painting. I should've checked his ID or something."
"None of that should have been necessary," Nick interrupted. He gripped Eric's arms and pushed him gently away. "Don't you see, that's the whole point? If it wasn't for my involvement with Garcia, your life would never have been in danger. You'd be working in the gallery, doing your thing, seeing your friends for lunch and a laugh. Living a normal life without a fucking homicidal creep trying to off you at every turn."
"Nick, what the hell are you talking about? Where are you going with this?"
"I'm saying you'd be better off without me."
"What?" Eric looked at him, appalled.
"I mean it. I'm no good for you. I have no right to put you in harm's way."
"Stop this." Eric reached for him, but Nick evaded his touch and walked quickly into the bedroom. Eric hurried after him. "Don't walk away in the middle of this," he said, his voice rising in anger. "You can't just say that kind of stuff and then walk away."
"Eric..." Nick turned to look at him with tortured eyes. "Don't you see where this is going? Garcia is out there somewhere, planning round two. He will never rest till one of us is dead---him or me. You can't be a part of that."
"But I'm already a part of it, dammit!" Eric's eyes blazed with anger as he stared back at Nick. "I was a part of what happened tonight, wasn't I? Or did I just dream all that? Oh, that's what it must have been---a dream. It didn't really happen to me at all. I wasn't there!"
"Eric, stop."
"No, you stop, and listen to me, Nick Fallon. I love you. Do you understand what that means?"
"Of course I---"
"Shut up, and listen for a change!"
Nick almost took a step back as Eric advanced on him and he braced himself for the slug he felt sure was coming from Eric's clenched fist. He had never seen Eric look this mad. And Nick couldn't blame him for feeling this way. If it made Eric feel better to punch him on the nose after what he'd been through, so be it. Eric's face was mere inches from Nick's as he glared up at him, breathing heavily. Nick wanted to pull him into his arms and hold him until his anger was spent; but wisely, he felt that just might be the wrong move to make at this moment.
"One night last week," Eric said, his voice thick with emotion, "You gave me an ultimatum that if I didn't do what you thought was best, we were through. Now I'm telling you this, Nick---if you try to ease me out of your life because you think I can't handle what's going on in our lives right now, I will hound you and stalk you to the ends of the earth. You are not going to save me by breaking off our relationship. Try it, and I'll go after Garcia myself!"
"Eric," Nick gasped. "For God's sake, you don't know what you're saying. Garcia is a madman. A doubly pissed off madman since we managed to mess up his plan to kill us both."
"That's right, Nick, to kill both of us. You're not in this thing by yourself anymore. Whether you like it or not, I'm a part of it. So, don't you see that we need each other more now than we ever did? I know you think that by leaving me, you're protecting me, but you're wrong about that. Garcia knows who I am, where I work, and he knows he can get to you through me. Apart from one another, we're vulnerable. Together, we stand a chance, just like we did tonight. This is not the time for you to act all noble and go off on your own to avoid involving me in whatever Garcia's cooking up." Eric paused and touched Nick's face gently with his fingertips. "I need you here with me. That way we can keep each other safe."
Nick sighed as he reached for Eric's hand and pressed it to his lips. Eric moved into his arms and they stood for a long time, simply holding one another. Loath though he was to admit it, Nick knew Eric was right. Whether he liked it or not, Eric was as involved in this sorry mess as much as he was. He groaned as the realization of what that meant gripped him with a sickening force.
Eric tightened his arms around him. "I love you, Nick. Please don't ask me to go."
"How could I?" Nick whispered. "I don't know what I was thinking."
"You were thinking of me, and how best to protect me." Eric smiled into his eyes. "That's just one reason why I love you so much. Just promise me you won't go after Garcia alone."
"I promise."
Their mouths met in a soul-searing kiss that made them forget the lateness of the hour, or the fact that they were exhausted by the strain of earlier events. All that mattered at that moment was the need to consummate their love for one another.
"We should shower," Nick mumbled as they fell on the bed in a tangle of arms and legs.
"Later..." Eric tore at Nick's shirt buttons. "Right now, I want you on top of me, all over me, inside me, all hot and naked."
In a moment, their clothes were flung away, and their bodies were joined in a sexual frenzy so intense, the memory of it would linger in both their minds long after it was over. The smell of Nick's sweat, overlain with a slight, lingering trace of the musk cologne he favored, inflamed Eric's senses to such a degree he felt that his lust could never be sated---not even if they made love all week. His lips and tongue strayed from Nick's mouth and sought every part of his hard, lean, muscular body. Grasping Nick's erection, he captured it in his mouth, running his tongue up and down the full length of the pulsing shaft.
Nick gasped as the sensations Eric created brought him very close to the brink of ejaculation. He pulled Eric up into his arms and lathed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. Eric's hips moved against Nick's groin to a sensuous rhythm; their arms encircled each other, locking their bodies together in the scorching heat of their passion. Eric's legs were around Nick's waist, pulling him in even closer, fusing their bodies until they became as one. Beneath him, Nick felt Eric's body arch and grow taut as a bowstring. His arms encircled Nick's neck, bringing their lips together at the moment of his orgasm.
"Ah, Eric... Jeez, Eric," Nick moaned into his lover's mouth as he felt his own orgasm surge through him in a shuddering tumult. They clung to each other as their bodies spasmed together in a mutual ecstasy.
When they were spent and sated, lying within the comfort of each other's arms, and Nick's senses were once more under his control, his mind spun back to that moment when he thought he had lost Eric forever. Before sleep took him, he made a silent vow that Garcia would never get the chance to come that close to Eric again.
Nick woke later that morning and realized he felt a whole lot better than he had a right to. Despite the dull ache that surrounded the bruise on his temple, and despite the fact they had not gone to bed until after three and then engaged in rapturous sex, or perhaps because of that, he felt alert and energized. Eric was already up; Nick could hear him moving about in the kitchen, and the tantalizing smell of freshly brewed coffee came sweetly to his nostrils. Still, he lay for a bit longer thinking about what Eric had said earlier.
Despite his promise to him, there was no way Nick was going to involve him any further in his search for Garcia. Yes, McKenna would bring in the FBI, that was a given---and maybe they just might be successful in finding Garcia. But now it was personal. Nick had felt loss over Andy's murder. Andy had been a good friend, but that feeling could never compare to the almost overpowering rage he had experienced when he had witnessed Garcia trying to kill Eric. Now, it wasn't enough that the FBI caught Garcia and put him back in prison to await the death sentence he so justly deserved. He wanted to kill Garcia himself. He wanted to make sure that Garcia was no longer a threat to Eric---or anyone else.
Throughout the years that Nick had been in law enforcement, he had never wanted to kill anyone. He had always believed that even the most depraved criminals deserved their day in court, but Garcia had violated Nick's basic beliefs. He had tried to take away something too precious to lose, and for that he must die. Nick knew that he would never be completely at ease until Garcia was gone for good. It had to be done, but Eric must not know any of the details. It was going to hurt him when he found out that Nick had broken his promise, but better that than have him face Garcia again. The next time they might not be so lucky.
"Hey, sleepy-head," Eric sang out from the kitchen. "Do I have to come in there and haul you out of bed?"
"I'll be right there." Trying to push thoughts of Garcia to the back of his mind, Nick swung his long legs out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
"Jeez," he muttered, looking in the mirror as he relieved himself. He fingered the livid bruise on the side of his head, and counted himself lucky it wasn't a whole lot more serious. He pulled on a pair of shorts and joined Eric in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling the back of his neck.
"Mmm," Eric murmured, pressing his rump into Nick's groin. "You feel like you're ready to go again."
"Always ready for you," Nick said, turning him around and kissing his lips. "Come back to bed."
"It's late," Eric protested. "I have to get to the gallery."
Nick frowned. "I don't want you going there by yourself today."
"But it's Sunday---a big tourist day. I have to be there, Nick."
"I'll come with you."
"Okay, but first I have to go pick up my car. I called Andrew and he's coming over to give me a lift up to Mystic Hills."
"Don't tell him anything about what happened up there."
"I won't. I just haven't quite worked out what I'm going to tell him---about why my car's there, I mean."
"Tell him we were at a party or somethin' and we both got soused and couldn't drive home."
Eric laughed. "Like he'd believe that. How's the head?" He touched the bruise on Nick's temple carefully.
"Not too bad. Damn, I'm going to have to get a rental till the cops find my car---if they ever do."
"I wonder where Garcia is," Eric said, handing Nick a cup of coffee.
"My hope is he's heading for the border. He just might have somewhere he can lay low for a time. He's gotta decide whether it's worth having another crack at me, or just getting the hell out of the country."
"I pick the latter choice for him," Eric ventured an attempt at humor. "What's your gut feeling?"
"Well, he's got to have figured that the cops know now he's here in Orange County. His plan to off the pair of us, and then clear out before anyone noticed, hasn't panned out, so I'm thinking he's not going to risk getting caught again over a pair of maricóns. Know what I mean?"
Eric nodded. "Yeah, his charming little word for us." He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "D'you think he believed you, about his son being gay?"
"He won't want to, but I think it's gotta rankle in his brain a little. He'll never be really sure now. He's always going to wonder."
Later, as Nick showered, he hoped that his remark about Garcia not wanting to risk his freedom for the sake of revenge had registered with Eric the way he'd wanted it to. He wanted to make Eric believe that Garcia would not waste any more time on trying to kill either one of them; that instead he would be using every available contact to help him get out of the country. Nick was going to enforce that belief every opportunity he got for as long as it took. There was no way he was going to let Eric and Garcia be in the same room together again---ever.
§ § § §
Garcia sat at an immense dining room table and glowered at his reluctant host. He had made his way to the home of an old associate now living in Corona del Mar. To say the man was troubled to see Garcia was an understatement---he was terrified. He had managed to conceal his fear, however, as he'd beckoned Garcia across his threshold, all the time wondering how in the hell he could rid himself of this unwanted guest.
Mario Torres had collaborated with Garcia for years before the takedown that had ended with Garcia behind bars. Torres's involvement with Garcia had gone unnoticed by the FBI, with the result that he had escaped scrutiny and had retired from the narcotics business, fleeing to California and secreting himself in a quiet, respectable enclave where no one knew his past, nor even his true identity. But suddenly his past had caught up with him, in the form of Francisco Garcia, and Torres was terribly afraid that before long, his criminal association with Garcia would be laid bare for all to see---and that could only end in either incarceration, or death.
Now Torres's mind churned with anxiety and a deep-seated fear of what this day might bring him. "So, Francisco, my friend..." He fought hard to keep the tremor from his voice as he addressed Garcia. "How may I be of service to you?"
Garcia stared at Torres with barely concealed contempt. "I have some unfinished business to attend to. Once that is completed, I will need you to drive me over the border into Mexico."
"Mexico?" Torres had developed a nervous tic near the corner of his mouth. "But the border patrols are much stricter these days. There has been much talk of it recently---"
"Nevertheless, it's what I must do." Garcia smiled thinly as he interrupted. "I know you can make some arrangements, Mario. You still have contacts. Once there, I can arrange for a plane to take me back to Puerto Rico. Also, I need a gun---preferably two---and a knife. Lastly, you will get rid of the car I arrived in, and get me another. Something small and easily forgotten---" He broke off as Torres's wife entered the room.
Angelina Torres was, by any standards, a beautiful woman. Fifteen years younger than her husband, she glided with an elegant grace across the floor to where the two men sat. Garcia rose and bowed his head slightly. His dark eyes glittered with admiration.
"Angelina, as beautiful as ever, I see," he murmured.
"Francisco, what a surprise." Her eyes flashed toward her husband for a second before settling on Garcia's bearded face. "You are so changed," she remarked, sitting at the table opposite Garcia. "I would not have known you."
"Three years in prison can change a man."
"But not his need for revenge, it seems." Her smile was enigmatic. "We have been following the reports of your adventures. The police officer you killed in Pittsburgh. A cop-killer they're calling you now."
"He was one of those responsible for Joseph's death."
"And the one you shot in the cemetery?"
"That was a mistake."
Angelina's light laughter caused Garcia's face to tighten with anger.
"That is why I am here," he snarled. "To finish what I promised my son I would undertake in his name."
Both he and Angelina turned at the sound of Torres clearing his throat. "Francisco requires our help, my dear."
"I heard what he asked, Mario." She narrowed her eyes at Garcia. "Two guns, a knife, a car? How many more do you intend to kill before Joseph's soul is appeased?"
"Only one---two, if the other one gets in the way again."
"Again?" Angelina's tone was sharp. "You have already confronted him? He got away?" Her soft lips tightened in a sneer. "Another mistake, Francisco?"
"Do not bait me, Angelina," Garcia hissed. "Or that may be your mistake."
"You are in no position to threaten me." She rested her clasped hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, staring into Garcia's eyes with a fierceness that took him slightly aback. "One call and your days of freedom would be over, Francisco. Without our help, you will be lost. There is no one else here who can help you. So..." She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. "I suggest you hurry with your plan to kill whomever is next on your list---but do not implicate us. That just will not do. Mario and I have a good life here in California. We will not have it ruined by your petty need to avenge your son's death. This has obsessed you and it will be your downfall. Tell me, do you want to spend the rest of your days in prison waiting for the executioner?"
Garcia ground his teeth in fury, but at the same time could not help but feel an admiration for this beautiful woman who appeared so unafraid of him. He could snap her neck with a flick of his wrist, yet she sat, calmly smiling at him, serene and confident of her own power over him. For she was right---he did need her. More than he needed her fat, stupid husband. Angelina Torres was the one who could get him what he wanted.
"My apologies," he now whispered, bowing his head respectfully. He gazed into the amber depths of her eyes and smiled. "Of course, you are right. But I hope you will understand when I say, I must complete what I started. The last man responsible for Joseph's death still lives."
"Who is this man?"
"His name is Nick Fallon. He was a detective with the Pittsburgh police force, and now masquerades as a private detective in Laguna Beach."
Angelina's eyes flicked toward her husband. "He sounds familiar, does he not, Mario?" Her husband gave her a blank look, and she turned away from him with a sigh of impatience. "I read somewhere, in a magazine, I think, or it might have been an advertisement. Fallon, and someone else, investigators. Don't you remember, Mario? Oh, I can't quite think what it was---"
"What does it matter?" Garcia interrupted. "He is the one I want. He is a filthy-mouthed maricón."
"He is gay?" Angelina's laughter echoed through the dining room. "And he escaped from you? Oh, Francisco!"
Garcia's face flushed with pent-up rage. "You will not mock me, woman, I warn you."
"Oh, please." Angelina smirked at him. "But I forgot. You said there were two of them. That explains everything. Two against one---bad odds, even when they are both faggots."
Garcia growled deep in his throat. I will kill her, he thought. After she is no longer of use to me, I will kill her.
"But, I have a plan which might just help you, Francisco." Angelina rose from the table and walked over to the French windows. For a time she stood gazing thoughtfully out at the lush landscaping that surrounded her home.
"What is it, my dear?" Torres asked. "What is your plan?"
She turned and faced the two men. "So simple, really. I will call this Nick Fallon, and I will request his help in a private investigative matter. My husband..." She paused to giggle at what she was about to say. "My husband, I fear, is having an affair. I will ask him to visit me here so I can give him all the details. He will arrive, I will graciously invite him in, and there you will have him. And this time, on his own, Francisco."
Garcia gritted his teeth at the veiled insult. But, he thought, it might just work. Fallon would walk unsuspecting into a trap, and he, Garcia, would have the added support of Mario and Angelina. Well, Angelina, at least. He doubted if Mario would be of any great help in a confrontation. The man had grown fat and soft---and afraid.
"Are you sure you can get him to come here?" Garcia asked. "What if he insists on an appointment in his office?"
"I will tell him I have hurt my wrist and cannot drive." She gave Garcia a little smile. "My husband and I had an argument and he used brute force upon me." Once again, her laughter filled the room. "Oh Mario, you brute!"
Torres had grown pale listening to her plan. "But bringing a detective, even a private one, here to our house, to kill him? How will we dispose of the body? What if the police trace him here? Your name will be on his records. Perhaps he records his phone calls."
Angelina sighed with impatience, but Garcia frowned as he listened to Torres. "Mario may be right. Added to that, is the risk that a neighbor will see his car arrive---"
"And depart," Angelina snapped. "If the police ask me, I will tell them, 'Why yes, Mr. Fallon was here. He stayed about an hour, listening to my fears and promising to find out if they were justified. Then he left, and I never heard from him again. I called his office and was told he had not come in to work. 'Oh,' I will say, 'please tell him to call me when he does come in.' By that time we will have disposed of his car. The police will verify my story and look elsewhere."
"I don't like it," Torres muttered.
Garcia was silent, weighing his options. If Angelina could get Fallon here, it could only work to his advantage. He would have Fallon at his mercy and finish him quickly. What happened to Mario and Angelina after that---well, he could take care of that problem. Perhaps they would not be around to answer any questions the police might have. What mattered most was, he would have fulfilled his promise to Joseph. Then he could plan his escape.
His eyes gleamed as he smiled at Angelina. "I like it, very much. It's a brilliant plan. Beauty and brains in one woman. You are a very lucky man, Mario."
"You will have to be patient, Francisco," Angelina told him. "Today is Sunday, and the fearless detective will not be answering his phone. I will leave a message asking him to call me first thing Monday morning. Then we can set the plan in motion. Meanwhile, you will be our guest." She turned to her husband. "Mario, better pull the car into the garage before anyone notices it. Come, Francisco, let me show you your room."
§ § § §
Nick sat in the back room of Peter's gallery looking at the list of phone calls he needed to make that morning. Out in the gallery, Eric smiled and politely answered questions for the crowds who milled around gawping at the paintings that covered the gallery walls. Nick could hear Eric's low and pleasant voice explaining some of the techniques Peter employed in his work. Not for the first time Nick marveled at the amount of knowledge and expertise Eric had accumulated in the year he had been Peter's assistant.
His eyes fell on the number at the top of his list. "Acme Realty." The sign had been outside the house on Mystic Hills, and Nick was curious to know just who owned the property and how Garcia had managed to rent it. The young man who answered Acme's phone identified himself as Ron Simmons, and sounded eager to be of assistance when Nick told him he was a private investigator. Yes, he knew the house Nick was asking about. Yes, it was still for sale. No, it could not be rented. No, it was not currently occupied.
"Would you remember if you had shown it to a man by the name of Francisco Garcia?" Nick asked him.
"Doesn't ring a bell."
Wait, Nick thought, what was the name Garcia had used when he duped Eric into thinking he was interested in buying one of Peter's paintings? Gonzales. "How about a Mr. Gonzales?"
"Uh, yeah, Federico Gonzales. I have him here in my appointment book. I showed it to him on Friday. He said he'd call me back but didn't. Big surprise."
So, that was it. Gonzales had found himself a vacant property, and had somehow managed to ensure that a door or window was left unlocked after the realtor had shown it to him. He had then returned there on the Saturday night, feeling confident no one would be around. However, all this was a dead end. The owners of the property---two guys, retired schoolteachers---had moved to Palm Springs. Nick was pretty sure they would have had no connection to Garcia.
"Anyway," Simmons was saying, "Are you in the market for a house?"
Nick chuckled. Once a salesman, always a salesman. "I could be," he said. "Right now, my partner and I are renting an apartment."
"Well, when you're ready, why don't you give me a call?"
"I might just do that." Before he hung up, Nick warned Simmons that he'd better go check out his listing before showing it again. "Looks like whoever was there did some damage."
Talking with the realtor made Nick ponder something he'd not given a lot of thought to for some years. Martin had made Nick his sole beneficiary in the will he'd left. That meant the townhouse Martin had owned outright, and some investments he'd made over the years, had all passed to Nick. He had barely acknowledged the financial statements that were sent to him every quarter, simply giving them to an accountant at tax time. He had a hard time regarding the assets as his money. In his mind, he hadn't earned it---Martin had. If anyone had asked just what was in that investment account, he would have had a hard time coming up with the answer.
But now, was this the time when he should buy a home for Eric and himself? They both felt pretty settled in Laguna and he did have enough for a sizeable down payment.
"Hmm..." Well, it was something to discuss later with Eric. Next on his list---Tom Carradine. Nick drew a deep breath as he punched in Tom's number. He wanted to find out how Garcia had known Eric worked in this particular gallery. If it had been Tom who gave him that information, well, Nick wanted to know why. The answer to that was going to have to wait, however, as there was no reply and no pickup on the answering machine. Nick looked at the third name on the list. Louis McKenna. He was somewhat surprised McKenna hadn't called him by now. Even on a Sunday he felt that the OC detective would have contacted the FBI with the information he had---surely California cops weren't that laid back.
