Desperate Enemies 3 (20 page)

Paolo admitted him and the two embraced tentatively, like uncertain lovers. Pouring his unexpected guest some wine from the near-empty bottle, he and Troy talked, and they talked some more, about Danvers Converse and about Aaron, about past regrets and rewritten futures and before long they were joined by mutual sorrow, emotions giving way to physical demands. They kissed hungrily, tongues exploring, lips meshing, Paolo unbuttoning Troy's shirt and licking at his hairy chest, and soon they were upstairs, albeit in the spare bedroom, and Troy was entering him with his hard cock, filling Paolo with urgent life. He climaxed loudly and Troy followed suit, nail marks on his back as Paolo gripped him tight.

At Number Four, Edgar was busy on the computer, doing research for his book,
Fool's
Gold
, because he was curious about the connection with the Gold Rush of the 1800s and the settling of Eldon Court. Gerald Green had offered up no hints of the rumor that gold was waiting to be discovered beneath the houses of Eldon Court, so Edgar had to wonder whether it was all a false lead, a red herring meant to distract them from what secrets the land really kept. He was all alone, as Jack had left on a mysterious plan.

“Trust me, answers are on the way,” he had said. “Our enemies are desperate, baby, so now is the time to strike.”

“Be safe,” Edgar had warned him. “Remember, I want you around for forever.”

“We've lived on Eldon Court too long. They can't get rid of us either of us that easily.”

And at Number Five, Marc Anderson too was all alone, just as he had been since the moment he'd run back home from Parker's, only to find the house closed up, empty, devoid of any sounds of life. Rich was nowhere to be seen, even though his car was still in the driveway. Uncertain what to do, Marc had spent the day airing out the house, getting out the stench of past affairs, and betrayals bycleaning the woodwork and all surfaces, as though by wiping away lingering fingerprints they could start fresh, the house untouched, virginal.

“Rich, where are you?” Marc asked the spotless house.

All he got in return was a deafening silence.

He walked upstairs to his studio on the third floor, and even that was empty, made worse by the illumination of the moon. Only shadows kept him company, and they too were filled with a taunting silence. He hadn't painted in weeks, not since the disastrous gallery opening. He'd lost his drive, just as he'd lost his direction. Since the moment Rich had gotten shot, everything had changed. Yet even as he thought that, he knew it wasn't true. Life had changed since the moment they moved to Wonderland, their fresh start failing on every level.

“Rich, come back,” Marc said to the empty house, “come back to me.”

And so the only two residents of Eldon Court who were not at home were Rich and Jack, and surprisingly they were to be found together and on an important mission. They had arrived in San Francisco hours ago.

“You ready?” Jack asked.

“More than ready. It's time to bring this whole fucking mess to a close and get our lives back,” Rich said, a determined look written across his unshaven face He would not give up until he'd achieved his goal of ending this threat of the Wonderland Palaces once and for all. “It all started with George Saunders’ forbidden desires, and now it will end with George Saunders. The secret of Number Two Eldon Court will finally be revealed.”

He knocked on the door.

It took minutes for someone to appear, a nurse dressed in night clothes.

“This is completely unorthodox, surprising a man in his condition—and at this hour, too.

“Sorry, but it couldn't wait.”

“It's a matter of life and death,” Jack added.

“That's rather dramatic, don't you think?” the nurse stated.

“Two people have already died,” Rich said.

“Two?”

“Aaron, and of course Elissa Saunders,” he said, “It's time to prevent another.”

* * * *

Rain began to fall just as the residents of Eldon Court began to awaken and the storm continued all day, an ominous, gray feeling settling over the rocky bluff, waves from the ocean crashing loudly against the surf. Everyone stayed inside, a perfect day to curl up and forget about what was going on. Except for one person, because he was busy making his way to each house, dropping invitations into the mailboxes, then ringing the doorbell to entice his neighbors to seek them out. They all had to wait until dark for the event, when the street lights would give the fallen rain a primal glow, guiding them en masse to the house known as Number Two.

