Whistle Pass (15 page)

Roger stuck the pencil in the holder and leaned over his arms on the desk.

“Yes, I do, Charlie. I can’t trust anybody anymore. I don’t know what’s going on. If it is Dora sending me death threats, I don’t know why.” A twisted smile contorted his features. “You’ve probably figured out I can’t ask the police chief to look in to it.” He pressed back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arms. “It’s like every time I do something, Dora already knows about it. She’s always a half day ahead of me.”

The question of why Roger’s wife needed to be ahead of him slogged its way to the forefront of Charlie’s mind. But first things first.

“Austin’s working for your wife. Did you know that?”

The color in Roger’s face went darker than the rug’s maroon. He plunged a hand under the desk. The door
swooshed
open behind Charlie.

“Yes, sir?”

Roger has a hidden button to call his dog to heel
. Roger really wasn’t somebody he even wanted to know anymore. Still, Charlie filed the information away for future reference. And that confused Charlie as well. Why didn’t he just go pack his bag and leave this town? He heaved a sigh. As much as he wanted to leave, some unexplainable weight had burrowed into his chest and wouldn’t let him walk away.

Roger swatted a drop of spittle from his mouth. “Tell Austin to get his ass in here!”

“Yes, sir.” The door rubbed over the rug.

Roger thrust an open palm into the air. “Wait a minute.”

The sound of the door closing stopped.

He lowered the hand and tapped at the desktop. Finally, he narrowed his eyes. “Never mind. Forget about it.”

The door clicked closed.

Okay. Now what’s up?
Charlie folded his hands, rubbed his chin over his index fingers, and waited to find out.

Roger ground his palms into his cheeks. “I’ll use that son of a bitch just like Dora’s been using him.” He crossed his arms and stared at something beyond Charlie.

Charlie offered a suggestion. “Get rid of him. You have that animal outside the door.”

A growled chuckle emanated out of Roger. “Austin did that to his face. Twice.” A look of concern melted the anger. “Be careful around Austin, Charlie. You don’t know how dangerous he can be.”

Charlie did his best not to let his own anger show itself.
You’re telling me this now?
“Thanks.” He needed to get out of here and be rid of the mental stench of what Roger had become, so he stood to go. But he still had another question. “How would Dora know about me and the picture of us kissing?”

Roger looked at everything but Charlie.

The avoidance of eye contact hit him like a bus. “Shit. You lied to me when you said you never told anybody. You told her.”
What the hell?

Roger laid his hands flat on the desk. “It was years ago. How did I know she’d try and use it against me? Candlelight, wine… we were in love. We shared our innermost secrets with each other one night.” He looked up at Charlie with puppy dog eyes. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I really am. More than you could know, but I need your help. Please?”

This whole situation was pissing him off. “Help with what? I’m getting tired of the games, Roger.”

“Don’t you see? She wants to destroy me.”

Charlie bit back the rage boiling in his belly. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before it spilled out, and he’d have to find a place for it to spill.

“Why? Why, Roger? Tell me. She stands to gain everything if you get elected. What the hell is going on?”

Roger slapped the desktop and jumped to his feet. His voice went up an octave. “I don’t know! That’s the whole problem. She acts like nothing’s wrong, we play charades of the happy couple, and behind my back she’s screwing my own police chief, and now, out of the blue, here you are. I. Don’t. Know. I wish I did.”

Charlie threw up his hands. Enough was enough. Dora and Roger deserved each other.

“I’m done with this. You and the little woman have a nice life, Roger.” He turned to leave.

“Austin told me you’ve been seeing Gabe Kasper.”

Charlie’s feet froze to the rug. His ears and cheeks flamed.

“Yeah, Charlie. You just told me Austin’s working for Dora. So, she has to know about it too.”

