Hostage (2 page)

“That’s it, Curt. Just get comfortable.”

Curt gazed up, those soulful eyes so sincere. “Our soup of the day is a lovely lobster bisque.”

At first he didn’t know what to say or do. At first he thought it was a joke. But of course it wasn’t. A deathly dementia was overtaking Curt’s mind, and in the course of the last two weeks Curt, without realizing it, was saying far too much about everything and anything.

“And today our salad dressings are creamy pepper, honey mustard, and, of course, our house vinaigrette.”

He smiled, ran his hand down Curt’s sunken cheek. “Hey, man, I think you should have gotten out of that restaurant a little bit sooner. You’re going to carry that shit with you to the grave.”

Curt squeezed his eyes shut, seemed to fade away, but then came back, his lids bouncing open in panic. “What’s going to happen to Girlfriend?”

“We’ll find a nice home for her, don’t worry.”

“Promise me you won’t send her to…”He closed his eyes. “Promise me not the pound. I don’t… don’t want my kitty to be gassed.”

Tears started swelling his eyes. “I won’t let that happen, sweetheart. I promise.”

“Thanks. God, I’ve always been able to count on you, haven’t I?” He started to cough again, then stopped, only to drift away again. “I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied.

“But you’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

“Shh, don’t talk.”

“Do it for me, will you? Don’t back out now.”

“Just rest.”

His face tensing with fear, Curt looked up. “I haven’t told anyone. I promise, I—”

“Hey, it’s okay.”

“No one will ever find them down there,” he muttered as his eyes fell shut.

And right there was the problem. Who knew what Curt had been blathering and to whom? For the past week his temperature had been dangerously high as his body had struggled to fight off the pneumonia and brain lymphoma, not to mention the various fungal infections and thrush and a half dozen other things. For days now he’d been babbling everything from daily specials to talk of the weather to messages for “Mr. Wonderful,” his ex-lover, the shit who’d abandoned him when Curt had first tested positive. Curt’s best friend had listened to a variety of nonsensical things, and now he only prayed that Curt hadn’t let their plans slip.

“It’s… it’s not a… a
gay
disease,” begged Curt, struggling to open his eyes. “Make sure everyone… understands.”

“That’s right, it’s just a disease.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small vial. “Look, buddy, I brought you something.”

“A magic potion?” Curt smiled, caught his breath, and stifled a cough.

“Right, the one you’ve been waiting for. Don’t worry, it’s going to make everything all better.”

What other choice was there? He’d been over and over this, trying to figure out any other way. But there wasn’t, thought the man, reaching to the bedside table for the glass of water. He had to do it tonight too, not only before Curt was moved to the hospice, but before he let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Besides, it wasn’t going to hurt. Curt’d be gone in an instant. And he was going to last only another few weeks anyway. Better he should be spared all the misery.

And so he poured the cyanide into the glass of water, swirled it around, and then leaned over to Curt, whose head he lifted up.

“Drink up, sweet prince,” he said, his eyes beading with tears as he held the glass to Curt’s lips. “Don’t worry.”

“Just get that fat-ass con… congressman for me.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, and tell Mr. Wonderful I hate him.”

Curt smiled, took a swig, and then a moment later, in one quick jerk, was released.

“God, I can’t believe
I’m going to interview Mr. Gay Public Enemy Number One,” called Todd Mills from the kitchen of his fifteenth-floor condo. “Of course, it’s only the biggest interview of my career.”

“Nervous?” replied Steve Rawlins, seated somewhere out in the living room.

“Ah… yeah.”

“Good. You should be.”

The small kitchen was all white, from the cabinets to the countertops and even to the coffee maker, from which Todd now poured two mugs of very black coffee. Lost in thought, he headed out, one mug in each hand, and crossed onto the oatmeal-colored carpeting that ran throughout the entire two-bedroom apartment.

He said, “I just hope I don’t screw it up.”

