NANOWRIMO STORY CHAPTER 15
Jan. 31st, 2007 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
laylafic**~~NANOWRIMO STORY CHAPTER 15~~**
Entry word count: 7927
For Story Notes, click here.
Now on to Entry 16:
50.
The only other time Gus remembered being inside a hospital was when he was seven and had gotten a particularly bad case of the flu.
After four days of persistent coughs and cold, his temperature had suddenly shot up to 103 degrees one night and Mom and Mama had to rush him to the emergency room where the doctors had given him drugs and stuck a needle and drip in his arm. He remembered how badly that’d hurt but he’d been strong and brave and kept the tears at bay. His teacher Mrs. Addington had sent a dozen balloons and a chocolate fudge cake with Get Well Soon cards signed by his whole class and he remembered that’d made him feel good.
Dad had come up from Pittsburgh to see him that week and stayed in Toronto until he’d been allowed to go home and Gus remembered that had made him feel even better.
But Mom said this wasn’t the first time he was visiting this hospital. This was the same hospital he was born in, she said, on the night Dad had brought Justin to come see him for the first time. Mom said it was a good night and he had a picture in his photo album in which Dad was holding him as a baby, a smile on his face. That was one of his favorite Dad photos, even though he himself looked like a weird tiny pink puppy in Dad’s arms, as babies usually did. But Dad looked happy in that photo, and Gus liked to think the reason for that was because Dad loved him from the first time he’d seen him. Just as he’d always loved Dad from as long as he could remember.
But that was a long time ago. And Gus wasn’t sure he liked this place anymore.
He and JR were at Gramma Deb’s two days ago when Uncle Mikey and Uncle Ben and Uncle Em had come to talk to Grandpa Carl. They’d kept their voices real low but he’d heard the urgency in it anyways. He knew something was wrong with Dad and no one was telling him what it was. He hated not knowing what was going on. He could understand them keeping things from JR because she was a little kid but he was a big boy now. He was sure he could handle anything. Besides he’d already gone through all the stages; from disbelief that anything at all could possibly happen to Dad when he’d only seen him Sunday night, to terror that maybe Dad was really dead and that’s why they were not telling him anything, to confusion when Mama came and told him Dad was all right but that he and JR had to stay indoors at all times, and finally to desperation when he kept asking for Dad and Justin and no one seemed willing to take him to see them.
It wasn’t until last night, that Mom and Mama had sat him down and told him about Dad not feeling well and being in the hospital. Mom had done all of the talking while Mama had sat and listened, not saying anything. Mom had said the doctors were saying Dad was doing much better now than before and would be allowed to come home in a few days. When he’d asked her what had happened to him, she’d said something bad had happened in the theme park that had caused Dad to think Justin had gotten hurt, but it wasn’t true. And he got hurt because of that, he’d asked. Yes, she’d said. But Justin is all right, she’d looked into his eyes, he’s with Daddy right now, and Daddy is going to be all right as well.
Dad’s room was on the third floor and he and Mom rode the elevator that opened into a corridor with a nurse’s station at the entrance. Mom had told him Dad was in "Room 32" and Gus counted off the numbers on doors on both sides as they walked down the corridor. Just as they were about to reach the end of the corridor, a door to the left opened and a man came out.
"Justin!" With a relieved cry, Gus left Mom’s side and was in Justin’s arms, clinging to him tightly. "I missed you!"
He felt Justin’s arms close around him protectively. "I missed you too, buddy." Justin’s voice sounded a little wobbly to his ears. "I missed you so very much!"
Gus looked up into Justin’s eyes and thought they looked a little watery. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You didn’t really get hurt, did you?" Justin was his Dad’s partner and one of Gus’ closest friends and the thought of him getting hurt made him want to cry. Just like the thought of Dad getting hurt made him want to cry.
Justin pulled him into a hug again. "I am fine." He ruffled his hair in that way Gus usually hated but wasn’t going to complain now. "Don’t worry about me."
Gus looked at him closely. For some reason, Justin looked a little different to him, though he couldn’t tell why he felt that. "And Dad?" he asked.
"He’s fine." Justin looked into his eyes. "Now, you have to promise me not to be overly sentimental in front of him, okay? Or he’ll start bitching." Justin smiled gently. "C’mon, he’s been waiting for you."
"I promise," Gus said, taking a deep breath.
And then Justin opened the door and Gus stepped inside and paused in the doorway.
Dad was sitting up on a large hospital bed, wearing a green hospital smock, his back against the bed frame, and as Gus looked at him, the first thought that came to his mind was how old he looked. There was something in Dad’s eyes that Gus had never seen before and that made him look suddenly ancient. Like an old relic that had come to life, something out of those temples and dungeons that he’d read about in that chapter on ancient civilizations in his History class. Then he blinked and the illusion was gone. It was just Dad, the same way he’d always been, looking at him from behind the GQ in his hands, one brow raised in query.
But the memory of the Relic Dad was still in his head so Gus did the only thing he could think to wipe out those images.
"Oh God, Dad," he drawled. "You look so damn stupid in these clothes."
He heard Mom’s shocked Gus! behind him just as he saw the smile break on Dad’s face and knew he’d said the right thing. He rushed forward and found himself pulled into Dad’s arms as he hugged him back carefully. Mom had told him about the heart thing and he knew he had to be careful not to hurt him anymore. He pulled back to look into Dad’s eyes and realized what he’d mistaken for age was actually exhaustion. There were lines under his eyes that had not been there the last time he’d seen him. He looked not old, but tired. Tired and thin.
"Are you okay, Dad?" he heard the quiver in his own voice and felt Dad’s hand patting his back.
"I am fine, Sonny Boy!" Dad said and his voice was normal, just as it always had been. For a moment, Gus saw a glimpse of that old smile on his face that Dad was sporting in that picture where he was holding him as a baby, and that realization made him want to hug Dad even tighter. He heard Dad chuckle. "I heard you and your sister are driving Gramma Deb crazy."
"I can’t help it." Gus huffed. "She keeps feeding me baby food. And Mama won’t let me out of the house at all. You can tell things are bad when I am dying for Diner food, can’t you?"
"Yep," Dad snorted. "Things sound desperate for Sonny Boy, all right."
"Speaking of food..." Gus looked at Dad in mock-assessment. "What are they feeding you at this place? As my English teacher would say, young man, you look as thin as a rail."
Dad groaned. "Oh no, not you too."
Justin chuckled. "Gus, your Dad’s going for the world’s slimmest models title. His new thing is losing weight through starvation."
Gus wrinkled his nose. "You mean more than usual?"
"Hey," Dad frowned. "If you’re complaining about the Diners food, you should try the hospital cafeteria sometime. You’d give up eating too."
"C’mon, Daddy, it’s not that bad," Mom laughed. "In fact, I am starved. I think I am going to run down there and get a sandwich or two. Justin, you coming?"
"Yeah, I could use a little something to eat as well," Justin said.
Dad looked at Gus and rolled his eyes, making him snigger. "He’s always ready for a little something to eat."
"Don’t worry, I’ll bring something for you too." Justin smirked at him. "How about a nice big juicy hot dog." Dad glared at Justin, but Gus knew there was no anger in his eyes. Justin smiled and bent down to kiss Dad on the lips and then he straightened up. "See yah in a while."
And then they were gone, leaving Gus alone with Dad. As he sat down on Dad’s bed next to him, he found himself looking at the different instruments in the room. He didn’t recognize most of the machines but he saw the long stand behind his bed, which was used for hanging plastic bags with medication and fluids that the doctors sometimes gave you when you were feeling weak. He looked down and saw the catheter in Dad’s hand and knew at some point they’d put Dad on drips as well, but right now he was off it. And that was when he noticed the small foam plasters wrapped around Dad’s fingers and before he could stop himself, he was reaching out to touch the skin around the foam coverings.
"What happened to your fingers?" he asked, reaching over Dad to see his other hand. It was the same there. Small foam plasters wrapped around two fingers. And the fingers that were not covered in plaster looked a little cut up. Gus found himself frowning. Mom hadn’t told him about Dad’s hands. She’s said something about his heart and he’d spent an hour online, looking up heart diseases on the internet last night, and most of the stuff he’d found had confused and scared him. But she’d said nothing about his hands.
"Nothing. They just got a little hurt." Dad’s voice was quiet and Gus looked up at him. They didn’t look just hurt. They looked broken. He didn’t know how to reconcile the physical evidence of Dad’s hurt hands with whatever had happened to his heart. One thing was visible, out in the open, and the other hidden, buried deep inside his skin. But what he’d read had scared him and he needed to know what was really going on. He needed to know what had happened to Dad.
He took a deep breath and hoped his voice didn’t tremble too much. "Dad," he started. "Did you have a heart attack?"
For a moment, Dad was so still that Gus thought he’d gone to sleep with his eyes open. And then he blinked and his eyes focused as he looked at Gus closely. "No, Gus, it wasn’t a heart attack." A frown appeared between his brows. "Didn’t your mothers explain to you what happened?"
"They did," Gus hurried to explain. "They said something happened in the theme park that made you think Justin had gotten hurt. But that it wasn’t true."
There was that look in Dad’s eyes again, that tired look that had made him look so old and ancient and Gus suddenly felt terrified that whatever had happened to Dad that night was not over yet. He hadn’t meant to make Dad think of those bad things again, whatever they were. He wanted Dad to feel better, that’s why he’d come—to make him feel better, not to hurt him again.
