Elegant Corpse

THE ELEGANT CORPSE

A. M. Riley

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Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

The Elegant Corpse A. M. Riley This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © May 2008 by A. M. Riley All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-699-6 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Georgia A. Woods Cover Artist: Anne Cain

www.loose-id.com

Chapter One There is a place for everything, Detective Roger Corso believed. And even though, in the chaotic and often grotesquely messy world of Los Angeles homicide, things could be misplaced or badly placed, still there were certain places where certain things most certainly never, and without exception, ever belonged. A mummified corpse did not belong stretched across his living room couch. Ever. Having been out of town for a week on a much-needed vacation, Roger Corso had opened the front door of his townhouse, in a quiet, security gated and patrolled community, and noticed that the interior smelled of mothballs. He punched in the alarm code and turned on the lights, noting again the unpleasant smell. On the way to the bedroom he stopped, because one of the square tuxedo pillows, with contrasting piped edges that had been custom made for his couch, was lying in the middle of the living room rug. He picked it up. Then he stood for some minutes, gazing at his sofa. Then he opened his cell phone and called the homicide offices where he worked.

***** “I’m not a fashion pig, but it’s bad when the body looks better than you do,” said a petite blonde woman, gazing down at said body. Roger Corso turned horrified eyes on his partner. “How long’s she been dead?” Mary Anne Stelter asked one of the CSI techs. “Maybe ten years,” said the guy, head tipped sideways, thick black rimmed glasses glinting. He was young. Those glasses made him look more artsy than nerdy. And he definitely gave Mary Anne the once over. “It’s hard to tell. Adipocere’s begun formulating in

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the face.” He indicated the thick white “grave wax” over the victim’s cheeks. “Body’s been exposed to extreme cold and/or dryness. No sign of decay. Last time I saw something like this, vic had been buried in the desert. Whatever happened to her, she looks damned good for a DB.” When the bus had come to extract the corpse, they’d found that the outside wrapping fell away and crumbled immediately. Like the outer cornhusk around a tamale. So the coroner’s office was carefully going over the exposed inner layer meticulously before removal. Inside the lacquered linen wrapping was a remarkably well-preserved young woman in a blue suit. Her preservation was so extensive, one could see that she’d worn some kind of stockings and Roger could almost pick out the shade of nail lacquer that had been on her fingers. Roger’s eyes moved over the body with the exactness of a photographic scanner. “I’d say more like twenty-five years.” Mary Anne raised her eyebrows. “Those shoes,” said Roger. “Came out in 1982. I remember.” “You forgot my birthday this year but you remember shoes?” Mary Anne laughed, shaking her head. Roger put aside the invasion of his home -- the desecration, really, of his immaculate private space -- and focused fully on the corpse before him. A tall woman in a smart Chanel suit. He remembered them on the glossy magazines that year. It would have been navy blue with bright brass buttons. His eyes traveled down to the hands crossed primly on her bosom. The hands had been laced together, as had the legs. She was posed like an Egyptian mummy, holding two twelve-inch-long objects. With that cold feeling that Roger was more accustomed to feeling at horror movies than crime scenes, he recognized the objects. And then he was struck by something even more remarkable. “Someone sure wanted this woman found,” said Mary Anne. She carried a Bluetooth and was tapping furiously into it with a tiny steel daggerlike instrument. “Well, if you’re sure about the date, I’ll get a search of missing persons going. White, late twenties would you say, Roger? Blonde or redhead, maybe five feet ten,” said Mary Anne, typing away. “Correction,” said Roger. “Really?” Mary Anne appraised the corpse with narrow eyes. “You know, even prone heels make women look taller.” “Not the height, the gender,” said Roger. “That is not a woman.”

*****

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“Transvestites missing in 1982. You’d think it would be easy,” said Mary Anne in a disgruntled voice. They were working at her dining room table. She moved uncomfortably, and Roger heard a thunk as she shed her high heels onto the wooden floor. “We don’t know he was a transvestite,” said Roger smoothly. He gathered up the reports that Mary Anne had shoved around the table and tapped them once lengthwise, once sideways, and slid them neatly into the appropriate folders. “Cross-dressers. Drag queens. Whatever they called them back then.” Mary Anne walked into the attached kitchen in her stockinged feet. She’d untucked her white blouse and it hung in a mess of wrinkled tails around the hips of her tight navy skirt. “You want some more coffee?” “I think it’s time for something a little stronger,” said Roger. Without comment, Mary Anne reemerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of Chivas Regal and two highball glasses. She poured, they toasted. Roger sighed and let just a little of the stiffness shake free of his square shoulders like feathers molting. Mary Anne plunked her feet on the dining room chair next to hers and scrubbed at her short blonde hair until it stood out from her head in spikes. “Coroner’s report says the clothes were tailored to fit. This wasn’t some guy trying on his sister’s clothes for the first time.” “Amazing the state of preservation.” “Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying a lot.” “Did we get the chemist’s report yet?” “They said it’s a crapshoot. The tissue will have traces, but he, or she, was painted with lacquer,” said Mary Anne. “They said all of the organs were removed and the body was stuffed for God’s sake, so most likely they’re only gonna find extremely unusual traces. Like amyl nitrate and cocaine.” She wasn’t actually addressing Roger, and he wasn’t really listening. She slouched in the chair, sipping her Scotch and twirling her hair, gaze fixed on the curtain rods at the top of the tall dining room windows. Roger continued reading through the files, primly turning each one over so that it lay exactly square on top of the previous page. “You sure you don’t wanna sleep here tonight?” asked Mary Anne. “That won’t be necessary.” She exhaled in disbelief. “I’d have mummy nightmares if I were you.” “I’ll be fine.” The old clock in the hall that Mary Anne had inherited from her grandmother, along with the ancient house, bonged ten o’clock and Roger closed the file he was perusing. “I should go now, though.”

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“Sure.” Mary Anne hopped to her feet and trailed him to the door. When she wasn’t in heels, Roger towered over her. His six feet four and her five feet four were a constant source of amusement in the precinct. “Call me if any more weird shit shows up in your house, Corso.” “I certainly will,” said Roger.

***** Roger had neither the time nor the inclination for the usual meeting and interview, though he generally savored that process. Roger’s entire body had been an agonized knot of outrage since he’d crossed his living room and discovered the corpse where his tuxedo pillows were supposed to be. The building was a nondescript red brick without a sign. The window and pneumatic door Roger pushed through were opaque gray. The room he entered had a rubber black mat floor and unpainted drywall supported between open beams. A dusty boot heel-marked front desk and posters from old videos sat in the corner manned by one lone youth with a white face and dyed purple hair. “Is Peter here?” he asked the receptionist, presenting his ID. The young man’s wrists were encased in black cuffs with metal studs; he checked Roger’s ID, cracking chewing gum, and said, “Yeah. Peter’s in tonight.” “Tell him I’m here and ask if he has time.” “Sure.” The torn green vinyl on his chair creaked as he leaned forward to punch numbers into a phone. “We got Mr. C here for Peter.” A few minutes later a rear door opened and a man in his midthirties, light brown hair and eyes, wearing jeans, loafers, and a short-sleeved cotton dress shirt came across the room and shook Roger’s hand. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” he asked as he escorted Roger through the door and down a long concrete-floored hallway. “We’ve been busy at work.” “Tell me about it,” chuckled Peter, shaking his head. He opened another door. “Here we are.” The room was opulent compared to the hallway and reception lobby. Gray soundproofing showed through behind deep burgundy curtains. The floor was wooden except near the center, where black rubber again muffled the sound of Roger’s shoes. The cross, bench, and horse there were not quite what one would find in a men’s gym. Roger looked around. “This is fine.” “Great. Well, I think you’ll find everything you need over there.” Peter waved in the general direction of a wet bar-type area. “I’ll be just a minute.”

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Roger went to the wet bar, opened a closet behind it, and hung up his suit coat. He unlaced his tie and hung it carefully there as well. There were empty hangars, and he took off his work shirt and hung that up, buttoning it to the top. He placed his watch and the slim silver ring from his right hand into a tray there. The mirror mounted in the door of the small closet reflected his massive shoulders and bulky biceps. Roger didn’t keep himself shaved, as did many practitioners of his art, but he wasn’t overly hairy to begin with. A spattering of black hair arched from brown nipples to encircle his navel and point toward his belt buckle. Green eyes sharp with canny intelligence, something that often startled witnesses, met themselves in the glass and dropped away. Peter reemerged from the door by which he’d departed. He was stripped down to a black jockstrap. Instead of talking to Roger, he walked to the middle of the room and stood, hands clasped behind him, head down. Roger closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, entering the scene. As he did so, he felt a small amount of tension coiled at the base of his neck just unfurl and float away. The tension held stiffly in every muscle of his back would take more work to release. “You may speak,” he said. “Master.” Peter’s normally jovial voice was subdued, barely a whisper. “My safe word is ‘jello.’” “Understood,” said Roger. As the scene descended on him, he felt the rigidity in his knees and calves, the result of extreme self-control, relax into a powerful rolling walk as he paced around Peter, looking the familiar sub’s body up and down. Grasping Peter’s joined hands by the wrists, he gently guided the man to a St. Andrew’s Cross mounted on the wall as if at some Spanish minimalistic shrine, raising each wrist to fasten it securely, but not too tight. Then he went to the wet bar and opened a door in it. There were quite a few dildos and butt plugs. Roger studied each one, and finally selected a long wide smooth butt plug and a simple jelly dildo. He liberally oiled the butt plug and, holding Peter’s hip with a firm hand, worked it into him very slowly. Peter made a deep sound as the butt plug was fully seated. Then Roger went back to the wet bar and opened another door. An array of riding crops, canes, and floggers hung there. He selected a traditionally designed flogger with velvety-looking, light-colored tails and returned. Roger stretched his muscles, working the flogger through the air. He walked back and forth, rolling his head to stretch out his neck and working the flogger in the air with both hands before stopping at a point about five feet back from Peter, the flogger loosely hanging from his relaxed hand. Peter sighed as the first blow struck his round white ass cheeks. Roger swung the flogger with a smooth quick rhythm, the tails painting figure eights in the air as they struck

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the subs buttocks and thighs with precision. Peter’s creamy skin flushed and his eyes closed as Roger laid one bright mark after another across that beautiful behind. Roger worked into a rhythm, the flogger’s tails beating against Peter’s skin like a drum. Roger paused on occasion and surveyed his work, running his palm lightly against the fiery hot skin like a sculptor caressing his clay. Peter’s body trembled beneath his touch. His armpits were damp and a trickle of moisture had already begun sliding down each of his sides. Roger removed his belt, his shoes and socks, and slacks. He folded and put each away carefully. Then he went back to the wet bar and exchanged his flogger for another of suede. The tails were longer and when he swished it against Peter’s legs, they seemed less flexible. This time, Roger swung the flogger over his head and laid it on Peter in a snaking motion. Peter moaned. He flinched with every blow, and soon his entire back was red and he was pulling at the restraints. He was breathing hard now, shaking visibly. Roger paused, panting. Sweat was rolling down his body. He ran his hand lightly over Peter’s hot skin again, checking the man’s face, too, for any sign of distress. Then he moved behind him and slowly removed the butt plug. Peter’s head tipped back. His ass cheeks tensed noticeably. He was panting as Roger carefully oiled and inserted the dildo, moving it back and forth until it slid in and out easily. A small needy noise came out of Peter’s throat and Roger murmured in an assuring way. He took up his position behind Peter and began the sinuous flogging routine again. Switching from hand to hand this time, his speed increasing, the weight of the blows mounting as well, as he stepped closer into Peter’s body. When he stopped, both he and Peter were fully erect, drenched in sweat, and shaking. Moving quickly, Roger slipped Peter’s jockstrap down, allowing his damp, dark cock to spring into the air. Roger stroked him in an easy rhythm, his other hand caressing Peter’s head and shoulders and back muscles. Peter sobbed in a breath, and his cock jerked in Roger’s hand. He was close enough that his heavy balls were drawing up, his body shaking as he fought release. Roger waited an exquisite moment and then murmured permission, the dildo pumping, his fingers moving rapidly. Peter gasped and came, back, neck, and arm muscles straining. Holding Peter loosely through the aftershocks, Roger worked his own cock, gasping, until he shot his release onto Peter’s red buttocks. The sound of both men’s breathing was loud in the small room for many minutes. Then Roger went to the sink and cleaned up. He put on his own pants before working the dildo out of Peter and then releasing Peter’s wrists, taking care to help the man to a bench, where he assisted him to lie down on his belly. “Do you want some water?” “Yes, please. Is the scene over, Master?”

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“The scene is over, Peter,” said Roger. Roger fetched room temperature water from the cabinet and came back. He sat with Peter until the man could sit up on his own. Then Roger drew on his shirt and buckled his cuff links as Peter drank the water. “You know, I trust you,” said Peter. “You don’t have to do yourself. You can do me.” “I appreciate that,” said Roger. Peter was handsome and had the sort of body Roger loved. He was smooth, hairless, with lean muscles, but small soft cushions of fat on his ass and belly. But attraction wasn’t the issue. Attraction hadn’t been Roger’s issue for years. “Man could get a complex,” said Peter cheerfully. If he hadn’t been sitting hunched over, sweating, and still a little shaky, his back bright red, he would have seemed just like the friendly young man who had first greeted Roger in the lobby. “I doubt you have much to worry about,” said Roger, dryly. He stood, went to the closet, and continued dressing. “I have to go.” “I’ll write up a ticket,” said Peter. And he stood in the black jockstrap, back covered with angry red stripes, and wrote up a small invoice on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to Roger. Roger looked at it with pursed lips. Peter had charged him half the standard rate. It would be an insult to bring it up, so he merely said, “May I add my tip to the total?” “You sure can,” grinned Peter. He shook his hand again at the door as Roger left.

***** The crime scene tape and fingerprint powder still marked his living room, so Roger skirted it. He went straight to the shower, toweled off, and sat down on his bed. He methodically went through the items in his small daybook for the next day and set his digital clock. Before he turned off the light, he touched a silver framed photograph by his bedside. A much younger Roger and a man, arms laced around each other, grinned out at him from some Bahama beach. He shut off the light.

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Chapter Two “Dental records,” said Mary Anne, slapping them down on Roger’s desk. “We got a match to a missing person from 1983. A Gary Williams, aka Gabriella Williams. Twenty-four years old and of West Covina. Reported missing by the parents whom vic was still living with at the time.” Roger straightened the disorder Mary Anne had temporarily inflicted on his desk. “Have the parents been called?” “Records is tracking them down. They’ve moved from the address.” She shrugged. “Last name Williams? Christ, Corso. Could be anywhere by now.” Roger had four cases pending on his desk at the moment. He and Mary Anne took files home every night and neither of them had had a day off in weeks. But this case was personal. You don’t leave a dead body in a detective’s home and not expect him to take it personally. “Let’s find them,” he said. “Give me that report.”

***** “You’re fucking kidding me?” Roger had tirelessly pursued one bit of information after another and finally found a younger brother of the deceased at his residence in West Hollywood. “We have you as the next of kin of a Gary Williams of West Covina?” “My brother, Gary,” said the man’s voice. “Fuck. Can’t fucking believe it.” When he seemed to have no further comment beyond the repeated expletive, Roger said, “We would like someone to identify and take possession of the body.” “Take posses…” Silence. Then, “Fuck.”

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Roger waited patiently, then said, “I’d be happy to give you the number of our coroner’s office. You can call her at your convenience.” “No,” said the man. “No. Mom and Dad fucking spent the last years of their life waiting for Gary to come home. The least I can do is see that he’s buried next to them. I’ll come down there this afternoon.” “Thank you.” “So, how’d he die?” That was the question, wasn’t it? “We don’t know yet, sir.” “Figures,” said the man. “Listen, Detective… What did you say your name was?” Roger told him again. “Detective Corso, I’d really like to talk to you about this. Where are you located?” They made an appointment for that afternoon.

***** Another batch of medical examiner’s reports landed in Roger and Mary Anne’s mailboxes that afternoon. “He wasn’t sick, as far as they know,” said Mary Anne, speed reading the forms as she handed them over to Roger. “Seems to have died of ‘unnatural causes’ -- which we could have guessed -- and in answer to your question, my psychic friend, yes, despite mummification, there were signs of heavy bruising around the back and thigh area. Ribs broken, can’t tell of course if he died of internal injuries, as there are no internal organs to check. Head wasn’t bashed in. Lucky guy was probably conscious until the end.” Roger nodded, marking the margin of the report carefully. “Hard to tell that, of course, because the brain was gone, although the skull was intact. Like the ship in the bottle trick in reverse. Love to know how the perp did that.” “A hook through the nose, flatten the brain, and draw it back out through the nose,” said Roger, checking a box on the report with a precise move of his pencil. Mary Anne cast him a look. “Do I want to know how you know that?” “I was acquainted with an amateur Egyptologist,” said Roger. Mary Anne looked amused. “’Course you were.” She turned over another printed page. “They got the soil samples back, and our foxy CS tech guessed right. Sahara Desert.” Roger raised an eyebrow at the ‘foxy,’ but said, “I think we’ll learn more from the CS unit’s inspection of my house. This missing persons report has several associates listed here, and I’d like to talk to them if we can find them.” “Tried the first two. Dead of AIDS in 1984,” said Mary Anne. “The other man is apparently living, but we haven’t located him yet.”

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“And the brother,” said Roger. “Perhaps he’ll remember something pertinent.” “Excuse me,” said a voice at that precise moment. “You Corso?” About thirty, if that. A true redhead. With the milk white skin and splatter of freckles on tanned arms. Short spiked strawberry blond hair and dark blue eyes. Black eyebrows that stood out incongruously in that fair Saxon face. “I am.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Sean Williams, Gary’s brother.” He threw himself, uninvited, into the wooden chair near Roger’s desk and said. “So what are you doing about Gary’s murder?”

***** “I was seven when Gary disappeared. I barely knew him. He was just this freaky older brother who fought with Mom and Dad all the time.” Roger nodded noncommittally and recorded information in his precise neat handwriting in the spaces on the report. “It killed my parents.” Sean’s voice was bleak and Roger looked up from what he was doing to study the man slouched before him. Dark blue eyes, moody and intelligent, in an emotional face. He bit his nails. Roger could see the torn and chewed fingertips as Sean tapped them on his desk. “They must have kept mementos,” he suggested. “Photographs, awards…those might be helpful. Or maybe friends of his stayed in touch with your parents?” Sean frowned, brows drawing a thick marker of troubled thought over those turbulent eyes. “I don’t think my folks liked Gary’s friends. There was some stuff that they kept, though. When Dad died, I had everything thrown into storage, but there were a couple of boxes in the attic with Gary’s name on them.” He shrugged, studying his damaged fingertips. “He sucked the life right out of that house when he disappeared. But, funny thing is, they never talked about him.” Roger thought perhaps Sean’s interest in his brother’s twenty-five-year-old murder might be less about Gary and more about a childhood marred by silence, tragedy, and grief. “I’d like to see those boxes,” said Roger. “Sure.” Sean looked around, one leg moving restlessly as his fingers started tapping again. Roger quelled the urge to reach over and rap those agitated digits. “Mr. Williams, your brother was dressed in women’s clothes when he was buried. Did anyone ever say anything to you about…” Sean’s gaze jerked up to Roger’s, startled. “We have no reason to believe that your brother was a transvestite.” Roger continued. “We also wondered if he had a history with the BDSM community…”

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“Wait a minute. Let me catch up.” The color in Sean’s eyes seemed to darken and lighten like a mood ring. He ran his chewed fingers through his hair a few times, looking bewildered. “You telling me Gary was…what? A cross-dresser?” “I’m not telling you anything. I’m telling you that we wondered if that was a possibility.” The dark brows twisted expressively over those eyes. “That would explain the fights, I guess.” “I’d hate to assume,” said Roger. “But I would be very interested in the contents of any boxes you have.” “They’re in storage. Up at a big place in Sylmar,” said Sean. “I have the afternoon off. You want to take a look?” Roger checked in with Mary Anne, who was busy hunting down the last friend and waved him off impatiently. Give Mary Anne a database and a telephone and she was in heaven. She didn’t want any interference. “We can take my car,” said Roger.

***** “Please don’t pick at the upholstery,” said Roger calmly as they entered the freeway. Sean’s hand immediately stilled. “Sorry. Quit smoking two years ago and just never quite found a substitute.” Roger, who thought self-control shouldn’t require props to maintain, said nothing. “Just shipped everything into storage and sold the house when my old man died,” said Sean. He’d started rubbing his finger up and down on one sideburn. “Haven’t even seen any of it since.” “When your brother disappeared, do you remember the police coming to talk to your parents?” asked Roger. “Yeah.” Sean watched the scenery as he spoke. “It was in the paper, too. Back then, you know, people didn’t think right away about, you know, sex offenders when a person went missing. They’d think he was mixed up with criminal stuff, maybe. But I remember some of the questions they asked my mom had her really upset. They asked her about ‘strange men’ and she started to cry.” “You heard the police interview your parents?” This seemed inappropriate to Roger. “I hid at the top of the steps and listened,” said Sean. “Nobody seemed to notice me much those days.” The last sounded forlorn, probably more so than Sean realized. “They wanted to know if my parents had noticed strange men around and my mother said, ‘Do you think?’ and started to cry. So, naturally, I wondered what they meant. A few years later, I guess, I

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realized that they figured that Topanga Canyon killer had gotten Gary.” He turned his head. “Is that what happened? Was he one of those guys that serial killer killed?” “We don’t believe your brother was buried on Topanga Canyon,” said Roger. “You don’t believe? Why? Where’d you find him?” “Someone left the body where it would be discovered,” said Roger. They had arrived at the storage facility and he parked his car. “Who would do that?” “That’s a very good question, Mr. Williams. Now. Do you have a key or do we have to sign into the main office?”

***** Sean had a key to the deadbolt. He had to dig the combination out of his wallet. The plastic face that held his license had the little rainbow sticker on it that Roger had noticed earlier. It was an in-your-face type of place to put a declaration of one’s sexual identity, police and bartenders would be sure to see it, and Roger wondered if Mary Anne had had time yet to run Sean’s name through their system. “There.” Sean shoved the heavy door up. Spiders, dust, and debris fell into his face and he waved his arms wildly, coughing. Roger pulled him out of the way. “Jesus,” said Sean. “What a fucking mess.” The space was completely packed, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, with old furniture and boxes. A path ran through the center, a convention of moving companies. A crumbling and dust-laden waybill hung from a piece of yellowed tape on a box in the front. “When was the last time you visited?” asked Roger. “I, uh, came up here once a few months ago. I was thinking about taking some stuff out, but then I just figured why bother…” Sean was standing in a defensive posture, arms crossed in front of himself, frowning at the storage unit as if it offended him. Roger donned a pair of crime scene gloves and took down the waybill. There were several numbered boxes and only two that had not been packed by the moving company. “Please stay here,” he said to Sean, walking inside. The floor beneath his feet was dusty, but a clean streak ran down the middle. Roger frowned and looked around himself, then backed right out of the space. “Are you the only one with a key to this place?” “Far as I know. So. Did you find the box?” Roger dialed the station, saying to Sean. “Perhaps. We’ll know when our CSI people have had a chance to go through it.” “What? Why?” “Someone has been here.”

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***** Sean was agitated and jumpy and getting on Roger’s nerves by the time he left the police station and went off to his job as a bartender. “Can’t believe you took my stuff,” he kept saying over and over. “We will release everything to you as soon as our techs have had a chance to dust for prints.” Sean gnawed at his finger, scowling angrily. He was slouched down in the passenger seat of Roger’s car, the seatbelt so stretched by his position that it would have been useless in a collision. “Mr. Williams, while you are in my car, I’m responsible for your safety,” said Roger when it became clear that Sean wasn’t going to correct the problem. “Would you please sit correctly and tighten your safety belt?” Sean’s eyes rolled to him like Roger was possibly a dangerous lunatic. “Sure,” he said, doing as Roger asked. “How do you know there was someone there?” “The floor had been swept clean recently,” said Roger. Sean’s fingers began that irritating rhythm on the door handle. “There’s nothing in there anyone would want. I kept it because…” he scowled and said roughly, “when it’s gone, then so are they…” This embarrassing little declaration was rendered even more poignant by Sean’s manner. The tapping fingers rolled into a fist as he glared out the window, jaw clenched. Roger didn’t afford himself pity. He practiced compassion and embraced humane respect for the victims and families of victims that he met. He felt a surge of pity for Sean, though, that made him want to do something. Like, clasp the man’s shoulder, or invite him for a drink. He was relieved when Sean finally disappeared into the visitor’s parking lot.

***** “You want to work at my place tonight?” asked Mary Anne when Roger closed down his computer and leaned back, fingertips rubbing his closed eyelids. “I suppose. Mine is still a wreck.” “Ask the cap to authorize a voucher for you to have it cleaned.” Roger shook his head. He couldn’t think about all those people combing his living space. It was like finding ants in your cupboards. “Well, if you’ll pick up the wine, I’ll stop at Vitelli’s and pick up the pasta.” “Thank you,” said Roger. “I’d like some of their minestrone.”

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“You got it.” He drove toward Mary Anne’s, thinking of 1983 and what a young cross-dressing man, with possible connections to BDSM, might be doing in the Sahara Desert that year.

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Chapter Three In 1983, Roger Corso was eighteen years old, working day labor at a local farm to raise money for college, and he’d just found a beaten and moldy copy of Leatherman’s Magazine in an abandoned barn. He could still recall that entire existential moment. The smell of ragweed and mown grass and cattle. The sun falling in thick stripes from the chinks in the roof, filled with the lazy motes of the dusty hay he’d kicked up. By the time he was fourteen, Roger had noted and assimilated his strong attraction to men and relatively minimal attraction to girls. He wasn’t the sort of man to lie, to himself or anyone else. But he couldn’t bring himself to identify with what he had seen of gay men. The clownlike men on the news in their parades, or the excited young men who sashayed down the aisles of his father’s drugstore, calling to each other on the street in high effeminate voices. It made him wince inwardly. So at the time, finding the magazine there had seemed almost mystical in the sense that some power external to Roger’s everyday life had left that magazine there. Just for him. The drawing on the cover was black and white. A man with a face like an ax in a policeman’s cap, wearing a black vest. His muscles exaggerated and bulging, like in a comic book, his chest bare. A cigarette stuck out of his mouth and he looked at Roger as if they two had a secret. Roger sat down in the hay and opened the magazine. It fell naturally open to the center. On the left side a big, leather-clad man stood holding a leash. At the end of the leash, on the right, a naked man on his knees with a ball gag in his mouth, his hands bound behind him. Roger’s palms became damp, his entire body went tight and urgent, and he popped a boner so quickly he almost got a cramp.

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He thumbed quickly through the rest of the magazine, his heartbeat thudding in his belly. Men being bound. Men, in obvious pain, their eyes glazed, pricks eager and jutting out. Men as turned on by the intense sensations as Roger was becoming by seeing them. He tore the magazine up. Crumpled the debris and hid it in different parts of the barn. He even considered burning it, but decided against it because of the danger of fire in such a dry environment and had to settle for escaping out the back, taking care no one saw him. That evening, in his parents’ house, Roger found himself purposely playing at being a wholesome all-American boy. Carrying the wash out to the line for his mother. Playing ball with his father before dinner. Watching The Brady Bunch on television. Aware the whole time that he was playacting normalcy. Roger had stared into the abyss. And recognized himself there. Somewhere in Southern California, in 1983, a young man in a stunning Chanel suit was, for reasons unknown, by persons unknown, beaten severely about the back and thighs either before, and/or at the time he was murdered.

***** “Cause of death?” Mary Anne winced. “Beat to death? All the ribs were smashed in the back. Coroner’s 90 percent sure. Traces of blood in the suit, but fibers are too old to tell if he was wearing it at the time.” Roger nodded, as if he’d suspected as much. “They couldn’t tell if there was sexual assault. Seems a lot like a sex crime, though, doesn’t it? I mean, assuming the same guy eviscerated our vic and stuffed him full of mothballs.” Inwardly, Roger shuddered anew. Outwardly he nodded serene agreement. “So, some guy picks up a girl, finds out it’s a guy, and goes crazy. Beats the crap out of him before he realizes what he’s done,” Mary Anne extrapolated freely. “And then ritualistically wraps and buries the body so that it will be preserved,” said Roger. “Logical.” “Okay. So the perp’s a freak. He knows our she is a he. He stalks our vic because he’s got some issue with this whole…” she waved her hand. “Then he buries him like this, as part of his whole sicko fetishist fantasy.” Roger steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on them. “And digs him up twentyfive years later and leaves him in a homicide detective’s living room?” He and Mary Anne looked at each other. Roger’s hazel eyes were calm, thoughtful. Mary Anne’s green eyes were wide. “Recent releases of sexual crime perps,” she said, snatching up her phone. “And you call…”

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Roger already had the phone in his hand. “I’d like to speak to the chief in your hate crimes division? I believe his name is Stuart Polski?”

***** The national database hadn’t kicked out any recently released offenders whose MO came even close to mummification, “believe it or not,” muttered Mary Anne, and Stuart Polski hadn’t had any murders or assaults lately that seemed more horrific than robbery and family related. “Unless you count the Slurpee a guy threw out of a cab at two men holding hands on the sidewalk.” “Did you?” “Yep. But that’s it, thank Christ.” They could have faxed over their info, but Mary Anne had worked Polski’s precinct in her early years and Roger suspected she wanted an excuse to chat with him. “And cruise some of the neighborhood,” she said as Roger parked in front of a secondhand dress shop featuring a dozen frothy prom dresses with feather boas hanging from the eaves in front. “Why your house?” Mary Anne was puzzling again. “I mean, how many cross-dressing S and M freaks have you busted, Corso?” They climbed out of the car and walked up to the store. “Obviously, at least one more than I realized,” said Roger. He held a foamy red tulle frock with a shiny satin bodice up against his large frame and said, “You like?” “They don’t have your size,” said Mary Anne, walking through the front door. She hopped on her toes and waved over a rack of enormous corsets. “Hey, Debra!” “Mary Anne!” A tall elegant woman with short dark hair stooped over so she and Mary Anne could air kiss. “It’s so wonderful to see you.” “Debra, this is my partner Roger Corso.” Debra Abramson, aka David Abramson, held out a beautifully manicured hand. “How do you do.” Roger took Debra’s hand by the fingertips. “It’s a pleasure.” “We’re on a case,” said Mary Anne. “Do you mind going into the back?”

***** “It’s not that unusual,” said Debra. “Fetish has its own rules, you know.” “Have any of your friends told you about any freaks, though, lately?” Debra’s laugh was husky and raunchy. “All the time, Mary Anne.”

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“You know what she means,” said Roger. Debra blinked her heavily mascaraed eyes at Roger. He shook his head, trying not to smile. Debra was obviously delighted with their little secret. “This guy could be really dangerous,” said Mary Anne. “Spread the word, okay?” “I will, hon.” When they left, Debra gave Mary Anne and then Roger a little hug. She smacked Roger on the fanny as they parted, giving him a saucy smile. “See you,” she said. “Debra’s sweet,” said Mary Anne worriedly. “She takes too many chances.” Roger had last seen Debra being bound at a fetish party in North Hollywood. “It’s a risky lifestyle,” he said, repeating to Mary Anne what he’d said to Debra at the time. “Men who gender switch open themselves to attack anyway. If they’re also letting themselves be bound, it’s like playing Russian roulette.” “I keep telling her that.” They climbed into the car and drove slowly around the block. Sean Williams’s job was just down the street and Roger had a yen to double-check the young man’s supposed whereabouts during the time his disinterred brother’s body had been deposited in Roger’s house. Sean’s interest had set Roger’s nerves on edge. Mary Anne cast him a quick, worried look. “You okay?” “As much as I ever am,” said Roger wryly. “I mean, just, it’s like the perp knows about you.” Roger looked at her, surprised. Mary Anne knew that he was gay. Few people did, simply because he didn’t think it was anyone’s business. He didn’t associate or identify with the types of persons that most people identified as gay. But a partner should know most of the pertinent things about oneself and Roger wasn’t actually closeted. He was a cop. Who happened to be gay. Mary Anne’s solicitous sympathy was…strange. “Transvestites aren’t always homosexual.” “Don’t give me the lecture, Corso. Why put the cross-dressing mummy in your house, then?” “There are any number of possible reasons, none of which have to do with sexual orientation.” Mary Anne plucked at a hair on her head that seemed to always need twisting when she was thinking. She fidgeted. “I know.” Roger frowned. Whereas his thinking was linear, logical, deductive, Mary Anne’s was global, intuitive, and spookily precognitive. The men at the precinct called her “the witch.”

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Now Mary Anne crossed her legs in the small space allowed beneath the glove box. She wriggled her shoulders uncomfortably and then uncrossed her legs, and crossed them again the other way. Then she uncrossed them and crossed her feet at the ankles, twisting her hair the entire time. It was very much like watching a cat twitch its whiskers. Roger felt a little like a man hiding a mouse from said cat in his coat pockets. “There,” said Mary Anne, spotting the address that Sean had given them. The Pink Flamingo was a club that had been opened since before Roger had first moved to Los Angeles. A new LAPD recruit, closeted in so many ways, he’d never dared to frequent one of these clubs. He walked in, almost feeling like a tourist, looking around bemusedly. Black paper on the walls and ceiling. Basic alcohol offered on tap and behind the mirrored bar. No widescreen TVs with sports, but stools at a narrow railing allowed customers to look out onto the parade on Santa Monica Boulevard as they imbibed. The bar was almost empty. Usually, when Roger and Mary Anne walked into a room of men, all eyes went to Mary Anne. This time, a ripple seemed to trail behind Roger and lift all the men an inch out of their seats. Sean was behind the bar, flipping glasses up onto the lip, tipping various bottles over them and tossing cherries, olives, and umbrellas in a blur. “Hey! Detective Corso!” he announced loudly, and the men who had been coming toward the dark handsome stranger immediately turned back toward their seats. “I was gonna call you guys. Those people who took my stuff said I had to come down to the station if I wanted it back.” “Yes, I’m afraid that is the procedure,” said Roger. “That’s not right. I mean. It’s my stuff.” “There were signs that someone had been in the storage room recently, Mr. Williams. Wouldn’t you like to know if that has happened?” said Mary Anne. A silence, then. “Yeah, okay. But, listen, is there any way I can do it over the Internet?” It was an interesting idea, thought Roger. “I’m afraid not.” A sigh. “I’ve got a performance this afternoon, so time is tight.” “A performance?” “I’m a poet. I do performance art, mostly. Hey, if you stay, you can watch me do my thing.” Roger ignored that bizarre invitation. “If you give me a fax number, I believe I can have the forms faxed to you. Then all you’ll have to do is bring them in before work.” “Yeah. Great. Thanks.” A waiter came up, and Sean and he had to juggle drinks and money around. “Sheesh. Queers tip shitty,” he muttered, tossing change in a jar. “Oh, and hey, have you thought about the case anymore, Lieutenant, because I have some ideas…”

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“My partner and I are on it as we speak,” said Roger. “Which is why we’re here, Mr. Williams.” “Yeah?” “We hoped your employer could account for your working schedule last week.” Sean’s hand seemed to still mid-toss. He set the glass down, eyes lifting to stare into Roger’s. “Sure. He’s gonna be here in half an hour.” Roger found himself engaged in a staring contest. Sean’s expression was accusatory, almost hurt. For an insane moment, Roger actually felt like an explanation was warranted. He set his jaw and refused to blink. “It’s a standard procedure to check the whereabouts of any family members,” said Mary Anne. “Not necessarily because they’re suspects, but to give us a clear idea of…” “Sure,” said Sean, still gazing at Roger with that look. Then he blinked and looked away. “Like I said, Bob will be here soon. You can ask him.”

