Innuendo (32 page)

The horse barn was, according to the sign, a WPA building built in 1937 of thick concrete and decorated here and there with small friezes of horses. An odd greenish-beige color with high windows, the building's large main doors were pulled down and it appeared totally closed for the year. Approaching the structure, however, Todd saw a small door set in an alcove. He pulled open the screen door, tested the wooden door, and found it unlocked. Stepping inside with his phone in hand, he turned a corner and found himself in a huge empty space. Gone were the quarter horses and draft horses, the 4-H exhibits, the breeders, the farm kids, and the straw strewn everywhere.

“John?” called Todd, peering through the dim, dirty light. “John Lyman?”

Taking several steps across the cold concrete, Todd realized he shouldn't have agreed to meet here. Not in a place so void of activity. No, he should have been more heads-up, should have insisted they meet in a place full of people. Glancing around the dank building, Todd wondered why John Lyman wanted to meet and just how angry he might be.

“Hello?”

A gust of wind shot into the building, the door slammed shut, and Todd jumped. From overhead came a deep flurry—a sparrow, perhaps locked in here since the end of the fair and somehow not yet starved to death. And then finally he heard the soft but distinct shuffle of leather across concrete.

Todd turned to a line of wooden stalls along one side of the barn, and called, “John?”

After a long moment came more shuffling, and then, “Yeah, down here.”

Perhaps Todd was a fool, perhaps he should have just turned and headed out of there, but he didn't really think he had much choice. Andrew Lyman was dead, and the boy's father wanted to talk to him. Either he had news for Todd about his son's death—an overlooked fact, perchance—or he was going to lash out at Todd for his coverage. Or maybe, just maybe John Lyman had sought out Todd for an entirely different reason. Could it be possible that he knew something about his son's involvement with Rawlins?

The stalls were made of thick, heavy wood with huge sliding doors and heavy metal bars at the top, perfect for containing the most malcontent of stallions. Approaching the sixth or seventh stall, Todd heard movement from within and cautiously approached the opening. Looking in he saw the back of a large man standing there as he wiped down something. As Todd's eyes adjusted to the faint light, he saw what John Lyman was attending to.

“This isn't the greatest saddle, not by any means,” Lyman said, his voice low and pained, “but I won it during my very first cutting competition something like twenty, maybe twenty-three years ago. It's brought me and my cutting horses good luck all this time… up until now. I didn't just lose during the competition this year, I was the laughing stock of the whole fucking State Fair rodeo. I mean, I've just up and lost the knack.”

“I'm sorry.”

“These are hard times for me. Real hard. Farming sure as hell ain't getting any easier. My family has gone and fallen apart. And now my only boy's dead, murdered because… because…”

He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a khaki jacket that was obviously too small, something that had perhaps once fit around him but would never again. He was a big man, not just tall, but overweight. And between the top of his blue check shirt and his green cap the skin of his neck was red and aged from years in the field.

What could Todd say? How, wondered Todd, clutching his phone in his sweaty hand, could he comfort this stranger?

Breaking the silence, John said, “The night I found out my boy was gay was the night I nearly beat him to death. And I would've, too, if my wife hadn't stopped me. I was so angry at him. I was so upset. I mean, I failed that boy. I wanted him to be happy and healthy. I wanted him to have a good, decent life. I wanted—”

“I met him, you know. And he was a good boy. He was happy and healthy too. And decent.” In all his infinite wisdom, Todd couldn't keep his mouth shut. “He was all of that, plus gay.”

“Maybe. Maybe he was. But, oh, Lord Jesus, I tried. I just didn't want that for him, that life. It's not good, not right. I saw it coming of course. I knew he was a homo. Knew it years ago, but—”

“It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. It's just a matter of fact that your son was gay. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Shit… You know why I beat my boy that night? You know why?” asked John Lyman, turning around for the first time.

Todd saw a face that was worn and fallen. And eyes that were red and glistening. How much, wondered Todd, had he had to drink? Or wait, was he not drunk? Were his eyes red with tears?

“No,” replied Todd. “Why?”

“I beat my boy because I was trying to beat out of him what I hated most about myself, that's why.”

It took Todd a half-second to comprehend what he was saying, for he'd never heard someone place their sexuality in so awful a context. But he was saying that, wasn't he?

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Well, I'm married, but…” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Let's just say I haven't been faithful to my wife.”

Todd understood perfectly now. Understood that John Lyman would sooner kill himself than say he was gay There was obviously no way in hell he was going to say he was homosexual, queer, a fairy, a pansy, a fudge packer, a corn holer, or whatever the kids these days said so easily but that not so very long ago all but equaled death, and in fact sometimes still did. John Lyman had lived an isolated life in rural Minnesota, obviously terrified of his personal truth, and that he had said as much as he had to Todd was amazing. Then again, it had taken the death of his son to pry open his closet this much.

Still, Todd knew of the profound difference between the unspoken and the spoken truth, and so he asked it in as non-threatening a manner as he could, saying, “You mean you've been having a same-sex affair?”

Nodding as he stared at the floor of the stall, John Lyman said, “I been seeing the same guy ever since high school.”

“Really?”

“Not all that much, not really. Maybe three or four times a year. Sometimes more.”

So, like father, like son. Incredible.

But why was he telling Todd this? Because Todd was openly gay? Because he had perhaps witnessed Todd's own outing live on TV? Perhaps. Perhaps even though Todd was a complete stranger he saw him as an isle of safety, even compassion. After all, didn't we all just want to be understood?

“This is obviously a very difficult time for you,” said Todd. “Is there anything I can do? Anyway I can help?”

John Lyman nodded, closed his eyes, and said nothing.

“How?” asked Todd.

