Bastards and Pretty Boys Page 7

  His expression immediately sobered. He looked worried.

  I took his hand and led him to my cottage. Better to show and tell. We entered through the deck doors and crossed the living room to the kitchen. Both rooms essentially flowed together as one open space.

  “See that?” I asked, pointing at the prints.

  Booker slid me a tense glance. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Nobody’s worn shoes in this place since my ex washed the floor on Saturday. Nobody. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing, but I can’t explain how those footprints got there. I just know this floor was spotless when I headed out for the pine plantation yesterday. You and I kicked off our shoes before we came in later. Both pair were still out there this morning.”

  Booker stared at the dusty tracks, running his thumb and fingers back and forth on either side of his mouth. “Could your squeeze have showed up?” he asked, angling a look at me.

  “No. I told you, Kenneth took his boy to a Brewers game yesterday and then back to his mother’s.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Booker drew in a long breath and expelled it. “And you’re sure nobody else—”

  “Positive. Judging by the size, those are a man’s footprints. But they don’t go all the way to the living room carpet. It’s like someone walked in and turned around and left.”

  “Or stood there for a while before leaving.” Booker pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “Could’ve been anybody, really. The satellite TV guy, your realtor, your insurance agent, another neighbor wanting to meet you. A tourist trying to get directions. A guy whose dog ran away. Anybody.”

  I sat kitty-corner from him. “Come on, Booker, how rude is it to waltz into someone’s house uninvited? And without leaving a note, a business card; without making a follow-up phone call. That’s fuckin’ creepy, man. It also constitutes trespassing.”

  Dropping his face to his hands, Booker nodded. At least he wasn’t brushing my hinkiness aside. Not totally, anyway. He wasn’t scoffing at me and treating this like a case of Imagination Runs Wild in Outback; City Boy Needs Mommy.

  I scratched at my forehead. Was I being a nervous Nellie?

  “Shit, I don’t know,” I said, dropping my hand to the table. “I guess it’s possible somebody wandered into the wrong cottage and wandered out again. While I was at the beach. Or across the road.”

  Booker crossed his arms on the table and stared vacantly at nothing. “Or while we were making love,” he murmured.

  Instantly, I felt a body-wide chill. “What?”

  A troubled look came over Booker’s face. He gave me a guilt-ridden glance. “There’s more I need to tell you, Charlie.”

  My heart sank. That had been my fear from the start—that I hadn’t gotten the whole story from him.

  “Is it about Karl?” I asked tonelessly.

  One word opened Pandora’s box. “Yes.”

  Chapter Eight

  I figured it had to do with an old drug connection. A deal that hadn’t been fulfilled, a delivery that hadn’t been made, a debt that hadn’t been paid. Some unresolved illicit business that was rapidly turning ugly.

  Booker went back to his place to get dressed and retrieve my clothes for me. Hanging out in our underwear didn’t seem wise under the circumstances, since a person or people kept showing up unexpectedly at both our places. Carrying two glasses of ice water, I met him on my deck, where I popped up the patio table’s umbrella.

  Booker took a long drink while I slipped into my jeans and t-shirt. We sat down at the table.

  “It started at R-H,” he said without preface. “A staff member … took a liking to me.”

  So much for assumptions. R-H was the correctional facility. My breath stopped for a beat. “You mean an inappropriate kind of—”

  “Yeah, that kind.” Booker’s mouth pulled into and out of a cheerless smile, like a rubberband stretching and snapping back into place.

  “A guard?” I’d heard about guards taking liberties with inmates.

  Booker shook his head. “No, Karl. He’s some sort of shrink. He told me later on that he was working pro bono at Reese.”

  A head doctor. Okay, don’t assume… “Why were you seeing a shrink?”

  “It isn’t uncommon,” Booker said wearily, “for inmates to be in therapy groups. Karl ran one. It was supposed to help gays adjust to prison life. After a couple of months, I was seeing him one-on-one. To this day I don’t know how he engineered it. There wasn’t anything unusual about me.”

  Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. My throat had gone dry, so I swallowed some water. Booker sat with his forearms on his knees, interlinked fingers moving against and around each other as if he were trying to work a magic trick. And failing.

  I leaned forward and grasped his hands with mine, enclosing and stilling them. He turned up those lovely eyes to me, and I knew I couldn’t let him down. I had to keep an open mind.

  “Do you think he falsified your records?” I asked.

  “Could be,” Booker said. “He had to dream up something that would justify private meetings. Ordinary inmates don’t get special treatment.”

  “What reason did he give you?”

  “He didn’t give me one,” Booker said sourly. “He hedged. I didn’t press the issue, because I wasn’t familiar enough with psychology or the penal system to ask the right questions. Besides, it was nice to get out of population and have some peace and quiet once in a while. I didn’t see the point of kicking up a fuss.”

  And this shrink claimed to be working pro bono. Hm. Maybe the “for free” services only applied to these private sessions with Hosea Booker. “So, uh … how did he treat you?”

  Booker’s face began to pull ever so slightly into a sneer. “Oh, he acted all fatherly at first, got me to talk about myself, was so supportive and encouraging. And then, little by little, he started crying on my shoulder, like I was supposed to give some of that caring back to him.”

  So far, it didn’t sound like any egregious breach of conduct on Karl’s part. A little unprofessional, maybe, but not lecherous.

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  “Early to mid fifties, I’d say.”

  “And all he did was—”

  Booker fixed his startling gaze on me again. Both it and his voice took on a defensive quality. “No, that’s not all he did.”

  I watched Booker, wishing I had Carolyn’s intuition, her certainty of insight. “Then tell me what else,” I said gently. “I can’t read your mind, Booker.”

  He sighed, releasing his defensiveness. “Insinuating comments. Flattery. Personal stuff—too personal for that kind of situation. Then the touching started.” Booker slid his hands out of mine. His voice dwindled, became distant. “Karl worked it. He worked it good.”

  “What … what kind of touching?” I asked, and then hastened to add, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just not sure…”

  Booker’s face softened with sympathy, and he gave me a sad smile. “I know. Fuck, Charlie, I’m sorry. This shouldn’t be any of your concern. It’s selfish of me to get involved with anyone while that parasite is still on my back.”

  He started getting up. I immediately grabbed his wrist. This wasn’t going to be a repeat of last night.

  “Don’t take off again,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m afraid of asking the wrong questions, that’s all, because I don’t know what the right ones are.” I slid my hand up his arm and smiled, trying to reassure him. “So you just talk, okay? Say as much or as little as you want.”

  Booker sank back down to the chair. “Some experiences are as hard to describe as they are to understand.”

  What he ended up telling me was reminiscent of investigative reports and exposés that were splattered regularly throughout the media. Stories of psychological and emotional manipulation of vulnerable people. Cult leaders molding the minds of their followers; teachers preying on students and doctors preying on patients; husbands controlling
wives.

  Booker hadn’t been, strictly speaking, raped or even seduced. But as he spoke, I realized there are other kinds of rape and seduction—much less obvious and more insidious. Some intimacy doesn’t have to be forced to be invasive.

  He’d been violated. By the time he finished talking, I was convinced of it. An unethical and dysfunctional man with letters after his name had become infatuated with Booker, conned him into a sick mutual dependency and, worse yet, secured his silence.

  “He actually had me believing for a while that we were helping each other,” Booker said. “And that it was nobody’s business but ours, a precious little secret. I kept wondering why it felt so wrong if it was supposed to be so right, why I was sickened by it.”

  “It” consisted of Karl fondling Booker and ultimately getting them involved in mutual masturbation. No kissing and no penetration, thank God, but the groping was bad enough.

  “Did you ever tell him how you felt about it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, finally I did. It took me a while, though. I was convinced I was partially responsible for the whole business. I sure as hell didn’t initiate it, but I went along with it.”

