The sun was high and the sky was clear so that any snow from yesterday could not linger. Anson supposed he was glad for it — he already missed the warmth. Winter was near uncharted territory for him, as was all this. Keeping put. Keeping put when he suspected danger. All across Europe, especially with his father in charge, it was only ever time to leave when stirrings began, whispers alleging swindlers and crooks of them. Whispers don’t chase you through Spain, Portugal, France, Italy. One just gets better at hearing them, and, Anson felt, worse at recognizing their volume. When the whispers became frank conversations became shouting in the streets, guns and flames, a lonely cell, he would wonder how he didn’t spot the difference between one harried local and a mob until they’d had him in ropes.
He was already endangering himself, fucking a married couple. Why was he investigating something that might as well be nothing? Robert was no real friend of his, he wouldn’t have told Anson about his trip home. And if he hadn’t warned him about Calder, Anson would take no stock in this anyhow. But Robert, a stranger who didn’t even like him, cared enough to warn him something was afoot. Maybe just to protect him, sure, or maybe he was like him. He hadn’t seen it like he’d seen it in Heath, in Pietro, in a couple farm boys up and down the country, but why else would he protect him? Was it just that he was a good man? Moreover, why was Anson showing him any loyalty now? He must have been soft with age, or bored besides.
He just couldn’t investigate on an empty stomach, so he hopped in the Victoria and drove up to the restaurant, where he received a usual welcome: pots and pans clanging, and Gin scraping wax. He sat with her and helped along while Heath hollered from the kitchen, some lengthy explanation of how different breads rose. He adored the man, but tuned out after ‘gluten structure.’ Breakfast was light; toast with fresh butter and blackberry jam.
“The brothers supply all the dairy.” Heath began as his wife set down the plates. “We make the butter ourselves.”
“It’s the only thing I’ve got going on outside candle-making.” Gin said, one brow raised high. “Almost like I’m a home-maker.”
“Do you churn it like they do in Pennsylvania?” Anson asked, then bit into his toast. It was a marvel the way Heath could turn anything, even something so simple, into a delicacy. The bread was hardy, the butter cool, creamy, and so fresh it tasted like it’d been scrubbed clean. The jam tasted as though the berries had just been picked, and a pinch of salt on top made his mouth water for another bite.
“No, I just take a big bowl of cream and stand there with egg beaters. Really!” Gin insisted. “The fat and the whey separate, I wring it out, that’s butter.”
“It looks disgusting, we should show you sometime.” Heath said, and Anson snorted unexpectedly. “But of course it’s delicious. And we can use the whey in polenta or oats. Waste not want not.”
“There it is.” Anson grinned. “Everyone else communes with God through prayer, you know.”
“They’re doing it wrong.” Heath answered, and looked thoughtful a moment. “I guess you just explained a lot of who I am. I do see the holiness in good food. Worshiping the best bits, repurposing the worst, composting the rest. A circle like the holy spirit.”
“So you have been reading it.” Anson thought of the Bible he’d sold the pair so long ago. He hadn’t spotted it yet, but they never left him alone to rifle through the drawers.
“Do either of you oddballs want some coffee? I’m in the mood.” Gin said, and went to the kitchen when Heath nodded. And then, when the door swung closed:
“When we’re done with breakfast I’m going to fuck you up the ass.”
“Careful now, or I’ll fuck you.” Anson said, and Heath smiled as dangerously as such a good man could.
“All in due time.” He took another bite of toast and brushed crumbs from his hands. “Do you love God?”
“Obviously. He makes all my money.” Anson said, though that was notably not what Heath meant. “As a queer, you mean? It would be dishonest for me not to. I’d have to find a different line of work, wouldn’t I?”
Because honesty was oh-so-important to him.
“Now ask me.” Heath said.
“Ask you?”
“Yes, ask me. Ask me what I think of God.” He wasn’t grinning, but he wasn’t upset either.
“Do you love God?” He asked. Heath picked his hand up and kissed it.
“I love whatever brought you here.” He said, and Anson very nearly flushed. He’d managed to avoid it thus far, but there it was: that swooping feeling right by his head, like he was back in Coney Island. Like stepping into Ruth’s shop and breathing in all those flowers. He really never had crushes or flirtations — those rare happenings were always infatuations, and he always wanted to curl up in these moods and stew in them. Heath’s eyes twinkled at him, and he smiled as best he could, though he was sure he looked completely dumbstruck.
“Coffee’s up!” Gin returned, calling as a waitress does, and Heath released his hand to grab some mugs beneath the counter. Another flare of jealousy rose in him, but he played cool and accepted the cream Gin was balancing along with the sugar and percolator. “I hope you like it strong, bible-man.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” But he walloped his cup with cream like always.
Anson and Heath ate breakfast in silence, the latter contented and the former distracted. He had never been these two things at once: the doped up lover-boy and the big game hunter. He was normal in Italy for awhile, distant from his father, in bed every day with Pietro, perfectly carefree. So he killed those men eventually. Self defense. So he stuffed their corpses beneath the floorboards. So he bathed in their blood. He was two halves of a man, sound and then snapped. He did what he needed to do. Sitting here, listening to Gin regale Heath on the previous evening’s festivities with a sour knot in his stomach, he did not know if the two halves could coincide.
After breakfast Gin threw all the dishes in the sink and grabbed Anson’s hand. Anson took Heath’s in turn, and the trio walked down the stairs as standard, past the meats and produce, into the bedroom. Gin always stripped first, and Heath always admired her as Anson removed his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt as Heath removed his tee and jeans, and the rest came off with Gin pulling and prodding at the pair, giggling all the way. Anson ended up with his back against the mattress and Gin above him, kneeling with her knees by his ears. She dipped low enough for his lips to meet her labia and his tongue to stroke her tenderly, and responded by running slender fingers through his hair, humming soft little moans as he went. He brought his hands up almost lazily, running them against her thighs, and already she bucked a little against him.