Dad touched his face and Gus felt the soft scrape of the foam plaster against his cheek. "It wasn’t a heart attack." Dad looked at him seriously. "It was something much milder than a heart attack. It felt really bad at first but that was only for a little while. I am feeling much better now. If it had been a heart attack, I would not be here, sitting in my bed, chatting with you right now."
Gus frowned as he tried to remember the questions he’d written down while he was looking up articles last night and then he started firing:
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"Yes," Dad replied.
"Did they give you oxygen?"
"They did." Dad pointed to the cylinder next to the bed. "They were giving it to me until yesterday but I don’t need it anymore."
"Did they have to resuscitate you?"
"Yeah, they said Uncle Ted was the one who resuscitated me at first," Dad said. "But I don’t remember it."
Gus swallowed hard. "Did your heart stop?"
For a moment, Dad stared at him silently and then he sighed. "For a little while, yeah, but then the paramedics were there and I got the help in time."
Gus felt tears springing in his eyes. "But what if Uncle Ted hadn’t been there? What if the paramedics hadn’t gotten there in time? What if---"
"Gus!" Dad pulled him close. "There’s no point in thinking about that now, okay? None of that happened. I got hurt, yes, but I also got the help in time. I am okay now." He put his arms around Gus and hugged him close. "I am okay."
Gus closed his eyes and listened to the steady beat of Dad’s heart against his ear. Dad was okay now. He was tired and thin but he was okay. He didn’t die. He could’ve died that night but he didn’t. He was alive. He was going to be just fine. He breathed in Dad’s familiar scent, felt his chest rising and falling steadily, and blinked away the tears. He looked up at him.
"You thought that bad guy had hurt Justin -- because you love him more than anything else in the world, right?"
Dad was quiet for a while, and then he smiled. "Well, aside from you, yeah, that’s more or less true."
Gus grinned. "I knew that. I know you love him." He looked up into Dad’s eyes. "He loves you too. And he’s all right." He dropped a kiss on Dad’s cheek. "I love you, Daddy."
Dad pressed his lips to Gus’s temple. "I love you too, Sonny Boy!" And in these words, Gus saw the promise that meant that everything was going to be just fine. He just knew it. Dad was going to make sure of it.
51.
The detective had a hard, unlined face that seemed ageless for some reason, but his eyes were like sharp steel. And when he spoke, his clipped tones gave away the disbelieving sarcasm behind his words. "But didn’t you say you left the utility room immediately after you found there was no call for you on the phone?"
Craig Taylor held his head straight as he looked into the detective’s eyes. "That’s right."
"What time was that?"
"I can’t be sure," he replied. "Maybe nine-forty-five, fifty."
The detective’s stare was hard. "So you left the utility room between nine-forty-five, fifty that night?"
"I think so, yes." Craig nodded. "I didn’t check the time."
The detective motioned to the other officer in the room, a man named Crosby, who pushed a button on the remote control in his hand and the TV screen on the wall suddenly came alive. Craig felt his throat turn dry as he saw the image on the screen. "Do you recognize what this is, Mr. Taylor?"
For a moment, Craig was stumped. Of course he recognized what it was. It was the theme park. Or more specifically, the corridor in the theme park that he’d entered into from the main hall to get to that room where that woman had led him.
"Mr. Taylor," the detective repeated. "Do you recognize what this is?"
And Craig realized the detective was pointing to the small black box blinking at the bottom of the screen. Shit. He coughed to clear his throat and nodded. "It’s a timestamp."
"That’s right," the detective said. "Do you see what time it says on it?"
Craig swallowed before he answered. "Nine-forty-one."
"That’s right," the detective smiled but Craig saw there was nothing friendly about that smile. "It says nine-forty-one. Do you recognize anyone in the feed, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig watched as two figures entered the screen and wet his dry lips. "Um. That’s me."
"That’s right, it’s you," the detective said. "This feed was taken from the camera right at the entrance to the corridor that runs parallel to the main hall in the theme park. And the time corresponds with what you said. You entered that corridor to go to that room, led by Ms. Melina Sotheby, at nine-forty-one that night." They watched the two figures, the woman Sotheby and Craig himself disappear into the corridor. "Now, we will fast forward this to about five minutes later when you said you came back from the room." Officer Crosby pushed a button and they watched as the blinking numbers in the time stamp raced forward, seconds turning into minutes, until it was nine-forty-five. "Can you see anyone familiar, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig watched the screen. The entrance to the corridor was empty. "No."
"That’s right," the detective said. "It’s five minutes later, but neither you nor Ms. Sotheby are coming out of the corridor." The other officer pushed buttons and the numbers changed on the screen again. Nine-forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. "Still no sign of either of you," the detective continued. "Where did Ms. Sotheby go, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig took in a deep breath. "I have no idea."
"But didn’t you say you left immediately after you found there was no call on the phone?" The detective looked hard into his eyes. "Why didn’t you come out when there was no call there?"
"I did leave immediately," Craig lied. "But I think she was a bit ahead of me."
"And yet we don’t see her coming out of this corridor at all," the detective said. "I wonder where she disappeared."
Craig gritted his teeth. How the hell was he supposed to know where she’d disappeared? The truth was, Craig really had no idea where she’d gone. She’d left him in the room with the phone and the projector and had left, closing the door behind her. If she didn’t come out of this corridor, then there were a dozen other exits where she could’ve gotten out of the theme park from. All Craig knew was that he’d been locked inside that room for the next two hours. He’d banged on the door, on the walls, screaming to be let out but there had been no response. Instead, he’d been forced to watch the horrific drama unfold before his eyes, had listened to the crazy annunciations on the phone line, had listened to---
No. ‘Crazy’ was too small a word for what had happened in the theme park that night. This wasn’t just a small mental derangement that left you unhinged and disoriented. This was a psychopathic delusion, a sickness of the brain and mind and soul, a madness that ate away your inhibitions and restraints and conscious and turned you into a creature that was no longer human. And to think that he may have had a part in all of this was a thought more frightening than anything he’d ever experienced.
"I don’t know where she went," he said, looking at the detective. "I lost her soon after she left the room, I was behind her a bit."
"So, we’ll have to keep watching until you come out, won’t we?" the detective said. "Let’s see. We’re running this a little fast now." The officer with the remote pressed the button again and Craig watched as the numbers tumbled over each other in their haste. Fifty-one, two, three, four, five, six--- "Seven, eight, nine. Why, that’s strange, it’s ten pm now," the detective enounced, "and ten-fifteen, ten-twenty-five and this camera is getting a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Taylor? Where the heck were you?"
Craig forced himself to keep his face straight. "There must be something wrong with this camera."
"Oh, but you have to focus on the timestamp." The detective pointed to the blinking numbers. "The camera is running just fine. It’s ten-forty-five now. Now, it’s eleven pm. And still no sign of you." The detective shook his head. "Eleven-fifteen, eleven-thirty, forty. Whoa!" There was a note of surprise in the detective’s voice which was mockingly forced as they watched the figure that was Craig appear again on the screen—this time by himself. "There you are. Eleven-forty-two and you finally make an appearance." He looked at Craig, a nasty smile on his face. "Looking a bit ragged, aren’t you? You came back exactly TWO HOURS after you went inside that corridor. What were doing all that time, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig stared at the screen. "I think I got a little lost when I was coming out of the room."
"You THINK you got lost," the detective drawled. "But that’s not what you said the last time. You said you were only in that room for a few minutes and then you came back to join the adults tour and then later on your wife and son."
Yes. He knew what he’d said. And he knew why he’d said it as well. It was because of what he’d seen, and what he’d heard that night. He’d thought he’d lived a neat, clean life up till now but somehow, somewhere along the line, he’d made some decisions in his life that had gotten him in the position he was in right now. But what had happened that night to Kinney hadn’t been his fault. Not really. Even if he’d been tangled up in the web of that madness. Even if he’d been a witness to the deranged psychosis that had wrecked havoc into their lives, within the course of a few scant hours, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.
"Why are you lying to us, Mr. Taylor?"
But was he really lying? Was it lying if you were only trying to save your family from further harm? He couldn’t believe how close Terry and Matty had come to harm that night. He’d left them for several hours and anything could’ve happened to them during that time. What had happened to Justin and Kinney was done, it could not be reversed. But he still had the power to keep his wife and son away from that horror. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up. He had heard the warning clearly in the maddeningly calm tones of the voice on the phone. He was being watched. He had been watched for years without knowing it. The enemy had been right within his camp and he hadn’t known it. And now he was out there somewhere, the madness loose and pulsating and mutating into something even more hideous than before.
"What are you hiding from us, Mr. Taylor?"
Just for a second, as the detective’s question burnt into his conscience, the truth almost came out of his mouth. For that one tiny moment, he almost thought it might be better if he told them about what he’d seen, what he’d heard. He almost told him about the invitation to the theme park, about the voice on the phone. He almost told them about the postcard he’d received three days ago and the package that had arrived yesterday, in the Sears gift-wrapping. Almost told them about the note that had fallen from the box, this time addressed to his little son, unlike the last one that had been addressed to him. The note that had said:
Tell Jester you’re a good boy, Matty, and he will have more fun in store for you
But then he’d caught himself in time. Because he couldn’t tell them any of this. If he started, then the whole fucking debacle will unravel and there will be questions, enquiries about his past, about the decisions he’d made. And he knew he’d made some stupid ones. He knew what that psycho was capable of, which was basically any-fucking-thing at all. He’d worked with him for over six years now and he’d never challenged his questionable skills and procedures as long as they served his purpose. But would he have continued the association if he’d known the derangement went this deep? He didn’t know.