***** It was a bizarre sort of dinner break. At one point, Mary Anne, who seemed not to notice or mind being the only woman in the bar, went outside to make a phone call. Sean had been ignoring them both ever since he’d locked eyeballs with Roger. Now he came over, scrubbing the inside of a glass with what Roger thought was a grotesquely unsanitary looking towel, and said, “She know you’re queer?” “I don’t like that word, but yes, of course.” “Huh.” Sean sat down the glass and picked up another. “So you got a husband or anything?” Roger frowned and didn’t answer. He thought he heard Sean mutter something under his breath and then the young man went to the other end of the bar again, where he occupied himself. Until a big man in a blue shirt and black tie with a florid complexion and a big smile came in, and was introduced to Mary Anne and Roger as “Bob.” Sean’s whereabouts for the week in question were noted, amidst a great deal of enthusiastic comment from Bob about what a great guy Sean was. How trustworthy. Honest and true blue. A regular Eagle Scout. Bob was coming up with more praise when Sean stepped out from behind the curtains on the small stage, dragging a mike. “Oh boy, you should hear this,” Bob enthused, smacking Roger’s arm lightly with one hand. “His stuff is really tough.” Mary Anne’s eyes were laughing at him, and Roger could see that they were more or less trapped. They’d have to rise and walk across the lights, between the audience and the stage, to exit. “I can’t wait,” said Roger, dryly.

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“Okay, last week I passed a piece of paper around,” said Sean, into the mike. The thing screeched and whistled with feedback, and he spent some additional time fussing expertly with it. “Any of you guys here when I did that?” He made a show of holding the edge of his flattened hand to his forehead, like an Indian scout scanning the horizon. “Well, I don’t blame you for not admitting it,” grinned Sean. From his back pocket he drew a piece of paper with so many creases in it, it looked like an accordion fan. “Here’s the result,” he said. “This is something we guys in the poetry biz call an ‘Elegant Corpse.’ You dig? Bunch of lines build from the previous line. None of ’em seem to really tie together, but the whole thing makes a kind of wacky sense. So. D’ya wanna know what you douche bags came up with?” There was, much to Roger’s surprise, a mildly enthusiastic response. A couple of “yeahs” and a little clapping. Bob grinned and slapped Roger’s arm again. “They love him,” he confided. Roger looked around the room. He’d suppose one could call the expressions he saw in the faces tilted toward the stage “love.” Though he’d be more inclined to call them lascivious, lewd, and lustful. “I see,” he said. Up on the stage, Sean grinned, and sat the edge of his butt back on a stool he’d dragged with him onto the stage. The nervous habits, hesitations, and insecurities seemed to have wholly left the handsome young man who prepared to speak into the mike for them. Sean seemed to have grown in confidence by the simple act of walking up to the mike. “Okay, here we go. ‘I want to touch you, right there, where your shirt stretches across your chest, the sweat stains are old, and stink of your day job, where that asshole calls you pansy, and scratches his crotch, right out there on the street, like a hooker, showing you what he’s got, letting you see what you can’t have, I can almost taste it, my mouth on your sweaty neck, salty funky like your cock, you suck me and I’ll suck you, or just touch me like that, like I want to touch you.” Sean grinned while the smattering of men slapped their hands on the tables and counters and whistled. “Take it off,” yelled one of the men, quite distinctly, and Sean, to Roger’s horror, did grab the edge of the tight white T-shirt and pull it up to reveal one nipple. “That what you want?” asked Sean, smile confident, easy, eyes sweeping across the room and then catching on Roger’s. Something stilled in his face and he released the hem of the T-shirt so it fell back to his waist, despite the hoots from the floor. “Nah, you want more poetry,” said Sean, the smile still easy, though not quite as wide. His gaze slid away from Roger’s and he turned over the second sheet of paper. “I call this one, ‘Gary.’” “He told me you liked it rough. Hard. Burn your ass and over quick. He told me that he never knew about the black hole where there used to be a son. I…called him a…I…” Sean’s

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voice went weak, the words stumbled, and he lost his aplomb for a nanosecond, frowning at the paper. “Hey,” he said, quickly recovering, flippant. “Guess that one’s not done yet. How about this?” He launched into an inch by inch description of a tattooed cock. More hoots and hollers and cries of ‘take it off’ ensued. “Wow,” said Mary Anne, turning her head so that no one but Roger could hear her. “I wonder how often this guy’s been jumped after one of these shows.” It was exactly what Roger was considering how to prevent. “I don’t know,” he said, rising immediately and going to the stage. “Hey, Lieutenant.” Sean was elated and flushed with excitement. “What did you think?” “I’m not a literary critic,” growled Roger, low. “But you just had phone sex with a room full of men.” Sean’s wide smile died, just like that. “It’s all metaphor, Detective. But listen, can you stick around for a few more minutes? I’d like to talk to you anyway. I’ve been thinking about Gary’s murder, you know.”

***** Mary Anne was an evil woman, thought Roger, not for the first time during their working relationship. She leaned forward on her barstool, as Sean set up for his next shift. “So, all the sex really stands for something else?” “Most of it,” said Sean. His eyes flashed sideways at Roger as he answered Mary Anne. “Political arenas are very sexual. There’s a struggle for dominance, a desire for gratification and getting your needs met, ‘making a deal,’” he quoted himself. “Huh,” said Mary Anne, the evil witch. “What’s it mean when you said, ‘I like that you’re bigger than me’?” “It’s about power, again,” said Sean. And he looked straight at Roger when he said it. “Some men prefer being dominated.” “But I thought you said this was about politics?” “So what did Polski decide to do?” Roger barked abruptly at Mary Anne. Mary Anne’s pleased smile was knowing. “He’s posting notices around town. Spreading the word to the watering holes. I think Debbie will get the word out sooner than he will.” Sean’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “This about the guy who killed Gary?” “We should call in,” said Roger, ignoring Sean altogether and rising from his seat. “Thank you, Mr. Williams.” Sean was scowling at him when he looked back from the door.

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***** Although one might like to believe that the possibility of a serial killer loose in Los Angeles and purposely targeting members of the gay community would rev the violent crimes division of the LAPD up a notch, the sad truth was that the entire body of detectives was already stretched to their limit, and things went on as usual. Roger was able to get a rush on the CS unit’s inspection of Sean Williams’s storage locker, and they had already released two corrugated boxes smelling strongly of mildew and filled with the memorabilia of Gary Williams’s adolescence. Aside from the rather sad assembly of high school yearbooks, childhood photos, and band trophies, Roger found a ring of keys. One of them was definitely a house key. The others, though, looked promising. Roger took the box back to evidence, but signed out the keys. When he got back to his desk, he was annoyed and surprised to find Sean Williams had flung himself lazily across the chair there. Again. “Gary never went to college.” Sean was chattering away to Mary Anne. “When I went, that’s why it was a big deal.” Mary Anne’s eyes rolled up to meet Roger’s and then came back to Sean. “The report said your brother worked for a construction company?” she asked. Sean nodded. “Hey, that’s kind of funny given what we know now, isn’t it?” “What do we know now, Mr. Williams?” asked Roger. “It’s very ’80s, isn’t it? Queer construction workers?” “Do you think, now, that your brother was homosexual?” “But. You said…” Roger opened his mouth to deliver his speech again about the gender identity of transvestites, but Mary interrupted him. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Williams?” She led him off, thank God, and Roger sat down at his desk, inspecting the ring of keys. One of the keys looked like a bank safety deposit key, another like a locker key. On a wild hunch, Roger dialed and reached the YMCA in Hollywood, and found out the facility was the same that had been there in 1983. The bank deposit box key had a number on it and he was sure he could get a trace on it if he called a guy he knew at the armored truck company. “Boy, you can type fast.” Roger’s fingers paused, half off the keyboard, and he stared at Sean who, for an unknown reason, was still sitting next to Roger’s desk. He’d thought the man had left by now. “Yes?” “You never told me where they found Gary.”

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“Mr. Williams, we are investigating this as fast as we can and we’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Roger turned back to his computer with an air of finality. “Thing is,” said Sean. “That’s exactly what they said to my mom and dad twenty-five years ago. I don’t know; it just lacks that air of urgency a person wants to hear.” Roger looked for assistance, but Mary Anne had apparently gone off on one of her halfhour long ladies’ room junkets. Sean chewed his thumb, eyes darting around the precinct room, those bloody fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm on Roger’s desk. “Stop that,” snapped Roger suddenly. Sean froze. “What?” Roger schooled himself to patience, took a deep breath in, and released it slowly. “It can’t be hygienic -- or pleasant, either -- to have gnawed bloody fingertips all the time.” Sean lowered his thumb and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Sorry,” he said, sounding angry. He folded his fingers around themselves in his lap and said. “I don’t suppose you have any bad habits?” Roger raised his eyebrows, typing. He didn’t answer. Sean exhaled a laugh. “Course not. You probably do everything you’re supposed to all the time. Eat right. Exercise, of course. No way that body came easy. You probably go to bed on time, get up on time. No booze, no drugs.” “Nothing comes easy, Mr. Williams,” said Roger. “As you say. But that’s no excuse for losing control of one’s own body.” Sean blinked at him. Then those black brows narrowed to a point above his nose and his eyes went dark. “Sorry I don’t make the grade,” said Sean. He raised his thumb to his mouth as if to nibble at it. Caught himself and lowered it back to his lap, scowling. “Mr. Williams,” said Roger, as patiently as he could. “It will really help our investigation if you’d go home now. If you remember anything that you think might help us, of course, please call.” Sean glared at him. “You’re not going to do anything.” For some reason this really irritated Roger, who was accustomed to grieving relatives saying this very thing. “I am doing everything I am able.” “Bullshit.” “Watch your mouth!” snapped Roger. Sean blinked again. “What did you just say to me?” Roger whipped out a new IS54 form and laid it on the desk with fingers that almost vibrated. He was flabbergasted at himself.

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“Okay. Fine.” Miracle of miracles, Sean stood and gathered up the jacket he’d worn. “I’ve gotta get to the bar anyway.” He put his jacket on and turned to go. Roger was just, in a state of intense relief, going back to his monitor, when Sean turned back to him and said. “And I can swear if I want to, Mr. Perfect.” “Not around me you can’t,” retorted Roger. And he snapped his lips closed. Sean wavered between staying and going. But finally, with a disgusted noise, he chose to stride off. Roger lowered his hands and watched him go. What had come over him?

***** By the end of their shift, Roger hadn’t yet heard back from his Brinks contact, but he decided to visit the YMCA in person and check the locker key. “What are the odds?” said Mary Anne, looking around the old facility as they waited for a man to check the key for them. Roger was looking around with the eerie sense of phantoms looking back at him. He could almost hear the bare footsteps on the tile, men’s rough laughter. “Odds of what?” “Of the key still working, of there being anything there, of it not being a rotting pile of…” “Pretty low odds, I should think,” said Roger. The desk clerk had returned with, miraculously, the number of a locker on a yellowed hand-printed card. “Shall we?” They’d brought the bags and gloves just in case. Roger stood and waited while Mary Anne shot pictures of the locker several times. “Wow.” “He had to have kept them somewhere.” Holding an evidence bag underneath the rotting fibers, Roger tapped the remains of a faded rose-colored suit and watched it just slide into the bag. There were a number of dresses. And two sets of heels. The large round silver cosmetic bag was dumped en total into an evidence sack. At the back corner, a small black address book, its pages almost falling out as Roger carefully lifted it. “Poor kid,” said Mary Anne suddenly, and Roger looked at her in surprise. Mary Anne wasn’t given to sentimentality generally. Looking up and down the dim beige hallway of the YMCA, she said, “You know, you read Ginsberg and you think, ‘yeah you tell him, man’ but this is so…” “Demeaning and grim?” Roger carefully reclosed the locker door. Mary Anne glanced at him. “Sorry, Corso. I didn’t mean…” “No need,” said Roger. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

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Chapter Four Roger dreamed of Patrick again that night. The dream was a welcome one when it came, like falling into a warm bath. Peter’s voice in his ears, he could never hear the words, but those eyes were shining with so much life. They were standing in the warm water of the Bahamas, Roger realized, their feet visible on the white sand beneath the surf. Patrick’s feet smaller than Roger’s. Shell pink toenails. They crashed together in the dream. Patrick’s shirt was white cotton, open at the neckline. A leather necklace with that ankh he always wore, swinging as he turned and ran away from Roger. Patrick running. His shirt loose and torn in Roger’s hands now, for some reason. The loud sound of the surf drowning out whatever Patrick was saying. Roger could see his lips moving but… “What?” he yelled. And a look of frustration on Peter’s face, and then his head turning away in disgust. “No.” Suddenly, there was only the ocean. Loud. The sand beneath it black muddy now, the surf growing fierce and the color of black jade, he was standing on the coast of California under the Santa Monica pier and Patrick was gone. Roger woke up needing to pee. He stood in the dark of his bathroom, his shape a vague ghost in the mirror behind the toilet. A big man with dark hair. Eyes, he knew, that startled people. Big arms and shoulders. A farmer’s body, made harder and shaped by the gym and the whip. He crawled back into bed. He hadn’t dreamed of Patrick in a while now. The dream always left him aching with loneliness and the inability to cry. He lay on his belly, willing the feelings away. It was hours before he could fall back asleep.

*****

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“You look like hell,” said Mary Anne.

“Bad night.”

“I’m telling you. They should clean your place up for you,” she opined. She set a

Starbucks cup down on each of their desks. “Thank you,” said Roger, fervently. “No prob, partner. So. We got the CS reports from your place in our boxes last night. Are you ready?” Roger sighed. Mary Anne held one up. Leaning back in her chair, coffee in one hand, report in the other, she read. “Location was dusted for prints. None were found as resident of location cleans every night before retiring. No hairs were found. No fibers were found. No evidence of any life whatsoever were found. No DNA samples were found except those of alien whom we suspect is resident of location…” She was laughing when Roger snatched the report from her hands.

*****

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Patrick.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep asking. There is nothing to ask about.”

Those wise, serious eyes. Patrick was twenty-eight, but he looked twelve sometimes.

His face was clear, practically beardless. Ingenuous and honest. Every emotion showed there. A level of innocence that Roger could not remember ever having had himself. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me.” Roger laughed at that. A little shocked at how harsh his laughter sounded. How angry. And Patrick’s worried expression. God knew what he was imagining. Roger seated himself in the big leather chair. It was their first joint purchase for their apartment. A momentous thing, really, for both of them. He buried his face in his fists. “Roger, is it…have you met somebody?” Christ, the way Patrick’s voice sounded. Pained, but trying to be supportive, reasonable. Lovely, loving Patrick. He wasn’t going to get out of this. He was going to have to tell him. “There’s something you don’t know about me…” And Patrick had listened. Laid his hand on Roger’s knee and listened.

***** “Are you sure?”

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Patrick had that determined look that Roger imagined the martyred saints might have worn. “I’m sure.” “This isn’t something we do because I need it, Patrick. This is something we do because you need it.” “I understand that.” Patrick lay on the bed, his wrists and ankles bound loosely to the head and footboards. He was panting. Quick and fast. Like a frightened animal. Roger lay the light suede flogger on his boyfriend’s quivering butt cheeks. “You need a safe word.” Patrick looked up at him, his eyes full of humor. And told him. Roger cracked the first smile he had since Patrick had told him he wanted to do this. He raised the flogger and stroked Patrick’s behind with just a few easy smacks. Increased the force, the frequency. “Enough?” Patrick’s face was averted. His fists were clenched. He shook his head. “Remember your safe word.” Roger actually applied real force to his strokes. When he stopped, he was sweating with exertion. Patrick’s back was pink, his ass was deep red and Roger’s prick was hard as nails. “Patrick,” he gasped. “I want to.” “Do it.” Patrick’s voice didn’t even sound like his. It was harsh, needy, animal. “Do it now, Roger.”

***** “There was a partial boot print, but it looks like a size ten. And nothing remarkable about it.” “Wasn’t a woman then.” “One of them wasn’t a woman then. Or it was a very large woman.” They read the reports, commenting back and forth across their desks. “All the way across the rug, when they could have just lain him in the middle of the floor.” “And those two sticks?” Roger rubbed his forehead with the flat of his thumb and said. “A flogger and a whipping crop. The tails had fallen away but the handle was recognizable. And the thong on the end of the crop was wider than is normal for equestrian crops.” Mary Anne’s gaze rose to stare across the litter of coffee cups and tilting reports on her desk to his immaculate workspace. “Not a horsy crop?” Roger shook his head. “No.”

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“A flail and…what was the other thing the mummy held?” Roger was sitting back, his eyes closed. “Hey, Mr. Wikipedia!” “The pharaohs were depicted holding the crook and flail. The crook symbolized their role as shepherd of their people, while the flail was a device used by farmers to harvest wheat. It symbolized the pharaoh’s role as provider of food.” Mary Anne was studying the photograph. “That’s not what I think of when I look at them.” “Yes, well, I’m sure you weren’t meant to. Except the pose does refer to the Egyptian tradition. The pharaohs were associated with Osiris, and the entire concept of eternal life. Which really was the reason for mummification.” It was disturbing and had been bothering him from the outset. How many LAPD detectives would have a similar crop carefully stored at the back of their closets? How many murderers might know that he did? His cell phone buzzed. “Yes.” “Okay,” said a voice. “I’ve been remembering things I heard those last few weeks.” Roger lowered his phone and looked at the caller ID. “Mr. Williams?” A silence, then a snort of laughter. “Yeah, I guess you get a lot of phone calls like that.” He didn’t. Callers generally identified themselves first. “You said you’ve remembered something?” “My parents and Gary fighting. Seemed like they were always fighting. I guess I tried not to hear it and then I tried not to remember it, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this since they, since you, found Gary. I know it seems stupid to really care at this point, but …” “Mr. Williams,” Roger interrupted, as patiently as possible. “You’ve remembered something?” “Bits of things. Listen. It’s easier to tell you in person. I don’t have to work tonight. Let me take a shower and I’ll come down.” “I am frequently called out of the station, Mr. Williams. I may not be here,” said Roger, more than a little annoyed at a citizen who thought he had his own private policeman. “I’ll wait,” said Sean, cheerfully. And disconnected. Roger set his phone down on his desk and frowned at it. “That the Williams brother again?” asked Mary Anne. She was peeling the paper from a bran muffin. A process Roger could not bear to watch. She’d lick the crumbs from her fingers, tear off the top of the muffin, eat half of it and then leave the entire mess shedding bran crumbs and butter spots everywhere until the end of the day when she’d sweep it off her desk into the trash.

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She’d teased him when he’d first erected the four inch high ‘screen’ between their desks, which she referred to as “Hadrian’s Wall.” But Roger couldn’t bear the thought of Mary Anne’s debris sliding into his workspace. Now she licked her fingers and said. “I think he likes you.”

“What ?”

“That man was seriously ogling your fine physique, my friend.”

Mary Anne was probably the only person who could speak to Roger in this manner.

But even she should know better. “There is an obvious purposeful reference to the leather culture here,” said Roger, stiffly, picking up the CS report again. “I know an older Avatar member who might be helpful.” Mary Anne raised her eyebrows and tore the top off her bran muffin. “H’okay…I’ve got to type up these damned witness reports for that shooting last week.” She left the napkin with the mangled muffin sitting on the corner of her desk and turned to her computer with a pained expression. Roger averted his gaze and said into the phone receiver, “May I speak to Jay Lawson, please?”

***** The old house stood at the top of a series of concrete steps, laid into an ascending landscape of bird-of-paradises and cacti. Roger pressed the bell and waited. “Roger, it’s been ages. Come in.” Jay Lawson looked up from his wheelchair, raised a clear plastic mask to his face, and wheezed. “Oxygen,” he said, lowering the mask. “Too many years of smoking.” In Roger’s mind’s eye flashed the memory. A tall man on the back porch of a bungalow in Hollywood. Tight jeans, high leather boots. An obscene white and red striped T-shirt pulled taught over a packed chest. His eyes like sly bullets, and the perennial cigarette hanging from smirking lips.

“Well, look what the wind blew in. You lost, baby boy?”

“I was looking for the bathroom.”

“Were you?” The loud chink of the chains as his boot thudded to the porch floor. “You

better let me walk you in there, then; you don’t want to get eaten alive.” “Sir?” Roger gulped. A chuckle, Jay’s cigarette miraculously balancing on his lower lip, open mouth tasting the air near Roger. “That’s right, son.” Avatar, the very private, by invitation only, gay BDSM club in Los Angeles, had been founded the year that Gary Williams had disappeared. Jay had been, among other things, the group’s unofficial biographer and photographer.

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“I’ve been thinking since you called, but I don’t remember a cross-dresser named Gary or Gabriella,” said Jay. He wheezed in a huge breath, the plastic mask clapped over his nose and mouth. They sat in the back porch. Jay called it a conservatory in a voice like Betty Grable. A glass-enclosed Jacuzzi room, completely filled with green plants. “I think this young man might have stood out.”

Jay checked the huge, split leaf on a palm near his chair. “It was a free-for-all in the

early ’80s. Before the plague. Anything goes, or I should say went. You remember.” That said with the old familiar glint in those gunmetal eyes. “I thought you might still have your photo albums.” Jay wheezed a huge amount of air through his mask, expression thoughtful. “I might,” he said. Roger followed him as Jay steered his cart to the front rooms of the house. They were a disaster of books, periodicals, and memorabilia. It was an unbearably untidy place from Roger’s point of view, though the nature of the assorted “junk” was interesting in a historical way. Near an overstuffed Queen Anne chair, which had been stacked with issues of the very Leatherman’s Magazine that Roger had found all those years ago in the abandoned barn, were varying colors and sizes of photo albums. Each with plastic sleeves and each with dates stenciled on their fronts. Jay wheeled around to a table with several of these albums in his lap. “Here’s ’80 through ’83,” he wheezed. They looked through them. A peculiar sense of loss, for what he was not quite sure, took up residence in Roger’s chest as they did so. And suddenly, smiling out at him, was Gary Williams. “That’s him,” said Roger, stabbing an index finger at the picture. Jay drew it carefully from its sleeve, reading the enclosed slip of paper. “One of our parties. We had them at private homes back then. These men weren’t into drag, Roger.” “Who’s the man next to him?” A man who was looking at the young Gary with an expression one could only call “possessive.” Jay studied the picture for some time. “I don’t know for sure,” he said. Gary was shirtless and wearing a collar, but otherwise looked like any other young man. The resemblance to Sean was striking. And for a tiny instant, Roger’s mind stripped the man he had interviewed and put a narrow black leather collar on him. He shook his head. “Try to remember, Jay.” “He might have been a member of one of the bike clubs,” said Jay; he was definitely hedging now. “I hate to say.” “Why?”

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“This is a murder investigation, isn’t it?” Jay was looking away from Roger, his thumb working the edge of the photograph. Roger still remembered the first time he’d felt the thud of leather across his back. Still could close his eyes and feel the rhythm. The feel of Jay’s presence, the sound of his voice, supporting, commanding. The soaring away into space and the man’s gentle hand bringing water to his lips afterward.

“So, this is what the LAPD is breeding these days?” “They don’t…I mean, I’m not…” “Don’t worry, son. Nothing goes beyond these walls.” That protective secrecy had kept Roger safe. Now Jay was merely following the code. “That boy was beaten to death, Jay. Every rib was broken. Twenty-five years later, he still has bruises on his corpse.” When Jay still didn’t respond, Roger said, a little angrily. “Wouldn’t you rather it was me who questioned him?” Jay drew a notepad out of his pocket and a pen. He wrote something, then tore it off and handed it over. When Roger would have removed it from his fingers, though, Jay hung onto it for a second and said, “Prove it wasn’t a scene.” The core tenet of a BDSM scene was trust. If a Master had killed this boy, he’d done it out of violence and lust. Not as part of an S and M scene. At least Roger hoped that was the case. “I don’t prove anything, Jay. I just uncover evidence and arrest the bad guys,” said Roger. “Thanks for the info.” He’d forgotten about Sean’s intended visit and so was unpleasantly surprised when he saw that familiar red hair atop the figure slouched in the chair next to his desk. “Take your feet off my chair,” said Roger, in tones that could freeze air. Sean pulled his two scroungy-looking sneakers to the floor with a thud. “Sorry. Almost fell asleep waiting for you.” Dusting his chair off, Roger said, “If you’re tired, you should go home and go to bed.” “’S too early. I’m used to being up until three a.m. working, so on my nights off I can’t sleep. Sometimes I go to the studio and work, but I’m stuck these days.” “What do you work on?” asked Roger, inspecting his desk carefully for signs of any damage the young man might have inflicted on it. “Poetry,” said Sean, sounding angry. “You saw it. Performance art.” And at Roger’s continued lack of response, Sean produced a bent business card with a cartoonlike fist coming at the holder, a bright star behind it. “My pal and I even do paid shows once a month at the Fandango,” he said. “You should check it out.”

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The Fandango was an expensive dance club that specialized in pretty young men trying to pick up older rich men. “I don’t think so,” said Roger. Sean snorted. “It’s just a venue. We have an entire slam poetry and performance night there. It’s fucking awesome. It’s political art.” Roger looked at him. “Didn’t you say you remembered something about your brother’s case?” Sean’s dark blue eyes rested on him. “Not full of the pride, huh,” he said wisely. “Well, I guess that figures. This being the LAPD and all.” Roger realized that, once again, he was on the verge of snapping something without thinking. He drew a statement form from his desk and said, “Yes. Now, suppose you tell me what you came here to tell me?” Sean looked at the form. Roger noticed him abort a movement of his hand toward his mouth and finally settle on the annoying tapping instead. “Yeah. Well, I remember they were fighting because he’d taken Mom’s shoes. At the time, I’d thought I heard wrong and he’d stolen money or something. But she was definitely angry about the shoes. And some guy named Adam.” Roger paused, pen in midair. “Adam.” “Yeah. Some dude named Adam that my dad was going to kill if he came around again.” “Is that likely?” asked Roger. “What? My dad killing someone?” Sean laughed. “Nah. Dad didn’t even own a gun.” “Did you ever hear your father talking about this man to your brother?” “No. But I remember one night when he fought with them both and Dad told him not to come home. Boy that really freaked me out, you know? But Gary did come home. He was back the next morning when I got up for school. Here’s the thing: someone had beaten the crap out of him. He had a split lip and his face was a mess.” Sean forgot himself and raised his hand so that he could chew at his forefinger nail. “You know, Detective, I thought he and my dad had had it out that night. I thought, okay so that’s over with. But it was somebody else, wasn’t it?” “It’s possible. Did you ever see any unusual persons? Anybody unusual from your brother’s regular friends?” Sean grinned. “I was seven; if some drag queen had come to the door, I’d have thought he was a pretty girl.” “How about rough looking men?” Sean shook his head. “No Leathermen, if that’s what you mean. Gary had a Harley, though. And I know it wasn’t his cuz I saw him try to ride it once and it was hysterical to watch. He was keeping it in the garage for some dude, he said.”

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“A motorcycle?” “Yeah, big old monster Harley. After he disappeared, my old man kept it under a tarp. Two years ago, I had some bills, and I sold it and got a cool ten grand for it. Guess it was a classic.” “Would you happen to have the name of the person you sold it too still?” “Him? Yeah.” Sean thumbed through a small book he pulled from his pocket and Roger could see the pale brow flushing as he bent over it. “He was, um, hot. You know? So I kept it. Never got the nerve to call though…” He handed the number over. Roger called the number. It was still good and the owner of the bike still had it. Sure, Roger could come take a look at it.

***** “Mr. Williams, I could arrest you.” “Why?” Sean’s eyes were bright with surprise. Exactly the color of the sky behind him. Roger had emerged from his car outside of the Tujunga residence of the Harley’s owner only to see Sean’s beaten red Honda Civic pulling in behind him. “Interfering with a police investigation, for one thing.” “How?” He pulled a pair of cheap black sunglasses down over those eyes and tilted his face up toward the house. “I’m helping you.” Why was he unable to control this exasperating person? “I just wanna see it again. Now I’m curious,” said Sean. “I won’t interfere with anything.” He held his hands out as if to demonstrate his lack of interfering intent. Roger almost smiled. “Just try to be silent.”

***** “Yeah. She cleaned up sweet. Had to put on a new muffler. The old one was rusted through.” The man was big and dark. Tight grease-covered Levis rode high over a muscled butt. He pointed at the area where the muffler had had to be replaced, revealing the spider tat on his elbow. He saw Roger looking at it and cast Sean a wary glance. “The papers on this were clean,” he said. “Right?” “Yes, sir,” said Roger. “I was just hoping to get its serial number so I could trace the original owner.” “Oh, you don’t hafta. I wanted to enter it last year, so I did that. But, um, replacing the muffler made it not mint anyway, so I couldn’t. Still, she rides good and I’m not looking to get rid of her soon.” As he spoke, he’d been rifling through a box of papers.

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“Here.”

The owner had been an Adam Marchant. The same name Jay had given him.

“Thank you.”

***** “Hey, Detective!” Sean ran around the car as Roger was getting in. “You figured out something, didn’t you?” This had gone far enough. “Mr. Williams, you…” “Sean.” “What?” “You keep calling me Mr. Williams. It’s like you’re talking to somebody else. My name is Sean.” “You need to go home, Sean, and let us do our jobs.” “C’mon, without me you wouldn’t have found your clue. It is a clue, isn’t it?” Roger opened the door of his car and got in, fully intending to ignore Sean and even drive over his body if necessary. “Oh, right,” Sean was saying. “Well, I’ll meet you back at the station.” “No, you will not,” said Roger. He’d been about to slam his car door shut. Now he just sat there struggling against the urge to rise up out of the car and…and what? Smack some sense into the man who leaned against his window? Chewed fingernails on the pale, freckled hands. A scruffy plaid cotton shirt that looked like it had never seen an iron. Crooked, smudged black sunglasses and too long red hair. “But I can help you,” said Sean, and he smiled in a disarming way. Roger stared up at him. “Please,” he begged. “Go home, Mr. Williams.” Sean pushed his glasses up so they rested in his hair. He gazed at Roger, weaving his hands together and licking his lips. Thunderclouds darkened those sky blue eyes. “Sure. I’ll call if I think of anything else.” Roger felt inexplicably guilty. “Please do.”

***** “Adam Marchant?” Roger hadn’t really had any expectations whatsoever about what kind of person this former Leatherman and Harley rider might have become. Twenty-five years is a long time. And the stretch from 1982 to the present seemed almost a century.

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The modest California ranch house in Moorpark with the SUV and kids’ bikes in the driveway. Basketball hoop fastened to the garage door and a small pink child’s baby carriage on its side on the porch on which he stood wasn’t a complete surprise. The man who answered the door, however, was. “I’m Adam Marchant.” Mid to late fifties, well groomed, with a distinguished gray mustache and goatee, Adam Marchant’s eyes flicked down to Roger’s detective’s shield and then up to his face. He wore a gray sweater over a tab collared shirt through which showed the white strip of a priest’s collar. Children’s voices in the house behind Father Marchant. A woman calling to “Jimmy” to “get down from there this instant!” “I’m investigating a cold case,” said Roger, carefully. “A homicide from, we believe, 1983.” He saw the caution and just the tiniest spike of fear in Marchant’s eyes. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” “Yes,” said Marchant, pulling the door closed behind himself. “Come with me.”

***** “The house is part of the rectory,” Marchant explained as they climbed the back steps of the Church of the Way. He fitted a key into the lock and ushered Roger in. A subdued and simple room. The decor probably furnished by various contributing parishioners. Marchant sat down in a big leather chair behind a desk drowning in paperwork and said, “You said you were investigating a homicide.” “Yes, sir. I believe he may have been an acquaintance. A Gary Williams.” The expression on Marchant’s middle-aged face was as if he’d been hit with an arrow in the chest. “Gary.” “Yes. You did know him then?” “We were lovers, Detective. It wasn’t a secret.” Marchant swiveled the chair so the back of his head faced Roger’s. Roger rose and walked around the desk, so that he could see Marchant’s face. “Do you remember at all when you last saw him?” Marchant’s faded blue eyes squinted as he seemed to gaze beyond whatever it was he saw outside his window. “No. When I found the Lord, I walked away from that life altogether.” This didn’t answer Roger’s question. “So the last time you saw him was…” “I tried to save him, of course. I pointed out that what we were doing was wrong. He wouldn’t listen.” “And what did you do when Gary wouldn’t listen to you?”

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Marchant seemed to wake from his reverie. “Nothing. What could I do? He was determined to lead that life. I was determined to save myself. I can tell you very exactly when the last time was I saw Gary William, detective. It was exactly two days after God found me. June twenty-eighth.” “What year?” “June twenty-eighth, 1983.” Gary had been reported missing by his parents two days later. Marchant’s big hands folded over his arms, clasping his elbows. His lower face seemed to tremor a little, eyes still squinting out of the window. His gave off nervous tension and something else that set Roger’s alarms off, and he found himself gauging the distance from himself to the man, to the door. Calculating seconds and possible scenarios. “I know it was a long time ago, sir. But is there anyone who might remember your whereabouts that day?” “Ah, well, yes. My wife, Detective. Judy and I flew to Las Vegas and were married that day. Would you like me to call her?”

***** Judy Marchant was terrified. A tiny woman wearing a dress and heels, wringing her thin hands and glancing nervously at her husband throughout the interview, like a mouse in a dress. She looked haggard and worn, but still not much over forty, and Roger wondered how old she must have been when she’d married. Her voice was barely audible. “Y-yes, I-I remember.” Marchant’s expression was irritated, his voice snappish. “The detective can’t read your mind, Judy. You have to tell him what you remember.” She almost cowered. “Y-yes.” He voice lowered even more as she spoke, her eyes only on her husband, now, whose expression remained disdainful and displeased. “Adam and I took a plane to Las Vegas and…and the ceremony was…was…” Her voice dropped below hearing level. Painfully, slowly, Roger extracted Judy’s story. It appeared that Adam Marchant was fully alibied for the time period of Gary William’s disappearance. Though Roger did wonder what Judy Marchant wouldn’t say at her husband’s request. Especially given the greenish bruises on her arms when she bent over to pick up one of the boys playing nearby. “Leave that,” snapped Adam Marchant. Judy flinched, and almost dropped the boy back to the linoleum. Marchant walked Roger to the door. “Excuse my wife, Lieutenant,” he said, loud enough for her to hear him.

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Roger purposely thanked the woman as well as her husband. Marchant walked him to the car. “Judy is slow,” said Adam as Roger climbed back into his vehicle. “But she is an obedient wife and mother, as the Lord decrees.” “Thank you both for your time,” was all Roger could think to say. And he drove off. In the rearview mirror, he saw Mrs. Marchant, now standing on the porch, scurry back into the house when her husband turned.

