Whistle Pass (3 page)

H
OW
a man as good-looking as the manager had landed in Whistle Pass, Charlie had no clue. Nor did he have the time to worry about why he’d noticed. He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped into the rain. The chill of it did little to cool his anger. Mayors ran the cops. One of Roger’s own people had beaten him. Question was, if Roger knew about it, had he sent him, and if so, why? A poster in a window caught his attention.

He stopped and took it all in. The poster was a man’s smiling face. A little older now, but Charlie knew every feature of this particular face.

Vote

Roger Black

State Representative

Working to Build a Better Tomorrow

Rain pasted his hair to his forehead, ran down his nose. He stuck out his lip and blew some drops off. Hunching his shoulders, he clenched his hands inside his coat pockets and started walking. Roger had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

Two blocks down, he jogged across the street to a corner brick building. A big-finned Chevy with a round red light mounted on the roof was parked out front. The sign on the door said “Whistle Pass City Hall & Police Dept.”

Charlie stood under the canvas awning and stomped the water off him. He was tired and needed sleep. After the beating, he’d stayed awake pacing the floor of his hotel room, walking the hall, so his leg wouldn’t stiffen. But the cold and wet were serving notice to his weary joints—he needed a warm bed and rest. He opened the door and entered.

An odor of cigar smoke woke his dull senses. He inhaled the smell through his mouth, rolled his tongue over it, but couldn’t be sure the flavor was the same as last night.

The door to his left was labeled “Police Dept.” Didn’t want any part of that right now. Charlie walked over to a directory mounted on the wall. The mayor’s office was on the second floor. He clomped up the stairs. Closed double doors at the top were marked “City Council Chambers.” A door to his left had a small sign: “Mayor’s Office.” He knocked.

“Come on in. It’s open.” The pleasant voice was a woman’s.

Charlie opened the door and walked in. “Is the mayor around?”

The woman looked up from the typewriter on a metal stand. “I’m afraid not. He’s attending a function out of town today.”

“Raising campaign funds?”

Her features contorted to an unbecoming scowl. “No, sir. He can’t legally do that during business hours.”

Charlie smirked. “Right. My name’s Charlie Harris. Mayor Black and I served in the war together. He didn’t happen to leave a message for me by chance, did he?”

The woman twisted her torso, leafed through a stack of papers. “No… I don’t see anything with that name on it. And he didn’t mention you this morning before he left. Was he expecting you?”

What the hell is going on?
“I’ll be in town for a few days. Would you let him know I came by?”

“Charlie Harris?” She scribbled on a pad. “Correct?”

“Yeah. I’m staying at the hotel.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know. Were you two close? I mean, in the war?”

He sniggered. “Yeah. Real close.” He turned to leave but stopped midway, his motion snagged by a picture on the wall. The photograph had been taken by a war correspondent who’d happened upon their unit. Eight soldiers had posed for the snapshot. When the day ended, only two remained alive. He placed a fingertip on the glass. “That’s me.” He slid the unwanted memory to the man at his shoulder. “That’s Roger.”

“Oh my God. You’re
that
Charlie. Roger—Mayor Black, told me how you saved his life.”

Ghostly visions sucked his guts into a whirlpool. Trembling rattled his ribs. He needed to get out of there. “Let him know I stopped by.” She said something behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. He scurried down the stairs and out the door. He tilted his head back and allowed the rain to wash away the tears.

Thunder cracked. The overcast sky opened its reservoir and heavy rain soaked him, bathed him. Lightning flashed. He whirled full circle, scanning the area. A clap of sound. An explosion of noise. The sky flashed branches of yellow. Charlie threw off his coat, crouched, his eyes frantically searching for where the attack would come from. More explosions. Mortars. Screams chewed his brain.

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

“No!” Charlie shouted. “Stay low! It’s an ambush. You don’t know where they are!”

“Run, men! Run! Find cover!”

“No, Lieutenant. Stay low ’til we know!” Charlie pleaded. “Stay low!”