“Shit, I wondered if it was really going to come to this, if I could actually go through with it.”

He sighed deeply, reached into the right pocket of his khaki jacket, and pulled out something small and metal. At first in the faint light Todd could only make out a mellow glint of metal. Then he saw something round and long. A barrel.

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Todd, taking a half-step back.

This, of course, was what he feared. Something exactly like this. He glanced around, saw nothing, realized that the only thing he had to defend himself with was the stupid phone.

“We can talk this out,” insisted Todd.

“You don't understand, there's nothing to talk about.”

“You don't have to do it, John. I know these are bad times, but you don't have to hurt anyone. There are other ways.”

Raising the gun, he said, “No, I'm afraid there aren't. I been thinking and thinking, and I got no choice.”

“John, wait. Please.”

Todd was worse than a sitting duck. He could make a break for it. He could tear for the door, and perhaps he'd make it. Then again, thought Todd, his heart taking off at a gallop, he probably wouldn't. John Lyman was sure to be a good shot.

“Why?” demanded Todd.

“Because I can't face it, the truth.”

“But—”

“And if it ever comes up I want you to go see my wife.”

“Do what?”

“Go see my wife, Martha.”

Suddenly this wasn't making any sense. Was this perhaps not headed in the very direction that Todd feared?

“What do you mean?”

Raising the gun higher, Lyman said, “I want you to tell her how much I loved her. Tell her in my heart I was true to her.”

As Todd watched Lyman's elbow bend he suddenly understood. Oh, God. He'd called Todd here for a kind of last confession.

“John, don't.”

“There's no other way. I got no other choice.”

“Your son's dead, don't make things worse.”

Lyman lifted the handgun to his right temple and slowly let his eyes drift shut. “It's all my fault too. Somehow I made that boy a homo. And… and I definitely drove him away from his home. He's… he's dead because of me.”

Tears started rolling from his eyes, big, fat drops that traveled down his large cheeks. No, he didn't want this. He really didn't. And Todd knew what he had to do, just keep him talking.

“No,” said Todd, “he's dead because some insane person killed him.”

“If I hadn't drove him away he'd still be alive. He shoulda been home with us. He woulda been safe there. None of this woulda happened.”

The other man's trigger finger started to flinch, and Todd knew he'd lost, that there was no way of stopping this, that Andrew Lyman's death was going to be like a chain accident, one death piled upon another. And all for nothing.

The phone.

There was nothing else Todd could do. No other course, none that he could see. And so, as John Lyman stood there with the pistol to his right temple, Todd slowly brought back his arm. This was perhaps the stupidest thing, but he was determined to do something, anything, to change the course of the next few seconds. Wasting not a moment, Todd tossed the small black phone at the other man.

“It's for you, John!”

John's eyes popped open in surprise and instinctively he reached out to catch the little plastic phone hurtling his way. And catch it he did, the small phone clattering against the barrel of the gun.

Desperate, Todd blurted, “If you shoot yourself, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to do a story on television about you and your son. I'm going to say that Andrew was an incest victim. I'm going to say that you had sex with him.”

“That's not true!”

“Of course it's not, but that's what I'm going to say. And that's what the world will think because you'll be dead and you'll have no way of defending yourself.”

“No!”

“I'll do it. If you kill yourself, that's what I'm going to do.” Oh, Christ, what was Todd about to unleash? “But if you don't hurt yourself, if you push through all of this, then all I'll do is tell the truth, that you loved your—”

“You bastard!”

Lyman threw Todd's cellular phone to the floor, smashing it in a half-dozen pieces, and then charged forward, a bull of a man overflowing with rage and self-hatred. Todd, seeing the gun aimed at him, leapt to the side, and an instant later a bullet blasted deep into the thick wood of the stall. But rather than running for the door, Todd twisted around and used his foot to trip Lyman just as he came rushing out. Lyman fell forward, landing on the hard concrete floor with a deep groan, and the gun flew from his hand and went sailing through the air. Racing after it, Todd bent down, grabbed the butt of the gun, and scooped it up.

“You asshole!” roared Lyman as he scrambled across the floor. “I'm gonna kill you!”

Just then a hand locked onto Todd's left ankle and pulled with the force of a draft horse. Before Todd knew it, he went flying forward and the gun went hurtling out of his hand. He landed smack on his stomach and all the air exploded out of him. He knew he had to move, to get out of there, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't even manage to push himself onto his hands and knees. And the next moment Lyman was pulling him back. Todd managed to twist over, to cover his face, as Lyman lunged at him, striking Todd on the chin once, twice. Todd tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but it was too late. Before he even had time to think, his head exploded with a blast of pain and everything plunged into quiet darkness.

Rawlins was the first
one to crack.

All afternoon as he'd been going about his work he'd been wondering if Todd would call and perhaps chat awhile, maybe even apologize or simply, without admitting guilt, voice his regret for their argument last night. Actually, Rawlins half expected Todd would phone and insist they get together if not sometime this afternoon, then certainly for dinner. But now, checking his watch as he sat in his cubicle at CID, it was after six o'clock and of course Todd hadn't called, which really didn't come as any great surprise to Rawlins. Todd was that stubborn. That resolute. Or more to the point, that determined to be in control.

Well, screw the bastard.

Rawlins had caved not quite an hour ago. He didn't know what he was going to say, he didn't actually know what he wanted to happen, but he couldn't stand this separation, this odd quiet between them. Over the course of their young relationship they hadn't argued that much, but they'd certainly never run into a stupid brick wall like this one. And it was this silence that scared Rawlins, because for the first time there didn't seem any desire on Todd's part to work through their differences. What was going on? Could Todd really have gone on a date last night? Might he be sneaking out of their relationship? Yes, it was certainly possible.