Heath must have seen the motion and mirrored it, his warm hands so firm and reassuring against Anson’s legs. He parted them easily, and soon Anson felt hot kisses down the back of his thighs, then against the curve of his ass. He gripped Gin’s legs as Heath’s tongue roamed, settling where God and the law may not have wanted him, but where Anson certainly did, and moaned against Gin’s wet pussy in response. She moaned in turn, then again to greater effect, gripping his hair tighter and grinding against his mouth. With his hands roaming along her thighs and ass she came quickly, crying out, though Anson was more distracted by Heath slipping away. Gin climbed down and inched down the sheets to look at him, his face likely all red, and she kissed him gently, almost a thank you, as Heath opened the nightstand drawer for the oil.
As he walked around the bed Gin sat up, earning her a quick kiss on the crown. Her hips straddled Anson’s, and he stood at attention at the heat of her. Heath was behind her now, slicking himself up with oil — in the quiet of the mountain Anson could hear his hand running up and down his length, gaining speed as Gin lowered herself onto Anson’s erect cock. Heath didn’t waste any time, thrusting himself into Anson with a satisfied moan that was matched by his two partners.
It wasn’t so sloppy this time. Gin bounced on top, and Heath fucked him at a matching pace while he mostly lay still, blissed out and groaning his pleasure. This time they lasted longer, but only just. Heath was in some sort of Nirvana today, and came first all over Gin’s back, with her following soon thereafter. Her cry, her hand on his chest, and that heavy, sated, look in her eye had him done for, and he came inside with a thrust and a grunt. Distantly, with his eyes a little glazed, he noted Heath wiping Gin clean with a tenderness she didn’t need and he hadn’t received, and sobered. What was wrong with that hotel? What with the town? And what with him, that he couldn’t just bask in this moment? He was so unsettled by this duality, unsettled by the absence of warmth when Gin climbed off of him. Unsettled when he dressed himself, unsettled when he climbed those rickety steps out. Only when the cold air hit him did he remember himself, that mask he had to don. He accepted the cigarette Heath handed him, but couldn’t quite meet his eye.
“What’s eating you, hon?” He asked, and brought up the Zippo. When Anson felt heat on his face he couldn’t tell what was him and what was the flame.
“The crab.” He exhaled a big puff of smoke. “Smiley wasn’t eating crab last night.”
Heath made a sour face, and Anson looked at him now, kept an even gaze.
“Did you see who was?” He grimaced. Anson shook his head. “Anita. Anita was eating crab. Smiley’s got a redhead at home.”
Huh. Anita. Something always came back to her.
“I didn’t know he was going to do that.” Heath said, almost apologetic. “He told Gin he wanted it sent over. I don’t care for that sort of thing happening in my restaurant.”
“Only if we’re all in on it.” Anson surprised himself with that, and Heath’s laugh was startling in the quiet. “There’s something about her.”
“She’s. . . Enigmatic. I guess.” Heath hesitated. “People like her.”
“Did people like her husband?” Anson wondered aloud, then shook his head. “You didn’t know him, did you? Or was that before you got here?”
“If I met him it couldn’t have been more than once or twice. He passed shortly after we arrived, I think.” He gazed into the distance, past the bluff and out to the grey waters. “That was our first winter, goddamn. I don’t think we hardly left this shack once, we were so cold. So afraid of being caught out. Gin was climbing the walls, you know how sociable she is. I just remember he was a big fucker. No one messed with him.”
The way Anson shouldn’t have been messing with this. Heath read his mind.
“Should I be concerned? You’re so quiet today.”
“Pot and kettle.” He grinned, but mentally he was doing backflips. Excuses, excuses, excuses. How to balance a life such as this. “I’ll uh — I’ll reach out discreetly. Check in on her. I’ve been on Smiley’s bad side once already, I don’t want her to end up there, too.”
“So you’re secretly a sweetheart.” Heath teased, and Anson waved him off. “Don’t worry too bad, bible-man. The villagers are all bark. And besides, she can hold her own.”
Anson leaned in for a kiss instead of answering. Sure, concern. Fine enough reasoning. Though he questioned its believability, it would have to do for now. He bid Heath adieu with another kiss, then returned to the cold Victorian and eased his way down the mountain. When he got back to town he chose to park in front of the hotel, but walked down the main road with squinting eyes in the bright sun. The din of the library was a relief to step into, as was its warmth as he pulled off the jacket sold to him by the object of his purpose there. As he made his way back to the building he spotted Ruth seemingly trapped in conversation with a very animated David, who waved at him from a distance.
“To pour wrath into the rivers, into the very sunlight — His entire universe is stitched with violence and cruelty! And He uses it to control our own violent desires — bible-man, what—”
“Don’t bother him.” Ruth swatted his sleeve. “I don’t know how you’re not sick of us already, Mr. Monroe.”
“I can’t imagine that day.” Anson smiled, and David clapped him on the shoulder. “How are things?”
“I’m cataloging stories of the Bible in relation to my series of medieval tapestry prints so I can properly annotate them.” David responded, wide-eyed and serious. “Then I can provide religious and historical context to the reader.”
“That means things are well.” Ruth translated. “You’ve got people inspired, sir.”
“All in a day’s work.” He tipped a hat that wasn’t there and she giggled breathlessly. She didn’t seem the type that belonged here, with that height and all that blonde hair. What had she done to land herself here? What needed anonymity so badly, as to isolate a beautiful young woman?
“I’ve just swung around to drop off some houseplants.” She pointed out the ivy adorning the welcome desk. “I had to nurse them back to health.”
“I told you I would kill them.” David rolled his eyes. She swatted him again.
“But I had faith in you.”
“That was your mistake.” David laughed, and glanced the clock. “Stay and listen for awhile. Or pick up a book if you’re sick of me.”
“There’s no ‘if.’ Unlike Mr. Monroe I’ve hit my limit for socializing today.” When she smiled at him her eyes twinkled. Lucky he had such a low attraction to women, or he’d get himself even further tangled up. But from his observations it seemed she was just like that with everyone. “You boys have a lovely day. Do try and enjoy the sunshine.”
“I’ll try.” Anson vowed, and David waved her off and immediately returned to his book, a giant tome with curled pages.