All he knew was this: he had to keep his family close to him. Justin was all right. Jen and Molly were safe. Now all he had to do was keep Terry and Matty safe. What was he hiding? Why, himself—who else? But not from the police. No sirree. He was hiding from the madness. He and his family were being watched and he could not afford to make any more mistakes.
"I am not hiding anything." He looked into the detective’s eyes. "I have no idea where this woman disappeared. All I know is... it was like a confusing maze down there and I got lost and wandered into some other corridor," he said. "It took me a while to find my way back to this corridor."
"How interesting!" the detective said. "That you found your way back exactly at the same moment as the ambulance arrived."
Well, I never called the ambulance! Craig wanted to snap but he only pressed his lips together. That wasn’t the least of his worries. He figured one of Kinney’s friends or someone who worked at the theme park had called the ambulance. His problem was the fucking timestamps. But they still had no proof. So they had his fingerprints in the utility room. That was all they had. He hadn’t been in any other room that night. He hadn’t even really wandered the maze of those corridors like he was saying. He’d only been allowed to leave that room just as the police was arriving. They had no fucking proof.
But we’ll find one—the detective’s steely eyes appeared to be saying as they bored into his. We’ll find proof and then we’ll get you by your fucking neck, Taylor. But when he spoke, he only repeated what he’d said the last time they’d interrogated him:
"We’d appreciate it if you’d not leave town while this investigation is going on, Mr. Taylor."
52.
The worst thing about being sick was the bone-weary lassitude that sapped all the energy out of your body. Brian had gotten a taste of that exhaustion during those long, tedious weeks when he’d undergone radiation. But at least, that had been familiar. He had known what to expect. You got nuked in the morning, worked for a couple of hours, then started feeling shitty around noon, stumbled back home, spent two hours puking your guts out until you passed out with exhaustion, slept fitfully throughout the day, woke up somewhat semi-fresh the next morning, and then went through the same routine again. This weariness, however, went deep into his bones. It was constant, unending, as if someone had sucked all the strength out of his limbs, leaving him a desiccated husk.
According to his doctor, though, this lethargy was more mental than physical. He knew he’d come close to dying only three days ago, knew that, for a moment, his heart had stopped pumping –so shocked it had been by the toxins that had suddenly released into his body– that his brain kept reminding him of the tremendous battle his body had gone through, fighting the effects of the toxins that had shocked his system into a coma. But the truth was, the battle had raged and been won. The toxins were neutralized. His body’s systems were stable now. He was in recovery mode. So logically, the lethargy was supposed to be lifting as well. Only his brain was still going in a loop, reminding him of the tough road he’d tread, and the tough road he still had ahead, not realizing that the worst part was already over. What he had ahead was hard work but nothing insurmountable.
His physiotherapist had pulled him out of the bed last evening, gotten him on his toes and ordered him to take a walk. He’d said his latest cardiac tests showed the damage was already reversing and that he needed to start exercising if he wanted to get back to his life anytime soon. Brian had good metabolism, he’d lived a fairly healthy life, and that meant his rate of recovery could be expedited if he structured his recuperation process effectively. All he needed was to start with light exercises, short walks around the floor, and a few minutes every morning on the treadmill in the therapy room. They had some more tests to run and the doctor said if they showed the same rate of recovery, there was no reason why Brian shouldn’t be able to go home by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. But to get truly better, Brian first had to win the mental war, before he could win the physical one.
The question, however, was not whether he could go home in four days. It was: could he really get his life back? Would it ever be the same again?
He’d felt Justin’s hand on his back, warm and alive, and he’d suddenly remembered the reason why he had to get back on his feet. There was too much at stake here. He simply had to get better soon. Win the mental battle first, and then the physical one. He had no time to waste.
So with his hand gripped firmly between Justin’s strong fingers, he’d taken his first steps on shaking legs, the heart monitor wrapped around his chest, its soft beep indicating his steadying heart rate, as he’d slowly walked to the door held open by the nurse and stepped out into the corridor. With a pace that would’ve shamed a geriatric, he’d walked to the end of the corridor, his steps faltering, the thirty-five feet feeling like thirty-five miles to his tired body, as his lover’s softly murmured encouragements had forced him to keep on going even when he’d felt like he was going to fall down any second, finally collapsing into the wheelchair they’d rolled out for him on his return trip with something that’d felt like worn-out relief.
As he’d sunk down into his bed last night, he’d felt Justin’s fingers tangle in his hair and had looked up into his eyes, searching for answers that weren’t forthcoming. Justin had smiled at him, reaching down to drop a kiss on his forehead, and told him he’d done well, and Brian had felt like snorting in disgust. It would’ve been better if Justin had teased him about his advancing years, making some rude joke about walkers and diapers, in essence allowing Brian to snap back for daring to call him old. But there had been no jokes, no lighthearted comments, only a restrained somber acceptance that showed he understood Brian’s condition, knew his shortcomings.
But Brian didn’t want Justin to understand. He wanted Justin to push. To fight back. To berate him and yell at him and make him work as hard as fucking possible. If Justin wasn’t going to push Brian, then who the hell would?
And then he’d looked at the expression on Justin’s face and all the words that only a second ago had been desperate to rush out of his mouth had fallen silent, like stones falling into a pond with a quiet plonk. That bone-weary lassitude that was in Brian’s body was visible in Justin’s eyes too. Only in Justin, it manifested itself in the form of that grave, silent understanding. It was a façade erected to hush up what he was feeling inside, to keep his emotions in check, to hide behind the motions of taking care of Brian and getting him back on his feet and making sure he was comfortable and well provided for. Brian recognized all this because once upon a time, he’d been a master of such posturing himself. He’d hidden behind the same motions, done the same things, verbalized the same thoughts.
Despite all his misgivings, the trips out of his room had gotten progressively better since then. He hadn’t needed to hold Justin’s hand as he’d walked this morning and the doctors had said he could go to the bathroom on his own. A small consolation Brian had snorted. Well, at least he didn’t have to endure the indignity of not being able to piss by himself anymore.
Most of the gang had been dropping by throughout the day, as they had done every day prior to this. Deb with more food. Lindsay with more magazines. Mikey with more change of clothes. Emmett with more gossip. And between them Justin—a constant presence by his side, hovering close by just in case he needed anything. Answering every question but the ones Brian really needed answers for. Looking at Justin like this, Brian almost felt as if the two of them were trapped in a small, dark room filled with vacuum, breathing oxygen from masks attached to small cylinders. It was as if Justin was there next to him, a physical presence as sure as the heart beating in his chest—but it was a heartbeat he couldn’t quiet hear. He felt disconnected, as if he needed a stethoscope to hear the thumping of that heart but the world had run out of stethoscopes. Justin was like a physical presence without any sound and that terrified Brian. That made him think of things he didn’t want to think about. Things that made no sense, that filled him with dark images that were part of the nightmares that woke him up every night with his breathing hitched and the sweat breaking on his brow.
"Brian."
And there he was again, his hand sure on Brian’s back as he slowly ran it up until it rested on his neck, before splaying his fingers and tangling them into Brian’s hair. Brian looked into the blue gaze, his eyes, for a moment, searching for answers that he knew wouldn’t come—and then he accepted the embrace, allowing Justin to pull him closer, his arms wrapping securely around Brian’s body.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried once again to listen to Justin’s heartbeat.
53.
It was over pancakes and French toast at the Diner that the subject of Proposition 14 came up. It was an old subject, dead and buried, over and done with, never to come back again, but Jennifer was in a weird, melancholy mood this morning. As Melanie and Lindsay sat on one side of the booth, Deb found herself slipping in next to Jennifer on the opposite seat, automatically refilling her cup with fresh coffee every time it emptied, as they reminisced the experiences, both good and bad, they’d had to counter in the course of their lives.
"I don’t know when he changed, Debbie," Jennifer said. "I mean I know things were difficult when Justin came out and all that trouble at school started..." She was twirling a spoon in her mug, watching the swirls form and dissipate as the sugar became one with the coffee, when she suddenly smiled. "And then there was Brian, who frankly had the ability to infuriate Craig unlike anything else in the world."
"Oh, we’ve all been through that with him," Deb snorted, looking up at Lindsay and Melanie, who had faint smiles on their faces—but no censure in their eyes. Brian Kinney had the power to infuriate—they agreed with that. But that was all it was. A statement, not a sentence.
"But I don’t know when that changed to hate." Jennifer frowned and then bit her lip. "At least hate for Justin." She swallowed. "I mean, I could tell he couldn’t stand Brian when he attacked him outside Babylon that night---" She gave her head a little shake. "He didn’t seem to realize that he was alienating Justin with every wrong step he took." Jennifer stopped twirling the spoon and looked up sadly. "He even said he’d hire a private detective to dig up dirt on Brian. He was hell bent on proving that Brian was a child molester, with a habit of going after underage kids, which was all bullshit, of course." She looked at them. "Justin was young but legally he wasn’t underage—even at the beginning."
