From Chapter Five

Capital Queers

Capital Queers
An Excerpt from Chapter Five

By Fred Hunter

Saturday morning Peter left at about nine-thirty for his job as premiere salesman at Farrahut's, the fey men's-clothing store. As for my own work, business was definitely not booming. Since getting involved as queer-in-residence at the CIA, I'm afraid my interest in graphic art had dwindled. This wasn't smart, because a freelance business can take a long time to build up and even longer to regain. And frankly, our CIA assignments were way too few and far between, not to mention trivial. But I still had a few steady clients for whom I designed brochures, booklets, and the like, and they pretty much provided the needed spending money. Given Mother's inheritance and her refusal to charge us rent, that was all I really needed.

So I was home when Mother called Ryan to check up on him. There was no answer.

"You don't think he would have gone to work today, do you?" I said as she hung up the receiver after her second attempt.

"There's no telling," she replied with a shrug. "Some people find it easier to work after a tragedy than to just sit home alone and brood on it."

"Was it my imagination," I said, "or did you get the impression that Ryan was hiding something, too?"

"Hiding something?"

"Last night at dinner, when I was asking him about this past week."

She thought a moment, then shook her head. "He wasn't normal, but that's to be expected. I don't know how much I'd make of it at this point."

"I don't mean that. I mean when I talked about the dolls. He seemed awfully interested in the last doll Mason bought."

Mother's lips drew up to one side. "You mean you were interested in it. You're projecting, darling."

I shook my head. "I don't think so. I think there was something odd about that doll."

"He told you straightaway that there wasn't."

"But then he asked about whether or not it was smashed."

"What's wrong with that?"

"And what we'd done with the rest of the dolls."

"He wanted to go home. He probably just wanted to make sure he wouldn't have to look at them."

I shook my head again and said, "But he asked about that doll specifically."

Mother sighed heavily and waved me off with a smile. "You've got dolls on the brain. I never should have let you play with them when you were little. Look what's happened!"

She tried to call Ryan a couple more times before Peter got home from work. After we'd had dinner, she gave me a sheepish grin and said, "I wonder if my boys would mind doing something for me."

"Sure," said Peter, always agreeable once he's been fed.

"I wonder if you'd go over and check on Ryan. He's got me just a little mithered with his not answering the phone."

"He probably just doesn't want to talk to anybody," I said.

"Perhaps, but would you mind?"

Neither Peter nor I could see what it would hurt to check on Ryan, so we walked down the street to his two-flat. The second-floor apartment was dark as far as we could see, while at least one of the living room lights was on in Ryan's apartment. As anyone from Chicago knows, the presence of a light doesn't necessarily signal the presence of an occupant. But I would have been surprised if he'd chosen to go out.

We went through the front door of the building to the door of his apartment. I pressed the bell and waited. There was no answer. After a minute or so I pressed the bell again, then knocked.

"Ryan?" I called through the closed door, "it's me and Peter. We just want to make sure you're all right."

Still no answer.

"Do you have your keys?" said Peter.

"I left them at home."

"Try the door."

I did what in the movies is described as a slow take and said, "No, you try the door. The last time I did that, I got in big trouble."

Peter hesitated for a moment then said, "Oh, honestly!" as if he was disgusted with our mutual timidity.

My stomach did an abrupt flip when Peter tried the door and found it was unlocked. Past personal experience and exposure to hundreds of horror movies over the years told me that this was a bad sign. Peter pushed the knob and the door slid open with a loud creak. Even in the dim light, we could see a trail of blood on the living room carpet.

"Call the police!" I whispered urgently to Peter. He started to turn away and I grabbed his arm. "no, call Frank!"

He glanced back into the living room, turned to look me squarely in the eye and said, "Alex, come away from here."

I pulled my arm away. "No! He might be -- "

"Shhh!" Peter replied as harshly as he could without raising his voice. "We don't know what's happened and we don't know if anybody's still in there."

"I don't care!" I said anxiously. "It might not be too late! Even if somebody's there, I have to help Ryan!"

Peter hesitated a split second, just long enough for his anxiety over my welfare to be overcome by the knowledge that I was right, and ran off down the street to get help.

I looked into the apartment, craning my neck as far around the doorjamb as I possibly could while still maintaining an easy escape. The trail of blood stretched back down the hallway. Nobody was in sight. There were no sounds. I decided the best plan of attack was to make some noise from where I was.

"Ryan?" I called out loudly. I hoped that if an assailant was there this would startle him into making his escape by the back door. Though the first sight of blood had brought to mind the way Mason had been killed, it now occurred to me that it was possible that Ryan, in the state in which we'd last seen him, might have decided to take his own life. I called him name once more very loudly before venturing into the apartment.

I slowly followed the trail of blood across the Navajo rug in the living room and into the dining room, then down the hardwood floor of the hallway, all the while trying to keep close to the wall as if that would hide me from anyone who might come dodging out of another room. I realized with a sense of dread that the trail led back to Mason's doll room.

When I reached the doorway I paused for a moment. I was surprised to discover I'd been neglecting to breathe. I took a couple of deep breaths and exhaled as quietly as possible. The door was slightly ajar. I stayed plastered against the wall and pushed the door back with the fingers of my right hand.

Ryan was lying in the middle of the room. His stomach was cut open.

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