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  Boyer placed the flashlight in the crook of a tree and began his attack on Steve.

  First, Boyer tried to force Steve to suck his dick, but Steve resisted. This enraged Boyer. He grabbed Steve’s hair with one hand, pulled his head back, and belted him viciously with his fist.

  Whenever I tried to jump to Steve’s assistance, my two captors pulled me back and tightened their holds using both hands to keep an iron grip on me.

  Boyer stopped his attack for a few moments. He drew several deep breaths then turned his head and leered at me. “I’m going to take my turn on you next, then let my two buddies have you. We almost did this to your faggot buddy who killed himself, but he got away and went and saved the world the trouble of murdering his miserable ass.”

  I figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I asked, “You guys didn’t kill him?”

  Boyer gave his minions a command. “Slap him upside the head.”

  One of the moosey guys clouted me so hard that my ears rang.

  Boyer turned his attention back to Steve. One rip removed Steve’s last shred of clothing. Steve tried crawling away, but Boyer tackled him and flung him down. He leapt on Steve’s back and used his weight to force him completely prone.

  Steve screamed, “No!” and then the two of them seemed to explode off the ground. Steve continued bellowing at the top of his lungs. They grappled. Steve’s entire torso convulsed. His legs and arms flailed frantically. Boyer couldn’t keep him down. Steve even landed a few punches, although it was difficult to see what exactly was going on because of the variegated light.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t escape to help him.

  For a moment Steve managed to stand up and even run a few feet, but once again Boyer tackled him, but Steve kicked, swung out, and tried biting his attacker. Adrenaline pushed him beyond his normal strength and ability.

  Once more Steve scrambled to his feet.

  Boyer bellowed imprecations, screamed oaths about killing him, and then charged. Steve turned and tripped. Boyer stumbled over him. As Boyer fell, Steve’s knee, deliberately or accidentally, hit Boyer’s already damaged nose hard. Clutching his nose, the ogrish brute screamed, and fell.

  Steve staggered a few feet and in a few seconds I thought he might begin to run.

  Boyer called to his buddies. “Help me, you idiots.”

  The two guys ran for Steve.

  I took off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sunday 12:43 A.M.

  I ran, hopped up the hill, twenty feet, thirty, more. Blessed darkness surrounded me. Because my arms were still trussed up, I couldn’t scrabble for holds. I fell and rolled several times. Once the right pant leg of my jeans ripped when I fell against a rock. I must have fallen on a cactus or two or on sticker weeds, because I felt the small sharp ends poking through the denim into the flesh on my legs and the back of my thighs. I ignored any pain and kept moving.

  After another twenty feet I eased myself to the right. Stopped to catch my breath and listen for sounds of pursuit. I heard distant noises in the brush. I didn’t want to open my phone to make a call. The light could alert them to where I was. My enemies would easily arrive before rescuers.

  I had to get back and help Steve. Instead of going farther up the hill, I began to circle to the right as silently and quickly as I could. I almost ran into a palm tree in the dark. I used its bark to scrape at the belts around my shoulder and ease them off. It took several moments but finally they slipped over my shoulders. I threw them away.

  I rubbed my arms. It was easier to balance.

  As I circled I got nearer to them and could hear their voices. Boyer was berating the two guys for letting me go. They shouted they were just doing what he told them. Their back and forth went on for several minutes. This gave me time to ease my way back to where they were. I approached from almost the exact opposite way from which I’d taken off.

  Steve was naked and tied to a tree again. Boyer had the flashlight probing the trees toward which I’d run.

  “Go find him,” he told the other two. “Think about what he and his buddy did to you on Wednesday. You said you wanted to get revenge. Don’t let him get away.”

  One of them said, “He’ll probably try to get back to his car.”

  Boyer commanded his troop. “One of you go the way he went. The other run down to his car.”

  They grumbled and debated long enough that I probably could have walked half a mile, even maybe made it back to the party to get help, but what would happen to Steve in the meantime? They could rape him, kill him, and be long gone.