"And I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again," Deb said, "Brian may be a lot of things but he’s not a child molester."
"And he’s never really broken the law," Melanie added. "I mean, I should know, I represented him for sexual harassment. He’s done stuff that have barely skirted the boundaries of legality, he’s been promiscuous and abused drugs, but he’s never meant anyone any harm. And as for outright breaking of the law—nope, he hasn’t done that."
"And he never coerced Justin to be with him," Lindsay interjected. "In fact, he’s always let him go whenever he had to." She smiled. "If I were to be honest, I’d say Justin was the one who came after him with a vengeance, at a time when Brian insisted it was only a one-night-stand." Her eyes flew to Jennifer’s as the words left her mouth, but she saw no resentment there. She took a deep breath. "I think, in the end, they were both helpless in that pull they felt, that kept drawing them together every time."
Deb remembered once saying to Brian that Justin had sneaked in under the wire while he wasn’t looking and she knew that was the truth. As clichéd as it may sound, she truly believed these boys belonged together, probably had from the moment they’d laid their eyes on each other.
"I know Brian loves Justin very much," Jennifer said. "I’ve known for a long time." There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she could almost pinpoint the exact moment she came to this realization. Then she shook herself out of it. "I also knew Craig didn’t understand it. But it always came as a shock to me. Every time he did something stupid, said something cruel, hurt Brian, slapped Justin, or kicked him out of the house, it came as a shocking, stunning blow to me."
She looked at the three women. "It was as if I couldn’t believe this was the man I’d been married to for eighteen years." She sighed. "But even through the years, I felt maybe, there was a chance, that they could reconcile. He refused to pay Justin’s PIFA tuition, because it wasn’t something he endorsed. But foolishly, I still kept the hope alive that they’d come around." She paused to take a breath and they watched as her lips pressed together. "But when Proposition 14 came around and he got Justin, his own son arrested, for protesting against a homophobic piece of legislation---" She sucked in a breath. "That was when I knew it would never change. That he’d never come around."
There was a frown on Melanie’s face. "You know, there were a lot of people at his company that supported Proposition 14. We got a whole list of companies and individuals that had made donations towards it and Taylor Electronics not only contributed as a corporate but also had individual donations, from Craig and a dozen other people who worked for him."
"It only stands to reason," Deb said, "that a homophobic asshole like Craig Taylor would only surround himself with other homophobic assholes like him."
Lindsay sighed. "People who give to causes like ‘Cure Fags with Aids’ and’ Proposition 14’". She looked at Melanie, noticed she was still frowning and paused. "What?"
Melanie shook her head. "Just something Carl mentioned last night." She looked up and stared at them. "That man--- the clown who worked at the theme park, the one with the fake identity."
"Andrew Spencer?" Lindsay asked.
"Yeah." Melanie nodded. "The police found the bank account he’d used as part of his set up while he worked at the theme park. This was the account they’d deposited his salary into every week for the last five years." Her brows were knitted together as her sharp mind went over the details. "They looked up the transactions that had been made through that account in the last six years, when it was first created under Spencer’s name, and aside from the salary deposits that were made and that were always encashed the very next day without fail, and a few other transfers made, including one that he made to that woman who’d disappeared as well, there was basically only one type of transactions made from that account."
"What?" Jennifer asked.
"Donations." Melanie looked at her.
"What kind of donations?" Lindsay asked.
"To worthy causes---" There was a cheerless twist to Melanie’s mouth. "Such as ‘Stop Gays with Guns’ and ‘Death to Pederasts’."
"Holy shit!" Deb exclaimed. "He’s a fucking homophobe."
"Of course, he is." Melanie pressed her lips together. "If it’s the same guy who was down in the tunnels with us, then he hates us all."
"But we don’t know who he really is," Jennifer asked, her eyes large with what looked like fear. "Do we?"
Melanie looked into her eyes. "No," she said. "Not yet."
54.
He got the call from Milton during his lunch break on Friday, as he was coming back from showing Brian the latest boards the Art department had produced for the Sizzling Spices account.
Because of Brian’s enforced absence from the office, Ted felt it was his responsibility as the next senior most member of the hierarchy to keep his eyes open and make sure everything went smoothly. Sure, Cynthia was there and she was more than capable of handling all the accounts but Ted still felt a sense of responsibility towards making sure there were no further fuck-ups in the office than there already had been.
He’d been pleasantly surprised to see Brian in a much more present state of mind today. He’d not only been awake when Ted had walked into his room, he’d been alert enough to be critical and objective about the artwork and layout. He’d made some astute observations about how the layout worked in respect of the textual content and Ted had said he’d let Aston in the art department know what the boss had said. It was also nice to see Brian more physically active in the last couple of days as well. The color was slowly returning to his friend’s face and Ted, for one, was more than happy about it.
But now it appeared there was something new going on. Milton’s voice had sounded urgent on the phone and as Ted walked into Kinnetik and saw Detective Robinson standing in the lobby, he knew something had happened.
"We found a signature," Milton said to him, the moment he saw Ted.
"What signature?" Ted stared between his IT manager and the detective.
"A signature that the hacker left behind," the detective said. "We kept going over the network logs and the data packets sent by the machine the hacker used, and even though it was a Wi-Fi signal and virtually untraceable, there was something in the way he entered and exited during his intrusions that was familiar."
"He was leaving a pattern," Milton said, his eyes shining. "Now we don’t know if it was deliberate or not, at least we don’t think it was, but every single time he broke into our systems, he left a trace signature. And we finally located that in the network logs today."
"What does that mean?" Ted asked. "Can you trace him?"
"If he strikes again, we’ll know what to look for," the detective said. "And if there’s a similar pattern elsewhere, then we’ll have our match."
55.
It was Saturday evening and in Babylon, life moved to the same, never-ending beat as it had done on so many weekends preceding it. The news of Babylon’s owner’s recent ill fortune had brought but a brief twinge of dismay for its denizens, leading to speculation that had continued throughout the week, with queers all across Liberty Avenue theorizing over the who’s and why’s of the mystifying conundrum, but there had been no break into the rhythm that drove Babylon. The thumpa thumpa went on, its beat like a living thing that bopped and swayed and danced and breathed, a symbol made immortal in the wake of the countless obstacles faced by Liberty’s residents in the last many years.
So it was with a bizarre sense of delayed shock, as if they couldn’t really believe it was happening to them, that the two queens, who made the discovery in the back alley behind Babylon, called the police.
Justin was sitting in the TV room with Mel and Michael when Carl walked in. Lindsay and Gus were with Brian and the three of them had come out here because they didn’t want to overcrowd the room too much. But they took one look at the serious expression on Carl’s face and knew time out was over.
Carl took the seat in front of Justin. He looked carefully into Justin’s eyes for a few moments and then began, "The police found the axe."
Justin felt his mouth turn dry. He could feel Michael’s eyes on him, could feel Mel stiffen in the seat next to him, but try as he might, he could get no words out. He felt frozen, chilled to the bone. They’d found the axe. The axe. The axe.
"Where?" He heard Michael ask.
Carl’s eyes were still on Justin, his gaze probing, wary. "In the alley behind Babylon. It was just lying there near the back exit, under the lamp, as if waiting to be discovered."
Justin felt his breath stagger in his throat. The axe was found in the alley behind Babylon. Where he and Brian had fooled around on more than one occasion. Babylon. Which was their territory, their domain. This felt like sacrilege.
"Bastard!" Mel growled. "Of course it was left there on purpose. What else was there?"
"Traces of blood on it that appear to be fresh so they’re running them through the database," Carl said. "If they find a match, we’ll know."
"What about fingerprints?" Mel asked.
Carl finally broke his gaze from Justin and looked at Mel. "They already ran those through the database."
"Well, did they find anything?" Michael asked, his brow furrowing.
Carl stared at Michael. "There were only one set of fingerprints on the axe," he said, his eyes grave as he took in a deep breath. "And the police found a match."
"Whose?" Justin finally spoke, his voice dry and his tongue feeling like sandpaper.
Carl turned his eyes back to Justin. He looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything. And when he finally spoke, his voice was grim.
"Brian’s."
********
Next!
Entry word count: 7927
For Story Notes, click here.
Now on to Entry 16:
50.
The only other time Gus remembered being inside a hospital was when he was seven and had gotten a particularly bad case of the flu.
After four days of persistent coughs and cold, his temperature had suddenly shot up to 103 degrees one night and Mom and Mama had to rush him to the emergency room where the doctors had given him drugs and stuck a needle and drip in his arm. He remembered how badly that’d hurt but he’d been strong and brave and kept the tears at bay. His teacher Mrs. Addington had sent a dozen balloons and a chocolate fudge cake with Get Well Soon cards signed by his whole class and he remembered that’d made him feel good.
Dad had come up from Pittsburgh to see him that week and stayed in Toronto until he’d been allowed to go home and Gus remembered that had made him feel even better.
But Mom said this wasn’t the first time he was visiting this hospital. This was the same hospital he was born in, she said, on the night Dad had brought Justin to come see him for the first time. Mom said it was a good night and he had a picture in his photo album in which Dad was holding him as a baby, a smile on his face. That was one of his favorite Dad photos, even though he himself looked like a weird tiny pink puppy in Dad’s arms, as babies usually did. But Dad looked happy in that photo, and Gus liked to think the reason for that was because Dad loved him from the first time he’d seen him. Just as he’d always loved Dad from as long as he could remember.
