Bellingham Mysteries 3:

Black Cat Ink

Nicole Kimberling

www.loose-id.com

Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink

Copyright © October 2010 by Nicole Kimberling

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eISBN 978-1-60737-878-5

Editor: Judith David and Christine Pacheco

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One

Peter Fontaine did not spend the majority of his free time in alleys. However, readers of the Hamster, Bellingham, Washington’s most independent weekly newspaper, could be forgiven for thinking that lurking near Dumpsters was his primary hobby. His most famous piece of investigative reporting—coverage of the murder of Shelley Vine three years prior—had been an exercise in extensive alley dwelling.

And not nice alleys, either. Wet, unevenly paved downtown alleys filled with urine, drunken college students, and angry, misguided skunks.

By comparison the alleys five miles east, near scenic Whatcom Falls Park, were like country lanes. Oak and maple branches, leafed in autumn gold and red, hung over the gravel lane. Well-maintained garbage cans dotted the wayside. Here and there a rusty old engine or push lawn mower lay subsumed by rose brambles and convolvulus and dewy spider webs. The only smell of decay was the faint scent of fermentation from a dozen or so fallen apples.

And there were skunks here as well, but they seemed an altogether nicer variety of Mephitis happy to give Peter a brief nod and go on their way, leaving him to stalk the alley in peace.

It was six o’clock in the morning, and the sun had yet to fully illuminate the gray October fog. Faint drizzle fell, covering the foliage with a sheen of moisture. There was just enough light for Peter to see into the backyards of the houses he passed. He glanced to the left, then to the right, walking his bike crookedly, trying his best to impersonate a student returning from an epic night of drinking—all the while searching for a small granite statue.

He saw trampolines, beehives, chicken coops, tents, and swing sets—both decrepit and new—gardens and the unmistakable purple light from grow lamps seeping from one basement window. But he did not see anything that resembled the sculpture that had been stolen from the Western Washington University sculpture garden three months before.

Vexed, he headed toward Whatcom Falls Park proper. There he sat down on a curb in the parking lot to text Nick that he’d hit another dead end.

He typed. Whatcom Falls a bust. R U home or at studio?

Prominent local artist Nick Olson was the boyfriend that Peter’d acquired during his investigation into the Vine case. He was a big brunet ex-army intelligence officer who, after having discovered his more artistic side in the arms of an internationally renowned painter—the now six-years-deceased silver fox Walter De Kamp—had embarked on a painting career of his own.

Peter and Nick presently lived together in De Kamp’s hulking modernist house that hugged a sheer cliff face above a body of water on the west coast of Washington State recently renamed the Salish Sea. On the one hand, Peter loved the house. Not only was it a better domicile than he could ever hope to afford on any salary he might earn in his lifetime; it also had a great, romantic name: the Castle on Wildcat Cove.

The only downside of the house was that it was the house Nick had lived in with another man. It was De Kamp’s massive abstract paintings that decorated the walls and De Kamp’s color sense that had led to what Peter felt was a strong overuse of dreadnaught gray, particularly in the master-bathroom tiling. Peter had no idea why a person would choose battleship when Payne’s gray, the signature gray-blue of the Pacific Northwest sky, was so much more beautiful.

Occasionally, as he gazed at the house, a feeling very much like inadequacy would assault Peter. Look what De Kamp had given his lover, while the most Peter could hope to give Nick was a headache from his constant talking. He wished he could bring something as remarkable and original to Nick’s life, but Peter wasn’t an artist. He wasn’t even a poet. He would look at the Castle and have no idea why Nick stayed with him, but he did. Nick was nothing if not loyal.

Now, on account of Nick’s loyalty to De Kamp, Peter was shivering in the drizzle, searching backyards for a five-foot statue of… Well, Peter didn’t know what it was of, exactly, since the name of the piece was Untitled Five. But from photographs he had decided that it looked something like a phallus.

Maybe even Nick’s phallus.

There was a familiar and somewhat jaunty angle to the thing.

From deep within the pocket of his hoodie, Peter’s phone vibrated.

Nick had replied. Studio. Where R U? Want ride?

To which Peter responded Yes. W. Falls. By trout tank.

5 minutes, came Nick’s reply.

A chill, wet breeze moved around Peter and he pulled his hood up to keep the damp out of his ears. Skinny and wiry, Peter had always gotten cold easily. Nonetheless, when standing before the closet, he could never quite bring himself to dress in the unflattering, loose style typical of the Pacific Northwest dude. This always led to the realization that he should have worn a heavier coat. But then he’d realize he didn’t own a heavier coat that wasn’t a parka, and his manly pride kept him from borrowing Nick’s clothes. Peter had never considered himself a slave to fashion, but occasionally he had to admit to being fashion’s bitch.

As was his habit, when he was bored or uncomfortable, Peter be began to compose text in his head.

When the phone rang, early on the morning of July fifth, Nick Olson picked up on the first ring. The ability to rise quickly to alertness from a dead sleep was a holdover from Olson’s army days, and his crisp-sounding voice belied the fact that he’d been snoring one second before.

Olson sat up. July sun streaming in the wide, curtainless windows dappled the dark, curly hair on his muscular chest and glinted off his small gold hoop earrings. As he spoke to the mysterious caller, this reporter felt both his curiosity and lust rising. He began to eavesdrop in earnest.

As he listened, Olson’s expression darkened.

It transpired that a De Kamp sculpture, Untitled Five, had been stolen from the Western Washington University campus.

Somewhere close by, a cat let out a screeching wail, which triggered a chorus of early-morning barking from the resident dogs. Peter sniffed and wiped a drop of rain from his nose and glanced up the drive for Nick’s Audi.

Nothing. He went back to his mental composition.

Olson, who had considered De Kamp to be his husband despite the fact that De Kamp had died before legal marriage had become a possibility, took news of the theft badly. Campus police supposed that the crime had to have been the result of Fourth of July high jinks and theorized that it would turn up eventually. It never did.

Again came the meowing of a cat, only much closer now. Peter peered through the fog toward circular gray trout hatchery tanks. A tiny black form wandered there, giving high-pitched and plaintive calls. The kitten walked with a strange stiffness. Not quite a limp, but not quite normal either.

“Here, kitty.” Peter stretched his arm toward the kitten, wiggling his fingers slightly—the way he had always attracted his friend Evangeline’s three-legged cat, Tripod.

The kitten picked up the pace, crossing the lawn toward him, still crying.

If it had a collar, Peter reasoned, he could take it back home. The thing was clearly lost. If not, he could take it to the shelter, where at least it could be fed.

The kitten reached him, meowing piteously and butting its head into his fingers, purring much more loudly than he would have thought such a small creature capable. He was about to scratch the kitten’s back when he saw it. A circular patch of the kitten’s skin had been removed from its back.

Peter pulled his hand back in horror.

Seconds later, he saw headlights approaching along the park’s narrow wooded drive. The sleek silver body of Nick’s Audi blended with the morning fog.

Peter scooped up the crying kitten, stood, and flagged him down. Nick smiled at him as he opened the car door. “Hey, gorgeous, need a ride?”

“We need to go to the vet right away.” Peter set the injured kitten on the passenger seat before loading his bike into the back of Nick’s car. Returning, he gathered the strangely docile creature in his hands and flopped down into the car. The kitten barely filled his cupped palms. In the close confines of the car, he could smell the blood from its wound.

“Where did you find that thing?” Nick leaned closer; then, catching sight of the round patch of bare flesh, he sucked in his breath sharply. “I see what you mean about a vet.”

“Somebody will be at the Cat Clinic by now. We can go there.”

“I don’t know how to get to the Cat Clinic.”

“Just head downtown. I’ll give you directions.” With one finger, Peter petted the kitten’s nubby, rounded ear.

Nick glanced over. “What do you think happened to it?”

“I think the Halloween cat skinner came back to town.”

Chapter Two

One thing Bellinghamsters love is their pets. They dote on their dogs, they dig their Indian runner ducks and backyard chickens, and adore their miniature goats. But in terms of feline-friendly municipalities, Bellingham is a little piece of heaven for Felis silvestris catus, the common house cat. Perhaps that is why the Halloween cat skinnings of three years prior caused such collective outrage.

Even die-hard dog lovers distributed posters and door-belled, asking people to come forward with any information that might be useful in apprehending the person responsible for removing large sections of fur from at least five black cats. Three of the animals died from their injuries, and the other two survived, but with terrible scars.

The cat skinner was never arrested, although an anonymous police officer claimed that they more or less knew the identity of the culprit but couldn’t acquire enough evidence to convict him.

A piteous and deafening yowl broke Peter’s concentration. Beside him, on the padded bench in the waiting room of the Cat Clinic, sat a tall, skinny man covered with tattoos and pierced in virtually every fashionable area—most likely including his nipples from the way that the fabric ruched at the man’s chest. On his lap he held a cat carrier containing an angry calico. The skinny man looked vaguely embarrassed and said, “She hates to get her shots,” apparently by way of apology.

Peter tapped his pen on the side of his notebook. Beside him, Nick leafed through an issue of Cat Fancy with a perplexed expression. They waited together while a senior veterinarian was taking a look at the kitten and advising a course of treatment for her.

The kitten, apparently, was a her.

Not only a her but a five- or six-week-old her.

He flipped his notebook closed and stared at the assortment of cat magazines fanned out across the coffee table in the tiny waiting room. A veterinary assistant in blue scrubs called Tattoo Guy and Angry Calico into a waiting room, leaving Nick and Peter alone with the kindly-looking receptionist and rack upon rack of special-diet cat food. When his phone vibrated, Peter jumped. Nick glanced over the glossy pages at him questioningly.

“Phone call. My editor,” Peter said.

“He probably wonders why you’re not at work,” Nick commented.