“You won’t.” Rawlins, who was suffering from sinus problems, was settled in a black leather recliner by the balcony doors. “This sun feels so good.”

Todd couldn’t help but be apprehensive, however, because even though he was back on the air and had already done a couple of stories, this was his first actual interview as an openly gay reporter. Until last year he’d been about as deep in the closet as you could get, trapped in an image of his own making—that of a dashing reporter, brown-haired, square-jawed, broad-shouldered, ever-charming, and model-handsome. And straight… well, divorced… well, actually… well, not straight. Not really. Well, not at all. Nevertheless, for almost twenty years, ever since he was a punk out of Northwestern University, he’d worked like a secret agent to hide his sexuality, lying, conniving, twisting until he’d nearly lost his mind. Instead, his lover Michael had been murdered, which in turn had outed Todd and changed his entire world.

Todd handed Rawlins one of the mugs of coffee, then sat down in a nearby red chair, wondering how this had happened, how he’d found someone as wonderful as this man, Steve Rawlins. Though Todd had known in his teens that he was attracted to guys, though he’d once been married, though over the years he’d had anonymous sex and closeted relationships, this romance was different than any and all of them. Simply, never before had Todd been able to give himself both emotionally and sexually to one and the same person, male or female, and never before had he been so absolutely sure of one thing in particular.

He reached out and put his hand on Rawlins’s knee. “I love you.”

Rawlins opened his mouth, presumably to respond in kind, but his head kept tilting back until a huge sneeze burst out of him.

Todd laughed, then said, “Maybe I should go get you some tea instead of coffee.”

“You know, I always wondered what it was like to be waited on hand and foot.” He put his hand over Todd’s. “But just sit and relax. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but maybe a little—”

“Don’t worry, for you I’ll live.”

Todd took a sip of coffee and glanced outside. There wasn’t anything particularly special about his apartment—except, of course, the view. And what a view it was, the likes of which were hard to find in this midwestern pancake of a city. The floor plan was bent slightly so that one large window faced northeast and overlooked the trees of the parkway below, the red tile roof of an old beach club, a bit of Lake of the Isles, and in the distance the Oz-like towers of downtown. On the other side of the room, south-facing glass doors opened onto a balcony and Lake Calhoun, a large oval shape that filled almost the entire view. And if the warm weather kept up, thought Todd, eyeing the soggy but still frozen body of water, the ice might be gone within a matter of days, and there was no place where spring was more intense, more appreciated, yet more short-lived than in these northern plains. Gazing into the near future, Todd pictured the two of them walking and jogging and swimming, packing as much activity as possible into a single worshiped season.

Noticing Rawlins squint with pain as he rubbed his forehead, Todd said, “Maybe you shouldn’t go to work this afternoon.”

“Neah.” Rawlins eyed Todd up and down, taking in his dark-blue suit, pale-blue shirt, and black leather shoes. “You look great. But you can’t do full execudrag without a tie.”

“I’ll put it on down at the station.”

“Silk, I assume.”

“Only the finest, thank you.” He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Are you really all out of pills?”

With the sun spilling over him, Rawlins bent forward and, as he blew his nose, nodded. A detective on the Minneapolis police force, he usually looked pretty tough—not particularly tall, but broad-shouldered and muscular with cropped brown hair and a face that could look either sweet or much too serious. Today, however, with a red nose and wearing old jeans and a scruffy flannel shirt, he looked like a pathetic boy.

“Well, you’ll see the doctor in a bit and I’m sure he’ll give you some great drugs.”

“Oh, my God,” moaned Rawlins, reaching for another Kleenex. “I know the doctor said last week that I’m in good health, but I mean to tell you I’m in snot hell.”

“Sinus infections are the worst.”

“Maybe it’s an allergy.”

“It could be, which would explain why you haven’t been able to shake it. I do have down pillows, you know. Are you allergic to feathers?”

“Who knows?” said Rawlins with a shrug.

“Or it could be—what do you call ’em—dust… dust…”

“Dust mites. That’s what my sister’s allergic to.”