***** Roger meditated on the possible events of Gary Williams’s last days as he drove the long route back on the Ventura Freeway. Twenty minutes from his own exit, he touched the Bluetooth on his dash and pronounced, “Peter.” Then he merged into the right lane rather than the left, and followed the ramp to the Hollywood Freeway instead.

***** The purple haired boy at the reception desk had his feet up on the counter as he read the LA Weekly. He looked around the paper and said. “Uh, Peter don’t take clients on Wednesdays.” “I’m aware of that,” said Roger. “Would you please tell him I’m here?” “’Kay.” The kid dumped his feet and the paper on the floor, and buzzed Peter’s extension. “Tell him I’ll be right out,” said Peter’s voice over the speakerphone, and the kid rolled his eyes, snatched up his paper, and went back to perusing the personals. Peter emerged a few minutes later. He was wearing much the same sort of clothes he had been the other night. Khaki slacks instead of jeans, and a soft green cotton shirt that went well with his silky brown hair and light brown eyes. His smile was pleased and crinkle lines appeared around his eyes when he took Roger’s hand, and then embraced him in a onearmed, backslapping hug. “I was so glad you called.” “Yes, well, we haven’t done this in a while and I’ve heard of a new Cuban restaurant.” “Great! That’s a great idea.” Peter walked with him to the front door. “Barry?” he said to the kid at the reception desk. “Do I have any appointments tomorrow morning?” Snapping his gum, Barry thumbed through a grubby appointment book at his right elbow. “Nope. Nuthin’ till after six.” “Good,” said Peter. And turning to Roger. “Let’s go.”

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Peter and Mr. C exited and Barry reopened his paper over the appointment book, scanning the pictures of girls’ advertising clubs. Perhaps five minutes had passed when the smoked glass pneumatic door to the lobby opened and a tall, angular, redhead entered. “Excuse me?”

Barry glanced at the guy and didn’t even lower his paper. “Yeah?”

“Um, what sort of place is this?”

Barry’s eyes went opaque, eyelids drooping. “It’s a club. Members only.”

The guy looked around suspiciously.

Still schooling his face to express boredom, Barry sized him up quickly and decided the

guy was definitely not their type. Not with that overlong Supercuts haircut and the cheap Kmart shirt, at least. The guy chewed at his thumb and asked, “What kind of club?” Barry snapped his gum and said. “It’s an invite only men’s club, man. You musta come in the wrong door.” “Invite only?” Man the guy was fidgety. It was starting to make Barry’s nerves crawl even. Like maybe the guy was an undercover plant or something. “Sure. You get a member to invite you, that’s all. It’s like the Masons.” The guys mouth hung open a little, like he breathed through it. “The Masons? Um. What if I know a member and want to join?” “Get him to introduce you.” Barry raised his paper as if the conversation were over. He could feel the guy still standing there, though, so he lowered it and just leveled an impatient stare at him. “D-d-do you have cards? Or a brochure?” stammered Red. With an irritated sigh, Barry folded the paper and slapped it onto the counter hard enough to make the guy jump a little. He opened a drawer and rifled through it until he’d found one of their little black and blue cards. “Here.” He tossed it on the counter, purposely making his body language and face pronounce, “Get the fuck out of here now.” The guy snatched up the card, read Barry’s expression correctly, and scampered away. Jesus, thought Barry, picking up his paper. Where the hell did they come from anyway?

***** The restaurant was new enough that the trendy crowd hadn’t discovered it and Roger found a parking place at the front easily. “I’ve been on a case that might involve someone in the life,” he confided uncomfortably to Peter, as they waited in the bar for their table.

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“Can’t be the first time that’s happened.” The bartender replenished Peter’s glass of wine and he tipped her, giving her one of those crinkly-eyed smiles. She smiled back and tossed her hair a little when she walked away. “No,” said Roger. He shouldn’t talk about a case with Peter. Usually, he wasn’t even tempted to talk about his cases with his friends or family, content to leave that part of his life, with all its sad details, in the office where it belonged. But he wanted desperately to tell someone what he feared. “This one feels personal,” Roger said. Their table was called at that point and they seated themselves. Peter perused a menu and Roger supposed that he’d forgotten what Roger had said. “So, why does it feel personal?” Roger mulled over his answer. Department protocol and common sense warring with his intense need to rid himself of this phantom. “Do you ever think about those days, Peter?” “The days of wine and roses? Or, should I say, Guns ’n’ Roses?” Peter’s eyes flashed up at Roger, twinkling. “It really was a plague.” “Ah.” Peter got the expression that most men’s faces did if one spoke of the dead. And, as usually happened, he turned the subject. “Mark wants to move the club farther out of town.” Peter opened his napkin and laid it on his lap. Then he looked up at his dinner partner and sighed. Roger was gazing with unseeing eyes at his menu. “The homicide you’re on has something to do with AIDS?” he guessed, gently. “No, actually.” Roger seemed to notice the menu under his arms and waved over the waiter. They ordered. After the waiter had retreated, Roger explained, “The vic was most probably a sub. I spoke to his former Master today and I think it threw me a little.” There. He’d said more than he ought to. Peter nodded. “Oh. Those old days.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder about some of those old bears.” “Hmmm.” “You know, the first time I saw you, Roger, you were standing with your back pressed primly up against the wall, in waist high blue jeans and a brand new white T-shirt, looking like you were going to piss yourself. And even then, I knew you’d never bottom for any man.” “Never say never, Peter. And I’ve taken the cross.” “It wasn’t meant for you. Never was. I was actually frightened for you the first time I saw you standing before Jay. I knew you didn’t belong there.” Peter was right. For Roger, it had been more a test of manhood. A way to see himself as less than a monster. “The masochist is a holy man,” quoted Roger. “I envied you, Peter.”

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“Given a choice, I’d rather sub,” Peter admitted. “With a trustworthy partner it’s like flying. Hell when he’s a bastard though.” There were men out there who just liked to hurt people. It was one of the reasons Roger was a cop. His mind went again to Marchant. It was hard to say how much of the man’s underlying anger was at himself for being gay, and how much just a natural violence. Roger thought of Gary, seeing him in his mind’s eye as a younger and even more innocent Sean, under the fists of Marchant’s rage and the thought sickened him. Driving on the freeway, Roger had been able to conjure exactly how it might have felt to be twenty-three in a dangerous power-balanced relationship, teetering between masochism and suicidal depression, and have one’s partner suddenly yank the rug out. “I almost feel that there’s a message meant for me personally in this case,” he confided. “An esoteric message?” asked Peter. “No. A specific and down-to-earth message. The body was left on my property.” Peter leaned toward him then, eyes wide. “A threat?” “No. no.” Roger waved it off. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up. As a matter of fact, I’m forbidden to discuss the details and it’s just going to spoil our dinner.” Still looking troubled, Peter nevertheless picked up his wine and dropped the subject. The garlic chicken was excellent, as was the house rice. Peter drank, perhaps a little too much wine, but Roger was driving so there was no harm in it. In the parking lot, Peter leaned into him. His breath on Roger’s cheek was muzzy with wine when he said, “Why don’t we go to your place?” Roger read Peter’s eyes. “You don’t have to.” “I know that, Roger.” Roger’s thumb brushed the soft pout of Peter’s lower lip. He nodded.

***** The CSI personnel had come in and cleaned, but Roger’s mind’s eye was still filled with the scene, so when Peter walked in and strolled over to the couch he said quickly and sharply. “No.” Peter stopped, turning slowly with a look of surprise. “No to anything in particular? Or was that just an answer to the existential ‘yes’?” Roger smiled. “I…just had the sofa cleaned. Please, come into the kitchen.” Peter stumbled up against him when Roger went to the refrigerator. Roger held the man steady by his elbows. “You okay?” Peter looked up at Roger and bit his lip playfully. Roger cupped Peter’s face in a swift gesture that was more like a cuff than a caress, then carried through with an openmouthed kiss.

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Peter went after Roger’s tie and buttons as the kiss deepened, and in a few minutes they were stumbling from the kitchen to the bedroom. Peter crawled backward up Roger’s bed. Those long white limbs filled with shadows in the moonlight peaking through the top of the window. Roger pursued him on all fours, like a cat. Until he knelt over Peter, whose eyes were black as he looked up, face an oval on the pillow, dark hair splayed out around it. Roger touched the soft cool cheek. He hadn’t had sex with anyone but himself in ages. Straight sex didn’t bother him too much. But the ensuing courtship and relationship issues did. And it disturbed him on a very elemental level to indulge in casual sex. This. Having sex with an old friend, really came close to crossing Roger’s rigidly defined line. Peter’s body moved restlessly beneath his. Long and white, he cared for it the way any man did who spent most of his working life nude. Long cock dark at the tip and damp on his soft belly. Roger fell on him. Peter tasted like honey, for some reason, with a hint of garlic. He responded with pleasure, but not passion. Passion would have been too much for Roger. Peter moaned when Roger entered him and once, while Roger was thrusting, he cried out, a small helpless sound. The release was a relief, but not complete. It was never complete. Roger lay atop Peter and tried to catch his breath. “You’re a little heavy, Roger,” said Peter from beneath him. Roger grunted and rolled off quickly. “Sorry.” Peter raised himself on one elbow and looked down at Roger, who lay there, rigid, arms against his side, eyes staring upward. “You make everything so hard for yourself, Roger.” Roger sighed. “Yes.” Peter rolled off the mattress and went to use the bathroom. When he came back, wiping his hands and the insides of his thighs with a towel, he said. “Do you want me to call a cab and thus avoid the uncomfortable morning after?” Roger sat up on the bed. “I’ll drive you home.” They didn’t talk much on the drive to Peter’s place, but the silence was companionable and relaxed, not awkward. “Peter,” said Roger, as his friend was about to step out of the car. Peter looked back at him. That clear vanilla-colored skin, and eyes warm with affection. “Nothing about having you as a friend could be uncomfortable.” Peter leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Try to sleep tonight, babe.”

*****

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Father Adam Marchant kept the meeting and celebration hall of the Church of the Way open all day to visitors, but he locked it up at night. Marchant was standing at the front, turning the overhead lights off, one row at a time, when he saw a silhouette slide away from one of the doors leading in from the narthex. “Hello?” he called, striding up the aisle toward the front of the church. In front of the table full of brochures and church bulletins, the visitor hovered between shadow and the half-light coming through the high transept windows. “I didn’t know you were closed,” he said, and turned. Marchant thought that perhaps the detective today had rattled him more than he’d realized. His mind was playing tricks of memory on him, making boogie men pop out of the shadows and strangers in his rectory bear uncanny resemblances to dead lovers. Because in the second that the stranger turned, Marchant was sure he faced Gary. Those dark eyes in the pale face, that turn of the head. An echo from the corner of his memory, manifesting there in his darkened sanctuary. “What do you want?” asked Marchant, a bit harshly. “I’d heard about you and I was curious.” His voice was huskier than Gary’s. And there was something almost belligerent about the thrust of the chin. He stepped into a pool of light and Marchant could see clearly that this was some other man. Of course it was. “We’re happy to welcome any visitors,” he said, recovering. He offered his hand. “I’m Father Adam Marchant.” “Sean,” said the man, and slid a calloused, long-fingered hand into Marchant’s. “This is your church then?” “Not mine; it belongs to the community of Christ. I am their pastor, though.” “Huh.” Sean’s eyes searched Marchant’s face. “You’re a priest?” Marchant had spent his life recognizing, and reeling in, men who sought answers. For many years, he himself had sought answers and he knew the expression of curious distrust, the searching gaze. “We are a Protestant Fundamentalist sect of the United Presbyterian Church,” he said. “Not that it would really matter to anyone but those of us who worry about who writes the checks.” And he chuckled. “Ah, I get it. It’s not like you’re a priest or something.” Sean turned back toward the visitor’s table and flipped a brochure with those agile long fingers. “No. I have a wife and children. Our church believes very strongly in traditional family values.” “Really?” Sean seemed to scan the bulletin board hanging on the wall. Marchant followed his gaze.

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“Our men’s group is meeting tonight,” he pointed out. “You could join us if you’d like to find out more about us.” “Yeah? Maybe I will.” Sean raised one arm and scratched softly at his wrist. The man had a lot of nervous mannerisms, noted Marchant. Now that he could see him clearly, the resemblance to Gary almost completely evaporated. Just another tall redhead with blue eyes really. “The meeting begins at six-thirty. You’re welcome, if you want. Now I have to finish closing up, if you don’t mind.” That searching look again. “Sure.”

***** Sean was given to understand that Marchant had duties and family to attend to before the meeting, so he parted from the man with a handshake. Then, Sean drove his car into town and wandered around for a bit, coming back in time for the meeting. Marchant had not yet appeared, so Sean introduced himself to the group of suburbanite men already milling about. The theme of the group seemed to be a discussion of what they called “Christian husbandry.” Sean sat in a circle of folding chairs in the basement of the church, hands clasped between his knees, listening to them speak. “So what’s this Father Marchant like?” he asked, after a while. The man sitting next to him was heavy and blond, short enough so that his overall body type resembled a pink beach ball. “He’s a great leader.” “The kind of man who practices what he preaches,” said another man. He chuckled. “Excuse the pun.” “He said he’s married?” “Yes. Are you married, Mr.…?” “Sean,” said Sean. “No, I’m not.” Another one of the men volunteered, “Well if you’re looking for a girl, the Church of the Way is a great place to find one.” “I’m not really,” said Sean. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said an older-looking man who sat near him. Grecian formula black dye in his hair and badly acne scarred skin. “Feminism has ruined women. But the girls here are different.” “The girls in our church are looking for a traditional household where the man is still head,” said a man, nodding. He pointed, and the thick yellow gold ring on his finger flashed. “Which includes discipline, if necessary.”

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“Within reason,” said a man softly, who sat next to Sean. He had longish light brown hair that fell in his eyes when he smiled and looked sideways at Sean. “Loving discipline is a responsibility, not a privilege.” “Bobby’s one of our newlyweds,” said another man, and they all laughed a little at Bobby’s expense, who flushed and looked at the floor. “He’s right, though,” said Adam Marchant, appearing at the doorway and coming into the room. “Wife-spanking exists for a purpose.” “S-spanking?” said Sean. “You see it on the web referred to as Christian domestic discipline,” said Marchant, unloading a small stack of binders, books, and mail onto the floor next to his chair. “It’s simple common sense, really. A woman doesn’t respect her husband if he appears weak, or if she is able to bully him, as feminists would encourage her to do. That disrespect leads to divorce. Wife-spanking is definitely preferable to divorce or perpetual bickering.” “Outsiders don’t understand,” said the man with the bad skin. “Exactly,” said Marchant. “As evidenced by Tom’s trouble last week.” A conversation ensued amongst the men, then, about Tom, who seemed, from what Sean could glean, to have been arrested for abusing his wife. “That neighbor woman friend of Sally’s reported them,” said a man. “The police are run by atheist politicians and intellectuals these days. They don’t understand the biblical injunction that the man is the head of the woman.” “Oh,” said Sean. There then ensued a brief discussion about why it was necessary to spank one’s wife until she cried, at which point Sean noticed several members of the men’s group pointedly averting their eyes from each other.

***** “Come next door and I’ll give you a pamphlet to take home,” said Marchant, after the meeting. He introduced a mousy-looking woman and two fairly normal-looking children, and disappeared into a room in search of the pamphlets. “Nice weather,” said Sean nervously to her. She looked at the floor, wrapping the fingers of one hand around her elbow and Sean noticed the dark green pattern of bruises down one of her arms. “Here they are,” said Marchant, reemerging from another room. “We have services Sunday at nine thirty a.m. and eleven a.m.,” said Adam Marchant when he walked Sean to his car. “I hope we’ll see you there.” “I don’t think so,” said Sean.

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Marchant looked slightly hurt.

“You see, I’m gay,” said Sean.

Marchant’s face went immediately dark with anger. “I suppose you think you’re very

funny.” “No,” said Sean. “I never think that. I don’t know what I think of myself, but I don’t think I’m funny.” He opened his car door. “I was curious about you, I guess. I wondered what made a man like you tick.” Marchant could see it now, he imagined. The signs. “It’s an evil habit.” Sean’s eyes searched his. It was intimate and open, and still lost. “My brother, Gary,” he said. “Did you think he was an evil habit?” Marchant’s sallow face turned gray. “Gary? Oh my God…” “Is that why you killed him?”

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Chapter Five “On the Williams case, I’ve asked the coroner to check for overdose or lethal dose,” said Roger to Mary Anne the next morning. “Suicide?” Mary Anne peeled the paper from her bran muffin, placing each grubby strip down on the napkin. “How, pray tell, did our vic then disembowel and mummify himself?” Her voice was pitched one octave higher than usual. Roger glanced up at her. She had that pinched look she got around her little Dutch nose sometimes. It made her look like a wizened elf. “You go out with the tech from the lab last night?” “Men are stupid,” said Mary Anne, pleasantly enough. Roger nodded sagely. “True. So did he stand you up or drink too much or insult the…” “He was charming.” Mary Anne shook bran muffin off her fingers fiercely and then dumped the uneaten pastry into her trash. Her chin landed in her fist and she sulked. Roger was trying to think, desperately, of something that needed doing elsewhere when she said, “Oh, and that Williams brother called. He only wanted to talk to you, so I took a message.” And now she was smiling sweetly across Hadrian’s Wall at him, holding up a pink phone message slip. “I promised you’d call him back.” Roger privately promised himself to punish aforementioned CS tech at some future date. “Thank you,” he said, taking the note.

*****

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“So, I was thinking about Gary and why he might have been killed, and I wondered if you guys had any other people killed that way?” Roger had barely identified himself before Sean started talking. “Because I read up on serial killers and they have the same MO.” “Thank you, Mr. Williams. We have checked into that,” said Roger. “Nobody like that, huh?” Behind Sean’s voice, Roger could clearly hear the sounds of a busy bar. The clink of china and glass, and the rumble of voices mixed with piped-in music. “And then I thought, why else would somebody want to kill a young gay man. Or, maybe a man who liked to dress like a girl. Some kind of Dahmer-like psycho, maybe. Mild mannered on the outside, maybe even with a wife and kids…” “That’s not something we discuss with…” “Because, for all you know there could be a bunch of bodies buried out there somewhere.” “We do endeavor to prevent that, Mr. Williams.” “I read that these guys just get worse and worse, too, until they get caught. Or, like that Zodiac Killer guy. The one they made the movie about? They never really caught him.” Roger sighed. And then, a miracle happened. His phone lit up and he saw Mary Anne waving urgently. “Mr. Williams, we are being called to a scene. I have to go.” “But…” “Please, write down anything you remember and give it to the front desk,” said Roger, sliding on his coat as he stood. “I’ll pick it up when I get back.” He hung up.

***** The rest of the afternoon was an ugly mess at a downtown bus stop where a car had jumped the curb, killing one and injuring six others. Several of the detectives, including Mary Anne and Roger, were assigned the duty of interviewing and collecting all of the data, and filling out the laboriously detailed forms. On the way back, Roger’s condo security team called to tell him they had the transferred surveillance tapes from the week he had been absent from his home available for pick up, so he and Mary Anne made a detour to fetch those. Then, back at the office, he assigned a hapless clerk the task of logging and detailing the tapes to save him time later. Then he sat down at his desk with the new pile of reports that had appeared in his and Mary Anne’s mailbox that afternoon. About two hours later the clerk gave him a log book, and he retired to the video viewing booth with a cup of tea, a banana, and a notebook. While he watched the tape, he also thumbed through Gary’s old address book.

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Some of the names in the book were obviously nicknames. A few were unusual enough that Roger noted them, stashing them into the file drawers of his enormous mental database to ask Jay about later. At seven p.m. he looked at his watch and turned off the tape deck. “I have to call it a night,” he told Mary Anne. “Oh, that’s right. It’s a first Wednesday, isn’t it?” For some odd reason, Mary Anne had her head and shoulders under her desk. Roger spoke to her pert little behind. “Yes. Call if you need anything. I’ll be available by cell after 10 p.m.” “Will do,” called Mary Anne’s butt.

***** “Roger, I know how you feel, but we really don’t have anyone with your skills available.” Peter was dressed in low-waist painter pants that rode loosely over his slim hips and revealed the soft indent between the mounds of his buttocks. He padded along beside Roger down a back hallway barefoot, waving a thick folded sheaf of papers in one hand. “You don’t know how I feel,” said Roger. “Of course I don’t. It was a poor choice of words. But this kid seems like he might be special and I don’t want to hand him off to just anybody.” Roger could feel the belt of tension stretching across the area between his shoulder blades. “Fine, let me talk to him and we’ll see.” “Great. Thank you.” “I said, we’ll see, Peter,” Roger called to Peter’s retreating back. Behind the curtain at his left elbow, he could hear a sound completely uniquely recognizable, and he parted them carefully and stepped in behind a small crowd of people who were already watching a scene. Roger wasn’t particularly fond of caning. It lacked, he thought, the artistry of the whip. But the man they were watching had an immaculate grasp of human anatomy and was able to place each stroke at just the right location at seemingly the exact time his sub needed it. The man who stood with his arms loosely bound before him had his head tipped up, his eyes almost closed, the eyelids fluttering. His body shuddered, a ripple of reaction, at every stroke. “Will you look at that,” whispered a woman near Roger. The Avatar allowed all sexes and orientations to view these public scenes, although the club itself was male only. It used to worry Roger. Now he thought it was probably the only thing that had brought his mind into the twenty-first century to embrace female emancipation. A woman who could give her body up totally to this experience was a woman to revere.

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Now the Master, whom Roger knew as Raymond Greene, had switched to a lighter cane. A switch, really. Very much like the riding crop that had caused Mary Anne’s aghast face at the office. He stroked swiftly and lightly, stopping more and more often to check the man who was now leaning against his support, his expression one of rapture. “Michael,” said the Master, finally. And he very gently cupped his sub’s head. The man exhaled a shuddering sigh and turned his face into Raymond’s shoulder. There was a smattering of applause, a few admiring words, and the group moved away. The man’s partner was tending to him, and Raymond was scrubbing soap into his furred arms at the sink when Roger leaned against the wall next to him. “Well, stranger,” said Raymond. “Peter told me you still haunted these parties. I was hoping I’d see you.” “How have you been, Raymond?” “Excellent.” Raymond dried his arms with a big towel. “Larry’s well. He couldn’t come down this time; his office is under some kind of siege.” He strapped heavy leather cuffs on his arms. They were so old, the leather flexed in his hands like strips of velvet. “Maybe next time.” “He asks about you. You know, you really should come to one of our parties.” Larry and Patrick had been best friends. Roger couldn’t bear to see him. “I should.” Raymond gave him a discerning look. “You have friends, Roger.” “I know.” Roger rolled his shoulders. “So Peter said there’s a newbie asking for an introduction.” “Ah. He’s lovely. No one has tried him, though. I suspect…” Raymond frowned and rubbed his lips with the side of his finger as if hushing himself. “Peter plays matchmaker,” said Roger. “He means well.” He clapped Raymond on the shoulder. “Well, we’ll talk later? I should go find him.” “Definitely.”

***** Outside of ‘the circle’ no one, Roger was certain, knew of his involvement with the community. He was an LAPD officer and a private man. Mary Anne knew about ‘first Wednesdays,’ but she didn’t know any more than that he belonged to a group that traditionally met on that day of the month. For all Roger knew, she might have thought he belonged to a church group. “Are you following me, Mr. Williams?” Roger was so far beyond the normal limits of outraged anger, he had to clench his fists by his side and keep his distance from the man who sat, stripped to the waist, on an old folding chair in the middle of the room.

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Sean turned his head away. He was shaking with cold or perhaps, with quite legitimate fear. He didn’t answer. “This is…” Roger allowed himself three agitated pacing steps. Back and forth, keeping his rage contained in a tight circle. “I’ll have to recluse myself from your brother’s case, of course.” “No,” Sean addressed his bare feet. “Don’t do that.” “Jesus fucking Christ.” Roger very rarely swore and he clapped his lips shut immediately over his own outburst. He was sweating. Terrified, really, at what this young man might be planning to do to him. Would there be accusations? A lawsuit even? “I didn’t ask you here. I don’t know what you are hoping to accomplish, Mr. Williams, but there is absolutely nothing illegal…” “Fuck.” Sean dipped his head and laced his chewed fingers behind his neck. “I’m not trying to do anything, Detective. I…I…don’t know…” Roger emitted an exasperated sound. “Put your clothes on,” he snapped. “’Kay.” Sean stood. He was white across the chest and lower back. Smooth, butter cream skin and lightly defined muscles on his arm and belly. The painter pants he wore were rolled down on top so the trail of strawberry hair dipping from his navel could be seen in front and the swell of his high butt cheeks showed as he turned to pick up his shirt from where it hung over the chair. Roger averted his eyes. “Can I ask for someone else?” said Sean, his voice husky. “What?” Roger squinted at him, as if he couldn’t quite bring him into focus. “I wanted to find out what it’s like,” said Sean. “I asked Peter for you, but if you won’t do it, can I ask for someone else?” It was unbelievable. Stupid beyond bearing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Obviously, the young man was unstable. Perhaps his brother’s case had flipped some switch. “I’m not naïve, Detective. I’ve been working the bars in WeHo for a couple of years. And I’m an artist. Believe me, the edge and I are acquainted. I’ve always wondered.” “And you just decided to explore this curiosity now?” “Well, yeah, when I knew you were into it.” Sean was carefully buttoning that ridiculously ill-tailored shirt. He’d started wrong and was just about to reach the point where the buttons would outnumber the holes. Some uncontrollable urge caused Roger to stomp over and brush Sean’s hands away. “Let me fix that.” And Sean stood very still, chin tucked down, while Roger rebuttoned his shirt.

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“There.” Roger could hear how husky his voice had gone. He took a long backward step away from Sean. “Now, go home.” “Can’t we talk about it?” This was so bizarre. “No.” “Why not? Peter said you’d talk to me about it.” Intending to lead Sean out of the building, by the ear if necessary, Roger strode toward him. But then the same impulse as before took over and he grabbed a folding chair instead, plunking it noisily down in front of the first. “Fine. Sit. We’ll talk.” Looking a little taken aback, Sean warily seated himself. Roger sat down facing him. Even seated, he was a good four inches taller than Sean, and he knew he was at least fifty pounds heavier. He must have physically intimidated the man, yet Sean lifted his chin, drew his shoulders back, and met his gaze stoically. He wasn’t even chewing his finger. “Have you ever seen a scene?” “Yes,” said Sean, surprising Roger a bit. “Well, it was a performance piece actually, but the guy was real.” “The guy?” “The guy with the whip. He was a real person who really did that stuff. I asked him later and he said so.” Well. So Sean had been curious before he’d met Roger. That was somewhat calming. “Have you experimented with bondage or spankings?” A blush rose slowly up Sean’s neck and invaded his face. “Yes.” Interesting. No, Roger chastised himself immediately, not interesting. Dangerous as hell. Roger sat back, and thought. “I can’t help you, Mr. Williams, but…” “Sean. Please, at least call me Sean.” “I can’t help you, Sean. It would be a conflict of interest. But I can recommend someone.” “Oh.” Those nervous hands wrapped around themselves between his knees as he leaned toward Roger, head down. His fingers were long and artistic looking. A pianist’s hands. That reddish blond hair that Roger had seen trailing below his waistline, also showed lightly on his exposed forearms. The skin beneath the freckles and fur was like light butter. So translucent that at key areas, like the tops of his ears or the edges of his nostrils, it seemed light showed through. Suddenly Roger couldn’t stand the idea of any Master he knew touching this man’s body.

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“You are a key person in an open homicide, Mr. Williams. I would be reprimanded, and quite rightly, if I let myself become involved in your life.” “That doesn’t seem fair,” said Sean. “I mean, generally.” “What you’re suggesting is hardly as innocuous as a date.” “I know. Then. Why don’t we just do that?” “Do what?” “Go on a date.” Now Sean’s entire face, arms, neck, even his ears were an angry maroon. With his head down, Roger swore he could even see the blush on Sean’s scalp where it showed under the gelled hair. He couldn’t think what to say. “I don’t date” is what came out of his mouth. “Why not?” A tight, trying to sound mildly curious, question. “I’m… My partner. He passed away, and I don’t.” Almost unconsciously, Roger fingered the silver ring he still wore on his right hand. Sean’s glance went to it and fell away. “I’m sorry. That sucks.” The silence in the room became pregnant. Cumbersome. “How long ago?” asked Sean in that same tight voice. “Five years.” Sean looked up at him then. It was hard to describe all the emotions Roger saw in that undisciplined face. Anger, hurt, compassion, fear. “You must think I’m nuts.” Roger did wonder, of course, about Sean’s sanity. He wondered about everyone’s, though. Homo sapiens seemed not the most logical or sane species. “There’s been a lot of stuff. Things…” Sean seemed to be having trouble finding words, and he waved one hand helplessly. “You seemed like a decent guy.” “I am a decent guy,” said Roger. “Maybe we can just be friends?” He was almost begging. There was no reason for Roger to doubt Sean’s sincerity, and it was Roger’s nature to respond to sincere requests. “Maybe,” said Roger. “We’ll see.” “Okay.” Sean nodded. Roger smiled. “Okay.” Sean thrust out his hand and they shook on it. After the appropriate time period for a handshake, Sean kept hold of Roger’s hand. “You sure you don’t want to show me your stuff?” For one brief instant, Roger’s mind’s eye threw up before him the image of Sean, shirtless, wrists bound, creamy back and buttocks taut under Roger’s whip. It flashed there like a surge of light and he blinked it away. “I’m sure.” “Damn,” said Sean. “I bet you’re hot.”

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The sounds of people walking and talking had been growing louder for some minutes and, on a rare impulse, Roger stood and said. “There is a singletail scene tonight. Would you like to come as my guest?” “Yeah!” Sean jumped up eagerly. “Put on your shoes, then.”

***** Roger wondered at himself. He knew plenty of policemen who had met their current significant others while on the job. For many reasons, Roger had never allowed himself that license. He didn’t even establish friendships with citizens with whom he came in contact while working. And strict ethics aside, Sean wasn’t the sort of man he befriended, anyway. Roger’s friends were more mature, seasoned, you might have said. They were mostly veterans, like him, of a history and world that was sensitive and possessed of an educated palate. In every sense. Sean bounced, jittered, babbled thoughtlessly. He was too young, too vocal, too brash. He’d grown up during a generation of ‘safe sex’ and ‘same sex partnerships’ and hadn’t really had to take care who saw what he felt or thought. He’d probably never known the dark of the closet. Or its intrigue. Standing beside Roger now, his skin flushed to the ears, the fabric of the cotton shirt he wore noticeably rose and fell as he breathed. They watched a man brandishing a straight tail and Roger realized his eyes were on the color of Sean’s skin, the movement of his body, instead of the artistry of the performance before them. When Sean raised his hand to his mouth, Roger allowed himself to grasp the hand before Sean began to chew at it and enclosed it, instead, in both of his own. Sean looked up at him, eyes dark and aroused, and Roger felt the undeniable thud of blood where it ought not to be surging. This was ridiculous. Male menopause maybe. Or a reaction to the phantoms stirred by this latest case. Sean’s fingers closed around Roger’s hand and his mouth tried a tentative smile, but Roger forced himself to turn his eyes back to the scene. Dante, the man who was mastering the singletail in the center of a twenty-five foot area marked out quite clearly with ropes, performed ‘vanilla’ shows across the country. He was fairly well-known and probably the reason for the huge turnout tonight. Sean wouldn’t have known the man or understood this show was special. The masochist who stood before Dante was renowned as well. A true masochist is almost spiritual and one who would stand before Dante was asking for an extremely elevated experience. Dante’s whip snaked out with sinuous grace, the crack as it broke the speed of sound seemed incongruous to its movement. The first strikes were so precise they made the sub’s

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ass cheeks bounce, gradually going pink. Then the Master switched to a longer tail and began a rhythm that hypnotized Roger with its elegant wrist movements; his hand almost moved in a figure eight. He looked down at Sean and saw that, while most of the crowd’s attention was on Dante to their left, Sean was fixated on the sub to their right. Roger followed his gaze. The sub’s name was Georgio and he had been deep into the lifestyle for as long as Roger had been in the life. He was an ordinary middle-aged Italian man who responded to the flog, whip, and cane with a euphoria that could be felt throughout the room. Sean’s mouth was open and his eyelashes flinched with every crack of the whip. Roger found he had placed his hand on Sean’s back and could feel the thud of Sean’s heart under his palm. “See how the pain is transforming him?” he asked Sean, his voice pitched low. Dante had stopped. He walked up to Georgio, and from an ice bucket nearby brought out one cube of ice, which he slipped in a quick loop up and over Georgio’s shoulders. The sub cried out. Sean flinched. Roger squeezed the muscle of Sean’s shoulder just slightly, a comforting gesture. Sean looked up at him. He was breathing though his mouth. His pupils were dilated. He searched Roger’s eyes. Roger just stopped himself from leaning over and kissing those open red lips. Dante paused again and ran his hands over Georgio, murmuring to him. Then he stepped to his table and changed to a long cat. Whipped it back and forth before him in an Sshape. The entire crowd took a deep breath of anticipation. “Watch,” whispered Roger. The whip writhed through the air like ink spilled in water. Georgio’s body flinched as if stung, as the cat wrote bright red dashes across his lower buttocks and that crease at the top of his thighs. His arms stretched out, the muscles straining, as if to embrace something, and his legs trembled. Sound came out of him for only the second time. A moan that ended in a tiny wail, and his head tipped back. Two more bright cracks in the air, and Dante stopped. Georgio stood as if suspended in his own stratosphere. Unmoving, head back, eyes closed, muscles pulled taut. Like a saint on a cross. “Oh my God,” breathed Sean. Then Dante and Peter were there, helping Georgio and taking him to another room. Roger shepherded Sean out of the crowd and said, “Are you all right?” “Yes.” Sean looked adrenalized. He was shivering, his skin covered with goose bumps. “Come on. I’ll find you some tea.”