Peter nodded wearily and stepped outside to answer. The sun had fully risen, but its light had yet to penetrate the layers of fog that blanketed the normally quiet side street, temporarily busy with morning commuters heading toward the downtown core.

“Hey, Doug,” Peter said.

“Hey, did you find the big penis?”

“Penis…?” It took him a moment to understand what Doug was talking about. His alley patrol in search of the missing sculpture seemed like it had happened days ago. “Sorry. No luck on that one.”

“Don’t suppose you’d mind coming to work, then? I need somebody to drive the truck.”

Peter winced. Long ago—well, all right, eight years ago—when he’d first started working for the Hamster, his duties had not only included writing articles but distributing the rag around the city. Winning a Tom Renner award had gotten him out of driving detail, but somehow every couple of months he ended up back behind the wheel of the old truck, slogging papers in the rain.

“What happened to Shawn?” Shawn was their current distro driver. A dreadlocked half-Japanese guy with a winning smile and dubious personal entertainment habits.

Doug sighed. “Shawn came in this morning and told me he had to get out of town for a while cause he owes some people some money.”

“Which people? What money?”

“I didn’t care to know,” Doug remarked. “All I do know is I can’t hump those papers anymore. Not since my hernia.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in Doug’s hernia—but Doug milked it an awful lot. “Isn’t there anybody else?”

“Everyone else has appointments.”

“Okay, I’ll do it, but I’ll be a little while. I’m at the vet.”

This brought a politely nosy inquiry from Doug. Peter explained the circumstances, and Doug let out a low whistle.

“Are you sure it’s the cat skinner? Because that would cause a real uproar in the city, and I’d want to have a veterinarian’s quote or a police statement before I ran the story.”

“That’s what I’m waiting for.” Peter glanced through the window and saw the friendly blonde vet talking to Nick. Their expressions mirrored each other. A study in seriousness.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be in to do the distro later.”

Peter snapped his phone shut and went back in. He entered just in time to hear Nick explaining once again that she wasn’t his cat.

Dr. Nagelschneider nodded with what could only be described as resigned understanding. She was a middle-aged woman with straw-blonde hair and tan, weathered features. Both the texture of her skin and her slight Southwestern twang revealed her to be a transplant to the area.

“Even if she isn’t your cat, she certainly is a hoot,” she said. Then spying Peter returning, she added, “You must be Dad.”

Peter nodded, though she wasn’t his cat either. Someone had to take responsibility—at least until she was well enough to go to the shelter.

“What was her name?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Peter said. “I just found her today.”

“So you don’t know how she got the wound on her back?”

Peter shook his head. “It looked like the skin had been removed.”

“Well, it looks to be deliberate, so I’ve informed the police about this,” the vet said. “Just to give them a heads-up. They’re on their way over here.”

Dr. Nagelschneider watched his reactions carefully as she spoke, and Peter realized, with shock, that she was looking for signs of guilt. Logically, he supposed that her suspicion was only natural. Probably a fair number of injuries to animals were inflicted by the people who brought them in. Still, Peter felt a slight prickle of offense at coming under such scrutiny.

“I’d be happy to talk to the police,” Peter reassured her. “But what I really want to know is if she’s going to be okay.”

“Oh sure, she’s going to be fine. Kittens have very loose skin, so we’ll be able to sew her up all right. We’d like to keep her overnight and give her some antibiotics and fluids since she’s pretty dehydrated. But you’re free to take her home in the morning.” Her eyes flicked between Nick and Peter. “If your plans were to take her home, that is.”

“I—” Nick began, but Peter cut him off like a teenager in a tricked-out Mazda.

“We sure are.” He grabbed Nick’s hand, lacing his fingers through Nick’s thicker, browner ones. Nick seemed baffled by his sudden public display of affection but didn’t pull away. “At least until we can find a good home for her.”

“That’s really generous of you fellas. Not a lot of people would do that.” Dr. Nagelschneider glanced past Peter, out the front window. “The police are here.”

Seeming to stiffen slightly at the sight of the police officer getting out of her car, Nick asked Peter, “Do you want me to stay?”

“It’s not necessary. I have to go drive the Hamster truck this afternoon anyway.” Peter released Nick’s hand. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Right, I’ll see you there,” Nick paused then, cracked a sardonic smile, and added, “Dad.”

With that, he fled the scene.

Like most other members of the Bellingham Police Department, Officers Patton and Clarkson were known to Peter. The very same officers had been first on the scene of Shelley Vine’s murder. They looked very much the same. Officer Patton still sported the same dykey mullet, and Officer Clarkson’s heavy moustache remained eternal, as if stamped out of some mold made in the mid seventies when CHiPs had still been popular.

They exchanged pleasantries. Officer Patton inquired about Nick, and Peter said he was doing great. Both police officers nodded at him as though it had been their duty to check up on the happiness level Bellingham’s premier young gay couple.

Officer Clarkson said, “Dr. Nagelschneider tells us you found a cat.”

Peter explained where he had found the kitten, omitting the fact that he’d been heavily engaged in skulking through the alley minutes beforehand.

“And you didn’t see anyone there?” asked Officer Patton.

“Not even a jogger,” Peter replied.

She nodded, jotted something down in her notebook. “What were you doing in the park that early? It’s pretty far away from Wildcat Cove.”

Peter thought, ah, small-city police. They do remember where you live.

“Riding home from a party.” Peter supplied the excuse he had prepared. “Hey, do you mind if I ask a question?”

Both officers glanced up at him. Peter took this to be assent and said, “Have you seen any other instances of this kind of cat abuse recently?”

Strangely, Officer Clarkson chuckled. The receptionist, who had been silently eavesdropping on their whole conversation, shot him a glare so cold that Peter felt his testicles shrinking back up into his body.

Shaking with outrage, she stood and said, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t see what’s funny about that.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought Mr. Fontaine was going to ask me about the statue that went missing from the university campus.” The officer took off his hat, scratched his head. “I should have known you’d want the inside scoop on this. This is the third incident that veterinarians have reported to us this month, but that’s not unusual for the month of October.”

“Three reported incidents means there are probably more,” the receptionist said. Now that she’d entered the conversation, she’d apparently decided to stay.

Officer Clarkson reapplied his hat and turned to address the receptionist directly. “I already spoke with the chief, and he told me that we’ll be issuing a warning to the public later this afternoon. It should be in the Herald and on KGMI first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think it’s the same sicko as before?” Peter asked.

“Hey, who’s interviewing who here?” Officer Patton cut in before her partner could answer.

Peter held up his hands in mock defense. “I’m just curious. I know that the police had a suspect before.”

“It’s not the same one,” Officer Clarkson said. Peter focused on him, since he seemed in a repentant and therefore extremely forthcoming mood after sticking his foot in his mouth.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because that individual died very shortly after the investigation began.” Officer Clarkson cast a glance at the receptionist—who had finally returned to her seat—and then to Peter.

“Can you tell me who that individual was? Now that he’s dead, I mean?” Peter caught himself unconsciously leaning in closer to the officer. He couldn’t help it. Juicy tidbits of information drew him like… Well, like a cat to catnip.

Officer Patton stepped forward, probably to save her partner from divulging anything else. She said, “We have no new suspects at this time, but we encourage the public to come forward with any information they might have regarding this matter. You have a nice day now, Mr. Fontaine.”

Chapter Three

After giving his statement to the police, Peter rode his bike the seven blocks to the Hamster’s offices in downtown Bellingham. He picked up keys to the Hamster’s white Toyota—the bed was already full of bundled papers—and checked the delivery route. It had been a few months since he’d delivered and even longer since he’d driven out into the county for any reason other than to go to the ski area.

His mind roved as he jiggered the old truck into gear.

Snuggled up against the largely undefended Canadian border and bounded on the west by the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Whatcom County is a place of extremes. Tie-dyed liberals from the university in Bellingham keep hope alive, facilitating the country’s longest-running peace vigil—forty years old and still going strong—while out in the county the Aryan Nations holds routine meetings, complete with target practice. The one thing these disparate elements can agree upon is that the mainstream media comprise nothing but propaganda, provocation, and lies.

Enter the Hamster, a weekly paper that, while slanting to the left at least manages to deliver the truth.

Someone’s idea of the truth, anyway.

It always amazed Peter that anyone outside of rock-throwing distance of the university would be interested in Doug’s conspiracy-theory-laden editorials or his leftist views on watersheds and zoning laws.

But the Hamster had a strong readership in the county. Right on the outskirts of the city of Lynden—a municipality so religious that it still outlawed dancing—were vineyards producing award-winning wines and dairy farms crafting artisanal cheese. Farther into the mountains, near Glacier, survivalist militia types shared solar-shower tips with off-the-grid environmentalist homesteaders. Rifle ranges stood within sight of alternative no-kill animal-rescue organizations.

He drove from restaurant to coffee shop to corner store throughout greater western Whatcom county setting out bundles of free papers among the stacks of other free papers, the Thrifty Nickel, Whatcom Watch, and Whatcom Independent Tribune—the Hamster’s rival for local news—and real-estate brochures and a paper devoted entirely to buying and selling horses. More than one person asked him about Shawn’s whereabouts, some with looks of weedy desperation that gave Peter the distinct impression that Shawn had been using this route as a distro for his own sideline alternative pharmaceutical business. He wondered who exactly their delivery driver owed so much money to. Not any of these people, certainly. These were his regular customers, not his supplier.

Five hours later, with a sore back and dirty hands, Peter found himself heading west again toward Bellingham. He pulled over at Nugent’s Corner to drop off a bundle of Hamsters and get a coffee. When he returned, a young woman was standing by the truck, tucking a note under the windshield wiper.

Peter sidled up beside her. “Can I help you with something?”