But that was a long time ago. And Gus wasn’t sure he liked this place anymore.
He and JR were at Gramma Deb’s two days ago when Uncle Mikey and Uncle Ben and Uncle Em had come to talk to Grandpa Carl. They’d kept their voices real low but he’d heard the urgency in it anyways. He knew something was wrong with Dad and no one was telling him what it was. He hated not knowing what was going on. He could understand them keeping things from JR because she was a little kid but he was a big boy now. He was sure he could handle anything. Besides he’d already gone through all the stages; from disbelief that anything at all could possibly happen to Dad when he’d only seen him Sunday night, to terror that maybe Dad was really dead and that’s why they were not telling him anything, to confusion when Mama came and told him Dad was all right but that he and JR had to stay indoors at all times, and finally to desperation when he kept asking for Dad and Justin and no one seemed willing to take him to see them.
It wasn’t until last night, that Mom and Mama had sat him down and told him about Dad not feeling well and being in the hospital. Mom had done all of the talking while Mama had sat and listened, not saying anything. Mom had said the doctors were saying Dad was doing much better now than before and would be allowed to come home in a few days. When he’d asked her what had happened to him, she’d said something bad had happened in the theme park that had caused Dad to think Justin had gotten hurt, but it wasn’t true. And he got hurt because of that, he’d asked. Yes, she’d said. But Justin is all right, she’d looked into his eyes, he’s with Daddy right now, and Daddy is going to be all right as well.
Dad’s room was on the third floor and he and Mom rode the elevator that opened into a corridor with a nurse’s station at the entrance. Mom had told him Dad was in "Room 32" and Gus counted off the numbers on doors on both sides as they walked down the corridor. Just as they were about to reach the end of the corridor, a door to the left opened and a man came out.
"Justin!" With a relieved cry, Gus left Mom’s side and was in Justin’s arms, clinging to him tightly. "I missed you!"
He felt Justin’s arms close around him protectively. "I missed you too, buddy." Justin’s voice sounded a little wobbly to his ears. "I missed you so very much!"
Gus looked up into Justin’s eyes and thought they looked a little watery. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You didn’t really get hurt, did you?" Justin was his Dad’s partner and one of Gus’ closest friends and the thought of him getting hurt made him want to cry. Just like the thought of Dad getting hurt made him want to cry.
Justin pulled him into a hug again. "I am fine." He ruffled his hair in that way Gus usually hated but wasn’t going to complain now. "Don’t worry about me."
Gus looked at him closely. For some reason, Justin looked a little different to him, though he couldn’t tell why he felt that. "And Dad?" he asked.
"He’s fine." Justin looked into his eyes. "Now, you have to promise me not to be overly sentimental in front of him, okay? Or he’ll start bitching." Justin smiled gently. "C’mon, he’s been waiting for you."
"I promise," Gus said, taking a deep breath.
And then Justin opened the door and Gus stepped inside and paused in the doorway.
Dad was sitting up on a large hospital bed, wearing a green hospital smock, his back against the bed frame, and as Gus looked at him, the first thought that came to his mind was how old he looked. There was something in Dad’s eyes that Gus had never seen before and that made him look suddenly ancient. Like an old relic that had come to life, something out of those temples and dungeons that he’d read about in that chapter on ancient civilizations in his History class. Then he blinked and the illusion was gone. It was just Dad, the same way he’d always been, looking at him from behind the GQ in his hands, one brow raised in query.
But the memory of the Relic Dad was still in his head so Gus did the only thing he could think to wipe out those images.
"Oh God, Dad," he drawled. "You look so damn stupid in these clothes."
He heard Mom’s shocked Gus! behind him just as he saw the smile break on Dad’s face and knew he’d said the right thing. He rushed forward and found himself pulled into Dad’s arms as he hugged him back carefully. Mom had told him about the heart thing and he knew he had to be careful not to hurt him anymore. He pulled back to look into Dad’s eyes and realized what he’d mistaken for age was actually exhaustion. There were lines under his eyes that had not been there the last time he’d seen him. He looked not old, but tired. Tired and thin.
"Are you okay, Dad?" he heard the quiver in his own voice and felt Dad’s hand patting his back.
"I am fine, Sonny Boy!" Dad said and his voice was normal, just as it always had been. For a moment, Gus saw a glimpse of that old smile on his face that Dad was sporting in that picture where he was holding him as a baby, and that realization made him want to hug Dad even tighter. He heard Dad chuckle. "I heard you and your sister are driving Gramma Deb crazy."
"I can’t help it." Gus huffed. "She keeps feeding me baby food. And Mama won’t let me out of the house at all. You can tell things are bad when I am dying for Diner food, can’t you?"
"Yep," Dad snorted. "Things sound desperate for Sonny Boy, all right."
"Speaking of food..." Gus looked at Dad in mock-assessment. "What are they feeding you at this place? As my English teacher would say, young man, you look as thin as a rail."
Dad groaned. "Oh no, not you too."
Justin chuckled. "Gus, your Dad’s going for the world’s slimmest models title. His new thing is losing weight through starvation."
Gus wrinkled his nose. "You mean more than usual?"
"Hey," Dad frowned. "If you’re complaining about the Diners food, you should try the hospital cafeteria sometime. You’d give up eating too."
"C’mon, Daddy, it’s not that bad," Mom laughed. "In fact, I am starved. I think I am going to run down there and get a sandwich or two. Justin, you coming?"
"Yeah, I could use a little something to eat as well," Justin said.
Dad looked at Gus and rolled his eyes, making him snigger. "He’s always ready for a little something to eat."
"Don’t worry, I’ll bring something for you too." Justin smirked at him. "How about a nice big juicy hot dog." Dad glared at Justin, but Gus knew there was no anger in his eyes. Justin smiled and bent down to kiss Dad on the lips and then he straightened up. "See yah in a while."
And then they were gone, leaving Gus alone with Dad. As he sat down on Dad’s bed next to him, he found himself looking at the different instruments in the room. He didn’t recognize most of the machines but he saw the long stand behind his bed, which was used for hanging plastic bags with medication and fluids that the doctors sometimes gave you when you were feeling weak. He looked down and saw the catheter in Dad’s hand and knew at some point they’d put Dad on drips as well, but right now he was off it. And that was when he noticed the small foam plasters wrapped around Dad’s fingers and before he could stop himself, he was reaching out to touch the skin around the foam coverings.
"What happened to your fingers?" he asked, reaching over Dad to see his other hand. It was the same there. Small foam plasters wrapped around two fingers. And the fingers that were not covered in plaster looked a little cut up. Gus found himself frowning. Mom hadn’t told him about Dad’s hands. She’s said something about his heart and he’d spent an hour online, looking up heart diseases on the internet last night, and most of the stuff he’d found had confused and scared him. But she’d said nothing about his hands.
"Nothing. They just got a little hurt." Dad’s voice was quiet and Gus looked up at him. They didn’t look just hurt. They looked broken. He didn’t know how to reconcile the physical evidence of Dad’s hurt hands with whatever had happened to his heart. One thing was visible, out in the open, and the other hidden, buried deep inside his skin. But what he’d read had scared him and he needed to know what was really going on. He needed to know what had happened to Dad.
He took a deep breath and hoped his voice didn’t tremble too much. "Dad," he started. "Did you have a heart attack?"
For a moment, Dad was so still that Gus thought he’d gone to sleep with his eyes open. And then he blinked and his eyes focused as he looked at Gus closely. "No, Gus, it wasn’t a heart attack." A frown appeared between his brows. "Didn’t your mothers explain to you what happened?"
"They did," Gus hurried to explain. "They said something happened in the theme park that made you think Justin had gotten hurt. But that it wasn’t true."
There was that look in Dad’s eyes again, that tired look that had made him look so old and ancient and Gus suddenly felt terrified that whatever had happened to Dad that night was not over yet. He hadn’t meant to make Dad think of those bad things again, whatever they were. He wanted Dad to feel better, that’s why he’d come—to make him feel better, not to hurt him again.
Dad touched his face and Gus felt the soft scrape of the foam plaster against his cheek. "It wasn’t a heart attack." Dad looked at him seriously. "It was something much milder than a heart attack. It felt really bad at first but that was only for a little while. I am feeling much better now. If it had been a heart attack, I would not be here, sitting in my bed, chatting with you right now."
Gus frowned as he tried to remember the questions he’d written down while he was looking up articles last night and then he started firing:
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"Yes," Dad replied.
"Did they give you oxygen?"
"They did." Dad pointed to the cylinder next to the bed. "They were giving it to me until yesterday but I don’t need it anymore."
"Did they have to resuscitate you?"
"Yeah, they said Uncle Ted was the one who resuscitated me at first," Dad said. "But I don’t remember it."
Gus swallowed hard. "Did your heart stop?"
For a moment, Dad stared at him silently and then he sighed. "For a little while, yeah, but then the paramedics were there and I got the help in time."
Gus felt tears springing in his eyes. "But what if Uncle Ted hadn’t been there? What if the paramedics hadn’t gotten there in time? What if---"
"Gus!" Dad pulled him close. "There’s no point in thinking about that now, okay? None of that happened. I got hurt, yes, but I also got the help in time. I am okay now." He put his arms around Gus and hugged him close. "I am okay."