  Eventually the two helpers trotted off in the directions Boyer dictated. The one going up the hill after where I’d first run, made a great deal of noise as he climbed. If I’d still been up there, it might have been easy to avoid him. These guys were into overpowering helpless people with their muscle and bulk. With luck maybe they weren’t so good at dealing with stealth in the night.

  A few minutes later I couldn’t hear either of the two who had left. Boyer returned to berating and beating on Steve who hunched his body to try and avoid the kicks and blows Boyer rained down on him.

  I couldn’t wait too long. The others might come back. Steve’s cries and pleas for mercy, along with Boyer’s grunts and oaths, easily covered any of the muted sounds I made as I crept up on them.

  I thought of tackling him and trying to wrestle him into submission, but with his bulk, I didn’t know if I could win that fight in time before his friends returned.

  Five feet away from them, I stopped creeping and stood up straight. Steve was on his knees, slumped against the tree, with his head bent almost to the ground. Boyer aimed a particularly vicious kick at his head.

  The captive managed to move his head enough so Boyer’s shot glanced off the tree. Boyer yelped and grabbed the toe of his boot for a minute. He cursed and swore at length then slowly stood up straight. Then he jumped on Steve’s left leg with both feet.

  I heard the crunch of bone, and a howl of absolute pain from Steve.

  Boyer laughed uproariously.

  I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What?” he snarled and then whirled around.

  I smashed my palm flat, up against his nose. He yowled, teetered for a second, then crashed to the ground. I steadied myself on my injured ankle then aimed my gym shoe at the center of his crotch.

  I kicked as hard as I could. I got in a direct hit, but I unbalanced myself in my fury and fell backward.

  Boyer moaned as his body flopped loosely. He settled into a fetal position, rocked back and forth, held one hand to his bleeding nose, and one to his crotch.

  I scrambled to my feet and contemplated inflicting more damage, but then I heard Steve moan.

  I hobbled over to him.

  Halfway between his right knee and ankle a small lump of bone protruded out. Blood seeped around the opening. His foot seemed to be pointed slightly wrong.

  I worried about moving him, but the other guys could get back any time. And Boyer might recover enough to attack. My fear of them coming back and maybe killing Steve and me, outweighed my concern for what would happen if I moved him.

  I glanced at Boyer. It didn’t look like he’d be back up for days. I spent an anxious few moments wondering if I should splint Steve’s leg before I moved him. There wasn’t time to find sticks for a splint, and I didn’t have much to bind it with.

  I took off my jacket and covered him with it. I used my T-shirt to wrap and cushion the injured leg as best I could and put my walking cast in place around it. I’d just have to manage without. I had no idea if it would do Steve any good, but I didn’t dare waste another instant in getting us out of there.

  Steve had stopped moaning. His body shivered and quaked. I didn’t see his clothes anywhere. I thrust my jacket more closely around his shoulders and his arms into the sleeves, the ends of which hung three inches past his fingertips. The length draped just below his crotch. I never realized I was that much bigger than he was. At l
east he’d have some dignity.

  If the other two returned, I’d never get both of us away. I grabbed the flashlight, flicked it off, and stuffed it in my back pocket. Using it would give away our position. Without it, they’d be as handicapped as we were, stumbling around in the dark.

  I hurried over to Boyer, reached in his front pocket, and grabbed my car keys. I’d have taken his, but I didn’t feel any in the pocket. I listened to his raspy breathing for a couple seconds. For an instant, I felt a twinge of guilt for having kicked him when he was down. I didn’t want him to die, but it seemed like I’d hurt him pretty bad. I felt good about that.

  Being careful to balance myself without putting extra pressure on my ankle, I picked Steve up in my arms. He was surprisingly light. I arranged him in a fireman’s carry over my shoulder. We’d all been made to take CPR classes as part of the sports program. I’d thought it was stupid then and sneered along with my peers, wrong again.

  Still careful of my balance, I took several steps which weren’t that bad. I staggered toward the edge of the clearing.