She jumped and smoothed her straightened and streaked blonde hair, and glanced past Peter toward a black truck that sat idling close by.

Her ride, clearly.

Flame decals decorated the side panels along the truck bed, but the tinted windows didn’t allow him to see the driver’s face. Neither of these features was uncommon in the county, but Peter took note of the truck because it contained a large black goat. Again, animals in the backs of pickups were not unusual in this neck of the woods, but they were normally dogs.

How odd…

The girl, who had recovered herself somewhat said, “I’m sorry, I thought this was my friend’s truck.” She went to retrieve the note, but Peter stepped between her and the windshield.

“Is your friend Shawn?”

She smiled. “That’s right. Do you know where he is? I really, really need to talk to him.”

Probably really, really needed to buy some pot from him, more likely, Peter thought ungraciously. Aloud he said, “Shawn’s taken a short vacation. You should try calling him.”

“I did, but he’s not answering.”

The driver of the truck honked, and the girl jumped again. She made a second attempt to grab her note from under the windshield wiper, but Peter was quicker. He pocketed the folded square of paper, saying, “I’ll make sure to give this to him, Miss…?”

“Thanks, I’ve got to go now.” She turned and practically ran back to the truck, which started rolling away before she even got the passenger-side door closed. Peter watched them peel out along 542, heading east toward Maple Falls. Mud spattered the whole back of the truck, including the license plate.

Not that Peter had any way of looking up a license plate number, anyway. He sipped his coffee and watched the car until it rounded a bend on the two-lane blacktop.

Then he unfolded the note.

It had been scribed in big, bubbly handwriting: Fucker. We will eat your soul.

And there was a pentagram. Inverted, of course.

Peter pondered the note for a moment before replacing it in his pocket and heading back into town.

Unless Shawn had become engaged in some kind of live-action role-playing game, he seemed to be in some serious shit.

* * *

Peter’s last stop was a Mexican restaurant directly across the street from the Vitamilk building where Nick had his studio. Because Peter felt it was better to apologize than to ask permission, he was always in the position that he was in now—having to say he was sorry for not asking Nick about the kitten before he’d agreed that it could stay with them.

It wouldn’t do any good to prolong the agony. He figured he should cross the street now and see if Nick was mad at him.

Originally a dairy distribution warehouse, the Vitamilk Building had been converted into cheap studio space sometime in the mid-eighties. Nick and seven other artists, whose prestige and talent ranged from international gallery quality to church craft fair…er, fare, produced masterpieces in the dingy interior. It was where Nick and Peter had first met, when Peter had walked in on Nick, bent over the body of Shelley Vine at what looked like the scene of a murder.

Well, in fairness, it had been the scene of a murder, but Nick hadn’t been the culprit. Still, he’d been covered in blood.

Not exactly the best first impression, but somehow Peter had decided to ask him out anyway. The rest was history.

Walking up the wide stairs to the second-story studios, Peter always had a glimmer of a memory of that night. It had been the first time he’d ever seen a dead body, though, as it turned out, not the last.

He had no idea why Nick stayed here after that. He had enough money to rent a better space. Hell, Walter had had a better studio built into his house. It had climate control and ventilation. Nick never went into the room except to access his camping gear, which was all that he stored in that state-of-the-art facility.

Peter would have thought that Nick enjoyed the camaraderie of the Vitamilk Building, except he always kept his door closed, no matter how hot or cold it got. It was closed now, and Peter knocked, as he always did.

No matter how long they lived together, Peter didn’t think he would ever be able to just walk into Nick’s studio. It was Nick’s sanctum, seeming almost a sacred space—if Peter had believed in sacred spaces, which, as an investigative reporter, he most certainly did not. He dearly yearned to rifle through the drawers and canvases of Nick’s studio, leaf through the books, sniff the assorted solvents, and otherwise stick his nose into Nick’s creative business.

But Nick liked his privacy, and Peter wanted to keep him, so he always knocked and, like a lurking vampire full of hope, waited to be invited in before crossing the threshold.

Nick answered the door and invited him in, his expression not as hostile as Peter had imagined it might be. Warm afternoon light slanted in the large, mottled windows to illuminate Nick’s most recent canvas—an abstract expressionist seascape.

He wore his typical autumn studio gear: an old army T-shirt, paint stained and so threadbare that Peter could clearly see the outline of his muscular torso. Nick’s only concession to the chill air had been to put on a pair of fingerless gloves, which lent him an air of starving, turn-of-the-century Paris Bohemian.

Peter perched himself on a three-legged stool that Nick had installed specifically for this purpose. He wasted no time, just got down to business.

“Are you mad about me offering to take care of the cat?”

Nick glanced over at him. “I’m not happy about it, but I’m not mad. I thought you were doing the Hamster delivery route.”

“I just finished.”

Nick nodded, taciturn as ever—but not more taciturn. That was a good sign.

After painting a few wide strokes, Nick said, “I guess as long as we don’t end up keeping the cat, it’ll be all right.”

“Did I say anything about keeping the cat?”

“You like cats.” Nick spoke as though delivering incriminating evidence at a trial.

“So what?”

“You get a cat, you’re going to get attached to the cat and end up keeping the cat. And I’m just not really a cat person,” Nick said. “If we got any pet, I think I’d prefer a dog.”

“Yeah, a big dog, right?” Peter crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind him. The chilly mid-October air seeped in through wide cracks in the window frames.

“I like retrievers.” Nick didn’t look away from his painting. Nor did Peter expect him to. After spending hours and hours in Nick’s studio, he’d grown used to having conversations during which little or no eye contact was ever made.

“Regardless of the fact that you suspect me of being some kind of stray-cat sympathizer, I do not want to keep this cat forever. I just want to give her a hand until she’s better, because nobody is going to want to adopt a mangled little dehydrated cat.”

“She’s not mangled.”

“She’s definitely not completely whole,” Peter countered. “And I don’t know why you’re getting so bent out of shape about a having a cat houseguest for a couple of weeks. I live with your dead husband’s furniture every day, and I don’t complain.”

Even as the words were leaving Peter’s mouth, he knew he should not have said them. And yet, he had. More shockingly, to himself at least, he hadn’t even known he was going to say them.

Normally when he was going to fire a shot across the bow of Nick Olson, he rehearsed. He carefully chose his words. He didn’t just say whatever the hell he was thinking the absolute moment that it occurred to him.

Nick dropped his paintbrush into a jar of solvent, fixed Peter with his Viking blue eyes, and said, “Where the fuck did that come from?”

Peter himself did not know where the fuck that had come from. But he also intuitively knew that the words he’d spoken were nonetheless true. Peter replied, “I know I didn’t pay for the Castle. My name isn’t on the title, but I live there too, and I think I should get to make some sort of decision about it. That’s all I meant.”

“But we’re not talking about the house. We’re talking about a cat.” Nick picked up his brush again, swished it though the solvent.

“Are you allergic to cats?”

“No, but—” Nick began, but Peter cut him off.

“Are you afraid of cats?”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Then why are you fighting with me? She weighs less than a pound. She’ll be there for maybe a couple of weeks. How much trouble could she be?” Again, even as he spoke, Peter knew that his argument was anything but watertight. A single kitten could cause quite a lot of trouble, and he knew it. But he stared levelly at Nick anyway, daring him to call him on it.

Nick didn’t.

He daubed his brush in Naples yellow paint and said, “I’m not fighting with you at all, and I’m not bent out of shape. I already said she could stay until she’s better.”

Suddenly embarrassed that the fight that he’d been preparing to put up seemed now irrelevant, Peter said, “Thank you.”

Nick shrugged, saying nothing. What started off as a pause stretched into silence. Peter couldn’t tell if he was getting the cold shoulder or if Nick had just become absorbed in his work. Either way he’d won Battle Kitten.

Even as he savored this victory, he realized that he didn’t have anything to keep a kitten in, not even a carrier to get one home. He decided that before he returned to the Castle, he should call on someone who did.

Chapter Four

Peter’s best friend, Evangeline, had been his roommate during the last half of college as well as three grim post-baccalaureate years when neither of them could find a real boyfriend. During that time he’d grown very attached to her late three-legged cat, Tripod, and grown well acquainted with her family, since he was her usual date for any holiday-related event. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t have a family. It was simply that his own parents had moved to Austin some years back, and flying to visit them in Texas more than once a year rarely fit into his schedule.

Since then, both Evangeline and he had shacked up with men who suited them. Tripod had passed away, but Evangeline and her lover, Tommy, had recently acquired a young wiener dog from the Whatcom County Humane Society. The wiener dog had been scooped up along with seventeen other mixed-breed dogs in a raid on an animal hoarder who lived out in the county. Being a sucker for runts, Evangeline had picked the sickliest of the animals, nursed him back to health, and named him Mitch.

Peter resisted the urge to draw a correlation between the injured wiener dog and his own disastrous mental state when Evangeline had taken him in during his junior year of college. She was the first person he’d come out to, and when, drunk and bleary, at six o’clock in the morning, he’d finally managed to spit the words out, she’d said, “It’s okay. I already knew that.”

Shortly thereafter he’d moved into her rented house. No one had seen him through as many sad and angsty nights as she had done. Even today, when he and Nick fought, she was the first person Peter autodialed. While what had just occurred hadn’t exactly been a fight, Peter dialed her anyway, out of habit. He explained the situation and asked if he she still had Tripod’s old cat carrier. She did. She invited him over to pick it up.

While driving up the hill toward her house, he explained how Nick was being a jerk. Like the best of friends, Evangeline was always ready to believe the veracity of any deficit he cared to relate about Nick, including today’s complaint about feeling alienated by furniture that Nick seemed attached to but Peter hated.

“So why does he care about all that stuff anyway? None of it is his,” Evangeline said.