"Hey, Fallon..." McKenna sounded very laid back as he answered Nick's call. Nick had a vision of him lying in his backyard on this warm October day, lapping up the sun's warm rays.
"Thought I'd touch base with you," Nick said.
"Yeah, I was going to give you a call. There'll be an FBI agent callin' you tomorrow. Name of Agent Tomlinson."
"Tomlinson. Okay."
"I put a report out on your car, but so far, nothing."
"Thanks, anyway. I have a rental my insurance pays for."
"Good. Okay, I'll be in touch."
Nick looked up as Eric stuck his head round the corner. "How's it going back here?"
"Fine." Nick smiled at him. "What time do you close for lunch?"
"I don't. Saturday and Sunday the gallery stays open all day. They're our busiest days."
"What? What kind of white slave labor is that?"
Eric grinned at him. "Well, Peter's usually here with me, so we take turns eating back here."
"Jeez. Okay, I'll go get us a sandwich. Any preference?"
"No, just whatever you're having---and a hot tea."
As Nick sat in the deli waiting for their sandwiches to be made, his cell phone rang. "Nick Fallon."
"Nick, it's Norman."
"Hey, Doc, what's up?"
"You got a minute?"
"Sure."
"I---I've been feeling a little guilty about laying all that angst on you when you were here. I'm sorry I was such a pain."
"You weren't being a pain, Doc. As a matter of fact, I was kinda flattered you felt you could open up to me like that. That's what friends are for, right?"
"Yeah, but you've got enough on your plate right now. You didn't need me emoting all over the place. Anyway, I wanted to call and tell you I really am happy for you---finding someone you're compatible with, I mean."
Nick smiled. "I think it's even more than that, to be honest. We've been through some hairy shit in the last couple of days and if anything, it's just made it better. How are things with you?"
"Okay. I've decided to stay put, for a while anyway. I had a date a couple of nights ago, and it was really nice. It kind of restored my faith in my fellow man, which is kinda corny, I know, but I'm seeing him again tonight, and I'm really looking forward to that."
"That's terrific, Doc," Nick enthused.
"Yeah. Anyway, it was really great seeing you last week, Nick. I only wish that..."
"Doc---Norman," Nick said, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know, you were a great help to me when everything was going wrong in my life. I'll never forget that, and I'll always be grateful for your support and encouragement. But now you need to move on. When I was still grieving for Martin, someone said to me, 'Live for today, look forward to tomorrow, never look back with regret.' I never thought that it would be possible for me to do that, but it's happened. Now you've met someone nice---nice enough for you to want to see him again. So I'm saying to you, look forward to that, and build on it."
There was silence on the line for a moment, then Nick heard a quiet chuckle on the other end. "Nick, maybe you should give up being a PI, and take up counseling. You're a natural." They laughed together, then Norman asked, "So Garcia's disappeared. D'you think he got out of the country?"
"No, I know he's still here." He told Norman briefly of what had happened, downplaying the real danger that he and Eric had faced. "Where he is right now, I don't know. The FBI will be talking to me tomorrow, I guess. He's got my car, but he's probably dumped that somewhere by now."
"He must be feeling pretty desperate."
"Garcia's a man filled with rage and the need for vengeance," Nick said. "He's become tunnel-visioned in a way, and that could lead to him making mistakes. That's what I'm hoping, anyway." He stood and collected his bag of sandwiches that were now ready. "I'm heading back to the gallery now."
"Is that where Eric works?"
"Uh huh. I didn't feel great about him being there on his own after what happened yesterday, so I'm riding shotgun, you might say."
"Nick, you guys be careful. Let the police handle this."
"Don't worry, I will. And Norman, keep in touch, won't you?"
"You bet. Bye, Nick."
The gallery was fairly quiet when Nick returned, so he suggested Eric eat first, while he kept an eye on things. "If anyone asks stuff I can't answer, I'll come get you," he said, shooing Eric into the back room. His cell phone rang almost as soon as Eric sat down to eat. He glanced at the ID screen. It read, D. Villiers. Frowning, he retreated to the desk in the corner of the gallery before answering.
"Nick Fallon."
"Hey Nick, it's Danny Villiers in Pittsburgh."
"Hey, what's up?"
"Didn't you and Andy used to use a guy named Tom Carradine for information and such?"
"Yeah..."
"That's what I thought. Anyway, he's turned up dead."
"What?"
"Yeah. Pete Sorensen---I don't think you know him. Anyway, he's been using Carradine on a case he was working on, and they had arranged to meet a few days ago. Anyway, Carradine didn't show and didn't get in touch later. Pete called him and called him then went over to his apartment, just today. Found him with his throat cut and pretty beaten up. He must have been dead for some time, days by the look of it."
"Shit," Nick muttered. "That's how Garcia got to us."
"You think Garcia had something to do with it?"
"I think he had everything to do with it, Danny. He's here in California, and he knew just how to get to me. He must've gotten it out of Tom. Damn..."
"You said he got to you. Are you OK?"
"Yeah, but he got away, Danny. I got the Orange County police involved---and the FBI. Sooner or later we're gonna catch the son-of-a-bitch."
"I'll let Fitzpatrick know what's going on," Villiers said. "Nick, you be careful."
"That's my intention," Nick replied wryly. He sat at the desk for a moment, staring at the landscape painting they had retrieved from the house on Mystic Hills. Once again, thinking of Tom Carradine's fate, he could only be grateful that he and Eric had managed to survive their encounter with Garcia. He looked across the gallery to where Eric stood, having given up his lunch break to talk with a young couple seemingly interested in one of the paintings. As he watched his lover gesture toward the painting and speak with an assurance that Nick could still marvel at, he felt the cold hand of apprehension clutch at his heart, and for a moment he felt physically sick. In Nick's mind, Tom Carradine's death was a clear warning that he would never really be able to drop his guard, until the day he knew Garcia was dead.
Monday mornings come all too soon, Nick groused, pushing himself from the warm and comfortable shelter of the bed he shared with Eric. He wanted to get an early start at the office and follow up on the news Danny Villiers had given him. Maybe Fitzpatrick had more information by now. After he'd showered, he stepped from the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Eric had Mondays off, and Nick wanted to let him sleep. Nevertheless, as he slipped on a pair of white briefs, he was aware of two light blue eyes watching his every move.
"Mornin' sexy..." Eric's sleepy voice caused him to smile.
"Mornin' yourself." Sitting on the bed, he brushed Eric's lips lightly with his. "You sleep all right?"
"Mmm." Eric gave him a sly smile. "After some guy finally left me alone. God, but he was insatiable."
Nick chuckled. "Gee, wonder who that could've been?" He kissed the tip of Eric's nose. "I'm going to get an early start at the office. Go back to sleep. Call me when you're up and about."
Eric wrapped his arms around Nick's neck and pulled him close to his warm body. "Okay," he whispered, closing his eyes but not letting Nick go. Nick smiled as he extricated himself, somewhat reluctantly, from Eric's embrace.
After he had pulled on a pair of khaki slacks and a clean white cotton shirt, he strapped his shoulder holster in place and covered it with a lightweight bomber jacket. He picked up the keys to his rental car and the house key Eric had secreted under the plant pot outside. Taking care to double lock the apartment door, he ran down the steps to where he had parked the rented Lexus. Glancing at his watch, he noted that he would be at the office before Monica arrived at eight. Good, he thought, gives me time to make some calls without her knowing anything.
However, the best laid plans. When Nick pulled into his assigned parking space, a black sedan was sitting in one of the guest spaces, and two men in black suits were leaning on the car hood. Nick glowered at the men. FBI, he thought sourly. Shit. He had wanted to get his own stuff out of the way before having to deal with FBI agents.
"Nick Fallon?" One of the men approached him as he got out of his car. "Agent Tomlinson, FBI."
"You're on the job early," Nick remarked, not quite hiding his irritation.
"You got somewhere to go?"
"I have a business to run," Nick replied. "So, if you don't mind, let's get inside and get this over with." He walked past Tomlinson and unlocked the office doors. The two men followed him into the reception area and looked about appraisingly as Nick switched on the lights.
"Nice place," Tomlinson said. "Business must be good. This is Agent Johnson," he added, indicating the other man.
Nick nodded, surveying the two men carefully. Both of them were young, early thirties at the most. Both looked to be in good shape. Johnson, taller than his partner, looked like a runner. Tomlinson was broader in the chest and it was obvious he worked out religiously. They looked like they could take care of themselves, Nick thought, but there was an air of arrogance about Tomlinson that boded trouble for them, should they ever come face-to-face with Garcia. Nick opened his office door and beckoned the men in. He wondered how Monica would react on finding two FBI agents seated in his office. He would have to ask her not to tell Jeff, if he should call to check up on them. He knew she'd hate having to keep things from Jeff. Monica had been with Jeff ever since he'd first hung up his shingle, and she was fiercely loyal to him. Nick was a relative newbie, and although they got along fine, Nick knew where her loyalties lay.
Agent Tomlinson dropped his beefy body into a leather chair opposite Nick. "Seems you had a run-in with Francisco Garcia. Want to tell us about that?"
"What's this guy's interest in you anyway?" Johnson asked, setting up his laptop on Nick's desk.
Nick sighed. "Don't they fill you guys in on anything anymore? My connection with Garcia is on record."
Tomlinson nodded. "Right, but we just wanted to hear it again, in case we missed something." He looked at his partner and smirked. "Wouldn't want that now, would we?"
Fighting down the urge to throw both agents out of his office, Nick said, "So what do you want to hear first? What happened Saturday night, or what happened four years ago?"
"Let's start with the raid in Pittsburgh."
§ § § §
Garcia paced about the Torres' living room with mounting impatience. He hated this confinement, this inability to move freely about. It was almost as bad as being in prison. He had spent a restless night, cursing himself for letting Fallon and his friend get the better of him. He still could not quite believe it had happened. He had underestimated Fallon, and now he had to rely on others to help him carry out what he had flown three thousand miles to accomplish. Then there was the matter of Fallon's disclosure about Joseph's sexual dalliance with a police officer.
Dios. He could not, would not believe it! But the thought that his beloved son might have been gay had rankled in his mind, and kept him awake into the small hours of the morning. Joseph---could it perhaps have been true? Sometimes when he had looked at his son, at the fine noble features he had inherited from his grandmother, he had wished for him to be less beautiful and more like his brother.
Alfredo was handsome, but masculine. There was nothing of the effeminate in him. Whereas, dare he think it? Dare he even contemplate that in Joseph there may have been a flaw that had led him to a life of depravity? God forbid that such a thing could have happened. Fallon must have been lying. Lying, in order to torture him as a form of retaliation for the situation he and his puta had found themselves in. Yes, that was it, Garcia mused. Fallon had thought he had found a way to wound me by defiling Joseph's memory. There was no truth in what he said---
"Good morning, Francisco." Angelina, looking provocatively beautiful as always, stood in the doorway, her lovely face wearing just a trace of mockery as she smiled at him.
As she walked slowly toward him, Garcia licked his lips in appreciation of the intense sexuality the woman exuded. God forgive me, but I would love to fuck her, he thought. Never mind that he was a guest in her husband's home, he wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her body to his own.
Sensing this, Angelina's smile widened and she looked up at Garcia from under seductively lowered eyelids. "Francisco..." Her voice was almost a purr. "You slept well, I hope."
"No. My mind is too full to sleep." Garcia's voice sounded thick even to his own ears.
Angelina laid a hand on his arm. "Soon, all that bothers you will be taken care of," she whispered. "Then you will be free to go where you will---and take with you whom you desire."
Garcia smiled thinly, the implication not lost on him. So, Angelina was willing to leave her husband and the good life she'd said they enjoyed here. How like a woman, he thought bitterly, always so ready to betray those who were no longer of use. Poor Mario. Poor, stupid, stupid Mario. Still, this could be of great value. Angelina might very well be of greater service than Mario ever could. After she had served her purpose... Well then, he would see.
"I remembered where I had heard the name Nick Fallon," Angelina said, handing him a magazine. "See, here." She pointed to a photo spread. "Is that not the man?"
"It is," Garcia said with a sneer as he peered at the photograph of Nick and a man he did not know.
"Who is the other?"
"His partner, Jeff Stevens. They run a detective agency in Laguna Beach."
Garcia handed back the magazine. "Have you made the call to Fallon's office?"
"I will in a moment." She took his arm. "Why don't you come into the kitchen and have coffee with me?"
He allowed himself to be led from the living room. "I am impatient for this to be over," he muttered.
"Of course you are." Angelina smiled demurely at him. "And to get on with your life, I have no doubt." She poured Garcia a cup of coffee and pushed it toward him across the counter. "I have the number right here." She frowned at the tiny gold watch she wore. "It's still a little early."
"Leave a message then."
"I wanted to speak directly to him. It might sound all the more convincing that I am anxious for him to see me."
"Call anyway," Garcia growled.
Angelina sighed. "Very well." She picked up the phone and punched in Nick's number, using her knuckle so as not to damage her exquisitely painted fingernails.
Monica could hear the office phone ringing as she pushed her way in through the heavy glass doors. As she ran to her desk, juggling her purse, her car keys and the bag of Danish she'd brought to share with Nick, she noticed his door was closed. Must have a client already, she thought, picking up the phone.
"Stevens and Fallon Investigations. How may I direct your call?"
"Nick Fallon, please." The woman's voice had a faint but exotic accent.
"One moment, please." Monica buzzed through to Nick's office. "Nick? You have a call on line one."
"Take a message please, Monica."
Nick sounded tense, Monica thought. "Okay. Sorry to interrupt." She pushed the call-waiting button. "I'm sorry ma'am. Mr. Fallon's in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?"
"It is extremely important that I speak to him immediately." The woman sounded distressed.
"I'll have him call you as soon as he's free," Monica said in her most conciliatory manner. "I'm afraid I can't disturb him at the moment."
"Very well." A long sigh followed. "Tell him it could be a matter of life and death."
"Let me have your number, please." Monica wrote the telephone number down. "And your name?"
"Maria Fuentes."
"Okay, Ms. Fuentes, I'll be sure to have him call you as soon as he can. Bye."
Nick glowered at the two FBI agents who sat across from him. "How much longer is this going to take?"
"As long as it takes, Nick," Tomlinson chuckled. "You should know, being an ex-cop and all, that these things take time."
"So, Saturday night," Johnson broke in. "How did he get you up to that house?"
"He was holding a friend of mine hostage, and threatened to kill him if I didn't show right away."
"This friend have a name?"
"Eric Jamieson."
Johnson entered Eric's name on his laptop. "Good friend is he?"
"Good enough." The corner of Nick's mouth twitched with amusement---they were going to have to ask.
"So you go up there alone," Tomlinson said with a sneer. "How smart was that?"
"He told me to come alone and unarmed or he'd kill Eric. Believe me, I know what Garcia is capable of, and I knew he'd kill him without a second's hesitation if I didn't do what he asked." He narrowed his eyes at Tomlinson. "You guys have no idea just what a cold-blooded killer Garcia is, and I hope you don't ever have to find out."
Tomlinson sniggered. "Don't worry about us, Fallon. We've dealt with murderers before."
"I'm sure you have." Nick shrugged and sat back in his chair. "Anyway, I get up there. He's got Eric drugged, and me at gunpoint. It didn't look good, but I managed to surprise him, or so I thought---but the bastard shot me. That's how I got this." He pointed to the livid bruise on his temple. "Lucky for me, his aim was off, only nicked my skull and knocked me out. Next thing, I'm tied up and he's going to have me torture Eric. This is where Garcia fucked up. This was not his M.O. at all. He likes to get in quick, do the deed and get out. This playing around with us, for whatever reason, screwed him. With Eric's help, I managed to loosen the rope he'd tied me with, and this time got the gun away from him."
"But he got away," Johnson said, looking up from his laptop keyboard.
"Yeah, and took my car. McKenna's following up on that."
"Where d'you suppose he went?"
Nick shook his head in disbelief at the agent's question. "If I knew that, that's where I'd be headed."
"You claim to know so much about this guy," Tomlinson said. "We just figured you'd have it all worked out."
"Why would I want to do your job?" Nick asked, smiling.
"Okay, Fallon," Tomlinson snapped. "Drop the superior attitude."
"That's what I've been wanting to say to you since the moment we met," Nick said, getting to his feet. "Now, if you've quite finished, I have work to do."
Tomlinson flicked his eyes at Johnson, then stood up. "I guess that's all for the time being. We'll be in touch."
"Don't be in any hurry." Nick chuckled as the two agents left his office.
Monica looked up with surprise as she recognized at once what the men represented, nor did she miss the way Johnson's eyes swept over her face and body as he passed her desk. What a creep, she thought while pasting a little smile on her face.
"Bad start to the day?" she asked Nick as soon as the agents were on the other side of the door.
"It can only get better, I hope." Nick managed a grin. "Do I smell coffee?"
"And Danish."
"You are the perfect secretary, Monica. I'm going to talk to Jeff about him giving you a raise when he gets back."
Monica smiled cheekily. "Actually, I think that'd have to come from both of you, Nick---you being partners, after all. So if you want to approve it in his absence, I don't think he'd mind."
Nick laughed then bit into a Danish. "You got me. Seriously though, I will talk to him about it."
"How was your weekend?" Monica asked, taking a dainty bite of her Danish.
"Funny you should ask."
Monica gasped as Nick turned to face her and she saw, for the first time, the bruising on his temple. "Wow. What happened to your head?"
"Eric got mad and decked me one."
"You're kidding."
"Yeah, I am. I'll tell you about it later."
"Nick, what's going on?"
"Later," Nick said firmly. "Who called when I had Heckle and Jeckle in the office?"
Monica handed him the message she had taken earlier. "She sounded kinda distraught. I said you'd call her soon as you were free."
"Okay." Nick looked at the name and phone number. "I'll get right on it, boss." He took his coffee and Danish back into his office and picked up the phone.
Angelina, checking her phone's caller ID, answered before the first ring was finished. "Oh, Mr. Fallon," she said in a breathless rush, "Thank you so much for calling me back. I am so scared, so worried." She smiled to herself as she heard Nick's voice deepen with concern.
"What seems to be the problem, ma'am?"
"Please call me Maria. May I call you Nick?'
"Of course. How may I help you?"
"It is my husband. He is abusing me."
"That sounds like something you should be reporting to the police."
"Oh no. I cannot involve them. The scandal, you know. I just want a divorce. He has a mistress, but of course, he denies it. I need you to find me the proof of it. Can you do this for me?"
"Well, I am kinda busy right now."
"Oh please, Nick, please. I am so scared that he will, you know---hurt me more."
"Okay, calm down, uh...Maria. Why don't you come to my office and we can talk about this."
"Oh Nick," Angelina interrupted. "I cannot drive my car. My wrist---he twisted it so badly."
"Jeez. Uh, I'm sorry. Okay, I'll come to you."
"Oh, thank you. Come as soon as you can. He's out of town today."
"Right. How about noon---is that good for you?"
"Wonderful. Here is my address."
Angelina looked at Garcia with a triumphant gleam in her eye as she put the phone down. "I was good, was I not?"
"You were magnifica." Garcia beamed at her. "Mario, was she not?"
Mario Torres looked at them both through bloodshot eyes and gave them a weary smile. Long after his wife and his guest had retired for the night, Mario had stayed up staring into the fireplace, thinking of ways to extricate himself from this horrendous situation in which he was now embroiled. During the course of his ruminations, he had consumed far too much brandy. His head ached miserably, his stomach roiled with queasiness and he felt every one of his sixty-two years. He wanted to be left alone, but most of all, he wanted Francisco Garcia out of his house, out of his life---and away from his wife. He had seen the way the two of them looked at one another. Once upon a time, he would have called the man out, accused him to his face of trying to seduce another man's wife, but now... He was too old and tired for such aggression. He just wanted this to be over.
Angelina looked at her husband with disdain. Having a vibrant force like Francisco in her home had awakened a need within her. No longer could she be satisfied with this boring, suburban life. Garcia would take her to Puerto Rico with him, of that she was sure. She was convinced that she had already ensnared him with her beauty and all her womanly wiles. He would not leave her behind. Of course, there was Mario---but Francisco could take care of that small problem.
"He will be here in two hours," she said, looking at Garcia. "Plenty of time for you to set your trap."