  “Why did you go along with it?” I asked. The answer was easily enough inferred, but I’d given up making inferences along with making assumptions. From now on, I’d let Booker speak for himself.

  Immediately, he blushed. “First, because my self-esteem wasn’t exactly at its peak. Being a first-timer in prison can be pretty damned humbling. I figured I was just another lowly inmate who didn’t have the right to question anybody in authority. And second, because Karl had credentials and I figured he knew what he was doing. And third, because—” Booker paused. He cast me an embarrassed glance. “It excited me at first. Nobody had touched me in months—not in that kind of way—and my body responded. It took a while for my mind to catch up.”

  I smiled wanly, remembering how I’d felt when I first came out. The “candy store phase” had led me into plenty of ill-advised hookups. Sexual deprivation will do that to a man in his twenties—hell, to older guys, too—and Karl was certainly shrewd enough to use that to his advantage.

  “I’m sure it was the combination of your flagging ego and forced celibacy that gave him the guts to do what he did,” I told Booker. “He was certainly aware of how needful you were.”

  Booker nodded and tried to return my smile. “I know that now. I realized it then, too, especially after I’d talked to Zander about it. That’s why the whole setup started making me real squeamish real fast. So I finally told Karl I wouldn’t feel comfortable seeing him alone unless the physical contact ended.”

  By now our hands were joined again, fingers slipping between and over each other. “I’m guessing he didn’t take it too well,” I said.

  Booker huffed a laugh through his nose. “That’s an understatement. First he tried blaming my reaction on my ‘sexuality and intimacy issues’. But I’d never had any issues—I mean, aside from being incarcerated and horny—until I ran into Karl. And I told him so. When he saw he was losing his hold on me, the threats started.”

  “I guess that was predictable,” I said, looking at our twining fingers. Booker’s were longer than mine and struck me as more graceful. “What kinds of threats?”

  “He told me he was the professional, and I didn’t know what I was talking about when it came to diagnosis and therapy. And I could forget about ‘whining’ to anybody, because I’d been a willing participant. If I tried to play the victim, it would be my word against his … and I’d lose.”

  Nodding, I felt the beginning of a headache. It made sense for an inmate to keep his trap shut under those circumstances. “Do you think he might’ve even accused you of sexually assaulting him?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it past him,” Booker said. “Especially considering his other threats.”

  “Which were?”

  “Are,” Booker said. He swirled and rattled the ice cubes in his glass then took another drink. “That shit didn’t end with my release. Karl wants to keep seeing me. I’ve been trying to get rid of him—”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” I murmured. I lifted Booker’s free hand and kissed it.

  “But he won’t leave me alone.” Booker flicked a glance at me. The worry had returned to his eyes. “I’m afraid he’ll do or say something to get my parole revoked, get me locked up again. He’s part of the system, Charlie. Has been for years. He’s in a position of power; I’m not. And I sure can’t afford a team of high-powered lawyers to defend me.”

  I realized how right Booker was. A mere accusation would, at the very least, get him hauled in again for questioning or land him in the county lockup for a while. It depended on how far Karl was willing to go, how vindictive he was capable of being.

  “I haven’t done a single thing that would constitute a violation,” Booker said ardently. “I haven’t been near drugs, not even prescription meds. I haven’t been in touch with any of the people involved in my old business. I haven’t so much as gone near a place that serves alcohol. I report to my PO when I’m supposed to and take my piss tests and hang out here at the lake. But if Karl wanted to make me look bad, there are all kinds of ways he could do it. I’m afraid if he knows I’m involved with you, it’s gonna push him over the edge.”

  There it was: Booker’s tacit admission that he shared my fear. My fear that it was this crazed, tenacious Karl person who’d crept into my cottage yesterday. After his confrontation with Booker, he’d probably pulled down the road and parked where he couldn’t be seen, watched Booker head into the pine plantation, and maybe even witnessed that long, passionate kiss we’d shared. Then he’d seen us go back to my cottage. And his perverse fixation had led him through my back door and a few feet into my kitchen, where’d stood and listened to us while we made love.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I whispered. “You do think it was him.”