“It’s all worth a lot of money,” Peter said. “Everything. The chairs, the rug, the art. He could buy a whole other house if he sold just one of the paintings.”

“Maybe he should,” Evangeline said. “That house isn’t very cozy.”

“It’s plenty cozy,” Peter protested.

“The living room is like some kind bank foyer. I always think I’m going to get charged an overdraft fee when I’m over there. ”

“Well, Walter did do a lot of foyer art, apparently. His paintings can be found in the lobby of many corporate headquarters. Anyway it’s a great venue for a party. We’ll be able to fit at least a hundred people in there on Halloween.”

“So Nick signed off on that?” Evangeline’s voice perked up. Since they’d been in college, he and she had hosted a Halloween masquerade ball. The event had steadily outgrown their and all their friends’ houses as well as increasing in sophistication from a keg-and-bonfire affair to a lavish display of costumes and vintage cocktails.

“Nick says he’s going to rent a limo to take people home at the end of the night.”

“Smart man. He gets to kick everybody out by a certain time, plus everyone stays safe.”

“He’s a safety-first kind of guy.” Peter rounded the corner and saw her standing on the front walk. He waved, and she returned the gesture. She pulled her big Cowichan sweater closer around her body. Because her current fashion obsession was handmade recycled clothing, she wore a voluminous knee-length skirt that had been assembled out of dismantled blue and yellow T-shirts. She wore no shoes, in spite of the October chill.

They embraced when they met. Her wavy hair smelled like patchouli and nag champa, which Peter normally hated but found comforting when associated with her.

“Want to come in? I just baked some pumpkin bread.”

“Normal pumpkin bread?” Peter eyed her skeptically.

“Absolutely normal. No magic whatsoever. Tommy has to take a drug test to get that shipyard job, so he’s detoxing.”

“I can’t imagine it,” Peter commented. “How’s he holding up?”

“Pretty well. I agreed that I’d stop with him so he didn’t feel bad.”

“How is that going?”

“Good.” Evangeline cocked her head, thoughtfully. “Though our weekly consumption of beer has gone way, way up.”

Inside the house, clutter and chaos reigned. Like Nick, Evangeline had a studio in the Vitamilk Building, but that tiny space was completely inadequate to her storage needs. Her primary artistic medium was found objects, and the house was absolutely crammed with shelves full of shiny, twisty, or unique pieces of machinery, doll parts, beads, and the like—the exact opposite of the austere beauty of the Castle on Wildcat Cove. Living here had been awkward as well, with Peter constantly in danger of knocking over some precarious tower of objects.

Peter sighed. Maybe he was just the sort of person who was perpetually unsatisfied with his environment. He cleared off a space on the sofa and sat down in it. Shortly after that Evangeline appeared with a slice of pumpkin bread wrapped in a paper towel. She handed it to him, cleared off an armchair, and sat down. “So why are you driving the Hamster truck?”

“Shawn had to skip town. I theorize that he owed his dealer money.”

Evangeline shook her head sadly. Shawn was her younger cousin. She’d gotten him the job at the Hamster in the hopes that it would provide some stability in his life. “I saw him about a week ago. He is really taking the wrong drugs. I don’t know which ones they are, but they are definitely not right for him.”

Mitch jumped up on the armchair next to her and looked hopefully at her snack. Like the seasoned pet owner that she was, Evangeline ignored him.

Peter resisted the urge to ask whether any drugs could really be said to be right for someone. It felt fairly hypocritical to make that remark, being the great connoisseur of martinis that he was. Instead, he said, “You don’t happen to know who his dealer was?”

Evangeline rolled her eyes. “Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you, Mr. Nosy. You’d try to find them to find out about Shawn to satisfy your curiosity, write an article, and go for another award. I don’t want to be in trouble with Nick.”

“Why would you be in trouble with Nick?” Peter scowled. That was the problem with best friends. Too perceptive.

“Because you’d go out there by yourself, in the dark, and end up getting sacrificed to Satan, and it would be my fault. That’s why I’d be in trouble with Nick.”

Peter paused, midchew, regarding Evangeline. “So you do know who the dealer is.”

“I didn’t say that.” Evangeline’s expression became aloof, almost prim, but Peter wasn’t fooled. She’d never been a good liar, nor even a good omitter of information.

Pondering the note in his pocket, he said, “Why would you bring up something so bizarre and specific as getting sacrificed to Satan unless you knew something about Shawn’s dealer?”

“You know what I know? I know you’ve got something much more important to think about than Shawn’s creepy dealer. I’m sure the cops are already worrying about him for you. Who is going to find the asshole who hurt your cat? Nobody but you.”

“She’s not my cat. I’m just keeping her until we can find a home.” Peter finished off his pumpkin bread. “And I’ve already talked to the police. They’re taking it really seriously.”

“But you’re really good at snooping around,” Evangeline said. “And you have more time than they do.”

“Has it occurred to you that it might actually be more dangerous to go poking around the property of an animal mutilator than a cracked-out Satanist?”

“Why? You’re not a cat.”

“Because cruelty to animals is one of the hallmarks of a budding serial killer.”

“A budding serial killer hasn’t killed yet, right? So he can’t be that good at it. That’s way safer than provoking a Satanist on crack. If you’re going to do one or the other, the serial killer seems safer. And you only have a ten percent chance that he’s gay, so you have a ninety percent chance that he wouldn’t want to kill you anyway.”

Peter sighed. “Your strange logic is inescapable.”

Evangeline smiled. “I know. I’ll go get the cat carrier.”

Peter left the carrier on this desk at the Hamster, traded in the pickup for his bike, and started his commute home.

* * *

Chuckanut Drive wound south from Bellingham along the coastal cliffs where cedar-covered limestone plunged straight into the emerald sea. The blacktop was narrow, dark, and sometimes shoulderless, but the cars whizzing by didn’t trouble him like they had when he’d first moved in with Nick.

He arrived home around six that evening, bicycling up the hill just as the sun was setting over the Salish Sea.

The ride from Bellingham wasn’t long for a seasoned cyclist such as himself, but he’d already had a long day.

He dropped his bike in the garage and went through the kitchen door. He thought he’d take a shower, maybe do some Internet research on Satanism or cat care, and go to bed.

He hadn’t expected Nick to be home when he arrived, but there he was, standing in the open kitchen among the slabs of granite and rough wooden beams chopping lettuce. A beer sat next to his cutting board. On the adjacent counter, Peter spied two steaks sitting in a shallow dish of marinade.

Nick glanced up at him, said hello, and went back to chopping.

Peter seated himself at the massive yet utilitarian dining room table and said, “Have you got a date?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked yet. I was hoping to lure him with meat and raspberry cheesecake.”

“You bought cheesecake?”

“And vermouth. Noilly Prat. Want a martini?”

“I’ve never been known to resist the Noilly Prat.” Peter watched in wonderment as Nick wiped his hands, fetched a shaker, and began to build a martini. Finally, as Nick was dropping a fat, round Castelvetrano olive into the glass, Peter had to ask, “What did I do to deserve this?”

Nick shook his head as if to imply that there was no reason at all, handed him the martini, and went back to work. After consigning a tomato to the salad netherworld, he said, “I’m sorry I was insensitive about you wanting to take care of the kitten.”

“It’s okay.” Peter spoke automatically. “I know having an animal around is an inconvenience.”

“It’s not that big of one, really. And the vet’s right. Taking care of her is a really nice thing to do,” Nick said. “But I was already feeling, as you said, bent out of shape about responsibility when you came over.”

“What about?”

“Stephano, from the university, called me again just before you got to the studio this afternoon. They’re just about to give up on finding the sculpture.”

“What will happen if they do?”

“They’ll file an insurance claim and get reimbursed for their loss. Probably they’ll use the money to commission a new work for the garden. I’m fairly certain Stephano expects to sell them one of his own pieces.” Nick held a hand over his cast-iron skillet and, after chucking a handful of rock salt into it, laid two steaks inside. Hissing smoke rose immediately from the hot iron. The air filled with the aroma of grade-A grass-fed beef.

Peter sighed. “I’m close to finding it. I know I am.”

“Maybe it’s best if we both just let it go.” Nick fetched a bottle of olive oil, a jar of Dijon mustard, and a cruet of vinegar, and he set about making vinaigrette.

“Good newshounds never let go,” Peter intoned, taking a sip of the martini. Excellent, as usual. “Besides, I like that sculpture.”

“Yeah, you would. The trouble is, I really don’t.”

“You don’t?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “How could you not like it?”

“It was one of the last sculptures Walter did, and…I just never liked it, that’s all. And maybe it’s better if another piece of art can be commissioned from an actual living artist instead of enshrining the work of a dead man.”

“A paycheck for an artist is never bad.” Peter swirled his martini, watching how the liquor distorted the light. “But I still want to find Untitled Five if I can—if only to arrest the vandalizing assholes who swiped it in the first place. There should be repercussions for stealing from a sculpture garden. No matter how you look at it, it’s a dick move.”

Nick smirked at the double entendre and allowed a small laugh to escape as he flipped the steaks. “You’ve sure got a way with words.”

“That’s what they pay me for.” Peter got out plates and silverware and bread from the bread box.

He should have known that a matter less trivial than petsitting was at the root of Nick’s unease. And considering that, he had to admit that he too had something on his mind.

“While I was doing Shawn’s route today, some girl put a note on the Hamster truck.”

Nick raised a brow. “Do I have competition?”

“The note was for Shawn.”

“Well, I suppose that there must be some contingent of the opposite sex who are into bad dreads.”

“It wasn’t a love note.” Peter related the single sentence, eliciting a low whistle from his lover.

“Either somebody’s caught the spirit of the ghosting season, or Shawn really has worn out his welcome.”

“Doug thinks he skipped town to avoid his dealer.”

