A Conspiracy of Fear Read online

  I wondered about some of the picture taking. Some had video and stills of the aftermath. I said to myself, why weren’t those reporters and camera people rushing to help? Their jobs were more important than our lives? Instead of milking a disaster for ratings, they could become a person who actually provides real help rather than trying to give us windows onto the lives of the people who they can find who are in the most pain, who are the most inarticulate, or who are the most hysterical, or having the most trouble dealing with their new reality. Yes, yes, Scott tells me not to be so critical.

  The structure on the other side of the street was actually a series of interconnected buildings and took up an entire block of prime real-estate in this section of town. It was crammed with four trendy restaurants, a super trendy grocery store, art galleries galore, and with-it clothing emporiums, and a newly opened multiplex with sixteen screens. The place had been thronged with diners, shoppers, and movie goers.

  Parts of it that were still being rehabbed had fewer or not-yet-functioning security cameras. Water had rushed into a number of those establishments. The entire block might have to be condemned.

  There was much speculation about the actual target of the shooter: the gallery, the sculpture, the sculptor, gay people in general, or maybe just random evil. They did what cable news shows did when there is a dearth of actual new information: show footage of the most dramatic moments in the background as talking heads added speculation to more speculation to an infinite degree.

  I switched to the television and watched each channel for a minute or two checking for any actual news. I heard some of the commentators posit the theory that more people hadn’t died because the killer had such a poor angle. They wondered if the shooter had counted on the glass atrium windows shattering and falling and killing more people. The reporting on all the sites agreed that the shooter could not have been among the protesters.

  I finally found one channel on which a tired gray-haired man, the squib beneath his talking head identified him as a terrorism expert for the past forty years, who was saying that many reported the first bangs and flashes came from directly across the street. The screen showed several captures of this. He was saying, “You drop a grenade, you drop a large firecracker that goes off at ground level and everyone concentrates on that. Or you drop a string of fire crackers and the flash and bang sound like gunfire, but then you do your actual shooting from above, you’ve created a massive misdirection to your great chaos.”

  A clip showed a police spokesperson saying the shooter had definitely been on the roof. A rifle had been recovered there.

  This didn’t mean the shooter wasn’t in sympathy with any particular set of protestors, just that it was unlikely that any of them caught on camera on the street could have also been on the roof. Bilocation being problematic, I agreed with this.

  I couldn’t imagine the shooter would be able to be unknown for long. I was sure police were poring over video of every camera in the city looking for those who might have been walking anywhere in that part of town. With the rain and umbrellas and the busyness of that part of the city, small orts of doubt about that crept into my head. If the water tower collapse was caused by the killer, I presumed he or she must have been planning, must have visited at some other times. Was there footage from other days and times? There must be. Would it be of any use? I hoped so. If they found it, would they release it?

  Another channel had some right wing preacher I’d never heard of. Some left wing television host had brought him on. It was a left wing host I’d seen before who always wanted to start a dialogue with crazy right wingers. The times I’d watched, the right wingers had not engaged in a dialogue but screamed and ranted their talking points. Why this particular left wing host hadn’t figured out that they didn’t want dialogue, I could never understand.

  I listened for a few moments. The bloated right-winger was saying, “They brought the attack on themselves because they are blasphemers.” I switched to another channel. A full-bearded man was saying, “The flood is the sign of the apocalypse. The shooting means the beginning of the end times.”

  I couldn’t reach the remote fast enough to turn it off.

  I marveled once again about why and how giving equal time to both sides had devolved into a feeling of obligation to place the ignorant and demented in front of a camera. Ratings, I supposed, or the producers weren’t as bright as they thought they were. I shook my head at myself. Better to rail against the vicissitudes of cable news than think about what we’d been through. What I’d almost lost. That an inch or two another way, either one of us might be dead.

  I also thought about what Fulham had told me. I opened a new file on the computer and typed everything that I could remember about our conversation, and was struck by the oddness of him telling me all these things but not warning me that perhaps I should take notes or record it. Something was so odd there, but it was good to search my memory for something not connected to the disaster. I remembered the name of the little town he said he was from and the county he was born in, plus the name of the man he said he killed. They meant nothing to me.

  After some time, I heard soft footsteps on the carpet. Wearing the black boxer briefs I’d had on the day before, Scott stood next to me. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  “I woke up a little bit ago.” I switched to the Internet and tapped the computer screen. “They haven’t caught anybody yet.”

  “They will.”

  I pointed at the screen. “The right-wing conspiracy theorists are out already. The attack was part of a gay conspiracy to earn sympathy for us. An international gay cabal planned it.”

  “You know,” Scott said, “international gay cabals just aren’t what they used to be.”

  “I dunno. If I was in charge of an international gay cabal, I’d be tempted to attack…”

  He placed a hand on my arm. “Let’s not go there.”

  I stopped. He was right. Even as a fantasy, it was stupid and unhelpful. We saw one loop of people being loaded into emergency vehicles. One clip showed three seconds of what might have been me at Scott’s side as he was wheeled to an ambulance. We looked and examined together but found nothing new.