Anson let him be and continued on to the back of the library, where Sophia was washing china in a small basin. When she caught his eye she beckoned him over and dried her hands on her ruffled little apron. She wore it over a casual polka dot skirt and a silky blouse, with a red lip to match — her style was so reminiscent of Gin’s that he made a mental note to prod her about it his next visit.
“Hello, little boy.” She said in that cunning way of hers. “Why, don’t you look so sweet with your hair growing out.”
“You look sweet in your Minnie Mouse getup.” He responded, and was met with a belly laugh. Time with her brought him to realize why she took up in this drafty old library — she and David were kindred spirits of a shared insanity. It was just too charming an insanity for him to be upset by it.
“What’ll it be?” She asked, and he put a hand to his chin. “Something hot, I’m sure.”
“Hot and strong. Don’t start.” He warned, and she laughed again and turned to her tea tins.
“You have to give me time to think something up. I’m not as slick as you.” She opened a tin and held it out under his nose. The scent was richly spiced, almost overpowering. “They call it chai. It’s got black tea, so it’ll be caffeinated for you.”
“That sounds perfect.” He leaned against the counter and watched her grab one of her little copper pots, filling it with milk and water. She threw in some of the tea leaves and put the tin back on the shelf before disappearing down into her cabinet to fish out a tea cup. The one she emerged with had delicate purple flowers and a saucer to match.
“Do all these little flowers of yours have a meaning?” He asked, thumbing the cup.
“I’d have to look up some. Ruth knows better. This one’s columbine, it means folly.” Her thin fingers grazed the other side of his cup. “Are you not married yet, bible-man?”
He’d gotten the question before, and answered as softly as he could.
“Maybe in the Spring.” He said, and though she blushed she seemed mollified by that. In the Spring he should leave. And if he stayed, not that he was entertaining the idea, if he stayed he ought to take Gin as a wife and give her some respectability. And give her and Heath more cover. He felt charitable at the very notion, even as the wheels in his head turned to consider his inevitable escape. Why take solace in the idea that he could stay when every other time something’s gone wrong?
“I like the ones where she’s got the little cat.” Sophia said dreamily, bringing him back to Earth. “He’s so cute. From Pinocchio!”
He didn’t know the cat. He hadn’t been to a Nickelodeon since before he left Europe, and he didn’t go too often anyway since he could only ever sneak in. With work, too, and running home to help his mother pick his father up off the floor, he had hardly any spare time between all the manual labor and drunken disorderlies. Sophia must have been a few years younger than him, or just had a cushier lifestyle, wherever she came from.
“I always liked when they went on adventures. Like when Mickey killed all those giants.”
“Boys.” She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her pot for a minute, the silence comfortable. “I’m going to leave this to steep for five minutes, so you may want to find your book and come back.”
He waved her off and stepped away for a moment, though he wasn’t looking for books. He was looking for old newspapers, so that he could properly research the past. Or, rather, one resident’s past in particular. No one had said yet how Anita’s husband had died, and he wanted to know. There was something there to discover, he was sure of it, and something in this town’s records must’ve been able to help. He located the records section after a moment’s search in a dingy back corner: if David allowed dust he bet it would have been layered thick back here. But the newspapers, hung on old dowels, were still clean despite curled edges, and boxes marked by manila tags with scribbled writing lined a tidy, yet small, wooden shelf.
He knew this is where he ought to settle, but he didn’t want to be so openly digging around into the town’s past, so he scanned the nearby nonfiction aisle until he could find a book to satisfy, a biography on President Buchanan. He took it back with him to fetch his tea, though Sophia never really bothered reading the titles.
“Enjoy it, sweetheart. Let me know if you need anything else.” She said, and he left with dearest thanks. There was almost no need to worry this deep into the empty building, but he still propped open the book on a long mahogany table when he returned to the archives, setting the cup just beside it. The newspapers quickly proved disappointing — it seemed this unnamed town never had so much as even a flier, and a quick turn of the page to the obits of each proved unhelpful. The papers were random, from Eugene, Portland, Reno, and even Los Angeles, at random dates as well.
Some referenced recent history; that exploding airship; Golden Gates being erected; Roosevelt’s third term; D-Day. Those last two he’d only learned of in prison, in a confusion of French, Italian, and Afrikaans, in a dank cell or under the hot sun. The other men wanted the Germans to win, wanted the French to suffer as they did in the imprisonment, but Anson had heard too much to agree, even out of spite. Not that he’d seen any of it, any of the war. Actually, if he thought too hard about it, he didn’t care to think of all he’d missed in there.
The other papers weren’t historic at all, and Anson spent several minutes trying to figure out why David would keep them. Flipping through, he thought they’d contain some reference to the town or its occupants, but he came up dry, unless there was some alias in use. He had to owe it to the man’s packrat nature: maybe he was desperate to archive all the knowledge possible, even the unimportant? He set the papers aside and realized he had neglected his drink. When he took a sip it was too cool, but still delicious, all spicy and fragrant and tempered with rich milk. Another large swig prepared him to dig into the boxes, labeled ‘Microfilm’ with only a few dates.
Inside rested piles of unsorted film, incomprehensible to the human eye, and it took Anson a few minutes to find the magnifying lens at the bottom, then even longer still to hold the film up over a nearby desk lamp’s milk glass shade. Some of the pictures were distorted with age, all blurred or grainy. The first images were familiar to him; the Wright Flyer in Kitty Hawk; that big earthquake; the first Model T rolling off the line. The next were less so; soldiers spackled with mud; torpedos falling from planes; mushroom clouds. The war he didn’t see. There weren’t photos of the lead-up, because tension doesn’t make a great picture, and the tension was more apt in Europe anyhow. These photos must have been a precious catalogue for the librarian, a clear look at American history, but nothing local, nothing of note that Anson could find in the day he spent poring over them. It confounded him. The man loved to catalogue, but stopped once he hit his small town. The price of shelter, perhaps?
He searched nearby shelves for anything useful. The closest thing was a birdwatcher’s guide for the area and a travel guide for Southern California, and he sat uselessly with the former for a while until David came around with oil for the lamp and pointed it out.
“Bored with that one? Big bird watcher?”
