William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“She became a gay activist, didn’t she?” Swift said.

“Damn straight. Wouldn’t you? We got killers out there. Frat boys who think hate is cool. Preachers telling young people that God sends hurricanes because of gays. Or that it’s a mental disease that can be cured. That gays will be the downfall of civilization. Hell, one of the kids who killed Tony was a church choirboy! The other one was an Eagle Scout! It’s all around us, and always has been. There’s nothing more hateful than prejudice, whatever its brand. We have to take action-strong, decisive action!”

Mike had the sense that Hartnell had delivered this speech more than once. “Is that what you told Paul Metheny? Just before he went to the courthouse and shot two people?”

Hartnell raised his hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. ANGER has officially condemned his act.”

“But he was a member of your organization?”

“He was a loose cannon. Paul had always been a little unbalanced. He was bipolar, and had strong sociopathic tendencies. I’m not even sure that was his real name. He was on medication, but I guess he stopped taking it. So he lost his head in the courtroom. Tragic.”

“Come on. You must’ve applauded when you heard what happened.”

“I’ve told you. We publicly condemned his action. Immediately.”

“But you must’ve been privately pleased.”

“No way.”

“Those two kids killed your lover!”

“And I wanted to see them pay, too. I’ll admit it. But not like that. Not vigilante style.”

Swift cut in. “I’ve read about the graffiti your group inflicted on that law office downtown. The one that’s representing the surviving defendant.”

“That was not our act, either.”

“ANGER took credit for it.”

“No, we released a press statement approving of the sentiment behind it. That’s a vastly different thing.”

“If you say so.” Mike had done his best to needle the guy, pressure him into saying something he might not otherwise, but it wasn’t working. He checked Swift to see if she had anything more. She shrugged. “So what brings you here today?”

“Are you kidding? I love to race.”

“You seem a little intellectual for this scene.”

“What, because I went to college I can’t have a little fun?” He paused. “Tony and I used to come out here all the time. It was one of the few places where he could just cut loose and be himself.” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “Who ever thought he’d be killed for that? Being himself.”

After they’d talked to everyone on the premises, Mike reconnoitered with Special Agent Swift. “I think we’ve done everything we can out here.”

“Just as well. The thrill is gone.”

“And by my watch, it’s five o’clock. I’m officially off duty.”

“And that means?…”

“I think you know. You won’t tell Chief Blackwell, will you?”

“Depends. Can I ride shotgun?”

“I don’t know. How much do you weigh?”

“Excuse me!”

He grinned. “All right, but try to sit lightly.” He started sprinting toward the parking lot. “I’m going to show these kids what an old fogy in a borrowed cop car can do.”

At precisely 12:05, Charlie the Chicken spotted the person he feared most, the one he knew was hunting him.

The one who would stop at nothing to silence him.

The day had started like so many others. He’d hitched a ride out to Michigan and One Hundred and God-Knows-What where all the new houses were going in. He’d rung the bell and been introduced to Stacy. Stacy was a contrast to the Ice Princess in about every way possible. He’d complained about the princess’s stick figure, but Stacy cured him of that quick. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight-one of those poor girls who are so short they never really have a chance once middle age sets in and the pounds refuse to go away. She wasn’t quiet like the princess either; she was a big girl with a big noise…

“Oh, baby baby baaaabay… Yes! Oh God yes. Yes yes yes yes yes! That’s how you do it, baby. Just keep doing it just like that keep it coming. Oh, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Oh, you feel so good. Oh, baby. Oh, baaaabay…”

It was like having the radio on in the background, except he had no means of turning it off, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Stacy differed from the princess in the movement department, too. Meaning, she knew how to. And did so. With great gusto. When she started whipping those huge hips around, she started tidal waves rippling through the mattress, one way then the next, a kinetic sculpture seen from the worst possible angle. Did it never occur to this woman that it was hard to hit a moving target? Probably not-she was too deep in the throes to be aware of anything. He had to wonder, though-was he really turning her on? Or was she doing it to herself?

Under the big top, he thought, as he crawled beneath the big pink muumuu she was wearing. And that led to the endless portion of tonight’s program. Men talk about women who can’t get enough, but in reality, Charlie had rarely experienced it. Until now. Stacy could not, under any circumstances, no matter what he tried, get enough. She had him where she wanted him, and she was determined to make sure he stayed there, too. With her ample knees pressed against both sides of his head, he couldn’t possibly escape. Minutes seemed like hours. Death by asphyxiation became a real possibility.

“Strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” the coroner would say. “He suffocated to death.”

“Suffocated?” Agent Mulder would ask.

“You heard me. A clear case of death by vagina.”

Perverse, yes, but he had to amuse himself somehow, until at long last, the ordeal ended. The knee lock broke and he came up gasping for air.

Well, at any rate, he didn’t have to wonder whether Stacy liked it, and he didn’t get stiffed either. Two hundred big ones, tip included. A few more gigs like this and he’d be home free.

Or so he thought. Until he saw the face, the one that haunted his nightmares. That changed everything. Until then, his plan had been to lie low, scrape together some cash, and use it to make sure he was never found.

Too late.

It couldn’t be a coincidence-that face, out here, driving around in a car, obviously looking for something. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but even so-how long would he be safe here? Or anywhere? If he could be traced to his work location, then what he did and who he did it for was obviously known. Probably where he had been living. He could no longer pretend that he was safe for the moment. He wasn’t.

And if he didn’t do something quick, he never would be again.

Christina was so busy talking on her cell phone during the walk up the drive that she almost didn’t notice where she was. She fired off a long list of instructions to Vicki, the new hire-whose voice was so soft Christina could barely hear it on the cell-then sent Jones off on several new research quests, then conferred with Loving on various schemes to break through the wall of silence he was getting from her client’s fraternity. By the time she finally rang off, she was already on the front porch.

And what a porch it was. She couldn’t kid herself-just being here made her edgy. She was dead in the heart of the richest section of Nichols Hills. Driving down Sixty-third to get here was like driving through Hollywood Hills; without exception, every house was huge and fabulous-multistoried, pillared Federals and plantation-style estates-with sprawling, perfectly cut green lawns.

And the Kincaid manor was no exception. It was more than a little startling. She sometimes forgot how utterly different Ben’s upbringing had been from her own. He seemed like such a regular guy-too regular on occasion. And the way that he chose to live-insisted on living, actually-was a marked contrast to the way he was apparently raised.