But they didn’t listen. They all broke and ran, following the lieutenant, their platoon leader. Even Roger.

Charlie spun around, gritting his teeth. He breathed in and out over his clenched jaw. Machine guns, rifles. Explosions—hand grenades. “Goddamnit!” The LT had led them right into the Germans.

Charlie ran. He vaulted the dead and dying, firing his rifle as he ran. The LT fell. The sergeant fell. Hooper, Calloway, Burns… Roger. They all fell. Except Charlie.

He smashed through the hedgerow. Stunned, the Germans hesitated. Charlie didn’t. He fired into them until his rifle emptied. Then he pulled his bayonet and slashed. Blood splattered his face, soaked his clothes.

He tore the German soldiers apart until the gunfire stopped.

H
ARRIS
ripped through the lobby and up the stairs. Gabe jerked at the sight of the man, drenched to the skin. Where was his coat? The guest had left the hotel wearing one.

“What do you make of that?” Betty asked from halfway across the room.

Gabe continued to stare at the empty staircase. “I don’t know. It was almost as if someone was chasing him.”

“Or he was doing the chasing.” Betty, now at his side, placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe he has demons, Gabriel. Not everyone handles their past as well as you. Could be he needs a friend who understands.”

Gabe glanced out the corner of his eye. Betty only called him by his Christian name when she wanted to make a motherly point. “What are you suggesting? Are you saying I should go to a guest’s room and involve myself in his business?” It just wasn’t done. He was the manager of a hotel, not a priest. He couldn’t go to the man’s room, no matter how titillating the thought might be.

“I’m saying that if you located and returned his coat to him, you might learn why I have to mop up the puddles he left on my clean floor.” She slapped his arm and walked away.

Gabe watched her drag the mop and bucket from the utility closet. Maybe Betty had a point. Harris was a guest, after all. The least he could do would be to return the man’s coat to him. His gaze returned to the stairs. The image of the man hurling his frame up the steps unsettled Gabe. He’d seen men with such determination before. Most died. The ones who lived were never the same.

After tugging on his coat, he carefully settled his hat to provide the least amount of damage to his hair as possible and headed for the door.

T
HE
pea coat was a mass of wet wool in the intersection. Gabe picked it up, held it out as far from his body as his strength would tolerate, and made his way to Millie’s Dry Cleaners. At the clank of the bell over the door, Millie came out of the laundering area.

Gabe’s eyes watered from the heavy odor of the shop’s chemicals. “I need this soon as you can. It belongs to a guest.”

Millie clutched the dripping mess with both hands and assessed the project. “There’s a tire track on the back. Gonna take the full hour.”

Gabe sat on a metal chair at the plate glass window. “I’ll wait.”

Chapter 4

G
ABE
lightly knocked on the door. Receiving no response, he tapped the wood again with his knuckles. He pressed an ear to the door. No sound of steps coming to inquire who it might be. A click and creak of hinges. Gabe snapped upright.

A man in overalls, carrying a metal lunch pail and lantern, walked out of a room midway down the hall. A railroader.

Cheeks burning, Gabe held up the coat draped on a wooden hanger. “I’m returning this to a guest.” Gabe busied himself studying the polish on his shoes until the man descended the stairs. He crinkled his nose in disapproval. The rain had speckled the polish—the Florsheims needed a shine.

Coast clear, he pressed his ear to the wood and rapped on it. “Mr. Harris? Are you in there? Is everything all right, sir?” Nothing.

The remnants of Gabe’s potatoes and eggs breakfast soured in his belly. This was so wrong, so insane, so… out of his realm of comfort. He pulled the master key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Grasping the brass knob, he turned it, gave it a light push. The door opened a crack. He peered into the room.

Harris, still clad in the wet clothes, was laid out crossways on the bed. Gabe pushed the door wide open. The man’s shoulders were off the mattress, his arms dangling in the air along with his head. The eyes were open in a blank stare. Gabe sucked in breath. “Oh shit. He’s dead.”

