The Manhattan Hunt Club (6 page)

CHAPTER 8

H
e wasn’t crazy.

No matter what anyone said, Francis Jagger knew he wasn’t crazy.

He’d had to kill the girl. He’d even tried to warn her. When they first met her, he warned her about Jimmy, how she needed to stay away from Jimmy.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, she started acting real friendly toward Jimmy.

He’d warned Jimmy about her, too. Told him she was just like his mother.

Jimmy had just smiled at him, the way he always did. “Come on, Jag—you don’t even remember your mother.”

But he did remember his mother. He remembered how, when he was a little boy—before he even went to school—she started hanging around with someone. Ted, that was his name. And right from the first time he met Ted, he’d known what was going to happen.

“Don’t worry, Francie,” his mother kept telling him. “He’s not going to take me away from you.”

“Don’t call me that! That’s a girl’s name!”

“No it’s not. And even if it was, so what?” She’d picked him up and swung him in the air. “Aren’t you pretty enough to be my little girl?”

The boy next door had heard her say that, and started calling him Francie, too. And then Francine.

He’d hated that.

And he would have stopped that boy from doing it, too, except that before he could decide exactly what to do, he’d come home one day and his mother was gone.

His mother, and Ted, and all their stuff.

He waited for her to come back, and tried not to cry, and ate the food he found in the refrigerator, and sat up all night so he’d be awake when she came back for him.

He waited all the next day, and the next night, too, but his mother hadn’t come home.

Finally, a stranger had come and taken him away from his house and sent him to live with someone else.

There had been a lot of people he’d lived with, moving from one house to another, never staying in any of them long enough to feel like he belonged. By now, all the people who had taken him in for a few weeks—but never more than a few months—had run together in his mind. Even if someone had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to put their faces together with their names.

The only person he really remembered—even wanted to remember—was Jimmy.

He’d met Jimmy three years ago, and right away he knew they were going to be friends. Part of it was Jimmy’s smile—the way it made him feel inside. He hadn’t felt anything like it since his mother left. He and Jimmy started hanging around together right away, getting drunk and doing some drugs. Jimmy didn’t have a room, so Jagger let him come and stay with him. He’d even given him the bed, and started sleeping on the sofa himself. Jimmy told him the bed was big enough for both of them, and that almost wrecked everything. For a second he felt like killing Jimmy, but then got himself under control. “I ain’t no fag,” he said, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Jimmy’s smile had faded away. “Hey, man, I never said you was. All I said was the bed was big enough. No big deal, okay?”

And it had been okay—it had been okay right up until they met Cherie. “It’s spelled the French way,” she said right off, like he cared. “It means sweetheart.” She smiled at Jimmy when she said that, and Jimmy smiled back at her.

That was when Jagger knew she was going to go away with Jimmy, just like his mother had gone away with Ted. But he hadn’t let it happen. He’d known when they were planning it—known that whole day. The way they were looking at each other, and talking to each other when they thought he wasn’t listening. But he’d known exactly what they were up to.

He’d even told Jimmy: “You’re goin’ away, aren’t you? You’re goin’ away with her, just like my mom went away with Ted.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, man?” Jimmy asked, but there was a look in his eyes that told Jagger he knew exactly what he was talking about. “Why’d I wanta go away with her? You’re my bud, Jag. It’s you and me!”

Jimmy had smiled at him, and Jagger had wanted to believe him—had wanted to believe him more than anything. But he hadn’t, and that night, while they were smoking some dope that Cherie had picked up somewhere, he started seeing things really, really clearly.

He kept looking at Jimmy—looking at his eyes, and his slim body, and the way he smiled.

He started thinking how pretty he was.

Almost pretty enough to kiss.

He’d cut that thought out of his head. Where the fuck had it come from anyway? He wasn’t a fag!

But the more he tried not to think about it, the more he kept thinking about it, even though he knew it was all wrong.

Jimmy was a guy, for Christ sake. He had a dick!

But if he didn’t, and if he had boobs . . . boobs like Cherie’s . . .

He sucked in another hit on the bong they were all sharing, and then things started getting kind of hazy. He couldn’t remember what happened after that, except that he wanted to touch Jimmy. Wanted to touch him really bad.

But it was wrong—it was all wrong! He was a guy, just like all the rest of the guys.

But then he figured out how to make it right! All he had to do was fix things.

Fix Jimmy.