  “I think it’s a good possibility,” Booker said dourly.

  “That note he left in your door, what did it say?”

  Booker looked bewildered. “What note?”

  “Yesterday, after you sent him away, he sat in his car for a minute and then got out and walked back to your house. It looked like he slipped a note or something inside the screen door.”

  Without a word, Booker bolted up from his chair and nearly flew down the deck stairs. He sprinted across my yard and toward the rear of his cottage. I forced my mind into gear. There had to be a solution to this. We lived in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, for shit’s sake, where there was Liberty and Justice for All. Some asshole with a degree or two shouldn’t be able to extort sexual favors and silence from a fellow citizen. Hiring pricey attorneys shouldn’t be the only way to battle a bully.

  Booker ran back to the deck, slapping something on the table as he dropped into his chair. “I didn’t see it when I left the house yesterday. It was on the ground, between the doors.” He lifted his hand.

  A piece of memo pad paper, bearing a scrawl done in fountain pen. Hosea, I’ll leave you alone for a few days so you’ll have time to reconsider. I can help you find fulfillment, Hosea. I can bring happiness to this new beginning of yours. Don’t doubt that. And don’t doubt, as well, that I always make good on my promises. All my promises.

  I read the note two more times. No signature. Of course. And no specific threats. But the last two lines carried an unmistakable assurance of retribution. This crazy prick was determined to have his way.

  I rubbed my eyes and then my whole face. “Okay, listen. How do you feel about your parole officer?”

  Booker pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. “Fine, I guess. She seems decent enough. Hasn’t given me any crap.”

  “How would you feel about confiding in her, telling her all the stuff you just told me?”

  “Fuck.” Booker swayed backward, tilting the chair. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re wary of her too. But shit, Booker, you’ve got to let
someone know what’s been going on, make a preemptive strike. If you have good rapport with this woman, she could become your first advocate within the system. You need one, man.”

  “But how do I prove my story? I can’t just start”—flustered, Booker waved an arm—”firing off accusations. Like Karl said, it would be my word against his. He’ll just say that I knew he was going to turn me in for some infraction, so I tried to get the jump on him and undermine his credibility.”

  I sighed. Yup, he was right again. We had to come up with evidence. I focused on that dilemma.

  “First thing you do,” I said, “is record the whole progression of events with Karl, every single thing you can remember about your interaction. Be as detailed as possible, no matter how embarrassing the stuff is. Date the meetings if you can, starting with your first day in that therapy group. Include your conversations with that Zander character. And detail every visit Karl has made here.” I picked up the note. “Hang on to this. Maybe put it in a safe deposit box. And all your written recollections, too. Doesn’t matter if they’re on paper or on a CD. Just make sure nobody can get at the stuff. I’m going to take some pictures of those shoeprints to put with everything else.”

  “I’ll do it. But we need more, Charlie.”

  I tapped my fingers on the table. “I have some ideas. What’s the bastard’s full name?”

  “Karl Bollinger.”

  My mouth hung open as I froze, staring at Booker. “Spell that,” I said in a dead voice.

  He did. Karl with a K, and Bollinger with a double L.

  It was Kenneth’s father who’d ensnared my new lover.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn’t tell Booker that. Not yet. I had to make sure. So I suggested he go home and start writing while I worked on some other angles. We’d get together later.

  After taking several pictures of the prints on my floor, I steeled myself to call Kenneth. First I tried to remember everything he’d ever told me about his family, which wasn’t much.

  His parents had gotten divorced in Colorado when Kenneth was in his mid teens. Custody of him and his sister had been divided along gender lines. Then his father, whom Kenneth had described as a “mental health professional,” moved to Wisconsin with his son.