Crossroads Revisited (4 page)

“Christ, Emily, you’re no good at
bat-fowling, either.”

“Bat-fowling, beating around the bush, I
learned that from you. We share an odd sort of intimacy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, we do, and I’m happy to call you
friend, a true friend.”

“Good, me too, and that’s why I know I
can count on you again. Jeffords no doubt told you they found another college
student floating in the Patuxent this morning.” She choked on the last words.

“He did, and I’m sorry to hear the kid
is the son of your friend, Martha.”

“She’s devastated. Divorced ten years
ago.  Thomas is an only child and Martha thinks the sun and moon exist just for
him.” Another pause and he heard the wheels turning in her pretty head. “What
else did Jeffords say? I get the feeling the Department is holding back.”

“He didn’t say anything specific about
Thomas other than they found him this morning like you said. As for the other
part of your question, the Department always withholds evidence from the
public. They hold crime scene evidence close to their chest—things only a
killer would know.”

“So you think there is a killer?”

“Hold on now, Em. I didn’t say that. I
don’t know enough about the case, only what I’ve read in the papers.”

“You’re doing that bat-fowling thing. I
know you’ve channeled this, tapped into your inner spirit or whatever you call
it.” When he didn’t answer she asked, “Am I right?”

He blew air out his lips. “Yes.”

“I knew it! And?”

“I just don’t know.”

“Frank...”

“All right. I’ve had some strange dreams
lately, but convoluted, murky.”

“Dreams about whom, about what?”

Christ, why did she have to call him
today? “About shiny, metallic objects.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down.” He heard
her slosh something down, coffee most likely. “That could be anything.”

“Needles.”

“Sewing needles?”

Frank looked at his briefcase lying on
the chair beside him and struggled for words. “No, as in syringes.”

“Frank, do you think it means the young
men who died were into drugs?”

“Back up three or four sentences. Didn’t
I say my dreams are always murky? Christ, Emily, it could mean anything from
diabetes to nursing homes.”

He heard her doorbell ring.

“Damn, hang on.”

Frank kept the phone to his ear and
listened to the muffled voices in the background, Emily’s and a man’s. He
couldn’t make out the words, but heard her laugh once. As always, the sonorous
chuckle reassured him. Damn, she shouldn’t have to be going through this again,
whatever
this
evolved into.  After losing her husband in a botched bank
robbery, and raising two kids on her own, she had a right to a normal life.

“That was an interesting conversation,”
she said, returning.

“Who came calling?”

“One of Rand’s professors. He said Rand
left a notebook on his desk yesterday so he looked up our address in the office
and dropped it off on his lunch hour. Thought maybe Rand would need it before
tomorrow.”

“That’s our boy, always on the ball.”

“I think he’s been stricken with
Attention Deficit Disorder since his father died, but anyway, you were telling
me about the dreams.”

“Dreams, what dreams?”

“Stop it, Frank. You’re making me
edgier, if that’s possible.”

“Okay, the dreams involve Rand.”

“What!” The hysterics returned.

“I told you they were muddied, they
don’t mean anything at this point.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that. Your dreams
always mean something even if they are fucked up. I’m scared, Frank. The
parents are convinced there’s another serial killer stalking the college and
the FBI insists they’re acting out of panic and misinformation.”

“What do you think?”

“Come on, you’ve got to be kidding! Five
students dead after leaving a bar, found in the river? What are the odds?”

“The FBI claims it happens all the time.
College kids are prime candidates for alcohol-related deaths running the gamut
from falling off balconies, poisonings, car accidents or other freak
accidents.”

“No one fell off a balcony, their blood
alcohol content showed intoxication, but not enough to cause death, and they
did
not
die in car accidents. Freak accidents all right, as in some
freak
killed them.”

“Settle down. Maybe the toxicology
reports showed something the police aren’t divulging right now.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know…drug use or some other
commonality. You know drug users come in all forms, ages.” Thinking about his
discussion with Rand that morning, he visibly cringed. If the little fucker had
lied to him again, he’d have to send him packing. “I’ve promised Hayworth―”

“Who’s Hayworth?”

“The agent Washington sent to
investigate. I promised him I’d go over the file. He’s bringing it to me
tonight.”

“Thank God, and you’ll attend the
meeting tomorrow night at City Hall?”

“I’ll be there, Emily, promise.”

She blew a sigh of relief. “You sure
you’re not holding anything back about Rand?”

“Not a thing,” he said, and called
himself a liar. “I gotta run, sweet lips. I’ll call you tomorrow after I review
the file.”

“Sweet lips. The name brings back so
many fond memories.”

Frank laughed as an image of Emily’s
husband flashed before him. “I used to call you that all the time just to piss
Quinn off. Told him one day I’d be kissing those sweet lips.”

“What did he say?” she asked with a
sniffle.

“He said, ‘Yeah, when you come back
reincarnated as a hot-blooded straight guy.’ I told him at least he had the
hot-blooded part right.”

He loved it when she laughed, always
had. “You’ll call me tomorrow?”

“You can count on it, Em.”

“Love you, Frank.”

“Ditto,” he said and clicked
end
on his cell phone.

The black cloud descended again, whether
from talking about the dreams with Emily or from the visit with the FBI and
Jeffords, he didn’t know. He leaned back in the chair with his head resting
against the soft leather and closed his eyes. How could this be fucking
happening again?

