“They attacked David.”
“What?”
Chris told him everything this time. He ended with David’s assault and his subsequent trip to the hospital. “He’s coming home tomorrow,” Chris sniffed. “But I’m scared, Des. What are the cops going to do to him? They think he’s guilty, that he killed that poor man. They aren’t even going to investigate his attack.
They want him in jail.”
“We know that’s crazy. David wouldn’t hurt a fly. Do you want me to come out there? I’ll give those damn bobbies a piece of my mind, you wait and see.”
Chris almost smiled at the image conjured up by those words.
Diminutive Des standing toe to toe with a Bermuda-shorted constable, taking a pound of flesh with his biting tongue.
“Thanks, Des, I don’t think you need to do that. I found a great lawyer, so I think we’re good. I just needed to vent.”
Des wasn’t mollified by Chris’s words. “I should just ignore that and come anyway. You’ve never been able to take care of yourself. You’re such a pudding head.”
“Pudding head?”
Trevor came on the phone. “Don’t worry, Chris, I’ll take away his passport. But if you want to keep him down on the farm you better call every day with updates, or I won’t be responsible for what he does.”
“Thanks, Trev. Do me a favor, keep him occupied so he doesn’t fret all the time.”
“Oh, I think I can keep his mind on other things.”
Same old Trevor.
BeRMudA heAt
163
“Tell him I’ll call tomorrow after David gets home and we’ve had a chance to talk to his lawyer.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Chris went to bed soon after. Sleep was a long time coming though, and when it did he was plagued by bad dreams that woke him often, drenched in sweat and shaking. Just before dawn he finally slipped into a deeper, dreamless sleep.
The next morning he lingered in a hot, leisurely shower, and took extra care to primp and pamper himself in anticipation of David’s return.
He toweled himself dry and carefully selected a tight fitting pair of Bruno Pieters jeans that showed off his basket, and a butter yellow shirt that made his newly tanned skin glow.
Then he brewed a pot of coffee and sat on the veranda, waiting.
Thursday, 10:40am, King Edward Memorial Hospital, Point Finger
Road, Paget Parish, Bermuda
David pulled on his jeans and the torn shirt, damaged by the assault. Blood had splattered the front of it and one sleeve was ripped. He doubted it was fixable, but it would get him home.
The tie he hadn’t even wanted to take with him was missing.
Why take that, but not the money from his wallet? It reminded him more of a trophy-seeking psychopath than a regular mugger.
Could that have been Jay’s work? Was that why Joel had been so concerned about his second oldest son? Did he suspect something sinister like a twisted psyche? He stopped at the front desk and took care of the bill, then filled the script the doctor had given him. He went in search of a cab.
The cab dropped him off in the courtyard of Aunt Nea’s. He could see Chris on the veranda and he hurried up the stairs, but before he reached the top Chris flung the door open.
David took in his husband’s figure, reacting instinctively to his beauty. Suddenly he smiled and before Chris could make a scene, slipped past him into the apartment. The bed hadn’t been made and the room smelled of coffee and Chris. David inhaled, revitalized by the familiar and bewitching scent.
“You got more of that?”
Chris grabbed a mug and poured him a coffee. He topped up his own and sat at the table beside his laptop, which had been turned on and had gone into screen saver mode. Beside it was a crumpled
Royal Gazette
. Even from where he stood David could see the headline about Joel’s murder and his subsequent arrest.
Also visible was the memorable image of him being led into the prison by the all too accommodating Lindstrom.
Chris was staring at his face. He knew he looked rough, he
166 P.A. Brown
could feel how tight his skin was and his jaw felt hot and achy.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Deja vu all over again.”
Chris looked confused at first; David knew he didn’t get the reference. Then his face cleared and he offered a humorless smile. “Right,” he said. “You forgot to duck again.”
“Yeah.”
“You hungry?”
“After a day of hospital and jail grub? What do you think?”
“I got some chicken we could barbecue.”
“Barbecue?”