“Not really. I just grabbed something slim because I think I’ll retire soon. What’s your favorite?” He pinched his eyes, strained from looking at the bird, then turned to David. He was too focused on pouring the oil level to respond. “I like the little fat birds that sit on cobblestone waiting for crumbs to drop. Seagulls, too. The friendly ones.”
“No matter where you go, they’re the same.” David noted thoughtfully. “I’ll say swans. Lots of symbolism there.”
“Such a librarian answer.” Anson teased. “Why not something nice, like a hummingbird?”
“We don’t really have hummingbirds here. We had them back where I’m from. Hummingbirds and Coca-Cola. Heh. Might as well drink this oil.” He said, and his accent popped on the last word, enough to make Anson smile at the familiarity.
“There’s no swans here, either.” He pointed out, and David shook his head.
“I ain’t here for the wildlife. Go on and finish your drink, Sophia will be offended if you bring back a full cup.” He said, and departed without another word. Damn if he didn’t suspect David to be right on that one, so he shot the tea back, now too chilled to be enjoyable, and promised himself to drink faster next time. After shelving his books he returned the cup to Sophia, singing her praises and thanking her kindly, and it seemed she did everything in her power not to twirl her hair and bat her lashes. He sincerely hoped that wasn’t going to be a problem, but also sincerely envisioned calling her a good girl and seeing if that was really her nature. As he headed out he gave David a wave.
“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.” David waved in turn, and then had a funny sort of smile on his face. “You know, I didn’t tell you anything.”
“Come again?”
“I didn’t admit to anything. I can say I’m from Georgia because you travel, so you’re well versed in spotting accents. You already knew it.” He said, and Anson paused.
“I apologize if I somehow caused offense.” He spoke slowly as to recall the conversation. “I didn’t mean to pry. Nor to seem — nor to attempt—”
“To pull the wool over anyone’s eyes.” David said, his eyes still wild and twinkling as always. He was too mad to get a proper read. “No need to apologize, there was no offense taken. I only meant to say that information was given, not taken.”
“Given by your nature, not by your choice.” Anson replied, and David smiled again.
“And yet I am still the one giving the answers out. The keeper and the proprietor. Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”
“Good evening, Mr. Brown.” Anson responded, as civil as he could be, and stepped out into the freezing night.
The cold hit him so hard he was almost distracted by what the librarian had said, his nose stinging immediately and his face all stiff. As he walked back to the hotel he peered into the dark night, the moon only a sliver and the road uneven, though at least no snow had fallen. His instinct was not the brooding sort, but he had the urge to do so knowing that Mr. Brown had basically threatened him with withholding the truth. Bragged about it, really. Had he slunk about the stacks in order to spot Anson inspecting the microfilm? Did he suspect what he was actually looking for? The swirl of questions lead him to one answer at least — the librarian wasn’t here for the wildlife, he was here for the power-trip.
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It was instinct that made him look for Westin at his usual post when he returned to the hotel, but still the concierge desk stood empty, a non-surprise that still turned his mood even further south. Not even Sonny stood guard as he climbed those majestic stairs, and he thought he would return to his room alone as always until he heard a footfall and looked up to find the proprietor looking back down at him. He was impeccably dressed, even if his suit looked a little older, in a navy that suited his pale skin, dark eyes, and silver hair. The style was wider in the leg and lapel than Anson preferred — he stuck with the slim fit the war made popular, and all the gray and black that allowed him to blend in, but Calder wore the old Gable, with a vest and a fine pocket watch that defined his features well. He looked even more tall and broad than Anson remembered, and he tried his best not to stare.
“Mr. Monroe.” He smiled slyly. “I was just headed your way.”
He produced a newspaper from a stack of paperwork tucked under his arm and handed it to Anson. Sacramento. That was a ways off.
“An associate from the area met me in the middle.” His voice was still so soft. “I know you enjoy getting your papers for all Robert brought you.”
“Right. And where is he again?” Anson fought off his stink eye, though Calder didn’t seem to notice.
“Eureka.” He replied so easily it was clear he didn’t care whether or not Anson bought it. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy the little gifts he gave you? The gift I want to give you now?”
Anson clenched his jaw. He felt small a couple steps beneath the already tall man.
“I thought so. You seem the type who likes to receive.” Anson did not, nor would he ever, blanch. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”
“Good evening, Mr. Morris.” He passed him on the stairs and felt as though he’d been played twice.
He ordered dinner, a turkey special that arrived shortly with canned peas and carrots, a mash made from potato flakes, and a gravy that tasted artificially delicious. While he ate he skimmed the paper, but found nothing of note within, and nothing relating to the town. When his meal was finished and his plate returned to the hallway he slipped out of his suit and into his loungewear, a striped gray set worn down past softness, now thin. At least the bed was now piled with blankets, courtesy of that odd purveyor and not the missing man -- the man in Eureka. Anson needed to rest his head, and groaned when he hit the pillows.
In the morning he was half-convinced he’d see Mr. Morris in the hallway, or maybe in the showers again, but it was only him and the steam. He changed into his red sweater again and headed back to his room with tousled hair, still a little damp, and was unlocking his door when he thought he heard a voice behind him.
“Anson,” it said, but he recognized it and turned around. Not Mr. Morris, it was Heath standing in the hall behind him. All the hairs on his arms stood up, and an alarm bell went off in his head. “Inside, Anson.”
He opened the door and rushed in quickly, then closed it as soon as Heath entered. He looked calm, in his usual leather jacket and jeans, though Anson wasn’t sure how he kept from freezing.
“No one saw me,” He began easily, maybe noting the panic Anson was trying to shove down. These were two different worlds he had, the suspicious hotel and the lover he’d never seen outside the restaurant. Something was so wrong to watch them collide. “I knew Sonny was at the farm, he picks up wine from the brothers.”
“What are you -- why are you here? What’s wrong?” He asked, and Heath shook his head.
“Cool down, Anson, you look like a snake bit ya. Nothing’s wrong, except I wanted to warn you.” He said, and Anson leaned close. “Gin’s on her blood, so she’s unavailable for a few days.”
“Ah,” Anson said. He’d been wondering when that would happen.