  I said, “You should see this.” I clicked through a few web sites until I got to the one I wanted. “One station found the owner of the building, guy named Judd Haverel.” I clicked to play the interview with him. He made Rush Limbaugh look slim. Haverel said, “The attack was God’s retribution on this city. I’ve had construction workers up on that building working on that water tower. One of them was probably a terrorist or some kind of crazy.”

  I said, “That doesn’t make sense. So God is a terrorist or a construction worker that picked his building particularly?”

  Scott said, “Turn it off. There’s no point in listening to that shit.”

  I clicked over to social media. It was filled with images and firsthand accounts from the scene. I didn’t post anything. Scott was famous enough and mentioned enough. We didn’t need more publicity. I wasn’t selling anything and didn’t have a movie or book to promote. Adding to social media might fuel crazy stalkers or publicity sniffers. We didn’t announce our comings and goings on social media for security reasons. I didn’t know when I’d be able to share my memories of what happened or if I wanted to. That others could do so might be their way of helping themselves cope with this tragedy. It wasn’t mine or Scott’s way.

  Then Scott was on his knees next to me. He turned the swivel chair so his torso was between my legs. He rubbed his nose across and around my pecs then he snuffled and licked my abs. Then he bent his head down lower. His rough whiskers tickled my nuts. For a few minutes I was lost in rapture.

  Not long afterward we crawled back into bed. He surrounded me with his arms. I listened to his breathing ease. He fell asleep. Soon afterwards I must have dozed off.

  TEN

  Friday – 6:00 A.M.

  I could not stay asleep.

  Since it was June,
I didn’t have to teach in the morning. Part of me wished I did have to. There’s nothing like class after class of teenagers with their roller coaster hormones and inborn obliviousness to cure an adult of what ailed them. They didn’t notice what was wrong with you, or seldom did, and they wanted you paying attention to their needs, and they could be remarkably insensitive about it.

  I was up again just after six sitting on the couch watching the first shades of dawn emerge in the east. All the emotions of terror and despair, fear and anger filled my mind. My brain whirled with attempts to grasp what had happened.

  I took comfort in the notion that Scott and I were still breathing.

  I was also struck by the pointlessness of it all, of the terror attacks. You destroy the lives of a lot of people and that is a tragedy for them, but for your cause? Really, what good did it do? The same people were in charge that had been the day before. The world went spinning on no matter how mad and destructive your actions might be.

  The only answer I had to such madness was the love of a good man, and that he loved me, and that he and I could do a little bit of kindness to the world that we encountered. That was about all. Was love enough? Was there much choice otherwise? For now it was. I was in a miasma of lethargy, to the point of despair. I knew all that was to be done was to endure for the next second, the next minute, and on to a life always on the edge of this tragedy.

  What words and thoughts were there to get through moments like this? Some people had rituals to attend and prayers to comfort them. Some spoke with an invisible being in the sky. I find cold comfort in imaginary characters.

  I heard him come into the room. He sat next to me. He was wearing the black boxer briefs I’d had on earlier. He put his hand on my leg and caressed it for a few moments. His fingertips brushed the hairs on my thigh. Then he stretched out and curled around me, his torso and his huge shoulders were in my arms, his head nestled against my neck. I felt and saw the new wound with raw redness and glaring stitches, the old wound with its healed scar. We held each other as another dawn crept into the sky.

  He began to tremble. I held him tighter. I caressed the back of his head. I murmured, “I will never leave you. I will always be here. I love you.”

  I knew my murmured words were unrealistic. I didn’t care. I would say them a thousand times more, as if every precious syllable could knit the wild hope of fantasy to images of reality; that each murmur would help keep us together forever. I said the words to convince myself and to convince him that we would be safe. That the world would not be too much with us.

  ELEVEN

  Friday - 8:05 A.M.

  When next I woke up, it was just after eight. He was asleep, his head in my lap. I caressed his arms and shoulders for a few minutes. Far too little sleep, but my brain just wouldn’t shut down. My head throbbed, and I felt dizzy which I presumed was from the bullet that scraped my scalp, plus lack of sleep, and emotional stress. I took one of the pain pills and hoped it would help with at least one of those.

  He awoke. In the bathroom I could see that today my wound looked red. One of his looked scarred and healed, the other stitched and shades of deep pink.

  We showered together. We helped each other replace our respective bandages. He definitely needed assistance as his was on his back. Yes, I know I could have done my own. I liked the bit of added care when he did it. It took us extra long to start our day. We hovered around each other in the kitchen as we put together toast and coffee.

  I said, “We’ve hovering.”

  He said, “I know I am.”

  But you do go on. We ate toast and juice.

  Before checking the Internet, I called the hospital. Many people from the night before were still in. Sean was out of surgery, in critical condition in intensive care.

  There were no reported visuals on the shooter or apprehension of such. They’d found evidence of high-powered magazines. It was presumed there was one shooter, but others weren’t willing to let go the possibility of more than one. One site claimed that forensics on where the shots hit meant either the shooter was moving or there were multiple attackers. All agreed he or she or them had been on the roof across the street.