“I thought Shawn was a dealer.”

“I’m guessing the guy in the truck is a little higher up the food chain,” Peter said.

Nick moved the steaks to the plates. “I suppose this means you’re going to have to keep doing the distro until Doug gets around to hiring someone else.”

“God, I hope not.”

Rather than sitting at the massive dinner table, like some cartoon rich family, they sat at the counter. Dinner entertainment consisted of watching streaming video of Lois & Clark on Peter’s laptop. It was cozy.

Neither of them mentioned Shawn, or Walter’s art, or the kitten again.

Peter offered a second episode, but Nick declined, suggesting instead a shower. For both of them.

Never one to say no to an offer of a mutual shower, particularly when fueled by a martini and Lois & Clark, Peter agreed. Three minutes later he stood in the Castle’s amazing four-head shower, soaping Nick’s broad, muscular back.

Peter took his time, because Nick required time. Time and love. Simply dropping to his knees and sucking would not do with this man. Peter suspected that he’d had enough of lurid, faceless encounters in the army and now wanted it to feel personal. So Peter made it personal, slowly soaping him, treating him right. Admiring him.

And there was a lot of him to admire. His heavy thighs, his bulky calves, his soft brown hair.

Nick returned his affection, stroking, murmuring about Peter’s beauty, his dark hair, his blue eyes.

Peter finished his ministrations, toweled Nick off, and led him to the bedroom.

This one room, in all the Castle, Peter had managed to make theirs. Gone were the gray sheets, the austere bedside lamps. He’d spent a month’s pay to transform the dull, almost clinical room into cool blue oasis. Nick looked good against the sheets. The color accented his pale irises, his tan skin.

Peter had a choice to make—whether to make it dirty or sweet. Normally he chose to go slightly dirty, being a general fan of putting an edge of exhibitionistic glamour into their sex life. But today Nick seemed… Not fragile, but certainly not having sex for the sake of it. He wanted to be with Peter to have a connection with him.

So Peter pulled up the sheets and curled his arms around Nick. He kissed slowly, taking his time, tasting Nick’s mouth, showing he cared. He moved slowly downward, finally taking Nick into his mouth, sucking slowly, then hard, tasting him, making it last.

Nick moaned, arched into his mouth. Peter took him deeply, intent on making it last as long as he could, hard himself from the taste of flesh. He loved sucking cock in general and sucking Nick in particular. He reveled in the way that at some point Nick’s gentleness and restraint would break and he would push hard into Peter’s mouth and shoot. He loved how Nick would pull him up beside him after that, his strong hand palming Peter’s ass as Peter thrust his swollen prick against Nick’s thigh.

And he loved how Nick’s fingers would rest against his opening, claiming that intimacy so naturally and casually that it took Peter’s breath away.

So he worked Nick with his tongue, knowing the inevitable series of events that ended, as he had predicted, with Nick’s fingers deep in his ass as he rocked and moaned his way to a blinding climax.

Afterward, Peter lay panting on Nick’s arm. Suddenly feeling the chill of the October night on his sweat-drenched skin, he shivered. Automatically, Nick pulled the duvet over him, murmuring, “Cold as a woman.”

Then, just like that, Nick was asleep.

Chapter Five

During their morning toast and eggs, Peter finally asked Nick to explain why the call from Stephano, an art professor at the university, had bothered him so much. At first Nick just shook his head, focusing on his plate, using his toast and fork in tandem to subdue his egg over easy. Peter preferred his egg over hard and folded in one piece of light toast. A one-handed affair that he could not only eat while riding a bike, but which required no plate or silverware. When Nick was gone, he ate standing over the sink. This morning he sat alongside Nick at the counter. Determined not to be discouraged in his line of questioning, Peter tried again. “I know talking about it won’t help you feel better, but it would make me feel better to know why you’re so moody, so why not have some mercy on me?”

Nick sighed and gave him a resigned, sidelong glance. “Since I’m the executor of Walter’s artistic estate, they want me to sign some paperwork stating that it was an original. I told them I’d go down there this morning.”

Peter did not immediately know why this should cause Nick any great distress, but clearly it did.

“I still don’t understand why that would upset you, though.” Peter was trying to augment his understanding of his lover without prying, but it was hard. Prying was what he did; it was his art form, even.

“It’s just bringing up a lot of memories for me; that’s all. Walter completed that piece about six months before he died. It was a hard time for me.”

Peter nodded. Obviously it would have been a hard time for anyone, but especially for a guy like Nick, who didn’t talk much but thought a lot. From his expression, Peter could tell he was thinking right this second. Deep, brooding thoughts churned through the mind of Nick Olson, sending flickering microexpressions across his furrowed brow, his heavy-lidded eyes.

It killed Peter to see him this way—made so unhappy by a phone call and a hunk of rock that had been fashioned to look like his penis. Finally inspiration struck. “Do you want me to come with you to the university?”

“Nah.” Nick mopped up flecks of yellow yolk with intense precision, as if he were manipulating paint.

“Can I come anyway? I need to write a piece on the theft, and it would give some closure.”

“I feel no closure whatsoever.”

“I mean to the article.” Peter munched at his sandwich, eyeing Nick, noting that he wasn’t putting his elbows on the table as he usually did. Best manners at breakfast indicated that Nick had gone far within. He was probably dining with the ghost of Walter, who, being from an older generation, had had higher standards at table. Peter’s desire to interrupt that inner conversation could not be denied. “So, can I come?”

“What?” Nick popped up for air, looking around as though he’d forgotten Peter was there. “Come where?”

“To the university with you.”

“Sure, but you won’t enjoy it.” Nick pushed his plate away, caught hold of his coffee cup, and finally leaned forward on his elbows.

“So long as I’m being paid, I fear no boredom,” Peter said airily.

“Oh, it won’t be boring. I’m going to meet with Stephano. He’s handling the whole thing.” Nick had a certain meaningful tone—a tone that assumed Peter knew and already disliked this Stephano person as much as Nick apparently did.

Peter tried to picture this individual and pulled a blank. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

Nick smirked and said, “Then get your mental notebook ready. I’ll be very interested to hear what you think.”

An hour later, Peter entered a small office in the basement of the Fine Arts building and was introduced to a man who he could not, in any way, believe had been named Stephano by one or more of his parents.

Doughy and pale, with thinning brown ponytail, Stephano—just Stephano, no last name—had the face of a man who had reared entirely on cream cheese and white bread. Even his clothes were the standard white-man uniform of khaki shorts plus polo shirt. His socked and Birkenstocked feet gave a hint that he might have been a campus rebel back in the time of the Doobie Brothers but had since firmly joined the administration. On his desk sat a stack of Artforum magazines, along with a dish of candy corn and a small, thin aluminum can containing some sort of arcane energy drink.

But was only when he shook Stephano’s warm, soft hand that Peter began, internally, to compose text about him.

In terms of generic characters that one is likely to find teaching at the average four-year collegiate institution, Failed Professional is definitely one of the most common and commonly derided. This is not entirely fair. Most university professors choose to teach—excel at teaching—consider it their calling above all else. But there are always others who are simply looking for a hot meal and regular access to impressionable eighteen- to twenty-five-year-olds—particularly in the creative arts fields.

For this reporter, placing Stephano on the continuum of competence was a cinch.

“You’ve probably seen my work around town.” Stephano spoke mainly to Peter.

“The sculptures on Cornwall Street,” Nick supplied helpfully.

“Oh, those,” Peter did a little mental scramble while he searched for anything positive to say about them. Finally he managed, “Very colorful.”

Even if he hadn’t had his aesthetic horizons expanded by an artist boyfriend, he would have been able to see that Stefano’s sculptures had very little artistic merit. They were all powder-coated steel things approximately eight feet tall and two feet in diameter. They looked, to Peter, like folded and crumpled ductwork, like the sort of product that might occur if one told a high school freshman to go to the Occupational Studies center and weld a piece of modern art. Lacking both grace and meaningful substance, the eight Stephano sculptures dotted the sidewalk on Cornwall Street at random intervals and went largely unappreciated by the general populace, who mainly used them for ashtrays.

Peter recalled that upon first seeing that the sculptures had been installed on Cornwall Street, Nick had nearly crashed his car in baffled horror at the city art commission’s decision. He had wondered aloud to Peter if the artist was sleeping with someone influential. Peter had thoughtlessly quipped that artists were always sleeping with someone influential, which had struck too close to the bone and therefore had ended the conversation.

Observing Stephano now, Peter had to wonder who that person might be, because Stephano was not much to look at.

Aloud, Peter said, “The city must have your work insured for a lot, being out near the bars like they are.”

“Oh the city doesn’t own them. I just loaned them to the planning commission,” Stephano said.

“But aren’t you worried they’ll be damaged?” Peter asked.

“Powder-coated steel can take a lot of wear and tear.” Stephano smiled at him. It was a somewhat condescending smile.

Apparently impatient, Nick broke in. “You said you had some papers for me to sign?”

“I thought I did,” Stephano said. “But it turns out that there’s a snag.”

“What snag?”

“It’s ironic that I should have just been talking about loans, since it turns out that Untitled Five didn’t belong to the university at all. It was on loan as well. I guess there was a handshake agreement that De Kamp was going to bequeath it to the sculpture garden upon his death, but he never got around to sending us the actual paperwork.” Stephano’s brows drew into an irritated furrow.

“And you want to know if I have it?” Nick leaned back in his chair and took that deep, slow breath that he always took when he was annoyed.

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you think that you could—I know this is asking a lot, but do you think as executor, you could say that it was ours?” Stephano asked. “It really was what De Kamp intended.”

“Even if Walter had meant for the university to have the statue, which I do believe is probably the case, how would that make any difference?”