  I was torn between haste and trying to keep from injuring Steve further. I managed to do neither, stumbling under his weight and wrenching his body around.

  A few steps beyond the clearing, he woke up and started moaning. I had no idea how to shut him up. Noise was our enemy. He moaned and sniffled. I thought the words he mumbled included, “It hurts, don’t hit me anymore.” His pain must have been horrific.

  As we walked, I murmured, “It’s me, Steve. It’s Roger. You’re safe now.” I tried to say soothing things, tried to get him to be still. I don’t remember what all inane things I said. I hoped he’d pass out again.

  Halfway to the car, I had to stop to rest. My ankle throbbed. I needed to shift him to take some of the pressure from my shoulder. I knelt on the ground for only a moment or two.

  I pulled down my jacket that had ridden up on him then picked him up again. I didn’t see any wounds currently pouring blood although a few still oozed some. My jacket sopped up some of that blood. My wrapping around his broken bone had begun to unravel. The bone, gore, and blood on his leg turned my stomach. I might have puked if I wasn’t so scared and so desperate to get away.

  At one point Steve clutched my arm. The one eye Boyer hadn’t bashed closed, fluttered open. “Help me, please.”

  “I’m here, Steve. Everything’s going to be okay. You have to try and keep quiet.”

  He moaned loudly. More shivers wracked his body. Staying here until they followed Steve’s cries to us was stupid.

  It felt funny touching a nearly passed out, half-naked guy. Thoughts about the weirdness of the situation fled as I considered escape alternatives, but there wasn’t much choice.

  As gently as I could, I picked Steve up again. Clumsily, I swung him so that his midsection rested on my shoulder. Careful as I was, in my haste and ineptness, I unbalanced myself, and half-fell and bumped my shoulder and his side into a tree. He got jostled violently. His moans stopped so abruptly, I thought I’d done something fatal. I listened. The sound of his shallow breathing reassured me.

  When I was nearly down to the road, a car engine roared to life. I halted. Headlights flicked on. The vehicle took off.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the road and tottered to my car. Maybe at least one of the guys had abandoned Boyer and driven off, or they’d carried him down here, or revived him and they were setting up another ambush? I had to use my car. It was our only way of escape.

  I put Steve down on the ground as gently as I could. I flung open the passenger side door and swiped at the shards of windshield still covering the front seat.

  Sliding Steve in took painfully long moments. At least I was conscious, breathing, and not as horribly hurt. When I lifted his broken leg in, he woke up for a few seconds. I murmured, “It’s okay, Steve. We’re safe. We’re in my car. We’re going to get away.” I’m not sure how much he heard. He was quiet but I could see the rise and fall of his chest.

  After he was safely in, I clicked the seat belt around him, shut the door, and raced over to the driver’s side. I thought of taking an instant to get a blanket from the trunk to cover him, but there wasn’t time.

  I thought of using my cell phone. There was no point at attempting concealment, but first I wanted us out of there. If they tried blocking the road, I had every intention of ramming them at as high a speed as possible.

  I started the car. The rear tires didn’t catch. I let the car rock back as far as I could, then gently let it roll forward, just like they taught us in Driver’s Ed.

  For a second I thought the tires grasped dry ground. Then the frightening whir returned. I told myself to stay calm, to take it slow. I rocked the car back again. I turned the front wheels. The sideways movement might bring the rear end closer to dry ground.

  “What’s going on?” I heard a voice call. It was one of Boyer’s minions.

  Once more I let the car rock backward. It took all my self-control to only press gently on the gas pedal. The car slid forward. The tires whirred for a second then caught. The car began to move forward. I switched on the headlights. One of the moosey guys was about ten feet in front of me. I gunned the engine and headed straight for him.

  He leapt out of the way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sunday 1:43 A.M.

  Because of the winding road, I was forced to drive far slower than I’d have liked. I also wanted to avoid Steve’s body making too many involuntary moves.