Chapter Three

Frank knew he was in over his head when
it came to Rand, but the time had passed for recriminations and told-you-sos.
The kid was beautiful, plain and simple, with the most delectable body, the
most taut, provocative ass he’d ever seen. He’d been the first one to fuck that
virgin bottom and the thought of someone else even touching Rand made him want
to seek the unknown person out and kill him.

He drew a deep breath. In his field, people
killed for three reasons: sex, money, and love. Truth might as well have
arrived in the form of a dull butcher knife. Christ, he’d fallen in love with
Rand.

*
* * *

Rand walked across campus, acutely aware
of the sting on his butt cheeks and something hard and thick inside his ass.
Every time he took a step, the plug moved inside him. God, so decadently
perverted, what would McGuire think of next? Rand wondered if his cock would
deflate at all today. Throbbing and leaking like a son of a bitch, his
permanent erection served as a constant reminder of the spanking from Frank.
Heat rose in his cheeks and he imagined his face matched the color of his ass
right now. Christ, had he actually begged Frank to spank him? Oh, God, had he
jerked himself off during the spanking and screamed louder than a colicky baby?
He had. And he would again, given the opportunity.

Every man’s dream…every woman’s, too, if
one went by the way they drooled over Frank. Rand admitted he had officially
joined their ranks. Topping the charts at six feet, the man’s ripped, muscled
body, oozed primitive sexuality. Crude and unabashedly bold, Frank delivered
pleasure in spades. He frightened and thrilled Rand beyond comprehension. He
ached for his touch, yearned to feel his cock slamming into him. Once the man
touched him, Rand became doughier than putty under his caresses. He’d do
anything to have the man lick his flesh, stroke his shaft, or continue to touch
him in the most intimate of places. He didn’t care what Frank did to him…as
long as kept on doing it. The man had the ability to make him whimper, squirm,
and yes, beg.

He walked into class and looked at the
students hunkered down at their desks. He wondered if any had anal toys up
their asses. No, of course, they didn’t. Only Frank McGuire would think of such
a thing. He knew how to heighten the tension until Rand was nearly mindless
with thoughts of what he’d do to him next. It could be any number of things,
and the thoughts brought him to the brink of orgasm.

He slid into the desk and resisted the
urge to moan out load when the ass plug pushed upward. As soon as class ended,
he’d have to do something about his stiff cock. Frank didn’t say he couldn’t
jack off; he just couldn’t remove the plug. Christ, had the man lost his mind?
Who’d want to remove something that pitched them into mind-numbing sensations
of being fucked all day?

Rand found it hard to concentrate on the
professor’s lesson of the day―anatomy of the temporal bone and ear. The
ass plug and lying naked in Frank’s bed tonight occupied his every thought. Oh,
God. Tonight couldn’t come soon enough.

His heart sank. It wasn’t about the sex
and mind-blowing pleasure the man brought him. He loved Frank, really loved
him, and Frank thought of him as a plaything, a punk kid built for his sexual
fantasies. Somehow, he had to get Frank to admit that deep down he loved him, and
thought of him as more than a sexual object. He knew Frank did, he saw it in
his eyes sometimes when he looked at him. Not when they were having sex, but
other times when they were out on the town or playing Frisbee in the park.
Frank looked at him strangely on those occasions, not with hunger for his body,
but with something deep and secretive that Frank wouldn’t own up to.

“Mr. Brennan, I asked you a question.”

Rand jolted back to the classroom and
looked at his professor. He didn’t know if Doctor McBride had actually earned a
Ph.D. A physician, the man came to John Hopkins to teach shortly after Doctor
Bengston died. Rand missed Bengston, a young man of forty who passed away
unexpectedly and left three young kids behind. Maybe the pangs of remorse Rand
felt from his teacher’s death hit too close to home after losing his father at
such a young age.

“Mr. Brennan!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I missed the question.”

“You missed my question about the
carotid artery and jugular venous drainage system because you were too busy
watching the meadowlarks outside, were you not?”

“Guilty as charged, sir, and I
apologize.”

“Are you aware of how many young men
would give their eye teeth to be occupying your desk, Mr. Brennan?”

“Yes, Doctor McBride, I am.”

“If you don’t want to be here, Brennan,
give up your chair to someone who does.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I do want to be here,
sir.”

The doctor looked over his glasses. “See
me after class, Rand.”

Oh, God, the King of Siam knew his first
name. There would be hell to pay for this if Frank or his mother found out.

Rand made an attempt to sneak out the
door after class, hoping McBride had forgotten the incident, but no such luck.
“Mr. Brennan, you don’t plan to leave without seeing me, do you?”

“No, sir, I planned to return after I
visited the restroom.”

“The restroom will have to wait.” He
motioned him forward. “Have a seat, and we’ll attempt to get to the bottom of
what’s keeping you from your studies these days.”

Rand slid into the chair, wilier than a
snake winding his way through a garden, acutely aware of the plug knocking
against his sensitive nerve endings.

“Where do you live, Mr. Brennan?”

“You mean in what part of Baltimore,
sir?”

“No, I mean with whom do you reside?”

Rand faltered on the words. “My mother,
Doctor McBride, why?”

The doc gave him one of those
you-little-liar-looks before he spoke. “That’s strange. Yesterday, you left
your anatomy notebook on your desk, and today I stopped by the address listed
in your file. A woman answered the door, introduced herself as your mother.
When I asked to speak with you, she said you didn’t live there.”

“Well, I do and I don’t.” Rand squirmed
in the chair. Between the plug and the man’s intense scrutiny, misery could be
labeled his best friend. “That is, I lived with my mother until-until several
months ago when I moved in with a friend.”