“The sculpture garden is insured as a whole. If we could come up with some sort of dated letter or—”

“You want him to forge a letter?” Automatically, Peter reached for his notepad and mechanical pencil, whose abrupt appearance Stephano regarded with an expression of shock and dread.

“What are you writing?”

“Notes about what you’re saying,” Peter said.

“He’s a reporter. He works for the Hamster,” Nick explained.

“You said he was your significant other.” Stephano cast an affronted and accusatory eye on Nick.

“It’s not as though they can’t be simultaneously true.” Peter clicked the lead in his pencil up. “So you were just asking Nick to fabricate a letter to say that Untitled Five had in fact been given to the university when it had not so that the university could claim monies it has no legal right to? I think that might very well be considered fraud.”

To Peter’s surprise, Nick chuckled and laid a staying hand on his arm. “Down, newshound. I’m sure the man has a good reason.”

Flushed and sputtering, Stephano continued, “I wasn’t asking Mr. Olson to commit fraud.”

“It sure sounded like that to me.” Peter raised a skeptical brow.

“Look, you don’t understand. The university has cut funding for the arts department dramatically. We need that money for the art department to remain competitive on the national scale. I am convinced that if De Kamp could understand our position, he would gladly have made good on his promise to sign over the piece.” Sweat beaded Stephano’s brow, but conviction rang through his voice.

“You know, I do believe that Walter intended for the university to have that piece.” Nick’s tone remained reasonable. “But you have to understand that transferring a highly valuable piece of art is not as simple as my backdating a letter.”

“Which would undeniably be fraud.” Peter had to point it out. “As well as forgery, since he would have to sign De Kamp’s name.”

“If the sculpture could be located, then I would certainly be able to donate it myself, and I would be happy to, but since it’s gone missing, my hands are really tied,” Nick said.

“That wouldn’t solve the art department’s funding crisis, though, since someone would have to steal it again in order for the insurance to be paid out.” Peter glanced up from his notebook. The gears in his mind had begun to turn. What he had previously assumed to be a drunken prank suddenly had become a way for someone to make some relatively quick cash.

“What we all want more than anything is for that sculpture to be returned,” Stephano solemnly assured him.

“Let’s hope whoever stole it grows a conscience, then.” Peter snapped his notebook shut.

Nick rose to leave, and Peter followed suit. Stephano caught them at the door.

“There’s no reason for this conversation to leave this room, is there?” He searched Nick’s eyes. “You understand I never meant to imply that you should do anything illegal. I was just trying to think of a way for some good to come out of this.”

Nick waved Stephano’s sweaty concern aside. “I understand how desperate you must feel. No one needs to know what we talked about today.”

Chapter Six

“Are you serious?” Peter scowled as he sank into the bucket seat of Nick’s car. “You know Stephano might very well be the guy who stole it in the first place.”

“He did seem to know a lot about the insurance arrangements, didn’t he?” Nick agreed.

“It seems like a phone call to our friendly city police department might be in order.”

Nick shook his head. “If he did steal that ugly thing, I suspect it will be cemented back onto its podium within the week so that I can donate it. If it’s stolen again, we’ll know for sure he did it.”

“Untitled Five is not ugly,” Peter protested. “I happen to like it very much.”

His comment drew a faint, lewd smirk from Nick. “You would.”

Western Washington University was situated on a hill that seemed to rise straight up from Bellingham Bay. Below and to the south lay Fairhaven, the historic district, and beyond that, Chuckanut Drive led outside the city limits to their home. Just a few blocks to the northwest lay the city’s downtown core, a collection of federal and county government buildings, college bars, and breakfast joints. And of course Peter’s office—really more of a desk—at the Hamster was there, as well as Nick’s studio in the Vitamilk Building…and the Cat Clinic. Peter glanced at the plastic pet carrier in the backseat. Nick hadn’t said a word when he’d loaded it in the car.

“Where to now?” Nick asked.

“I think we have to go pick up the kitten.”

Nick acquiesced with a single nod and headed downtown. The Hamster’s offices were on the way, on the second floor of the Railroad Feed & Seed Building. As they passed by, Peter caught a glimpse of Shawn, their missing delivery driver, getting into the cab of the Hamster truck.

He wondered if anyone knew Shawn was driving away in it. He took out his notepad and jotted down the time. Nick glanced over and must have seen him writing, but he didn’t ask what.

When they got to the Cat Clinic, Nick presented his own credit card before Peter could even fumble in his wallet for cash. The bill wasn’t expensive, but the kitten came with two kinds of ointment and a bottle of tiny pills.

The kitten appeared to remember Peter, or if she didn’t specifically know him, she remembered that she liked someone exactly like him and began to purr immediately.

As they settled back into the car, Nick said, “I need to get some things from my studio on the way back home.”

Peter said that was fine, and Nick continued explaining. “Sketchbooks. Black cat ink. Probably some watercolors.”

Again Peter nodded. When the car started moving, the kitten commenced to wailing. Pathetically at first, but eventually her tiny lungs demonstrated the stamina for a sustained and operatic protest.

Peter smiled nervously at Nick, whose face showed no emotion whatsoever, as if he had a distressed animal in the backseat every day. Peter had a sudden flash of insight into what Nick must have been like when he was in the army.

Before he opened up and started expressing his emotions.

Nick parked on the street in front of his studio. He left Peter and the kitten in the idling car with the heat and radio running. Exhausted by yowling continuously since they’d left the vet’s office, the kitten fell into a comalike sleep.

Freed of the anxiety-inducing noise, Peter’s mind worked on two separate problems. The first was the sudden surfacing of Stephano as a suspect in the art theft. Assuming that he was the culprit, had he known all of the particulars of the insurance conundrum at the outset? Or had he merely hoped to profit from the absence of one piece of statuary in the university sculpture garden by insinuating his own work?

And what about Shawn? Had he solved his monetary crisis and returned to ask for his job back? Or had Peter just quietly witnessed a case of grand theft auto?

He wished he’d been able to get the license plate number of the black truck, just in case Shawn was found floating face down in the Nooksack River.

Nick returned and settled his bag of gear in the backseat, next to the cat carrier. Peter blinked at it. Seeing the oversized sketchbooks, the partially crumpled tubes of paint, a peculiar sense of unrightness overcame him, as if he’d skipped a chapter in a film and missed some vital piece of information.

“Wait, you’re bringing this stuff home?”

“That’s what I said.” Nick fastened his seat belt.

“What for?”

“Because I’m going to forge a letter to the university saying that Untitled Five is theirs. I need the paint to age the paper. It has to be subtle, but I think I can do it.”

Peter’s eyes went wide with alarm. He blinked and spluttered, “Wha-what?”

Nick broke into a wide grin. “Gotcha.”

Peter sank sourly into the seat. “What are you really doing?”

“Just getting some stuff to do at home. I figure someone should stay with the kitten. Make sure she doesn’t destroy the place.” Nick eased the car onto the narrow street and pointed it toward the Hamster.

Though feeling slightly guilty about shirking his duties and sticking Nick with an unwanted petsitting job, Peter was too keen to find out the story behind Shawn’s unscheduled day off to protest that he should be the one doing it.

When Nick pulled alongside the curb to let him out, Peter plopped a thankful peck on Nick’s cheek and speedily quit the vehicle.

Once in the office, he ambled casually up to Doug and inquired offhandedly where Shawn was going with the truck.

The look of alarm on his editor’s face concretized Peter’s previous theory. The man let out a string of complex and partially unintelligible profanity that brought what little work was being done in the Hamster office to a halt. The other reporters stared, Peter imagined in awe at both Doug’s exquisite and complex swearing abilities and Peter’s apparent ability to withstand being the direct object of such cursing while maintaining a slightly bored countenance.

Doug yanked open his top desk drawer, took out a skinny bag of weed and a pack of rolling papers, and started rolling a joint.

“If he doesn’t bring it back by tomorrow, I’m calling the cops.”

Peter said, “Why don’t I try texting Shawn?”

“If you get hold of him, tell him to bring my fucking truck back.” Doug fired up his Zippo and sucked so hard on his rollie that he killed nearly half in the first drag. He took the joint from his lips, paused thoughtfully, then exhaled slowly. As he did so he sank back into his chair, as if deflating.

Peter, who’d been thumbing his phone’s keypad, transcribing Doug’s message, glanced back up. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Doug picked up the nearly empty baggie and rolled it between his fingers. “Tell him I’m just about dry.”

Ah, there’s the rub. Any reasonable employer would have fired Shawn already, but the fact was that according to Doug, he still scored the kindest weed in town.

And really, if Peter were to be honest with himself, he’d enjoyed his editor’s largesse on numerous occasions. Not because of his numerous avenues for obtaining marijuana, but for his ability to win journalism awards that made the Hamster editor walk so much taller than his rival at the town’s other free weekly paper the Bellingham Independent Tribune.

Not that he was in danger of winning an award today. He would have to have written an actual article for that. As if able to read Peter’s mind, Doug said, “So what do you have on the cat skinner? Anything?”

Peter flipped out his notebook. “I talked to the police yesterday. They said—”

Doug held up a silencing hand. “Write it up and send it over. How many words do you think you can get out of it?”

“Maybe a couple hundred if I stretch it. Why?”

“Hell House bounced its check, so I won’t be running an ad this week. I’ve got a three-by-three-inch space to fill.” He tossed the remainder of his joint out the window, opened his desk drawer again, and pulled out a bag full of miniature candy bars in festive black and orange wrappers.

Peter said, “I’m glad. Advertising antigay religious haunted house experiences was not something I’d like to be part of.”

“I know, I know, but I advertise whoever pays me. It’s part of my journalistic commitment. Candy?”