"I know exactly how he will die," Garcia said, his lips thinning with a grimace of pleasure. "He will die knowing that I have beaten him, but also wondering if I will leave his little puta alive, or if I will hunt him down also."
"Surely, this is no time for talk of such things," Mario Torres quavered. He had been watching and listening from a seat in the corner of the room. "Kill him quickly and be done!"
"My husband has lost his stomach for vengeance." Angelina's laughter was vicious. "Once upon a time, he was fearless---now he has become one of the afraid."
"Watch your tongue," Torres warned her, rising from his seat. "I am still your keeper."
"Mario is right, Angelina." Garcia flicked her a look of admonishment. "A husband must be obeyed, and never mocked. That is the way of things. Know your place, my dear." As if to soften his words, his hand on Angelina's arm caressed her gently. She responded with a subtle pressure against his chest.
"You are right, of course," she said, smiling at both men. "I am sorry, Mario, if I offended you. I fear the tension of what is to happen has blurred my senses, and my manners. Forgive me." She looked around her as if she had just remembered something. "Today is the maids' day off. I will prepare us a small repast while we wait for Mr. Fallon's arrival."
Garcia watched as she made her sedate way across the room, then his eyes met those of his host, who was staring at him with undisguised hatred. Torres quickly averted his stare, and clearing his throat said, "So Francisco, what do I bring you---a gun or a knife?"
Garcia pretended to think for a moment. "Mmm...I think both, Mario. Perhaps a little cutting first, might give me some pleasure."
Torres shuddered, then rose to do as he was bid.
Eric awoke to the sound of insistent knocking at the apartment door. Mumbling to himself, he shuffled to the door and peeked through the security glass.
"Andrew," he muttered, recognizing the tall, slim man with fair curly hair standing outside. Swinging the door open, he gave his friend a bleary-eyed smile. "Hey, Andrew. Why so early?"
"Actually, I'm late. You said ten-thirty and it's almost eleven." Andrew gave him a critical look. "So I guess you're not ready for our workout?"
"Sorry, I overslept. Come on in."
"Nick keeping you up?"
"Something like that," Eric chuckled. "Give me five minutes and I'll be right with you."
"Nick at work?" Andrew asked, following him into the bedroom.
"Yeah, he left real early. He had some calls to make."
"Everything all right with you two?"
"Couldn't be better." Eric paused. He was dying to tell Andrew about what had happened on Saturday night, but he knew Nick would be mad at him if he did so. He'd made Eric promise not to say a word to anyone until it was all over.
"What?" Andrew asked, noticing Eric's hesitation.
"Nothing, I was just remembering something."
"Something good?" Andrew watched as Eric pulled on a pair of workout shorts and a sweatshirt.
"You might say that." Eric grinned at him, tying his sneaker laces. "Okay, just gotta clean my teeth, then we can go. How's David?"
"Fine. He's out of town till Thursday night---some conference in Seattle."
"Bummer. Well, if you get lonely, you can always come over, or we can catch a movie."
"Thanks. Oh, I heard from Peter yesterday. Sounds like they're having a great time. He said you'd sold one of his landscapes."
Eric froze in mid-toothbrush stroke. "Oh yeah---right. Well, that sort of fell through, unfortunately."
"Too bad. Eric, are you sure you're all right? You seem kinda tense."
Eric rinsed his mouth then looked at his friend. "What are you now, doing a Peter Brandon?"
Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm no psychic, Eric, but I know when a friend is out of sorts. Maybe if you talk about it, you'll feel better."
Eric sighed and sat down next to Andrew. "Okay, it's Nick."
"I figured."
"It's not what you think. It's just that... Okay, promise you won't ever say anything to him about this?"
"I promise."
"We got into some trouble Saturday night. That guy, Garcia, I told you about, the one that escaped from prison."
"What about him?"
"He came out here looking for Nick. I guess he found out where I work. He came into the gallery, pretending to buy one of Peter's landscapes."
"Oh..." Andrew grimaced. "I get it."
"Yeah, unfortunately it was all a ruse to get me up to his place in Mystic Hills so I'd be the bait in the trap he'd set for Nick."
"My God, Eric." Andrew's eyes were filled with concern for his friend. "That's unbelievable."
Quickly, Eric told him the rest of what happened, culminating in Garcia's taking off in Nick's car. Andrew listened in silence, his face registering his total amazement at what he was hearing. Finally, he said, "You guys have the police on this, of course?"
Eric nodded. "Nick called Louis McKenna, but Andrew, my fear is that Nick's going to try and find Garcia first, and that just scares me to death. I've seen this guy in action. He's cold and ruthless. And that's not all. Nick's got it into his head that he's putting me in danger. He even went so far as to say we should split up."
"What?" Andrew looked at him in amazement.
"Yeah, but I talked him out of that...at least I think I did. With Nick, you just never know. He's so damned macho. He just has to be the one in charge."
Andrew smiled and put his arm round Eric's shoulders, giving him a friendly squeeze. "I know what you mean. I saw some of that in New York. He was the one who took my statement after I found Jeremy Kennedy's body. He has that intense way of looking into your eyes when he's talking to you. Makes you feel guilty even when you're not." He laughed at the memory. "He came across so butch and all business, but at the same time, I felt I could trust him, you know?"
"I know."
"And I was right. Peter, on the other hand, didn't trust him an inch near Jeff."
"You're kidding."
"No. Didn't I ever tell you about that? When Nick and Jeff were working together trying to solve Jeremy's murder, Peter thought Nick was getting too close. Anyway, Jeff put Peter straight, if you'll pardon the expression, and told him Nick was dating you---except we didn't know you then. I think Peter was really glad to meet you at our New Year's Eve party."
"Wow," Eric murmured. "How come I didn't know all this?"
"There was so much going on at the time." He paused. "Hey, that's your phone ringing."
Eric ran into the living room to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Hey, babe."
Eric smiled. "Hi. How's it going?"
"Okay. I had a couple of morons from the FBI here earlier. You sleep okay?"
"I overslept. Andrew's here. We're going to work out for a while."
"Good. Listen, I have a twelve o'clock appointment up in Corona del Mar, so I'll have to skip having lunch with you."
"That's okay. Andrew and I will probably catch a bite at the gym. I'll get dinner."
"You're the best. Love you, babe."
"Love you too."
Agent Tomlinson looked at his partner, his teeth bared in a vicious grin. "Love you, babe," he mimicked. "I guess these guys are really good friends."
"Sure sounds like it," Johnson agreed, biting into a doughnut. They had been listening to Nick's calls for the last two hours, ever since they left his office. "Didn't strike me as the type, though."
"He was a cop," Tomlinson said. "He's had years of practice covering it up."
"Still, he looks like he could take care of himself---and he got away from Garcia."
"I could take him," Tomlinson growled. "And I just might, after that 'moron' crack." He sat forward in his seat as he saw Nick leave the office building and head for his car. "Look, there he is. He must be going to that appointment with the broad who says her husband is beating her up." He started the engine and pulled slowly out of their concealed parking spot on Coast Highway.
"Don't get too close," Johnson muttered.
Tomlinson threw him a look of irritation. "I know what I'm doing."
Johnson craned his neck trying to see through the glass doors of Nick's office. "You think that Asian chick that works for him would go out with me?"
"What?"
Johnson glared at his partner. "Is that so hard to buy?"
"What's so hard to buy is you thinking about stuff like that when we're on a case."
"Hey, I can't help it if you have a low sex drive."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Tomlinson spluttered. "I'm a married man."
Johnson chuckled. "That explains it then, I guess."
As Nick drove north up the coast to the town of Corona del Mar, he mulled over the conversation he'd had with Captain Fitzpatrick. Danny Villiers had already informed the captain that Nick suspected Garcia's hand in the slaying of Tom Carradine. Fitzpatrick had been surprised and alarmed that Garcia was now in Orange County, finding it difficult to believe that he could have gotten that far without being spotted by either the police or airport security.
"You just can't underestimate Garcia," Nick had told the captain. "He's one clever son-of-a-bitch. He's lived on his wits for years and it looks like the time he's spent in prison hasn't softened him one bit." Although Fitzpatrick had agreed with Nick, he knew that this latest development was not going to sit well with his superiors, and the media was going to have a field day when it was found out that Garcia had, once more, slipped through the police net.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather we kept the fact that he's in California under wraps for the time being. I don't want headlines screaming, 'Garcia Eludes Police Again!' It'll be easier to deal with all this once we've caught the bastard. Anyway, how are you doing, boyo? Having you and your friend under Garcia's gun must have left you a wee bit shaken up, I reckon."
"You could say that, Captain. I'm just royally pissed that I let him get away. I had him in my sights, and I came so close to blowing him away."
"Yes, well like you said, he's a clever son-of-a-bitch. Those two FBI agents you spoke with this morning, what are they doing exactly?"
"Getting up my nose mostly," Nick said with a wry chuckle. "They asked me if I knew where Garcia was. I mean, they haven't got a clue what they're getting into. They're probably sitting around, hoping I'll lead them to him."
Agent Johnson balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it out of the car window. "Keep back," he muttered. "You're getting too close. There's only two cars between us now. He's going to spot us!"
"Shut up." Tomlinson stared straight ahead, his face flushing with anger. "I don't want to lose him. When he gets through interviewing Mrs. Whiny, me and him are gonna have a talk about all that crap he was giving Fitzpatrick about us. Son-of-a-bitch drives fast! Shit. Where'd he go?"
"He must have turned left down one of these side streets."
"Crap." Tomlinson attempted a U-turn, but no one was about to let him maneuver in. He cursed out loud amid blaring horns from other cars.
"Go up to the light, dummy," Johnson yelled, jumping with nerves. "You'll get us in a collision if you keep this up."
Tomlinson smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Great...we've lost him. God damn it!" He drove up to the light then circled back, the two of them peering down each side street as they passed, Tomlinson muttering under his breath.
"Well, you blew that," Johnson said, his voice dripping with disgust.
"Now, what do we do?"
"Didn't you write down the address when she gave it to him?"
"No, did you?"
"Christ."
§ § § §
Nick grinned into his rearview mirror as he saw the federal agents' car pass by the side street he'd pulled into. "Those chuckle-heads..." He pulled up outside the address Maria Fuentes had given him, and walked up through a meticulously landscaped courtyard to the front door. "Nice," he muttered, looking around him. Corona del Mar is one of the richest neighborhoods in Orange County. Every home on this particular street looked to Nick as though it reeked of money. There was an unmistakable air of affluence in the quality and design of the homes and the lush landscaping that surrounded them. A tall, beautiful Hispanic woman answered his knock.
"Mrs. Fuentes?"
"Yes. You must be Nick. Please come in." She stepped aside to let him enter, her hand brushing his arm as he passed. "How handsome you are," she purred.
They walked into a spacious high-ceilinged living room, their footsteps on the tiled floor echoing through the strangely silent house. Nick felt a momentary pang of unease in his gut. Something was not right here.
"Please," Angelina was saying, indicating a leather couch by the fireplace. "Sit down here. Can I bring you some coffee?"
"No thanks." Nick sat down, but did not relax into the couch. Every muscle in his body was as tense as a coiled spring. Something was wrong---he could feel it. A heavy footstep behind him and he leaped to his feet, his hand reaching for his weapon, but he was too late. Garcia stood before him, a snub-nosed .9mm pointed straight at his heart.
Garcia's smile was one of a cobra that had cornered its prey. "Mr. Fallon...what a pleasure that we meet again, and such a shame your little friend could not be with us also." He waved Angelina over. "Angelina, my dear, please relieve Mr. Fallon of his gun and bring it to me."
Nick met Angelina's look of triumph with one of disgust as she pulled his firearm from his shoulder holster. His eyes flicked to the doorway as another man entered. He looked familiar.
"Allow me to introduce my hosts," Garcia said with a snide smile. "Mario and Angelina Torres."
Of course, Nick thought, recognizing the man. Mario Torres. He had been one of Garcia's henchmen. He didn't look particularly pleased to be in the middle of this, however. He looked pale under his swarthy complexion and was sweating profusely.
"So, which one of these deadbeats has been beating you up?" Nick asked Angelina, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Garcia chuckled quietly. "Quite the comedian, aren't you, Mr. Fallon. I wonder if you will still have a quip up your sleeve when I'm done with you. Get his car keys also, my dear." He turned to look at Torres. "Mario, take Mr. Fallon's car into the garage. We do not want any evidence of his presence to be seen."
Damn. Nick knew that the two FBI agents had been tailing him. Any hope that they might spot his car and at least know his whereabouts now faded away. Maybe he shouldn't have lost them. Okay, so he was on his own. He found himself thanking the gods that Eric was not anywhere near. He, at least, was out of danger.
"Please remove your coat and shirt, Mr. Fallon," Garcia said. "Then sit here on this chair."
"No thanks." Nick sat on the arm of the couch. "I'm not taking off my clothes in front of you. I've heard about guys like you."
Angelina tittered while Garcia's face flushed a dark red. "You will do what I say," he hissed. "Or shall I put a bullet in your leg or arm to convince you?"
Nick looked at Angelina and shrugged his shoulders. "I guess the age of sweet talkin' is gone, eh Angelina?" He started to remove his coat. "Well, if you insist..."
Angelina looked at him with admiration gleaming in her eyes. This man was not afraid, and yet Garcia had called him a maricón. Should he not now be trembling like a weak woman and begging for mercy? Looking at the grim determination on Nick's face, she knew he would never beg---at least not for his own life. If Garcia wanted to enjoy terrorizing this man and hear him scream for mercy, he would have to use a different ploy. She watched as Nick removed his shirt, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his lean, muscular torso lightly covered with dark brown hair. He was magnificent! True, he was gay---but a beautiful woman could tempt any man.
As Mario Torres reentered the room, having hidden Nick's car in the garage, he was enraged to see his wife step forward and run her hands over the prisoner's chest, teasing his nipples with her fingertips and swaying provocatively in front of him.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he growled, advancing upon her.
His wife turned and smiled at him. "I am turning him straight, Mario. In his final moments, he will long for a woman."
"Enough of this!" Torres grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Nick. He glared at Garcia. "Kill him now, and be done with it."
"Keep your temper, and your wife, in check," Garcia said, his thin lips stretched in a cold smile. "Fallon is mine to play with. I will say when he dies. Now, tie him to the chair."
"This is foolish," Torres grunted as he pushed Nick into the chair and fastened a rope around his chest. "Every moment you spend acting out your vengeance may cost us dearly. The quick kill has always been the best way."
"That is true, Mario," Garcia agreed, testing Nick's bonds. "But Mr. Fallon has something to retract before he dies. You see he made some vile accusations about my son, Joseph. He must tell me, before I take his life, that he lied. He must look into my eyes and tell me the truth."
"But what was it he said?" Angelina asked, her eyes straying over Nick's naked chest.
"I told him his son was a gay man," Nick said. "And that he loved a police detective---a friend of mine named Sam Valance. A man in whose arms he died."
"Shut up!" Garcia screamed.
Angelina looked from Nick to Garcia, her expression one of contrived innocence. "But Francisco, you did not know this about Joseph?"
Garcia stood as if frozen for the moment into immobility. Then, like a snake about to strike, his head swiveled in Angelina's direction. "What did you say?"
The look of sheer malevolence on his face caused Angelina to step back in fear. "I---I heard a rumor," she stammered. "A rumor---that is all."
Garcia grabbed her roughly by the neck and thrust his face into hers. "You will never say that again, do you hear me? Never!"
"I---I am sorry Francisco," she bleated, trying to free herself.
"It was no rumor," Nick said, enjoying the scene before him. "They were lovers."
"Shut up!" Garcia pushed Angelina from him and spun round to face Nick. He backhanded him across the face.
"Stop this," Mario Torres cried. "Kill him now---and quietly. Here..." He handed Garcia a knife. "Cut his throat and be done. The longer you prolong this, the more danger we are in. Do it now."
Garcia took the knife in a hand that trembled with rage. He held it to Nick's throat, the point drawing blood. Then, so quickly, that the eye could barely see, the blade arced in the air, curving down with deadly aim and sliced open the flesh on Mario Torres' neck. Torres stumbled back, his hands clutching at his neck, the blood pouring in torrents from the open wound, his breath gurgling and wheezing in his throat. Angelina screamed, one long high-pitched wail of terror as she watched her husband sink to his knees, then fall onto his back, a look of total disbelief etched on his face.
"Be quiet, woman." Garcia pointed the bloody knife at her. "You know this is what you wanted."
"But not like this, in front of me." Angelina stood, visibly trembling as she stared at her husband's still twitching body.
"No man, nor woman, tells me what I should or should not do," Garcia said. "Remember that, should you ever wish to follow your husband's bad example."
Nick stared at Garcia, momentarily stunned by what he had just witnessed. Some of Torres' blood had splattered across his bare arm and chest. Jesus Christ, he thought, Garcia is completely unhinged. What the hell was he thinking by killing Torres---the man who could get him out of the US and secure him safe passage back to Puerto Rico? "Well," he said, shaking his head. "There goes your ticket back home."
Garcia advanced upon him. "I am not through with you yet, Fallon. You will take back what you have said about my son. You will tell me that you lied!"
"Sorry, can't do that."
"Then I will carve you into tiny pieces until you do," Garcia fumed. "You will not die until the last piece of flesh is stripped from your bones."
"Wait, wait, Francisco." Angelina sprang to his side, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood by her husband's body. "There may be a better way."
"What?" Garcia looked at her with impatience.
"You said he has a friend---a lover. Bring him here, and then see how quickly the brave detective will beg your forgiveness for the lies he has told, when he sees his lover tortured."
"Fucking bitch." Nick strained at the ropes that bound him. "You better hope I don't get off this chair."
Garcia shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "I have no time for that, at this moment. However..." His eyes narrowed as he looked down at Nick. "Who knows what the future holds for young Mr. Jamieson?" A loud rapping at the door caused him to break off and look around him in consternation. "Who the hell is that?" he rasped.
"I don't know," Angelina gasped. "I am not expecting anyone."
"Get rid of whoever it is, quickly." He leveled his gun at Nick's head. "One word or sound from you and you die, along with whomever is at that door. Understand?"
Nick nodded, his wrists chaffing at the clumsily tied ropes that Torres had been in too much haste to tie properly.
Angelina swung the door open and found a tall silver-haired woman on her doorstep. Angelina recognized her as a neighbor from across the street. One who made a habit of noticing and commenting on whatever she found to be disturbing.
"Yes?" Angelina demanded in an abrupt and unfriendly fashion.
"I heard a scream coming from this house," the woman said. "I came over to make sure you are all right."
"Oh, that---" Angelina's laugh was slightly off kilter. "Uh, I saw a mouse---yes a mouse. I am terrified of them. My husband teases me about it all the time."
"A mouse?" The woman looked mortified. "A mouse---here? All the time? I've never heard of such a thing." She sniffed, her patrician nose twitching with distaste. "Please call pest control immediately. We can't have that sort of thing in the neighborhood."
Angelina slammed the door on the woman's face. "Bitch," she muttered, stalking back into the living room. "A nosy neighbor," she told Garcia. "I got rid of her."
"Nosy neighbors can be great spies for the police," Nick said. "I'll bet she already saw me roll up here and my car being parked in your garage."
"That is of no consequence," Garcia told him. "When I am done with you, Angelina and I will leave. It may be several days before anyone ever discovers you, and poor Mario, here."
Nick smiled up at him. "Well, see there's a slight glitch in all of that. Two FBI agents tailed me here. They're probably sitting outside, waiting for me to leave, so they can tail me again. They don't like me much. I was kinda rude to them earlier."
"You are bluffing, of course." Garcia strode to a window and looked out into the empty street. "There are no FBI agents parked outside, Mr. Fallon."
That figures, Nick thought. They're as thick as two planks. He paused as he felt the rope loosen around his wrists. Careful now. Gotta get him by surprise.
Angelina was looking at Garcia, her expression pinched and concerned. "I don't like this, Francisco. What if he's right? What if that woman didn't believe me, and calls the police? What if there are FBI agents out there just waiting for us to leave?"
"Be quiet." Garcia spun to face her, his gun coming up under her chin. "I will not have a whining woman by my side. Do you understand me? Now, go and get dressed and pack a few things. We are leaving as soon as I have disposed of this pervert."
As Angelina ran to obey him, Garcia turned the gun once again on Nick. "Now, before you die, I want to hear from your lips that you lied about my son. Admit it and I will kill you quickly." He pulled the knife with which he had killed Torres from his trouser waistband. "Cling to your lies, and you will die a painful and ignoble death."