“Down by that Mexican courtyard. I’ve got potato salad, too.”
“Isn’t it a little early for barbecue?”
“Never. How can Wheaties compete with grilled chicken?”
“You got me there. You do know the way to a man’s stomach.”
“I know the way to yours.” Chris’s smile was sultry.
David responded. “Let’s eat first,” he said, watching Chris’s eyes darken.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Yes, you will.”
The chicken wasn’t hurt by its extended stay in the marinade.
David performed his usual magic on the barbecue and Chris presented his potato salad in a plastic tub with a flourish that had them both laughing. Dinner done, Chris cleaned up the dishes and made sure David took his meds, including a pain pill. He had put the last plate in the rack and was cleaning the utensils when David came up behind him.
“I locked the door.” He nuzzled Chris’s neck, inhaling the achingly familiar scent. Chris bowed his head to allow him to get at the skin below his hair. David took advantage. He could feel Chris’s pulse leap.
“What about the windows?” Chris stammered.
“Curtains closed.” His lips continued their foray down Chris’s BeRMudA heAt
167
satiny skin. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Chris whispered, turning around. He tugged at David’s belt. “You can take that off.”
Friday, 9:20am, Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish,
Bermuda
Chris was frying bacon and whistling
Somewhere
from West Side Story when David surprised him in the kitchen the next morning.
“Umm, I can feel my arteries clogging as we speak.”
“I haven’t even started the eggs yet. Omelet with Emmental and onions?”
“What, no chicken?”
“Well, there’s always me,” Chris said. “Or eggs. Your choice.”
David took him in his arms. “To hell with cholesterol.”
After breakfast David called Aidan. Chris puttered around the kitchen cleaning up the last remnants of breakfast and their interrupted supper.
David talked to his lawyer for nearly forty minutes. He had already spoken to the police about it. They still seemed to think it was a random act of violence.
“Muggers who take souvenir ties as trophies,” David muttered. “That’s a new one on me.”
“What do you mean?”
David told him about how a lot of psychopaths took trophies from their victims. “It lets them relive the glory.”
He could almost see Aidan frown. “I think I’ve heard of that.
But what kind of trophy hunter would target you—or would even know how to find you? Are you sure it was Jay you heard?
Could you have been mistaken in your identification? After all, you were under stress—”
168 P.A. Brown
“It was Jay.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, there was at least one other person present. Not all serial criminals are solitary actors. We had the Hillside Strangler in L.A.
years ago. That was two cousins. There was definitely at least two guys who jumped me last night. And one of them took my tie.”
“I’ll take this back to the police. I’ll make sure they take it as seriously as I do,” Aidan said. “Now, I’m pushing for an early hearing. The prosecution’s stalling, which tells me they don’t have the evidence they need to convict. They want to wait until they can find more.”
“Or manufacture it.”
“Well, I dare say that won’t happen now.”
“Why not?”
“The case is too much in the public eye. The police must tread cautiously, lest they be observed doing something improper.”
In David’s experience, cops didn’t stop because the public was on to them. But maybe they operated differently in Bermuda.
From what he’d seen so far, he didn’t hold out a lot of hope.
“Don’t worry, David. I’ll see that the police behave themselves, even if they’re not so inclined.”
David felt a rush of relief, even as he realized it wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. “So what’s our next move?”
“I’ll move to quash the results of their search. Their efforts are notoriously sloppy. It won’t take much to suggest their crime scene processing wasn’t up to acceptable standards. This is well documented in past cases.”
David hated it when lawyers turned their dogs loose on the science of crime scenes. It was sometimes the strongest weapon the police had in their arsenal and all the lawyers could do was seek to undermine it by casting doubt on both the science and the ones how collected it. He opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. If playing clean was going to get him a criminal sentence and a lifetime in a foreign prison, and he knew BeRMudA heAt
169
the truth was being ignored, didn’t he have the right to defend himself?
“Do you think it will work?”
“If I was a betting man—and I’m not—I’d say it’s a sure thing.”
“Couldn’t happen soon enough.”