Peter took a chocolate bar, unhappy the Hamster was losing money, but still glad the ad had been yanked. But every October some church or other out in the county set one up. It saddened him because as a kid he’d loved going to haunted houses and psyching himself out amid the fake cobwebs, plastic masks, and strobe lights. He hated to think that this sacred venue, too, had become a battleground in the culture wars.

“I guess it’s hard to overcome my objection to indoctrinating a bunch of young kids with the idea that all homosexuals will die of AIDS,” Peter remarked. “Advertising it seems wrong to me.”

“Have you ever gone to one?”

Peter shook his head no. “Have you?”

“I went last year just to see what it was about,” Doug replied. “Substandard tableaus with bad moralistic scripts that a bunch of teenagers giggled their way through. The crowd was interesting, though. About a third of the people were true believers who really bought it. Then there was this contingent of hipster kids who were going ironically, just to be able to say they had gone and hated it, and then there was this group of people who were just curious.”

“Still doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”

Doug shrugged and turned away murmuring, “Could’ve used that money, though.”

Chapter Seven

The ride home was cold and damp. Slivers of light mist hung over the winding, narrow road, obscuring the tops of the cedars flanking either side of Chuckanut Drive. The asphalt glistened with a sheen of treacherous moisture. Outside of town an eerie quiet settled in.

As Peter made his way through the fog, he thought more on the idea of Hell House and of Shawn’s dealer. The thing about Satanists is that they do not just spring forth from the earth out of nowhere. Satanists believed, by definition, in the Christian universe and therefore might easily be former or lapsed Christians. It then followed that if anyone were likely to know the identity of Whatcom County’s Satanists—either genuine or simply poseurs trying to be provocative—it would probably be the regular churchgoers.

Peter deliberately stopped himself from following this line of reasoning. He already had two articles he needed to write, and neither of them included Satanists.

He pedaled onward into the gloaming, thoughts growing darker and returning, in spite of all his efforts not to allow it, to Satanists. He didn’t believe in Satan, but what if a person did? What might they do? Would they, for example, skin a cat?

Peter’s musings, like the evening, grew so dark and the shadows so deep that the supernatural seemed easily within grasp. Peter would not have been surprised to see the Headless Horseman rounding the next bend.

Instead, he saw a red Miata turning out of his own driveway. The car darted onto the open road directly into his path. Peter squeezed his brakes, skidded, and ditched his bike on the roadside, just a yard away from the Miata’s back wheel. The driver of the car, a gray-haired man in late middle age, never even looked at him as he sped away.

Peter picked himself up, knocked the damp pine needles off his pants, and checked his bike for damage. Nothing seemed broken. He walked his bike the rest of the way up the hill.

The moment he stepped through the door into the foyer, he called, “Do you know who was driving that Miata?”

“His name is Bradley. He was here about the insurance claim for Untitled Five,” Nick responded from the living room.

Like the rest of the house, the living room was a tall, airy space comprised of birch and stone. The vast expanse of an eight-by-twelve-foot De Kamp abstract dominated the far wall. Two-story windows lined the wall facing out toward the ocean. Peter had always thought this must give passing boats a nice view of their Spartan interior design.

Not that anyone on a boat could see through this fog.

Being an artist, De Kamp had understood scale. So since there was a huge painting and expansive windows, there was also a leather couch large enough to be a minor geological structure and a silk rug large enough to conceal at least two Cleopatras.

Other, smaller pieces—sculptures and small paintings—lined the birch ledge that was the room’s only shelf.

Nick lounged on the gigantic sofa with a sketchbook in his lap and an open bottle of ink on the side table next to him. Also beside Nick on the sofa was a chewed and mangled shoelace of mysterious origin.

“He almost ran over me.”

Nick looked up, gave him the once-over. “Are you okay?”

“I had to ditch, but the shoulder was soft.” Peter shrugged. “You’d think a guy in the insurance industry would try harder to avoid hitting cyclists.”

Nick went back to sketching. “Speaking of insurance, you might want to know that the cat clawed a hole in the corner of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar painting.”

Peter looked down at the kitten, who sat innocently licking her front paw as if she could taste the money on it. Then she blinked and mewed and stalked over toward Nick with a bouncy lack of guile that triggered Peter’s protective instincts. He swooped her up in his hand just as she was extending her needlelike claws toward Nick’s pant leg.

Nick gave him a brief glance. “How long did the vet say it would be until she’s recovered?”

“She said that it would depend on the next couple of days.” Peter shoved her inside his jacket, as if removing her from Nick’s field of vision could make him forget about both the damaged painting and the kitten’s existence.

Nick drew in a deep breath and laid his dip pen aside. “I guess we should take some steps to make sure she doesn’t destroy anything else. Want to give me a hand?”

“With what?” Deep inside his jacket, the kitten let out a tiny, frustrated mew and then sank her claws into his right nipple, causing him to crumple forward and lose his grip.

The kitten was away, boinging down across the great room clearly intent on some new misadventure. Peter rubbed his chest and tried to ignore the fact that Nick was smirking at him.

“I’m going to move this painting to the studio. And I should probably get most of this other stuff out of here too.” Nick indicated the objects that lined the shallow shelves with a wave. “I think the more fragile pieces will be safer there.”

He helped Nick maneuver De Kamp’s canvas into the guest room, understanding for the first time why De Kamp had designed the house with ten-foot doorways. Then they collected the small fortune of art objects, paintings, and miniatures and secured them as well. When they returned to the great room, Peter saw that the kitten had found a way to get up on the ledge and was stalking along, attacking the dust bunnies that had been accumulating behind one of the larger paintings.

Nick regarded her levelly and remarked, “I somehow knew she’d find a way up there.”

Peter repatriated the kitten to the floor. “What about this carpet?”

“I figure since she’s already thrown up on it a couple of times, it might as well stay where it is,” Nick said.

“She—” Peter stopped himself from arguing their tiny houseguest’s case, opting for a simpler approach. “I’m really sorry.”

Nick shrugged, his expression softening for the first time. “It’s all right. She’s just a baby. And it’s just a carpet. I also decided to give her an interim name so that I’d have something to yell apart from No.”

“What are you calling her?” Peter picked up the shoelace and attempted to engage the kitten’s attention.

“Guerilla Girl.”

“That’s not a very ladylike name.”

“She’s not a very ladylike cat. And anyway, I call her Gigi for short.”

“Why are you calling her Gorilla Girl? ’Cause she’s a little monkey?” Peter pulled the shoelace again, but not fast enough. Gigi had it in her maw and was viciously assaulting it with all four limbs.

“It’s guerilla, like the Central American freedom fighter. The Guerilla Girls are a feminist pop-artist collective. This is one of their T-shirts.” Nick straightened so that Peter could read his shirt.

In large letters it read DO WOMEN HAVE TO BE NAKED TO GET INTO THE MET. MUSEUM?

It featured a recumbent woman wearing a gorilla mask, and noted, in smaller text, that although less than 5 percent of the artists in the Modern Art section were women, they accounted for 85 percent of the nudes.

While Peter didn’t know if the kitten had any strong political feelings, feminist or otherwise, he couldn’t deny that Gigi was a pretty cute name.

Plus it had the advantage of giving him an excuse to perform his Maurice Chevalier impression. He picked up the kitten and began to croon, “Thank heaven for lee-ttle girls, for lee-ttle girls get bigger every day.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “That’s the gayest, most old-man move I’ve ever seen you make.”

“Singing?”

“Singing a song from Gigi.”

“I’d have gone for Lady Gaga, but this cat doesn’t really have that much of a ‘Poker Face.’” Peter let the squirming creature go, and she moved immediately to reengage her mortal enemy, the shoelace.

Nick nodded. “She knows what she wants and goes to any length to get it. Kind of like you.”

Peter couldn’t tell if that had been meant to be a compliment. Then again, he also couldn’t tell if Nick liked the cat, so he said, “Thanks… I think.”

“It’s not like I haven’t benefited from the frank and open single-mindedness of your pursuit.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“It’s true. I would have never had the guts to walk up to you and ask you out cold,” Nick said. “I would have overthought it and choked.”

“Was it because you were covered in blood when we met? Because I would have overlooked that, given the circumstances.”

“You think I’m being condescending, but you don’t know. I’ve never asked a guy out on a date.”

Peter blinked. How was that even possible? Granted, Nick was handsome enough that he’d probably had customers lined up all his life, but still…

“Never?”

“Never.”

“You haven’t, even once, asked anyone out ever?” Peter could not conceal the incredulity in his voice.

“That’s not what I said. I’ve never asked a guy out. I’ve asked out plenty of girls just fine. It’s easy to ask someone out when you don’t really care if they say no.” As if too embarrassed to look him in the eye, Nick grabbed the shoelace and tugged gently at it. Gigi went into a sharklike killing frenzy.

Peter considered Nick’s words. “I guess I forget that you weren’t out for a long time.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Not till you met Walter, I guess.”

“Not even then.” Nick caught Gigi just as she was about to fall off the sofa, plunking her back on her tiny feet. She hopped down and went to stare fixedly at a spot on the carpet.

“I don’t get it. I thought everybody knew about you two, and that’s why you were involved in the investigation into Walter’s death.” It was a subject Peter hated to bring up but couldn’t make himself give up on either.

De Kamp had been nearly forty years Nick’s senior. After he had developed pancreatic cancer, Nick had allegedly assisted in his suicide, an act of compassion that had made him, for a time, a suspect in a murder investigation.

“I guess it depends on what you mean by the word ‘everyone.’ Everyone didn’t include Walter’s family or anyone outside of his inner circle in Manhattan.”

“But you lived with him. Didn’t his wife know?”

“His wife lived in the Hamptons because she felt the city was unsafe. His sons are both older than me, so they were living their own lives elsewhere. Walter stayed at his studio in the city to work. I’m sure Walter’s wife knew he had a lover, but not that it was me,” Nick said. “I’m fairly certain she thought it was his agent, Felicity.”