*****

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“Will he be okay?” Sean’s face was still flushed, eyes dilated. He stared into the liquid in his teacup as if still seeing Georgio standing there. He had the embarrassed, somewhat shocked, expression of a man who had just seen an explicitly pornographic film. He glanced quickly at Roger, his eyes a hot dark blue, and then looked away. Roger imagined he, himself, must have had a similar expression the first time he’d seen a gay bondage magazine. “The bullwhip and the cat move faster than sound. They can break many of the small bones in a man’s body and, as you remember, flogging used to be a means of inflicting death. The cat can open skin, cut through leather even. Used incorrectly, it can bruise or even damage vital organs. Tomorrow, Georgio will have bruises and soreness. But, yes, because of Dante’s skill, he will be all right.” Sean was struck with a shivering fit. He stared at Roger. “This isn’t a game,” said Roger. “Can I get you some more tea?” “Yes, please.” Sean was chewing on his finger when Roger brought the cup back. Roger gently pried Sean’s hand from his mouth and laced it around the warm cup. “Why does he do it?” asked Sean. “He needs to. The true masochist is a holy man. He puts himself before the Master and the Master helps him find the sublime.” Sean put down the coffee cup. The hand he ran through his hair was noticeably shaking. “This was nothing like you expected,” said Roger. “Was it more or less than you had hoped?” Sean’s flushed skin went impossibly redder. “You really think you’re some kind of Bela Lugosi or something, don’t you? I was curious and so, yeah, I’m a little surprised…” “It isn’t unusual to find a scene like that erotic, Mr. Williams.” “Great. I’ll bet there’s a whole twisted percent of the population who gets off on that stuff.” He was fighting it, then. Sean was gazing into the abyss and still denying what he saw there. It was obvious to Roger, though, as it would be to any hungry top who happened to cruise within a few feet of Sean. “It was an educating experience,” said Sean wryly. “So. Um, thanks for being so cool about this, and um, I’ll talk to Peter about…whatever.” The taste and smell of Sean’s fear and arousal were all over him. Letting him wander back through the party alone would be like letting a nude virgin walk through an NFL locker room. “Let me take you home,” Roger said as he rose to his feet. “What? I have my car here.”

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“No. I’m going to drive you safely home. I’ll have the precinct deliver your car to you tomorrow.” Roger’s tone brooked no argument. He saw Sean struggle briefly between outrage and his natural desire to acquiesce to a strong dominant. But he was shaken and stressed, and he soon lost the battle. “Yeah. I guess that’s okay.”

***** “Have you got a headache?” asked Roger as they pulled up to the curb at the address Sean had given him. Sean was rubbing his forehead repeatedly. “Sort of.” “That’s the endorphins wearing off. You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?” “Yeah, I’m a real sissy man,” said Sean, sounding angry. “Well, thanks for the ride.” “I’ll walk you to your door,” said Roger, unbuckling his safety belt. Sean’s mouth dropped open, half laugh, half protest, but Roger ignored him and went around to stand beside Sean as he clambered from the car. The building Sean lived in appeared to be a completely unacceptable arrangement of multitudes of persons living in various rooms of a huge house near the Boulevard. They went down a driveway that was piled with trash and a minefield of dog excrement. Then Sean led Roger through a door with a hole where there should have been a handle, into a kitchen in which a couple of mangy dogs and a partially disemboweled motorbike shared floor space with three large refrigerators. Each with a padlocked chain around it. “Damn it,” screamed a young woman, and jumped down from the counter near the sink. She was dressed only in a pair of pink flowered bikini panties and a bra. She stomped past them carrying a box of Cheerios. “Danny, I told you, someone’s been eating the food in my cupboard again.” Roger would have been surprised if anyone could hear her. The music thumping throughout the house was so loud. One of the dogs rose, tail thumping, and Sean petted him absently. He looked up at Roger. “Thanks for driving me home.” His heavy brows lowered over his nose in a tense Vshape. He held out his hand. “I don’t care about your fucking cereal, you fucking bitch!” Now the girl in the panties was running back through the kitchen, screaming in apparently real terror. She’d lost the box and was being pursued by a man whose beard seemed to grow toward his eyes, and then to a point somewhere below his chin. He wore a medal around his naked chest and was brandishing a knife. Roger’s hand whipped out. He grabbed the knife arm, hooked a foot behind the man’s knee, tossed him to the floor, and put his foot lightly over his throat as the knife skittered under one of the refrigerators.

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“Hey,” said Sean. “Cool it. That’s my landlord.”

“No, it’s not,” said Roger. “Pack a bag. I’m taking you out of here.”

***** “Fuck,” said Sean. “That was so fucked. I can’t believe you did that.”

“Please stop swearing,” said Roger, calmly.

Sean’s landlord hadn’t appreciated being thrown to the floor in his own kitchen. And

though Sean had loudly protested Roger’s orders, Danny had heartily agreed. He didn’t want some “fucking faggot with his fucking asshole friends” in his house. So Sean had been evicted. He didn’t have much in the way of worldly goods, Roger noted. He watched as the young man, who had an entire house of furniture in a storage space in Sylmar, threw a few books, toiletries, and clothes into a duffel bag. Quantities of spiralbound notebooks and a tangle of electronics into a battered old suitcase. “Bed came with the room,” said Sean. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Come on.”

“So where the hell ’m I s’posed to sleep tonight?” asked Sean miserably.

Roger had been considering this. He had a number of friends in town, but most of

them were like Peter and would be only too happy to lead Sean astray. He couldn’t have him in his own home, for reasons he wouldn’t even allow himself to think about. “I have a friend who owns a house in Pasadena,” he said. Mary Anne leaned in the doorway in a T-shirt and leggings, holding a glass of wine in one hand and said. “What?” Roger looked back at his car where Sean sat, face averted. “We ran a sheet. He’s okay.” “Jesus, Roger. What’s going on with you and this case?” It was the case, of course. “I don’t know. But he’s not a suspect, and I assaulted his landlord.” “Yeah, well you really haven’t explained to me fully what you were doing anywhere near the kid’s landlord to begin with.” Mary Anne tipped her wine glass and swallowed. She seemed willing to stand right there, too, until Roger had explained things to her satisfaction. “It’s a long story.”

“I bet.”

“I feel responsible for him. Tomorrow, or at least by the end of the week, I’ll find

someplace else for him to stay.” Mary Anne made a disgusted noise, but in the end she really did trust Roger’s judgment. “Fine. Bring your friend in.”

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“Thank you, Mary Anne.” “You owe me, Corso.” “I am fully aware of that.”

***** Roger was not accustomed to feeling at a loss or unsure of what was needed. Sean stood in the middle of the bedroom Mary Anne had given him. It was a nice room with two large full beds, a braided rug in the center, and a desk beneath the gabled windows. Mary Anne had lugged a heavy blanket and an armload of clean towels in, and laid them on the bed. “I get up at six a.m.,” she warned. “Thank you,” said Sean. “You’re welcome.” Mary Anne shot Roger a look as she walked out of the room. Sean just stood there, looking down at his feet. Pale skin, dark eyes and hair. Even in the dim hall light, his hair seemed to glow, as if the red hair were merely a reflection of the tremendous energy bursting from the man. Roger was at a loss and it was not a comfortable feeling. “If you give me your car keys, I’ll have someone bring your car around.” Sean dug the keys out of his pocket. He’d had to work his house keys off earlier to hand to Danny. “Here.” Roger felt, bizarrely, as if he had somehow violated this young man. “Mary Anne snarls, but you don’t have to be afraid to ask her for anything. She’s a small woman and I think she growls at people as a defense mechanism.” Sean sat heavily on the bed. “Yeah. I’m sure she’s great.” Damn. “Sean, I’m sorry.” “Shit happens,” said Sean. “It wasn’t a great place.” “I told Mary Anne I’d find you someplace by the end of the week, and I will. I don’t know what you were paying before, but…” “Yeah, there’s that. Danny was letting me stay in exchange for painting the house. But, shit.” And here a wide grin actually broke the somber expression on Sean’s face. “I hated house painting. It sucked.” Roger sighed. “How much can you afford?” Sean told him and Roger’s heart sank. Well, he had friends. He might be able to find something acceptable. In the meantime, he might be able to talk Mary Anne into taking the pittance Sean could afford for sometime longer than the week. “These rooms are nice enough?” he asked.

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“Yeah. This is real nice.” Sean looked around. “Even have a desk to write at. It’s like the Ritz.” “Of course, I’d forgotten. You write poetry.” “Just because it doesn’t make a lot of money, doesn’t mean it’s not a real job,” snapped Sean. “Of course. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “It’s okay.” Sean was rubbing his forehead again. “Your head still hurts,” said Roger. And then he did something incalculably foolish and completely out of character. He walked over to the bed, knelt behind Sean, and set his hands on either side of his head. “Relax if you can and let me help,” he said. The man under his hands shivered from the top of his head down to his thighs where they spread wide on the mattress. His skin was cool, the hair unbelievably soft for a grown man’s. Roger rubbed in circles from the top of Sean’s skull and saw goose bumps trickling down the man’s neck like water droplets. His skin on his temples was silky, the longish sideburns like a young man’s first whiskers. When Roger’s hands slid to Sean’s shoulders and he felt those muscles trembling, he pulled his hands away. “Well then.” Roger said, unsteadily.

“That helped,” said Sean, soft.

“Good,” said Roger, feeling, for the hundredth time, at a complete loss. He still knelt

there, looking down at the back of Sean’s white neck. Sean broke the spell himself by standing up and Roger scrambled off the bed as well. “I should let you sleep,” said Roger, walking to the bedroom door and pausing. “Yeah,” said Sean, following and leaning against the doorjamb. He looked up at Roger. “Goodnight.” Roger said, perplexed at feeling awkward. Sean studied him, and then reached over, wrapped his fingers around Roger’s neck, and went on tiptoe to plant a chaste closed-lipped kiss on Roger’s surprised mouth. “G’night,” he said. And shut the bedroom door.

***** Mary Anne was sitting in her living room with the wine and the evening news.

“I hate Katie Couric,” she said as he walked into the room.

“I wasn’t aware that you’d ever met her,” said Roger.

Mary Anne twisted so that she could look back at him from the bowels of the

enormous leather chair in which she sat. “You tuck him in?”

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Uninvited, Roger sat down in the matching upholstered leather chair as if carrying his weary body one step farther would have been unbearable. “He’s adorable,” said Mary Anne. “If you like Keebler Elf types.” “My lord, Mary Anne.” She snickered. For the first time Roger noticed a: the enormous stack of blue case files on Mary Anne’s dining room table and b: the evening bag and five inch strappy sandals flung across the coffee table. “Have you been out?” he asked.

“In and out and” -- Mary Anne drew a route in the air with her finger -- “all around

the town.” Roger searched his mind for the CS tech’s name and drew a blank. “Has…he…” “Billy,” said Mary Anne. “Yes. Several times, thank you.” “Oh.” The wine bottle was almost empty. Mary Anne poured the dregs, with the careful precision of the inebriated, into her glass. Roger knew he should ask her if she wanted to talk about it, but he feared that if he did, she would. “You’ve been digging through case files,” he observed instead. “Yes. Yes I have.” Mary Anne gained her feet with a liquid movement that ended with a graceless stagger, and padded into the dining room. “I’ve been looking through homicides of similar vics during that time period. After you said you thought Williams might have offed himself, something went ding. Remember, I told you it was driving me crazy?” “I do.”

“Well. Bunch of suicides. Manner of which was suspicious, but no evidence to the

contrary. A lot of ’em young gay men. Thing is I can’t find anything tyin’ ’em all together.” Roger picked up a file. “You’re a marvel.” “Yep. That’s what Billy said.” Roger shook his head, laughing. Then he frowned at the file. Mary Anne sighed and put a knee on a dining room chair, leaning her chin on arms folded across its back. “What?” she said. “Your brow is befuddled, Corso. You never have a befuddled brow.” “You are an amusing drunk, Mary Anne,” said Roger, whose brow was creased. “I think I know this name.” He set the folder down. Picked up another. That niggling feeling was disturbing. He picked up another file. There was the creak and groan of old oak flooring from the floor above. Mary Anne and Roger exchanged glances, both wondering how loud they’d been speaking.

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“You looking for the boy’s room, sweetie?” called Mary Anne in the general direction of the hall stairs. A silence. “Yeah. Um. I forgot where you said it was,” called Sean. Mary Anne cast Roger another meaningful look before shouting, “The other direction. End of the hall.” Sean called his thanks and they heard his stockinged feet retreating down the upstairs hall carpet. “He was listening,” said Mary Anne. “Roger, how much have you told him?”

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Chapter Six “I’m not comfortable with this at all, Roger.” Jay wheezed loudly and Roger heard the rattle of what was probably that plastic mask before he added, “We promise anonymity.” “A homicide investigation trumps all promises,” said Roger. A wheeze. “Legally, perhaps,” said Jay. Damn it, thought Roger, he was going to have to issue a warrant. And he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the precedent. He didn’t want the publicity that would undoubtedly ensue. He certainly didn’t want the reaction the community would have toward him. “There must be a compromise,” he wheedled. He could hear Jay slapping the mask on and breathing through it for a full minute, before the man’s voice back on the line said merely, “No.”

***** “Your lead not work out?” asked Mary Anne. “Not yet.” Roger meditated via steepled fingers in front of his face. He had five folders on his desk of apparently closed files in which each young man had been termed a “suicide.” He knew those names, almost positively. He’d hoped Jay would confirm his intuition, but he was almost positive that all five had had some association with the early Avatar organization at some time during Roger’s first encounters with them. “I’d like to talk to associates of these young men,” he said. “We ready to bring this up with the chief?” said Mary Anne doubtfully. They should have already, actually, if they had a shred of evidence. And if they didn’t, they shouldn’t be contacting anyone. Roger sat back in his chair and tapped out frustration on the shift bar of his keyboard.

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He and Mary Anne’s desk phone lights went on and she snapped up the call before he did, as usual. He knew by the expression on her face as she stood, lifting her scene bag and jacket from the back of her chair, that it was another homicide call. Relieved, to a degree, to have something else on which to focus, Roger followed Mary Anne out of the station.

***** “Holy afterlife, Batman,” whispered Mary Anne. Roger considered that, while a little levity, privately expressed of course, could relieve the horror and grotesque nature of their work, Mary Anne could at times be macabre to a fault. A warehouseman at the Long Beach terminal docks had thrown open the doors of a much used and generally half-vacant storage room this morning and discovered a lidless box with a newly wrapped, disemboweled, and ritualistically posed mummy. Their cold case had just become what he and Mary Anne had feared: one of a series of who knew how many. The smell of varnish and mothballs was overwhelming and nauseating. It competed equally, Roger felt, with the smell usually accompanying death. From behind his handkerchief, he watched as one of the coroner’s people peeled back the linen, strings of varnish clinging as he slowly pulled it back. As the face underneath was revealed, Roger’s sense of surprise was tempered by a feeling of having expected something like this. “That’s Adam Marchant,” he told the coroner. “I interviewed him two days ago on a cold case.”

***** Marchant had not been reported missing by his wife, Judy, until just that morning. “M-Mr. Marchant w-was busy in town. He d-d-didn’t like to be disturbed,” she whispered, painfully, to Mary Anne. “When did you last see him?” Gradually, they extracted the information that Judy had last seen her husband the night of the day Roger had interviewed him. Apparently, Adam Marchant frequently would go to “the city” for two or three days at a time, and his wife had not been too surprised when he’d announced one of these unplanned departures. She seemed fearful and distraught, but no more so than she had the last time Roger had seen her. The men in the house, who had gathered since the news, were emotionally more expressive. One man sat on the couch, bowed, agonized face hidden by one hand as he tried to articulate something for the uniformed officer who sat next to him.

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Two men stood near Roger. They had themselves under control, but one could easily see the marks of emotion in their red eyes and taut faces. “Father Marchant saved this parish,” said one man when Roger spoke to him. “It looked like we were going to be swallowed by the humanist left before he joined us.” “Have you known him long?” He had. He was Anthony Clarke and he was one of the church elders. “I’ve known Adam Marchant since my wife and I were married.” “Do you have any idea what Mr. Marchant was going into the city for?” Anthony’s eyes definitely shifted away from Roger’s. “Adam did a lot of outreach work.” “Outreach?” “Yes.” Anthony Clarke was a big man, a paunch pressed against his dress shirt, but the muscles on his arms looked solid. He lifted his chin, nostrils flaring slightly, and Roger had the definite impression that Clarke was a man accustomed to controlling conversations with threats of temper. “Excuse me, Lieutenant…” He actually pressed up against Roger, as if he could shove him out of the way. Roger didn’t get into a shoving match, but he didn’t step down either. “Where were you Wednesday night, sir?” “Home with my wife. Ah, here she is.” He introduced Mrs. Clark, who had the same docile, shy persona as Mrs. Marchant. She readily verified her husband’s alibi. Roger notated it all carefully, ignoring the boiling point definitely rising in Anthony’s Clarke’s temper and color. “Judy has asked us to watch the children for her, Detective, and my wife needs to go home.” “Thank you, I really don’t have any other questions at the moment, sir,” said Roger, stepping away from the couple finally. “And we can reach you at this number?” Clarke didn’t answer; he shepherded his wife rather hurriedly away. Roger went looking for Mary Anne and found her outside, tapping information into her blackberry at a furious pace. “Stepford Wives Club,” said Mary Anne. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes bright with anger. “Couldn’t get a word out of anybody. I’ll bet these men all have whips and chains in their basement.” Roger closed his mouth quickly when he realized he was about to give his partner a lecture on the fine differences between discipline and abuse. “Did anybody know what Marchant went into town for with such regularity?” “Nope, which is beyond impossible, don’t you think?” Roger did.

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“I’ve subpoenaed phone records. Hopefully, none of these meatheads has thought ahead and blocked it with ‘religious anonymity’ or something.” Mary Anne seemed a little out of breath, thought Roger. He wondered which of the church elders had gotten to her. Judy Marchant emerged from the front door of the house in the company of the FBI agent that had been sent down as soon as this cold case had become warm. He spotted Roger and Mary Anne and led her across the lawn toward where they stood. The FBI man, a Clark Miller, looked like a tight end who’d managed to squeeze himself into a suit and tie. He possessed an overly red face and impassive blue eyes like small marbles between the puffy lids. His hand on Judy Marchant’s arm was gentle, but she followed him as timidly as a soft doll, looking around herself confusedly as if she seldom went outdoors. “I’ve called a bus,” said Miller to Mary Anne. “And we’ll need a special victim’s officer here.” A number of the church elders were emerging from the house, seemingly interested in what they were doing with the bereaved widow of their pastor. “I think we might have special circumstances here,” said Roger. Judy Marchant only looked confused. Based on the bruises on the wife, and what he felt were sufficient signs of abuse that may have erupted in retaliation, Miller ordered the rest of the house searched. Roger launched one more small protest, but backed away immediately, since there was nothing really to be gained from such a demonstration. The CS crew descended on the small ranch home, while the congregation members looked on. Their general emotional content seemed to be condensing into a kind of indignant anger and Roger figured it was a matter of hours, at most, before the LAPD and FBI were forbidden access to any records. “Put a rush on that phone subpoena,” he suggested in an aside to Mary Anne, who was already furiously texting that message in. “I was t-t-telling Agent M-Miller,” Judy Marchant said confusedly to Mary Anne. “MMr. Marchant was n-n-not angry that night. We d-did not have a f-fight. He usually went tto t-town. He came back after s-speaking to that young man and t-t-told me…” “That young man?” asked Mary Anne. Judy Marchant, who appeared quite sensitized to nuances of voice and expression, cringed even further at the barely perceptible sharpness in Mary Anne’s voice. “Yes,” she whispered. They managed to get a description of him and Mary Anne shot Roger one of those looks, while Agent Miller called in an APB. Neither she nor Roger volunteered Sean’s name, though a ‘tall red-haired thirty-something white male’ was too obvious to be coincidental. “I’m harboring a fugitive,” said Mary Anne as they drove back. “Are you?” “I should have told Miller.”

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“Undoubtedly.” “Why didn’t I?” Roger glanced at Mary Anne, who was gazing out of the passenger side window, twirling that thoughtful bit of hair. “I was wondering that.”

***** “You guys work fucked-up hours,” said Sean. They’d barely come through the front door when he said it. Mary Anne looked at him. Looked back at Roger. “I’m wrecked,” she said. She proceeded past the living room and straight for the stairs, shedding bag, jacket, and shoes as she went. She was dropping her blouse from her bare shoulders as she disappeared into her bedroom off the second floor hallway. “Lock up when you leave,” she called, and slammed the bedroom door. Roger looked back down at Sean. “I thought you might be asleep by now.” Sean was tapping his fingers with one hand and chewing on the other hand’s forefinger. “I have trouble relaxing right after work.” He was wearing an old knee-length flannel robe, loosely open so that Roger could see his plaid boxer shorts and T-shirt underneath. His hair had a severe bent look, as if Sean had tossed it back and forth on a pillow for some time before coming downstairs. “So you were working tonight?” Roger took off his coat and hung it up in Mary Anne’s closet. “Yeah. That’s right.” “And last night you were at a fetish party.” Roger came into the living room. “How about night before last?” “What is this? I work a lot, man. Or as much as I can.” “Amazing, then, isn’t it? That you managed to squeeze in a few hours to drive out to Adam Marchant’s house in Moorpark and spend an evening with him.” Sean’s hand stopped moving. He lowered his chewed finger. “It’s a free country.” “What were you doing there, Sean?” Sean’s chest rose and fell. “I wanted to meet him. What, are you jealous?” “Adam Marchant is dead,” said Roger. And the startled flinch, the wince and jerk of Sean’s head as he stared up at him wasn’t fabricated. One thing this man seemed almost incapable of was prevarication. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You’ll have to make a statement,” said Roger. “Do you have anyone to alibi you for that night? Late as maybe six a.m.?”

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“Yeah. Um, Bob can. I had it out with Marchant, but then I left, Roger. Bob had me helping him that night until late, unloading crates from a delivery.” Roger sat down on the footstool across from Sean. There was something troubling the man. He could read it as easily as if it was printed across him in typeface. The furrowed dark brows as he chewed at his knuckles, the restless sway of his knee. Roger’s eyes dropped involuntarily to take in the man’s dishabille once again. Sean’s upper thighs obviously had little sun exposure, so they were almost pure butter cream pale and smooth, blond-red curls frosting the bulge of muscle. Robert forced his mind back to the issue at hand. “What do you mean, you ‘had it out with him’?” “I asked him about Gary.” Sean’s eyelids had a flinching look as if he were trying not to see something in his own mind. “What did he tell you?” “Nothing much. You know, the guy was one of those bisexual-only-on-holidays jerks. I see them in the bar all the time. He just delivered some cliché fire and brimstone ‘God hates homosexuals’ speech. And then he went back into his house and I drove off.” There was something else. Something that had kept Sean up late worrying about it. “What else?” “Whaddaya mean, ‘what else’?” snapped Sean, becoming, if it were possible, even more agitated. Roger glared. “Withholding information in a homicide investigation is a form of obstruction.” “So now you’re going to arrest me?” Roger huffed with exasperation. “Sean, you shouldn’t be getting involved in this. It’s…it’s foolish. It’s dangerous.” “Hey, you wouldn’t have even known about the guy if it weren’t for me,” said Sean. Roger hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours. He was almost certain that a serial killer was specifically targeting him, and his entire body yearned to press itself against the long limbs of the young man currently giving him smart answers in his partner’s living room. “Wrong answer,” he snapped. Sean rubbed at his face and Roger could see the dark circles under his eyes, the puffiness of his eyelids. “I don’t know the right answers,” he said. “What else did you discuss with Marchant?” “Jesus. Nothing.” Roger’s arm whipped out; he grabbed Sean by the arm and tossed him over his lap. Holding the man down with one big arm across his lower back, his arms and legs splayed out to either side.

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“Wrong answer, again,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing?” asked Sean.

Smack. Roger smartly brought the flat of his hand down on Sean’s boxer-covered backside. Sean chuckled. “Well, now, you know that’s only going to turn me on.”

Smack smack. Just a little harder. Sean jerked, though he didn’t make a sound.

Smack smack smack. “Ouch.” Sean had thrown his hand back and been caught in the last one. He sucked his injured finger in an obvious bid for sympathy, and getting none, he said, “I followed you. Okay. I saw the bastard’s church. I was curious. He called me a faggot. I called him a cowardly dickwad. He told me my brother was a sicko masochist. Now let me up.” Roger heard the painful waiver in that last admission. But he kept Sean in place with one arm and said distinctly. “You will stop following me. You will stop involving yourself in a criminal investigation. It’s dangerous and foolish, and if I have to I’ll have you put in jail to keep you out of it.” Sean was breathing hard and Roger lifted him off his lap. He held Sean’s shoulders and gave him a shake. “Do you understand?” Sean's face was turbulent, angry, and filled with whatever trouble had kept him awake all night. His eyes flinched as he fought the brightness threatening them and all of a sudden Roger pulled him to his chest in a fierce hug. His hand in that hair, his mouth against Sean's ear. Sean made a noise and wrapped his arms around him. The fear and the grief that had been following Roger for days rose up in him like a snake charmer’s rope, wrapped around his brain, and he turned Sean's face toward him and lay his mouth onto Sean’s. Sean surged into the kiss -- his tongue in Roger's mouth, his body pressing eagerly into him, feet sliding against the floor as he tried to work himself up against Roger. Roger broke the kiss. “Not here,” he said, breathless. They were in Mary Anne's living room, for God’s sake! They pushed, pulled, and led each other up the stairs, down the hall, and into Sean’s room. Roger closed the door carefully, for the first time allowing the horror of what he was doing seep into his consciousness, but then Sean’s arms were around him, body pressed to his back, and voice husky. “How do I get this holster off you, Roger?”

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Roger spun around, tearing the flannel robe from Sean like it was tissue. His own tie and shirt came off and flew somewhere to the floor. Sean stared into his face, as if held, his hands on Roger’s belt buckle. The shoulder holster and gun were laid on the desk, a bit haphazardly. Shoes came off as he pushed Sean ahead of him onto the bed and then his mouth was on those red lips again, hands feeling the shape of Sean’s body like a sculptor feels his stone. Sean’s feet slid wildly against the coverlet, body thrusting up against Roger, and his fingertips found the back of Roger’s head where their rough calluses sent trickles down his back. “God, you’re built like a bull.” Sean’s voice was husky, his mouth against Roger’s lips. Roger sucked at the sweet skin of Sean’s neck, and the man beneath him whined, twisting, hands falling to his shoulders, his arms. Roger found the elastic of Sean’s boxer shorts and pushed them down as far as Sean’s knees, where they stuck. His hand found the heat and shape of Sean’s balls and cock, and the man whimpered wordless sounds when Roger worked his sac and wrapped his fingers around the shaft. “Roger. God. Roger, let me feel you.” Sean’s hands reached into Roger’s shorts and released his cock. It felt aching and heavy in a way it hadn’t in so long, and Roger had to rub it into Sean’s belly, had to lift the man’s hips and thrust against him, feeling the damp growing between them. Sean worked Roger’s cock, rough fingers sliding over and around the head, quick and feeling their way eagerly. He raised his fingers to his lips and tasted them, his eyes dark and fastened on Roger’s. Roger heard a growl come from his own chest and he tore Sean’s finger away from his face, forcing his tongue into the man’s mouth where it was eagerly received. Lifting Sean’s hips again, then finding their two cocks and squeezing them against each other as Roger pumped, squirming and thrusting and wishing for more, but not daring more. Sean’s mouth broke from his, face tilted up, and he gasped, bucking. One hand flew out and clipped Roger in the chin as it did so. His cock surged and coated Roger’s fist and cock with come, and Roger moaned and rutted like an animal in the liquid spilled on Sean’s creamy belly until a surge of orgasm burst up his spine and he held Sean tight, riding out the waves of it. “Wow,” whispered Sean after the moonbeams quit dancing around the bed. Roger groaned. What an utterly stupid thing to do. Sean’s fuzzy head pushed up against his neck and Roger instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Mthinkgoin tasleepnow…” said Sean. And in minutes, his even breathing puffed against Roger’s neck.

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Roger dragged the end of a blanket up over them, staring up at the ceiling while Sean’s little whistling snores lulled him finally to a troubled sleep.

***** Having lived the majority of his life surrounded by men, Roger had never had an opportunity to really appreciate women. As he grew to know them, he found he could sincerely enjoy them as people. He considered it a positive side effect of the whole gay identity. There was something serenely spiritual about a wise and benevolent woman after one had done something particularly asinine. A man, finding his business partner had spent the evening bedding someone inappropriate in the room down the hall, would have either coarsely congratulated him, or attempted to ignore the question in such an uncomfortable manner as to make it the elephant in the room. Mary Anne sailed into her kitchen in a long blue silky robe and pink pig slippers. She gave Sean a narrow look, smiled beatifically at Roger and said. “My dears, thank you so much for not making noise last night. I was exhausted.” Then she brought out the coffee maker. “Roger and I drink it like mud, Sean. How about you?”

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Chapter Seven FBI Special Agent Clark Miller had a scene room and a team running full tilt by the time Roger and Mary Anne arrived at the station. A profiler had been brought in overnight, and every available homicide detective sat in the conference room and listened to him. The profiler only corroborated the little that Roger and Mary Anne had surmised. White male, sexuality issues, at this point in such an advanced state of ritualization he had probably been practicing it for years. “Why mummies, sir?” asked Mary Anne. “It’s possible he sees a correlation between the Egyptian practice of cannibalization and his own flesh-eating practices. “There’ve been no teeth marks,” volunteered another detective. “But all of the organs and the phallus are missing,” said the profiler. It was so common for serial killers to chew on, eat, or save bits of their victims, that every homicide detective these days knew to expect and watch out for such evidence. The similarities between Gary Williams’s mummified corpse and Marchant’s had been analyzed, and the profiler delineated the results for them. “Probably the same man. His technique has become more practiced. In the second victim, we have definite signs that he was beaten severely, possibly to death, corroborating the ME’s suspicions of the first victim’s COD. No sign of sexual assault, or at least no sign of penetration.” “Sir, about the instruments found in the victims’ hands,” said Roger, raising his hand. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mary Anne sit up a little straighter in her seat, as if prepared, somehow, to do battle. God willing, that wouldn’t be necessary. “Disciplinary tools,” said the profiler. “But we’ve found no traces of blood or any DNA to indicate that these were the murder weapons. Perhaps they symbolize the victim’s

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punishment. We tentatively have added the possibility that the killer may have grown up in a foreign culture where such practices were still common…” Roger literally held his breath, waiting for the man to finish. He’d been thinking how exactly to put his next words since his conversation with Mary Anne.

“About that flogger,” he’d said. “Yes?” said Mary Anne. “Adam Marchant and Gary Williams were involved, in a small way, in the Leather culture.” Mary Anne had no comment. Roger had noticed before, a little uncomfortably, that Mary Anne would back off and even withhold spoken opinion about anything related to the gay community. Since much of their effect as partners was their brainstorming technique, he saw this as a failing on both their parts. “BDSM is still an illegal practice,” he said. Mary Anne looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I happen to know quite a few men involved in that lifestyle,” he explained. There it was, damnit, that expression of concern, sympathy. “Really?” said Mary Anne. “Damnit,” said Roger mildly. But, since he never swore, the expletive really surprised Mary Anne. “Aren’t you a little concerned about how I know this?” he asked her. “Roger, I have a fugitive sleeping in my guest room. Do you think I’m going to be concerned if you know a few Leather daddies?” Roger glared at a form on is desk, expression grim. “You think there’s a connection, bring it to Miller.” “I should.” “If you think there’s a connection, and you don’t bring it to Miller, then I will be concerned,” said Mary Anne, a little of that snap and fire in her voice. Roger smiled, then. “Thank you.” “Yes, Lieutenant?” “We have found a connection between the victims and a private BDSM club in West Hollywood. A, um, photograph of the two at a party.” “You have this photo?” “No, sir, the owner was very adamant about protecting identities. But, it’s possible our perp has had dealings with members of Avatar.” Clark Miller looked Roger over, and seemed to not care how the detective had come by this information. “Thank you. It’s a good lead.” “You’re welcome.” Roger, who seldom had emotional reactions to his work, was flushed bright red. He could feel the heat all over his body.

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Miller’s thorough, seemingly bloodless, gaze still rested on him. “If you can get more information about its membership from this group without compromising their policy, please do so.” “Yes, sir.” Roger was sweating, his limbs shaking with relief, when he got back to his desk. Mary Anne gave him one of her triumphant looks, as if she’d somehow proved a point. He called Jay immediately. “Things have changed,” he told him. “I may have a man targeting Avatar members and I’ll be able to keep innocent identities secret if you work with me.” A silence. Then Jay’s voice, thoughtful and labored. “I can see you this afternoon.” Roger hung up, as Mary Anne tossed a stapled sheaf of papers over “Hadrian’s Wall.” “Phone records came in,” she said. Roger ran his finger down the log and wasn’t terribly surprised to discover that Adam Marchant had still had trouble resisting the “evil” of the gay community. Quite a few calls were to male escorts and infamous clubs. “Not necessarily a reasonable cause for murder,” said Mary Anne, looking puckishly pleased with herself. “Unless you’re a wife-beating, homophobic, misogynistic sect member.” Roger grimaced. “What a mouth you have.” Mary Anne went back into the scene room to discuss this new information with Agent Miller and company. Roger had noted that one of the numbers on Marchant’s cell phone was for the Avatar dungeon downtown. He dialed Peter. “The name isn’t familiar,” said Peter. “Do you know when he was here?” Roger told him the time and date stamp on the phone log and Peter was gone for quite some time before coming back to tell him, “Almost all of the scenes booked that day were cash at the door and first names only. Perhaps if you described him?” Roger did so. Peter had an excellent recall of faces. It was a tool of his trade where so many people wished to remain anonymous, to, nevertheless, recognize his customers. “We have a few men like that,” said Peter. “I’d have to see a picture.” “I’ll have one faxed.” “Roger.” A hesitation. “Was this man married? And, before you tell me that that’s privileged, can I say that so is the information I’m giving you right now?” “I know, Peter,” said Roger. “I appreciate it.” Roger faxed over the photo. He occupied himself with the files on his desk of suicide victims while he waited for Peter’s return call. So many young men gazed out at him. Peter’s ID showed up on Roger’s phone. “Oh my God,” said Peter immediately. “That photo! Roger, we knew him in the day.”