“Patience, David, patience.” David thought he heard Aidan ruffling through papers. “I should give you my cell phone number. Just in case the police get overzealous and my office is closed. Chris, I believe, has my home number.”
“Right.”
David found Chris down in the pool spa, in his flowered board shorts. He changed into his own suit and grabbed a towel.
He paused on the step to watch Chris, his golden body stretched out, his face relaxed in the soothing movement of warm water.
David felt himself harden just watching the man he loved. It never ceased to amaze him how strong his desire remained after so many years. When Chris opened his eyes, David was beside him in the water.
“You know we’re about five minutes from the beach,” Chris said, lazily swirling his fingers through the water, lightly brushing David’s thigh.
David shook his head. “Yeah, but look at the crowds.”
Chris looked around. “What crowds?”
“My point exactly. Come on.” David slapped his butt under the water. “Let’s go get some of that pink sand in our crevices.”
“Ewww.”
They returned to their room long enough to grab T-shirts and shorts and Chris’s digital camera. Five minutes later they trotted across Church Folly Road, past the Ruined Church and up Government Hill Road to make their way down into Tobacco Bay beach. The parking lot was empty except for a couple of scooters and a Volvo. In the jagged limestone separating the beach from a swath of green park, a man and his young son were
170 P.A. Brown
flying a large, circular rainbow-hued kite. Chris paused to take a couple of pictures. After climbing down a stone path they found themselves in a cozy inlet surrounded by limestone. A longtail drifted in on the sea breeze. Aside from a couple frolicking at the far end with their young children, the beach was almost empty.
Over the rolling surf David could hear their laughter and high voices. They had an accent, Australian, he thought. Chris caught the quiet beauty with his camera; David was the target of several surreptitious clicks.
They lay their towels down on the sand and shed their outer wear. Chris handed David the camera and with a rebel yell he made a run for the waves, throwing himself into the shallow surf.
David followed more sedately. He was up to his knees when Chris swam up to him. Dolphin-like he erupted from the water, laughing and splashing David.
“So what did Aidan say?”
David sat cross-legged on the pink sand, water lapping at his chest. Idly he pointed the waterproof camera at Chris and captured a couple of images. Small fish darted around his calves, nibbling at his leg hair. “He thinks he can quash the search on grounds of incompetency.” He scooped up a handful of pink sand and let it wash through his fingers, rinsing it off before he touched the camera again. “Or at least throw a reasonable doubt into the jury.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
David wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s good. Aidan seems to think they have a history of incompetence.”
“Jesus, David.” Chris dropped onto his knees. “He’s not the only one. I found a few online accounts of their tactics. They make the LAPD at its worse seem positively progressive. Good to know Aidan’s on top of it.”
“I know, and I want this gone as much as you do. But I don’t want to sell my soul to do it.”
“They fight dirty, so should you.”
Only David didn’t see it that way. If he didn’t have his self-BeRMudA heAt
171
respect what the hell did he have? If he could only win through dirty tricks, was that really winning?
“I called Des last night,” Chris said.
David didn’t ask why. He knew Chris and Des were close, in some ways closer than he and David were. In the beginning David had been unsure about their friendship. To be honest, he felt threatened by it, until he realized that Chris loved him, not Des. What he felt for Des was a once in a lifetime friendship, but it wasn’t love.
“And?” he asked.
“He was all ready to fly out and beat some Bermudian ass.
I’ve got Trevor keeping a leash on him.”
“Isn’t that a little bit like putting the fox in charge of the hen house?”
“Don’t ever let Des hear you call him a hen.”
“God forbid.”
Chris floated on his back, his hand brushing David’s legs. He used David’s knee to pull himself upright. David thought he was going to do something foolish like kiss him, but abruptly Chris flung himself backward, falling into the water with a grunt.
“What the hell are they doing here?”
David swiveled around to find two police officers at the head of the limestone path, staring over at them. They stood, hands on hips, both wearing Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, making it impossible to read the expression on their faces.