It was mid-September, summer was waning, and all could feel the cold air whip across the open bluff. For Marc Anderson, the chill pervaded his bones, even while he couldn't be sure whether his nerves came from the wind or his apprehension about returning to Number Two. What kept him going was meeting up with Jack and Paolo on the way.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“We're about to find out,” Paolo said, “I trust we all got the same invite?”

They held them up, hand-writing clear on each piece of parchment.

“From Rose Emerson,” Edgar said.

The three neighbors stepped onto the porch, only to have the door open immediately. It was Parker who answered, and invited them inside. “Dane and Sawyer have already arrived.”

Indeed, they had, seated on the sofa, looking as nervous as the rest of them.

For Marc, it was too soon to be back inside this house, his mind filled with images of him and Parker indulging their desires. It was as though he could hear their cries, grunts, orgasms, he could feel that huge cock penetrating him. The walls know everything; the house had seen it all.

“I can't do this,” Marc said, turning to leave.

Paolo grabbed his hand, squeezed it in support. “Yes, you can.”

Marc looked into his friend's eyes and thought he detected something inside them, as though he knew the pain that tore at him. Did Paolo know about him and Parker? And was he the one who told Rich? Someone had to have, there was no other explanation for Rich finding the two of them in mid-fuck on the sofa.

“It's all going to be okay,” Paolo said.

Marc wanted to ask more, but he was distracted by a new arrival. In walked Danvers Converse, his tiny, bird-like body still able to carry itself with confidence, as though he knew the end game was here and he had triumphed. Was that what this gathering was all about, the group of them about to admit defeat? But before he could ask, Parker asked them all to sit. Chairs had been arranged in the living room, ten of them, designed as though they were soon to watch a play.

“You summoned me, St. John?” Danvers Converse said, his voice a sneer. “You said nothing of these. . . men being here.”

“Come now, Danvers, don't tell me you're afraid to be in their company,” Parker said, “especially here, at Number Two Eldon Court.”

“Number Two, doesn't matter which of the houses. Soon I'll own them all.”

“You fucking bastard. . .” Dane said, “you kill my brother and want our homes. . .?”

“Your brother tried to kill me,” he said, “and look what it got him.”

“Yes, death seems to be a common theme among us, doesn't it Danvers?”

All men turned to find who had spoken those words, and in the dim lighting of the room emerged a new player on the scene. Marc looked at the man, then at his neighbors, saw the recognition on Sawyer's and Paolo's faces. He was young, probably no more than twenty-two or three, and very cute; his resemblance to Parker was slight but noticeable.

“Troy, what the hell are you doing here?” Danvers insisted. “I told you, never to come back to Eldon Court.”

“I had to; it's time,” Troy Saunders said. “Time for me to return home.”

“Home?” Parker said, “This is my home now. I am George Saunders's heir.”

“You're a bastard son, if at all,” Troy said.

Marc watched as both men positioned themselves in the center of the room. While Parker was by far the more physically imposing of the two, there was a cocky confidence about young Troy that made Marc wonder if the kid knew something no one else did. But more questions and perhaps answers would have to wait, as the doorbell rang and everyone looked around, in wonderment over who else was expected. It had to be Rose, he thought; she had sent out the invitations and had yet to make an appearance.

Parker, staring Troy down for an extra moment, made his way back to the foyer, where again he opened the door to greet the latest arrivals. The look on his face indicated he knew exactly who was expected, and he quickly ushered them into a hushed room. There were three of them, beginning with Jack, who immediately made his way to Edgar's side.

“What's going on?”

“Just wait,” Jack said, “Rich has taken care of everything.”

“Rich?” Marc asked.

He whipped his head around, just in time to see his once-upon-a-time lover, the man he had betrayed and who had left him yesterday and not been seen or heard from since, enter the room. He wasn't alone; in fact, the man he was with was wheelchair-bound, and Rich was pushing it into the center of the room. The old man, frail, his head wispy with gray hair, did not look all there, his eyes distant, far away.

“Father!” Troy said, immediately bending down before the wheelchair, tears lighting up his eyes.