Gus closed his eyes and listened to the steady beat of Dad’s heart against his ear. Dad was okay now. He was tired and thin but he was okay. He didn’t die. He could’ve died that night but he didn’t. He was alive. He was going to be just fine. He breathed in Dad’s familiar scent, felt his chest rising and falling steadily, and blinked away the tears. He looked up at him.
"You thought that bad guy had hurt Justin -- because you love him more than anything else in the world, right?"
Dad was quiet for a while, and then he smiled. "Well, aside from you, yeah, that’s more or less true."
Gus grinned. "I knew that. I know you love him." He looked up into Dad’s eyes. "He loves you too. And he’s all right." He dropped a kiss on Dad’s cheek. "I love you, Daddy."
Dad pressed his lips to Gus’s temple. "I love you too, Sonny Boy!" And in these words, Gus saw the promise that meant that everything was going to be just fine. He just knew it. Dad was going to make sure of it.
51.
The detective had a hard, unlined face that seemed ageless for some reason, but his eyes were like sharp steel. And when he spoke, his clipped tones gave away the disbelieving sarcasm behind his words. "But didn’t you say you left the utility room immediately after you found there was no call for you on the phone?"
Craig Taylor held his head straight as he looked into the detective’s eyes. "That’s right."
"What time was that?"
"I can’t be sure," he replied. "Maybe nine-forty-five, fifty."
The detective’s stare was hard. "So you left the utility room between nine-forty-five, fifty that night?"
"I think so, yes." Craig nodded. "I didn’t check the time."
The detective motioned to the other officer in the room, a man named Crosby, who pushed a button on the remote control in his hand and the TV screen on the wall suddenly came alive. Craig felt his throat turn dry as he saw the image on the screen. "Do you recognize what this is, Mr. Taylor?"
For a moment, Craig was stumped. Of course he recognized what it was. It was the theme park. Or more specifically, the corridor in the theme park that he’d entered into from the main hall to get to that room where that woman had led him.
"Mr. Taylor," the detective repeated. "Do you recognize what this is?"
And Craig realized the detective was pointing to the small black box blinking at the bottom of the screen. Shit. He coughed to clear his throat and nodded. "It’s a timestamp."
"That’s right," the detective said. "Do you see what time it says on it?"
Craig swallowed before he answered. "Nine-forty-one."
"That’s right," the detective smiled but Craig saw there was nothing friendly about that smile. "It says nine-forty-one. Do you recognize anyone in the feed, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig watched as two figures entered the screen and wet his dry lips. "Um. That’s me."
"That’s right, it’s you," the detective said. "This feed was taken from the camera right at the entrance to the corridor that runs parallel to the main hall in the theme park. And the time corresponds with what you said. You entered that corridor to go to that room, led by Ms. Melina Sotheby, at nine-forty-one that night." They watched the two figures, the woman Sotheby and Craig himself disappear into the corridor. "Now, we will fast forward this to about five minutes later when you said you came back from the room." Officer Crosby pushed a button and they watched as the blinking numbers in the time stamp raced forward, seconds turning into minutes, until it was nine-forty-five. "Can you see anyone familiar, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig watched the screen. The entrance to the corridor was empty. "No."
"That’s right," the detective said. "It’s five minutes later, but neither you nor Ms. Sotheby are coming out of the corridor." The other officer pushed buttons and the numbers changed on the screen again. Nine-forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. "Still no sign of either of you," the detective continued. "Where did Ms. Sotheby go, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig took in a deep breath. "I have no idea."
"But didn’t you say you left immediately after you found there was no call on the phone?" The detective looked hard into his eyes. "Why didn’t you come out when there was no call there?"
"I did leave immediately," Craig lied. "But I think she was a bit ahead of me."
"And yet we don’t see her coming out of this corridor at all," the detective said. "I wonder where she disappeared."
Craig gritted his teeth. How the hell was he supposed to know where she’d disappeared? The truth was, Craig really had no idea where she’d gone. She’d left him in the room with the phone and the projector and had left, closing the door behind her. If she didn’t come out of this corridor, then there were a dozen other exits where she could’ve gotten out of the theme park from. All Craig knew was that he’d been locked inside that room for the next two hours. He’d banged on the door, on the walls, screaming to be let out but there had been no response. Instead, he’d been forced to watch the horrific drama unfold before his eyes, had listened to the crazy annunciations on the phone line, had listened to---
No. ‘Crazy’ was too small a word for what had happened in the theme park that night. This wasn’t just a small mental derangement that left you unhinged and disoriented. This was a psychopathic delusion, a sickness of the brain and mind and soul, a madness that ate away your inhibitions and restraints and conscious and turned you into a creature that was no longer human. And to think that he may have had a part in all of this was a thought more frightening than anything he’d ever experienced.
"I don’t know where she went," he said, looking at the detective. "I lost her soon after she left the room, I was behind her a bit."
"So, we’ll have to keep watching until you come out, won’t we?" the detective said. "Let’s see. We’re running this a little fast now." The officer with the remote pressed the button again and Craig watched as the numbers tumbled over each other in their haste. Fifty-one, two, three, four, five, six--- "Seven, eight, nine. Why, that’s strange, it’s ten pm now," the detective enounced, "and ten-fifteen, ten-twenty-five and this camera is getting a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Taylor? Where the heck were you?"
Craig forced himself to keep his face straight. "There must be something wrong with this camera."
"Oh, but you have to focus on the timestamp." The detective pointed to the blinking numbers. "The camera is running just fine. It’s ten-forty-five now. Now, it’s eleven pm. And still no sign of you." The detective shook his head. "Eleven-fifteen, eleven-thirty, forty. Whoa!" There was a note of surprise in the detective’s voice which was mockingly forced as they watched the figure that was Craig appear again on the screen—this time by himself. "There you are. Eleven-forty-two and you finally make an appearance." He looked at Craig, a nasty smile on his face. "Looking a bit ragged, aren’t you? You came back exactly TWO HOURS after you went inside that corridor. What were doing all that time, Mr. Taylor?"
Craig stared at the screen. "I think I got a little lost when I was coming out of the room."
"You THINK you got lost," the detective drawled. "But that’s not what you said the last time. You said you were only in that room for a few minutes and then you came back to join the adults tour and then later on your wife and son."
Yes. He knew what he’d said. And he knew why he’d said it as well. It was because of what he’d seen, and what he’d heard that night. He’d thought he’d lived a neat, clean life up till now but somehow, somewhere along the line, he’d made some decisions in his life that had gotten him in the position he was in right now. But what had happened that night to Kinney hadn’t been his fault. Not really. Even if he’d been tangled up in the web of that madness. Even if he’d been a witness to the deranged psychosis that had wrecked havoc into their lives, within the course of a few scant hours, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.
"Why are you lying to us, Mr. Taylor?"
But was he really lying? Was it lying if you were only trying to save your family from further harm? He couldn’t believe how close Terry and Matty had come to harm that night. He’d left them for several hours and anything could’ve happened to them during that time. What had happened to Justin and Kinney was done, it could not be reversed. But he still had the power to keep his wife and son away from that horror. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up. He had heard the warning clearly in the maddeningly calm tones of the voice on the phone. He was being watched. He had been watched for years without knowing it. The enemy had been right within his camp and he hadn’t known it. And now he was out there somewhere, the madness loose and pulsating and mutating into something even more hideous than before.
"What are you hiding from us, Mr. Taylor?"
Just for a second, as the detective’s question burnt into his conscience, the truth almost came out of his mouth. For that one tiny moment, he almost thought it might be better if he told them about what he’d seen, what he’d heard. He almost told him about the invitation to the theme park, about the voice on the phone. He almost told them about the postcard he’d received three days ago and the package that had arrived yesterday, in the Sears gift-wrapping. Almost told them about the note that had fallen from the box, this time addressed to his little son, unlike the last one that had been addressed to him. The note that had said:
Tell Jester you’re a good boy, Matty, and he will have more fun in store for you
But then he’d caught himself in time. Because he couldn’t tell them any of this. If he started, then the whole fucking debacle will unravel and there will be questions, enquiries about his past, about the decisions he’d made. And he knew he’d made some stupid ones. He knew what that psycho was capable of, which was basically any-fucking-thing at all. He’d worked with him for over six years now and he’d never challenged his questionable skills and procedures as long as they served his purpose. But would he have continued the association if he’d known the derangement went this deep? He didn’t know.
All he knew was this: he had to keep his family close to him. Justin was all right. Jen and Molly were safe. Now all he had to do was keep Terry and Matty safe. What was he hiding? Why, himself—who else? But not from the police. No sirree. He was hiding from the madness. He and his family were being watched and he could not afford to make any more mistakes.
"I am not hiding anything." He looked into the detective’s eyes. "I have no idea where this woman disappeared. All I know is... it was like a confusing maze down there and I got lost and wandered into some other corridor," he said. "It took me a while to find my way back to this corridor."
"How interesting!" the detective said. "That you found your way back exactly at the same moment as the ambulance arrived."