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“Ah yes, that’s right.” “Christ.” Peter sounded fairly rattled and he didn’t speak for a few minutes. But then he said. “Well, if he came in, I didn’t see him. My God, that face was such a shock. What was his name again?” “Adam Marchant.” “Adam,” breathed Peter. “Of course, I couldn’t recall. My God, it’s been ages and now he’s dead…” “I’m sorry to have ruined your day,” said Roger, sincerely. Why did it seem even now, when the worst days of the Plague had passed, that every conversation he had with his friends was a combination of gossip and obituary? “No, no, it’s okay. It’s just such a face from out of the blue.” They said the requisite polite things and disconnected. Across the desks, he could see Mary Anne -- feet up, fingers twining the phone cord as she talked. Agent Miller and the profiler seemed to have agreed with her reaction to Marchant’s apparent secret life, and the Church of the Way members were being vetted carefully, one by one. “Adam Marchant’s Church of the Way is a freak festival,” said Mary Anne. She’d been delighted to find that most of them had records. Only three of the members came close to fitting the profile, though. “Anthony Clarke, fifty-two, aggravated assault. Oh lookie, rape with assault. Restraining order. No DNA taken.” “An ex-wife?” “Yeppers.” “He’s alibied.” “By his terrified spouse,” said Mary Anne. Roger looked up from his report and across their desks at her. “Interesting adjective choice.” “Shut up, Corso. Tell me the guy doesn’t set your teeth on edge.” He did, of course. But not in any way that would have pleased Mary Anne. Roger, being a dominant predator, recognized another dominant predator, of course. That he rigidly controlled his instincts and, hopefully, channeled them in positive directions for altruistic reasons, didn’t make him any less the male animal he knew himself to be. “Why don’t you call the arresting officer on that assault charge,” he suggested to Mary Anne. “You read my mind,” said Mary Anne, who was doing so. “We had Clarke for rape and assault easy,” said Detective Looms, after spending a few minutes tapping away at his computer. “He claimed his wife liked it rough. Shit, woman was

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black and blue and bleeding. Rough, my ass. Then he called the judge a liberal atheist and accused him on the first day of siding with, and I quote, “that bitch attorney.” Excellent bust. Put him away for two years.” But when Mary Anne explained their case, he seemed doubtful. “Clarke’s a woman beater, Stelter,” he said. “Don’t see him making that leap somehow.” Neither did Mary Anne. She hung up the phone looking deflated. The next member of the church who matched the profile had been out of town on business the night of Marchant’s death. Mary Anne verified his flight with the airport. The next member who fit the profile seemed much more promising. “Theodore ‘Teddy’ Vincent, age 54, single. Assault charges dropped. One violent assault with rape charge, later overturned, woman was hospitalized. There was a complaint from a call girl once.” “Any history with men?” “Well, see that’s what’s interesting, Corso. There was a bust for soliciting that was later dropped. Part of a sting by Santa Monica PD against a gay bar on Venice Boulevard.” He wasn’t on the list of grieving parishioners they’d interviewed at Marchant’s residence, so it seemed worth a drive to Moorpark to interview the man. Teddy Vincent was about five feet ten inches, with a shaved head and a series of pinprick scars running up the side of one earlobe, Roger noted, that were probably from healed piercings. When Roger and Mary Anne identified themselves, he crossed shaved, beefy arms across his crisp white T-shirt, and said, “Now what?” Teddy wasn’t married, so he didn’t have a convenient alibi cringing in the kitchen behind him. He, too, claimed no knowledge of Adam Marchant’s activities on the night he had died. Then he stood, big arms crossed in front of him and stared Roger down while Roger explained the advisability of a DNA sample. “Yeah, some lawyer tried to trap me with that once,” he said. “No way.” He’d been at home all that night, he told them. Watching a movie he’d rented, as it happened. He’d gone to bed early. No one had seen him or talked to him. “How well did you know Adam Marchant?” “Too well,” spat Teddy. “Him and his busybody wife was always lecturing me about gettin’ married.” “Ah,” said Roger. “Really,” said Mary Anne. “Why do married people always want to share their misery?” Teddy cracked a smile. “That’s what I told him.” “Highest number of murders is people killing their spouses. What does that tell you?” Mary Anne went on in a jovial tone. “Yeah,” said Teddy, his grin gone.

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“But you were a member of Father Marchant’s parish?” asked Roger. “Sure.” Teddy shrugged. “Why not? That’s what ya do when you move into a neighborhood, right? Join the church and whatever?” “Oh,” said Roger. “How long ago did you move here?” Teddy regretted having spat that out. Roger could see it in his chagrined expression. “’Bout a month,” he said. They verified his other information, advised him they might want to talk to him again, and asked that he remain available. This request seemed not to faze Teddy in the least. Driving back on the freeway, Mary Anne said, “So, Corso, you have any of that ‘gaydar’ they talk about?” “I certainly hope not,” said Roger. “I shower every morning and use deodorant.” “Funny.” Mary Anne flipped down the visor in front of her and played with her spiky bangs in the mirror there. “Our Mr. Vincent did not once look at my boobs.” “Ah,” said Roger. “Perhaps he has too much respect to ogle you.” Mary Anne snorted. “Doesn’t add up, does it?” “No, it does not,” agreed Roger. “Why would a gay man join a homophobic church?” said Mary Anne, making a great show of tapping her finger thoughtfully against her cheek. “Oh, here’s a thought. Maybe the priest of that church was his lover?” Roger frowned, thinking. “Your pensive brow thinks otherwise,” noted Mary Anne. “I think we should keep an eye on Mr. Vincent,” said Roger. “Well, there’s where we agree.”

***** “Jay, have you ever heard of a Teddy Vincent?” asked Roger. He sat in Jay’s front “parlor,” watching as the man carefully wheeled his chair around boxes and cabinets and furniture. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” said Jay. He stopped wheeling and turned back toward Roger. “Had you heard that George and Flora moved up to Washington?” he said, and clapped the mask onto his face, watching Roger over its rim. “I hadn’t. Is he Flora now, really? Or are they still saving for the operation?” Jay dropped the mask. “Don’t know.” Jay reached into a cabinet and brought out a horribly dusty and creased-looking binder. “Here we are.” Since Jay had already produced a half dozen of these binders and not yet turned up any connections to Roger’s case, Roger wasn’t especially excited by the newest find.

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As Jay maneuvered his chair across the room, Roger let his eyes wander over the back wall. It was decorated with a montage of memorabilia -- everything from handmade posters and amateur photographs to highly valuable Tom of Finland erotica. Jay claimed to have been a model for Tom back in the day. And when Roger had met him, Jay had certainly had the look of one of Tom’s signature balloon-muscled and overly well-endowed men. The Tom of Finland drawings typified the world Roger had fallen in love with. The fantasy that the Village People had mocked: cops, cowboys, soldiers, and construction workers. Manly men. Sweaty and dirty and sharing their private moments at secret rendezvous or all-male venues like the YMCA. Tough, leather wearing, motorcycle riding men. Tall, slender, sensitive “performance poets” didn’t figure in that world. He could still taste Sean in his throat. In that orderly, controlled way of his, Roger had managed to relegate the night before to a back shelf throughout the day. Sitting in Jay’s house, however, surrounded by a world that glorified a secret gay society, Sean rose immediately to the surface of Roger’s mind. He had a responsibility to the man. He saw it clearly. Sean had pushed him, thrown down some sort of gauntlet, and Roger had, instinctively and without a moment’s thought, snatched it up. He couldn’t think why. Peter had introduced him to a string of young men in the past couple of years. Lovely, sweet, some definitely hungry for what Roger could give them, and Roger had declined easily. Not even a little tempted. With Sean he felt immediately challenged. On a visceral, prethought level, Sean pressed every button Roger had. The man needed something done, and Roger needed to do it. He dwelled morosely on this fact while Jay wheeled carefully around boxes and pulled his chair up next to Roger, sliding the heavy binder onto it. “Here we go. Where’s that list of yours?” Jay’s hands were a little palsied today and Roger noted the blueness of his skin. He wondered how sick Jay was and suddenly felt something like panic at the thought of losing him as well. “Jay, I have a young man I’d like you to meet,” he said suddenly. Jay cast him a sharp look that was so much like the Jay of old, Roger immediately felt better. “Are you sure you trust him with me?” wheezed Jay, and then cackled so hard he had to raise the mask to his face for many minutes afterward. Roger scanned the list, and then saw the name. “There’s one,” he punched it with his thumb. Mask still against his face, Jay peered at the name. “A latex party list,” he wheezed. “Tupperware party for the Leatherman.” “1990” said the front of the binder.

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“These parties weren’t regular gatherings,” said Jay, looking through it. “Part of the whole fetish-curious craze.” “I wasn’t aware that craze had passed,” remarked Roger, noting the name carefully. “Thomas Stone,” he said, checking it against his own list. “Suicide.” Jay tisked sadly. “Do you remember him?” “No,” said Jay. He turned pages of the book, his eyes gone soft and rheumy-looking with memories. They spent the rest of the day going over Jay’s books, not finding any other names, until Jay started to look truly weary, his skin a grayish color and deep brown bags sagging under his eyes. “You going to be alright?” asked Roger.

Jay nodded. “My nurse comes at six p.m.”

Jay was relieved until he met the “nurse” as he was leaving, a young Hispanic man with

beautiful sloe eyes, a diamond stud in one ear, and a sly, sensuous smile. Roger looked back at Jay, whose eyes were laughing as he held the mask to his face. “Liam,” said Jay, and the man put his hand on Jay’s shoulder, up near the neck, gently, in a very intimate gesture. “You look tired,” he said, giving Roger an accusing look. Old Leathermen don’t die, they merely replace their subs with nurses. “I’d like to bring my friend by soon,” Roger reminded Jay, as he gathered his belongings together. Jay nodded, eyes already on his “aide,” and Roger let himself out.

***** “What do you mean, you’re ‘responsible’ for me?” Sean was outraged, agitated, all over the room, arms and hands flying as he spoke. Sometime in the past few hours, he’d managed to find a room to let near his place of employment. The minute he’d told Roger the address, Roger had vetoed the idea. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” said Sean.

“I’m responsible for you and that neighborhood is unsafe.”

Sean didn’t see Roger’s point at all.

“You aren’t responsible at all for me, Mr. Perfect. I am a fully emancipated adult white

male. I vote. I drive a car. I make choices for myself. I choose where to live or not. I chose to check out your leather group. I chose to fuck you.” “Swearing isn’t necessary.”

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“Fuck isn’t a swear word, it’s a verb meaning I wanted to, so did you, we did. No big deal.” Unfortunately, Roger discovered, it was a big deal to him. “You don’t suddenly start making decisions for me,” said Sean facing the gabled window over the desk now, arms folded in front of himself. Light sculpted the curves and angles of his face, and Roger experienced an odd aching need to draw his finger down the line between shadow and light. “So you regret it?” he asked. Sean looked startled at that. “What? No. No, it was great I…hey…” And he was sitting next to Roger on the bed., the anger in his face completely morphed into worry. Before Roger could adapt to the change, Sean had wrapped his arms around him. Honestly, Roger’s head was spinning as the emotions in the room ricocheted back and forth. Sean’s serious eyes. “Did I hurt your feelings?” It was like a storm Roger had once been caught in down in the Florida Keys. Water and newspapers whipping around his ankles. A ladies’ yellow umbrella turning end over end, almost hitting him in the head. The roar of the wind and the groan of taxed buildings in his ear. Sean was like a hurricane. “I’m fine,” he said, just before Sean kissed him. A hurricane. A monsoon. A tidal wave. “Better close the door,” panted Sean from beneath Roger’s lips. Roger went to do so. As he carefully engaged the lock, he heard a soft expletive and turned. Sean lay across the coverlet where Roger had spread him, shirt rucked up and slacks opened. He stared at Roger and said, “Fuck, you should see yourself.” Roger’s shirt was half off his shoulders, hanging from the buttoned cuffs. His belt was gone and his slacks slid down his narrow hips. If his cock weren’t hard and pushing against the fly, they’d have fallen off. “Every gay boy’s dream come true,” said Sean. Roger felt an unaccustomed grin stretching his face. He stepped toward the bed, but Sean raised a hand. “Wait. Just. Do me a favor?” “Anything,” growled Roger. Sean’s chest rose and fell. “Take off your clothes so I can see you?” Eyebrows raised, Roger acquiesced. He unbuttoned the cuffs and let the shirt fall from his arms. Then, instead of picking it up as every nerve in his body longed to do, he kicked it aside, opening the flap of his slacks and slowly lowering the zipper. Sean licked his lips and his hand rubbed at the bulge in his boxer shorts.

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Roger dropped his slacks, slipped off his gartered socks, and shot them like rubber bands in Sean’s general direction. He was rewarded with a breathy laugh. Then he dropped his boxers and let his cock swing out. He was big. Roger still remembered in his early teen years, he and other boys comparing themselves, and the expressions of wonder and envy his friends’ faces had had. Those little sessions had ended as soon as he’d realized that he was more turned on than his buddies, but the confidence and pride followed him, as it would any man. He reached down and cupped his heavy sac, and Sean groaned and slid the elastic of his boxers down, gripping his own cock. Now Roger strolled toward the bed, more a stalk than a walk, and stood over Sean, pulling slowly at his prick, looking the man who lay there up and down. “You gonna stick that in me?” said Sean. “Because I think it might kill me.” “Take off your clothes,” said Roger. A soft, deep, commanding voice. Sean scrabbled to do so. “Do you have any condoms?” asked Roger, watching Sean hungrily. Sean grinned. “I take it that’s a ‘yes,’” he said, pushing his boxers to the floor. “Only if you beg nicely,” purred Roger. Sean’s mouth opened into an O of surprise. Then he laughed. It was a short, insecure little laugh, though. “Right,” he said. “There’s a box in the drawer. And, if you decide to do me, I’d appreciate it if you’d use the lube in there too.” Roger obediently opened the drawer and found the box and battered tube. He put them on the nightstand. They still weren’t touching. Both were fully nude, hard, and panting a bit. Sean sprawled on his back, cock jutting out at a left angle. Roger kneeling at his feet, still rubbing and cupping his sac, pulling almost meditatively at his shaft. Then he slid off the bed and onto his feet. “Present yourself,” he said. “What?” squeaked Sean. “You wanted me to show you, I’m showing you. On your hands and knees. Bow down. Present yourself.” Sean did as he was told immediately. “We’ll start out with spanking,” said Roger. “But I still want you to give me a safe word.” “S-safe word.” Roger waited. “Okay. Margarita.” Roger repeated the word and touched Sean for the first time since he’d stood at the door. His hand caressed both of Sean’s butt cheeks.

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Sean sighed and trembled and pushed into the touch.

Smack smack. Roger purposely hit the tender skin at the top of Sean’s thighs and saw him jump. Hand shaped like a flying wedge, using his left without the ring on it, Roger painted a pretty red pattern across Sean’s ass. Sean’s cock didn’t wilt even a little bit. He did issue a gargled cry once, but his other hand had gone to his cock and was pulling. “Don’t touch yourself yet,” said Roger. “Or I’ll bind you.” Sean obediently put both hands before him. He was rocking with the spanks now, his breathing and body falling into the rhythm. Roger could feel his own body finding and following that rhythm, the muscles of his shoulders flexing and rolling as he spanked from one side to another, his arm making a shape very much like the shape his flogger would make in the air. Sean’s reactions began to change, then. His breathing became more strenuous and Roger stopped, hand on the hot skin. Sean’s forehead against the mattress. Eyes squeezed closed. “Talk to me,” said Roger. “I’m fine,” panted Sean. “It’s just intense.” Roger ran his hand over Sean’s butt, and then his back. He tested the muscles of Sean’s back and ran his hand gently through the curling hair on the back of his head. “We’re done,” he said. “What? No, no I’m good.” “This can’t happen without complete honesty between the Dom and the sub, Sean. I can explain all the reasons later, but right now I’m going to take care of you. Lie down.” Sputtering half-formed protests, Sean lay down on his side. Roger donned a robe and went for water. When he came back, he sat next to Sean, making him drink it, still massaging the taut muscles of the man’s neck and back. As Sean settled, he lay back and Roger let his massage slip lower until he was pulling rhythmically at Sean’s cock. It grew and dampened with precum. Sean’s hips began following Roger’s rhythm, and then Sean’s hand found Roger’s own hard prick and they pulled on each other slowly, building up again to the same intensity they had had before the spanking. Sean’s eyes were searching Roger’s when he bent to kiss him. His mouth tasted of the heat and hunger and fear Roger had felt in the man’s body. Roger should have been warned by it, should have pulled away from what it demanded of him, but for some reason he didn’t. “Please,” Sean surged against him, fingers digging into Roger’s shoulders, hips moving, seeking. “I’m begging you like you wanted, you fucker. Please.”

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“Settle down,” said Roger, his voice crisp and clinical, his hands soothing. “This isn’t a contest, Sean. Let me take care of you.” He found one of the condoms and slid it over Sean, massaging his prick and licking his balls. Sean arched off the bed, obviously still favoring his sore bottom and Roger slid to the floor by the bed so he could suck Sean off while the man lay on his side. Sean’s hands moved over Roger’s head, pulling at the hair, his fingers scraping at Roger’s cheeks, calluses on beard making a sandpapery noise. Roger had to grab his wrists to keep Sean’s wild movements from taking out one of his eyes, and he sucked hard and methodically, drawing Sean’s cock to the back of his throat and holding his breath as he swallowed and sucked, and Sean wailed and filled the condom. Then Roger was gasping for breath and pumping his release onto Mary Anne’s oak floors. He took the condom away and came back with towels, a wet washcloth, and some Eucerin lotion. Sean was lying on his stomach when Roger reentered the room. He raised a devastated face from his arms. “Lie still,” said Roger, laying a hand on his back. “You going to tell me what just happened?” said Sean. Roger lay the cool damp cloth against Sean’s buttocks and rubbed his back when Sean hissed. “I understand why Peter was excited about you,” he said. “Yeah. I’m a freak. That’s what my last boyfriend said.” “Do you want to tell me about that?” “About Jerry? Not really.” Sean lay his chin on his fists and stared at the headboard. Roger removed the damp cloth, dried Sean, and very lightly applied cream to the edges of the heated area. “I will never let a sub stand before me if he hasn’t first made it clear to himself and to me what he is trying to find.” Sean was silent. Roger massaged the cream in. He could feel all the turbulence in the body beneath his hands, but all he could do was wait. “I feel like I’m pushing myself,” said Sean. “Jerry said I was pushing him. It freaked him out.” “You are aware that there is something to push toward. You are aware that you need another person to put you there. Your instincts were good, but not everyone is a safe choice. Your friend was probably right to refuse since he was untrained.” Sean lay under his hands, maybe thinking, maybe not. Roger massaged, and felt those muscles rolling with thoughts and emotion. “Why wouldn’t you fuck me?” asked Sean, softly. Roger’s hands stopped.

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“Doesn’t that being clear thing go both ways?” asked Sean. Roger lay down next to him and touched that line where the light illuminated Sean’s forehead. Sean turned his head toward him. “Is it why you’re still wearing that ring?” Sean asked. “I can’t talk about it quite yet, but I will,” said Roger. The tide of Sean’s emotional and physical energy was receding. His eyelids drooping. Roger felt the wave fall over him as well. He pulled up the blanket, taking a small pillow and bunching it on Sean’s back so that his hot skin wouldn’t feel the weight of covers. Then he lay his arm across the man in a gesture that he was fully conscious was both possessive and protective. And fell asleep.

***** Roger woke feeling lost. It was undoubtedly because he was sleeping in the anonymous guest bedroom of Mary Anne’s home. A room with bookshelves from the fifties filled with ancient Harlequin romances, iron headboards on the beds, and faded prints on the walls of fish and pheasants. The room of an old man he had never met. But he felt removed from the timeline of his life. Lost in place, lost in time, foreign to himself; the warm man breathing softly under his arm when Roger woke seemed the only thing familiar. Which was odd, given the circumstances. He donned a T-shirt and his now-wrinkled slacks, and went in search of coffee.

***** “Move him in with you,” said Mary Anne as soon as Roger stepped into the kitchen. She was leaning against a cupboard, a baggy T-shirt hanging over a pair of loose plaid shorts. Her hair was pushed and pulled every which way and appeared to have a cobweb hanging from it. She looked like she’d been cleaning a garage. Roger leaned past her for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup without replying. “You have an extra room,” Mary Anne pointed out. “I doubt he’d agree to it. What in heaven’s name have you been doing, Mary Anne?” “I thought I saw a spider in the bathroom.” She raked her fingers through her hair until she found the cobweb. “Ew ew ew,” she shuddered and threw it in the sink. “Ick. I need a shower.” “Would you like me to go kill it for you?” asked Roger, hiding his smile behind his coffee cup. “Nah. I’ll just take my gun with me this time,” said Mary Anne. “I love you dearly, Roger, but I don’t want you having kinky sex in my house, okay?” The blood rushed into Roger’s face.

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“Oh, Christ, don’t have a heart attack. You’re worried about him? Move him in with you for now.” And she left the kitchen.

***** “I’m going back to my place to change,” said Roger, stringing the tie through his collar. Sean still lay under the comforter, half awake. “I’m not sure how late I’ll be working.” “Why are you telling me this?” said Sean. “I have an extra key. I’ll leave it on the desk, along with directions and a note to the security personnel to let you into the community. You are welcome to anything you find in the refrigerator as I don’t know how late I’ll be working.” Roger slid his shoulder holster on and buckled it. When he looked up, Sean’s gaze was fixed on him, nothing legible in his expression. “If you want,” said Roger. “I’d be happy to have you there until we find someplace more suitable.” Sean heaved a great sigh and rolled over on his stomach, pulling the coverlet over his head. Well, that had gone better than he’d expected, Roger reflected. “Have a good day,” he said, as he left the room.

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Chapter Eight It happened around ten a.m. Mary Anne, going through the Church of the Way alibis again, like a dog with a favorite bone, noticed that Teddy’s occupation was “security guard.” She plopped the file down on Roger’s desk. Finger poised triumphantly on that fact. “You think?” she asked. A couple of phone calls later and they’d verified that Teddy worked for the same security company as handled Roger’s building and, lo and behold, had been one of the guards on duty the week he’d been out of town. It was nothing, circumstantial, but Mary Anne and Roger wanted to bring the guy in so badly that they argued with their Chief of Detectives, Smith, for an hour about it anyway. “He isn’t alibied for the night of Marchant’s murder and he was possibly on the scene when the body was dumped on Corso,” said Mary Anne. “And he fits the profile,” said Roger. “So do some of our homicide detectives,” said Smith, not naming names. “This is all circumstantial.” Afterward, Mary Anne sulked. Elbows on her desk, lip protruding like a twelve-yearold’s. “It can’t be a coincidence.” “My security company’s surveillance system is very disappointing,” said Roger. After hours of boredom, the surveillance tapes had coughed up no activity around Roger’s house the week the mummy had been left there. It was as if Santa had dropped Gary Williams’s corpse down the chimney. “Their record keeping really is disgraceful. I’ve been thinking I should bring it up at the next association meeting.” “You’re one of those awful neighbors out there with the measuring tapes and the rule books, aren’t you?” said Mary Anne.

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Roger gave her a meaningful look. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone ‘lost’ a tape or two over the years…” “Shocking,” said Mary Anne. “Especially if a certain security guard was on duty during the time in question.” They spent another tedious two hours pouring through the tapes, eventually coming up with a question in the logging that could lead a zealous homicide detective to possibly suspect that a tape was missing from the night on which Teddy Vincent had been standing guard. Mary Anne started making the chatty phone calls at which she excelled. Calling members of the Church of the Way who were least reticent, secretaries at the security company, neighbors. “Teddy Vincent was heard threatening Marchant on more than one occasion,” she told Roger, beaming across the desks at him. Smith glared across the desk at them, chewing his thick mustache. He was finally swayed by Clark Miller’s support; he was tired of the lack of forensic evidence and the lack of suspects. Teddy wasn’t a happy man when they brought him in, but he’d obviously had enough experience with police to not be frightened into any sudden admissions either. Roger sat across the table from him, hands folded on his lap, sharp green eyes seeming not to blink. “Where’s my lawyer?” said Teddy. “He’s on his way,” said Roger. “Traffic’s a problem this time of day. Do you shave your chest, Mr. Vincent?” Teddy glowered and pulled closed the shirt that hung unbuttoned in front of his dingy wifebeater. “And your arms,” ruminated Roger. “I suppose that’s more comfortable when you’re sweating a great deal. Does security work engender a great deal of sweat?” “What the fuck?” said Teddy. “What do you care if I shave or not?” “Only making conversation until your attorney arrives,” said Roger, pleasantly. Teddy glowered. The long hand on the clock on the wall advanced forward with a loud click. “Is that all you shave?” asked Roger. “Just curious.” “Fuck off,” said Teddy, a flush rising from his hairless chest and up his neck. “Adam Marchant’s entire body was shaved,” said Roger. Teddy banged a fist into the table. “Fuck off!”

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The door opened, and a harried-looking and furiously terrier-like public defense woman stomped in. “Not another word,” she spat at Teddy. “What is he charged with?” she asked Roger. “We merely wanted to ask Mr. Vincent some questions,” said Roger. “We’re out of here,” said the woman, marching her client out of the room. But Teddy wasn’t done. He came down the hallway after Roger, still shouting expletives. Roger just stood there, the same surprised expression on his face as Teddy asserted his heterosexuality at the top of his lungs. “Mr. Vincent!” bellowed his attorney and Teddy stopped midshout. “You’re leaving now,” she said. Teddy huffed a few times. But seemed to think better of things and left, shooting a dark look at Roger as he pushed through the precinct doors. “Who was that jerk off?” asked Sean. He was sitting in Roger’s chair, one foot propped on his desk. “Why are you here?” “How did you talk them into letting you in here?” and “Get your feet off my desk.” All warred for prominence in Roger’s brain, so his mouth opened and nothing came out. Sean leapt up. He had a smirk and a saucy twinkle in his eye. “I came by to give you your house key and tell you I set the alarm,” he said to Mary Anne. He placed the silver key on the edge of her shambles. “Was afraid you wouldn’t see it if I just left it.” “Thank you,” said Mary Anne. “See you at home,” said Sean to Roger. And walked out with a little swish of his tail. Mary Anne was at least trying not to laugh when he looked at her. While Mary Anne went off to wrangle a warrant to place a wiretap on Teddy Vincent’s telephone, Roger perused the file of the suicide victim that he’d identified at one of Jay’s latex parties. Tommy Stone’s contact number was so old, it still had the 213 area code, but Roger tried a number of prefixes until he got through to someone. The gods smile down upon the good. The woman who answered the phone was the sister of a dead man. An Alice Stone.

***** “Can I get you some more coffee, Lieutenant?” asked Alice Stone. She’d inherited the pretty round stone and stucco house at the edge of the Westwood UCLA campus neighborhood from her parents, she’d told Roger. After finishing college, she moved back in with them and never left. Now it was all hers. And her twenty-some-odd cats. Roger liked cats, as a rule. But he didn’t like anything jumping into his lap unannounced.

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“Oh that’s Electra. She’s a funny one,” said Alice, picking the thirty-pound cat up off Roger’s lap easily and tossing her lightly to the floor. The cat sprang away, seemingly unharmed. “After Tommy died, Mommy and Daddy couldn’t be left alone,” Alice explained. Roger said all the appropriate things. “Why did they finally decide your brother’s death was a suicide?” “They found the note,” said Alice. “He said he couldn’t stand his life anymore. He apologized to Mommy and Daddy. It was terrible.” “Of course. Ms. Stone, I know this is painful, but could you try to think what about your brother’s life was so painful.” “It’s sad, I suppose, but he didn’t want to be a homosexual.” “You knew your brother was gay?” “No, no, I only realized it years later. I was looking through his things and the pieces all fell into place. Poor Tommy, if he’d only known how things were going to be.” “His things?” “Momma kept Tommy’s room the way it was.” “Would it be a terrible imposition for me to see his room?” “Of course not!” Alice was delighted, and led Roger down the hall.

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Chapter Nine Sean got off his shift after midnight, and drove his car back and forth in front of the security gated circular drive that marked the entrance to Roger’s home five times before he pulled in and showed the handwritten note to the man there. He slid down in his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, convinced that all four of the security cameras were pointed straight at him. The man finished whatever laborious process was required, gave Sean a garish sticker to place in his front window, and opened the gates. His car really looked like a wreck out there in the driveway, thought Sean. He’d seen the new SUVs and luxury cars as he’d driven down the block. And he had a moment of panic before he figured out how to punch in the code from Roger’s meticulously written out instructions. There were instructions on how to reset it once he was inside, but Sean was afraid he’d trip something if he did, so he just dead bolted the door. There was a new sofa and a satellite remote for a high-def television. The room was as ironed and immaculate looking as the man. For the first time in years, Sean thought about his jeans and wondered how long it had been since he’d washed them. He wandered into the kitchen, however, where he found sandwich meat and bread, and within an hour, Sean was feeling better about things in general. The answering machine picked up calls, and he could hear the messages from where he sat. A man named Jay reminding Roger of a meeting. Another man trying to sell him life insurance. A couple of hang-ups. It was during a commercial, and Sean was looking for something to drink besides orange juice and water, when the phone rang again. “Roger, hon, it’s Peter. Just wanted to

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thank you for the other night, and invite you to do it again sometime soon. Maybe next week? Hugs, baby.” The red light on the phone blinked as its disk saved the message. Sean walked over to the machine and replayed the message. He pushed a couple of buttons. Then he walked back into the living room.

***** Roger tried to be a safe and courteous driver, but he had a pantheon of characters dancing before his eyes as he drove home on the 405. Tommy Stone was one of the young men Jay had photographed between 1981 and 1990. Many reprints of Jay’s photos had even been in Tommy’s collection, a box that Alice had found stashed under his bed. Roger had mulled over the pictures perhaps longer than needed. Tommy Stone had been some man’s sub. In the photographs, he wore the slave collar and brown leather that in the old tradition marked a sub. There didn’t seem to be any pictures of his partner, though, which Roger thought was odd. Quite a few familiar faces had smiled out of the photos at Roger. Jay was there staring the cameraman down, as if daring him to snap the photos. Quentin, the man who had first introduced Roger to Avatar, with his curling blonde hair and James Dean smile. A very young Peter in leathers and a cap, during the short time he’d tried to be a Top. Dozens of other men, now dead and/or forgotten. Ghosts and their paramours. Patrick, of course, wasn’t in any of the pictures, because Patrick had never really embraced the Leather lifestyle. What he’d shared with Roger had been private and just about them. There had been many magazines so explicit in their content, Roger wondered at an uncomfortably closeted man even owning them. A closet full of clothing that made Roger feel those eerie phantoms of memory just behind him again. It just wasn’t the room of a man who wanted to hide his identity. On the contrary, it bore a striking resemblance to the bedroom of a man who was about to come out.

“Do you remember any of these men as being special friends with your brother?” “You mean a boyfriend?” Alice took the photos from him. “No. He had one, I think. A man used to come to the house on a big Harley and they’d ride away together on it. I remember my father said something about it once. But he wasn’t any of these men.” She handed the photos back. It seemed odd. He’d found a pair of handcuffs in a drawer. They were the quick release kind. No whips or canes or floggers. No collars or other signs of slave identity. Roger stood in the middle of the room, his nose twitching. The room was so much like his own had been, he could feel something missing.

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“What do you remember about the night your brother died?”

“Mommy and I had been to a movie in Westwood. It was the opening night. Daddy

was out of town on business. We came home and found Tommy.” It had been a long time ago, so her voice didn’t hold grief, it was only sad. “He was lying in the tub with his wrists cut. He’d cut his ankles as well. The doctor told me that all of his blood was gone. He told me it was probably over really quick. He probably just fainted and never came to.” A pale recitation. She’d probably gone over and over it in her mind. “He told us he couldn’t go to the movies with us that night because he had something to do. He was so cheerful. I think the worst part for Mommy was how he’d told her that, all the time knowing what he was going to do. It was like he’d lied to her.” “He said he had something to do?”

“Wasn’t that awful?”

Roger thought. “The movies open on Wednesday nights these days; did they back

then?” “Yes, I think they did,” said Alice, looking at him oddly. Roger rubbed his thumb back and forth across his lip. “Didn’t your brother have an address book?” “Yes, I think all the boys did back then. A little black book.” “Did you ever find it?” Alice looked surprised. “No. That’s strange, isn’t it? He always had it with him. We got his wallet back but not the book.” Roger was almost positive that the killer was removing objects that might identify him. He’d probably been searching Sean’s storage facility for the book Roger and Mary Anne had found in the YMCA locker. Meaning his name would have been among those kept by his victims. And that meant, as Roger feared, that the killer was a man closely associated with the small Leather community of which Roger had been a part. Roger’s mind was filled with phantoms. Men in black leather, trolling parties. Men smoking filterless cigarettes, their eyes following as he passed. Men in collars and harnesses, eyes glazed with endorphins. Friends. His extended family, in a way. One of them had killed the others in a ritualized and horrific manner. It sickened and scared him, and made him furiously angry.

***** Roger had completely forgotten about giving his house key to Sean until he was driving down the cul-de-sac street on which he lived, and saw the lights blaring from every room in the house.

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In Roger’s well-ordered life, sex was something he only had with old friends who had no expectations, like Peter. And for his other needs, he hired subs. Usually choosing experienced men with whom he would not have to feel too much emotional rapport. And that way, Roger had his needs met without stepping into the sea of grief and loneliness that Patrick had left behind. Sean would have to be made to understand that this situation was an anomaly. Convenience and Roger’s own guilt combined with an unfortunate incident. There shouldn’t be any extravagant expectations. Roger turned off the engine and discovered that the hand that held his ignition key was dampish. That his heart was beating hard. “Hey.” Sean was sitting on the new sofa Roger had had delivered. In a bright green UCLA T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and white socks. The television was on mute, its glow dancing over his face. Roger put down his suitcase. “You didn’t have to wait up.” “I didn’t wait up. I told you. I have trouble falling asleep after work.” Sean’s voice was defensive, and Roger felt, once again, challenged, as if Sean were throwing a dozen Scrabble tiles at him and daring him to read the secret word. “Did you find something to eat?” “I made myself something. I got some writing done. I watched the news. They said some guy was killed in Compton. I thought I might see you there, but you weren’t.” Roger was learning to read Sean’s excited babbling as a nervous habit, very much like the nail chewing. “We don’t get called on every case, especially that far south.” “Oh.” Roger hung up his coat. Usually, he went straight through to his bedroom and changed, but he felt somehow he couldn’t do that now. He went into the kitchen instead and got some bottled water out of the refrigerator while listening to his messages. There was a reminder from Jay, a couple of hang-ups, and his insurance man trying to upgrade his policy again. “Besides. I wasn’t sure which room I should sleep in,” Sean said from the doorway. “Ah.” Roger put down his water, thinking how to begin his little prepared speech. About expectations, sexual, emotional and financial. He cleared his throat and Sean raised that troubled gaze to him. And that was the last thing Roger could distinctly remember because the rest was a smooth blur of crossing the few feet of kitchen floor, Sean moving toward him, the feel of the soft cotton beneath his hands, and the taste of Sean on his tongue. They stumbled against the counter and somebody said, “Ow.”

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“I’m sorry,” said Roger. Sean smelled like soap and the hair at the back of his neck was damp. Roger tasted his earlobes and his chin. There was just the slightest taste of alcohol and Roger knew that Sean had showered and shaved for him. He couldn’t seem to get their clothes off quickly enough. But nothing felt right, suddenly, until he had them both naked and under the heavy throw in his own bed. Sean stretched and rolled and shivered under Roger’s mouth, then rolled him and climbed on top, placing quick kisses on his neck and shoulders, and licking Roger’s nipples until he was begging “harder” and “more” and Sean was suckling at him. Then Roger rolled them again, holding Sean’s head and ass possessively so that he could feed at his whole body like a huge slice of melon. Rubbing his face in the juices of him, his tongue drawing long swathes up Sean’s chest, following those freckles and nibbling at them. His nose circling in the trail of hairs around his navel. “Roger…” whispered Sean, head tossing. “I want you,” said Roger, his voice husky. “Roll over.” Sean did, eagerly, stretching his arms up and opening his legs. Roger found the lube and condoms in his bedside table and felt the curve of Sean’s ass with both hands, fingers finding the contour and rubbing lubricant up and down around his opening. “Are you still sore?” he murmured against the back of Sean’s neck. Sean mumbled something needy sounding that ended with “like your hand was on me all day…” he wriggled and pressed his ass toward Roger’s hand. “Hold on, hold on,” Roger chuckled, working the lube in and trying to at least get Sean relaxed enough to take two fingers up to the knuckles. “I don’t want to hurt you, puppy.” Sean writhed under his hands. “Like it rough, Roger.” “Not this time,” said Roger, sliding the condom on with his clean hand and then coating it, too, with lube. He pushed against Sean’s opening and Sean’s head lifted, his back arched. Roger slid his cockhead in and felt the resistance. He stilled himself, waiting. Sean’s entire body seemed a knot that was slowly being willfully untangled. By centimeters, Roger felt the muscle give way to him and then the reaction of Sean’s body took over and he swallowed Roger, almost pulling his cock inside him. Roger was shaking inside, couldn’t seem to breathe, couldn’t remember how, and then Sean was rocking under him saying his name and it all came into focus and Roger started thrusting into the warm tight body underneath him like he could drive right through it. Sean was gasping out high cries when he started clawing at the mattress with one hand and all the muscles in his back went tight and then loose. Roger kept thrusting, feeling Sean’s contractions around his cock, and the orgasm swelling and swelling between his legs. When it burst through him, it flooded his chest and brain.

