Murder at Willow Slough (50 page)

In the western sky, crimson rays from a dying sun mixed with low storm clouds. A brisk breeze stirred up off the prairie. Brown leaves rattled in a willow tree.

He reached up to raise the collar of his leather jacket. A winter of cold was coming. Mental picture: the ice storm; but now tonight, a heart to burst, a baseball star—a civil rights enforcer to cherish. He closed his eyes, overcome with pride.

Kent fumbled for keys, quickened his pace, headed for the big truck in the darkening lot. “Please,” he called over his shoulder. “Let me do this. Just once.”

The waiter, doggy box in hand, pushed open the back door, ready to—then watching, not imposing. Puccini drifted out.

Kent unlocked the passenger door, held it open. Jamie came and stood next to it, barely breathing. Then he looked up finally, into the eyes of one who knew him; another one who knew him.

Curly black hair; high cheekbones, brown eyes that were the first to greet him when he woke up; a litany of Kent’s virtues tumbled into Jamie’s mind. Old-fashioned words, Midwestern ones; they all came down to Hero.

Strong, sure arms wrapped around him in the night. A gentle hand pulled him to a shoulder, a head cradled next to his.

Jamie stood on tiptoes and let himself be held. His arms stretched around Kent’s back, and finally he was home. This place, these arms were home. He nestled, surrendered to everything.

Jamie’s touch, his strong, small hands, awakened every part of Kent. He pressed his thighs into his lover’s, ardent and gentle, bodylong.

They were sexual at last, two men in love. Kent lowered his hand, as he’d wanted to do for months, and grasped Jamie’s tiny bottom; took a lover’s possession of him.

Jamie’s nostrils filled with Kent’s sweet, distinctive smell, almost like baby powder—and clang! Jamie heard an organ chord at fortissimo.

Suddenly he could see Kent reach inside him, searching flesh for tubes of spurting blood. He saw the desperation in Kent’s face, heard him shout commands. Jamie felt stabs of pain when fingers found arteries at last.

He watched Kent squeeze him shut for sixteen grueling minutes; till clamps replaced his numb, stiff hands.

This man exposed himself to homosexual blood. He didn’t ask if it was tainted, he had no time for gloves.

He entered Jamie’s body as a lover. They had been one body ever since.

What intimacy could Jamie ever return to him? Nothing could equal their first intercourse. But he guided Kent’s hands to the little scars.

Kent touched gingerly, afraid of causing pain, but Jamie said, “There, touch me there.” So Kent went ahead and pressed a little harder, then harder, more confidently, all around the wounds.

Jamie’s scars made love to him. Kent’s fingers finally healed; his mind, his heart.

It was never his fault. It was Campbell’s.

He held in his arms the body of his partner, his living partner; hard, muscular, all man. He lifted his lover’s chin. Jamie whispered, “Commander,” as Kent kissed him full and tenderly.

They let go of all but man. It was over; they had won, and won each other. Pavarotti soared, “Vincero!”++

M
URDER AT
W
ILLOW
S
LOUGH

OR
,T
HE
C
AREGIVER

BY
J
OSH
T
HOMAS

About the Author

Josh Thomas is an award-winning investigative reporter and a native of Basketball Land. The former editor of Gaybeat, Ohio’s Gay Newspaper, he has frequently appeared on radio and television. His writing has also been featured in Nuvo Newsweekly (Indianapolis) and non-fiction books on travel, religion and multiple homicide.

Visit his website at
www.joshtom.com
.