Well, I never called the ambulance! Craig wanted to snap but he only pressed his lips together. That wasn’t the least of his worries. He figured one of Kinney’s friends or someone who worked at the theme park had called the ambulance. His problem was the fucking timestamps. But they still had no proof. So they had his fingerprints in the utility room. That was all they had. He hadn’t been in any other room that night. He hadn’t even really wandered the maze of those corridors like he was saying. He’d only been allowed to leave that room just as the police was arriving. They had no fucking proof.
But we’ll find one—the detective’s steely eyes appeared to be saying as they bored into his. We’ll find proof and then we’ll get you by your fucking neck, Taylor. But when he spoke, he only repeated what he’d said the last time they’d interrogated him:
"We’d appreciate it if you’d not leave town while this investigation is going on, Mr. Taylor."
52.
The worst thing about being sick was the bone-weary lassitude that sapped all the energy out of your body. Brian had gotten a taste of that exhaustion during those long, tedious weeks when he’d undergone radiation. But at least, that had been familiar. He had known what to expect. You got nuked in the morning, worked for a couple of hours, then started feeling shitty around noon, stumbled back home, spent two hours puking your guts out until you passed out with exhaustion, slept fitfully throughout the day, woke up somewhat semi-fresh the next morning, and then went through the same routine again. This weariness, however, went deep into his bones. It was constant, unending, as if someone had sucked all the strength out of his limbs, leaving him a desiccated husk.
According to his doctor, though, this lethargy was more mental than physical. He knew he’d come close to dying only three days ago, knew that, for a moment, his heart had stopped pumping –so shocked it had been by the toxins that had suddenly released into his body– that his brain kept reminding him of the tremendous battle his body had gone through, fighting the effects of the toxins that had shocked his system into a coma. But the truth was, the battle had raged and been won. The toxins were neutralized. His body’s systems were stable now. He was in recovery mode. So logically, the lethargy was supposed to be lifting as well. Only his brain was still going in a loop, reminding him of the tough road he’d tread, and the tough road he still had ahead, not realizing that the worst part was already over. What he had ahead was hard work but nothing insurmountable.
His physiotherapist had pulled him out of the bed last evening, gotten him on his toes and ordered him to take a walk. He’d said his latest cardiac tests showed the damage was already reversing and that he needed to start exercising if he wanted to get back to his life anytime soon. Brian had good metabolism, he’d lived a fairly healthy life, and that meant his rate of recovery could be expedited if he structured his recuperation process effectively. All he needed was to start with light exercises, short walks around the floor, and a few minutes every morning on the treadmill in the therapy room. They had some more tests to run and the doctor said if they showed the same rate of recovery, there was no reason why Brian shouldn’t be able to go home by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. But to get truly better, Brian first had to win the mental war, before he could win the physical one.
The question, however, was not whether he could go home in four days. It was: could he really get his life back? Would it ever be the same again?
He’d felt Justin’s hand on his back, warm and alive, and he’d suddenly remembered the reason why he had to get back on his feet. There was too much at stake here. He simply had to get better soon. Win the mental battle first, and then the physical one. He had no time to waste.
So with his hand gripped firmly between Justin’s strong fingers, he’d taken his first steps on shaking legs, the heart monitor wrapped around his chest, its soft beep indicating his steadying heart rate, as he’d slowly walked to the door held open by the nurse and stepped out into the corridor. With a pace that would’ve shamed a geriatric, he’d walked to the end of the corridor, his steps faltering, the thirty-five feet feeling like thirty-five miles to his tired body, as his lover’s softly murmured encouragements had forced him to keep on going even when he’d felt like he was going to fall down any second, finally collapsing into the wheelchair they’d rolled out for him on his return trip with something that’d felt like worn-out relief.
As he’d sunk down into his bed last night, he’d felt Justin’s fingers tangle in his hair and had looked up into his eyes, searching for answers that weren’t forthcoming. Justin had smiled at him, reaching down to drop a kiss on his forehead, and told him he’d done well, and Brian had felt like snorting in disgust. It would’ve been better if Justin had teased him about his advancing years, making some rude joke about walkers and diapers, in essence allowing Brian to snap back for daring to call him old. But there had been no jokes, no lighthearted comments, only a restrained somber acceptance that showed he understood Brian’s condition, knew his shortcomings.
But Brian didn’t want Justin to understand. He wanted Justin to push. To fight back. To berate him and yell at him and make him work as hard as fucking possible. If Justin wasn’t going to push Brian, then who the hell would?
And then he’d looked at the expression on Justin’s face and all the words that only a second ago had been desperate to rush out of his mouth had fallen silent, like stones falling into a pond with a quiet plonk. That bone-weary lassitude that was in Brian’s body was visible in Justin’s eyes too. Only in Justin, it manifested itself in the form of that grave, silent understanding. It was a façade erected to hush up what he was feeling inside, to keep his emotions in check, to hide behind the motions of taking care of Brian and getting him back on his feet and making sure he was comfortable and well provided for. Brian recognized all this because once upon a time, he’d been a master of such posturing himself. He’d hidden behind the same motions, done the same things, verbalized the same thoughts.
Despite all his misgivings, the trips out of his room had gotten progressively better since then. He hadn’t needed to hold Justin’s hand as he’d walked this morning and the doctors had said he could go to the bathroom on his own. A small consolation Brian had snorted. Well, at least he didn’t have to endure the indignity of not being able to piss by himself anymore.
Most of the gang had been dropping by throughout the day, as they had done every day prior to this. Deb with more food. Lindsay with more magazines. Mikey with more change of clothes. Emmett with more gossip. And between them Justin—a constant presence by his side, hovering close by just in case he needed anything. Answering every question but the ones Brian really needed answers for. Looking at Justin like this, Brian almost felt as if the two of them were trapped in a small, dark room filled with vacuum, breathing oxygen from masks attached to small cylinders. It was as if Justin was there next to him, a physical presence as sure as the heart beating in his chest—but it was a heartbeat he couldn’t quiet hear. He felt disconnected, as if he needed a stethoscope to hear the thumping of that heart but the world had run out of stethoscopes. Justin was like a physical presence without any sound and that terrified Brian. That made him think of things he didn’t want to think about. Things that made no sense, that filled him with dark images that were part of the nightmares that woke him up every night with his breathing hitched and the sweat breaking on his brow.
"Brian."
And there he was again, his hand sure on Brian’s back as he slowly ran it up until it rested on his neck, before splaying his fingers and tangling them into Brian’s hair. Brian looked into the blue gaze, his eyes, for a moment, searching for answers that he knew wouldn’t come—and then he accepted the embrace, allowing Justin to pull him closer, his arms wrapping securely around Brian’s body.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried once again to listen to Justin’s heartbeat.
53.
It was over pancakes and French toast at the Diner that the subject of Proposition 14 came up. It was an old subject, dead and buried, over and done with, never to come back again, but Jennifer was in a weird, melancholy mood this morning. As Melanie and Lindsay sat on one side of the booth, Deb found herself slipping in next to Jennifer on the opposite seat, automatically refilling her cup with fresh coffee every time it emptied, as they reminisced the experiences, both good and bad, they’d had to counter in the course of their lives.
"I don’t know when he changed, Debbie," Jennifer said. "I mean I know things were difficult when Justin came out and all that trouble at school started..." She was twirling a spoon in her mug, watching the swirls form and dissipate as the sugar became one with the coffee, when she suddenly smiled. "And then there was Brian, who frankly had the ability to infuriate Craig unlike anything else in the world."
"Oh, we’ve all been through that with him," Deb snorted, looking up at Lindsay and Melanie, who had faint smiles on their faces—but no censure in their eyes. Brian Kinney had the power to infuriate—they agreed with that. But that was all it was. A statement, not a sentence.
"But I don’t know when that changed to hate." Jennifer frowned and then bit her lip. "At least hate for Justin." She swallowed. "I mean, I could tell he couldn’t stand Brian when he attacked him outside Babylon that night---" She gave her head a little shake. "He didn’t seem to realize that he was alienating Justin with every wrong step he took." Jennifer stopped twirling the spoon and looked up sadly. "He even said he’d hire a private detective to dig up dirt on Brian. He was hell bent on proving that Brian was a child molester, with a habit of going after underage kids, which was all bullshit, of course." She looked at them. "Justin was young but legally he wasn’t underage—even at the beginning."
"And I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again," Deb said, "Brian may be a lot of things but he’s not a child molester."
"And he’s never really broken the law," Melanie added. "I mean, I should know, I represented him for sexual harassment. He’s done stuff that have barely skirted the boundaries of legality, he’s been promiscuous and abused drugs, but he’s never meant anyone any harm. And as for outright breaking of the law—nope, he hasn’t done that."
"And he never coerced Justin to be with him," Lindsay interjected. "In fact, he’s always let him go whenever he had to." She smiled. "If I were to be honest, I’d say Justin was the one who came after him with a vengeance, at a time when Brian insisted it was only a one-night-stand." Her eyes flew to Jennifer’s as the words left her mouth, but she saw no resentment there. She took a deep breath. "I think, in the end, they were both helpless in that pull they felt, that kept drawing them together every time."
Deb remembered once saying to Brian that Justin had sneaked in under the wire while he wasn’t looking and she knew that was the truth. As clichéd as it may sound, she truly believed these boys belonged together, probably had from the moment they’d laid their eyes on each other.