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Sean was breathing in huge ragged gasps beneath him, and Roger immediately pushed himself up onto his elbows, not wanting to crush him. He lifted the sweaty tendrils from around Sean’s neck and lowered his face so he could lick at the sweat there and whisper, “Are you all right?” Sean didn’t answer. When Roger had drawn out, Sean rolled over and laced his arms around Roger and clung to him, head pressed into his neck. “Did I hurt you?” asked Roger. “No.” “I have to get rid of this,” said Roger about the condom. “Can I get you some water?” “Yes.” The reflection in the bathroom mirror was Roger and was not. The big body was him; those spooked-looking eyes were not. “Here’s your water.” Sean sat up. His hair was a marvelous haystack of auburn and orange. He took the glass from Roger and drank it in long thirsty gulps. He put the glass on the table and a shiver traveled from his neck across his shoulders and down his body. Roger cradled him, ran his hand over him, petting him and rocking him, and Sean gradually settled into him and his shaking ceased. “You were tight,” said Roger. “You don’t do that very often.” “Nope.” Roger held Sean against his shoulder, soothing him and kissing his hair. He reclined and made the man recline with him, urging him until Sean finally rolled and lay across Roger’s broad chest, Roger’s arm holding him. “Sean?” “Yeah.” “Was that your first time?” A long silence. A ripple of emotion in the body under Roger’s arm. “Yeah,” whispered Sean. He could have really hurt him. Roger opened his mouth to point out this very fact to Sean. But he felt the huge emotional waves still moving through the man under his arm and instead he only asked, “What do you need?” “This is good,” said Sean. “Just stay like this.”

*****

The call came at 5:12 am. Roger had a luminous dial alarm clock that shown the time in red on the ceiling of his room. That way, when his phone rang at obscene hours, he knew just by opening his eyes what time it was.

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“Corso here,” he said, needlessly, because the only person to call him would be dispatch and they knew who he was. He was almost dressed when Sean seemed to waken. “Roger?” the whisper came from under the blankets. Sean, it seemed, burrowed when he slept. Roger petted the top of the head that emerged from under the wool. “I have work. I’ll call you when I can.” “Oh.” Sean’s hand came out, warm and soft, fingers wrapped around Roger’s wrist. His eyes were still closed and his head fell back onto the mattress, half submerged under the blanket, his fingers still gripping Roger. “Sean, I have to go,” Roger drew his hand away, but Sean held onto it. “Take me with you,” said Sean, seeming almost to be talking in his sleep. Roger smiled. “I can’t.” He bent over to kiss Sean. Sean turned his head, pressing into the kiss and Roger reluctantly extracted his hand, and stood. “I’ll call you,” he said.

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Chapter Ten When Roger entered the precinct offices, FBI agents were running out of the scene room, ties flying. Clark Miller stood snapping words into a phone, face even redder than usual, and Smith stood next to Mary Anne looking at a computer monitor that showed a map of Los Angeles. She pointed at a location on the screen. “Twenty-One Room. Santa Monica and Wilshire. The found a mummified body in one of the old unused shower rooms.” Roger felt sick. “ID?” “Not yet.” “Is it new or old?” “Brand new. And Roger? He’s in drag.”

***** Thank God he didn’t know him. It was a terrible thing to be grateful for, but Roger was growing tired of ghosts. “Sergio Hernandez of Silverlake,” said a coroner’s team member. He was very beautiful and young beneath the horrific cleaving strands of varnish. The outfit contemporary and cute. A pink-and-black-checked thigh-high skirt over black mesh stockings and knee-high buckled black leather boots. His arms were laced together with leather, which excited all the techs because it could be traced, but Roger was gazing at the flogger and cane held in the victim’s hands. The scene was immaculate. The techs were practically on their hands and knees with bags and lights and any number of tools that looked like they’d come from the last Mars mission, but Roger had a bad feeling about the looks on their faces. Whoever had left the

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body in this room had been as careful this time as he had been when he’d deposited Gary Williams in Roger’s home. They turned the body and found blood soaking through the fabric of his pink tank top. “He was dressed afterward, then,” said Mary Anne. She frowned across the corpse at the medical officer. “So he’d have to wait for rigor to pass to get on the shoes and everything.” The coroner’s official seemed fascinated with the victim’s mouth and didn’t answer. Instead, she drew a bit of tooth out. “He was in a hurry to finish and broke teeth in the process?” asked Roger. “Maybe,” said the ME in that clinically noncommittal voice. “Maybe the teeth were broken during the struggle. We’ll know more when we get him in.” “I want to be there,” said Mary Anne. She’d been squatting next to the ME and now she straightened, looking up at Roger. “You want to meet me?” she asked. “Mmm,” said Roger, studying the tools in the victim’s hands. The cane was an anomaly in Roger’s mind -- the sort that had been used in the fifties in England by headmasters to punish pupils, about one quarter-inch thick of flexible rattan. It was something that a grown man in the United States would possess, like a yo-yo or some vintage curiosity. A kinky child’s toy, really. It might have even been older than the victim. Somebody had quite a collection of disposable BDSM equipment, thought Roger. The club was five blocks from Jay’s house. “I have a neighborhood connection that might know the vic,” said Roger, procuring one of the Polaroids from a tech. “Do you want me to come along?” Mary Anne frowned contemplatively and watched as techs marked a narrow drag trail from the door to the body. “Mmmm, he’s not someone who would talk easily around strangers,” said Roger. She gave him that worried, witchy look of hers. “You all right?” Roger shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll call if I learn anything. Otherwise I’ll meet you back at the lab.” “You got it.” “And Mary Anne?” Roger took out his pad and wrote Jay’s address on it, handing it to his partner with the distinct sense of guilt. “If I don’t call in an hour,” he said. She looked at it and then back at him. “I’m coming with you.” “No.” Her small white face with its pointed chin almost quivered as she stared him down. “I’ll tell Smith,” she said, finally. It was unfair, but wholly justified. “You can wait in the car,” said Roger.

*****

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“Oh my God!” For a horrible moment, Roger thought he was going to have to call the paramedics. “Liam!” Jay called, gasping for breath. Liam, the nurse, was at Jay’s side in an instant. He actually seemed, thank God, to have some medical ability, because he checked Jay’s pulse and gave him medicine. Roger waited until his friend had sufficiently recovered before sitting down and gazing at him seriously. “He used the name ‘Santos,’” wheezed Jay. “When you asked about a ‘Sergio’ Hernandez, I didn’t make the connection.” “I’m sorry,” said Roger, sincerely, pocketing the photograph. Jay breathed into the mask for some time, Liam standing over him, forefingers on his wrist. “I’m fine,” said Jay finally, sliding his arm away. The pale eyes he raised toward Roger were stricken. “About a month ago, he didn’t show up for work. I thought, well, I thought he’d run off with one of the other young men at the club.” “Which club?” “The Fandango. Santos was a little bit of a tramp,” said Jay, affectionately. His faded eyes filled with water. “He was a whore,” said Liam disgustedly, and Jay put a quelling hand on the nurse’s arm. “Let him rest in peace, Liam.” Roger noted the nurse’s reactions without turning an immaculate hair. “Do either of you know if Santos was a cross-dresser?” Liam laughed, derisively. “Santos?” Jay’s chuckle devolved into a cough and he slapped on the mask for a second before saying. “I wouldn’t have been surprised.” “Really?” asked Roger sharply. “Why?” asked Jay. “It’s just a piece in a puzzle,” said Roger. “Was he a masochist?” He saw Jay glance quickly at his nurse and realized, belatedly, that that might be an indelicate question. Before he could retract it, though, Liam was shaking his head and smiling. “Santos was a switch,” said Liam, easily. “But he hated to stand before the whip. He was not a natural.” “So he was into the life,” said Roger, worriedly. “But not… How well did you know him?” “Not well,” said Jay, quickly answering for his nurse. “He was a tramp,” said Liam. “We all know who they are. It is something that he would do, you see, dress like a woman for money. He didn’t understand the life. He didn’t understand Mr. Jay. He just did it for the money.”

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“For the money? He was a masochist for hire?” “I don’t want to say, Roger,” said Jay. “Santos has family out here. Please, man, don’t make this harder for them.” “I won’t, Jay. Might Peter have known him?” “Peter? He might. I never heard either of them mention the other, but it’s possible.” “Thank you, Jay. If you don’t mind, I’m going to need any specific information you might have about him for the report.” Jay sighed and his nurse put a hand on his arm. There was something protective and very intimate about the gesture. Roger wondered what Liam might do to a man who tried to take advantage of Jay. He filed that away for future prodding and said, “Jay, have you noticed anything missing?” Jay’s eyes spanned the cluttered and chaotic front room in which they sat. “No.” “I’m, um, thinking of specific items. Tools.” “Ah.” Those pale eyes looked up at Liam. “I have a key, Mr. Corso,” said Liam, smoothly. “If you’d like to look for yourself.” Roger hated himself for all of the things he was thinking, but his policeman’s brain could not be turned off. “Thank you.” He drew on his gloves as Liam led him down the stairs to Jay’s “dungeon.” Aware the entire time that he was watching Liam’s every move, that the hand with which he would draw his gun had that loose, aware, feeling it did when he was in a dangerous situation. “Please wait here,” he said, when Liam had swung open the inner door. If he didn’t reappear in an hour, Mary Anne would probably have an entire SWAT team, complete with armored tank, at Jay’s front door, so he didn’t fear being imprisoned as much as he did the humiliation of his release. Those dark eyes rested on him. “Yes, sir.” Roger, of course, knew Jay’s playroom very well. The St. Andrew’s Cross against the wall, the bench and horse, and the sling in the corner. It was almost with a sense of bemused nostalgia, that he brushed by it and went to the “toy” cabinet. “Do you have the key?” Liam’s expression was not respectful when he said, “Yes, sir,” again and unlocked it for him. There appeared to be nothing missing. Every hook had something hanging from it. The drawers tidily organized. Jay was not much for canes and only had a rather sturdy adult model he’d acquired from a Singapore policeman. That was hanging on the wall in a case. Along with a fraternity paddle from Harvard and a cricket bat.

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“Thank you,” said Roger. He followed Liam up the stairs. The man’s back was stiff with disapproval, but when Roger said, “Jay, I hope you don’t mind, but I have to ask for your whereabouts last night,” Jay only chuckled from behind his oxygen mask and told him. “I believe there are video tapes to corroborate me, are there not, Liam?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “Yes, sir,” said Liam, calmly. They alibied each other, of course. Roger thanked them both, formally, stiffly, feeling it in his knees, neck, and back as he walked down the long hillside of stairs, with the wheelchair lift installed in the handrail. Opened the thick wrought iron gate and climbed into the car. Mary Anne watched him regain himself. She didn’t ask him if he was all right, thank God. He obviously wasn’t and he definitely couldn’t discuss it. As they pulled away from the curb, he dialed one more number.

* * * * ** “Hello,” said the groggy voice on the phone. “thissureashellbetterbeimportant.” “Peter, it’s Roger.” “Roger?” He could hear the thunks and rustles of someone rising up from bed and trying to pull their brains together. “Is everything all right?” “Yes. I’m sorry to call so early, but it’s about a case.” “Oh. Oh, well of course, Roger. No need to apologize.” “Did you know of a young man named Sergio Hernandez?” A pause. He could hear Peter maybe putting on a robe or slippers. “Sergio, did you say?” Now the clink of glasses. Peter must be making himself coffee. “I hope you haven’t had your sleep ruined,” said Roger. “No, no, I should have been up by now. You know, there was a young Sergio here a few years ago, I think. Was it years or months? I can’t recall his last name. Give me an hour and some coffee, and I’ll call the office and have them check the books.” “Thanks Peter, that would be very helpful.” “You understand, Roger, I sign a confidentiality agreement with my employees? This would be just between us?” Roger thought it highly improbable that he could keep such things from his superiors, but he could certainly keep the information private. “I understand,” he said. “Thank God. I live in fear of a libel suit.” Now Roger heard the gentle bloop and hiss of Peter’s old-fashioned coffee maker running. “I’ll let you wake up. Call me later. We’ll have lunch.”

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“Excellent. I shall.”

They disconnected.

***** “So rigor would have set in after four hours or so? The perp had to wait for it to subside, another eight hours, maybe, then dress the vic and find a way into the studio. That means maybe eighteen hours before he was discovered, at least. He would have been dead by ten a.m. the previous day, maybe sooner.” Mary Anne stood beside the coroner’s table, doing the math on her fingers. The room seemed full of stern-looking persons in ill-fitting white coats. Agent Miller and another of his men standing over the proceedings with grim faces. Roger guessed that they must feel every victim a serial killer claimed after they’d been called in was somehow their fault. He thanked God he was only an LAPD homicide detective. The coroner had rolled the vic onto his stomach, so that she could go over the back where the majority of the injuries seemed to be. The whole back was a bloody mess. Deep black and purple bruises, blood coming from areas where the beating had been so severe, the vic’s ribs had splintered and come through the skin. Bloody open gashes where the skin had split open, like an overripe tomato. “Baseball bat,” said the coroner with absolute assurance. “I saw this last year, some guy beat his wife to death with one.” She scowled as she followed the marks. “And some other instrument. It left these cuts. See?” she pointed, and with an almost dizzying feeling of recognition, Roger picked out the short dashing marks of a cat-o’-nine’s knots. “He was whipped with a cat-o’-nine-tails,” he said, and his voice sounded odd in his own ears. The ME, two FBI agents, and Mary Anne turned surprised gazes toward him. “Possibly,” said the coroner, after a pause. She went back to the examination. “Ligature marks on wrists and ankles; the vic was restrained. No bruising around the mouth.” “Wherever he was, the perp didn’t care if he screamed,” said Mary Anne. “So he didn’t gag him.” He’d probably wanted Sergio to scream, thought Roger, feeling ill. A master of the singletail who whipped, and then beat men to death. And liked to hear their agony. “Why mummies, though?” mused Mary Anne. “Whoever it was, he knew what he was doing,” said the coroner. “I’d guess TOD somewhat earlier, though. From the state of the skin, despite the preservative, I’d guess much earlier. Perhaps as much as eight hours earlier.” So, around ten to twelve the evening before. Which covered Jay and his nurse, assuming Jay had had nothing to do with it. Roger had put himself under Jay’s whip once. He absolutely believed Jay had had nothing to do with it. He wasn’t too sure about Liam.

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“There’s a cricket bat on the wall of the basement I was just in,” he confided to Mary Anne, as they climbed the stairs from the lab. “I’ll need a warrant to seize it.” Mary Anne glanced at the FBI agents who trotted some distance ahead of them. “How soon?” she said in a low voice. “Hopefully never,” said Roger. “I’m running a sheet on someone and then we’ll see.” Clark Miller seemed to have very little to say. He chugged up the stairs ahead of them, covering two at a time at such a pace, Roger worried that the rotund man would stroke out and fall on them before they reached the main floor. Once in the scene room, more computers clacked away. Sergio’s mummified face was enshrined on the board and Roger told them what he knew of “Santos.” “So the perp has a thing about the cross-dressing, but doesn’t necessarily target crossdressers?” said Mary Anne. “How does that fit the profile?” “It fits the profile of a sexually conflicted man,” said the profiler dubiously. Roger raised a finger. “Fetish is ritualistic. Could it just be part of the whole mummification ritual?” The profiler blinked from behind his thick glasses. “That’s an interesting theory, Detective.” Liam’s report came in at that point and Roger was relieved to find an excuse to remove himself from that curious scrutiny. Liam appeared to be a relatively harmless person. No record, except a loitering arrest which many young men who frequented the bars might have. He stopped at noon to call home. The machine picked up and he left a message, and a few minutes later his cell phone rang with his own caller ID on it. “Hey, I didn’t think I should pick up your phone,” said Sean. “You hadn’t said I could.” “I appreciate that,” said Roger. “But you may use my phone and have messages left on it if you want. I called to tell you I might be late again.” “Man, your hours suck,” said Sean. He sounded like he was chewing something. Roger had a little trouble controlling his impulses when he was tired. “I wish you’d try not to curse quite so much, at least around me,” he said. There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then, “Gotcha,” said Sean. It was impossible to tell by his tone whether he meant to comply or not. That bizarre noise of eating came across the line again. “This organic peanut butter is great, man.” “You aren’t eating it from the jar, are you?” asked Roger. Another silence. “So. When d’you think you’ll be home?” “Late.” Roger had a sense this conversation wasn’t going well. “Don’t wait up.”

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Sean could be heard exhaling slowly, like a man slowly counting to ten in his head. “I’ll see you,” he said. And hung up.

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Chapter Eleven “Why mummies?” asked Mary Anne of the room at large. She had out the reports from the Church of the Way group again. Roger suspected that Mary Anne wanted too much to find the members of the group implicated, but he dared not suggest it. His partner was usually very pragmatic and dispassionate. But the church had put a bee up her snood that she couldn’t seem to shake. “You know, there are a lot of similarities between Christ’s resurrection and the resurrection of Osiris,” said Mary Anne. “I’m fairly certain the Church of the Way doesn’t worship Egyptian gods,” said Roger, diminishing his screen where he’d been researching the exact same thing. He had books at home on the subject, actually. They’d been Patrick’s. “We’ve been watching Teddy since he left the station. He hasn’t called anyone. I don’t appreciate that jerk being clever,” said Mary Anne, sourly. She’d really pushed for that wiretap injunction and took it personally that nothing had come of it. “He was there when the body was dropped on your place. He knew Marchant.” “I agree,” said Roger, though he personally felt that the connection would be found in another quarter. He’d asked Peter about it that afternoon, as it happened.

***** “I’m going to have to beg a rain check on lunch,” he’d told Peter when he’d called. “This case keeps turning up more wild hairs.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Peter. “Is this the same case that was worrying you the other night?” “I’m afraid it is.”

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“Christ, Roger, you don’t still think the man is after you, do you?” “After me? No. No, I just keep feeling unfortunately familiar with the evidence. You recall I asked about Sergio Hernandez?” “Oh right. Ah, I checked, Roger but we never had anyone here by that name.” “He might have been called ‘Santos’.” “Santos?” Peter chuckled. “A switch calling himself a saint? That’s pretty amusing.” “I also wondered if you had heard of a Teddy or Theodore Vincent?” A pause. “What’s going on, Roger?” “Yes, well, that brings me to the purpose of this call. I wanted to warn you. There may be a man targeting BDSM practitioners,” Roger said. “Particularly those who also experiment with cross-dressing, though we’re not sure about that anymore.” Another pause. “I see.” “We’ve reopened an old case. I think you knew the man, Peter. Thomas Stone?” A stunned silence and then Peter cursed, softly. “Christ. Tommy Stone. I haven’t thought of him in years, Roger.” “He may have been murdered after all. I hope you vet your clients very carefully.” “Of course we do. Members only, you know.” “Then I’m relieved,” said Roger. They had chatted a bit more and then Roger had promised to catch up after the workload lightened. Jay had been sleeping when Roger had called, so he’d only left a message with Liam. Mary Anne was still busy scrutinizing the whereabouts and alibis of every member of the Church of the Way congregation. “They’re really into the traditional domestic discipline thing,” she said to Roger, after one phone call. “Oh.” “Oh, yeah. That woman I just spoke to couldn’t talk on the phone until her husband came home.” Roger nodded. It figured that Adam Marchant would be attracted to that. “Can’t imagine letting someone make all my decisions for me,” said Mary Anne. “I think there is a certain serenity in letting go of responsibility,” said Roger, and Mary Anne gave him a look that he personally thought of as her ‘you men’ look. “Whatever,” she said, and dialed the next number.

***** Detective work is very much like sales sometimes. You call, you ask, and you listen. You call again. You search out leads. And leads within leads, and then you retrace the circuit

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because you know from experience and the wisdom of your forebears that this is the mostly likely area in which to find what you seek. Roger and Mary Anne spent the rest of the day calling people they’d already called. Checking alibis anew. The length of time it would have taken to prepare and plant Sergio’s body gave most of the alibis decent credibility. Even Teddy had one for that night. He’d been working. With a co-worker, even. Roger drove home late. Weary and restless in that way he could be when things could not be put immediately right. It was so late when Roger pulled into his driveway that he left the car outside, so he wouldn’t wake Sean with the sounds of the garage door opening. He entered as quietly as possible, noted that Sean had, once more, not set the internal alarm, and carried his briefcase into the bedroom. The bedroom lights were off, but as Roger entered the room, the lamp by the bed clicked on, and he turned. Whatever trajectory, whatever train of thought he’d been following when he walked into the house, slid out of his mind and floated away like a helium balloon from the hand of a child. Sean lay on his side on the bed. The blankets and quilt had been shoved to the floor and he posed like a centerfold. Long white body, legs demurely crossed at the knees. The black thong bulged. Roger heard his briefcase thunk to the floor. “Thought you’d never get home,” said Sean. His hand on his hip ran up his torso, over the pale belly, and touched a nipple that bore, new and still red, a nipple ring. Roger felt Sean’s shoulder muscles against the palms of his hands, saw the blue surge dark and then bright in Sean’s eyes, the smile widen, before he realized he’d crossed the floor and pushed the man onto the mattress. Sean’s chest rose and fell, the nipple ring glinting. “You…you…” Roger was sideswiped. “You like it?” whispered Sean. He just barely touched it. “It still stings,” he said. He had been going to say something else, but his words were muffled by Roger’s mouth, Roger’s tongue down his throat. Clothes fell in messy heaps to the floor; even the good silk tie was sacrilegiously tossed. “Ow, Roger, it’s still sensitive.” Roger had gotten Sean’s hands up against the headboard where he was holding them, controlling himself just barely, so that he wouldn’t bruise the flesh, biting at the butter-colored skin, placing bright red marks amongst the freckles. A circle of bites around the pierced nipple. “You shouldn’t have done it if you didn’t want to feel…” Roger nipped at the ring and felt Sean’s body arch. His legs held down by Roger’s weight, his hands held above his head. Sean hissed.

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Roger did it again, then drew a line with his tongue to the other nipple. Sean’s body bucked under his, he bit, hard at the nipple and laved a path across Sean’s pectorals. “Don’t,” begged Sean. “Fuck, Roger, ow!” “Don’t curse,” said Roger. He looked down at the man who lay under him. There was the war in Sean’s face again. The desire and the fear and whatever else that was. The unknown door. “Tell me what you want,” said Roger. He was breathing so hard, his voice sounded ragged. Sean’s face was bright red, eyes glittering, wide. “I don’t know what I want.” Roger bit the nipple ring and tugged and Sean yelped. “Tell me what you want,” growled Roger against his ear. Sean’s breath came in short little gasps. He was rhymically, probably even unconsciously, bumping and rubbing his swollen cock against Roger. “C’mon, Roger, this isn’t funny.” “No, it’s not. Tell me.” Roger reached down with one hand, letting his fingers trail until they found Sean’s cock; he tugged and rubbed, and then he trailed his fingers up to the ring and just barely flicked it, feeling Sean tense like a wire was strung from his head to his toes. God, he was responsive. “I…I didn’t know if you’d like it,” breathed Sean. “You had yourself pierced and you didn’t know if I’d approve?” guessed Roger. He ran a finger around the swollen nipple. “It’s my body,” said Sean. Roger looked hard into his eyes. “You want me to tell you that your body belongs to me,” he said. “You want me to mark you.” Sean’s breathing sped up. “No.” “Don’t lie to me.” “Let me go,” said Sean, seeming to fight against Roger in earnest, now. “This body is mine, Sean.” Holding Sean’s wrists tightly, Roger lowered himself so that he could say against Sean’s mouth, “This mouth is mine,” and he took possession, his tongue tracing every corner of Sean’s mouth, dominating the man’s tongue. When Roger released him, Sean was breathless. “This cock is mine,” said Roger, reaching down and gripping Sean’s swollen cock. “These balls are mine.” Holding and squeezing. Sean moaned and fought against him. “I will mark you, if you need me to, Sean. But not yet. For now, I’ll punish you for marking your body without my permission.” Holding Sean with one hand, he reached into his bedside drawer and rifled until he found the Velcro restraints.

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He slipped them over Sean’s wrists, pushing them behind the headboard. As a show of dominance, more than a real attempt at bondage. “Don’t move,” he said, jumping off the bed. When he came back into the room, he wasn’t at all surprised to see Sean still lying where he had left him. “Stand up,” he said. “I’m going to show you the way we will open every scene.” “S-scene?” “Put your arms behind your back,” and when Sean did so, Roger easily looped the Velcro restraints around his wrists. “Roger, what are you…” “Silence. You do not speak. You address me as Master and tell me your safe word. That is all.” A stunned, protracted silence. Standing behind Sean, Roger felt the tension ripple up and down the man and then release. “My safe word is ‘Margarita,’ Master,” said Sean. “Margarita,” Roger repeated. “Good. It’s good to choose the same word. There’s less danger of forgetting it. Now, I’m going to help you up onto the bed. The floor is too hard.” He heard Sean take a breath to ask a question, but then think better of it. Together they got the man up on the bed and then bent over, his face lying sideways on a mound of pillows. Roger picked up the small, soft, multitailed rubber flogger. He laid it on the pillow where Sean could see it. “I’ve been told this is more like a massage,” he said. “It will start to burn eventually. If you need more, I will switch to another.” Sean’s eyes were wide; he was breathing rapidly. But he didn’t speak. Roger lay a hand on his head, some deep feeling swelling from somewhere in his chest. “Ready,” he said, and raised his arm. Sean jerked at the first blow and moaned by the tenth. His body bucked into the blows and soon Roger was feeling the endorphins that possessed Sean. Both of them rolling in a chemical bath of the giving and getting of this intense sensation. Suddenly, he felt Sean tense up. Heard the change in his breathing. Roger stopped and Sean whimpered. Roger ran his hand lightly over the heated flesh. “What is it?” “I…I…” “Talk to me.” “I need to come. God,” spat Sean suddenly, his whole body trembling, the bound hands jerking at the restraints, “what the fuck is wrong with me?”

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Roger immediately unbound Sean’s hands. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. “Lie down.” And as Sean settled down to the mattress, Roger opened a bottle of oil, poured it over his fingers and, holding Sean steady by the hip, slid his lubricated fingers inside of him. Sean cried out and rutted against Roger’s hand. Roger controlled the penetration, kept Sean from falling off the bed by his firm hold on his hip. Sean jerked and rocked onto Roger’s fingers, until he came, shuddering and trembling and clawing at the mattress. Then he lay there, face averted. Roger lay down next to him, arm around him. “Talk to me.” “I’ve talked enough,” said Sean, voice hard. Roger grasped Sean’s shoulders and made him turn to face him. “Look at me.” Sean’s eyes opened, the eyelashes damp, lids red. “You know what really scares the crap out of me?” he said, angrily. Roger saw that Sean used the swear word on purpose, but chose to let it go. “What?” “That Gary was into this, too. I mean, what does that mean?” “I don’t know, Sean. I learned a long time ago that it’s useless and often erroneous to analyze.” He touched Sean’s chin, drew a line to his mouth. “Your body is capable of so much.” Sean’s eyes cast down. “Are you okay?” “Me?” “Yeah. I mean, I know I sort of blew your fuse and then I came apart on you…” “You didn’t come apart. This is part of the process of giving you what you need.” Sean’s gaze dropped to Roger’s cock. It was red and heavy against the mattress. It looked like a laboring fat dog there, drooling from the tip, practically throbbing. “Let me suck you off, at least,” whispered Sean. Roger’s breath hitched as his cock surged just a bit. “I don’t have a problem with that. You might like it if I bound your wrists again.” “Yeah?” Sean’s pupils widened, a throb of desire, and then he immediately looked worried. “Is that normal?” “We left normal back in Kansas, Dorothy,” said Roger, smiling. “Here, let me put a pillow on the floor for you so that your knees aren’t hurt.”

***** Roger sat on the edge of the bed while Sean, on his knees, wrist bound in front of him so that he was in no danger of falling forward and choking, sucked him hard. Roger watched Sean’s face, saw the battle there again, saw the moment when the man gave into himself and let his pleasure in being dominated take over. Roger held Sean’s head and thrust just a little, and heard the man moan, his nostrils flaring. Roger clasped Sean’s

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head with both hands and set up a rhythm. Just barely fucking Sean’s face as Sean whimpered and leaned into it, black brows bent in a helpless V. The sense of power, Sean’s complete acquiescence, the red lips sucking hard, and Roger gasped and jerked hard as he released into the latex. Sean was breathing hard when they finished and Roger quickly got him up onto the bed, comfortable and safe in Roger’s arms. “Thank you,” said Sean. Roger petted his hair. “Thank you.” Light was beginning to bleed through the edges of his window shades. It had to be almost dawn and Roger had been awake for around forty-eight hours, a good eight of which had been spent staring at the remains of a brutally murdered man. Somewhere in that day, something significant had happened. But he was too tired and too overwhelmed by chemical overload to be able to sort out what it was. “Can I tell you something?” asked Sean. His face was turned so that his cheek rested against Roger’s chest and Roger could feel Sean lick his lips before he spoke. “I expect you to tell me everything,” said Roger. “Trust is key.” “Yeah. Trust. Does that… does…” Sean made a frustrated noise. “I’ve never had what you might call a relationship, you know.” Roger couldn’t imagine a man like Sean finding fulfillment easily. He let his hand trail to Sean’s face and ran a thumb along the smooth beardless plane of his face. “And…?” “Is that what this is?” Roger felt some inarticulate sorrow rise up in his chest, whether for Sean or himself, he couldn’t tell. “Yes,” he said. “This is a relationship.” “Oh. Okay, then.” Sean seemed to settle then. And in a few minutes, the rhythm of his breathing told Roger that he was asleep.

***** Patrick came into the room that night. In Roger’s dreams, he and Patrick were always in the Bahamas. At the little cabana they’d rented for a week. Patrick in his bleached out Abercrombie & Fitch pants, sand still caught in his navel from where Roger had rolled him, white linen shirt open, that ankh swinging from the leather chain. Hair wild around his face and his mouth wide with laughter. His Patrick was the carefree barefoot man running in the white sand, not the jaundiced man dying of liver cancer, barely able to squeeze his fingers around Roger’s hand.

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This time, Patrick stood over Roger’s bed wearing that ghastly hospital gown. He didn’t look ghoulish or like some kind of Marley’s ghost. He didn’t look sick, either, thank God. But he did look puzzled. “Wha…!” Roger sat straight up in bed. The room was dark with the few bumps of furniture showing in the dim light coming through his curtains. No men stood over his bed, and the curled lump against his hip stirred and made a cranky noise. “Roger? ’S cold…” Roger pushed back the covers and got out of bed. He pulled on a pair of sheepskin boots and sweats and his coat, and went out to the garage. He’d brought the box back into the kitchen and was tearing through the tape on it with a knife when Sean came padding into the room in his drooping sweatpants, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “What are you doing?” Sean yawned hugely. “Go back to bed,” said Roger. “I just remembered something I have to do.” Sean tilted his head. “Who’s Patrick?” Roger was startled and then realized that the name was all over the box. “He’s my partner. I mean, he was my…” “Oh right, the ring.” Sean came over, pulled out a chair and plunked his sleepy face onto his hands on the table. “So what’re ya lookin’ for?” “Sean, you should really go to bed.” “I can help you with stuff, you know. I helped with the other thing, right?” “Aren’t you tired?” asked Roger. “Yeah, but the bed’s cold without you there,” said Sean. “So let me help you and then we can both go back to sleep.” He looked like a stuffed toy some child had thrown through the wash cycle, hair and clothing askew, one eye bigger than the other, face sleep swollen. Roger sighed. “Fine.” “What’re you looking for anyway?” “I’m not even sure,” said Roger. The picture he’d picked up was of Patrick and his mother and Patrick’s graduation party. It had been so long since Roger had looked at any of these things, he was caught by it. Patrick almost looked like a stranger. “I had a dream…” Roger admitted wryly. “When I woke, I thought I had to find something here.” Sean pushed around the pictures and plaques and assortment of diaries in the box. “How long were you together?” he asked. No. He was not going down that path tonight. “A long time. Leave it,” he ordered harshly, raising the leaves of the box and retaping it loosely. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Let’s go back to bed.”

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Chapter Twelve Sean was awakened by the answering machine picking up more calls. He rolled over, found Roger gone, then he looked at the time on the clock and groaned. He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen, thinking he’d find a way to turn the volume down, so he could get a little more sleep, when the phone rang again and he just instinctively picked it up. “Hello?” “Hello? Roger? Babe, I thought we could go back to that little Cuban place this Friday.” “This isn’t Roger.” After a moment, Sean realized that he probably owed the caller an explanation. “He isn’t here, can I take a message?” “Who is this?” “Who is this?” asked Sean, a little testily. “My name is Peter…and I’m a friend of Roger Corso’s. If you have any business being in his house while he’s not there…” “Oh, hi, Peter; it’s Sean.” A silence. “Sean? Little Sean Williams from the club? What are you doing answering Roger’s phone?” Not liking that “little” too much, Sean growled. “I was asleep. Roger’s at work. D’ya wanna leave a message?” There was a silence. “No, never mind. I’ll call him on his cell phone. You go on back to sleep.” “Sure. Bye,” said Sean, and hung up. And went back to bed.

*****

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“Roger!” Peter seldom called him. And never while he was at work, so Roger put down the file he had been reading immediately. “Peter?” “I wanted you to know…” and over the line came Peter’s chuckle. “I called your place just now and Sean picked up.” “Did he?” “He didn’t sound happy to have been awakened. I’m so sorry, Roger, I’m afraid I snarled at him, but I had no idea he was staying with you.” “Mmmm, things have gotten complicated.” “I didn’t mean for him to impose on you.” “He’s not, Peter. Listen, I really don’t want to be rude, but we’re in the middle of something breaking.” “That case you were worried about? Oh, I apologize, Roger. I’ll ring off.” “No, no, don’t apologize. I’ve been meaning to call you.” “Que sera, Roger. I just hope I didn’t put a wrench in anything.” “Lord, there’s already a hundred wrenches. He’s over a decade younger than me, for God’s sake.” “Well, that befits a mentoring relationship.” “It’s gone beyond mentoring, I’m afraid,” admitted Roger. “Oh, dear. That makes the little conversation I had with him even more embarrassing.” “Peter, what did you say to him?” But Mary Anne was standing in the doorway of the FBI scene room, waving urgently. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk soon.” “Of course, Roger.” They rang off.