“And the timing’s good, because we’ve got the slaughter getting dropped off.” Heath added, then pulled a face. “You likely don’t want to be around for that.”
“What, they come in living?” He asked, trying not to look disgusted. Thinking of cows getting killed upset him. He liked seeing them on his drives even more than people, and he wasn’t too sad when people got killed, neither.
“No, but the ice truck is a sight. Smells like copper. The blood stains the snow. And we have to butcher and salt them. Stuff the right cuts with the right spices to cure. Well of course that’s the part I like.” Heath said, and Anson snorted. “But the restaurant closes for two days. We’ve got so much work to do. I wanted to tell you because I hired Dallas and Smiley to help lift the heifers onto the racks. If you show up it’ll look suspicious.”
“It would.” Anson paused and thought about this. It would be even more so to wait until evening to sneak up to them, especially because he sensed the nighttime was Calder’s most active. Like a vampire. “Why did you hire those two? I thought you’ve never met them.”
“Usually the truck comes earlier, but some weather to the south delayed it. I usually hire Robert and Joe, but Robert’s gone home already and Joe tweaked his back the other day. Or he’s making excuses to get out of it.” Heath said, but Anson quietly wondered when he’d last seen Joe. More than a few days now, and only from a distance.
“You could’ve hired me.” He said, and hopefully didn’t sulk. Heath seemed surprised.
“I thought I was sparing you. The meat is heavy and the blood stains your whole person. The fishmongers know, but a bible-seller. . .” He looked a little bashful. Likely he did not want to say that he did not find Anson worthy of the task, but that didn’t bother him. Better to be looked at as someone unable to stomach such things.
“You are sparing me.” He said appreciatively. “I was just wondering how I got out of it.”
“Ha! Don’t worry. I might make you knead pasta dough, but I know better than to demand all this from you.” He said, then looked around the room again. “Lots of red in here, huh?”
“Huh. Have you ever been in this hotel?”
“A few times. Isaac and Marvin hosted a wine tasting in here once after they were banned from the library. For the fourth time, I think.” Heath smiled recollecting it, and though Anson didn’t know what happened the smile caught on. Doubtless the boys were being their rowdy selves. “And once I wanted pig skin -- I think it’s called chicharones -- for an experiment, and I had to pick it up from Mean Joe during his card game. I’ve never been up the stairs and in the rooms though. It looks fine in here.”
He meant fine like grand, and looked around appreciatively, but Anson wasn’t satisfied.
“You’ve met the proprietor?”
“I only know him by reputation. I’ve heard he’s an odd one.” He looked to Anson with some interest. “Why, have you met him? He seems to be a bit of a recluse.”
“What makes him odd?” Anson asked, and Heath paused. “I mean, I’d like to know if I’m staying under his roof.”
“Well, he doesn’t eat dairy. He doesn’t eat meat. I don’t even think he eats fish. That’s why he’s never been to the restaurant, I can’t serve him anything except maybe fresh greens in the summer.” Heath shrugged. “Not that he’d emerge anyhow. Someone told me he thinks the world is ending.”
“The world is ending.” Anson repeated it, trying to really hear the words.
“That’s what he thinks, so they say.” Heath grinned. “I love the earth. I love to watch her turn. I think she’ll go forever.”
“She just might.” Anson said to himself. The earth probably didn’t care about the petty human problems on her surface, or what they believed she’d do. That’s what made it easy to keep doing this. There was nothing out there to stop him.
“So I came to say goodbye for now. But you have to come back in three days.” Heath said, and Anson looked up to see some nervousness. The poor man seemed half-convinced he’d skip town. Not that he could now, the snow was too much for his beloved Victoria. “And we’ll be waiting for you.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, too.” Anson said, and rushed into the other man for a kiss. It was deep and heavy, and he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. Heath always kissed like it was urgent, and it felt the same today, or even more so with Anson’s heart beating so fast, and his hard cock pressed against his partner’s.
“I want you.” Heath whispered to him, only furthering the strain. “I want you inside me.”
“This -- this isn’t the place, Heath.” Anson pulled away, uncertain, but Heath only pulled off his coat and threw it on the chair.
“No one knows I’m here. Just Gin, and she’s asleep. She’s not keeping track of time. She can’t take over when we’re alone in here.” He said, and Anson understood. He wasn’t the only one who noticed that Gin could get between them, often literally. Often with her body, as beautiful as it was. You helped yourself to my husband, she’d said. There was still some jealousy remaining. Heath unbuckled his pants, and Anson found himself removing his sweater.
This was the worst place to possibly be doing this. It could totally destroy him, both of them. It wasn’t safe. But it was a chance to help himself to Gin’s husband, his lover, yet again, and he wasn’t about to stop himself from that. Hopefully it would not be a repeat of poor Pietro in his loft, moaning and begging for him loud enough for his father to hear. Loud enough for the man to come round with a mob. Loud enough for Anson to kill for.
When Heath was nude he grabbed at him, and Anson was still kicking off his briefs when they toppled into bed together, Heath’s mouth on his cock. His lips were as beautiful as ever wrapped around his thick head, but he didn’t want the other man there long. He must have felt the same, because as soon as he’d slobbered on it enough to lube his cock he got on his hands and knees. Anson knocked him over to his back so he could look at him, and hovered over the man to watch his expression when he shoved his cock into his asshole. It went in easily, like he’d been prepared, but still the look on his face was one of wanton lust.
“Does Gin touch you here?” Anson asked as he positioned himself. He grabbed at Anson’s thigh to bring it up and pushed as deep as he could, hissing at the warmth and the tightness. His dick was already throbbing. “Does your wife fuck your pretty little ass?”
“It makes her so fucking wet.” Heath stuttered, and brought his hand around his erect cock. Anson grabbed him by the wrist and slammed it against the sheets, then began to buck against him mercilessly. He pulled out as far as he could and slammed in hard, and soon he was eliciting moans from the man underneath him. He kept going as they got louder, and their faces got redder, and he somewhat deliriously imagined Calder outside his door, listening in, his own hand jammed down his pants, stroking that big beautiful cock of his.