Nick bowed his head as if in acquiescence. He let his shoulders slump as though he realized he was defeated and had no choice but to give in to Garcia's demands.
"Quickly," Garcia muttered. "Say it---now."
The muscles in Nick's legs bunched as he slid his feet forward just a fraction. He was now balanced on his toes. The pose of total dejection caused Garcia's lips to curl in disgust.
"Say it---say you lied!"
With a roar, Nick sprang forward, carrying the chair he was tied to with him. His head connected with Garcia's stomach with such ferocity that the big man stumbled backwards and sprawled in a clumsy heap, his head cracking against the tile floor. For a moment he was dazed, giving Nick enough time to free himself of the ropes and the chair. Then, as Garcia struggled to sit up and reach for his gun, Nick was on him, wrestling him onto his back. The knife was still in Garcia's hand and he brought it up in a vicious move toward Nick's ribs. Nick parried the blow, grasping Garcia's wrist and forcing his arm to the floor. He slammed his knee into Garcia's groin and felt a deal of satisfaction as Garcia screamed with pain. He rolled off him and grabbed the gun.
"On your feet, Garcia..."
The next moment, Nick was on his knees, stunned by a blow to his head. Wincing, he looked up to see Angelina standing over him with a fire-iron clutched in both hands. Garcia clambered to his feet, reaching for the gun while a dazed Nick tried to fend him off.
"Get the gun," Angelina screamed, raising the fire-iron again over Nick's head. He had just enough strength to ram his elbow into Angelina's knee, causing her to screech like a banshee. She staggered back before collapsing in a heap, clutching her knee and moaning in agony.
Garcia, cursing wildly, threw himself on top of Nick, and the two of them threshed and rolled around on the floor, each one straining for the upper hand until Nick managed to land a lucky punch on Garcia's jaw, dropping the big man onto his side. As Nick grabbed for the gun again, a furious rapping at the door assailed his ears. Before Garcia could get to his feet, Nick ran for the door and pulled it open.
The sight of a tall, bare-chested, blood-spattered man carrying a gun was the last thing Angelina's nosy neighbor expected to see. She let out a scream that Nick was certain would be heard up on Coast Highway---a scream that intensified in volume as Garcia loomed behind Nick and grabbed him a headlock.
"Call the cops!" Nick croaked, struggling to free himself. "Now!"
The woman, her eyes bulging with terror, sprang away and ran with the agility of a teenager toward her house. She let out a high pitched squeal as she was almost run over by a black sedan that was cruising by at that precise moment.
"Holy shit!" Johnson slapped Tomlinson's arm. "Stop the car! It's Fallon and some guy. What the hell is going on?" Both men jumped from the car, guns drawn.
"FBI!" Tomlinson roared. Garcia, once more in possession of the gun, pushed Nick to one side and fired at the agents. Johnson went down, grasping his shoulder. Garcia jumped back inside the house and slammed the door, just as three bullets from Tomlinson's gun splintered the doorframe.
"Call for backup," Nick yelled at him. "That's Garcia in there. He mustn't get away!" As Tomlinson yelled into his cell phone for backup and an ambulance, Nick knelt by Johnson's side. "You okay?"
Johnson looked at him through pain-filled eyes. "No..." Anything else he might have said was drowned out by the sounds of an engine roaring, the crashing and splintering of wood and metal as Nick's rented Lexus careened out onto the street, carrying the garage door with it.
"Shit!" Nick ran out onto the street. "He's getting away. Tomlinson, stop him!" But the agent was too late to fire off a shot that might reach the car's tires or fuel tank. Nick swore out loud as he watched the Lexus turn the corner and disappear. "Quick, get in the car. He can't get far. He's going to run into traffic up there."
"What about Johnson?" Tomlinson asked, looking down at his fallen partner.
"I'll be okay," Johnson told him through clenched teeth. "You called an ambulance, right?"
"Come on," Nick yelled, heading for the agent's car. Just then, the sound of police sirens filled the air, and suddenly the street was completely blocked by black and whites, lights flashing furiously. "Oh, great." Nick almost jumped up and down with rage as he saw there was now no way they could follow Garcia. "Just fucking great!"
"Hold it, right there!"
Nick found himself surrounded by uniformed police officers, all with drawn guns. He began to laugh, suddenly realizing that he must look something akin to a mass murderer, standing there, shirtless, covered in blood, a wounded man at his feet, and Tomlinson next to him, holding a drawn gun.
"Okay, officers..." Tomlinson showed them his badge. "FBI."
"What happened here?" one of the cops asked, looking at the wrecked garage door.
"Someone was in a hurry to leave," Nick said wryly.
"Who's this guy?"
"He's a private investigator," Tomlinson told him. "We're not sure just what happened here, but he can fill you in on all the details."
"I think you'd better take a look inside," Nick said. "Garcia killed a man in there and I don't know what happened to his wife." Two police officers entered the house, Nick and Tomlinson following.
"Christ." Tomlinson gaped at the scene that met their eyes. Mario Torres' body lay where he had fallen, the pool of blood that had leaked from the open wound on his neck now congealing on the tile floor. Nearby, Angelina was sprawled out in a manner she would have found extremely unbecoming---if she were alive. Her wide-open but lifeless eyes stared up at Nick as he stood over her. A bullet hole in her forehead gave testimony to the manner of her death. Nick felt no sympathy for her. She had been ready to pull Eric into the same trap she had set for him.
He picked up his shirt and slipped it on. "Get these guys to put out an alert on the car Garcia used to get away," he told Tomlinson. "He's most likely heading for the border."
The agent nodded. "I'll let the border patrols know also. Don't worry Fallon, we'll get him."
Nick sighed as he retrieved his jacket. Where had he heard that before?
Eric and Andrew, driving down Coast Highway on their way back from the gym, were suddenly riveted by a breaking news report on the radio.
"Police were called to a residence in upscale Corona del Mar this afternoon when a neighbor reported screams coming from a nearby house. Apparently, the neighbor went over to investigate and was met at the door by what she described as a wild man covered in blood and brandishing a gun. Police found two bodies in the house. A man, identified only as a private investigator operating out of Laguna Beach, is currently helping police and the FBI with their investigation..."
"Didn't you say Nick had an appointment in Corona del Mar today?" Andrew asked, glancing at Eric, who had gone decidedly pale under his tan.
"Yes. Let's swing by the office and see if he's there. Shit, what has he got himself into now?"
"Well, you don't exactly know it's him they're talking about."
"Oh yes, I do. How many Laguna Beach private investigators d'you suppose had an appointment in Corona del Mar this afternoon? It's him all right. God, Andrew...covered in blood, the reporter said." He pulled his cell phone from his workout bag and punched in the number for the office.
"Monica, it's Eric. Have you heard from Nick?"
"Yes, the police are holding him down at the Laguna Niguel station. Routine questioning. He said he'd call me, soon as they let him go."
"Is it about that incident in Corona del Mar?"
"Yes."
"Is he coming back to the office?"
"No, he said he had to go home and shower. Apparently, he's pretty messed up."
"Oh my God, he's hurt," Eric moaned.
"No, he said he's not hurt, just needs to shower. Eric, they'd have him in the hospital if he was hurt."
"Right. Okay, thanks Monica. I'll head over to the apartment and wait for him there." He closed his phone and looked at Andrew, a hint of anger in his eyes. "Why the hell couldn't he call me?"
"He probably didn't want to worry you."
"Yeah, always so fucking concerned about worrying me," Eric said, his voice filled with sarcasm.
"Eric?"
"I'm tired of this, Andrew." He looked out the car window to hide the tears that had sprung into his eyes. "I'm tired of Nick's macho attitude. He has to take it all on himself---mustn't worry poor little Eric. No matter that I was right there with him Saturday night when that maniac tried to kill us both. Now he's trying to keep things like this from me. I'll bet you anything he's hoping I don't hear about this on the radio or the TV. It's amazing he didn't tell Monica not to say a word to me about it!"
"I'm sure he's intending to tell you all about it when he gets home," Andrew said quietly. "I mean, you don't think he was going to call you and say, 'Please come hold my hand at the police station' now do you?"
"Yes, but..." Despite himself, Eric's lips twisted in a rueful smile at the thought. "You're right," he sighed. "I guess I'm overreacting."
"You're scared for him. That's understandable." Andrew pulled up outside Eric's apartment building and gave his friend's arm a comforting squeeze. "Want me to come up till he gets home?"
Eric slipped off his seat belt. "No. You have a bunch of appointments this afternoon. But I want you to know how much I appreciate your friendship. Peter told me once that you were the best friend anyone could ever have, and I agree with him. You always seem to say the right thing at the right time. I'm sorry if I was acting like a drama queen." He reached over and hugged Andrew tightly. "David's a lucky guy," he whispered.
"So are you," Andrew said, hugging him back. "Nick is a very special man, Eric. So maybe he's a tad over protective when it comes to you, but in my book, that's a good thing. It means he loves you. Don't fight him---let him be himself."
Alone in the apartment, Eric threw off his workout gear and stepped into the shower. Soaping himself vigorously, he thought about what Andrew had said. Of course, he was right. Nick was a very special man. Never mind that he could be a giant pain in the neck, at times sullen and uncommunicative, causing their relationship to be challenging now and then. Eric had been there before with his previous lover, and he'd had none of Nick's more redeeming qualities. Nick was not perfect, not by a long shot, but who the hell really wanted Mr. Perfect as a lover? Eric chuckled to himself---way too much to live up to!
His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the front door open and close, and through the glass of the shower door, he saw a tall figure walk into the bedroom. "I sure hope that's someone I'm gonna be happy to see," he called out.
"It's me." Nick's voice was strangely flat and hollow.
Eric pushed the shower door open and gulped, startled at Nick's appearance. "Oh, my God."
Nick gave him a lopsided grin. "That bad, huh?"
"Jesus, Nick. What happened to you?"
Eric reached for him but Nick took a step back. "Don't touch me till I've showered for at least one hour." He pulled off his shirt. "I gotta burn these clothes," he muttered.
"You've got blood all over you," Eric said weakly.
"Not mine, so don't worry." He pulled off his pants and briefs and headed into the bathroom. "They wouldn't let me clean up at the police station."
"Why not?" Eric followed him.
"I think they got a rise out of seeing the private eye look like he got his." He stepped into the shower and turned on the hot spray.
"McKenna?"
"He wasn't there."
"Let me help, Nick."
"No." He paused, seeing the hurt in Eric's eyes. "Okay. I guess I could use a good scrubbing down."
"You're covered in bruises," Eric said as he gently rubbed a soapy sponge over Nick's chest and shoulders. "Tell me what happened."
Nick closed his eyes and sighed as the hot water and Eric's gentle ministrations helped to ease the tension in his body.
"Garcia was at the house where I had the noon appointment. The owners were old cronies of his and when I walked in, there he was, large as life, holding a gun on me. Christ, I was so stupid to walk straight into his trap."
"But how could you have known?" Eric poured some shampoo onto the palm of his hand and rubbed it into Nick's scalp.
"I should have--- Ow! Jesus, that hurts."
"What did I do?" Eric jumped back in alarm.
"Not you---that bitch, Angelina Torres, whacked me on the head with a poker." He looked at Eric ruefully as he rubbed the back of his head. "Shit, twice in three days I almost get my skull cracked open, and twice in three days I get my car stolen. I got my Beamer back, but now he's got the fucking rental!"
They looked at each other for a moment and Eric wasn't sure if Nick wanted to laugh or go on venting. Then Nick started to chuckle and before long they were holding each other and laughing out loud.
"Christ," Nick said through his laughter. "I'm beginning to feel like the original sad sack. I just can't seem to get anything right, anymore."
"Nick." Eric wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on his shoulder. "You are amazing. After what you've been through today, a lot of guys would be climbing walls."
"Yeah, well I'm not that far behind them. One more day like this, and I may actually start to get pissed off."
He held Eric close, and for a while they let the hot spray beat down on them, then Eric said, "Come on." He opened the shower door. "Let's get dried off, and I'll give you a massage. Your shoulders are so tense."
Nick flopped down on the bed with a happy sigh. He groaned with pleasure as he felt Eric sit astride him and, after rubbing some oil between the palms of his hands, began to knead the hard muscles on Nick's back and shoulders with skillful fingers.
"Feels so good," he murmured. He let himself drift, and found himself thinking that if things had turned out differently, he might never have seen Eric again. It was nothing short of a miracle that he was not lying dead in some morgue. Thank God for nosy neighbors---and dufus FBI agents. He chuckled softly as he remembered.
"What?" Eric asked, moving his hands over Nick's lower back.
"I'll tell you all about it later. Mmm... Just keep doing what you're doing."
Eric shifted so that he was now sitting astride Nick's legs. He kneaded the twin, firm mounds of Nick's buttocks, eliciting another groan of happy pleasure from his lover. He bent and kissed each cheek then ran his tongue into the warm, moist cleft between them. Nick writhed sensuously beneath him and Eric smiled, letting his hands glide over Nick's thighs and calves. Not once in the two years they had been together had the sight of Nick's lean, powerful body failed to turn him on. Now as his hands caressed and massaged Nick's strong runner's legs, he felt the lust that welled within him become almost overpowering.
"Turn over," he said, his voice thick with desire. "So I can do your front."
"I don't want to scare you."
"Show off." Eric pretended to look startled as Nick turned over, exposing his impressive erection. "Yum," he breathed. "Does all that belong to you?"
"C'mere," Nick growled, pulling Eric down on top of him and holding him in a crushing embrace. He kissed Eric's lower lip, teasing it with his own. "Do you know how much I love you?"
"Tell me," Eric whispered, holding him tight.
"Well, today when Garcia had me all tied up and no place to go, all I could think of was you. D'you remember, last year, when Jeff was kidnapped by that lunatic Lefevre?"
Eric nodded and nuzzled Nick's left nipple.
"Well, he told me later that the worst part of all of that was the thought that he might never see Peter again. That he would never have the chance to tell him how much he loved him. That's what I kept thinking today, that I never really tell you enough how much your love means to me---what you mean to me. But today, it all came to me in a rush, and suddenly, I knew that the one thing about dying that was really going to piss me off, was the fact that I would never see you again, never hold you in my arms, never get the chance to tell you how much I love you."
Eric laid a kiss on Nick's chest. "You'll have me in tears in a minute." He smiled into Nick's eyes. "But it was wonderful to hear you say all that."
"Yeah, maybe those cracks on my head have beaten some sense into me." He laughed and kissed Eric hard on the lips. The smile faded from his eyes, replaced with a sensuality that made Eric smile with anticipation. "Let me make love to you," Nick whispered against Eric's mouth. "Let me show you how much I love you."
He lowered Eric onto his back, his hands slowly caressing the contours of Eric's chest. He lowered his head to press a soft kiss just above Eric's right nipple, then flicked at it with his tongue, taking pleasure in the scent and taste of his lover's skin. He moved south, tracing an erotic pattern of kisses over Eric's smooth, lithe torso 'til his lips nudged at the head of Eric's straining erection. One quick move and he was kneeling between Eric's thighs, his fingers curling around the base of the hard length, his tongue lapping at the glistening crown. A soft whimper from Eric and Nick drew the pulsing flesh into his mouth, sucking with long slow strokes. Eric writhed under him, spreading his legs apart, pushing his hips upward, his cock sliding in and out of Nick's mouth. Nick slipped his hands under Eric's butt, fingers delving into the moist crack, circling the ring of muscle around his hole.
Eric groaned and gasped out Nick's name as he lost control, pouring his salty cream into Nick's mouth. Nick drank him in, relishing the throbbing of his lover's cock on his tongue, savoring the unique flavor of his cum. He held Eric in his mouth until every drop had been wrung from him, then he slowly released him, laying a trail of kisses back up to Eric's lips, capturing them with a long, deep kiss. Eric rolled Nick onto his back and sat astride him. With a knowing smile he reached for the lube, covering Nick's now raging erection with the slippery gel. He guided it into the cleft between his buttocks, easing himself down on the slick shaft. Their eyes locked on one another, their bodies began to rock together, gently at first, then as need took over with a fervor that had them both moaning out loud.
Eric bore down, his ass muscles pulsing around Nick's cock.
"Oh yes, Nick...feels so good," he moaned.
Nick thrust upward driving himself deep inside Eric, who leaned back, supporting himself with his hands flat on the mattress while he moved rhythmically up and down on the hard length of Nick's cock. His eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned out his bliss, giving himself up to the incredible sensation being joined to Nick was bringing him. Nick grasped Eric's hips, ramming into him, hard and fast. His body stiffened between Eric's thighs as he climaxed, and Eric hissed out a "Yesss" as he felt the heat of Nick's semen surge into him. He fell forward into Nick's embrace, burrowing his face against Nick's neck, pressing his lips to the warm skin.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Love you, too."
Eric traced the outline of Nick's mouth with his fingertips, smiling as he gazed at his lover's face, the strain and tension of the past few hours now smoothed by the repose sleep had brought him. He looks so young when he's asleep, Eric thought, kissing his lips gently. Young and vulnerable---so different from the hard-ass image he projected in his daily life. He moved closer so that every part of their bodies touched, and he smiled as Nick's arm enfolded him in its shelter. He sighed with contentment and, at least for the moment, almost forgot the danger that might still surround them. Danger and darkness in the form of Garcia, or any other ally he could find to help him with his dirty work. He could only hope and pray that the police found the madman before he could kill anyone else---or try to do harm to the man Eric loved with all his heart and soul.
Better stay away from us, Mr. Garcia, he thought, moving even further into Nick's embrace, or I might just kill you myself.
Two weeks later:
"'Morning Monica," Nick greeted his secretary with a jaunty wave as he pushed in through the glass doors of his office.
"Someone's in a good mood," she observed, handing him his mail and messages.
"Yeah. Jeff's back tomorrow, so you'll have to toe the line again," he said with a grin. "No more taking advantage of his easygoing partner."
"Huh. Just for that I'll tell him how his business has gone to hell in his absence."
"Oh no---not that!"
They laughed together then Monica rose from her desk to pour Nick a cup of coffee. "You got those FBI guys out of your hair at last?" she asked.
"Finally. They left for LA yesterday."
She handed Nick his mug. "And still no sign of Garcia. He sure did a Houdini on them."
"Yeah..." Nick was quiet for a moment. "It's been two weeks since he disappeared. He must have made it out of the country somehow, but I'd feel a whole lot better if he was safely behind bars again."
"I bet."
Nick had told Monica some of what had happened in his confrontation with Garcia and how he had drugged Eric in order to lure him up to the house on Mystic Hills.
"Still," she said. "He's bound to be miles from here now. At least you can relax and not worry that he might try any of those stunts again."
"Stunts that include killing people," Nick said, his demeanor suddenly grim, remembering. "So far, that we know of, he's killed four people since he got out of jail, not to mention wounding that cop at the cemetery."
"How's he doing?"
"Better. They're releasing him later this week. I talked with his wife a couple of days ago." He glanced at the mail he was holding. "Okay. Better get some work done."
He walked into his office and began sifting through his mail.
"Bill," he muttered, "another bill...junk...another bill." He paused as he came across a handwritten envelope with Dr. Norman Phelps name and address in the left corner. "Norman..." With a vague feeling of unease, he ripped open the envelope and began reading.
Hi Nick. This is probably unexpected---people don't write letters much anymore in this age of cell phones and emails---but I wanted to express a few thoughts to you as privately as I could. You can tear this up after you've read it if you like---and I certainly don't expect a written reply. I've been doing a lot of thinking recently about my life...and yours...and I've come to the decision that I'm not about to give you up quite as easily as I first intended.
"Oh Doc," Nick said aloud. "What the...?"
You see, I've never really been able to get you out of mind, and seeing you when you were in Pittsburgh recently just seemed to emphasize the way I feel about you---and I'm not about to throw all that away. I know you have a lover---Eric---and I know you said you had found the "right one" in him. But, I got the feeling when we were alone together, that something between us had been rekindled. Was I wrong? Somehow, I don't think so.
"Yes, Doc, you were wrong. Oh, for Pete sake's..."
Anyway, by the time you receive this letter, I will be in California, staying quite close by, actually. The phone number is 949-555-2121. If you would like to see me, and pursue this train of thought further, please call me. If I am wrong and you do not wish to see me again, please just ignore this letter, but like I said, I don't think I was wrong. Maybe we could have a life together---maybe it would be grand. I know it would be, for me.
Warmest regards and love,
Norman
Nick slumped back in his chair with a groan. Norman was here, and he was just supposed to ignore this fact if he didn't want to deal with it? Of course he would call him---how could he not? How could he just ignore what was plainly a cry for help---but what the hell was he going to tell Eric?