***** The victim had been lovely, thought Roger with a peculiar ache of helplessness. Under the Santa Monica pier, the sand dark with the silt and filth that dropped from the surrounding beach goers, the thunder of the waves bouncing off the pier’s planks overhead and recalling Roger’s odd dream, he stared down at a slim white torso that had not been properly bound or prepared. He merely lay like a gutted fish, his white young face with the worn slave collar, tipped upward, dead pale eyes staring at the horizon where the Pacific Ocean dipped into infinity. A policeman takes the murder of citizens personally, a top in the traditional Leather community takes the murder of a young bottom, especially one in a committed relationship, even more so.

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“He’ll have a partner searching for him,” said Roger, hoarsely. “Check the missing persons.” As one of the other officers did that, Roger scanned the area marked off with tape. At the young man’s hand, a beautiful flogger of a peculiar shade of velvety leather eddied in the incoming tide. “You know, that looks like it was custom made,” Roger said to Mary Anne. He got a glance that he would worry about endlessly later. “Go for it,” was all she said. He had the techs bag it and prioritize it so he could have it back in the scene room as soon as possible. Then he called Raymond Greene. “Roger!” Raymond was always mellow and always pleased to hear from anyone. “I need information for an investigation,” Roger prefaced, so he wouldn’t feel later that he’d betrayed a trust. “I’m looking at a beautiful young man who was killed, eviscerated, and dumped like trash with a fine red leather flogger at one hand.” “How can I help?” asked Raymond immediately. “I need to find the maker of this flogger as soon as possible. And then, perhaps the owner. It looks like it might be buffalo hide, so I’m hoping we will be lucky.” Buffalo hide being one of the rarer materials for floggers. Raymond was one of the few men Roger knew who used one. A silence. “You know how difficult that could be.” “I know. Raymond, all I can do is assure you that, if it’s within my power, there won’t be any trouble for these men. This isn’t a witch hunt.” Making floggers and whips isn’t illegal, but it is illegal in the United State to consent to being assaulted. Making floggers and whips knowingly to be used for BDSM could cause a great deal of trouble for the maker. “Send me a picture. I’ll make some calls.” “Thanks, Raymond. When I can tell you more, I’ll explain how important this was.” Then Roger hung up and got the process in motion to get the information out. And he called the makers he knew himself. He and Mary Anne followed the bus back to the coroner’s offices. Pacing in the dim hallway, making calls, while waiting for any information they could get immediately. DNA, once more, was not found on the body. And this time they had some difficulty identifying the young man. For once, Roger had been wrong. No missing persons had been reported that matched the slaughtered man’s description. “Which totally sucks,” said Mary Anne. “Because now all we have is nonexistent forensics again.” Perhaps the collar had only been decorative. Some piece of jewelry the young man had picked up at one of the local flea markets. Roger considered that the entire case was starting

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to make him see ghosts. His secret past life bleeding into the fabric of his current. Every little clue taking on meaning upon meaning. A personal riddle that he was failing to solve. He was staring sightlessly down at his desk when Mary Anne said, “eww,” and he looked up to see her sniffing her own high-heeled pump. He considered that he might be asleep and having a nightmare. “It’s time to go home when the odor eaters wear out,” she explained, slipping the pump on again and standing. “You, too,” she commanded, sliding her handbag over her shoulder. “Remember, you have a houseguest.” She was still laughing at his expression when she walked out.

*****

Saturday night in the Pink Flamingo was a nonstop skid toward total disaster. Sean was glad of the distraction. The rush of drink orders, waiters, customers leaning over the counter shouting out preferences above the thumping music, the focus needed to remember ingredients, faces, and counting currency kept his mind clear. It wasn’t until after closing that he started to dwell on the phone call.

“Boyfriend troubles?” asked Bob cheerily, as he rang out the cash register.

“How did you know?”

Bob chuckled. “Been in this business as long as I have. What’d he do?”

Sean slapped at the bar with his rag. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” said Bob. “But you’re pissed off.”

Sean folded the rag, unfolded it. Threw it down. “Maybe.”

Bob just smiled. He zipped closed the bank delivery bag, drew up a stool, and sat down.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Sean put his fisted hands down on either side of the sink where he’d been washing glasses. “I feel like people have been hiding things from me my whole life.” “Like what?” asked Bob. Sean shrugged. “Like stuff about my brother. Stuff about what happened to him, what he was like…stuff like, you know the fucker had me thinking he was in mourning for some lost lover and then this guy just calls up out of the blue talking about their date last week!” Bob’s small pink mouth popped open. “Oh!” he said, brightly. His eyes darted around the room, and he rose again from the stool. “Sounds like you two need to have a talk,” he pronounced, rather hurriedly gathering the bank bag and his jacket. Sean scowled. “Yeah.”

“Well, better get home and do that,” said Bob, ushering him toward the door.

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Sean flung his apron to the counter, grabbing his jacket and pocketing his keys as he went. “Yeah, I think we’re going to do that.”

***** Roger’s hours were fucked up, thought Sean for about the hundredth time. When Sean got home, it was after three a.m., but Roger was still out and there were no messages on the answering machine from him. Or from Peter, for that matter. Sean wondered, for a few hot angry minutes if Roger was really still working or if he and Peter were having a good laugh about him right then, when he was distracted by the box on the table with Patrick’s name on it. Now there was something to be jealous of. He went over to the refrigerator and found a beer, leaning against the counter there and contemplating the box. “The Patrick Shrine,” as he was now calling it to himself. “You know,” Sean addressed the box. “I’ve spent most my life competing with guys like you.” The box did not respond. That was one of the things that Sean had found really frustrating about ghosts. You couldn’t goad them into fighting back. “I’m not a selfish guy,” he said. And sat down, companionably, next to the box, arm flung over it. “You wanna beer? No? Okay, okay, not a problem.” He drank about half of his. He’d seen men go under. Drugs, alcohol, sex. He knew he was in trouble. Roger struck him dumb. Scared stiff like a bunny in the road, watching the big diesel truck bear down on it. The six foot four, with a lumberjack’s body, eyes the color of new grass, wielding a whip, type of truck. “What do you want me to do?” he asked the box. He lifted the dried tape and folded back the box tops, half knowing that doing so without Roger present was “wrong” and looked inside. Pictures and books mostly. The guy sure had had a lot of white even teeth, thought Sean, lifting out a framed photograph that showed a happy Patrick with an arm flung over someone. “Mr. and Mr. Perfect,” he said. Sean tipped back his beer bottle, set the photograph down, and picked up one of the books. It was a hard cover called “Osiris.” The old dust jacket was covered with hieroglyphics, an angular, white robed figure holding a shepherd’s crook and what looked to Sean like a flogger in his hands. He went to the refrigerator, got another beer, sat down, and opened the book.

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Chapter Thirteen The lights were still on when Roger drove up. He opened the garage door and parked inside, thinking that he and Sean had to have a little talk about Sean waiting up for him. It was something he’d had to break Patrick of, too. If he knew someone was waiting for him, Roger would feel guilty and be distracted from his job. He’d just compared Sean to Patrick. Roger sat with the keys in his hands and absorbed this for a moment. Then he climbed out of the car and went inside. The house was dim except for the living room light. Sean sat on the floor, reading by the light of one lamp, a sixpack of beer by his side. “You shouldn’t have waited up,” said Roger. He frowned at the alarm. “And I’ve told you, you should key the alarm in when you’re inside.” “Yes, Mother,” said Sean. He saluted with the beer bottle. Roger loosened his tie and came into the living room. “What are you reading?” Sean held it up and Roger stopped. “Is that Patrick’s…?” “Mmm hmmm, found it in the shrine,” Sean slurred slightly when he spoke. Roger swept the six-pack off the floor and saw that all of the bottles in it were empty. “You’re drunk,” he stated. Sean snickered. Oh, my Lord. “Get up and get ready for bed,” said Roger. And, when Sean didn’t move to immediately do so, he grasped his arm and heaved him to standing. Sean beat at him with the book and said, “Relax, relax, bossy. I’m going…” And he wobbled off to the bathroom. He did pause to set the book down very carefully. “This is good stuff,” he said, nodding his head in owl-eyed wisdom.

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Wondering why he always felt at such a loss when confronting Sean, Roger followed, poking his head into the bathroom. The shower was on full blast, and steam rolled across the room. Sean stood there, turning under the spray, Water sluiced down the creamy body, darkening the red hair framing the base of his pale white cock. Slim but long, even relaxed. There was something wrong with this picture, Roger’s mind reported to him, and then Roger realized that Sean had only closed the shower door partway and water sprayed and bounced and was filling the tile floor with puddles. Roger marched across the floor and turned off the water. Sean’s eyes looked impossibly huge with his hair plastered down and those dark eyebrows raised in surprise above them. “What? Sobers me up,” he said. “Can you give me a towel?” Roger wordlessly thrust a towel into Sean’s hands and stomped out. “Hey!” called Sean, splashing through the water on the floor and thoughtlessly tracking into the bedroom, dripping on the Berber. “What are you so mad about?” “Never mind,” said Roger, turning away. “Hey! Don’t do that!” said Sean, following him into the living room in his altogether. “Don’t shut me out like that!” said Sean, his voice overloud for the hour and the neighborhood. Roger blinked away the distraction of the nude body standing before him. “Keep your voice down and please don’t walk around naked.” “I won’t be quiet!” said Sean loudly. “Until you stop turning your back on me.” “Sean…” “No!” Sean stomped his foot. Realized, perhaps, how childish that was and turned and smacked his hand against the wall instead. Roger had had about enough. “Stop acting like a child,” he snapped. “Put on your clothes and go to bed.” “No.” And that was it. Roger grabbed Sean by the arm, pushed him toward the bed, held him down on it, and smacked him twice hard on his bare rump. “Damn it,” said Sean. “I’m serious, Roger.” “So am I,” said Roger, holding Sean down by one knee and a hand. Sean struggled, Roger kept him in place. He got in two more good swats. “Stop it!” yelped Sean. “You need a spanking,” said Roger. “No, I don’t.” “You don’t tell me what you need. I tell you what you need,” said Roger. “What?” Sean struggled in earnest now. “What does that mean?”

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Roger realized that he wasn’t sure. He released Sean, and the man pushed himself up to sitting, cheeks red with temper, eyes narrowed. Sean’s hair was starting to dry, little devilish peaks popping up all around his temples. He was still nude and the curling hair over his chest, down his stomach, and the pubic hair that framed his cock was drying, too. “Roger?” said Sean, and Roger jerked his eyes back up to Sean’s face. “Please put on some clothes,” Roger begged. With a smirk, Sean stood and sauntered over to where he’d dropped his sweats and Tshirt. As he pulled them back on, Roger tried to think of how to redirect the conversation to what he’d been planning to say the other evening. But Sean didn’t give him an opportunity. Pulling the T-shirt over his head, he said, “Oh, and your boyfriend called.” “What?” “That Peter dude. Said he had a wonderful time the other night. Hopes to do it again.” “Peter’s just a friend, Sean,” said Roger, wondering why he felt the need to explain. “Hey, I didn’t ask,” said Sean. “No big deal. Whatever. Sex is sex. I’m just edgy, and I’m not used to being hauled off and spanked on top of a hangover.” “Sean,” Roger said, in a soft, exasperated voice. “Jesus,” said Sean. “Stop talking to me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you fucking feel sorry for me.” “Sean,” said Roger, in the exact same pitying manner. Sean marched over; grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and the blanket that was folded at the end. “What are you doing?” “I’m sleeping on the sofa. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” “No, you’re not,” said Roger. Sean emitted an angry laugh. “You are the bossiest bastard I’ve ever met.” “You are sleeping in this bed.” “It’s fucking five a.m. or something. I’m sober, and believe me I have an ache in my head that’s not happy about that. I’m fighting like a girl with some man who seems to think he’s my fucking keeper.” Roger didn’t seem to move, but his arm whipped out before Sean could react. He pulled Sean down and threw him on the bed. Sean was expecting another spanking. Or worse. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed with such passion. His body pinned under a heavy hard body. His face held gently, while those deep green eyes looked steadily into his. “Stop swearing and calm down,” said Roger.

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“It’s not that easy.” “Yes. It is.” And Roger kissed him again. He completely dominated Sean’s mouth. Lips sure and tongue demanding. Roger’s hands moved up under Sean’s T-shirt, found his pierced nipple and deliberately tugged, and Sean felt his cock jerk like it was attached by a string. He was panting when Roger released him this time. “I thought you wanted a spanking, but I was wrong,” said Roger. “That’s a first, I’ll bet,” said Sean breathlessly. That dark look was a warning, but Roger only caressed his cheek, his big hand very gentle. “No, you need someone to fuck you,” said Roger. “Roll over.” Sean believed he made some unmanly noise as he did so. Roger was a hot man, and his body was heavy and moved over Sean’s like an inevitable force. His weight held Sean down and he pulled down Sean’s sweats, hand fondling Sean’s buttocks, slick with lube, and fingers pushed Sean open. Sean found himself thrusting toward them, as Roger spread him wide, opening him. Sean tried to arch into the sensation, but Roger controlled how much he could take in. Those thick fingers twisting, plunging, spreading. “God, Roger, get on with it,” hissed Sean, trying to get more. “Patience, pup,” growled Roger, his fingers disappeared and came back again, more lube pumped into Sean. Sean struggled to thrust backward, and still found himself held still. He moaned and clawed at the sheets, and finally felt Roger’s cock at his entrance, slowly, slowly, slowly sinking into him. Until the blunt force pressed hard against a spot in Sean that he felt, somehow, had been longing to be pressed all day. Sean couldn’t articulate the need, though he tried, sounds emitting from his mouth as he writhed against the mattress. Roger withdrew a little, slid in, and almost but not quite hit that spot. Sean whimpered. “What do you need, pup?” growled Roger at his ear, his cock sliding back and forth, but not quite there. “Roger…” “What do you need?” Roger’s cock hit that spot once, making Sean cry out, then withdrew again. “You know,” moaned Sean. “God, you know what I need…” “Right answer,” said Roger and started pumping into him, pushing that button over and over and over. Sean whimpered, hands reaching blindly and finding Roger’s hand. Fingers intertwining and gripping as Sean tried to buck toward the feeling, but couldn’t. Roger was too heavy on top of him. Rocking in a steady, but maddeningly slow rhythm.

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“God, Roger,” gasped Sean. “Faster. Please, oh my God. Faster.” “I know what you need,” whispered Roger. And maintained his maddeningly slow rocking motion. Like being pushed very slowly over the crest of a hill, Sean felt his body reach that apex and then dive. He was hurtling through it or above it, Roger around him and in him. Then he lay, beached, on wrinkled hot sheets, a sweaty man’s weight on top of him. Roger kissed the back of his neck. “You okay?” “Oh my God,” said Sean. Roger worked his way out of him. Left and came back. Lay down on the bed. The whole mattress leaned sideway with the weight of him. “Come here.” Sean didn’t want to roll over and cling to Roger. He didn’t want to burrow his head up under the man’s arm, while Roger stroked the back of his neck. But he did. He fell asleep like that.

***** Roger would have chosen to sleep in and talk to Sean in the morning. Somehow, he’d lost control of the situation again last night and they still hadn’t had the conversation about…whatever was left to converse about. But the damned phone started ringing at ten a.m. “Corso?” he croaked into the receiver. “It’s Vincent.” Mary Anne sounded as exhausted and unhappy as he felt. “He’s turned up dead. And guess what.” “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” promised Roger, rolling from bed. Sean was still asleep when Roger left. On his back, both arms flung out, his mouth open, dark lashes flinching as if he dreamed. Picking up his briefcase, Roger spotted Patrick’s book where Sean had left it. Feeling, oddly, that the book was private and should not be touched, he stuffed it in his briefcase.

***** “A good old-fashioned homicide,” said Mary Anne. “Brings a tear to my eye.” Teddy Vincent had been shot in the head, apparently in the alley where his body lay. The CS unit had found the bullet amidst the trash bags, and the blood and brain splatter against the wall would indicate that he’d been standing, facing his killer, when he’d been shot.

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Most of the crime scene crew seemed to share Mary Anne’s emotion. The finding of the bullet was heralded with as much excitement as a gold nugget in a mountain stream. At least now they had some hard forensic evidence; you could see it in their faces. All Roger could think was that the only link between Marchant and the body in his townhouse was now broken. Roger had the distinct feeling that the killer was mocking him, personally, and he was trying to abolish that feeling as the undoubtedly dementedly self-centered and paranoid delusion that it was, when he noticed the chain around Teddy’s neck. “Wait,” he said to one of the techs, who was about to zip closed the bag. The tech lifted the edge of Teddy’s shirt where Roger indicated. And around his neck hung a small, gold, ankh.

***** Why mummies? Roger was sitting at a red light when the question really hit him. He was so startled by it that he didn’t realize where he was until the motorists behind him started beeping. Because Roger had all the information he needed on that subject at home in the box labeled “Patrick’s.” Patrick had been an Egyptology fanatic. Patrick had been a King Tut fangirl, even. If anyone anywhere would have liked to be entombed as a mummy, it would have been Patrick. The connection wasn’t Roger. It was Patrick. He called home as soon as he was in the office. “Sean?” he said, briskly, into the receiver, “Please pick up the phone.” “Yes, sir?” Sean’s voice was sleepy, the sarcasm was not. Roger sighed. “We have to have a talk about attitude one day soon,” he said, “but for now I’d like you to do a favor for me.” “You do realize that asking me to do something after you’ve told me off is kind of stupid?” said Sean. But then he said, “Yeah, okay, what is it?” “There should be a book in Patrick’s box, a roster of a club centered around Egyptian symbols or culture. Can you look for it for me?” “Yeah? This something to do with the case again? You actually trusting me to do something?” “Please, Sean, this is important,” said Roger. “Bossy bastard,” muttered Sean. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” The book Roger had brought to the office was sitting on top of the papers in his brief case. He lifted it out. The pages were brittle and yellow, since the book had been secondhand when Patrick had bought it. The flyleaf bore a UCLA label in which a student had written

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his name. The face page had a light dollar amount stenciled into the corner. The place at which Sean had stopped reading was marked with an ancient piece of white cardboard, actually. The kind men used to get inside their starched shirts when they brought them home from the cleaners. The kind that Patrick had cut into strips and used for a variety of purposes. Lists, bookmarks, to-do lists. Roger studied the handwriting. It was Patrick’s and it was a list of names. Gary Williams, Thomas Stone, Adam Marchant… He dropped the phone into the cradle and carried the list into the FBI’s profiling room. “My roommate ran an Egyptology club,” Roger explained to Agent Miller. Miller studied the card that Roger had brought to him. “What do you think this was for?” “It was stuck in one of his books. He used to take notes at the meetings. I’d guess that these men all were either interested in, or volunteering for, some sort of event.” Agent Miller was canny enough to not ask too much, thank God. “I wonder if any of these men are still living.” Roger scanned it quickly. “Actually Peter and Larry Gray are friends of mine.” He knew all of the names, of course. He realized this as he scanned it and then came to one he did not know. “Reginald Budge? Wait. I know that name.” His mind’s eyes cast back through the past two days until he saw the stack of books on Tommy Stone’s bedside. “He writes books on Egyptology,” he said. “And if he was local, he probably was a professor at one of the schools.” “We’ll try to reach him,” said Miller. “In the meantime, I’d say anyone on that list could be in danger.” Roger was already nodding and dialing. “Hello, Raymond?” he said, before he realized it was his friend’s machine. He left a message involving emergencies and the need for immediate return calls without being too specific. Then he called Peter and left the same message on Peter’s voice mail. Then he called Sean again.

***** “Sean,” said the voice on Roger’s answering machine. “This is Roger. It’s okay to pick up.” Sean stared at it. “Sean, pick up the phone please.” Now Roger’s voice sounded testy. Sean’s wide eyes went from the answering machine to Peter, who had a gun pointed at the middle of his chest.

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“Never mind that,” said Peter. “Pack up your bag. You’re leaving.”

*****

Damn, he wasn’t picking up. Roger reran their last conversation through his own mind and kicked himself for the thousandth time since he’d first met Sean Williams. Why couldn’t he talk to Sean without the whole conversation coming apart on him? Roger tisked and disconnected his phone. “I should go home for dinner and then come back.” He hated to do it; the commute was almost an hour round trip. He heard Mary Anne roll her eyes. “I need to pick something up,” he said, a tad defensively. “Or someone,” she said. “Go on home, Corso, but keep your phone on.” “Yes ma’am,” he said. That garnered a small, satisfied smile. “That’s what I like to hear.”

***** The lights were off and Roger worried briefly that Sean had been so exhausted he’d fallen back to sleep. Then, when he came inside and found him absent, he assumed that Sean had to work and had neglected to tell Roger. Well, that was something they’d have to have a talk about. While they were talking about everything else Roger couldn’t manage to bring up. He went through the contents of Patrick’s box. It looked like Sean had started out trying to help him, because there were several books on the table. The one Roger had desperately wanted was right on top, too, with the pages opened to names and addresses of members. There, right at the top, was Peter’s name. Roger smiled bemusedly at Patrick’s careful handwriting. The names on the page were all old friends, long lost. He gathered up the books and went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of water for the drive back and that’s when he saw the note posted there. Roger, I had to take off. Thank you for letting me stay here and everything. I really do appreciate it. But this is all a lot more than I expected and I don’t think I can do this. I guess I’m not as into it as I thought I would be. Sean

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Roger was blindsided by the note. He had to sit down in a chair until the sense of a hole blown through him had passed. He’d had no idea how he felt about Sean. And now that he knew, there was nothing he could do about it. Folding the note into his coat pocket, he went out to the car and drove back to the station.

***** “I expected you to be gone longer,” said Mary Anne, when he sat down at his desk. She had a teasing note to her voice which, given the circumstances, Roger felt was intolerable. So he ignored her and concentrated on the job. He went through Patrick’s log carefully. His Egyptology club had been more like a social group for gay men who didn’t do the bars. Several of the men who had belonged to that group had haunted the Leather circuit as well. They might not have been practicing BDSM, but were curious. Or maybe they just liked the look of Leather daddies. The FBI profiler had filled in the rest of the detectives while Roger had been gone. “An Egyptology club?” said Mary Anne, as he drew the books from his briefcase. “Well, duh.” “The first homicides predate the club, but the perp might have modified his early rituals to mimic the Egyptians.” “We’re talking almost three decades,” said Mary Anne. “Wouldn’t we have seen the pattern of escalation by now?” “Something must have slowed him down. Or maybe he found a way to sublimate,” said Agent Miller. He was standing behind her. “We’ve found Professor Budge,” he said. “Alive and kicking.” One of the FBI persons had tracked down the professor who had taught Egyptology at UCLA for years and years. He was old, but still spry and lucid, and had offered to come down to the station. “Thomas Stone was one of my best students,” said Professor Budge. He held a bulging old book bag on his lap, wore a plaid wool driving cap on his thin white hair, and had enormous blue eyes that seemed to swim when they focused on Mary Anne, Roger, or Clark Miller. “Do you remember anything about him?” asked Roger dubiously. “I remember all of my students,” said Professor Budge. “Thomas was an experimental young man, as we used to say. He was interested in a variety of subjects. Very bright and very promising. I was shocked to hear he’d killed himself.” “It didn’t seem like something he’d do?”

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“Certainly not. He’d just won a grant to study at the Giza sites in Egypt that summer. He was very excited, as well he should have been.” Mary Anne sat on the edge of the desk, high-heel shod feet crossed at the ankles, and Professor Budges eyes swam as he gazed upon her. She smiled. “Did Thomas have a lot of male and female friends, Professor?” “He was a homosexual,” said Professor Budge. “We had discussed the mythology of Seth and Horus. He really had a charming point of view.” Mary Anne grinned and looked at Roger. Roger gave her a warning glance and asked, “Did you see him with many older men? Men who may not have been students?” “Ah yes, I did. He, ah, had made the acquaintance of several, erm, young men who seemed to think it clever to dress as women.”

***** “Thomas Stone is the missing link,” said Mary Anne. She sat at a computer screen, next to one of the FBI specialists, searching public records. Her fingers on the keyboard were a blur as she spoke. The images of the dead on the whiteboard had blue solid lines and tentative dashed green lines between them. If one believed that five degrees of separation rule and took into account that all of these men had been active in the West Hollywood gay scene, the odds of there being connections were somewhat better. Still, it was all they had. Roger called Raymond and left another message. He called Peter and the call went straight through to voice mail. This worried him even more and he called Jay, just because. Roger was pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard when Jay Lawson returned his call. “Roger, I think you must be in love with me again,” wheezed Jay. “You keep calling me.” “I never stopped loving you, Jay,” said Roger, dryly. “I’m trying to find the maker of a flogger. Buffalo hide. I know you aren’t fond of them, but…” “Well, I’ll see what I can do. I was planning to call you anyway,” Jay said. “I found a photograph of your latex boy. I’m sorry I didn’t remember him before. There have been so many men, Roger, it’s all a blur,” said Jay, the happiest perve in WeHo. Roger mentally shook his head in exasperation. “Can you fax it to me?” “Of course.” and Jay’s chuckle sounded like a bellows wheezing. “I think you’ll find it amusing. Don’t you dare tell Peter I showed it to you, though.” “Peter?”

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“He and your latex boy were an item, Roger. Back in the bad old days. A match made in Hell, really. Peter was such a troubled Top, his relationships always went awry.” "Thanks, Jay." Roger hung up the phone. Sat in thought for a minute, staring down at the phone cradled in his two hands. Then he called Peter again… “Roger, darling,” cried Peter. Oh thank God, thought Roger. “I’ve been trying to call you,” he said. “Peter, something is coming down here and I’m worried about you.” “Worried how, Roger?” Roger’s call waiting tone beeped. He glanced at it and saw it was Raymond Greene, finally returning his call. “Peter, can I call you right back?” “Of course.” “Raymond,” said Roger with no preface. “Where’s Larry?” “Right here with me,” said Raymond, sounding surprised. “I was just going to call you, Roger. I recognized that flogger you sent me the picture of. That one is mine, man.” Roger found a chair and sat down in it. "What?" "Or it was. I gave it to Peter, for the Avatar rooms, about five years ago. It was a little too stiff for me and I never liked the handle." "You gave it to Peter?” And suddenly, like a bubble of air trapped beneath a glass, the memory of his conversation with Peter the day before popped to the surface of his mind. “Santos? A switch calling himself a saint? That’s amusing.” Roger had asked Peter about a masochist named Santos. How could Peter have known the sub was a switch? Roger waived Agent Miller over. He pointed at the photo of the flogger and then at Peter’s name on the list from Patrick’s book. “Raymond, listen to me and think carefully. Are you sure that’s the flogger that you gave to Peter?” "Yes. It had the David Morgan label on it, but I removed it because it fell on the pad of my hand in an annoying way. I recognized that mark on the handle." A horrified pause. "Peter's all right, isn't he, Roger?" "I don't know," said Roger. "Thank you, Raymond, I'll… I'll get back to you." Roger and Agent Miller stared at each other. Then Miller's rotund body became an active blur as he snapped out orders. A few minutes later, Roger called Peter's cell phone again, this time from a police phone set up to track GPS. “Hello?” Peter sounded cheery. “Hello, Peter, it’s Roger.” “Roger! I was just thinking about you. We need to visit that Cuban restaurant again. I have a craving for plantains.”

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“Any time, buddy. Just say the word. Hey, tell me where you are and we’ll make an early dinner.” “Oh, I have a client, Roger. I had called earlier, but I guess your little friend erased the message.” “Sean?” “I did try to tell him what old friends we are, but he didn’t appreciate what that means.” Two plus two suddenly added up and Roger felt his heart sock into double time so fast he almost gasped. “Kids these days,” said Peter. “They don’t understand the rules, do they Roger?” Roger had to discipline his voice to make it sound casual. “Rules?” “Yes.” A pause. Peter and Roger had known each other for two decades. They’d shared a level of intimacy many men did not. You don’t enter into a scene with someone without knowing them down to the bone afterward. “You sound tired, Roger. Is that case still bothering you?” “Yes.” Roger grabbed his keys, his coat. Mary Anne, seeing him grab the keys, leapt up also. “Poor thing,” said Peter. “Well, I’m sure you’ll solve it soon.” “I hope so,” said Roger. He glanced at his watch. He’d had Peter on the line for over five minutes, the cell company should have been able to track at least an area by now. “Oh, darn, I have a client,” said Peter, suddenly “Have to go.” “Wait…” Roger cursed when the call disconnected. Mary Anne was on her cell as they jumped in his car. “They got him somewhere downtown, but that’s all.” Praying he was guessing correctly, Roger peeled out of the parking lot. “Call in this address,” he said.

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Chapter Fourteen It was freezing cold and Peter had rubbed ice all over Sean’s shaking body, making the cold worse. Then he’d dripped what felt like fire down his shoulders. Panting for air, Sean had recognized the wax dripping on the floor at his feet. Then the ice again, which burned as badly as had the wax. Now Peter paced behind Sean. “The masochist is a true holy man,” he lectured, in a strange Italian accent. “He has a biochemistry to withstand intense pain.” Then Peter laughed. Sean’s hands and feet were bound. He’d been stripped. He couldn’t see Peter, but he’d been listening to the man for over an hour as he ranted in several different voices. At first, Sean had tried to reason with him. When Peter had walked into Roger’s apartment, and pulled the gun, Sean had assumed that the man was a lover of Roger’s. He had a key, after all. “Listen, man, I just met the guy. I asked if he was married,” said Sean, both hands raised, watching the muzzle of the gun. Then Peter had made him write the note and he’d known he was in trouble. They’d left in Sean’s car, the security guard not even blinking as he let them out. The freeways, back alleys of LA, so many twists and turns; he was hopelessly lost before Peter directed him to stop and led him down a dark wet filthy alley. Sean, the whole time thinking that this was the place he was going to die. This horrible middle of nowhere. When Peter had stopped and opened a back door to some old warehouse, then waved him in, he’d actually been relieved. The cane had been painful. But after awhile the pain had become continuous and Sean had been able to lift himself from it, a bit. Peter had stopped. “Oh, I see.” And he’d laughed. “Do you want me to take you there, Sean?”

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Sean tried to understand the question. His mind was in some sort of surreal space. The cane sliced through the air and his body jumped when it struck. “Tell me,” said Peter. “I… I…” “Say yes, Master.” The cane struck his shoulders and the pain brought Sean back. He was in real pain again and he howled. “Say yes, Master!” “Yes, Master!” cried Sean. Peter laughed. “Again!” and he struck. This time, Sean couldn’t escape the pain or transcend it. Peter seemed to know just how to strike him so that he was crying out, begging him to stop. This went on until Sean was hoarse and his legs had given up, he hung almost from his shackled wrists. His back burned in a particular way, as if his kidneys had been injured and when his bladder finally couldn’t stand it anymore and released, the urine was bloody. He hadn’t thought it could get worse, and then Peter had started with the wax. Peter’s feet close behind him again, Sean’s skin flinched, waiting for what was coming. He jerked his head, trying to see overhead where he sensed something and yelped when fire hit his cheeks, pellets splattering his chest. “You aren’t begging,” Peter reminded him, walking slowly around the cross. He held a thick purple candle in his hand, and stood directly in front of Sean, now grinning at him with a kind of intense amazement as he tipped the candle and fire burned Sean’s cock. He screamed. When his head cleared, Peter was gone again. “You need me,” said Peter’s voice, not sounding anything like Peter. His accent was bizarrely familiar though. “You need me to save you. The sadist is a priest,” said Peter. “Roger is a special man. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you?” Sean heard Peter’s steps coming near again and cringed, waiting for the ice or the hot wax. Instead he felt something rough and warm slide across his leg. He looked down. “It’s called a cat,” Peter purred, right at his ear. “See those little knots? Those are particularly nice. Like tiny shards of glass.” He stepped away. There was a series of swishes and a crack, and Sean’s heart and body leapt simultaneously, but he hadn’t been touched. “Anticipation is so delicious,” said Peter. He strolled sideways so Sean’s frantically darting gaze could see him just there at the corner of his peripheral vision. “I spoke to our friend, Roger,” said Peter. “He’ll be fine. I know you were worried. He’ll just think you ran off.” The swish and crack, and Sean jumped again. Peter laughed.

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“Oh no, please don’t, oh sir please don’t whip me, sir,” said Peter in a terrified falsetto voice. “Are you cold enough, Sean?” he said, suddenly in a low rough voice. “The cold makes the sensations so much more intense.” And the swish and the crack in the air, and a snake bit Sean suddenly just under his right shoulder blade. His entire body flinched and surged against the restraints, his yell echoed against the cinder block walls. He was breathing hard through open nostrils, chest heaving uncontrollably. “You wanted this, little Sean, remember? Don’t worry, I’m a very good teacher. And we have plenty of time. You’ll find I’m quite patient.” Two more swishes and cracks in quick succession, the sting on the second sharp and unbearable, and Sean felt damp trickling down his back. He was sobbing aloud now, begging Peter to stop. “Oh oh,” said a little girl’s voice. “Did that hurt?” Swish. Crack. Snap. Sean closed his eyes. The pain was rippling up and down his body like he’d picked up a live wire. He couldn’t manage it, couldn’t escape, couldn’t even see it coming. Peter’s cell phone started ringing again. Sean heard the thunk of something dropping to the floor, footsteps, and then Peter’s calm voice. “Yes? Oh, yes, I had rescheduled him for four o’clock. Thank you so much, Barry.” “Help!” yelled Sean, belatedly, and heard Peter chuckle. Footsteps again. “A little intermission, I’m afraid. I know, I know, I don’t want you to be bored.” Something cold and painfully sharp came up and was applied to Sean’s nipples. He jerked convulsively, his body trying automatically to avoid the sensation, only jerking his sore wrists in the immobile restraints. A pleasant laugh behind him. Sean was panting hard through his mouth so when Peter held the cloth over his lips, he couldn’t even try not to inhale, and then lost consciousness.

***** It was over. Sean lay in cool soothing mist and floated. His arms no longer ached, the fire no longer consumed his backside, his lungs no longer burned from breathing raggedly and screaming, and he wasn’t afraid. “Who are you?” he asked the man who had freed him. “Patrick.” He was younger than Sean had imagined, somehow. Golden hair with a wave in it, he looked like one of those tall masculine angels by Botticelli. A loose white shirt and leather necklace with an ankh symbol hanging from it. “Roger…” said Sean, feeling sad. Patrick put his finger on Sean’s mouth. “Hush. Roger’s coming, but he needs your help. I’ll tell you what to do.”