  Live views of the front of the gallery showed men and women in jackets and shirts with lettering on the back identifying various jurisdictions. The huge bulk of the collapsed water tower still lay across the street. It had been levered off the ambulance to rescue an EMT who had missed being crushed by six inches, but the thing had to be wedged up enough to pull him to safety.

  Already the usual shriney stuff with flowers, candles, and pictures mixed with rainbow flags and teddy bears had begun to accumulate along a barrier located at the nearest intersection.

  We called our answering service. A zillion media outlets wanted to talk to us. Scott called his publicity person, Blake Weston, and put him and his firm on it—the answer was to be a quiet no to all who wanted interviews.

  Even in normal times, our calls were screened. If we didn’t, we could be inundated with the world when what we wanted was peace and quiet. Nor did we need a horde of well-wishers. We wanted to touch those closest to us, and that was enough. I called my mom and dad again as Scott did his family. I also phoned a few close friends.

  We returned the call from the team owner. He was most kind, offering anything we needed. The gallery owner had called. Scott spoke to him briefly.

  The police had set up a victims’ update meeting for noon and a press conference for one.

  I called our attorney. He was at his most formal and most arch, and that’s saying a lot for a prissy queen who specializes in both. I’d never seen Todd unbutton anything except an overcoat. Maybe he slept in his suit.

  I told him our story.

  He tsked and said, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “A couple of minor wounds, but we’re alive.”

  “I’ve seen numerous theories about who is responsible. Some are blaming gun nuts and gun violence, and then there’s just plain old anti-gay animosity. It’s not mentioned, but it could have been a simple murder. What better way to cover up a heinous crime but to mix it with horrific, headline grabbing death?”

  “I can’t image that there won’t be video of every person who was anywhere near that place available. It won’t be like it is in the movies. It will take them hours, probably days, to go through it all, and they’ll have to be lucky to actually have had cameras at every entrance to the place across the street.” I added, “There was something else before the attack.” I filled him in on Fulham and finished, “I want to help the old guy.”

  “If that incident from the past turns out to be murder, and he is confessing, so that seems likely, you will be called on to testify to what he told you. Are you sure you trust him? There’s a lot of dead people around him.”

  “He’s ninety-three. Most people in his life he’s known are dead. I don’t know if I trust him. I just feel bad for him.”

  Todd said, “It sounds as if most of his troubles were brought on by himself. He could have been more discreet.”

  “You’re suggesting the closet was good?”

  Todd’s voice became more severe than usual, a tone only an old dear friend could use. “Thomas, you know I don’t believe that, but for his time and the milieu in which he lived, he could have made smarter choices.”

  “Sorry. I do know what you mean.” I cleared my throat. “I know the statute of limitations doesn’t run out on murder, but he’s so old. And I think he’s got a crazy, tragic, but possibly valuable story to tell. He was okay last night. Of course, with a wound especially to someone that old and fragile, you never can tell.”

  “He’s got the story of a gay man who killed another gay man. That might make the community look bad, but I think truth is better.”

  “It’s not like the members of the gay community never commit crimes.”

  “As I know so well. The guy sounds like he’s willing to take the consequences.”

  “At least he
was last night when he talked to me. The world he grew up in makes the horror of those times come to life. It’s not an excuse. It’s reality.”

  Todd harrumphed. “I know I always tell you not to get involved and let the police handle these things, and you never follow that advice.”

  I waited to listen to his usual lecture.

  He continued, “Not this time. Gay people have died. Someone has to pay. Do what you can. Keep me informed.”

  “I have you on speed dial.”

  “Good. That includes looking into that Fulham thing. It sounds like there’s a story there. It might give you something to occupy your time instead of brooding endlessly about death and destruction.”

  He knew me well. I figured if I had a few moments, I could at least check some basic facts about what Fulham had told me. We hung up.

  Back on the Internet, there was some new data about the massacre. Eleven were now confirmed dead, twenty-four were injured, six of them still in critical condition. The gallery was closed.

  One of the TV cameras which had been on the street to film the protesters had been knocked over in the first rush of people fleeing from the street-level flashes. It caught those flashes, and then tipped over, but it had still been recording. The camera had landed in a position where it was facing up and sort of sideways at a seventy-five or eighty degree or so angle. For a long while it showed people rushing back and forth, then the arrival of first responders, but then it jumped to when water began cascading down, and then the fall of the water tower itself as it crashed to the pavement. It recorded up to the point when the flood reached it and the recording went blank. It had been a live feed so taped at the station and not destroyed along with the equipment.

  Blake Weston, the publicist, called back. Scott put the call on speakerphone. Weston said, “It’s more than media outlets. You’ve got the mayor and the governor calling.”

  “For what?” Scott asked.

  “Condolences. They’re going to be at the hospital.”

  “No media circus at the hospital. We’re going to visit those still in, but there will be no pictures with the mayor or the governor and no press conference, but we’d be happy to meet with them or talk with them after we’ve visited the injured and their families.”