He ran to Harris and grabbed the man to lift him onto the covers. Fingers clamped onto Gabe’s throat, choking off his ability to breathe. Gabe felt his eyes bulge out, his heart drum with terror.

“You’ve got three seconds to tell me why you’re prowling around my room before I kill you.”

He tried to respond, but words couldn’t rise past the lock on his throat. Little squeaks leaked out his mouth.

Harris rolled around and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re the hotel manager.” He turned Gabe loose. “What are you doing in here?”

What Gabe really wanted to do in here was piss all over the floor and relieve the fear pulsing through him. He inhaled deeply, rubbing his throat. “I thought you were dead. I was just trying to help.”

“Not outside the door you weren’t. I heard you out there. What do you want?”

Realizing his hands were empty, feeling the ultimate fool, Gabe looked to the doorway. His cheeks and ears burned in embarrassment. The coat lay in a heap where he’d dropped it. “I was returning your coat to you. I had it cleaned.” He shuffled over and picked up the pea coat, patted off any invisible dirt that might have attached to it. “No charge. The Larson is only too pleased to….” Gabe looked at Harris, and the rest of his words trailed off, unspoken.

Harris had slumped forward, chin on chest, his hands between his legs. The man was pale as unglazed porcelain. His fingers trembled, then shook violently. The tremors climbed his arms to his shoulders, to his chest, and found their way to his thighs and knees.

“Mr. Harris?” Gabe closed the door and hung the coat and hanger on an iron hook screwed into the back of the door. “Mr. Harris?”

The man’s entire body convulsed. Eyelids blinked in rapid succession. Teeth chattered.

“What’s wrong with you?” But inside, he knew. Shellshock wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. He heaved a breath and walked to the bed. There he threw the wet spread and top sheet to the floor. “Forgive me, Mr. Harris, but we’ve got to get you out of these wet clothes.”

Gabe tugged off the ribbed T-shirt, the only shirt the man was wearing. He paused, open-mouthed, at the spectacle scarring the man’s shaking, muscled body. “What hell did you fight your way out of?” He gently lowered Harris to the bed.

His vision traced the four-inch zippered scar between abdomen and ribcage—bayonet? Three small marks dotted the leathery skin—bullet wounds. Harris was a veteran. Had to be. But from which war? The world war, or Korea? Gabe chewed a lip. Did it really matter? Harris needed help, not dissection.

He hurried to a vacant room and yanked off the spread and top sheet. In 412, he lightly tucked the ends under the mattress. He untied and removed Harris’s boots. They weighed a ton. Definitely not like any available around Whistle Pass. He grabbed the socks and stared, impressed, as he pulled them off. The wool socks were bone dry.

He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, unsure if he could or should proceed further. A soot cobweb swayed from the plaster. He frowned. Arlene, the upper floors housemaid, wasn’t doing her job as he required it be done. He’d have to talk with her about this. Cobwebs, insect or coal-furnace created, were completely unacceptable in the rooms. Gabe rolled his eyes and moaned.

Though Arlene needed a talking to, she had nothing to do with the current dilemma. He dropped his gaze to the quivering body in front of him, the thin layer of chest hair cascading to the navel, breaking the flow, then reforming to a singular trail of fur that disappeared beneath the water-darkened denim over abdomen muscles so developed he could count each one.

Compose, Gabriel. Compose. He’s just a man. Albeit one of the most exotic and enticing men you’ve ever seen, but, still, just a man. Get over it!

Squinting, as if that would minimize the scene, he gingerly unbuttoned the metal button and unzipped the jeans. He grabbed handfuls of the cuffs and pulled. The jeans slid off, and Gabe’s jaw dropped. “What the hell?”

The man’s left thigh under the boxers was nearly black. Streaks of red and purple wove through the swelling here and there. The damage wasn’t old. Gabe reached down and touched the injury. Harris growled, flung his arms across his chest, and shivered. The skin was fever hot. Gabe courteously turned his head, dragged the damp, discolored boxers off the man, and tossed the bedding over him in one fell swoop.