Charlie’s lungs emptied in a rush out his nose. “And if Dora knows, Perkins knows.” That explained the real reason behind the attack on Gabe. Charlie had been sent a message, and he’d misread it, or rather, hadn’t read it at all. He had to talk to Gabe and find out exactly what happened.

Christ
! Why hadn’t he become a cop instead of a logger? This whole mess would sure be a lot easier to understand and deal with if he had some training. Instead of just wanting to punch people’s lights out, he obviously needed to actually talk to people. People like Gabe. A ball of heat coaxed some sweat from between his thighs.

The unidentified weight holding Charlie in Whistle Pass did have a face, and a name.
Kasper
.
Gabe’s last name is Kasper
. His heart glowed the smile his face couldn’t right now.

“They’ll hurt him, Charlie. You know they will.”

The smiling heart went deadly still and cold. Yeah, they would. And it would be all Charlie’s fault for having Gabe play chauffeur. He slowly turned back to Roger with a stern plea of his own. “Gabe shouldn’t be involved in whatever war you and your wife have going. Leave him out of it.”

The overgrown rat scurried around the desk. Roger grabbed Charlie’s shoulders and looked at him with the most sorrowful look it had ever been Charlie’s displeasure to see. He wanted to puke.

“Give them what they want, Charlie. I’ll deal with the consequences.
Give them the picture. It’s the only way to keep Gabe safe.”

Charlie opened his mouth to say he would, but a glint flashed in the back of Roger’s eyes and then vanished just as quickly, like a sparkler’s single spark. Charlie didn’t know what it was, but that damn creature inside him that kept him alive by running into danger, shivered. Something still wasn’t right, and might be terribly wrong.

“I told you I got rid of that photo years ago.”

Roger pulled Charlie tight against him in an embrace. Hands stroked Charlie’s back. One went to the nape of his neck. Charlie restrained himself from belching his nausea in Roger’s ear. But he did have to admit the man smelled good. The aroma reminded him of lemonade, thus the hint of lemon in the room. He focused on the aftershave and not the body he’d explored with his mouth and tongue in another lifetime.

A hand went to Charlie’s ass and pushed him into Roger’s groin. The pea coat served duty as a most welcome shield. Roger’s lips found Charlie’s neck, and a wet tongue flicked over his skin.

A memory of the two of them in a barn loft surfaced. The moon’s rays splintered through bullet-riddled boards. The straw, though moldy, had smelled of paradise that night when Charlie surrendered to Roger’s physical desires. He’d spread his legs and taken Roger inside him from the top to relish his lover’s body on his.

Charlie tilted his head back and moaned.

A whisper of a time gone by played at his ear. “Need you.”

Need you
. They had been Roger’s code words.
Need
you
. He said them every time he wanted to make love to Charlie.
Need
you
.

But they weren’t in love anymore. And Gabe Kasper was a hell of a lot more man than Roger Black had ever dreamed of being.

Charlie shoved the memory halfway across the room.

Roger fell against the desk. The holder tipped and pencils rolled in angles. His eyes grew wide and round in shock. “What? Charlie? What?”

An acid taste of disgust filled Charlie’s mouth. He spat it onto the rug, wheeled around, and headed for the door.

A quavering shout filled the room. “You’re going to have to stop them, Charlie! One way or another. You better think about
that
. Is Gabe worth killing for, Charlie? Because it might be the only way to save him.”

Charlie flung the door open. The obedient dog opened the next one.

He stormed his way out of the club into the diesel-laden air and drew in all the unpleasant smell he could to smother the remnants of Roger’s odor. Charlie flopped his arms on top of his head and inhaled another lung-filling breath. A stench of ripe garbage dug at his nose and
flared a nostril. He lowered his arms, and the stink wafted into nowhere.
He raised his left arm and sniffed the pit of his coat.

Damn.
It wasn’t garbage—it was him.

Charlie stuffed his hands in his pockets and hustled along the sidewalk.