  I pulled out my cell phone, pressed 9-1-1, but as I rounded a curve, the car hit a bump, lurched, and my phone went flying. It landed somewhere on the floor on Steve’s side of the car.

  I swore, gripped the wheel with both hands, and drove faster.

  Finally, back on solid pavement, I raced to Wood Street, past Alessandro Road, then down to Central Avenue. I turned onto Magnolia and flew down to Riverside Community Medical Center. I hit from thirty to forty miles an hour over the speed limit all the way. I didn’t run into any cops, which I wanted, and no red lights, which was a miracle.

  At the hospital the emergency room people placed Steve on a gurney and wheeled him in. They all wanted to know what happened. They called the cops. I phoned my parents.

  The doctors examined me briefly, but I had no serious injuries. The police arrived. After I gave them enough details, they called for a car to be dispatched immediately to check the place where we’d been attacked. I hoped they’d find Boyer still there. I told them everything.

  At the nurse’s station, I tried to find out something about Steve’s condition. All they would say is that Steve’s parents had been notified and were on their way.

  I heard a gasp behind me. My mom and dad were twenty feet away and rushing toward me. My mom burst into tears and ran up and hugged me.

  My dad put a hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you all right?”

  When I got myself untangled from my parents, I looked at myself. I was pretty much a mess any parent would panic over: blood and mud smeared on various parts of my clothes and my anatomy, cuts and abrasions on my shirtless torso, a huge gap at the knee of my jeans.

  Grandma was a few steps behind them. She hugged me. Only two people were allowed at a time with me into the patient area of the emergency room. Grandma waited in the chairs in the hall. I used my Dad’s jacket as a shirt.

  A few more medical people poked and prodded at me more extensively while I told my parents the story. I had to repeat parts of it several times. I gave them the PG version. The medical people decreed I would be okay and assured me that as far as they could see my injuries would be well healed by baseball season. I got another one of those walking cast deals. They told me to use it if I felt I needed it.

  Two detectives took an official statement. They were waiting for a report from the beat cops who’d gone out to search.

  When I finished talking to my parents and the cops for what felt like the millionth time, my dad said, “This has got to stop.”<
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  “We’ve got to file charges against this Boyer,” my mom said.

  “The police already want him for the attack on Wednesday,” I said. “They can add this too. They’ve been looking for him all this time.”

  A tall rangy man wearing a starched white shirt and black pants approached us. He spoke to my dad. “I’m Reverend Koemer from the Witness for Jesus Church. I understand I have your son to thank for saving my boy’s life.”

  The Witness for Jesus Church had been in the forefront in the Proposition 8 battle in California. The Reverend had given frightfully homophobic statements in tons of interviews. They’d also put him on a couple national talk shows where he spewed hatred for gay people. I felt bad for Steve. His life at home as a gay kid, closeted or not, living among all that hatred must have been the ultimate gay teenager’s nightmare.

  “Is Steve going to be okay?” I asked.

  “They’ve assured us they’re doing everything they can. He took some powerful hits. The last doctor to talk to us said he was optimistic. He’ll be in the hospital a while.” He shut his eyes and his lips moved. Perhaps he and God were exchanging messages. When he reopened his eyes, he said, “I want to know what happened tonight. The hospital people don’t seem to know.”

  I gave him an even more PG version than I had my parents. If his kid wanted to tell his dad that he’d almost been raped by the biggest goon in town, he could. I wouldn’t. When I finished, he thanked me profusely.

  I asked, “Can I see him before we go?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

  As we were going out of the ER doors, a gurney was wheeled in. Cops surrounded it. We stopped to let it go by. It was Boyer. He wasn’t awake, but I saw his chest rise and fall.

  A few cops stayed with Boyer. One stopped by us. He said, “Some kids found him wandering on the road to the Blaire mansion and called 9-1-1. We’ve also caught one of his buddies. He’s down at the station. The friend said that you guys tried to attack them. I got to listen to half his story. It made no sense. I’ve seen Steve. This asshole was twice his size.”