Secret Light (19 page)

could get better for us—but they left it too late. After the Anschluss, it was impossible

for Jews. Leaving was forbidden, and there was nowhere to go. Then one of my

mother’s closest friends, a gentile woman she’d gone to school with, lost a son who was

my age. Here is her picture. I wish I had his. This is my father, again here.”

“You look more like your mother.”

“Yes. It’s from her I get my light hair and eyes.”

“You must have been a happy family.”

“We were before… My parents saw the opportunity to get me out with this other

boy's papers and took it. After that, I was sent to Helen Hart’s family in New York.”

“Do you know what happened to your parents?”

“Not really.” Rafe shook his head. “They were on a list of people killed at

Mauthausen, near Linz.”

“Do you have other relatives?”

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“All gone, I assume. I never looked.” Rafe pushed away and leaned back in his

chair. He folded his arms across his chest, and it made him look smaller somehow.

Diminished. Ben’s heart hurt for him.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, but maybe there’s a way to find out if you

have any family left.”

Rafe scooped up the pictures and placed them carefully back in the box. After he

secreted them back in the hidden drawer, he said, “I know what you must think, but

I’m not Lot’s wife. I escaped the destruction of my
entire world
, Ben. I’m lucky to be

alive. Something dreadful will happen if I look back.”

* * * *

Ben lay awake long after Rafe fell into a fitful sleep. He watched his lover’s face in

the glow of moonlight from the window and grew incensed on Rafe’s behalf. As the

night wore on, his ire grew into passionate anger over what Rafe had suffered—that

he’d spent most of his life lonely and afraid. In the midst of his fury, tenderness like Ben

had never known before enveloped him.

What a world.

Rafe carried not one, but two enormous secrets around with him every day. No

wonder he thought he’d make a good spy. He’d explained everything. How he’d picked

a soundalike American name and an actor’s surname. How he’d started in sales after

Hart’s death, first with Fuller Brush, door-to-door, and when he realized he had the

knack for making a sale in even the most difficult circumstances, setting his sights on

bigger ticket items. He’d sold appliances at Sears while he studied real estate, getting

his sales license and then his broker’s license. How he’d gone from residential to income

property and how he’d ended up at Paradise Realty, where everyone thought he hung

the moon, or rather that he could sell it to at least one unsuspecting person a day.

In the end, Rafe appeared to come to rest in his arms. He slept soundly—like Ben

had never seen before—barely moving at all. When Rafe did reach out, it seemed it was

to reassure himself Ben was still there.

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Ben hardly slept at all.

Yes, he’d had to be discreet in the past, and he’d known—he’d understood—that by

and large society persecuted men like him. But he’d grown up tough and smart and

stubborn. He had his mother in his corner. He’d never felt vulnerable the way Rafe did.

What must it be like to live with the knowledge that who you are would get you

killed? Not just with the idea, which was always in the background for Ben, but with

visceral, physical evidence of grim reality fresh in your mind. Ben had been cautious—

but never truly afraid. He’d seen ugly beatings, even murder, but he’d been insulated

behind the badge, and that protected him from taking the facts inside him. He’d never

seen the results of bigotry as personal to him. He’d never imagined anything like what

happened to Rafe—to Walter Hart—could happen to him.

He’d never had this much to lose before.

Ben tightened his arms around his sleeping lover. Whatever he’d seen in Rafe that

drew him in, he was now hopelessly ensnared. He couldn’t imagine walking away from

what they had, not for his badge, not for his safety. Not for anything.

So they had to be smart. They had to be discreet. Men like Calhoun could make

trouble. He had a certain animal instinct that gave him a window into Ben’s behavior,

and
he’d spent a lot of time in vice.

Ben had no doubt Calhoun could read the minute, physical cues he and Rafe were

unable to hide—their interest and arousal. If he was around, there was no doubt he’d

see their connection growing. Ben’s number one priority had to be keeping Rafe and

Calhoun apart. Taking a girl out, setting up a dating scenario was a good dodge. He’d

see to that, to finding some girl to help him out, as soon as possible.

While Rafe slept, Ben smoothed his hands over the faded blossoms of bruising on

Rafe’s back and over the cast on his broken arm with the vow that nothing like that

would ever happen again.

Ben could and would protect what was precious to him.

Just before dawn, dressed and ready to go, he pressed his lips to Rafe’s forehead.

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“
Morgen, Schatz
.” Rafe gifted him with a smile. “Your name is a little joke. Morgen

means morning, you understand?”

“I guess I knew that. What do you need before I go?”

“Just kiss me.”

Ben obliged him, sitting on the side of the bed to better gather Rafe into his arms.

Time fell away as they melted together, taking and sharing comfort.

“That’s nice.” Rafe let him go reluctantly. “You take care of yourself.”

“I will. Between the holidays and the rain, it’s going to be a madhouse out there.”

“Be safe,
Geliebter
.”

“You too.”

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Chapter Sixteen

December 20, 1955

Wind lashed Ben’s oilskin poncho around his legs as he got back into the patrol car,

which smelled unpleasantly of wet wool and sick. On their last call, they’d picked up a

trio of drunken holiday revelers who’d crashed a Packard into a lamppost on Sepulveda

and transported them to jail at Parker Center. Even though they’d gotten rid of their

passengers, their presence lingered.

Most notably the smell.

He pulled out into traffic and headed away from the city center. The noise of rain

pelting on the roof, the rhythmic slap of wiper blades, and the squelching of tires as

they drove by—all conspired to worsen a headache started by Calhoun’s smart mouth.