Cherie had fallen asleep, and now Jimmy was smiling at him again, smiling the way that made Jagger’s stomach feel all queasy, and his balls start to ache, and his dick get hard.

“Come on,” Jimmy whispered. “Come on, Jag—you’re my bud. You know what you want. So come on and get it.” He’d lain back on the floor then, and Jagger knew that Jimmy wanted him to do it.

Jimmy wanted him to fix it so they could be together.

The knife slid into Jimmy easily—just slipped through his shirt and between his ribs and into his heart. It didn’t hurt Jimmy—Jagger never would have wanted to hurt him. Jimmy just looked sort of surprised for a second, and then he lay real still, stretched out on his back, his eyes fixed on him.

And he was still smiling at him, so Jagger knew it was okay.

He slid the knife into Cherie next. She didn’t even wake up—she just lay there, but her boobs stopped moving like they had when she was breathing.

He undressed both of them, being really careful not to disturb Jimmy. Then he cut Cherie’s boobs off, and carefully put them on Jimmy’s chest.

Then came the worst part. He didn’t want to touch Jimmy’s dick—didn’t even want to look at it. But he had to, in order to cut it off. It was a lot bigger than his own, and it seemed to take a long time to get it off. But finally he cut it free, and then everything was all right.

Jimmy didn’t look like a guy anymore—he looked like a girl.

A pretty girl.

Exactly the kind of girl his mother would have wanted for him.

Taking off his own clothes, Jagger lay down next to Jimmy.

He stroked Jimmy’s face with his finger, tracing his smile, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.

He kissed Jimmy, gently at first, then harder.

He pressed himself close to Jimmy, pressed their bodies together, rubbed himself against Jimmy’s strong torso, until . . .

He couldn’t remember anything after that—not until the police came.

He’d told them it wasn’t his fault, that it was Jimmy and Cherie’s fault. If Jimmy hadn’t been planning to go away with Cherie—

But they’d locked him up anyway, locked him in jail.

Locked him up, and told him he’d never get out.

And that was where he’d stayed until they came for him the other night. He hadn’t said a word when they took him out of his cell and put him in the van, but he listened, and he heard where they were taking him.

To a hospital.

He figured it must have something to do with Bobby Breen. Jagger had liked Bobby Breen almost as much as he’d liked Jimmy. And Bobby Breen had liked him, too. But something had happened to Bobby—something Jagger couldn’t quite remember. They’d been together—real close together—in one of the little closets behind the kitchen where they both worked. Then something had started happening to Bobby. He’d started turning into a woman—a beautiful woman. Jagger had wanted to kiss the woman, to make love to her.

And she’d let him. She let him do everything he wanted to do.

She hadn’t moved, hadn’t tried to push him away.

She’d just lain there on the floor, very still, and for a long time after he’d loved her, he just looked at her. She was beautiful—even more beautiful than Bobby Breen had been. He didn’t remember much after that. Some people asked him what he’d done, but he hadn’t said anything, knowing that nobody was going to listen to him anyway.

They’d taken him to the hospital, but instead of putting him in a room, they brought him down into the basement. That was when he began to think maybe something was wrong, and he’d finally spoken. “Where the fuck are we?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”

But instead of answering him, one of the orderlies hit him—hit him hard enough to knock him out. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room he was in now.

A room that didn’t have any windows, and stunk of urine and shit and garbage. There were a couple of moldy mattresses on the floor and only one light—a naked bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.

The only door was locked from the outside.

Jagger didn’t have any idea how long he’d been in the room—didn’t have any idea what time it was, or what day it was, or even if it was night or day. Every now and then the same guys who’d taken him out of the hospital opened the door and gave him some food. Mostly it was stale bread, but sometimes there was some meat, and they usually gave him an old tin can filled with water to wash it down.

Every time they came, he asked them what was going on, but they never told him. “You’ll find out,” was all they ever said. “And when you find out, you’re going to like it—you’re going to like it a lot.”

Now he could hear them coming again, hear their footsteps outside the door. He heard the key working in the lock, and heard the bolt slide back.

The door swung open, a man was shoved inside, and then the door was pulled closed again.

Pulled closed, and bolted.

Jagger looked at the man. He was young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

Just about the same age Jimmy had been.

But he didn’t have blue eyes like Jimmy’s. He had brown eyes.

Brown, like his mother’s.

And curly hair like his mother’s, too.