"Hey Eric, this is Norman---he thinks he's in love with me and wants you to get lost."
No, that would not do at all. Jeez, why did all this have to happen right now? Just when he was thinking that things were getting back to normal. Garcia probably gone, Jeff coming back to work tomorrow, Eric and he talking about a little vacation together; a boat, some R&R, it all seemed so great, and now, another complication---Norman. Well, he wasn't about to just push this to one side. Norman had been a good friend to him, and now he was hurting. He couldn't just ignore this. He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the letter. Norman answered on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Norman, it's Nick. How are you?"
"Feeling surprised that you actually called me."
"Of course I called you. What kind of jerk do you think I am?"
"I don't think you're any kind of a jerk, Nick. I just thought you might want to avoid this conversation."
"Well, I don't. Where are you?"
"I rented a place in South Laguna."
"Why are you here? Are you on vacation, or somethin'?"
"No. Like I told you when I saw you in Pittsburgh, I wanted out from what I've been doing for so many years. So I decided to move to California."
"What about the guy you said you were dating?"
"That didn't work out..."
"So you've moved here, permanently?"
"Well, as permanent as anything is in my life anymore. I just needed to get away from what was bothering me. So, can you come for lunch or something?"
"Uh...okay. Today?"
"Yes, today Nick. I really need to talk to you. Say around eleven-thirty?"
"Okay. What's the address?"
After Nick put the phone down, he pondered the strange situation in which he now found himself. This was something he had not been expecting. Just what was it that Norman had felt happened between them when they last met? He had told Nick of his feelings for him, but Nick had been upfront from the beginning of his involvement with Eric. Did Norman really think he could break them up? Would he try?
"Christ," Nick muttered aloud. Should he call Eric right now and tell him what was going on, or should he wait until after he had met Norman face-to-face and told him what he wanted was impossible? Should he tell Eric? Suggest that he meet with Norman and get it all out in the open? No, that might just cause a mini-disaster. Eric would feel threatened---and after everything they had been through recently, Nick did not want to throw any more stress at him. Okay, he'd just have to meet with Norman and put him straight regarding his feelings. He would tell him that they could never be more than just friends---good friends. He sighed at the thought of the coming confrontation. Norman had come a long way on the assumption that Nick harbored more than just friendly feelings for him, and now he, Nick, was going to have to tell him that he was wrong.
§ § § §
The address Norman had given him led Nick to a lavish enclave on the cliffs of South Laguna. "Wow," he muttered as he drove into the driveway just south of the house Jeff and Peter's British friends, Rod and "A," owned, and which Nick had visited on a couple of occasions. Norman had called it "a place," but the edifice that Nick now approached was obviously much more than that.
More like a palace, he thought, ringing the doorbell.
The front door was made of solid glass, and Nick groaned inwardly as he saw Norman approach him down the long hallway. He was wearing a loose robe, under which it was clear he was wearing nothing at all. For a moment, Nick was tempted to just shrug and retrace his footsteps back to his car, but because he felt he still owed Norman, he stood stoically, waiting for the door to open.
"Nick..." Norman's smile was open and genuine, and hard to resist.
"Hey, Norman." Nick let himself be pulled into the other man's embrace. He did not resist as Norman's lips found his, and the kiss that followed was much more than just friendly.
"Uh, Norman---" Nick caught his breath and stepped back. "It's good to see you but..."
"I know." Norman smiled and took his arm, leading him down a long, marbled hallway into a living room that looked like it belonged on an edition of "Homes of the Rich and Famous."
"This is some place," Nick said, looking around.
Norman laughed. "It's a bit much, isn't it? I rented it online. It's owned by some rock star who hardly ever uses it. It'll do till I find something more permanent."
"You're planning to stay here, then?"
"Uh huh." Norman guided him out onto the balcony that overlooked the blue Pacific. "You can't have all this to yourself," he said. "I didn't know Laguna was quite as beautiful as this."
"It's beautiful all right," Nick agreed. He looked beyond the house next door as he spotted a tall, slim older man with a shock of silver hair walk out onto the terrace that jutted out over the cliff edge.
"Hey, Rod!" he yelled, recognizing Peter and Jeff's friend from England. Rod stood shading his eyes, trying to discern who was calling him.
"It's Nick. Jeff's partner!"
"Why, hello there." Rod waved his greeting. "I didn't know there was anyone living there. Are you moving in?"
"No. My friend Norman, from Pittsburgh, just moved here. Uh, we're having lunch. This is Norman," he added. "Maybe you guys can visit, seeing you're neighbors..."
"Hello, Norman," Rod said, with a smile. "Of course, please feel free to call anytime."
Norman, smiling through clenched teeth, waved hello, at the same time muttering, "What are you doing?"
"Just trying to make you some friends, is all. They're really nice guys. They're friends of Peter and Jeff's." He waved to Rod. "Okay, good seeing you..."
"Indeed," Rod said. "Bring your friend over for a drink later, if you like."
"Thanks." He turned to look at Norman with a happy smile. "They're such great guys. You couldn't have better neighbors. Rod, and his friend A, they used to be in the theater in England and---"
Norman laid a finger on Nick's lips. "I'm sorry. Am I making you that nervous?"
"No, no of course not."
Norman watched as Rod gave them another wave and went back into his house. He sighed as he looked out over the ocean. "You are so lucky, Nick," he said, putting his arm around Nick's waist.
"Yeah. Eric and me...we both love it here."
Almost as though he had not heard those words, Norman unfastened the front of his robe and pressed his naked body against Nick. "We could be so happy here," he whispered into Nick's ear, putting his arms around his neck and holding him close. "Look at all that we could have together."
"Norman...cut it out." Nick grabbed Norman's wrists and gently pulled away from his embrace. "You know this is wrong. I've told you how I feel about Eric. Please respect that."
Norman stepped back as if stung. Flushing with embarrassment, he fastened his robe around himself and walked back into the living room. Nick followed, catching him by the arm and turning him so that they were face to face.
"Norman," he said quietly. "Come on, I told you about Eric and how much he meant to me. What is it you're trying to do here? What's wrong?"
Norman looked at him, his eyes filling with tears. "I'll tell you what's wrong, Nick. I'm having a nervous breakdown, and you're the only one who can help me. I need you Nick. Need you. Do you understand me? I'm going out of my mind with love for you. I want you to fuck me---to hold me in your arms and tell me you love me. Every night, I lie awake imagining you're making love to me, holding me in those strong arms of yours, telling me how much you love me and want me. It doesn't matter that you're involved with someone else---just...oh, Christ..." His face twisted in anguish as he saw Nick's shocked expression. "Why am I doing this? Why am I trying to ruin your life, along with my own?"
"Jeez, Norman." Nick pulled the distraught man into his arms. "I had no idea. I'm sorry."
"Yes, you're sorry." Norman laid his head on Nick's shoulder. "But, you're sorry for me. Sorry that I'm such a loser."
"No, Doc...it's not that. I wish I could be more for you, truly I do. You're a great guy---you deserve the best."
"I don't want the best---I want you."
There was a momentary pause as both men digested what Norman had just said, and then Nick let out a low chuckle. "Oh, okay," he said. "Second-best, then?"
"Oh, for Pete's sake." Norman stepped back from Nick's embrace. "Shit! I can't even get that right. I'm such a fuck-up."
Nick held up his hand to quiet him. "Norman, calm down. Before this goes any further, let me say this... I can never forget what you did for me when I was an emotional mess, trying to pretend there was nothing wrong. I don't think I ever really told you what your help meant to me then. I will always consider you a true friend. I wish I could be what you want. It's just that---"
"It's just that you're in love with Eric," Norman sighed, turning away.
"Doc, I don't want this to sound nuts, you being a psychologist and all, but d'you think you should see someone about this? I mean someone who could help you, the way you've helped others."
Norman's laugh was bitter. "Yeah. A great psychologist I turned out to be." He walked back to the window and looked out over the ocean. "I spent the last ten years being a sounding board for other people's problems, and now look at me. I've turned into my worst patient. A whining, self-pitying pain in the ass."
"You're being way too hard on yourself, Doc."
"Am I? I don't think so." He turned to face Nick. "You should be telling me to get a life, or get lost. I mean, what right have I to sashay into your life and lay this crap on you, after all you've been through these last few weeks." His shoulders sagged with dejection. "I don't know what the hell is happening to me. I guess seeing you again after all these years made me realize I'd never gotten over you. Crazy, huh?" Nick looked at him, not knowing what to say and Norman smiled as he continued. "I'm sorry, Nick. I've put you on the spot, and now all you want to do is get the hell out of here."
"No, that's not true."
"Yeah, it is. It's always just slightly embarrassing to see someone have a meltdown in front of you. I apologize." He looked down at his robe. "Look at me, all dressed down to seduce the hot detective. Christ, what an idiot I am."
"Stop it, Norman," Nick said. "You're not an idiot, and I'm not embarrassed. You're my friend, and I came to have lunch with you, remember?" He smiled gently. "So where is it?"
Norman straightened his back, and seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. He looked a little shaken, but then he said, "Let me just put some clothes on, and I'll be right back."
Nick watched him hurry down the hallway towards the master bedroom then he strolled out onto the balcony and gazed at the view before him. What other little surprises did life have in store, he wondered, watching a sailboat skim across the waves, its white sails etched against the azure sky.
The last week or so he had begun to think that life was getting back to normal. True, Garcia was still out there somewhere, but the cops or the FBI were bound to get him eventually. The good thing was that it looked like he had disappeared from California and was most likely trying to find his way back to Puerto Rico. If he stayed there and never bothered him or Eric again, that would be just dandy. And now Norman. Jeez, but this was an unexpected development, he thought. He would never have believed that the doctor would have tried to put the make on him so aggressively. And that outburst was so unlike him. Somehow, he felt that this was more than just a case of unrequited love on Norman's part. If he felt he was having some kind of breakdown, is was only natural that he should reach out for someone he believed could help him. For some reason, he had decided that person was the detective he'd fallen in love with years ago, and in his own words, had never gotten over. Nick knew he should feel flattered, but instead he felt a deep sadness.
He turned at the sound of sandals slapping on the tile floor.
"Sorry." Norman was standing behind him. "Did I interrupt your reverie?" He was sporting a gleaming white tee shirt, a pair of pressed blue jeans, and held a glass of wine in each hand.
"It's a tad early for me," Nick protested, taking the glass all the same.
"Just a little toast," Norman said, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I propose a new understanding between us. I won't try to get in your pants again, if you'll stop looking so damnably attractive."
Nick laughed. "Somehow I think I have the easy part there. No, wait a minute, that's not what I meant."
Norman joined him in the laughter. They clinked glasses and after they had sipped their wine, Norman said, "I'd like to meet Eric one of these days."
"Uh, yeah...sure." Nick wasn't at all sure, but he was not about to upset Norman again. "We'll get together for dinner one night."
"I'll look forward to that. Okay, let's eat." Norman led him into the kitchen and started pulling packages from the refrigerator. As Nick watched him prepare their lunch, he could not help but wonder just where all this was going to lead them. Perhaps, he thought, Norman was just that much of a professional that eventually, he would be able to work all this out for himself. In the meantime, Nick could only hope he was right about that.
§ § § §
Eric looked across the dinner table at Nick and smiled. "So when are you going to tell me what's on your mind?"
Nick started, slopping a little of his wine onto the glass tabletop. "Shit," he muttered, wiping at it with his napkin. "What d'you mean, what's on my mind?"
"Something's on your mind," Eric chuckled. "I don't need to hire a private detective to find out, do I?"
Nick took a long swig of his wine. "I guess I'm going to have to tell you all this sooner or later."
"Sounds serious."
"Not really. Well, it could be, I suppose, if I let it...uh...be...serious, that is---"
"Nick." Eric gaped at him. "Am I going to hear about this while I'm still a relatively young man, or will I be beating you on the head with my walking stick when I'm old and gray and still trying to get it out of you?"
Nick gave him a sheepish look. "Well, there's another guy."
"What?" Eric stared at him in shock, his wine glass almost slipping from his fingers.
"No, no...wait---it's not what you think." Nick looked around the room as if for inspiration. "It's just that I have never mentioned this guy to you before, and he's suddenly shown up here in Laguna."
"But you told me there hadn't been anyone in your life after Martin." Eric's eyes were locked on Nick's as he spoke. "You said that I was the first. Was that a lie, Nick?"
"No, it was not." Nick's tone was firm as he returned Eric's searching look and reached for his hand. "I have never lied to you." He squeezed Eric's hand and held it as he continued. "Norman was my shrink in Pittsburgh after my buddies were shot in the raid that took Garcia down. It was the kind of routine counseling the department insists on whenever there's been some kind of traumatic incident."
Eric nodded his understanding. He knew it was standard practice for most city employees to have counseling available to them, and in some instances, like the one Nick had just told him of, it could be mandatory.
"Norman...uh...Dr. Phelps was assigned my case," Nick continued. "He was really helpful and I found myself opening up to him a little more on each session. What I didn't realize, was that he was falling in love with me."
"Oh man," Eric muttered.
"Right. He told me as much just before I left for New York, but it was when I went back for Andy's funeral that he came on strong, and sounded just a tad pissed when I told him about you." Nick's smile was rueful. "I thought we had talked it out, but now he's here in Laguna, living two doors away from Rod and A, and frankly, Eric, I don't quite know what to do about it."
"What does he want you to do about it?"
"Eric, this is a really nice guy I'm talking about here. He's gentle and kind and a real good friend."
"But?"
"Right---but."
"But he's still in love with you, and you feel awkward and embarrassed, and don't know what the hell to do about it. Right?"
"Somethin' like that." Nick looked away from Eric's intense stare. "I was hoping, maybe that I could have you meet him. Get together for dinner, or something. He said he'd like to meet you."
"Scope out the competition, maybe?" Eric said with a light laugh.
"Oh, he knows how I feel about you. I've told him, point blank, that you mean everything to me."
Eric got up from the table and came round to Nick's side. He sat on Nick's lap and wrapped his arms around him. Kissing him sweetly on the lips, he whispered, "I didn't think it was possible to love you any more than I already do, but you just proved me wrong. What you said just now..."
"What did I say?" Nick teased him, then returned his kiss. "It's true," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "You mean everything to me. I know I'm not one to express my feelings the way you do, Eric. You can be so damned eloquent at times, it makes me feel downright slow-witted. But believe me, I love you, with all my heart and soul."
Eric smiled into his eyes. "Ditto," he said.
"Ditto?" Nick's eyes widened. "Where did all the eloquence go?"
"Sometimes words are unnecessary," Eric said, with an impish smile. "Sometimes actions speak louder than words, as they say. Right now, I'm all for you being my action-man. The words will come later."
Nick grinned at him. "Among other things."
"See, there you go. You can be just as eloquent as the next guy."
Jeff and Peter's return from their vacation brought a degree of normalcy back into Nick's life. The madness of the past few weeks seemed to evaporate as he and Eric were regaled with their friends' stories of the fantastic places they had seen, and the people they had met. Tanned, relaxed and happy, they looked, as Eric told them, like they belonged on the cover of a travel magazine. It was not until the following day, when Nick was alone with Jeff in their office, that he told him of the havoc Garcia had wrought since his escape from prison.
"Have they caught him yet?" Jeff was anxious to know.
"Not yet," Nick told him. "I've been talking to McKenna, to the FBI and to my old boss in Pittsburgh, but so far there's no trace of him."
"What's your opinion?"
"I think he probably made it into Mexico and he's hiding out till he can get a flight to Puerto Rico, or maybe South America somewhere. He's got contacts all over the place. His problem is going to be that he's become something of a loose cannon. Killing Mario Torres and his wife won't sit well with a lot of the people he's done business with."
Jeff nodded. "Yeah, that wasn't too smart." He gave Nick a long look, his gray eyes filled with concern. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you through all this. From what you've told me it had to have been horrendous---especially him getting Eric involved in it. You should have called me..."
"Jeff, there was no way I was going to drag you back here and ruin your vacation." He grinned at his partner, before adding, "Besides, Peter would have killed me."
"Not for something that serious. Well, I'm glad you guys came out of it okay."
"By the way," Nick said. "Monica has been great through all of this. I made her promise not to spill the beans when you checked in with her. She didn't like it, I know, but she's been great. I kinda promised her a raise."
Jeff lifted an eyebrow. "So give it to her, Nick, with my blessings. That's real nice of you."
"Uh, wait. I meant we would give her a raise."
Jeff chuckled. "I should give her a raise when she was withholding information from me? I don't think so."
"For Pete's sake, Jeff. I asked her not to say anything."
Jeff frowned, but nodded his understanding. "Still," he said, "there's a certain protocol that must be observed."
"Protocol?" Nick spluttered. "What protocol?"
Monica's laughter from the outer office interrupted him. "I can hear you guys, you know. Nick, you're not representing me very well in there."
"Monica, I'm sorry." He walked over to her desk. "Jeff's being..." He fell silent as Jeff joined in the laughter.
"Nick, you're just too gullible sometimes." Jeff laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Not only does Monica get a raise, but I'm taking you both out to lunch."
"Wow, you should go on vacation more often," Monica teased him.
"I absolutely agree," Jeff said. "And you, my friend, " He fixed Nick with a stern look. "That is exactly what you and Eric need. Peter's giving him some time off, so the two of you should get out of town for a few days. Go relax---forget what's been happening here."
"A very good idea," Monica agreed. "I think that's the least you could do for poor Eric, after what you put him through."
"Oh, right. Make me feel even more guilty." Nick looked aggrieved. "But, you're right. A few days away sounds great. I could rent a boat out of Dana Point. Eric would love that."
"There you go." Jeff opened the office door with a flourish. "Okay, let's go eat. I'm starved."
The view from the patio restaurant at the Hotel Laguna was picture postcard perfect as they sat at their table looking out at the azure sea and sky.
"What a beautiful day," Monica murmured, sipping her iced tea. "We are the lucky ones, aren't we?"
"Yeah, this place is hard to beat," Nick agreed.
"Oh, I don't know," Jeff said with a mock superior air. "I have just returned from some of the most beautiful places in Europe. The mountains, the lakes, the galleries, the restaurants---"
"The expense, the foreign lingos, the crazy food," Nick interrupted.
"You sir, are a barbarian," Jeff sniffed.
"True, and worse yet---a barbarian who is craving a big, juicy burger."
Monica giggled. "I can just see you in a helmet with horns, Nick, brandishing a big old sword."
"Hmm..." Nick grinned at her. "I wonder if Eric would go for that." Their laughter was cut short by the shrilling of Nick's cell phone. "Sorry," he mumbled, glancing at the ID screen.
Norman.
"Uh, 'scuse me for a minute," he said, standing up. "I'll take this inside. Order me the burger, Jeff?" He walked into the almost deserted inside bar and took the call.
"Hi, Norman."
"Nick, how are you?"
"Just fine---what's up?"
"I just wanted to thank you for introducing me to those neighbors of mine. You know, the two English guys, Rod and A."
"Oh good, you've talked with them?"
"I had dinner with them last night."
"Wow, that was fast."
"They were at my door right after you left, inviting me to have tea with them. We talked for so long, it got dark."
"They are total charmers," Nick chuckled.
"They sure are. Then they asked me to stay for dinner and, well, how could I refuse? I said, just give me time to change and when I got back, they had a friend there. Henry---do you know him? He's a real estate broker."
"Oh yeah. I've met him a couple of times. He was the one who found Peter's house for him years ago. Nice guy."
"Very nice. We're going out for dinner tonight."
"You are? That's great."
"Nick, I just wanted also to say I'm really sorry for the way I behaved the other day. It was crass of me. I hope it won't ruin our friendship."
"Of course it won't, Norman."
"That's good. I've had some time to think things through. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were fine with everything."
"Perfectly fine," Nick assured him. "I told Eric all about you---and he still wants to meet you." There was a long pause. "That was a joke Norman."
"I knew that, I knew that," Norman said, chuckling. "Tell him I'll look forward to it. Okay, I just wanted to touch base with you---and say thanks."
"No problem. Have fun tonight."
Nick felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief wash over him as he walked back onto the sunlit patio. Norman and Henry---not a bad combo. Both a bit anal---it could work out just fine. His step was decidedly jaunty as he joined Jeff and Monica at the table.
"What are you looking so pleased about?" Jeff asked.
"It's a long story," Nick replied, grinning at them. "One I'll keep till you have lots of time to listen. Right now, I'm not sure of the ending, but my fingers are crossed for a happy one."