“Anson.” Heath whined. “Fuck, right there. You fuck me so good.”
“Better than her?” Anson asked, his gaze hazy, and instead of answering Heath broke their eye contact and looked down to the thrusting. His hand went back to his cock, and again Anson slammed it down. “No. I’m the only one who gets to touch you today.”
He spit on it, then grabbed it while he kept thrusting, yanking more than he needed to. Heath had to cover his mouth when he groaned, and anson watched him flush and take it until he leaned over, kissing the crook of his neck. His ass bobbed up and down on top of him, his balls slapped his skin. He felt Heath’s dick get damp in his hand, precum leaking out.
“I love fucking you.” He whispered to Heath. “I could fuck you forever. I could make you my whore. I could have you in your home. In your kitchen. In your wife’s bed.”
“You fuck me better than her.” Heath whispered back, and Anson groaned. He was close. “You fuck me like I’m the only one.”
“You’re the only one.” He said. “You’re the only one, baby.”
Heath groaned, and Anson felt him come undone in his hand. He was quick behind him, and shuddered when he released a hot load in his ass. He stayed in for a few moments, then stood when he pulled out, his hands still on Heath’s thighs. The man was a mess underneath him, with cum all over his stomach and a red, blissed out look on his face, and Anson kept him spread so he could watch the cum leak out. Maybe it was time for Heath to be getting back, but now that they’d come so far Anson felt the need to clean him up with his broad tongue, first around his hole and then traveling up Heath’s dick and stomach. He licked at his chest hair and his nipples, too, then settled on top of him with his dick against his milky thigh.
“Anson.” Heath kissed him without a care for where he’d been. “Anson, Anson, Anson.”
Anson pulled him close and held him there. He could not imagine three days absent from him. Nor could he imagine the return, and sharing him with his wife again. He already knew she was nonnegotiable, that Heath would never leave her. Even if the laws were different, even if he wanted to leave this town, his restaurant. Anson was tied to this. Caught in the town and caught on the side.
“She doesn’t fuck on her blood?” Anson asked, and Heath sighed. “Some girls like that.”
“She gets too nauseous. Sometimes we can’t even open the restaurant, or I wouldn’t have a waitress.” He kissed Anson’s temple. “Next month maybe you can come around. You can suck me off in the kitchen again.”
Anson snorted. Well, that was something. Maybe he could live on once a month. Heath stirred under him, so he reluctantly let him up and watched him dress. Three days. Maybe that was enough to figure out what the hell was going on here.
“You’ve really never met the man who runs this hotel?” Anson asked as Heath tied his boots.
“No, have you?” He asked in return. Twice he asked. Maybe just a slip of the mind.
“No. You’ve met Westin, though. Robert. I think you’ve said. Besides your pigs.” Anson tried to recollect as Heath stood.
“He’ll come to the restaurant now and then in the summers. He and Sonny try to offer their stock every once in a blue moon, too, but it’s all Campbell’s cans for them and the guests and soybean blocks for the proprietor. I’m not keen on either.”
“Not even soybeans?” Anson walked him the short distance to the door.
“There’s plenty of good recipes out there.” Heath reasoned. “But there’s just no substitute for me. I like meat too much. Three days, bible-man.”
“Three days, chef.” He kissed him, then watched as Heath darted into the halls and crept down the stairs, out of sight. He wondered what would change in three days. Maybe everything.
He went for a new shower, still with no one in sight, and found the halls and the reception desk empty still when he departed. There had been a fresh snow overnight, and he found the reason for the empty lobby as Sonny shoveled the walk, his hands bound in thick gloves and his coat overwhelming him. Anson walked behind him as far as he could go, but the roads weren’t plowed at all, so to go anywhere he had to bury his feet in the snow. Weighing options was a waste of time: it was so cloudy out it was bound to snow even more still, and there wasn’t enough thru traffic to melt anything, so he was to either sit in his room or wet his ankles. He sunk into the white powder and went on his way, mentally cursing all the cold and the ice in the world.
Lucky his walk wasn’t far. Anita only lived down the road, and he was pleased to see the stairs down to the tailor’s shop were already shoveled clean. When he knocked his boots, Heath’s boots, crunched on the salt beneath them. When the door opened she stood to the side quickly, and he tapped the snow off his toes before he stepped in and allowed the door to close behind him.
“Well don’t you look toasty! My, what a handsome coat you’ve got on!” Anita boomed with a grin, and Anson shouldered it off though he wasn’t yet thawed. “How are ya, handsome?”
“How are you, gorgeous?” He asked in return, and she laughed.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Come on now, I’ve got some tea here from Sofia I’m brewing. You can help me polish off a cup.”
They settled down into a large pair of mismatched chairs, the place looking much unchanged since Anson’s last visit. Still with fabric hung everywhere, and coats lining the wall, though on her desk behind her he saw the beginnings of an Easter hat, which she must have received orders for way in advance. The tea she poured was chai, recognizable by the scent alone, and suited to her with its fiery blend. He walloped his cup with cream, and she poured only a splash, then raised her cup to his and drank.
“She really does have the best blends.” Anita set her cup in her saucer. “I never thought I could like tea, I was always a coffee girl, but the stuff makes me crazy. Crazier. You like coffee?”
“I do. And I never thought I’d like tea so much either.” He took a sip of his and felt his chest warm, though she didn’t make it as good as Sophia could. “She sells to you in bulk?”
“As bulk as a little pile of dried leaves can be.” She said, then gave Anson a sly look. “She’s a pretty young thing, isn’t she? It’s been too long since I’ve been able to sew a white dress.”
Anson pretended to demure at that, and looked around as though deep in thought.
“Your father was a tailor?” He asked, and she seemed confused. “I only now notice the sign outside says tailor and not seamstress. What’s the difference, anyhow?”
“A tailor fucks your wallet and a seamstress fucks you.” She said dryly. It must have been an adage in her field. “No, my husband was a tailor.”
“That’s how you met?” Anson asked, and she only nodded. “That’s sweet. You must have had a lot in common.”