And he looked scared.

“You got a name?” Jagger asked.

The man hesitated, then nodded. “Jeff.”

“Jeff,” Jagger repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded. “I like that. I like that a lot.”

CHAPTER 9

T
he silence between Mary and Keith during the drive back to Bridgehampton had none of the easy comfort that surrounds couples who have lived together for enough years so that each can sense the other’s mood without a word being spoken. Rather, their silence was a gulf, a chasm that had widened over the years to the point that now, even with the tragedy that had mutually befallen them, they were unable to make any kind of connection.

Yet Mary felt she had to say something. Keith’s pain was an almost palpable presence in the truck, and she knew that he didn’t have the resource of faith to help him bear it alone. So at last, after having offered up every prayer she knew for the salvation of Jeff’s soul, she turned her attention to the man who had been her husband for so many years. “I know how hard this is for you, Keith,” she said softly, facing him directly. “But if you’ll just let Him, the Lord will help you bear whatever burden He gives you.” She bit her lip, knowing her next words would cause Keith pain, but knowing as well that they had to be spoken. “It’s because of us,” she said. “So many years ago, when I let you—” She fell silent, no longer willing even to speak the words out loud. “Well, you know what I’m talking about. It’s our fault—all of it.”

For a moment Keith made no reply at all, only glancing across at her and shaking his head sadly. “For God’s sake, Mary,” he sighed. “Why do you want to blame yourself? We didn’t do anything wrong, no matter what Father Noonan says. And Jeff certainly didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If he didn’t do anything—” Mary began, but Keith didn’t let her finish.

“Don’t give me any crap about the jury, or Cynthia Allen, or anything else,” he growled. “Jeff didn’t do a thing to that woman. No way.” Finally looking straight at her, he said, “And that body in the morgue? That wasn’t Jeff.”

The words struck Mary like a punch in the stomach. Not Jeff? What was he talking about? But of course she understood—the pain of what had happened was too much for him to face. But to deny it—to try to pretend it hadn’t happened—would only prolong the agony and make it worse when he finally had to accept it. Mary reached out and took her husband’s hand in her own. “Keith, you were there—you saw him. It won’t help to try to pretend—”

Keith jerked his hand away. “Pretend?” he cut in. “What are you talking about, pretend? I’m telling you, Mary—that wasn’t Jeff we saw back there!”

Mary shrank back. “For Heaven’s sake, what are you talking about? What are you saying?”

Keith took his eyes off the road long enough to throw her an angry glare. “I’m telling you that wasn’t Jeff. When I was there this morning, that body was different.”

Mary felt dizzy. Different? What was he talking about?

“The tattoo!” he said, his words coming in a harsh torrent. “Jeff had a tattoo, and that body didn’t have one!”

“I know about Jeff’s tattoo,” Mary replied, trying to fathom what he was talking about. “But it was gone. It was—” She hesitated, shuddering as the image of Jeff’s burned and disfigured body rose in her mind once more. “It was burned, Keith!” she finally managed to blurt. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there!”

“But it wasn’t burned this morning,” Keith shot back, his hands tightening on the steering wheel and his foot unconsciously pressing on the accelerator. “When I was there this morning, that part of that body wasn’t burned.” His voice rose. “And there was no tattoo, Mary! I’m telling you—”

“Look out!” Mary yelled as the truck threatened to smash into the back of the car ahead of them. “Will you calm down? Do you want to get us killed, too?”

Keith slowed the truck, then reached over to take Mary’s hand. This time, though, it was she who pulled away, shrinking back against the door, moving as far from him as she could. “He’s dead, Keith,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jeff’s dead, and you’ve got to face it.”

“I don’t have to face anything except the truth. And I’m telling you, that wasn’t Jeff they showed us down there!”

An angry reply rose in Mary’s throat, but she bit down on her lip—bit it hard, until the wave of anger ebbed away. When she spoke again, she kept her eyes straight ahead. “Take me home,” she said. “Just take me home. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to know.”

“I’m thinking—” Keith began, but Mary cut him off.

“Our son died this morning,” she told him. “I have to get used to that. I have to accept the burden that has been placed on me. I don’t know how I can do it, but I have to. But I can’t do it with you trying to pretend it didn’t happen. So just drive me home, Keith. Just drive me home, and don’t talk to me.”

Another silence fell over them, and this time neither Mary nor Keith tried to break it.