"The Getaway---what a great name," Eric said with enthusiasm as he and Nick approached the yacht they had rented for the next four days. They planned on taking the Sea Ray across to Catalina, then cruising round the island. The craft came complete with two jet-skis, which Eric could hardly wait to try out. They were both in high spirits as they loaded their gear on board. Eric ran down below to turn on the stereo and fix some coffee while Nick familiarized himself with the yacht's controls.
"Okay, Cap'n Nick," Eric yelled from the aft deck. "Ready to cast off, soon as you give me the okie-dokie!"
Nick chuckled as he turned on the engine. "Cast off then," he yelled back over the roar of the engine. "Let's head for the high seas, laddie!"
"Woohoo!" Eric scampered around the deck, throwing the moorings over the side and doing a little dance in time to the beat of the music as they pulled away from the marina slip. He clambered up to where Nick stood, steering the yacht carefully out of the harbor. He wrapped his arms around Nick and hugged him tight.
"Thanks so much for this," he said, kissing Nick's shoulder. "We really, really need this break."
"Yes, we do," Nick agreed. "Just you, me and the ocean for a few days. Sounds like heaven."
"Do you think we'll see some whales?" Eric asked, looking out toward the horizon.
"Dunno. Is this the migration season?"
"Haven't a clue," Eric said happily. "It would be nice, is all."
Once they were free of the harbor, Nick gave the engines more throttle and the Sea Ray ploughed its way across the waves at a comfortable speed. They planned on reaching Catalina harbor before lunchtime and do a little island exploring as neither one of them had been there before. Eric sat beside Nick and closed his eyes, letting the salt sea breezes bathe his face and bare chest.
"I was thinking," Nick began.
"Uh huh?"
"Something I've been mulling over for the last few days. You and I should have a place of our own. I mean, not a rental, but a place we could call our own."
"I'd like that," Eric agreed. "But the prices..."
"Well, here's the thing. We haven't really ever discussed this before, mostly because I've never really paid much attention to it---but I have some money."
"That's nice," Eric said.
"No, really, quite a bit of money. Martin left me stuff in his will."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Well, his house for instance, and some stocks and investments."
"How come you never told me this before?"
Nick chuckled. "I didn't want you to want me for my money."
"Aha. So this has all been a test? Did I pass?"
"With flying colors---frequently." Nick grinned at him. "So what d'you think? D'you fancy a little cottage by the sea?"
Eric reached over and patted Nick's butt. "As long as you're the houseboy, I think I could handle it."
"Okay," Nick said, chuckling. "We'll talk to a realtor when we get back." They were both silent for a time, each lost in visions of real estate with ocean views, then Nick remarked, after giving Eric a sidelong glance, "You sure look cute in those shorts."
Eric opened his eyes slightly to leer at him. "You'd look cuter out of your shorts," he said. "Come to think of it, there's no one around to see us, so why don't we get nekkid and..."
"Man, you have a one-track mind," Nick laughed. "Don't I smell coffee? Why don't you go below and make us a sandwich? All this sea air has given me an appetite."
"Aye aye, Cap'n." Eric gave him a mock salute before leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Then will you get nekkid?" he asked with an impish grin.
Nick smiled as Eric climbed down the steps to the deck and disappeared into the galley. He gave a happy sigh. The next few days were going to be perfect. He barely heard the startled cry from below, but it was enough for him to cut the engine and call out, "Eric, are you all right?"
Hearing the sounds of a scuffle on the deck below, he turned, and what he saw turned his blood to ice. Eric's face, pale and stricken, stared up at him---and Garcia, an arm around Eric's neck, holding a gun to his head.
No! No! No! Nick's mind screamed in fury as he stared at the gloating face of his nemesis.
"Nick," Eric croaked. "I'm sorry. He came out of nowhere."
Garcia bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. "You didn't really think I would let the two of you live, did you, Fallon? You let your guard down, thinking that I had gone? How foolish of you. You should know I never stop until I have completed my work. For you, and your friend, the game is almost over."
He waved the gun at Nick. "Come down here so that you may say your final farewells. You see," he said, his grin filled with malice, "I am not without compassion---even for vile creatures such as yourselves."
Nick cut the engine and jumped down onto the deck. "Such as your son, Joseph," he said, determined to rattle Garcia's arrogant demeanor. To his surprise, Garcia did not lash out in fury at the remark.
"I have learned some truths in the days that I have been...sequestered," he said, his voice holding just a trace of bitterness. He removed his chokehold on Eric and pushed him away. "My son Alfredo apparently knew of Joseph's iniquity. He did not tell me for fear that I would harm Joseph in some way. Imagine that. He thought I would harm my own son..." Garcia faltered for a moment.
"You've spoken to Alfredo?" Nick asked in amazement. "In prison?"
Garcia's laugh was ugly. "There are many ways to circumvent authority, Mr. Fallon. I spoke to my son to give him encouragement, and to tell him that as soon as I could, I would secure his release. But, I also took that opportunity to ask him if he knew of any rumors about his dead brother. At first, as you can imagine, he was hesitant in replying. After all, I could have construed his silence as a form of approval of his brother's behavior. He swore to me that he had tried to wean Joseph from this heinous choice of lifestyle---"
"It's not a choice," Eric blurted. "And it's not a life style."
"Be quiet." Garcia turned a baleful look on Eric. "It is of no consequence now. Joseph is dead---and he would have been dead to me even sooner had I known of his proclivities. I would not have harmed him, but there would have been no place in my home for him."
"Some father you are," Eric snarled.
"Eric," Nick said quietly. "Don't..."
Garcia snickered. "Your puta has courage, Mr. Fallon. I have to admit that I underestimated you---both of you. I thought you would be an easy kill, but here we are again. Only this time I will not make the same mistakes." He gazed at Nick as a snake might before it strikes. "You may say goodbye to him---but do not touch him. That would turn my stomach."
"Nick..." Eric moved toward him, his hands outstretched.
"Now, the game is over," Garcia said, pointing his revolver at Eric. "For both of you."
The deck rocked beneath their feet as a wave slapped against the side of the yacht with some force. Eric staggered to one side just as Garcia pulled the trigger. A look of total shock clouded Eric's face as he was slammed against the side rail by the bullet's impact. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from the bullet wound. He looked up at Nick, his lips moving soundlessly, then he slumped forward and lay still.
"Bastard!" Nick screamed at the top of his voice throwing himself at Garcia just as the man fired again. The bullet ripped into Nick's left shoulder at point-blank range, sending him spinning backward across the deck. Garcia aimed again, but another, bigger wave, breaking against the yacht, caused a more violent rocking. Garcia was thrown to the deck floor and his shot went wild. Cursing, he struggled to his feet.
Nick flung himself into the cabin. His gun was in his backpack, if he could just reach it in time. A bullet splintered the teak wood ceiling inches from his head and he dived to the floor, rolling into the galley. Garcia charged in behind him, firing wildly until Nick heard the click of an empty chamber. He jumped to his feet, breathing heavily. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. Beyond Garcia's bulk, he could see Eric lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. He brought his eyes back to fix on Garcia's hate-filled face. Whatever he did now, he had to do it quickly if Eric was not to bleed to death.
With a roar of rage and desperation, Nick lunged at the big man and they both fell to the floor of the narrow cabin. Garcia dealt him a vicious blow to his wounded shoulder and Nick saw stars explode before his eyes. Groaning, he rolled to one side, trying to avoid the kicks Garcia aimed at his torso. Somehow, he managed to stand upright again, but he could feel his strength failing. As Garcia advanced on him, he put out a hand to steady himself and felt something hot against his fingers.
He looked down. He was touching the coffee pot. Ignoring the searing heat, he picked up the carafe and threw the entire contents into Garcia's face. The man shrieked in agony, his hands flying to his face, but too late to protect his eyes from the scalding liquid. Screaming at the top of his voice, he blundered from the cabin out onto the deck. Nick followed and watched as Garcia blindly struck the side rail. Giving him no chance to recover, Nick sprang forward, his leg lashing out, his foot hitting Garcia squarely on the chest.
Garcia's high-pitched shriek of rage reverberated through Nick's ears as the man was thrown back against the rail, desperately clutching at anything to stop his inevitable fall into the sea below. Incredibly, one hand fastened on Nick's left leg, and he felt himself being pulled over the side, inch by agonizing inch. His hands reached out to grasp the rail and the two men were now hanging over the bow of the yacht, Garcia clinging to Nick's leg, his blistered face a mask of rage and hatred. A bolt of white-hot pain seared through Nick's shoulder as he clung to the rail, feeling Garcia's weight pulling him down ever closer to the water. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hang on much longer.
"You will die with me," Garcia screamed at Nick. "I will see you in Hell!"
"I don't think so," Nick panted, smashing his right foot into the other man's upturned face. Blood spurted from Garcia's nose as it broke under Nick's relentless pounding. Again and again, with all his remaining strength, he battered at the madman's disfigured face until finally, with a gurgling cry of defeat, Garcia released his grasp on Nick's leg and slipped beneath the surface of the water. Nick fell back onto the deck, his breath wrenched from him in great painful gulps.
"Eric," he cried, crawling over to where his lover still lay motionless on the deck floor. "Eric. Oh, Jesus---Eric." He gathered him in his arms, and pressed his lips to Eric's face. Stop, he told himself. No time to waste.
Gently, he laid Eric back down onto the floor of the deck, then with a supreme effort got to his feet and staggered into the cabin. Unzipping his backpack, he pulled out his cell phone. As he climbed every pain-filled step to the upper deck, he punched in Jeff's speed dial number. Listening to the ringing tone, he turned on the engines, and as they roared into life and he heard his friend pick up, he croaked into the mouthpiece, "Jeff, buddy. I need your help---bad."
One week later:
There's a saying; "Time heals everything," and for many that old cliché is probably true. But Nick, one week after the incident that had taken Eric from him, knew that some things could never be healed. Loneliness, desolation, and heartbreak---time may lessen their impact, but he knew that the grief would remain, every day for the rest of his life.
It had been the week from hell. Ever since he had managed to dock the boat back at Dana Point Harbor where he had been met by Jeff and Peter, and an army of paramedics, cops and firemen, his life had been in chaos. He had stood by helplessly as the paramedics had tried to stabilize Eric's failing life signs. He had numbly given in to their ministrations on his shoulder.
"A flesh wound---you're lucky," he'd been told. He had listened to Jeff's words of sympathy and comfort, but he'd heard nothing but the words that screamed in his mind over and over, "Why, why, why?"
They had taken Eric and raced to the nearest hospital, where they had transfused pint after pint of blood in an effort to restore his life's essence, lost on the deck of the yacht. The prognosis, even then, had not been good. His left lung, punctured by the bullet from Garcia's gun, had collapsed. Shards of bone from a splintered rib had lodged dangerously close to his heart. The bullet, exiting through his back, had torn muscle and tissue on its trajectory, leaving a gaping hole from which his blood had poured. After many hours on the operating table, and an induced coma that would keep his vitals stable, the doctors remained grim and uncertain as to his chances of survival. Only time would tell, they'd said, and Nick knew then that time was something they perhaps no longer had.
He had spent every available moment sitting by Eric's bedside, listening to his labored breathing, holding his hand, urging him to live, and yes, even sending up a prayer to a God he had long ago renounced, asking for a miracle. At night, alone in their apartment, for he had refused all his friends' kind attempts to have him stay with them, he would lie awake, remembering Eric's sweet smile, his warm and willing body pressed to his own, the murmured endearments, the little surprises he would invent to show Nick how much he loved him.
When sleep came late in the night, he found no haven, for his dreams were filled with nightmarish images of Garcia hovering over Eric's inert body, screaming obscenities, while around him a storm raged and lightning rent the skies. Those dreams came every night, and were not assuaged by the news that the Coast Guard had found Garcia's body drifting a few miles from where he'd fallen from the yacht. That news should have brought a thrill of relief to Nick, but he received it without expression, and a mere shrug of his shoulders.
Now, as he sat at his desk, he tried to flex his left arm, still stiff from the days of having it confined by a sling. The wound had healed cleanly, but he'd been told to use his arm as little as possible until physical therapy could be arranged. Flexing caused him pain---and a kind of perverse pleasure. I deserve this pain, he thought, leaning forward and resting his head on his hand. I wish it would never go away. Let it always be there to remind me of what I've done.
From across the office, Jeff stared at his partner, his face creased with concern. In the months they had worked together, Jeff had gotten to know Nick's moods and quick temper, but he had never seen him like this---lost, was the only word Jeff could find to describe what he now saw in his friend's demeanor.
"Nick," he said, clearing his throat. "What time do Eric's parents get here?"
Nick raised his head and looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his face haggard with strain. "Three o'clock," he replied. His voice sounded dull and colorless, stripped of emotion. He had put off telling Eric's parents what had happened to their only son, hoping that as the days went by, he would have some hope to give them. But the doctors had insisted they be notified before it was too late, and so he had made the call and listened as Eric's mother had broken down and sobbed quietly, before her husband had taken over.
"They're flying into John Wayne."
"D'you want me to come with you?"
"That's okay---but thanks, anyway. I'll take them to their hotel first, then on to the hospital. The doctors don't think there's much time left." He stopped, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. "Jesus, Jeff---I can't believe this is happening. A week ago he was so full of life, enjoying that damned boat so much. I can see him running about the deck like a teenager. He couldn't wait to get on his jet ski. He was having a ball---and now, he's dying Jeff. Eric is dying because of my fucking stupidity."
"Nick, don't do this to yourself." Jeff got up from his desk and went to his partner's side. "You can't spend the rest of your life blaming yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault."
Nick looked up at him, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "Oh, but I do, Jeff. I do blame myself, and I always will. And when his folks hear what happened, they'll blame me too. They'll hold me accountable for their son's death. How am I going to live with that?"
"Nick, for God's sake..." Jeff put his hand on Nick's good arm. "They're not going to blame you. What happened---no one could have foreseen. Even the FBI thought the son-of-a-bitch had left the country. How could you have prevented what happened?"
"Because I knew he was a clever bastard and I knew he'd never give up. Deep inside, I knew it. I just didn't want our lives to be put on hold because of maybes and what ifs...and I didn't want Eric to think I was worried about it. But I knew, somehow I knew, Jeff." He leaned back in his chair and stared beyond Jeff to the open window.
"All this week, answering the countless questions that the cops and the FBI were firing at me, I knew I should have never let my guard down. No one had talked to him, no one had seen him---yet he managed to know exactly when and where Eric and I were. How did he do it, Jeff? What the hell uncanny way did he have of knowing?"
Jeff shook his head. "He got lucky, is all. He didn't have any supernatural abilities, if that's what you're thinking. And he's dead, Nick. He can't bother you again."
"No. But he's taken away the most precious thing I was ever given!"
"Nick, listen to me." Jeff sat on the edge of Nick's desk and looked at his friend with sympathetic eyes. "Eric is not dead. Yes, he's in really bad shape but he's not dead. Don't give up yet." He paused for a moment then said, "You know, this is kind of like history repeating itself. Peter was at death's door too. The doctors wanted to shut off the life support but his mom wouldn't let them---and he came through, despite all the naysayers. The same thing could happen for Eric. Doctors can be wrong."
For a fleeting moment, a flicker of hope shone in Nick's eyes, then it died as he looked away from Jeff. "If he'd woken up when they stopped feeding him those drugs to keep him comatose, I might have believed that. But when he didn't, that little bit of hope I had kept inside me, kinda died. I've sat by his bedside every night, asking him---begging him to live." His face twisted with grief. "Jesus, Jeff. Why am I laying all this on you?"
"Because you can," Jeff told him gently. "You are my friend. We've been through some pretty rough times together, but there have been good times too. And there will be again. Don't give up hope."
Nick gave a long shuddering sigh. "He just looks so bad. His folks are gonna freak when they see him. God, I'm dreading that..." He paused, then glancing at his watch, sighed with resignation and stood up. "I almost forgot. I have to meet Norman before I go to the airport. He wouldn't take no for an answer." He looked at Jeff gravely. "Thanks again, my friend, for all you try to do for me. I know I'm not easy to be around."
Jeff put his arms around him, carefully avoiding Nick's bad arm, and hugged him tight. "Remember we once told you we're the kind of friends who are there for the duration. We'll get through this together. It'll get better, just give it time."
Nick nodded, holding Jeff close, tears stinging his eyes. "Yeah..." He stepped back, the semblance of a smile flitting across his face. "Thanks, Jeff. I'll call you later."
Norman was already seated in the restaurant when Nick arrived. Smiling, he waved to attract Nick's attention. As he walked to the table, Nick could not help but reflect that here was one person who looked a whole lot better than when they had last met. Norman, trying hard not to look too pleased with himself, met Nick's eyes with a sympathetic gaze.
"How are you?" he asked, taking Nick's hand.
"I've been better." Nick sat opposite Norman. "You look mighty chipper."
"Forget about me, right now. How's Eric?"
Nick looked away from Norman's gentle expression. This was hardly the topic for lunch, but for the life of him, he couldn't fake any light heartedness just for appearances sake.
"I was at the hospital first thing this morning..." His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the conversation he'd had with the attending doctor. "It's not good, Norman. They give him only a little more time."
"Oh Nick, I'm so sorry."
"He just lost too much blood. It caused enormous trauma to his entire system. They said anyone else in lesser shape than he was, would have died within the first few hours." He put a clenched fist to his mouth to stop his lip from trembling. "Jesus, Norman---I'm sorry."
Norman stood up and took Nick's arm in a firm grasp. "Let's get out of here. I think food is the last thing on our minds right now." He led Nick out of the restaurant and into the cool, fresh air. "We can walk on the beach if you'd like."
Nick nodded. "Good idea. Not so many people around to see me making a fool of myself."
"The hell with 'em," Norman said as they walked down to the boardwalk at Main Beach. "How's your shoulder?"
"Getting there," Nick muttered. "They said I need physical therapy, so I told them I have a friend, Andrew, who can take care of that. I know for a fact he's the best around."
"Oh yes, the guy you met in New York."
"Right. Remind me to tell you the story one of these days. You'll meet him and his partner, David. Great guys." They found a bench on the boardwalk and sat down. Nick was silent for a long time as he stared out over the ocean. Finally, he said, "So tell me about your date with Henry."
"Dates, actually. We've seen each other three times this week."
"Wow, that's great, Norman." Nick wanted to feel happy for his friend. "Didn't take you long to get over me, now did it?" There was just a trace of humor in his expression.
"I know when I'm batting zero," Norman said. "And Henry is...uh...very persuasive, in some ways."
"Rod says he's the best salesman he knows."
Norman chuckled. "Well, let's just say his pitch is perfect. He said to tell you hello and wondered if Eric is allowed visitors."
Nick shook his head. "Negative." He stared out at the horizon again. "Hard to believe that just last Saturday we were out there, laughing and being silly, and then suddenly fighting for our lives."
Norman studied Nick's profile for a moment, admiring the strong features, the determined line of his jaw, now clenched tightly in an effort to disguise the emotions that raged within him.
He put his hand on Nick's arm. "You're blaming yourself again, aren't you?"
Nick's expression was grim as he turned to look at Norman. "Please, no psychotherapy today, Doc. I've heard just about all the well meaning speechmaking that I can stand."
Norman did not avert his eyes from Nick's hard stare. "Maybe all these speechmakers are just trying to show their concern for you, and Eric. Don't turn well meaning friends away, Nick. Sometimes, they are very hard to come by. If anyone needs that kind of support right now, it's you."
"I know, I know," Nick sighed. "It's just that I've always been kind of a loner, you know."
Norman smiled. "I know, Nick. I listened to you for hours some years ago---remember? Now, will you to listen to me?" Without waiting for a reply, Norman continued. "You were a loner even when you and Martin were together. You were a lot younger and always liked having your own space. Martin respected that, you told me. But I think your relationship with Eric has changed something in you. You're not the loner you think you are anymore. You say you are, you may even think you are, but I see a changed man from the one I talked with four years ago."
Nick frowned. "Changed---in what way?"
"In fairly subtle ways you've become less aggressive, more calm, more mature."
Nick allowed himself a smile. "Are you saying I was immature? Well, I'm almost thirty-six for Pete's sake---it's time I grew up!"
"Some people never grow up, Nick, they just grow older."
"Now there's a cliché if I ever heard one."