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*****

“He’s probably armed,” said Roger to Mary Anne. They were standing outside the opaque pneumatic doors of the leather rooms where Peter took clients. “Okay.” At the front desk, Barry gave Mary Anne a bored look and said, “Peter is with a client, Mr. C. Do you and your friend have an appointment?” There would be questions later. Legitimate, uncomfortable, and potentially damaging questions, but all Roger could think of was Sean somewhere. Bleeding out into a bathtub or worse. Roger and Mary Anne both pulled out their shields and Barry’s skin went pallid under the white makeup. Roger reached over the desk and jerked the phone cord from the wall. “You have five minutes before the police pull up,” he told Barry. Barry was a flying blur with red sneakers, out the pneumatic doors. “I’m going down the right passage,” said Roger. “He may have Sean in the private rooms down the left.” He didn’t have to tell her to be careful. But he did have to warn her. “If you come in on a scene, the Master may move to protect his sub. It’s instinctive and not an aggressive move toward you.” Mary Anne cursed. Roger took a deep breath. Seconds were ticking by. “Let’s go.”

***** The man who had hired Peter to bind and humiliate him was boring Peter to tears. He was a dull, middle-aged, paunchy man with limited sensitivity who spat out his safe word after five strokes of the paddle and then quivered there in his bindings calling Peter “Master” and apparently becoming overly aroused by the act of licking Peter’s feet. Peter thought of Roger and he checked his watch. “Lick my feet, slave,” he said, and swatted the man’s butt with a crop. The man howled and slobbered over Peter’s toes. Peter sighed. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, pushing the man out of his way with his foot. When he left the room, the man was still bound, on his knees, with his wrists tied to his ankles, the ball gag in his mouth. The man, still bound and kneeling on the floor after Peter had left him, butt pointed to heaven, wondered what was supposed to happen next. He’d never paid for this service before and it had already exceeded his wildest expectations. Many minutes passed, and he heard rapid footsteps and then a crash as the door was apparently kicked open. A very attractive woman wearing high heels and holding a large black gun leaped into the room.

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He was definitely coming back here again.

*****

Roger heard Mary Anne kick open the door to a room and his heart sank. The rooms were soundproofed, but the building was not. It was possible that Peter would have heard the noise. He slunk down the hallway, carefully testing each knob. He came to one locked room and tapped discretely on the door. A face in a mask glared out at him through the crack. “Sorry,” whispered Roger. “Looking for Peter.”

“Don’t know,” said the gruff voice and the door closed.

He edged down to the last door in the hallway. The door was locked and he pressed his

ear to it. It was utterly silent inside. He waited longer than he thought he could bear, but still heard nothing. Well, if he was wrong, he’d owe someone a huge apology. He kicked open the door. Sean, gagged, naked, and in chains was bent over a horse. He completely shielded Peter, whose face beamed at Roger, a pistol pointed at Sean’s temple. “Roger,” said Peter. “I have been waiting and waiting for you.” “I know, Peter. I’m sorry it took me so long.” “I’m very disappointed in you.” Roger’s eyes darted around the room. The dungeon rooms were small, cinderblock boxes, padded with foam soundproofing. No windows and only one door. There was a powerful ventilation unit in the ceiling of every one he’d been in. The sweat and smell of humans pushed to extremity had to be cleansed from the air regularly. If the SWAT team came through the vents, Peter would hear them coming.

Peter slowly engaged the trigger on his pistol. “Drop your gun, Roger.”

Roger lowered the gun to the floor.

Peter chuckled. “Now come into the room and close the door.”

Roger’s heart was thudding so hard he could barely hear himself speak. “I’m sorry I

disappointed you, Peter.” “You really did, Roger. I’d come to rely on your impeccable timing, you know.” “I let myself get sidetracked,” admitted Roger, eyes roving the room, calculating time and distance ratios. “Teddy and the security company’s connection was…” “Teddy was revolting,” said Peter, his voice shaking. “He couldn’t be trusted.” “So you shot him.” “I thought he was the distraction, Roger. And then I realized it was Sean.” Roger allowed his gaze to flick toward Sean briefly, but he dared not stop focusing on Peter.

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“I’m at fault, Peter. Nobody else. What can I do to make it up to you?” Peter’s eyes were wide, his smile unbelieving. “Oh,” he said. “You think you’ll save him. Oh, no, Roger. You’re too late. He’ll be dead before we leave here.” A wild animalistic emotion rose up in Roger. It was that thing he always sought to control and his whole body shook as he contained it. Peter laughed. “Ah, yes, there’s the man I know.” “This can only end two ways, Peter,” said Roger. “And in one of them, you’re dead.” “But in both of them he’s dead,” said Peter, indicating Sean. Roger couldn’t look at Sean. He’d burst apart, jump Peter, or behave in some other irrational manner. He was almost positive that was what Peter wanted and expected. Roger’s eyes darted around again. He’d left the door slightly ajar and through it he could see Mary Anne and perhaps one other agent in the hallway. Roger was aware of Sean’s eyes fixed on him. Though he dared not gaze directly at Sean, Roger sensed his stillness. He couldn’t guess Sean’s state of mind. The man could be utterly attentive or too afraid to understand what was happening. Near Roger’s right hand stood the cabinet where Peter had been extracting his tools, the abandoned cat lying on the table there. Roger raised his eyes to Peter’s, mentally calculating the distance to the table and the time it would take to reach it. He couldn’t do it without Peter taking the gun off of Sean. Peter met his gaze and laughed. He’d probably left the singletail there to tease Roger. Roger’s eyes flicked back to the door where Mary Anne was poised. He saw her gun and the rifle of the sharpshooter right behind her, pressed at the door. “I’m surprised you wasted your time on him, Peter,” said Roger. “The other men weren’t mere amateurs.” “Oh. He’s been surprising,” said Peter. A thrill of rage ran up Roger’s spine, which he had to quell. “Still. You’ve chosen better.” “Oh, I didn’t choose them,” said Peter. “They chose me.” The sharpshooter could guess a certain amount by the sound of Peter’s voice, but without being able to see, he couldn’t take the risk of hitting Sean. Sean’s eyes were vivid, electrical blue. They were fastened on Roger. Roger made his face nod attentively at Peter. “How did they choose you?” Peter looked suspicious, but he was enjoying being able to talk about it. “I’d know it was time, and the man would call me and…” While he talked, Roger let his gaze move around, coming back to the horse on which Sean was strapped, and then darting away again. Sean’s feet were bound but his knees were

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bent, his legs shaking with the strain. Peter leaned on him, almost casually, the gun pointed at Sean’s temple. If he could get Peter to just move the gun… Peter frowned at the top of Sean’s head. “They wanted release,” he said. “I gave them release.” “You…” It was a horrible thought. “You whipped them to death?” “No, the whip wasn’t enough. They needed me to use the club. It was a lengthy transition. They were flying like angels by the end.” The bile at the back of Roger’s throat had to be swallowed before he could spit out. “But just shooting someone lacks artistry, Peter. Any thug could do it. And you are not a thug, Peter.” “No,” said Peter. “It’s time.” And then, bizarrely, Sean seemed to buck; Peter staggered back. The gun swung wildly. Roger jumped for the whip, and the door flew open. Peter regained his balance, lowered the gun to point at the back of Sean’s head, and in the time it took him to aim, the cat smacked it from his hand and the sharpshooter caught Peter in the head. He fell backward against the cross and slumped down to the floor, dead.

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Chapter Fifteen “It’s weird; how did he know I was nuts about Harry Houdini? And so he kept saying, ‘Remember Houdini,’ because I saw this movie about him like a thousand times. And there was this part where he explained how you make it look like you’re bound but you still have room to move?” Sean held Roger’s hand as the paramedics wheeled him out. He was shaking so violently, his teeth clacked together while he chattered. They let Roger climb into the van with Sean and all the way to the hospital he babbled about “him” and Houdini. “He told me you needed me,” said Sean. “It’s okay, Sean, You don’t have to talk about it yet.” Every instinct in Roger’s body wanted to get Sean away from all of these people, someplace safe. Someplace safe and warm, and private. And safe. Like a cave with a locking door and cannon aimed at any comers. “B-but I wanted to tell you how I knew. He was there, Roger. He told me to remember Houdini and I knew to keep my legs bunched up when he tied me. He said you’d come and so I knew he told me I’d have to help you. I did, didn’t I? I helped you…” His eyes were adrenalized, panicked. Roger couldn’t hold him with all these people around. All he could do was rub his arm through the blankets and bark demands at people. “Can’t we get him something for the shock?” he snarled now at a nurse who checked an IV. The woman looked at Sean. “We have more blankets, Lieutenant,” she said doubtfully. “We could give him Xanax.” “N-no.” Sean’s impossibly wild eyes went just a little wilder. “I don’t want it.” The EMT looked at Roger. “No, thank you,” said Roger. No, he didn’t want to drug Sean. Sean had been tortured, beaten, threatened, and held hostage against his will. Forcing him to take drugs would just be icing on the cake.

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They pulled up to the hospital entrance, and Sean was trundled through the doors and into a blue-curtained room, still gripping Roger’s hand. “Can’t we go home?” pleaded Sean. He was shaking again, and this time, it was so hard that the gurney on which he lay rattled. “You…you still want me there, right?” Roger had to turn his head so that no one looking into the curtained room could see his face. “Yes, Sean. Of course I do.” “G-good.” The nurses turned him and the emergency doctors set to work on the mess the caning had made of Sean’s skin. They hooked him up to something for his kidneys and for the blood loss, and Roger gripped Sean’s hand when he looked like he might faint. “It’s okay,” said Sean. “I’m tougher than I look, Roger.”

“Yes, you are,” said Roger.

“He told me you’d need me.”

“Who?” asked Roger.

“Patrick.”

And then Roger just held Sean’s hands between his own, head bowed over them, while

the doctors sprayed bandaging fluid over Sean’s butt and back. “It could have been worse,” said a tired-looking ER doctor to Roger about an hour later. Sean must be asleep by now, head resting on his arms. Roger looked at him. “Will he be scarred?” “Some, I should think. The caning was the worst. But it will heal for the most part.” On the cot, Sean stirred and raised his head. “Can we go home, Roger?” Sean’s eyes were dark with sedatives. Roger went back to his seat next to the bed. “Soon, Sean.” Mary Anne’s head popped through the curtains. “There you are, Corso. You jumped into the bus and left me there. I had to follow the body in. Chief says he wants us at the roll call second shift.” She gave Sean a soft smile that Roger hadn’t even known Mary Anne had in her repertoire of facial expressions. “Hey. That was a pretty slick move there, kid.” Sean smiled dopily. “See you tomorrow afternoon,” said Mary Anne, and she swung back through the curtains.

***** Sean slept through the rest of the evening and the next day. The painkillers were only part of the reason. Pain is exhausting and Sean had just had the equivalent of a Boston Marathon of pain. He mumbled throughout the night, hallucinated a little, talking groggily to Gary, Patrick, and only occasionally Roger.

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A day nurse stayed while Roger went in to help Mary Anne with the thousands of yards of paperwork. The FBI units had scoured Peter’s rooms, and found diaries and journals. A photographic essay that apparently spanned decades. The profiler was busily documenting them all, for reference on future cases. Roger had been named as Peter’s next of kin. That news had almost been the worst of his day. And then he’d been given a letter, addressed to himself, and left sitting on Peter’s desk.

Roger, You know what I need. Love always, Peter Roger had had to go into the men’s room and just sit in a stall, the letter clutched between his fingers as he tried to control the grief. The profiler had tried to explain some of Peter’s motivation. His identity confusion and self-hatred. His attempts to sublimate and ritualize these feelings. Roger found himself unable to see Peter in the profile. He only knew that Peter had wanted Roger to stop him. That was why the clues had circled around him so closely, why Peter had disinterred Gary’s body and left it, like a grotesque scavenger hunt clue. Work was all Roger knew that could relieve his feelings of responsibility and loss, so he went back to his desk, where Mary Anne still labored away, and got back to work. After a couple more hours, the shadow of the chief of homicide spread across Roger’s desk. “Go home,” said Smith, and walked off. Mary Anne watched him go. “Good job, Stelter. Why, thank you, sir.” “It’s unwise to need praise,” said Roger. “Corso, I am so not in the mood for your Eastern oracular wisdom right now.” Mary Anne slid on her coat, standing there with only one sleeve on. “I’ve got a date in an hour and I look like a horse has been dragging me.” “I’m sure Billy won’t mind,” said Roger. Mary Anne rolled her eyes. “Men are stupid,” she said.

***** When Roger arrived home, he found Sean was feeling much better. “If I drink any more tea, I’ll be getting up to pee all night,” Sean called toward the kitchen. Roger, convinced that Sean needed to be kept warm, had bundled him into

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oversized flannel pajamas, thick woolen socks, and cocooned him in blankets. Sean had then been dosed with chamomile tea for an hour and he was starting to resemble the surly smartmouthed brat that Roger knew. “That’s fine. It helps release toxins,” said Roger, coming back into the room and frowning at the foot of the bed. “You’ve kicked your socks off.” “My feet were sweating. It was gross.” “Put them back on.” “I don’t think so.” Roger set down the laundry hamper he’d been carrying. “Sean…” “I’m not going to catch a cold, for fuck’s sake. If anything I’ll die of heat prostration.” “Would you please not swear?” “I’ll swear if I want. God, what difference does it make? I almost get fucking killed and you care if I say ‘fuck’ or not?” Roger raised an eyebrow. That had been Sean’s first mention of the entire incident. He came over and sat on the bed, a rather impressively large obstacle between Sean and any exits. “Let’s talk about that.” Sean looked away from him. “I can’t imagine what Peter must have said to you, Sean. Or how you must feel about the whole experience. But it’s important to you and it’s important to me, and it’s important to us for you to talk about it.” “Us?” said Sean. “This isn’t you feeling responsible again, is it?” “That’s one of the things we need to talk about,” said Roger. “I’m responsible for you. You offered that to me and I accepted it.” “Roger, whatever I said when I was out of my head doesn’t count,” said Sean, looking away and plucking at his blanket. Roger stilled Sean’s hand. “You know what I mean.” Sean’s head was bowed, the dark brows painting a V above his nose. Roger watched as Sean struggled with himself. Resistance and acceptance, worry and deep longing. It was like watching a man try to drive a stick shift. “Tell me, Sean.” Sean swallowed. “I was scared shitless. Of course.” Roger waited. “I mean, I was pretty sure you’d come. He made me write that note, but you’re such a bossy son of a bitch, I figured you wouldn’t pay any attention.” “I was devastated,” said Roger. “I couldn’t think beyond that.”

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“You were?” Sean was hit with a residual fit of shaking and gripped Roger’s hand where it lay across his leg. “It’s hard to tell with you, Roger. You’re kind of a brick wall, you know?” “I know. I’m in love with you, Sean. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” Sean’s whole face flushed pink. “How…how can you…” he ducked his head, making helpless noises until Roger hauled the whole mess of man and blankets over and held him close. Sean pressed his face into Roger’s shoulder, his eyebrows dark against the pale forehead. “I knew you’d come but he…he hurt me, Roger. And he liked it. He liked that I was scared, he liked that I couldn’t see him and didn’t know what was happening. He burned me with that wax.” “I know,” soothed Roger. “Roger, promise me you won’t ever use that fucking wax.” “I promise. I promise I won’t ever do anything you don’t want me to.” He stroked Sean’s hair back from his head over and over. “We never have to do anything but make love in a bed if you want, Sean,” said Roger. A chuckle from the head buried against his chest. “Yeah, like you’re getting out of it that easy.” Roger kissed the top of Sean’s head. When he’d undressed Sean, changed his bandages and bathed his back, Roger had almost lost control of whatever was still raging inside him. It could have been worse, the ER doctors had told him. Peter could have caused much more damage, permanent damage. He’d had the means and the knowledge and the time. What he had done, though, was put a permanent reminder of himself across Sean’s back, where Roger would always see it. He wasn’t sure he could ever shackle Sean. Ever strike him where those marks would be. “Roger?” asked Sean, feeling the change in him. “Well, I’m getting out of it tonight. Lie down.” Roger lay Sean out on the bed, then sat over him unbuttoning the flannel shirt and pulling down the pants. He nuzzled Sean’s neck, chest, tummy, and thighs, and licked his cock in long strokes for a long time. The sun outside burnt orange in the windows then died, and streetlights cast dim shadows across the room, as he sucked and licked like an animal cleaning wounds. Sean sighed when Roger slid the condom down around his cock, and his belly rippled when he came. Roger crawled up next to him and cradled him against his chest, pulling up the covers. “What about you?” said Sean muzzily.

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“I’m good,” said Roger, wondering if he ever would be again.

*****

Jay wheeled across the conservatory, his light eyes sharp and penetrating in the wizened face. “Sean, eh?” “Yes, sir.” Sean stood at the “rest” position Roger had taught him. Head down, arms behind him, one elbow held in his hand. Legs apart. Jay looked him up and down, and his keen glance went to Roger. “It’s been a long time since a man has brought a sub before me formally, Roger.” “I know, sir,” said Roger. He was in his leathers for this. The old pants and vest, and the worn cap with its glossy bill. Sean wore Levis and a white T-shirt, and he kept his head down, though Roger saw those dark brows moving nervously. “Well, why don’t we all get started.” Jay wheeled over to a spot by a tall palm tree, and both Roger and Sean exchanged confused looks. They’d come to Jay for help getting over Roger’s fear and Sean’s bad memories, and had expected the aged Leather Master to at least escort them to a playroom of some sort. “Come on, son. Don’t make me wait,” said Jay, and Roger snapped to obey as quickly as did Sean. They placed themselves in front of Jay like two obedient soldiers. Jay raised the mask to his face and breathed, looking them both up and down. “I’ll need a safe word from both of you,” he said. “Margarita,” said Sean, immediately. Roger hesitated. He couldn’t imagine what Jay might be planning in this comfortable, plant-filled space that would require a safe word. But Jay was looking at him expectantly. “Blue,” he said. Jay nodded. “Let me see the marks,” he said to Sean. Sean looked nervously at Roger, who nodded, and he unzipped and lowered his jeans, turning so that Jay could see his naked backside. “Roger,” said Jay. “Tell me what you see.” Roger looked at Sean. “Scars,” he said. “Is that all?” Roger swallowed and looked at Sean’s exposed skin. His flesh was freckled here and there across his back, and a spray of freckles began halfway down his thighs, but the skin that had seldom seen sunlight was a pure creamy white. At the bottom of each cheek, a narrow pink line. The scars from the caning. “I see the scars,” said Roger. “On…on Sean’s skin.” Jay wheeled himself closer. His eyes, over the rim of his oxygen mask, were kind. “Describe what you see.”

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Roger glanced at Sean, whose head had bowed and whose face had turned pink with either embarrassment or distress, he couldn’t be sure. He cleared his throat. “Well, they aren’t that bad, really. The doctor told me that Sean healed very well.” “And?” said Jay. “And. And, well you can see, that thin pink line?” “Roger, I see a beautiful ass.” Sean’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He made a choking sound that was Sean trying not to laugh. “Describe what you see,” said Jay. Roger exhaled in confusion. But he turned dutifully toward Sean and tried again. Sean’s butt was one of those marvels of male anatomy. Hard and smooth, but pillowed in the center. Twin dimples like commas on either hip. He was shivering now, goose bumps starting to rise along the outside of his thighs. “He does have a beautiful ass,” said Roger. “And his skin is soft.” “Touch him.” Well, that was easy. Roger crossed the two paces it took to stand directly behind Sean and lay his fingertips on the upper curve of Sean’s butt cheek, letting them trail down. He got to the scars and lifted his hands off. “No, Roger, touch all of him.” All of him. Okay. Roger had a good intuition where this was going. Very, very gently, he let his fingers trace Sean’s scars. Sean shivered and goose pimples rose up his back. “Now kiss him.” Roger kissed the back of Sean’s neck. He kissed his shoulder, and, going to his knees behind him, he kissed the middle of Sean’s back and the top of Sean’s butt. Sean’s skin was soft and shivery under his lips. Roger let his mouth trail down, feeling Sean’s skin warm as Roger’s touch sent the blood rushing. He got to the scars, and knew what he was supposed to do. Sean was panting lightly. Roger kissed the edge of one soft pink line and pulled his head back. Jay wheeled closer. “Don’t stop,” he said, in that steely voice Roger remembered. He nodded, leaned forward. Sean was pressing toward his touch a little, his skin turning pink. “Now bite them,” said Jay. “What?” whispered Roger, pulling back. He was shocked by a sudden cuff to his head. He stared at Jay, who raised his hand again. “Yes, sir,” said Roger. And he turned back and laid his teeth softly on Sean’s scars.

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Oh God. Peter. Roger could feel something rising in his own blood, washing through his head. He froze, face pressed to Sean’s warm skin. “Roger.” Jay’s voice was sharp. Roger pulled back. “Blue,” he whispered. Jay clipped him hard with the back of his hand. It was an illegal hit. Knuckles to ear, and painful. “Ow,” said Roger. “Tell me what you see,” said Jay. Roger stared into those intense light eyes. “Peter,” he said. Sean muttered something under his breath. “What did you say?” Jay asked him. Sean had been leaning against the wall, but he straightened now, jerking up his jeans, his face bright red and hands shaking. “Tired of fucking competing with fucking dead men,” he spat. He zipped his jeans, and folded his arms high and tight against his chest. Jay’s eyes bored into Roger’s. And Roger remembered…

“What are you feeling, pup?” The pain focused him. All he could see were those steel gray eyes. “Bright. The needles…” panted Roger. “What are you feeling?” Roger panted. Another needle appeared, as if by some prestidigitation, in Jay’s hands. The tip sparked fire in his vision and the pain sliced upwards, made that rush happen. “What are you feeling?” The fire of pain, followed closely by the swoosh of endorphins. He could control it, Roger realized. Choose it. “Alive,” breathed Roger. “Oh. God.” “Good pup,” said Jay. Roger looked up at Sean, who was chewing his nail, still red in the face, eyes turbulent. “I understand,” said Roger. “Of course you do, dear,” said Jay.

***** “Before I’d even met him, Jay had been having private house parties. This dungeon is really the original home of Avatar,” said Roger. Jay had given Roger and Sean the keys, and left them there with one last stern look at Roger. “If these walls could talk, huh?” said Sean, staring around those walls with wide eyes. Jay’s dungeon was one of the few that Roger had ever seen that actually had been designed to

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look like a dungeon. The walls were painted to resemble old dank stone. Theatrical lights that resembled flickering torches mounted on the walls. The floor was practical, washable rubber mats, but the whips and floggers, canes, and various cases filled with instruments of torture were very impressive. “Welcome to the ultimate dungeon,” said Roger, unbuttoning his shirt. “Said the spider to the fly.” Sean felt warm in that embarrassed but liking it way he was coming to associate with finding his “edge.” They’d both been trying these past weeks. Both hitting their own private stone walls and having to pull back. It was frustrating on every level, but Roger had been at least able to help Sean recognize what he was seeking. It was all so strange still, and every now and then Sean would have the shivery feeling of malevolent ghosts just over his shoulder. With hot wax. “What are you thinking, Sean?” asked Roger. Sean was still uncomfortable with the “open book” rule. He glanced at Roger, and hurriedly stripped off his T-shirt, flinging it to a bench. “Pick that up and fold it properly,” said Roger calmly. Sean had also spent these weeks learning not to fight every time Roger issued a command. This time he rather quickly overcame his personal demon and retrieved the Tshirt, then folded it and placed it on top of Roger’s black one. Roger removed his vest, but left on the pants and hat. “You haven’t answered me.” “Hmm? Oh, the uh, monster in the basement. The one with the chains? I figure those chains look pretty much like what he wore.” Roger looked at the chains hanging in neat stripes from the links buried in the cinderblock walls. “Monster in the basement?” “I’d dream about him moaning and growling.” Roger grinned. “Come here.” Well that was an easy order to follow. Sean walked into those big arms and pressed his face against Roger’s chest. “Yes, sir.” Roger growled, his chest rumbling under Sean’s cheek. And then he moaned. Sean chuckled. Roger held him tightly. “Well, then, chains are out. At least for now. I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen Sean. And then we’re going to do it, okay?” “Okay.” Roger closed his eyes and held him close for just a minute. “I’ll flog you. With my least intense flogger and only in the safest zones. It may take some time. Do I need to bind you?” Sean thought about it. “Yes.” So Roger did. The handcuffs were heavy, but he wrapped them with cloth. He didn’t want Sean to feel that he was being babied or in some way shortchanged. As soon as he stepped away, he saw Sean start to breathe hard. “Sean?”

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“It’s just…” Sean panted. “I can’t see you…” Of course. Peter had done that. “I’ll put a mirror in front of the cross so you can see me.” He wheeled the huge old mirror around and Sean looked up, saw his own image there. “Oh God.” “Your safe word, Sean?” “Margarita,” said Sean. “I’m okay, it’s just…it’s so fucking hot, Roger.” A sharp slap on the bottom made Sean jump. “No swearing,” said Roger. And Sean actually grinned. “Yes, sir.” Another swat. “No sarcasm either.” “May as well not talk at all.” And Roger had him around the chest, thick arm hard, so that Sean gasped. Roger’s mouth against Sean’s ear. “You can make this hard or easy. It’s your choice.” Sean was silent, panting, mouth open. In the mirror, they were a two-headed monster. Red hair like a flame, blue eyes glazed, dark head bent over him, and green eyes intense. “That’s us,” said Roger. Sean looked at their image. He could see both he and Roger. He could see his bound wrists, Roger’s arm around his chest. The mirror held refracted and soft-edged shadows in it, and Sean imagined he could see other shapes in it as well. Now Roger’s face turned to look down at Sean and he could see how Roger looked at him, how his eyes were so wholly focused on him. “Ready,” said Roger. “Yes.” Roger stepped back and swished the flogger in the air, working his muscles loose, rolling his shoulders. Sean watched him, awed at the power and grace of the big man standing behind him. The flogger’s soft tails slapped softly back and forth across Sean’s thighs. A playful thing, like a dog wagging its tail, and Roger’s eyes smiled at Sean in the mirror. The first strokes were just thuds of the leather against the fatty part of his ass, really. A comforting feeling, like a deep massage. He watched Roger wielding his tool, his eyes completely focused on Sean in deep concentration, and then he shifted his shoulders, his arms just so, and the flogger slapped just a little harder at the bottom of his butt, where Peter had marked him. Sean yelped and went up on his toes. Roger’s eyes met his in the mirror again. He repeated the gesture from the other direction, the flogger smacking Sean on the other side and Sean made a softer sound, watching Roger in the mirror.

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Smack. Smack. Smack. Sean’s skin was growing hot, the flogger soothing and yet seeming to drive him upward, slowly.

Smack. Smack. Roger slowed, swished the flogger in the air a few times. His eyes on Sean’s as he stepped forward and ran his palm lightly above the surface of Sean’s skin. “Are you warm?” “Yes.” Sean heard how throaty his voice sounded and was surprised. Roger caressed the back of his head and Sean tore his eyes from the image of them in the mirror to look into Roger’s warm green eyes. “You’re so lovely like this,” purred Roger. “Your skin is like sherry.” Sean shivered and Roger stepped back again, the flogger swished through the air. Smack. Smack. Smack. A rhythm began to flow over Sean’s skin. A warm beat of blood and then chills, and then the wash of that particularly thrilling feeling. He arched his head back, flexing his muscles into it, and in the mirror he saw Roger’s mouth open, his face flushed, eyes bright as that muscular torso moved in its slow dance like movement. Sean moaned and tried to think. His body was pressing toward something, something he couldn’t articulate. His eyes sought Roger’s in the mirror and Roger paused. He stepped up to Sean again, performed the same pass of his hand over Sean’s heated skin, cupped Sean’s jaw, looked into his eyes. “Are you flying, pup?” Sean felt a smile lazily stretching across his face. Roger stepped back again and in the foggy mirror Sean saw his own face as if it were foreign, Roger’s dark body moving, the flogger pushing him like a warm hand toward some steep precipice, and the forms in the mirror were like the shapes of men’s bodies, their arms, the bend of a leg.

Smack. Smack. Smack. Sean was in that space, that dream, everything around him slow and soft, and the shapes in the mirror became a face, became eyes. Sean screamed. He fought against his restraints. Roger dropped the flogger and ran forward. Wrapped his arms around Sean who fought against him, arching and straining and yelling. “I’m here, Sean. It’s me, Roger. I’m here.” Sean could hear his own breath harshly drawing in and out of his lungs, and then he could hear Roger. He panted. In the mirror was his face and Roger’s. Roger’s big arms wrapped protectively around his body. Nothing else. No one else was there. Sean steadied, stopped shaking. Swallowed. Roger held him so tightly Sean could feel Roger’s heartbeat against his back. Roger held him until their hearts seemed to beat at the same speed, and then he released him. “Sean, look at me in the mirror.” Roger swished the flogger in the air. “I want you to say my name.”

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“Roger,” said Sean obediently.

Smack. “Say it again.”

“Roger,” said Sean.

Smack. Smack.

“Keep saying my name.”

And Roger painted the heavy heat across Sean’s backside and thighs while Sean said his

name over and over, watching Roger in the mirror, the shapes reappeared. “Roger,” said Sean, arching into the strokes. “Roger.” The sensation spiraled upward, a dizzying height of something he’d never seen before. “Roger,” whispered Sean. Letting his head fall back. “Sean, look at me,” barked Roger’s voice and Sean’s head snapped up, and there were those green eyes, that big body. “Say it.” “Roger.” Smack. Smack. “Roger.” Sean arched, suddenly, a bright apex of chills and timelessness. The sensation went on though the sound had stopped, and Roger was there, hands on his neck, lips on his face. “Beautiful,” whispered Roger like a man praying. “So beautiful.” Sean felt his wrists being unbound, feeling himself falling as if buoyed by wings, into Roger’s arms. He was carried to a bench that Roger had covered with a towel. He was given water and Roger’s lips on his brow, brushing back his damp hair. “Sean.” That same worshipful tone in Roger’s voice. “Sean.”

And Sean found his voice. “Say it again,” he sighed.

“Sean.”

“Again.”

“Sean. Lovely Sean. I love you.”

Sean sighed and closed his eyes, feeling Roger’s warmth painting his body, Roger’s arm

and hands and face close to him. He floated for some time and as he started becoming aware of things again, Roger was still there, watching his face. “Hello. How long have you been sitting there?” “Not long.” Roger played with the hair at Sean’s temple, his eyes probing Sean’s, like a searchlight through a forest of trees. “What did you see, Sean?” “Him.” Roger caressed Sean’s cheek with one finger. “So did I,” he admitted. And Sean could see how hard the admission was for Roger to make.

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“Not just him, though,” said Sean, in surprise, realizing it even as he said it. “There were other people here, too.” Roger studied him, bemused. “I envy you. I was afraid, you know.” “Yes, so was I. I… Roger, I thought it would be the same. But now I know that it’s not the same.” “It’s not?” “No. He wanted to hurt me. He saw that I was cresting on it and he changed so that it hurt me.” Roger’s face was pained as he stroked Sean’s cheek. “It wasn’t your fault,” said Sean gently. “Can you help me sit up?” Roger immediately leapt to his feet and did so. When Sean sat up on the bench, the next item of business rose also. “Hey,” said Sean. “I don’t suppose there’s a bed in this dungeon.” “Are you kidding?” said Roger, helping Sean to stand. “Let me show you to my chamber little fly…”

***** “Oh.” The sheets were smooth high-count cotton, so they wouldn’t abrade tender skin. The cabinet nearby held a rich supply of lotions and lubes. Sean knelt on all fours and Roger knelt behind him, slowly feeding his cock into Sean. “Steady,” said Roger breathlessly. Sean’s whole body trembled from head to toe, and his body swallowed Roger. Roger was able to get Sean’s cock in his hand and precum already slipped over it. Sean was starting to rock now, a demanding rhythm. “Oh, there!” he said, finding Roger’s cock with his prostate instead of it being the other way around. Roger held on as Sean found a rhythm, digging his hands and knees in and working himself on Roger’s cock. A demanding, pushy bottom. Well, of course he was. “There, there, oh, oh, oh,” yelled Sean, rutting and groaning and fucking himself on Roger. Roger’s head felt like it might pop off, and then Sean was squealing and his cock was spurting, and Roger just let that white heat spiral down his back and burst from his cock deep into Sean.

***** “Would you like lemon in your water?” asked Liam.

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Sean looked up from where he lay beside the Jacuzzi. On his belly, his butt covered only by a small white towel. “Yes, thank you.” Liam placed the lemon in the drink and also brought himself a glass. He sat down next to Sean, knee drawn up companionably. The Jacuzzi water burbled gently. A parrot shook seeds from his dish, and pattered up and down the wooden bar on which he stood. One of the larger leafy palms dipped and let a large drop of condensation fall with a plop into the Jacuzzi. “My first time, I was sore for days,” said Liam. He sipped his drink. “I’ll give Roger a lotion I have before you go.” Sean looked at him curiously. “Thank you. Liam, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Liam had beautiful liquid dark eyes and when he smiled, they danced. “You can ask me anything, Sean.” “Does Jay? I mean, how?” “Mr. Jay can’t lift the whip himself, but he can command the bodies of those who do,” said Liam. “He is a true Master.” And his voice spoke the word with a shivery whisper. Rogers and Jay’s voices could be heard outside. Liam turned his head in that direction. “There aren’t many men like them left,” he said. The voices grew louder, and Jay and Roger came back into the conservatory. Roger’s eyes went straight to Sean and stayed there. It was funny, thought Sean, how empowered he now felt. Roger placed a small table with drinks beside Jay’s chair and gave each man a glass of dark sherry. Jay lifted his glass. “To old friends.” Roger’s eyes met Sean’s as if seeking something, and Sean smiled reassurance and lifted his glass. To Peter, to Patrick. To Gary, and to the parade of charming smiles and young faces that streamed before all of their minds’ eyes, looking back at them as they faded into a mist at the end of some white tiled hallway. “And to new friends,” said Jay. And they drank. Liam rose and Roger took over his seat. He lay one hand on Sean’s leg and waited until Jay and Liam had left the room to speak. “We’re invited for dinner.” “That was nice of them. What did you say?” “That I’d ask you.” Sean raised an eyebrow. Roger was stroking his ankle with his thumb now. He looked as shy as an adolescent boy. “I love you, you know,” said Sean, softly, and was gratified at the expression on Roger’s face.

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“I know.” “I’d rather go home. I’m tired and I want to be alone with you. But if you want to talk to your friend?” “I agree,” said Roger. He rose. “I’ll get your things and we’ll be on our way.”

***** “Good afternoon, Mary Anne,” said Sean, strolling up to her desk. His gaze went to the empty desk across from hers, a question mark on his face. “He’ll be back in a minute,” said Mary Anne, looking the man up and down appreciatively. Sean was clean and pressed, in jeans and a white button-down shirt. Simple and unadorned except for a twist of black leather that showed at the opening of his shirt. He looked younger, for some reason. Maybe it was the haircut, or maybe it was the clarity in his eyes. He had a peaceful air about him. “Roger told me that you and Billy are engaged?” Mary Anne held up her hand to show off the tiny diamond ring. It looked pretty and elegant on her narrow fingers. “Stupid men,” said Mary Anne with affection. “They have to put their little mark on you.” “Yes,” said Sean. His hand went to the black thong at his throat, played with it. And then he saw Roger across the room and strode off to meet him.

A. M. Riley A. M. Riley is a film editor and sometime poet, living and working in Los Angeles, with an interest in paranormal, erotica, and anything that tests established boundaries. Find out more about the author by visiting http://www.amriley.net/.