Army soldier, and noted opponent of the “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” repeal was himself one of the queers he feared would ruin the military? She should have guessed. Then again, all she had was Chet’s crude account of their alleged affair.
Chet went on, “We started seeing each other regularly after that. He’d have some kind of event, I’d meet him there, and we’d go at it afterwards, either in a car or a back room of wherever he was. He was good at losing his posse and picking spots where we wouldn’t get caught—a military skill, I guess. At first he seemed like an okay guy, older and more uptight than my usual boys, but I love me some manly man once in a while. When I started pressing him to come out, he turned into rough trade, all ‘I’m not gay,’ and ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.’ He even slammed me into a wall once. Bastard.”
“That’s some, well, shocking information,” Val said. “But why out Barrister to Robby? What does it have to do with Carressa?”
“I wasn’t gonna out Norman—I mean, not specifically. It’s not cool to force people out of the closet, even douchebags like him. Goes against gay code. The thing is, about six weeks ago, during one of our meet-ups before I quit his campaign, I heard Norman talking on the phone all secret-like about the death of Lester Carressa, like it had already happened. But this was two weeks before Lester actually died .” Chet leaned toward Val like he was afraid to be overheard in his own apartment. “How could he know that Lester was gonna die before he died? Norman must have something to do with it. Which means that Max must not have anything to do with it, because why plot with other people to murder your father in the family mansion where you’re bound to be the prime suspect?”
Val’s mind went to a dozen places at once. Assuming Chet told the truth and heard what he thought he heard, why would Barrister want Max’s father dead? Why try to frame Max for the murder? If they knew where Chet and Robby would meet, why not kill Chet, the source of the incriminating information, rather than Robby?
Val knew of one other way to know when someone was going to die before it happened. But that wasn’t possible…was it? If other people could do what Val could do, it would be a well-known phenomenon, studied and documented. She’d found no trace of anyone else with her abilities, despite searching for over half of her life. It couldn’t be.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Val asked.
“Gay code, remember? If I went to the police, I’d have to out Norman. Lawyers have confidentiality privilege and stuff. And you can’t trust the cops. Impossible to tell who’s clean or dirty. But I couldn’t let such a pretty boy go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
As Val opened her mouth to ask another question, a heavy thump at the door announced another visitor.
“Oh, that’s my friend Dookie,” Chet said as he rose and exited the kitchen.
Val’s head still reeled from Chet’s information—what should her next move be? Should she go to the police?—when she heard someone bellow, “Seattle PD drug raid! Open up!”
“ Hijo de puta ,” Chet said. “Again?”
She heard the locks release, the door open.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than enforce racist stereotypes? No, I don’t have any weed, just like I didn’t have any two weeks ago.”
BOOM BOOM. Two gunshots tore through the apartment, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor. Down the hallway, a woman screamed. Val slapped a hand over her mouth to contain her own, then launched from her chair and backpedaled into the wall, as far away as possible from the beaded curtain that separated the kitchen from the living room. The image she’d seen two days ago of Chet lying in a pool of his own blood, pawing at his chest as his life slipped away, came back to her then. She knew the image was Chet at that moment, his future caught up
Chet went on, “We started seeing each other regularly after that. He’d have some kind of event, I’d meet him there, and we’d go at it afterwards, either in a car or a back room of wherever he was. He was good at losing his posse and picking spots where we wouldn’t get caught—a military skill, I guess. At first he seemed like an okay guy, older and more uptight than my usual boys, but I love me some manly man once in a while. When I started pressing him to come out, he turned into rough trade, all ‘I’m not gay,’ and ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.’ He even slammed me into a wall once. Bastard.”
“That’s some, well, shocking information,” Val said. “But why out Barrister to Robby? What does it have to do with Carressa?”
“I wasn’t gonna out Norman—I mean, not specifically. It’s not cool to force people out of the closet, even douchebags like him. Goes against gay code. The thing is, about six weeks ago, during one of our meet-ups before I quit his campaign, I heard Norman talking on the phone all secret-like about the death of Lester Carressa, like it had already happened. But this was two weeks before Lester actually died .” Chet leaned toward Val like he was afraid to be overheard in his own apartment. “How could he know that Lester was gonna die before he died? Norman must have something to do with it. Which means that Max must not have anything to do with it, because why plot with other people to murder your father in the family mansion where you’re bound to be the prime suspect?”
Val’s mind went to a dozen places at once. Assuming Chet told the truth and heard what he thought he heard, why would Barrister want Max’s father dead? Why try to frame Max for the murder? If they knew where Chet and Robby would meet, why not kill Chet, the source of the incriminating information, rather than Robby?
Val knew of one other way to know when someone was going to die before it happened. But that wasn’t possible…was it? If other people could do what Val could do, it would be a well-known phenomenon, studied and documented. She’d found no trace of anyone else with her abilities, despite searching for over half of her life. It couldn’t be.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Val asked.
“Gay code, remember? If I went to the police, I’d have to out Norman. Lawyers have confidentiality privilege and stuff. And you can’t trust the cops. Impossible to tell who’s clean or dirty. But I couldn’t let such a pretty boy go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
As Val opened her mouth to ask another question, a heavy thump at the door announced another visitor.
“Oh, that’s my friend Dookie,” Chet said as he rose and exited the kitchen.
Val’s head still reeled from Chet’s information—what should her next move be? Should she go to the police?—when she heard someone bellow, “Seattle PD drug raid! Open up!”
“ Hijo de puta ,” Chet said. “Again?”
She heard the locks release, the door open.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than enforce racist stereotypes? No, I don’t have any weed, just like I didn’t have any two weeks ago.”
BOOM BOOM. Two gunshots tore through the apartment, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor. Down the hallway, a woman screamed. Val slapped a hand over her mouth to contain her own, then launched from her chair and backpedaled into the wall, as far away as possible from the beaded curtain that separated the kitchen from the living room. The image she’d seen two days ago of Chet lying in a pool of his own blood, pawing at his chest as his life slipped away, came back to her then. She knew the image was Chet at that moment, his future caught up
Similar Books