"I know Brian loves Justin very much," Jennifer said. "I’ve known for a long time." There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she could almost pinpoint the exact moment she came to this realization. Then she shook herself out of it. "I also knew Craig didn’t understand it. But it always came as a shock to me. Every time he did something stupid, said something cruel, hurt Brian, slapped Justin, or kicked him out of the house, it came as a shocking, stunning blow to me."
She looked at the three women. "It was as if I couldn’t believe this was the man I’d been married to for eighteen years." She sighed. "But even through the years, I felt maybe, there was a chance, that they could reconcile. He refused to pay Justin’s PIFA tuition, because it wasn’t something he endorsed. But foolishly, I still kept the hope alive that they’d come around." She paused to take a breath and they watched as her lips pressed together. "But when Proposition 14 came around and he got Justin, his own son arrested, for protesting against a homophobic piece of legislation---" She sucked in a breath. "That was when I knew it would never change. That he’d never come around."
There was a frown on Melanie’s face. "You know, there were a lot of people at his company that supported Proposition 14. We got a whole list of companies and individuals that had made donations towards it and Taylor Electronics not only contributed as a corporate but also had individual donations, from Craig and a dozen other people who worked for him."
"It only stands to reason," Deb said, "that a homophobic asshole like Craig Taylor would only surround himself with other homophobic assholes like him."
Lindsay sighed. "People who give to causes like ‘Cure Fags with Aids’ and’ Proposition 14’". She looked at Melanie, noticed she was still frowning and paused. "What?"
Melanie shook her head. "Just something Carl mentioned last night." She looked up and stared at them. "That man--- the clown who worked at the theme park, the one with the fake identity."
"Andrew Spencer?" Lindsay asked.
"Yeah." Melanie nodded. "The police found the bank account he’d used as part of his set up while he worked at the theme park. This was the account they’d deposited his salary into every week for the last five years." Her brows were knitted together as her sharp mind went over the details. "They looked up the transactions that had been made through that account in the last six years, when it was first created under Spencer’s name, and aside from the salary deposits that were made and that were always encashed the very next day without fail, and a few other transfers made, including one that he made to that woman who’d disappeared as well, there was basically only one type of transactions made from that account."
"What?" Jennifer asked.
"Donations." Melanie looked at her.
"What kind of donations?" Lindsay asked.
"To worthy causes---" There was a cheerless twist to Melanie’s mouth. "Such as ‘Stop Gays with Guns’ and ‘Death to Pederasts’."
"Holy shit!" Deb exclaimed. "He’s a fucking homophobe."
"Of course, he is." Melanie pressed her lips together. "If it’s the same guy who was down in the tunnels with us, then he hates us all."
"But we don’t know who he really is," Jennifer asked, her eyes large with what looked like fear. "Do we?"
Melanie looked into her eyes. "No," she said. "Not yet."
54.
He got the call from Milton during his lunch break on Friday, as he was coming back from showing Brian the latest boards the Art department had produced for the Sizzling Spices account.
Because of Brian’s enforced absence from the office, Ted felt it was his responsibility as the next senior most member of the hierarchy to keep his eyes open and make sure everything went smoothly. Sure, Cynthia was there and she was more than capable of handling all the accounts but Ted still felt a sense of responsibility towards making sure there were no further fuck-ups in the office than there already had been.
He’d been pleasantly surprised to see Brian in a much more present state of mind today. He’d not only been awake when Ted had walked into his room, he’d been alert enough to be critical and objective about the artwork and layout. He’d made some astute observations about how the layout worked in respect of the textual content and Ted had said he’d let Aston in the art department know what the boss had said. It was also nice to see Brian more physically active in the last couple of days as well. The color was slowly returning to his friend’s face and Ted, for one, was more than happy about it.
But now it appeared there was something new going on. Milton’s voice had sounded urgent on the phone and as Ted walked into Kinnetik and saw Detective Robinson standing in the lobby, he knew something had happened.
"We found a signature," Milton said to him, the moment he saw Ted.
"What signature?" Ted stared between his IT manager and the detective.
"A signature that the hacker left behind," the detective said. "We kept going over the network logs and the data packets sent by the machine the hacker used, and even though it was a Wi-Fi signal and virtually untraceable, there was something in the way he entered and exited during his intrusions that was familiar."
"He was leaving a pattern," Milton said, his eyes shining. "Now we don’t know if it was deliberate or not, at least we don’t think it was, but every single time he broke into our systems, he left a trace signature. And we finally located that in the network logs today."
"What does that mean?" Ted asked. "Can you trace him?"
"If he strikes again, we’ll know what to look for," the detective said. "And if there’s a similar pattern elsewhere, then we’ll have our match."
55.
It was Saturday evening and in Babylon, life moved to the same, never-ending beat as it had done on so many weekends preceding it. The news of Babylon’s owner’s recent ill fortune had brought but a brief twinge of dismay for its denizens, leading to speculation that had continued throughout the week, with queers all across Liberty Avenue theorizing over the who’s and why’s of the mystifying conundrum, but there had been no break into the rhythm that drove Babylon. The thumpa thumpa went on, its beat like a living thing that bopped and swayed and danced and breathed, a symbol made immortal in the wake of the countless obstacles faced by Liberty’s residents in the last many years.
So it was with a bizarre sense of delayed shock, as if they couldn’t really believe it was happening to them, that the two queens, who made the discovery in the back alley behind Babylon, called the police.
Justin was sitting in the TV room with Mel and Michael when Carl walked in. Lindsay and Gus were with Brian and the three of them had come out here because they didn’t want to overcrowd the room too much. But they took one look at the serious expression on Carl’s face and knew time out was over.
Carl took the seat in front of Justin. He looked carefully into Justin’s eyes for a few moments and then began, "The police found the axe."
Justin felt his mouth turn dry. He could feel Michael’s eyes on him, could feel Mel stiffen in the seat next to him, but try as he might, he could get no words out. He felt frozen, chilled to the bone. They’d found the axe. The axe. The axe.
"Where?" He heard Michael ask.
Carl’s eyes were still on Justin, his gaze probing, wary. "In the alley behind Babylon. It was just lying there near the back exit, under the lamp, as if waiting to be discovered."
Justin felt his breath stagger in his throat. The axe was found in the alley behind Babylon. Where he and Brian had fooled around on more than one occasion. Babylon. Which was their territory, their domain. This felt like sacrilege.
"Bastard!" Mel growled. "Of course it was left there on purpose. What else was there?"
"Traces of blood on it that appear to be fresh so they’re running them through the database," Carl said. "If they find a match, we’ll know."
"What about fingerprints?" Mel asked.
Carl finally broke his gaze from Justin and looked at Mel. "They already ran those through the database."
"Well, did they find anything?" Michael asked, his brow furrowing.
Carl stared at Michael. "There were only one set of fingerprints on the axe," he said, his eyes grave as he took in a deep breath. "And the police found a match."
"Whose?" Justin finally spoke, his voice dry and his tongue feeling like sandpaper.
Carl turned his eyes back to Justin. He looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything. And when he finally spoke, his voice was grim.
"Brian’s."
********
Next!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 10:05 pm (UTC)GREAT ENTRY!!!! Can't wait for more...:)
Nicole
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 10:52 pm (UTC)"Whose?" Justin finally spoke, his voice dry and his tongue feeling like sandpaper.
Carl turned his eyes back to Justin. He looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything. And when he finally spoke, his voice was grim.
"Brian’s."
What. The. Fuck. Seriously... just... What the fuck.
This psycho is just toying with them, isn't he? Holy shit. Just when I think this can't get any trippier, there's another twist that sends me reeling again.
This was fantastic as every single chapter of this crazy journey has been. And as always, I'm on the edge of my seat waiting for more!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 11:11 pm (UTC)Hurry, hurry, hurry!!!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 01:13 am (UTC)That's not fair *stomps foot like a two year old*
You're good, very good! More soon, like now pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee *bats eyelashes*
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 01:50 am (UTC)Every time I think I have a handle on it,You throw me for a loop,lol.
What's with the fingerprints on the Ax?...can't wait to get the answer...
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:48 pm (UTC)OK, a new chapter's up. And more coming soon!
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Date: 2007-02-01 02:57 am (UTC)OMG, how can Brian's fingerprints be on the axe?!
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 03:41 am (UTC)WHAT?!
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:51 pm (UTC)New chap's fiiiinally up!
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Date: 2007-02-01 05:22 am (UTC)You are doing an excellent job writing this story. I'll be waiting for the next chapter!
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-02 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:55 pm (UTC)And as for the word doc---absolutely. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-03 05:08 am (UTC)Well, jeeeeez.
You better be writing your ass off this weekend!
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:58 pm (UTC)*grins*
New chap's up! :)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-03 03:08 pm (UTC)This fic is going to be the death of me.
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-26 04:42 pm (UTC)I love how you switch the POVs so that we can see how different characters react to the various situations. and you have a real knack for suspense. a few scenes literally had me holding my breath, they were so intense. one tiny problem I had was the constant use of 'I am' instead of 'I'm' and 'I will' instead of 'I'll'. it makes the characters sound a bit... foreign, I guess. just small stuff that I could sort of overlook.
anyway, yes, I love this and I'm really, really glad you decided to write it.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:06 pm (UTC)THANKS!
Oh, and the long-awaited new chapter is up. :)
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Date: 2007-03-20 01:25 am (UTC)\0/ *goes off to read*
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Date: 2009-02-02 02:15 am (UTC)