“We both certainly loved my parent’s money.” She rolled her eyes. Anson smiled, though not unkindly. “I loved it for the legacy, he loved it for the power. Like he didn’t have enough from his costuming days.”
“Costuming? Like in Hollywood?” Anson sipped his tea to avoid showing any expression.
“Like Broadway. And he’d suck up to all those producers and investors, even when they called him a Vaudeville Moor. I was so sick of it.” She tsked. “You think they’re so forward in New York? They still called me a mulatto. They’ll say it anywhere but here.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Anson said, and he meant it. “I never knew you lived in the city. I bet that’s where your charm comes from.”
“Too true!” She laughed. “But of course, there’s no place like home. We traveled to and fro until he was too ill. And now without him there’s no reason to go.”
“There’s plenty reason. You’ve just got no yearning.” He said, and she nodded once more. “Was he ill for long?”
“Only in the head.” She winked. “Your skills at an interview are marvellous, you know. In another life you could take confession.”
“I can’t say I’ve never been tempted.” He said, but she narrowed her eyes in a way he didn’t like. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in one place for so long. Now I finally have the opportunity to get to know my neighbors.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re here?” She asked, and took another sip. He sighed and set down his cup.
“Okay, you caught me. I came to ask you about Sophia. You know everyone, you’re so sociable.” He complimented, and she smiled just a little. “So I figured I could discreetly. . . just asking, of course.”
“I hope you’re asking as a gentleman.” She said, and he nodded sternly. “Well, she’s certainly young and ready to wife. She would run a charming household.”
“Next to her shop.” Anson insisted, and she smiled wider.
“I do believe you’d see a riot if she were to close.” She said, and he quite agreed. “You’re in need of flowers -- that’ll be at Ruth’s shop. And Sonny probably has a box of cordials behind the bar he can sell you. But for the life of me I’m not sure where you’d get a ring. You’ll probably have to drive out in the spring, unless one of the fishwives in town volunteers an heirloom.”
“Maybe I’ll figure out if she’ll have me, first.” Anson said, his nerves hidden behind an amused little grin. He absolutely did not want to marry Sophia. This was not the turn he wanted this conversation to take.
“Well of course. All in due time.” She winked again. “But you’ll have to let me know what season you’ll marry, so I can have the dress ready. Oh! I wonder if she’ll want red. It’s good luck in China to marry in red.”
“You really love your work.” He said in hopes of steering away from this wedding business, but she instead poured them both a fresh cup and went on.
“And of course being the seamstress I will hold you to task on any missteps. I will spot a wider waist, let me assure you. I always see which ones are pregnant before the ceremony.”
“No, no, no. That’s not -- I would never--” But she swatted his arm.
“I’m messing with ya, sunshine! No, if you touch her before the marital bed is made we’ll just kill you.” This was by far the friendliest threat he’d ever gotten, and likely the most genuine, too. He only lifted his glass to that, and she laughed. “Good boy. I’ve got some brandy in here for that.”
“It’s not yet noon.” He pointed out, but she already went away to her desk and began rifling through her drawers. “How many wedding dresses have you made?”
“David would string you up himself.” She spoke over him. “And Ruth would pass around the piñata stick. But I know. I believe in you. This town is a great place for fresh starts. Ah!”
She found the brandy and rushed back over to him. He accepted what he thought would be a drop and ended up being a pour. This maybe explained some of her behaviour. She poured some for herself, too, then chucked the bottle under the table.
“Did your parents make this?” He sipped it and did his very best not to cough. It was strong, but not too spiced, only heavy on the vanilla. It may have paired well with the tea if there were not so much of it. Alcohol was just not his vice.
“They did. And the town wiped their slates clean. It’ll wipe yours clean, too. A second chance.” She knocked back her tea as Anson frowned. “Yessir, you’ll make her a fine husband. A handsome one, too.”
“Thanks.” He said, but readjusted in his seat, unsettled by her words. “I don’t need a second chance.”
“Sure you do.”
“No, I haven’t done anything wrong.” Anson lied. “You think everyone in this town’s done wrong?”
“‘Course not. It’s just an easy place to end up if you have.” She said, and his frown deepened. “Speak up, ‘fore your mouth slides off your face.”
“You think I’ve done wrong and you’re willing to hand me off to your friend?” He asked genuinely. “I haven’t.”
“You have.” She said, matter-of-factly, and he wasn’t sure where to go with that.
“Maybe you’ve done wrong.”
“What have I done?” She asked, still with a smile, and he paused. He didn’t want to throw an accusation out, especially at a lady and even more so at an insane one.
“I’ll find out.” He smiled back at her.
“How?” She asked, her brows raised. “Simple question, hun. How.”
“I don’t have to tell you that.” He set down his cup, tea unfinished. She leaned forward and met his eye before he could stand.
“You can keep asking around, first off. That’ll only raise concerns, though. Why is this gentleman asking after a widow when he’s already cast his eye on this beautiful Spring bride we’ve got for him? You can search the office while you’re here. Ply me with a drink, maybe I’ll nod off and you can look through my desk.” She said. He stared at her, his own face a mask.
“Mostly that’s fabric receipts though, very disappointing. You could wait until you know I’m not around, like at mass, and creep upstairs to dig through my living space. But you won’t find anything there. That’s a waste of time. And I’ll prove it to you if you like -- why, I’ll take you up there right now and give you a tour.” Her expression was sour now. “I’ll even take you to the bedroom and bend over, and you can fuck the seamstress. But it still wouldn’t give you anything. Actually, it would give me more, wouldn’t it? Because your response to that tells me quite a bit.”
He had paled at her bawdy words, her near threats. Her prediction of his only vague plans.
“In the great search for information all you’ve got are your deduction skills, sweetheart, and they ain’t shit compared to mine.”
“So that’s all you’ve got, too.” He said, and she shook her head. “No, you may have an empty house, but I’m only a traveler. I could be anyone. I’ll read your receipts and you’ll read my face, and that’s all. Deduction and big, empty words. To match that lonely house.”
“To match Jerry Johnson’s 1949 Ford Victoria.” She said, and Anson’s blood ran cold. “You can read receipts all you like, I can read your plate. It’s registered to one Jerry Johnson. Stolen a few months ago with all the bibles he was selling. You know he didn’t survive the attack, right? Did you check for him in the paper?”