This night is never going to end.

“Christ, I wish people would just stay home,” he said to Calhoun, raising his voice

to be heard over the din. “They say this rain isn’t going to let up for a couple of days at

least.”

“I’ve never seen it like this.” Calhoun used his sleeve to wipe the water from his

eyes. “This much rain is going to cause a mess.”

“It’s already flooding Flower Street.”

“There’s no way we’re going home tonight. They’ll need everyone they’ve got.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Calhoun still didn’t look well. Whatever he’d had the week before seemed to be

hanging on with a death grip. “Did you see a doctor? You still look like hell.”

“I’m fine.”

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Despite his dislike of the man, Ben was concerned. “It’s not going to do anyone any

good if you end up with pneumonia.”

“I’m fine, I tell you,” he said. He rested his head on the back of his seat. His eyes

looked like black holes in bread dough.

“You look like hell, is all.”

“Thanks a lot.” Calhoun shook a cigarette out of his crumpled pack. In the

illumination from the street lamp and what little light was cast by the sign from an all-

night diner, Ben got a glimpse of puffy, mottled wrist.

“What is that?” He pulled the car over to the side of the road, where he grabbed for

Calhoun’s hand. “What’s with your—”

“Nothing.” Calhoun yanked his arm away with a wince.

“That’s not nothing.” Ben reached out and took his partner’s hand again. They

wrestled briefly, but obvious pain overcame Calhoun. Ben yanked at Calhoun’s sleeve

so hard the button flew off.

“Let go of me, you bastard.”

“What the hell?” Ben saw Calhoun’s entire forearm was purple and swollen. He

pulled at a dirty dressing—some loosely wrapped gauze—until he bared the skin. The

putrid smell of infected flesh hit his nose before he saw the pus-filled wound. Running

all along the pale skin, streaks of red radiated from what was—unmistakably—a dog

bite. “
You son of a bitch
.”

Ben didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He took the back of Calhoun’s head and

smashed his face into the dashboard. The brutality of it shocked them both. Time

seemed to stop as Ben watched blood run from his partner’s flattened nose. Then they

were both scrambling, Ben to get hold of the bastard again and Calhoun for the door

handle, to get free.

Calhoun dived from the car onto the curb. Ben had to exit on his side and run

through the chilly rain to catch up with him. Deep, cold water in the gutter slowed him

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down, soaking his shoes and socks—his pants legs—nearly up to his knee. “You dirty

son of a bitch. What kind of cop are you?”

Calhoun kept running, but he was sick and slow. Each footstep landed heavier than

the last until he was lurching along. He seemed to keep his balance by sheer force of

will.

“You son of a bitch,” Ben roared again, easily tackling the older man with enough

force to push him off his feet. Ben put a knee on Calhoun’s back and yanked his swollen

arm behind him. Calhoun screamed in agony as rain lashed down and soaked them

through to the skin. “
Explain yourself
.”

“I can’t.” Calhoun thrashed, but Ben was in complete control. He gripped him by

the shoulder strap of his Sam Brown, pushing the side of Calhoun’s face into a shallow

puddle of dirty water, knocking his hat off. It rolled into the gutter, and water carried it

down the street. Rain beaded on his greasy hair.

“What were you thinking?” Ben felt like he was swimming. Water was everywhere,

soaking his clothes, running in rivers from his hat, down his collar, down his face and

into his ears, freezing him. “You assaulted him. You—”

“I know… I know what I did,” Calhoun whined.

“Tell me.”
I need to know what I'm dealing with here.

“I was drunk. I don’t know what I was thinking. Annie left me, and she took the

kids, and I was
drunk
. I was driving home from Mickey’s Place, and I saw Colman in his

fancy new Buick just rolling along Slauson like he didn’t have a care in the world. I

knew he was heading home, and I knew I could get there first.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. It’s the way he acted. Like he was so much better than us.”

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“Like he was better?” Ben loosened his hold a little bit, just enough so Calhoun

could turn his head. So he could see the bastard’s eyes. “So what if he did act superior?

Why the hell—”

His next words died in his throat when the headlights of a car rounded the corner,

briefly illuminating them, and Ben realized how foolish he’d been. He backed off

Calhoun's body although he stayed close enough to keep him from running again.

“
Shit
.” He had to get answers, but he couldn’t do it out in the open like that. Thank

God for the weather. “You’re going to the Receiving Hospital.”

“The hell I am.” Calhoun rolled up to a sitting position like a fat rodent. Ben lifted

him effortlessly and hauled him back to the car.

“If you don’t, that wound will kill you.” His fingers slipped as he tried to get the

heavy door open. “If you don’t,
I’ll
kill you right here.”

Calhoun’s chin still jutted out there, begging Ben to take a swing at it. “Because I hit

your precious German fairy? I could have killed him, you know. That nosy neighbor of

his interrupted or—”

“Enough.” Ben shoved him up against the car. “That’s
enough
. You’re talking about

a friend of mine. A
friend
.”

“It isn’t right. Guys like that. Fancy clothes. New car. He’s got that air, doesn’t he?

Like he’s royalty, like we’re shit under his shoes, and goddamnit, it
isn’t
right.

Everything they did during the war and then they come here and—”

“Just shut up, Calhoun. I have to think.”

I have to decide whether you’re a pathetic drunken loser or whether you’re a threat to my

family, and I have to decide fast.

“I was drunk.” Calhoun squatted to his haunches and put his head in his hands to

cry. “I don’t know why I did it.
I don’t know
.”

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