Marc watched as Parker gazed on with envy, not able to find those words much less speak them. He'd never had a relationship with the man who had supposedly produced him, but Troy, hadn't he lived with the man years ago, before the violence of Number Two? Old George Saunders looked over at Troy, his eyes widening, as though a realization was coming over him.

“Troy,” he said, his voice croaking in the otherwise silence of the room.

All eyes were rapt on this reunion between father and son, watching as young Troy went to embrace his father. A weak arm touched Troy's shoulders, attempted to pat him, a gesture of love between two people separated by years, by tragedy.

Marc wondered what could possibly happen next, now that he entire group had been assembled. It was Danvers who made the next move, and it was curious to see a rare display of vulnerability settle across the bald man's usual hard look.

“George, can you hear me? Are you well enough. . . to talk?”

The old man looked over and his body began to shake. Tears slipped down his face and he began to beat a curled fist against the arm of his wheelchair; the bellow he let out surprised everyone, one of raw pain that pervaded the room, bounced off knowing walls. Just then the lights were turned off and the wind howled; the storm had knocked out power, Marc thought, and then he realized, when a lone light from a candle emerging from the darkness, that this was all a set-up. The lights going out were no coincidence. The performance had begun.

“George,” came the voice behind the flickering candlelight, “George, it's me, your loving wife. . .”

“No, no it can't be. . .” said the old man.

“What the devil is going on here,” Danvers said, his body turning toward the light, his shadow larger and more imposing against the bare wall.

The woman continued to step forward and as she got closer, Marc could see that in addition to the candle in her left hand, she held a gun in her right. And it was pointing forward, zeroing in on Danvers Converse. But this was not Elissa Saunders, not the real one, it was Rose St. John Emerson, is full actress mode, perhaps playing her finest role. What Marc hoped that the gun was a prop; the memory of his gallery opening came flooding back, and he wasn't alone in that.

“Put the gun away, no more violence,” Paolo shouted, his outburst causing Rose to look his way.

Troy stood up, moving between Rose and Paolo, “No, mother, please, don't do this. . .”

Clearly the boy was confused, he didn't know Rose. Did he really think this woman was Elissa Saunders, his mother, the woman who had gone missing after the events of ten years ago? Troy reached out to grab the gun, but just then Parker interceded, pulling Troy out of danger, out of the line of fire. Rose advanced, coming before Danvers and George.

“You betrayed me for the last time, George,” she said, “It was one thing to accept your affair with that bitch, Rose, bad enough that she produced for you a bastard son when I knew I couldn't give you one. . . until the miracle occurred and our Troy was conceived. But that wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to indulge your perversions. . . you told me about having sex with Gerald, but that it was over, you had pushed those feelings for other men aside, you loved only me. . .”

The old man cried out with obvious pain, his emotions raw and bubbling to the surface; confusion ripped across his wrinkled face. Did he even know what was the truth and what was fiction? What was happening now, what happened then?

“You and your sick friend Danvers, conspiring behind me,” she continued, now aiming the gun squarely at Danvers. “You thought you could have everything. . . now, you'll have nothing. . .” She thrust the gun forward and the old man lunged from his wheelchair to stop her, only to crumple to the ground in a cry of agony. It was Danvers who reacted next, grabbing at Rose, all while screaming for someone to help George, “Dammit, help him, he's hurt. . . my God, how is this happening. . . not again. . .”

Rose released the gun as Danvers pushed her back, Parker easily catching her. But to do so, he had to release the struggling Troy, and it was the impulsive young man who leaped into the air, intent on stopping Danvers from pulling the trigger.

“You bastard, leave my mother alone,” Troy said, his voice losing its deep masculinity, as though he were regressing, a boy again in the throes of adolescence. The sound made Marc realize that this whole night was a re-enactment of what had happened back then. Troy had been then, a boy of no more than fourteen and he had witnessed the final confrontation between his mother, his father, and his father's male lover. Only the real Elissa Saunders was missing, but Troy didn't know that, did he?

“No. . .” Paolo cried out from the assembled group as Troy made his move. Jack and Edgar grabbed him to keep him from entering the fray, no doubt the memory of Aaron fueling him, not wanting to see any more harm to come to them.