He had. He just hadn’t meant to hit the man so hard. He was older than Anson had realized.
“It’s not very difficult to wire into Eureka and ask about a plate you’ve seen. And it’s not too challenging to look up crime reports in certain cities.” She leaned back in her chair. “Once you mentioned New York in November. There’s a lot of carjackings in New York, and a couple of Novembers to sift through, but I found the name Jack Clark, with a Cadillac and his bibles all stolen. That one lived, so you know.
“You tell David you’ve seen hummingbirds in Georgia, and those are best to spot on blooming Summer days. Atlanta was a wash, but when I called around a few smaller sheriff’s offices I hear about Frank Marshall, a bible seller from Peachtree who was killed when his Pontiac was stolen and his barn burned down. And the sheriff tells me a charming man with gelled curls is all to blame. That the barn was full of bibles and cash and now the widow’s got nothing to rely on, not even the straw, not even the chickens. But you go ahead and use your powers of deduction on me.”
“You killed your husband.”
“I didn’t.” She said simply. Somehow, after all that, he could finally believe it. This wasn’t a killer he was looking at. This was something far more twisted.
“Well, you’re fucking Smiley.”
“Sure, sometimes.” She shrugged. “Nice to see the chivalrous side of you. Tell me his wife’s name since you’re so upset for her.”
“Whore.” He spat, and she laughed.
“It’s Bethany.” She laughed harder. “Aw, your face. It doesn’t matter, sweetheart, I wash my sins off every week. Jesus died for them, y’know, and I honor his sacrifice by sinning frequently. Just like you, killer.”
“Who have you told?” He asked, and tried not to visibly clench his fists. His footprints were in the snow outside, straight from the hotel to here, and the bottom of his pants were wet. He’d been in too long to say he just found her like this. Maybe if she had a well he could make her disappear for a while, but he hadn’t seen one, and besides didn’t know how to drag her out undetected. The only option would be to stuff the corpse somewhere and come back before it started to stink, but it would have to be a good hiding spot, because he couldn’t imagine no one looking for her. It wouldn’t be hard to notice her gone.
“No one. If an officer asked, I told him I saw the plate headed up north by Seattle.” She said, though he wasn’t sure he bought that. “I’ll let Ruth know you’re on your way. She’ll chase you down if need be.”
“You -- what? You still expect me to marry this girl? You know. You know the truth. I’m a murderer many times over.” Anson looked down at his hands, his stomach flip-flopping. He only had tea and brandy in his system.
“You are. But I and all the other good people of this town know that once you accept Jesus into your heart all things can be forgiven.” She stood, her expression still so honest, and he stood with her, all formal and unsure. “The two of you in front of the priest, a new baptism, a confession, that’s all it’ll take. You were meant to be a good man of God just as we all are. You’ll fall in line with the right guidance.”
“There’s no priest in this town.” Anson thought aloud. Nevermind that his stomach recoiled at the very idea, an idea he’d built a life selling. It was against his very nature. “I’ve met you all, there’s no priest.”
“He will forgive you. You can repent.” She insisted. He didn’t want either, and his head began to spin. Forgive an animal for its instinct, forgive a man for keeping himself warm and fed, forgive a son who was only protecting himself and his lover from his rat bastard father. “Go on, then. I’ll start on the dress. We can fix you.”
“I’ve come too far to be fixed! Fixed like a dog, you mean. Anita, you’re fucking insane.” This was the least composed he’d been in a long time. “You’re insane and I’m rotten and when the townsfolk catch wind they’ll hang me for my crimes and you for withholding them.”
“So don’t tell them.” She said very obviously, then looked coy. “That’s your whole thing, ain’t it, sugar? Scamper along now, and don’t go too long without seeing Ruthie.”
He stood still a moment, just to think. At least her playing this nice meant he didn’t have to kill her. Not yet anyhow, and he wouldn’t like to if he had nowhere to run and no way to get away with it. Unless the religious angle was a ploy, but he couldn’t see it: Anita might’ve been crazy, but she wasn’t stupid, and if she wanted to take him down she had all the information she needed. She didn’t have to wait, she didn’t even have to tell him she knew. She could’ve had him strung up whenever she wanted. So it seemed she wanted him forgiven. And it also seemed she hadn’t killed her husband.
He wanted so sorely to go to the little shack by the sea. He wanted to hold the chef in his arms and not worry about this godforsaken town and all its secrets. He wanted his loyalty or his guilt towards Westin to disappear just the way he did. But that man tried to warn him, and now he was just up and gone. Something was coming for him next. Maybe for Heath, too, or even for Gin. What was all this for, if not to protect himself, protect them? His whole life had been a game of survival, and this was just one more, with an added challenge of two extra souls.
He stepped out the door without another word, throwing his coat on as he went. The sky was still cloudy and hardly any of the snow had been tamped down, though now he could see fires in many house’s chimneys as the housewives broke fast and children played in the distance. His footing was uneven in the snow, and he walked back towards the hotel with his brain swimming. His license plate. He never would have thought. Maybe he would’ve worried closer to Arizona where he took the car in the first place, but even so he’d managed to charm every officer who’d ever pulled him over. They never called the station to pull up his plate. Wired for it, she said. But she had no cables, no one in town did except Joe. And when was the last time he’d seen Joe?
At this realization he quickened his pace, past the hotel, down to the highway and down the mountain. Not a single car had passed in the night, the snow untouched but for Anson’s leaden footsteps, and when Joe’s General Shack came into view he saw the windows darkened. His fingers and toes were red and stinging, his face felt like a mask, and he hurried to reach the doors only to find them locked. Banging on them wielded no response, and he could not see within through frosty windows and piles of merchandise on the shelves. He wanted to scream his frustration, but instead he stood back, then ran and threw himself at the door to ram it with his shoulder. He was furiously sore, but tried again, and a third time when he finally heard something splinter. He kicked around the doorknob until finally the old thing gave in, and he pushed it open to illuminate the dark room.
And Joe’s body on the floor.