"I prefer to call it a truism," Norman said. "And this 'new Nick,' if you'll excuse the expression, this 'new Nick' was in evidence the day I came apart in front of you. I couldn't help but think later, that if I'd behaved as crassly four years ago, you'd have popped me one and told me to snap out of it, instead of trying to comfort me."
Nick turned his head and laughed quietly. "You could be right about that."
"So, what I'm trying to say, Nick, is that you have found in Eric an even greater love than what you felt for Martin. He has brought about these changes in you, whether you realize it or not---" He stopped as he heard the sob that was caught in Nick's throat.
"Yeah, Doc..." Nick's expression was one of anguish. "And now I'm losing him. Only, I'll be the one who'll be so damned lost."
As Nick drove to the airport, he tried to rehearse in his mind the way he was going to tell Eric's parents how this could have happened to their son. On the phone, after briefing them that there had been an "incident," he had let Doctor Burton, the attending physician, explain the extent of Eric's injury, and the extreme urgency with which they should plan on coming to see him. Nick had asked the doctor to not make it sound as if there was no hope of Eric's recovery, and Burton had agreed to wait for them to arrive before giving them his final prognosis.
Nick had met Eric's parents, Roger and Dorothy Jamieson, just once before when he and Eric went to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving. It had ultimately been a happy visit. They had been only slightly nervous of meeting their son's new "boyfriend," and had gone out of their way to make Nick feel very much at home. Nick had been touched on seeing the special bond Eric and Roger shared, in sharp contrast to the non-existent relationship he'd had with his own father. Eric had told him, early on in their relationship, that when he had come out to his parents his father had, at first, been less accepting than his mother. He had told Eric that he would always love him as his only son, but that he could not approve of the way he had chosen to spend his life.
All that changed after the Matthew Shepherd murder. The media blitz following that horrendous crime forced many parents to reevaluate their relationships with their gay children, and Roger Jamieson was one of them. He finally gave in to Dorothy's requests that he accompany her to a PFLAG meeting and even sent a letter of condolence to Matthew Shepherd's parents. The deep father-son bond that he and Eric had enjoyed prior to Eric's coming out was reestablished and, in many ways, made even stronger.
As Roger said when he was asked to speak at a PFLAG meeting, "When I realized that my boy could be taken from me by mindless killers because of his sexual orientation, I knew then that for the rest of my life he would never again hear from me one word of disapproval. That I would strive to be what every parent should be, a support and encouragement in all that he undertook."
Nick, walking from his parked car to the terminal, thought of how impressed he had been when Eric recounted to him the change in his father's attitude. The memory of that, and of the warm way in which they had welcomed him into their home, made what he was about to tell them seem all the harder.
Now, as they approached Nick through the baggage claim area at John Wayne Airport, Eric's mother held out her arms to him and, with a grateful sigh, he held her close and kissed her cheek. Roger's gruff greeting was followed by a warm handshake, and the two men locked eyes for a long moment, their sorrow and understanding of it almost palpable.
"You look exhausted, son," Roger said, looking at Nick with a worried expression.
"Haven't been getting a lot of sleep," Nick told him, touched that Eric's father would be concerned for him.
"Is there any change?" Dorothy asked with her hand on Nick's arm as they exited the terminal.
"I'm afraid not." After he had stowed the bags in the trunk, he got them settled in the car. "I owe both of you an explanation as to how all this happened. This is all my fault---"
As he drove, he told them of the events that had led to his and Eric's last encounter with Garcia on board The Getaway, the yacht they had rented for their vacation. He deliberately left out the more lurid aspects of Garcia's behavior, but on several occasions, he heard both Roger and Dorothy gasp in amazement.
"So you see, all of this could have been avoided if I had just been more aware. I was the one telling the cops and the FBI that Garcia was a clever bastard---sorry---yet, I let myself be lulled into a feeling of false security, just because I listened to everyone saying he had to have left the country or he would have been spotted at some point or another. I messed up, and I can only tell you that I am sorry, so sorry, for letting Eric down and putting him in harm's way."
"But son," Roger said. "You couldn't have known that this madman would be on the boat. How could you? Not even the police suspected that."
"Roger's right, dear." Dorothy gave his arm a pat. "You mustn't blame yourself for this. We certainly don't---and I know when Eric comes out of the coma, he won't either."
Nick felt unbidden tears well in his eyes. Jesus, he thought miserably, how can I tell them he's not ever going to come out of that coma? That the doctors want their permission to turn off the life support machines that are just barely keeping him alive? That's when they will blame me---when they realize that Eric, their only son, is going to die.
§ § § §
They stood, grouped around Eric's bed in the intensive care unit, and Nick did not know what was harder to bear. Looking at Eric, lying there, so pale and waxen-like, hooked up to machines that wheezed and beeped with disturbing regularity---or at Eric's parents, who appeared to have become paralyzed with shock as they stared at their son, the slow realization of how desperate his condition was finally dawning on them. His mother cupped her face in her hands, her unchecked tears spilling over her fingers. His father stood stoically by her, trying for his wife's sake to betray little emotion, but Nick could see by the tic that pulsed repeatedly at the corner of Roger's mouth that the man would not be able for much longer to hold back the pain he most surely felt.
Nick knew the worst was yet to come. Soon, the doctors would give their evaluation of Eric's condition, the same one Nick had listened to only this morning, and they would advise Eric's parents that the best course of action was to turn off all life support and let him die in peace. Mercifully, it was not going to happen right away. A nurse appeared in the doorway, signaling that Nick should step outside with her.
"Mr. Jamieson's doctors have all gone," she told him. "They won't be back until tomorrow morning. I've scheduled an appointment for the parents at eleven. Is that all right?"
Nick nodded. "I'll let them know," he said. He stepped back inside the room and quietly informed Roger and Dorothy that the doctors wanted to see them tomorrow. "Why don't we go have some dinner, then I'll take you back to the hotel," he suggested.
Roger inclined his head in assent and, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders, guided her from the room.
"Would you give me just a moment with him?" Nick asked as they stood in the corridor. Tearfully, Dorothy nodded, then turned and buried her face in her husband's chest.
Nick reentered the ICU and walked slowly toward Eric's bed. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and gazed at his lover's pale and seemingly lifeless face. He took Eric's cool, dry hand in his own and raised it to his lips.
"Oh babe, I'm going to miss you so," he whispered. "I want you to forgive me for letting this happen to you. I would have given my life to save you, but I blew it baby, I blew it." His eyes searched Eric's face for some form of recognition, some small flicker of his eyelids, the tiniest movement of his lips---but there was none. It was as if Eric's vibrant life force had already taken flight, leaving only a shadow behind.
Each time he'd visited Eric, Nick found it hard to leave, and this night was no different. He was unaware of the time that had passed, until Roger's hand on his shoulder reminded him that they had been waiting for him in the corridor.
"Come on, son." Roger took his arm and led him from the room. "I think we could all use a good stiff drink right about now."
Nick drove them back to the hotel, each one of them silently lost in their own thoughts. Nick knew that even though he had told them on the phone that Eric had been seriously injured, they had been unprepared to see just how bad it really was. They had been informed that a coma had been induced in the hope it might lessen the trauma and allow healing to take place. Nick had not told them that the doctors were, even then, less than optimistic.
After three days, they had stopped using the drugs that kept Eric unconscious. They had told Nick that very morning that there was next to no chance of Eric ever recovering. Of course, his parents might very well insist on him being kept on life support---it was to be their choice alone. Many times, Nick had asked himself the question; what if it were up to me? Could I do this? Could I tell myself in all honesty that this is what Eric would want?
They had never talked about a situation like this, at least one that affected them both so personally. Eric had been a paramedic in New York City and had witnessed some pretty terrible injuries inflicted on people, either by accident or design. Once, after being called to a truly gruesome accident scene, he had told Nick that he would prefer to die rather than live with the terrible disabilities the victims would eventually have to endure for the rest of their lives. But sometimes, when faced with the reality of the situation, people have changed their minds. Life is precious, no matter how compromised it may become.
Nick could tell Roger and Dorothy were feeling the effects of their long flight from Ohio and the trauma of seeing their son lying in the hospital so close to death. After taking them back to their hotel, he stayed for only one drink, and then told them he would pick them up in the morning and take them back to the hospital. Dorothy graciously thanked him for all the trouble he was going to, while Roger smiled his thanks, shook Nick's hand then and led his wife away, his arm around her waist for support.
Nick watched them walk to the elevator with despair in his heart. Tomorrow would bring them the worst news of their lives.
He was dreaming---he had to be dreaming. He was running on the beach again with Sam and Joseph. They had died four years ago, but here they were, as young and vibrant as they had been then, running on either side of him, talking and laughing as they churned up the sand with their sneakered feet.
"Where's Eric?" Sam asked him.
"You don't know Eric," Nick replied. "You died before I ever met him."
"Don't be silly," Joseph said through his laughter. "Of course we know him."
"No, you don't." Nick shook his head emphatically and stopped running. He watched as the two men ran in front of him for a few more yards, then they turned, arms round each other's shoulders and smiled back at him.
"Come on," Sam yelled. "Let's find Eric!"
"We can't," Nick said, feeling the first stirrings of anger "He's in the hospital. I have to call the doctor. I can't go any further with you."
"He's fine, Nick," Joseph told him. "Really fine."
"No, he's not. He's dying---" Nick turned and began to run in the opposite direction.
Behind him, Joseph's voice floated on the salty breeze. "He's going to be all right, Nick. Even death can't part you."
Somewhere he could hear a phone ringing. He was on a crowded boardwalk. Everywhere he looked, people milled about, wandering aimlessly, faces turned up to the sun's rays. Anxiously he looked around for Sam and Joseph. Where had they gone? Hadn't they followed him when he ran off? He wanted their company now.
The ringing became louder, almost deafening. A woman in a yellow halter-top handed him her cell phone. "It's for you," she said, looking peeved.
Nick took the phone with a muttered apology. "Hello?"
"It's the doctor, Nick. You really must stop pestering me with these inane questions."
"Questions?"
"See, there you go again. I've told you a dozen times or more, Eric is very sick, but he's going to be fine...really fine."
The crowd around him disappeared. He was standing in darkness, alone.
He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. The ringing became even more insistent. "Jesus," he muttered, grabbing the phone off the nightstand. He glanced at the clock as he answered. Six o'clock.
"Nick Fallon."
"Nick, it's Dorothy. The hospital just called. They want us to come right away. Shall we get a cab?"
"No, no. I'll be right there. Gimme fifteen minutes, okay?"
"We'll wait for you in the lobby."
"I'll be right there," he repeated, jumping out of bed. He ran into the bathroom, where he splashed water over his face and chest and ran a comb through his hair, unruly from restless sleep. Pulling on a shirt, jeans and a pair of sneakers, he grabbed his car keys and headed out the door.
As he sped through the town's still dark streets toward Roger and Dorothy's hotel, he wondered what could have happened for the hospital staff to make such an early morning call. Had Eric taken a turn for the worse? Had he actually passed and they hadn't wanted to tell his parents on the phone? Jesus, how were they going to handle this?
He remembered his dream and shook his head sadly. Sam and Joseph. Jeez. Why did he keep dreaming about them? And why in conjunction with Eric? And that "doctor" saying Eric was going to be just fine. Wishful thinking, that's all it was, he told himself wistfully. Just god damned wishful thinking.
Eric's parents were standing outside on the sidewalk when he pulled up at the hotel entrance.
"Thanks Nick," Roger said, helping his wife into the car. "We didn't want to go over there without telling you."
"I appreciate that." Nick waited until they were settled, then asked, "Did they tell you anything at all?"
"No, just that we should come right away." Roger looked grim. "I'm afraid it's not going to be good news."
At that moment, Nick came very close to telling them what he already knew, but he found he just did not have the heart to do it. It would be better coming from the professionals, he told himself. His folks just might resent his knowing before they did.
"We just have to keep praying," Dorothy said from the back seat.
"Right," Nick muttered, but kept inside himself what he was really thinking. Pray for a miracle, 'cause that's what it's going to take.
The hospital elevator hummed quietly as it took them to the seventh floor where Eric lay. The duty nurse looked up from her desk as they approached.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson, Eric's parents," Nick told her. "They were told to get here as quickly as possible. Is something wrong?"
The nurse gave them a polite smile. "If you'll just wait over there." She indicated the seats that lined one wall of the reception area. "The doctor will be with you in a moment."
"Can we see our son?" Dorothy asked, her voice querulous with worry.
"In a moment," the nurse said firmly. "The doctor will be right with you. I'll let him know you're here."
She rose and disappeared through swinging doors at the end of the corridor. Nick took that opportunity to walk swiftly to the ICU and open the door. He gasped as he looked at Eric's empty bed. A feeling of nausea washed over him and he leaned against the wall to steady himself.
"He's gone," he whispered into the silent, empty room. "Oh, dear Jesus, he's gone." He reeled away from the wall and looked down the hall to where Roger and Dorothy sat waiting for the doctor to appear. How was he going to break this terrible news to them---how could he tell them that their son had died without them being with him? It's going to kill them, he thought as he walked slowly back toward where they sat, patiently waiting. Dorothy looked up at him and gave a sharp intake of breath.
"Nick, what's wrong? You look terrible, dear."
Roger stood up and took Nick's arm. "You'd better sit down, son. You look ill."
Nick sat next to Dorothy, who patted his arm to comfort him. "You haven't been getting enough sleep," she said in her motherly way. "That's the problem. You look worn out."
Nick gazed into her eyes and found he could not tell her.
"You've been overdoing it, son," Roger said, sitting next to him. "All this running back and forth between the hospital and your office. It takes a toll, for sure."
Nick nodded, and then took a deep breath. He had to tell them. They had to know. At that moment, he couldn't tell what was making him feel worse---their instinctive kindness, or the terrible news he was about to lay on them.
The doors at the end of the corridor suddenly swung open revealing the duty nurse and a tall dark-haired man striding purposefully toward them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson? I'm Dr. Burton." He held out his hand in greeting. "I've been attending to your son, Eric," he said as he shook hands with Eric's parents. He looked at Nick and frowned. "Nick, you look awful---really run down. How's that shoulder?"
"What's wrong with your shoulder, son?" Roger asked.
Burton raised an eyebrow. "Didn't he tell you? The man who shot Eric also gave Nick a nasty flesh wound. Another inch the wrong way it would have shattered his collar bone."
"Oh Nick," Dorothy murmured, taking his arm. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"I'm okay," Nick assured her. He turned his attention back to Burton. "Where's Eric?"
Roger and Dorothy looked at him with surprise. "Isn't he in the ICU?" Dorothy asked him.
Nick shook his head. "The room's empty."
Dr. Burton gestured down the hall. "Let's go to my office, shall we? I have certain things to discuss. Sure you don't want the nurse to look at your shoulder, Nick?"
"I'm fine," Nick growled. "Just tell us where he is, please."
"Better yet, I'll show you." Dr. Burton strode off down the hall, Roger and Dorothy striving to keep up.
Nick looked at the duty nurse. "When did it happen?
"About two hours ago, but the doctor will tell you all about it."
Nick nodded then hurried after Burton and Eric's parents. He followed them through the swinging doors and into Burton's office.
"Please sit down." Burton sat at his desk and Nick tried to read the expression on the doctor's face. He almost screamed at Burton to get on with it, but instead he gripped the arms of the chair and steeled himself for what was to come. He looked across at Roger and Dorothy, who sat with expectant expressions as they stared at the doctor.
"About two hours ago," Burton began, "I received a call at my home asking me to come immediately to the hospital. The call concerned your son, and I'm afraid that I feared the worst. Eric's life has been hanging by a thread for the last seven days. As you know, we induced a coma with the expectations that it might be beneficial in the healing process. When we stopped the drug inducement, Eric did not respond. Your son received a wound that would have proved fatal in many cases. A bullet from a .38 revolver punctured his right lung. He suffered a great deal of internal bleeding, from which he would have most certainly died had it not been for Nick getting him help in a timely fashion. Nevertheless, we were not at all hopeful that we could save him---until two hours ago."
Nick felt as though the floor had jolted beneath his feet. "You mean he's not dead?" he yelled, jumping to his feet.
"Nick!" Dorothy looked at him in amazement. "Why would you think that?"
"Because I went to his room and he wasn't there and---"
"And you feared the worst," Burton said, with a sympathetic smile. He turned to Eric's parents. "Nick, of course, has not told you just how close to death your son has been. He wanted to spare you that until we could give a definite prognosis. I have to tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson, that Nick thought you were being called here today to give your permission for us to turn off your son's life support. That, I am happy to tell you, is no longer something that we have to worry about."
Nick felt his knees go weak and he sank back onto the chair. "What happened?" he managed to croak.
"One of those inexplicable little miracles that we in the medical profession are always so happy to witness. About two hours ago, the night nurse on her rounds, was checking Eric's charts when she heard him say 'Hi...' Really, it was more of a croak, the ventilating tube in his throat can cause a nasty swelling in the vocal chords. However, it was enough, she told me, that she almost dropped the clipboard she was holding, she got that much of a start. When she went to him, his eyes were open, clear and focused and he said 'hi' again, and smiled at her. He has caused quite a stir, I can tell you."
Nick looked at the doctor, his eyes brimming. "You mean he's going to be all right?"
"Eventually, yes. He has a long convalescence ahead of him, but it now looks as though he will make a full recovery."
"Oh, thank God," Dorothy said, clutching Roger's arm.
Nick sat, still stunned by the news. Two hours ago, he thought. Just about when I was dreaming that Sam and Joseph were running on the beach with me. They said he was going to be all right---and I wouldn't believe them. How could they have known? How could they have told me so in a dream? Nick shook his head in wonder and then he smiled, a big, broad all encompassing smile that lifted the care-worn expression from his face. Thank you, Sam. Thank you, Joseph. Thank you, whoever sent you to me. Thank you.
"Can we see him?" Roger asked, taking his wife's hand.
"Of course." Dr. Burton rose and opened the door, gesturing that they should follow him. "We have him in a side ward for observation---just as a precaution, you understand. Once we're satisfied with his progress we can give him a regular room and he can have visitors."
Nick, still feeling somewhat dazed by the doctor's revelation, followed them down the corridor to a room, the door of which was marked Critical Care. He's still critical, he thought. Maybe he shouldn't get his hopes up too much. But his fears were dispelled when the doctor swung the door open and he could see Eric lying there, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling from the smile that played on his lips. He was still hooked up to a formidable array of machines, but Nick sighed with relief because Eric was, at last, breathing on his own.
"Hey, Mom...Dad." His voice was no more than a whisper, but it was music to Nick's ears. He felt a big goofy grin of happiness spread across his face as he watched Roger and Dorothy kiss their son in greeting.
Then Eric's eyes met his. "C'mere, you big lug," he murmured. "Mom and Dad won't mind if you kiss me too." Nick stepped forward and lightly brushed his lover's lips with his own. He had to resist an almost overpowering urge to pull Eric into his arms and hold him in a crushing embrace. He smiled as Eric whispered against his mouth, "You'll have to do a lot better than that when I get out of here."
Nick straightened up and looked at Eric's parents, his face distinctly red. He cleared his throat of the enormous lump that had developed there and said, somewhat shakily, "I'll step outside and let you guys visit for a while." Before they could protest, he left the room and joined Dr. Burton in the corridor.
"Feeling better now?" Burton asked.
Nick nodded. "I kinda lost it when I saw the ICU was empty. I still can't quite believe he's come out of it so well. When I think of what happened on the yacht, how close he was to death---"
"He's very lucky, Nick," Burton agreed. "A lot of people could never have survived that kind of wound. Eric is in great shape, and that definitely helped." He looked in at Eric's parents sitting by their son's bedside, engaged in murmured conversation. "I wouldn't stay too long today. He needs lots of rest."
"Gotcha," Nick said. "Thanks again, Doctor." He reentered the room and touched Roger lightly on the arm. "The doc says we shouldn't tire the patient out. We can come back later."
"Right." Roger stood and smiled down at his son. "We'll see you later, then. Come on, Dorothy, let Nick say his goodbyes."
Eric waggled his fingers in a token of goodbye as they left the room, then tapped the side of the bed. Nick sat on the edge, took Eric's hand and raised it to his lips.
"So," Eric murmured, his voice still only barely audible. "You took care of Garcia?"
Nick nodded. "He'll never bother us again, babe."
"I don't remember anything after he shot me."
"I'll tell you everything once you're stronger." He smoothed back Eric's light brown hair from his brow. "Right now, you have to rest, and get well enough so I can take you home."
Eric's lips moved into the semblance of a smile. "I can't wait, you have to make good on that kiss---and a whole lot more."
