Hostage (22 page)

“So you’ve been planning this for a long time?”

“And here I thought you were the token queer on the police force when instead you’re a brilliant dick,” laughed Matthew. “But yes, I’ve been working on this for months. I’ve been alone a lot lately, so I’ve had a lot of time to ponder the meanings of life and death and revenge. You see, I kept getting KS lesions on my face and scalp, and I just didn’t want to see anyone. Call me vain, but I was used to people ogling me for my beauty, not staring at my oozing sores. So I worked out here in the land of the living dead as a janitor for, I don’t know, four, five months, from eleven at night to seven in the morning. After all the nice, decent people went home to their safe suburban homes, I came out here like the hunchback of Notre Dame and swept up after them. Frankly, I hate the suburbs. It’s just so artificial, all of it.”

As they started down another flight Rawlins said, “So far I haven’t really disagreed with anything you’ve said.”

“Or probably done either. I’m just acting out every queer’s fantasy.” With a nudge Matthew pushed him along. “Just keep going down. And again, don’t do anything stupid.”

“I already did. I slept with you.”

“Come on, you stud, you wanted it.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t worth dying for.”

“Say,” Matthew said snidely, “when this is all over you could open up an AIDS store in one of the malls. Or maybe just a little kiosk, you know, one of those little carts or something. You could sell little red ribbons and CDs and posters, and then donate all the profits to research or a hospice. Wouldn’t that be sweet and meaningful?”

“Yeah, except I doubt any of the malls would want something like that.”

“Oh, very good. You’re catching on quickly.” Matthew steered Rawlins down a final flight. “We’re almost there.”

Altogether they descended at least three levels, burrowing deeper and deeper on a journey that would have been like sinking into the cavernous chambers beneath the phantom’s opera house except that this was all fresh and white, evenly lit and perfectly laid out. Reaching the bottom, Matthew upped the pace, shoving Rawlins past some plastic Dumpsters, then down another hall to a large, empty room.

“Here it is, home, sweet home,” said Matthew, who led the way across the room to a plain metal door, on which he knocked twice, paused, then knocked two more times.

Maybe, Rawlins thought as he stood there, these guys were right. When prominent political figures not only marginalized a group of people and a horrible disease, but used both of them as a platform for social division and political gain, what choices did that leave you? How could you fight back against such hate? Then again, what difference did it make? As clearly as he recalled the history of friends like Curt, Rawlins saw his own bleak future.

When the door failed to open, Matthew shook his head, then repeated his sequence of knocks. When that still didn’t produce any results, Matthew’s face flushed red and he started banging with his fist.

“Elliot, you fool, it’s me! Open up the goddamn door!”

Rawlins heard nothing, not a voice or a single step from behind the locked door. Then breaking the silence came a distinct sob, a sharp one at that, followed by nothing.

“Oh, shit,” muttered Matthew, who then started pounding on the door. “Elliot! Elliot, you faggot, open up the fucking door!”

“Matthew… Matthew…”

“This guy,” moaned Matthew to Rawlins, “is such a drama queen.”

From behind the door came the sound of a few steps, and then Elliot calling, “Matthew… you’re too late!”

“What?”

“She’s—” began Elliot, who then dissolved into tears.

“Oh, fuck, what is it now?” Matthew started beating on the door. “Open the fuck up!”

“Tina’s…”

There was a click of a bolt as the door was unlocked, and then the door was cracked open and a skinny, knobby man stood there, his red face streaked with tears. In spite of that and his sickly appearance, Rawlins recognized him at once, having met him a number of times at Curt’s.

Peering out of the partially opened door, Elliot eyed Rawlins, stopped crying for a moment, and replied, “What in the hell are you doing here?” He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “Are there more of you cops out there?”

“Let’s just say I was persuaded to come.”

Matthew pushed forward, shoving the door open and saying, “Elliot, get out of the—”

Rawlins had visited any number of crime scenes. He’d seen any number of bodies. And you could always tell death by the stillness as much as the smell, both of which were confirmed by the woman’s body in the bathroom doorway.

“She’s… she’s dead,” said Elliot, choking on his tears.

“Oh, Jesus!” mumbled Matthew, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees by Tina’s side.

“I did what I could!”

“Oh… Tina…”

“Honest, Matthew, I tried to help her! I was making her something to drink and… and she was in the bathroom. She must have stood up and passed out and hit her head. I heard this crash and I went over—she’d fallen. There was a big gash on her head. I tried to do something, but… but she was already dead and… and…” Elliot started sobbing, “Oh, God, what’s going to happen to us now? What are we going to do? This is it, we’re done! It’s over!”

Drawn by the horror of it, Rawlins stepped in, his eyes focused on the body. Was this the way he was going to croak, in some overlooked corner of the world? He glanced to the side, observing the boxes of food and supplies, the clothing, and the streaks of blood coming from the bathroom. Hearing someone call out, Rawlins turned, saw a closed door. Was Clariton in there?

“Matthew, I’m sorry, there wasn’t anything I could do. I wanted to—”

“Shut up, you idiot!” shouted Matthew, taking Tina’s limp hand in his.

“But what’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know!”

Elliot, his eyes small and pained, turned to Rawlins, grabbing him by one arm and begging, “Should we turn ourselves in? Do you think that would be a good idea? But what will the police do to us? Do you think they’ll hurt us? Oh, God, maybe we should just kill ourselves! We could let Clariton go, and then… then… well, what do you think, Rawlins?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Come on, tell us what to do! Should we call the cops? Should we—”

Matthew was back on his feet, whipping his gun around, jamming it against Elliot’s head, and shouting, “If you don’t shut up right this second I’m going to kill you myself!”