His eyes burned. It’d been a day or so since he’d had any real sleep. But before he laid his head down, a little soap and water to clean the funk off his skin wouldn’t hurt a bit.

When he woke, he’d decide who needed to die to keep Gabe safe. Because Gabe Kasper
was
worth killing for… and then some.

Chapter 15

I
T
HADN
’
T
been easy, or fun. Gabe surveyed his handiwork and nodded his approval. Room 412, Charlie’s room, once again stood guest-ready. He opened the door. The miniscule breeze sent an errant feather skittering across the floor. Gabe snagged the culprit and jammed it into his jeans pocket. He closed and locked the door behind him.

Each footfall on the old wooden steps tolled his turmoil. But his harbinger of doom wasn’t a gallows erected in the center of town. No. His would be a park bench by the river… and a kiss from lips he wanted to spend eternity glued to.

Self-loathing knotted a muscle in his chest. He rubbed the tightness
as he descended the stairs. His other palm he lightly slid along the banister for support. Life was only necessary to live.

He snorted disdain. Life in Whistle Pass had been acceptable.
Safe. Out in the big world, people like him—homosexuals—were scorned,
imprisoned, had experimental surgery performed on their brains, beaten, and, he gulped, killed.

Now Charlie Harris threatened to destroy his sanctuary from life’s realities.

The metronome of betrayal transferred from his heavy steps to the deep tick-tock of the lobby’s grandfather clock. He paused on the bottom step. Two men sat on separate couches. One absently flipped pages of a magazine. The other read a newspaper. One wore jeans, the other bibs.

Railroaders
. Men lucky enough to only be passing through—spending a few hours to rest before they climbed aboard another train and headed home to whatever lives waited for them.

Light glinted off metal on the magazine reader’s left hand. A wedding ring. The man was married. Probably had a family to go home to. The knot in Gabe’s chest wrenched even tighter. He dug fingernails into the discomfort. He’d never know what it was like to be married, legally committed to one person, let alone have children.

His thoughts wallowed through the mire of uncertainty to Lester and Cathy. That they’d marry held no doubt. They’d only needed a push toward the altar. Their lives would be happy, and they’d raise Richie to be a good, strong man. Gabe smirked. Hopefully a good, strong,
straight
man.

“Everything all right, Mr. Kasper?”

Gabe looked over to the desk clerk. “Yes. Fine,” he said, knowing nothing was fine or all right. He strode to the check-in counter and set down a key.

“This is for 412. Please make the change on the room tag.” He turned and stepped toward the exit. “Thank you.”

He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder at the lobby with the couches, chairs, and slow turning fans, inhaled the aroma of years of guests, smoke, sweat, cleaning agents, Betty—his life. He clenched his jaw to fight back the pooling tears. Tomorrow might be the last time he’d ever see the cocoon of safety he existed in. If he followed Perkins’s orders, he might have a chance, though. Maybe Perkins would let him walk away after he tricked Charlie. He closed his eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t kill himself after he tricked Charlie. He slowly opened one eyelid. Could people still kill themselves after a lobotomy? A shiver descended his spine, vertebra by vertebra, then climbed back up to bury a dagger of pain at the base of his skull.

Gabe coughed and pushed open the door.

G
ABE
sat on a stool in the restaurant. An “Ahem” drew his attention. He looked up. The waitress stood in front of him.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She held a pad and pencil in her hands. “I asked if you wanted the fried chicken. You know, the Sunday Special? You always order it.”

Gabe moved the salt and pepper to equidistance from the napkin holder.

“No, thank you. Coffee is all.”

“How about some cherry pie? You always have cherry pie on Sundays. I made sure to save you a slice. With a scoop of ice cream? On the house.”

He ran his thumb over the metal top of the pillow-glass saltshaker.

“This is dented.”

She snatched the shaker and exchanged it for another from the next condiment station on the countertop. “Better?”

He rubbed the top, felt no deformities, and adjusted the shaker to its proper place.