“Then you could be too,” suggested Todd. “Be sure and ask the doctor.”

“I will. Maybe I should see an allergist.”

Nodding toward his new pet, Todd said, “God, I wonder if it’s her.”

Something small and black and lanky emerged from the hall that led to the two bedrooms. A cat. Todd had never seen a creature more languid or more aloof than this one; he’d had her for almost a month now and she still refused to let Todd pet her. She barely ate either. He’d never been overly fond of cats—Todd found them much too independent and finicky—and he would never have taken this one except for the special circumstances.

“Come here, kitty,” called Todd, holding his right hand down low and softly snapping his fingers. “Come here, Girlfriend.”

She paused, glanced at Todd with one eye, then turned and trotted behind the couch.

Rawlins watched the course of events and commented, “When are you going to give up?”

“She’ll come around, you’ll see.”

“It’s been almost a month.”

“She’s in mourning, that’s all. Trust me, she knows Curt died and she just hasn’t gotten over the shock.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

Todd noticed the little face poke out from behind the couch. “She’s making progress. At least she stays in the same room with us now.” When Todd clicked his fingers together and Girlfriend disappeared a second time, he took a sip of coffee and said, “I wonder what she saw that night. If only she could talk.”

“If only I’d been there like I was supposed to,” Rawlins lamented, for it was he who had been scheduled to stay with Curt the night he died.

“You’ve got to stop beating yourself up about this. Either it was a genuine mix-up or… or somehow Curt finagled it.”

“Or someone else did. I’m not sure Curt had it together enough that week to be so clever.”

“Well, then he’d worked it out in advance with someone.”

“Maybe, but with whom?”

Just exactly what had happened that night was still a mystery. It was clear that Curt Anderson hadn’t died of complications from AIDS, but from cyanide poisoning; the autopsy as well as the glass of water found by his bed made that perfectly clear. Whether it was a suicide, an assisted suicide, or a murder, however, had yet to be determined, and probably never would be. Given the huge number of friends and volunteers MAC had organized to take care of Curt and the fingerprints each and every one of them had left behind, there was no conclusive evidence to be found in the apartment.

“There’s just nothing to go on,” continued Rawlins.

Todd gazed out the window. “Yeah, but you know, there must have been someone else there. You just don’t take a sip of cyanide by yourself and then calmly put the glass down on the bedside table. From what I understand it works a lot more quickly and violently than that. If he’d drunk it on his own he probably would have dropped the glass or spilled it or something like that. Someone must have helped him.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth. No one else at the station is paying much attention, because Curt would have died soon anyway.” Rawlins shook his head. “I should have been there.”

“Hey,” Todd said softly. “You gotta stop thinking like that. You can’t blame yourself.”

Ever since Curt’s death Rawlins had been in a major funk, sleeping a lot, going about the days under a cloud of lethargy, and even losing his appetite. With that in mind Todd wasn’t surprised that Rawlins had gotten so sick, that the sinus infection had taken such a strong hold.

“Anyway…” mumbled Todd.

Rawlins wiped his nose and asked, “What’s your day look like?”

“I just have a couple more articles I want to check this morning. The interview will be right after one. Then I think I’ll hang around for the edit this afternoon, see how the thing looks, and do a live intro of the interview on the five PM news.”

Rawlins grinned. “Just a regular old working stiff again, aren’t you?”

“Can you believe it?”

After a lengthy hiatus, Todd was back at it, back on television, which surprised him almost as much as the next guy. After much discussion and indecision, Stella, his agent—the tiniest shark, as she was known—had negotiated a hell of a contract for him with WLAK, Channel 10. His debut story had recently aired, a two-part series about the Megamall—the suburban shopping mecca that Todd personally hated—and the economic boon it was proving not to be for the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. And while Todd could have let things rest for a while, he was hoping today’s interview would be even bigger. Already the station manager had told him that one of the networks had expressed interest in running a clip this evening.