Elliot squished his eyes shut and pleaded, his voice shaking, “Go ahead, do it right now! Kill me! I can’t take this anymore!”

Seeing the fury in Matthew’s face, Rawlins pulled back, certain that Matthew was about to blow Elliot’s brains all over the room. But that moment went as quickly as it had developed.

“Oh, shit,” said Matthew, lowering the gun.

“Do it, you coward!” shouted Elliot.

“Fuck off!”

When Matthew turned away and rubbed his forehead with one hand, Rawlins thought this was it, his chance to turn and walk out of here. The door was still partly open, he could make a dash for it.

But why?

Even if he somehow managed to get away, even if Matthew didn’t come chasing after him and gun him down, where would he go? What would he do? Where would he, in the greater picture, hide? That’s right, he thought, unable to see hope or refuge of any kind. He was infected with HIV, and from today on there would never be any certainty again in his life. After all, even a minuscule cold germ was now potentially as deadly as poison

gas.

Behind him, Matthew ordered, “Shut the door and lock it.” “Of course,” replied a defeated Rawlins, feeling as if he were

switching sides. “Like I said, I really don’t disagree with what

you’ve been saying.”

Todd had no idea
what was happening. Nor did he have any real idea how he’d ended up in Lyle Cunningham’s black pickup truck. All he knew was that he had to get to the WLAK studios in time for the 10:00 PM news, and this was the most expedient way. Whether or not he was in any kind of mental shape to go on the air, however, remained to be determined.

“Why the hell did you follow me?” asked Todd as they sped through the night and the flat suburb toward the station.

Lyle shrugged his large shoulders. “Because I saw the way the leader of that group looked at you when they kidnapped Clariton. And I saw the way you looked at him.”

“So?” replied Todd, wondering if he was getting at the very thing Todd had failed to relay to the police.

“So you know him, right?”

Now it was Todd’s turn to shrug. Glancing out the window at a dilapidated strip mall, he tried to evaluate how much to say, what and what not to filter, and of course how fully he could trust Lyle.

Finally Todd decided not to hold back, and he said, “I recognized him, but I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to remember, but I can’t. Of course, it didn’t help that he had on a mask, his head was shaved, and he looked sick as hell. Who knows, maybe I’ve just seen him at the grocery store.”

“Or down at one of the gay bars.”

“Maybe.”

Lyle glanced over. “Or maybe he’s a friend of a friend.”

“Perhaps,” replied Todd, wondering just how much Lyle actually knew.

“Yeah, well, when you do remember let me know. I’m looking for that thread, the one that’s going to unravel this whole thing.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “The second number is my voice pager.”

Todd took the card, glanced at it in the faint light of the car. What did Lyle take him for, a total fool?

“Right,” said Todd, “I’m going to call you, the same guy who just had a gun to my head.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot.”

“Sorry, buddy, but I don’t think I’m going to call Mr. Johnny Clariton’s bodyguard with any hot information.” Todd motioned to the low white building up ahead on the left. “That’s the station right up there.”

Lyle braked at a stoplight, waited for a green, then turned left and said, “I don’t know if it makes any difference to you, but for your information I can’t stand Clariton. In fact, I probably detest him more than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I see.” Todd shook his head, wondered what in the hell this was all about. “So you’re just out here doing double duty, looking for Clariton because it’s your moral duty or something.”

“Actually, that’s about right. I was hired to do a job and I’m going to keep on doing it because, I don’t know about you, but I’m morally opposed to things like kidnapping and terrorism.”

“Oh, the idealistic bodyguard. Sounds like juicy pulp fiction.”

Lyle shook his head, then glared at Todd. “You know what I don’t like about you gay people?”

Todd’s spine bristled. “What?”

“Your inability to see beyond your own fucking nose.”

“And you know what I don’t like about you straight people? Your hypocritical morality.”

“Listen, you’re not the only ones in crisis. In my opinion gays are the most self-absorbed group of people I’ve ever seen.”

Jesus Christ, thought Todd, time to be done with this. He said, “You can drop me off at the side door over there.”

He couldn’t believe this. Of course he should have called a taxi. Of course he should have avoided Lyle Cunningham’s offer to drive him out here. And as the truck turned into the drive of Channel 10 and neared the side entrance, Todd, ready to spring out, reached up to the door handle. Just as quickly, Lyle’s bear-like hand slammed down on his own door lock, and with a
thunk
the automatic system locked Todd’s door as well. No, realized Todd, turning and staring at the other man, getting out of here wasn’t going to be easy.

“Not so fast, asshole,” snapped Lyle as he pulled to a stop by some large, overgrown junipers.

“So there’s a catch to this free ride?”

“I want to tell you a little story.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, you don’t,” replied Lyle. “You don’t because I want to tell you about a sixty-year-old lady who—”

“Listen, pal,” Todd interrupted, “I really don’t have time for this. I’m supposed to be on the air in a few minutes.”

“Just shut up.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“So this lady—she moved down to Arizona some ten years ago. Her husband had died and she moved to Sun City, where she met a nice old man. A really sweet guy, very lonely, and very loaded. A while back he’d had quadruple bypass surgery, but had recovered in excellent shape.”

Todd was about to get terribly pissed off when it hit him. Was this story going where he thought it was? Did it involve who he thought it did?

“Or so it seemed,” continued Lyle, “until the old man started losing weight and developed pneumonia, which was when they discovered that the blood transfusion he’d been given years earlier for the heart surgery was tainted with the HIV virus. It was very sad, of course, but the pneumonia was quite virulent and it killed him quite quickly.”

When Lyle lapsed into silence, Todd pressed, “What about the girlfriend?”