Nick grinned at him. "Still insatiable I see."
"Only where you're concerned."
Nick leaned over him and kissed his lips. "Hurry home to me."
Andrew ran up the steps to Eric's apartment and rapped loudly on the door. "Physical therapy man's here," he yelled.
"Come on in," Eric yelled back. He chuckled as Andrew burst into the room, a bright smile on his wholesome face. "Are you always in such a good mood?" Eric asked him. "Always Little Mary Sunshine?"
"Nearly always," Andrew replied, grinning. "David tells me to cut it out sometimes when I'm too much. How're you feeling today?"
"Pretty good. I think I overdid it yesterday. We went looking at houses with Henry. It was fun, but getting in and out of the car was beginning to do me in."
"Well, the docs have said you can't overdo things for a while yet." Andrew clapped his hands together. "Now, get off that couch and let me look at you."
Eric groaned, but rose slowly to his feet.
"Take off your tee. Hmm..." He studied Eric's chest wound. "It looks a little inflamed. What's Nick been doing to you?"
"Not enough," Eric said with a rueful grin. "This has totally put a cramp in our sex life. He's scared to touch me, most of the time."
"Most of the time?" Andrew looked at the livid scar on Eric's back, evidence of where the surgeons had repaired the damage done by the bullet exiting his body.
Eric grimaced. "It's ugly, isn't it?"
"Not as ugly as it could've been. You still keeping it covered when you shower?"
"Yes, Mother!" Eric gave an exasperated chuckle. "What with you and Nick nagging me all the time."
"'Cause we love you, you ingrate," Andrew said fondly. "Okay, we'll take it easy today---just some isometrics. When d'you see the doctor again?"
"This afternoon. Nick's coming home early to take me over there." He threw Andrew an anxious look. "I have to speed up this recuperation. My mom and dad will be here next week for Thanksgiving, and Nick's family too."
"Well, they're hardly likely to expect you to be the hostess with the mostess, now are they?" Andrew remarked, chuckling. "I'm pretty sure your mom and Nick's sister will take over when they get here."
"Doreen and Rich were supposed to come out for a second honeymoon," Eric told him. "But all that got thrown to the wind with me being in the hospital and all."
"So instead they're bringing the kids and you'll all have a terrific Thanksgiving."
Sighing, Eric sat back on the couch. "I want this to be special for everyone. It's the first time our families will all be together, so I don't want to be sitting around like a wet noodle, not able to help out."
"As long as you don't overdo it, of course you can help. Besides, it's a week away---you're gonna feel a lot stronger by then. Now come on, let's get to work, buckaroo."
§ § § §
Nick glanced up from the paperwork spread across his desk. "Jeez," he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "When the heck does Monica get back from her vacation? This billing crap is killing me."
Jeff grinned at him. "Not 'til after Thanksgiving. Isn't it hell how we've come to depend on her for practically everything?"
"Tell me." Nick swept up the pile of papers and dumped them into the "In"' tray. "I know, I'll deal with it tomorrow!"
"Okay, Scarlett," Jeff chuckled.
"Watch it," Nick growled. "You hang around with those Brits way too much, you know. You're picking up all that campy movie stuff they revel in."
"Seems to me, those Brits did you a big favor not so long ago---introducing Norman to Henry. Got you out of a very tricky situation, so I'm told."
Nick gave a hollow laugh "So you're told? I told you, for Pete's sake!"
"Oh, right. So show a little more gratitude to our friends and allies from across the pond, why don't you?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Just trying to inject a little humor into your day."
"Yeah? Well, don't give up your regular job."
"What a grouch." Jeff stood and stretched. "Wanna get some lunch with me and Peter?"
"Sorry, I'm meeting Henry. He's got a couple of houses he wants to show me, and I thought I'd check 'em out first. I think we wore Eric out yesterday."
"See anything you liked?"
"Nope, but Henry says he thinks he's found the 'one.'" Nick got up and walked over to the window, where he stood looking out for a moment before he turned and said, "I want this to be very special, Jeff. I want to be able to call whatever we find, 'home'---know what I mean?" He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at his partner, a thoughtful smile lighting his face. "Can we talk for a moment?"
"Sure..." Jeff sat down again.
"All that's gone down in the last few weeks has made me see things differently somehow. Norman said something to me while Eric was still in the hospital. He said that Eric had changed me in certain ways. Calmed me---matured me. He said I probably didn't even realize those changes. I think he used the word 'subtle.' Not a word I would ever have used to describe myself. But you know I've come to believe he's right, and I began to wonder what I'd brought to the table in this relationship. I love Eric, more than I thought it was possible to love anyone---but what have I done for him?" He paused and grimaced. "Well, apart from getting him almost killed a couple of times. Anyway, we'd talked about getting a house off and on. But before all that madness on the yacht that day, we'd talked about it again, and now I don't want it to be just any house, Jeff. I want it to be our home. A place we'll enjoy together; where he can decorate to his heart's content. A place we'll both love coming back to at the end of the day."
"Wow," Jeff said quietly. "Who knew Nick Fallon, ace detective, was such a romantic?"
"Sappy, huh?"
"Not at all. And I have to agree with your friend, Norman. You have changed from the hard-faced, hard-assed cop I met in New York---"
"Hey, wait a minute," Nick protested.
"Peter also figured it was Eric's influence," Jeff continued. "But I gave myself all the credit, actually."
"You?"
"Yes, me. After all, how could my sweet nature, my cool and collected attitude, my subtle and dry wit not rub off on you eventually?" Jeff leaned backed in his seat and laughed aloud. "Gotcha!"
"You rat," Nick said, laughing with him. "And after I bared my soul to you."
"Let that be a lesson." Jeff stood and walked over to his partner. "Go find your dream home, Nick," he said, squeezing his arm. "You and Eric deserve the best."
§ § § §
Eric sat quietly with Nick by his side as Dr. Burton read the latest entry in Eric's file. The doctor looked at them both over the top of his glasses and gave them a faint smile.
"So," he said, closing the file. "How do you feel, Eric?"
"Good," Eric replied. "Just a little stiff, but otherwise good."
"Nick tells me you were a paramedic in New York. You must have seen some pretty nasty injuries, I would imagine."
Eric nodded. "Yes, you could say that. Some, I try not to remember."
"I know what you mean." Burton closed Eric's file and leaned forward on his desk. "I still find myself looking at you with a great deal of amazement. When I first saw you being admitted to this hospital, I thought, this poor man won't live through the night. You're one of those medical marvels, Eric. You are truly very lucky."
"I know," Eric said quietly.
Burton continued, "I think, if you as a paramedic had come across someone with that same type of injury, you wouldn't have given them much of a chance. You had lost so much blood that your reparative and immune systems were extremely compromised." He looked at Eric and smiled. "You know, medical miracles come but rarely, and sometimes with conditions and restrictions. Happily, in your case, I see none of the above."
He tapped Eric's file with his forefinger. "The results of your tests are excellent. Everything checks out just fine. Just don't over exert yourself. Keep up the physical therapy regimen and I'll see you in another month."
Eric leaned on Nick as they walked to the hospital exit and Nick put his arm around him to support him.
"You feeling tired?" Nick asked, looking at him with concern.
"No. I just like the feel of your arm around me."
Nick grinned and held him close. "So, good news, huh?"
"Yeah."
"I want to show you something on the way back to the apartment."
"What is it?"
"You'll see."
"Tell me," Eric whined, as Nick opened the car door for him.
"It's a surprise."
"I hate surprises."
"No, you don't. You love 'em."
"Only when I know what they are."
"You'll know soon enough," Nick chuckled, starting the engine. He pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto Coast Highway. It was already dark, and Nick had to strain to see the dimly lit street names.
"Here it is," he muttered.
"Where are we going?"
"Just up here," Nick said, watching for the street he wanted. "Yeah, here it is." He pulled over and stopped the car.
Eric peered out of the car window. "I can't see anything."
"You will." Nick climbed out and went around to the passenger side. He opened the door and helped Eric out. "Careful, babe." They stood for a moment at the side of the road, their arms around one another, their faces pressed together.
"Did you bring me up here for a quickie?" Eric asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"No, although the idea's appealing. Come on." Nick led Eric to a gap in a tall hedge. "Through here---watch your step."
Eric grumbled, "Nick, what on earth?" He stopped suddenly as his eyes made out the shape of a house in front of him. "Are we visiting someone?" he whispered.
Nick was looking around with impatience. "Where the heck is he?" he muttered. "It's so frickin' dark here."
"Who's he?" Eric asked, again in a whisper.
"Hello! Sorry I'm late!"
Eric almost jumped out of his skin. "Henry---God, you nearly scared me to death."
"Sorry again," Henry said cheerfully. "Let me just run up there and turn on the lights."
"What's going on?" Eric demanded, poking Nick in the ribs.
"Ouch. Just wait and see, will you?"
The darkness was suddenly, as if by magic, turned to light, and Eric gasped as he looked around at a lushly landscaped front yard and a wide set of stone steps that led to a ranch style home, the door to which was open and welcoming.
"Who lives here?" Eric asked.
"No one---yet," Nick said, guiding him up the steps. Before they entered the house, Nick turned Eric around and pointed west. "Look," he whispered. "Isn't that great?" Eric looked out at the Pacific Ocean bathed in the moon's silvery light. "You should see it during the day," Nick said, holding him close. "It's incredible."
"It's beautiful now." Eric felt tears well in his eyes as he now realized what was happening. "I can't believe you would do this for me, Nick. You bought it for us, didn't you?"
"No. I wouldn't do that without you seeing it first." Nick grinned at him happily. "Does this mean you approve? Wait. You haven't seen the inside yet." Nick led Eric indoors where a beaming Henry stood in the middle of a spacious living room.
"I'll just wait outside while you two walk around," he said. "Take your time."
Smiling like a happy kid, Nick took Eric's hand and led him through the kitchen to the backyard. "Lookit!" he yelled.
"A pool! A pool, Nick?" Eric exclaimed. "They have to be asking a fortune for this place." He looked around him. "Everything's so new. No one lived here?"
"Nope. It's kinda sad really. The guy and his wife designed and built this, and then he got promoted and transferred to Colorado. They'll be real happy to unload it..." He winked at Eric. "But let me show you the master bedroom suite. Suite, Eric." Together, they walked into the master bedroom and again Eric gasped as he took in the size of the room and vaulted ceilings.
"French doors out to the pool," he murmured. "Am I dreaming, or what?"
"Just say the word, babe, and it's all yours."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure." Nick put his arms around him and held him close. "Now, give me a big, sloppy kiss."
"Just one?"
"Well, Henry's outside, waiting."
"Let him wait."
Thanksgiving Day:
The first inkling Eric had that all was not as he had planned for this day was when he went to the refrigerator to get the turkey ready for stuffing.
"Nick," he said, scratching his head. "What did you do with the turkey?"
"Huh?"
"The turkey---it's not in the fridge."
"Doreen's got it."
"Doreen's got it?"
"Mmm. She's cooking it."
Eric looked at Nick in amazement. "She's cooking it? Where? In her hotel room?"
Nick chuckled. "No..."
"Nick, what's going on?" Eric, hands planted on his hips, did not look happy. "Where's my turkey?"
"I just told you. Now, if you'd like to come with me on a little trip, all your questions will be answered."
"What are you up to?" Eric demanded, not moving.
Nick sighed, got up off the couch and walked slowly over to where Eric stood glowering at him. He kissed Eric's lips tenderly. "Did I ever tell you that blue is definitely your color? That shirt looks so good on you."
"Nick..." Eric melted into his arms. "You are up to something."
"I don't want you over exerting yourself."
"Nick. I've been looking forward to this all week."
"I know you have, and believe me you're going to enjoy this day. Now will you please put on your shoes and come with me?"
"I wanted to have everyone here," Eric pouted. "Not in a restaurant. It won't be the same in a restaurant."
Nick rolled his eyes. "Am I going to have to carry you to the car?"
"Oh, okay." Eric sulked. "I guess. I'll be ready in a minute."
"Where are we going?" Eric asked as Nick headed south on Coast Highway.
"You'll see."
"Which restaurant?" Eric uttered the word with as much disparagement as he could muster.
"A new one."
Eric sighed. "Is everyone meeting us there?"
"Yes."
They drove in silence for a time, then Eric asked, "Didn't they have turkey on the menu?"
"Huh?"
"Doreen's got the turkey, you said. Is she bringing it to the restaurant?"
"Mmm..."
"Mmm? What does that mean?"
"Eric---were you always this annoying?"
"Well, I like that! You steal my turkey, force me out of the apartment I spent all of yesterday cleaning for this occasion---"
Nick frowned. "You shouldn't have been doin' all that stuff."
"Well, who the heck was? Not you!" Eric snorted and looked out the window. "I'm not happy."
"I love you."
"Hmpf..."
Nick chuckled. "Truly, I do..."
Eric turned and looked at him, a half smile on his face. "What are you up to?"
"Oh, 'bout six-two."
"Cut it out," Eric laughed. "Oh," he said as Nick made a left turn, "are we going to the house?"
"I thought we'd stop by. I want to measure something."
"What?"
"A wall."
"Which wall?"
"The...uh...the dining room wall."
"What for?"
"Jeez, Eric. Just wait and I'll show you."
"You're weird today."
Nick pulled up outside the house, muttering under his breath.
"What did you say?" Eric asked, giving him a sharp look.
"I said, 'Thank you, Jesus.'"
"You're definitely weird today."
They got out of the car and walked up to the front door.
"Where's Henry?" Eric asked.
"Huh?"
"Henry---he has the keys, doesn't he?"
"Uh...oh, right. Maybe he's inside." Nick knocked on the door.
"I didn't see his car," Eric said, looking back at the street.
I'm not surprised, Nick thought. He and Norman are on their way to Hawaii. The door was suddenly thrown open and a chorus of voices yelled,
"Surprise!"
Eric stood and gaped, his eyes as big as saucers as he saw the assembled crowd inside. His mom and dad, Doreen, Rich and the kids, Peter, Jeff, Andrew, David...
"Ohmigod. Oh. My. God," he whispered as everyone gathered around to hug him. Nick gave out a heavy sigh of relief and leaned against the doorjamb in feigned exhaustion.
"Jeez, but that was hard work," he muttered. "Whose dumb idea was this anyway?"
"All yours, brother mine," Doreen said, laughing. "I told you he wasn't going to like the change of plan."
"Oh, but I love it now," Eric yelled, enjoying all the attention. He looked around the room at the giant table spread with festive tablecloths and autumn colored motifs. His eyes were decidedly misty as he looked at Nick. "I can't believe you did all this---"
Nick would tell him later that he had persuaded the owners to give him early occupancy, and had then connived with Peter and Andrew to get the place ready with a rented table and chairs from a local store. The guys had been only too delighted to plan the surprise, and had rushed around the day before buying table decorations and party favors.
Now, Nick winked at his co-conspirators and said, "Well, I had a lot of help." Then, with a sidelong look at Eric, and an appreciative sniff, he added, "Mmm... Do I smell turkey?"
About the Author
J.P. BOWIE was born and raised in Aberdeen, Scotland. He wrote his first (unpublished) novel at the age of 14 - a science fiction tale of brawny men and brawnier women that made him a little suspect in the eyes of his family for a while.
J.P. wrote his first gay mystery in 2000, and after having it rejected by every publisher in the universe, he opted to put his money where his mouth is and self published A Portrait of Phillip. Now several books, short stories and novellas later, he is writing m/m erotica almost exclusively. J.P.'s favorite singer is Ella Fitzgerald, and his favorite man is Phil, his partner of 15 years. Visit J.P. on the internet at http://www.jpbowie.com.
MLR Press Authors
Featuring a roll call of some of the best writers of gay erotica and mysteries today!
M. Jules Aedin
Maura Anderson
Victor J. Banis
Jeanne Barrack
Laura Baumbach
Alex Beecroft
Sarah Black
Ally Blue
J.P. Bowie
Michael Breyette
P.A. Brown
Brenda Bryce
Jade Buchanan
James Buchanan
Charlie Cochrane
Kirby Crow
Dick D.
Ethan Day
Jason Edding
Angela Fiddler
Dakota Flint
S.J. Frost
Kimberly Gardner
Roland Graeme
Storm Grant
Amber Green
LB Gregg
Wayne Gunn
David Juhren
Samantha Kane
Kiernan Kelly
J.L. Langley
Josh Lanyon
Clare London
William Maltese
Gary Martine
Z.A. Maxfield
Patric Michael
Jet Mykles
Willa Okati
L. Picaro
Neil Plakcy
Jordan Castillo Price
Luisa Prieto
Rick R. Reed
A.M. Riley
George Seaton
Jardonn Smith
Caro Soles
JoAnne Soper-Cook
Richard Stevenson
Clare Thompson
Lex Valentine
Stevie Woods
Check out titles, both available and forthcoming, at www.mlrpress.com
the trevor project
The Trevor Project operates the only nationwide, around-the-clock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. Every day, The Trevor Project saves lives though its free and confidential helpline, its website and its educational services. If you or a friend are feeling lost or alone call The Trevor Helpline. If you or a friend are feeling lost, alone, confused or in crisis, please call The Trevor Helpline. You'll be able to speak confidentially with a trained counselor 24/7.
The Trevor Helpline: 866-488-7386
On the Web: http://www.thetrevorproject.org/
the gay men's domestic violence project
Founded in 1994, The Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project is a grassroots, nonprofit organization founded by a gay male survivor of domestic violence and developed through the strength, contributions and participation of the community. The Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project supports victims and survivors through education, advocacy and direct services. Understanding that the serious public health issue of domestic violence is not gender specific, we serve men in relationships with men, regardless of how they identify, and stand ready to assist them in navigating through abusive relationships.
GMDVP Helpline: 800.832.1901
On the Web: http://gmdvp.org/
the gay & lesbian alliance against defamation/glaad en español
The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (glaad) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.
On the Web: http://www.glaad.org/
glaad en español: http://www.glaad.org/espanol/bienvenido.php
servicemembers legal defense network
Servicemembers Legal Defense Network is a nonpartisan, nonprofit, legal services, watchdog and policy organization dedicated to ending discrimination against and harassment of military personnel affected by "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (dadt).The sldn provides free, confidential legal services to all those impacted by dadt and related discrimination. Since 1993, its inhouse legal team has responded to more than 9,000 requests for assistance. In Congress, it leads the fight to repeal dadt and replace it with a law that ensures equal treatment for every servicemember, regardless of sexual orientation. In the courts, it works to challenge the constitutionality of dadt.
sldn Call: (202) 328-3244
PO Box 65301 or (202) 328-FAIR
Washington DC 20035-5301 e-mail: sldn@sldn.org
On the Web: http://sldn.org/
the glbt national help center
The glbt National Help Center is a nonprofit, tax-exempt organization that is dedicated to meeting the needs of the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and those questioning their sexual orientation and gender identity. It is an outgrowth of the Gay & Lesbian National Hotline, which began in 1996 and now is a primary program of The glbt National Help Center. It offers several different programs including two national hotlines that help members of the glbt community talk about the important issues that they are facing in their lives. It helps end the isolation that many people feel, by providing a safe environment on the phone or via the internet to discuss issues that people can't talk about anywhere else. The glbt National Help Center also helps other organizations build the infrastructure they need to provide strong support to our community at the local level.
National Hotline: 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564)
National Youth Talkline 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-246-7743)
On the Web: http://www.glnh.org/
e-mail: info@glbtnationalhelpcenter.org
If you're a GLBT and questioning student heading off to university, should know that there are resources on campus for you. Here's just a sample:
US Local GLBT college campus organizations
http://dv-8.com/resources/us/local/campus.html
GLBT Scholarship Resources http://tinyurl.com/6fx9v6
Syracuse University http://lgbt.syr.edu/
Texas A&M http://glbt.tamu.edu/
Tulane University http://www.oma.tulane.edu/LGBT/Default.htm
University of Alaska http://www.uaf.edu/agla/
University of California, Davis http://lgbtrc.ucdavis.edu/
University of California, San Francisco http://lgbt.ucsf.edu/
University of Colorado http://www.colorado.edu/glbtrc/
University of Florida http://www.dso.ufl.edu/multicultural/lgbt/
University of Hawaiÿi, Mnoa http://manoa.hawaii.edu/lgbt/
University of Utah http://www.sa.utah.edu/lgbt/
University of Virginia http://www.virginia.edu/deanofstudents/lgbt/
Vanderbilt University http://www.vanderbilt.edu/lgbtqi/