“And his wife didn’t wonder why he was building a huge, expensive house out on the west coast?”

Nick smiled ruefully. “I think it’s fair to assume that she didn’t know he was building the Castle.”

“How is that even possible? Didn’t she look at the bank account and think to herself, ‘Now, that’s odd…’”

“Well, first, not everyone in the world is as nosy as you are.”

“I prefer to think of myself as inveterately curious,” Peter interrupted primly. “Especially about what other people are doing and why.”

Nick cracked a wide smile at that, but the smile soon became tinged with a sort of sadness that Peter didn’t comprehend. More than that, it hurt him to see Nick smile that way. He focused on Gigi, who had decided to lie down in order to stare at the carpet spot in a more relaxed, long-term manner. When he looked back to Nick, his lover seemed far away. Probably lost in some melancholy, sepia-tinged memory of the good times. And seeing Nick look like that, Peter found that his curiosity suddenly left him. He didn’t want to hear about those good times when he hadn’t needed to think about money or the damage incurred by somebody else’s highly destructive cat.

Peter’s internal monologue became morbid.

Years after the death of Walter De Kamp, Nick Olson was forced once more to confront the deep and everlasting internal pain of being cruelly separated from his one true love. Shacking up with broke reporter Peter Fontaine was not enough to ease him. No amount of consistent sex and reliable light dinner conversation could match the true communication one artist could have with another.

Blinking, Peter forced himself to stop this morose internal typing. Maybe he should just find a reason to get out, get some space. Maybe go to Evangeline’s house and drink a bottle of pinot grigio. He was about to propose this very action when Nick said, “I was going to leave him, you know.”

Peter blinked again, as if by doing so he could replay what he thought Nick had just said to make sure he’d heard correctly. Because that’s not how conversations work, he was forced to ask, “Come again?”

“I was going to leave Walter. I’d gone to an artist’s retreat to work and just to try and get some perspective on my life. While I was there I made up my mind to break it off. I realized that even though he loved me, he was never going to see me as his equal, and I needed that.”

“Everyone needs that.”

Nick cracked a crooked smile. “Not really. But I did, and so I had made my decision. Then when I came back, he told me that he had been diagnosed and had about a year to live.” Nick stared at the blank wall in front of him. “He was afraid. I think he knew that I wasn’t happy and that if I left, he’d die alone. He told me he’d changed his will to leave me his artistic estate. Essentially, he bought me.”

“I don’t want to seem insensitive here, but again I’d like to point out that he could have gone home to his wife. You know, the one who signed on for till death us do part.” Peter tried not to sound callous, but journalistic training took over, as it often did when he was confronted by blatant illogic. “And what about the sons? Didn’t they want to spend time with him?”

“No, they didn’t want to see him. Especially not after the family lawyer leaked the information about the change in the will.” Nick kept his eyes fixed on the wall, as if he were revealing his darkest secret. And Peter supposed that for a person like Nick, admitting that he had been bought qualified as his darkest secret. Or if not actually darkest, certainly the one he was most ashamed of.

“So the wife and kids didn’t get anything?”

“Not from Walter. After he died there was a lawsuit. We eventually came to the agreement that I would remain the executor but all monies coming from the sale of Walter’s art had to be split evenly between me, Bradley, and Troy. Those are Walter’s sons.”

Understanding dawned across Peter’s foggy and shifting thoughts. “So the Bradley who almost ran over me was Walter’s son?”

“That’s right.”

“He must be fifty, at least.” Peter knew he sounded slightly stupid stating the obvious as he was doing, but couldn’t help himself.

“Walter was in his seventies when he died.” Nick finally looked at him, as if perplexed by Peter’s inability to draw the conclusion that a septuagenarian could have children half a century old. “But yeah, you can see how Bradley and Troy would have reacted to meeting me. He called me a gold-digging little faggot on more than one occasion. Today he wanted to make sure he and Troy get their share of the insurance money from Untitled Five.”

“Asshole,” Peter murmured.

Nick shrugged. “It’s not like he was wrong. I did fit all the criteria to be considered a gold digger…and a faggot.”

Fury welled up in Peter. “You know, Nick, I think he was wrong. I don’t think you stayed for the money.”

“Don’t you?” Nick asked drily. “Were you there?”

“No, but I’ve lived with you for three fucking years now, and you’ve never done anything even slightly underhanded, let alone outright dishonorable. I think you would have stayed with him that last year even if he didn’t give you a dime, because that’s just the kind of man you are.” Peter paused for a breath and made another next logical leap. “Although I can see how if the whole thing ended with assisted suicide, that would have looked suspicious to everybody.”

Nick smiled grimly. “Can you also see how this business with the statue is dredging up a lot of things I don’t really want to think or talk about?”

“I can, but…I’m probably going to keep asking.” Peter held up his hands helplessly. “It’s just how I am.”

“Could you not ask me anything more about it today at least?”

“Sure.” Peter laid his hand on Nick’s knee. “I can give you at least a twenty-four-hour reprieve from my relentless curiosity.” He slid his hand farther up Nick’s thigh. “I could even put my mouth to a more therapeutic use.”

Nick firmly moved his hand back down. “I’m not feeling all that sexy right now, baby.”

Peter withdrew, rejected, only to be pulled back. Nick rested one heavy, hairy arm across his bony shoulders. Peter moved to rest against him, perplexed. “I thought you said you didn’t feel sexy.”

“I don’t.” Nick gave him a quick squeeze. “Can we just be together for a while? Would that be all right?”

“It’s all right.” Peter leaned against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart for a few seconds, then said, “Is she finally asleep?”

“Gigi?”

“Yeah.” Peter had momentarily forgotten that she’d acquired a name since he’d been gone. “The cat.”

“I think the motionless face-plant into the carpet tells us that she is.”

After another moment Peter said, “I really think she’s cute.”

Nick sighed, ruffled Peter’s hair, and replied, “I know.”

They sat together for a space, not speaking. Peter would have thought that Nick had fallen asleep except for the tension in his muscles and the occasional distracted squeeze of Nick’s hand on his shoulder. Evangeline had told him that oftentimes people would bring cats and dogs into hospitals and nursing homes because the patients found it soothing to pet them. Therapy animals, they were called. He thought he might be acting as a therapy animal right now.

A casual change of subject was definitely in order.

“What’s your Halloween costume going to be this year?”

“I haven’t thought about it.” Again, Nick rubbed his hand along Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll probably just get some unryu paper and acrylic polymer medium. Make a mask, like usual.”

Peter nodded against his shoulder. Nick did make really beautiful, surreal masks. For his part, Peter had been waiting for the excuse of Halloween to break out the cowboy boots he’d bought last time he’d visited his parents in Austin. But feeling Nick’s tension and sadness, he changed his mind about mentioning it.

“I was thinking of being a slutty nurse,” Peter said.

After a lengthy pause, Nick said, “A slutty male nurse?”

“Exactly. I don’t see why women get to have the corner on the slutty nurse costume.” Peter sighed and snuggled closer to Nick. “Yeah, I think I’ll find myself some tight white pants and one of those hats with a red cross on it. I think Evangeline might have a pair of white vinyl boots I could borrow.”

“That sounds like something she would have, but would they fit?” Nick’s voice sounded more normal now. His body had relaxed slightly.

“Actually she and I wear the same shoe size.”

“I guess me dressing up as a doctor would be the next logical step,” Nick said. “That or a hapless, innocent patient.”

“Whichever you decide. I can take orders or I can give them.” Peter slid his hand under Nick’s shirt and gently scratched the fur on his chest.

“You’ve never taken an order in your life.”

“That’s just because they weren’t sexy enough. I could definitely take a sexy order.”

Nick’s chest shook with a silent chuckle. “All right, then. Doctor it is.”

Chapter Eight

During the following week of recovery, Gigi slept, ran, clawed, and blinked her way directly into Peter’s heart. Once her stitches had been removed, he’d thought Nick would demand that she be deposited at the Humane Society. Strangely, he did not, claiming that they refused to adopt out black cats around Halloween anyway, so she might as well stay with them for a little while longer.

In the meantime, toys appeared. First, a furry mouse. Then some sort of jingle bell and feather contraption mounted on a cheap toy bamboo fishing pole. Nick never acknowledged himself as the procurer of said items. They would simply be present when Peter arrived home, as if they’d sprung up from the carpet like mushrooms bursting from a fallen log.

Gigi began sleeping on their bed. First on the pillow on Nick’s side, as common cat perversity drew her toward the man who showed the least interest in her, then atop the duvet in the gully between their bodies.

One week after her arrival, Peter opened his eyes to see her struggling from beneath the covers on Nick’s side while Nick snored lightly into his pillow. When Peter rose, she followed him to the bathroom, clambered up on the side of the tub, and watched as Peter showered and shaved. Within him a sense of triumph began to grow, like a hazy image of land must seem to a sailor crossing a vast and hostile ocean. Nick was not made of stone. He would never let a kitten sleep under the covers with him and then kick her out to face the windy, wet autumn on her own. Or even with the help of whatever well-meaning cat lady would adopt her.

Gigi would be theirs.

Heart brimming with love, he turned to pet her. She attacked his hand with vicious, unrestrained joy before running back to the bedroom.

Peter left her there, gently swatting a sandy brown curl that lay across Nick’s unconscious forehead, and headed to the office.

When he arrived there he found the delivery truck parked out front, and the sight gave him a shudder of premonition. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, the feeling deepened into a sense of dreadful foreknowledge. He opened the door and was greeted by the sight of Doug shaking a set of keys at him.

“Shawn dropped these in the mail slot,” Doug told him.

Peter glanced furtively around the office. No one. Not a single soul inhabited the normally busy space. All conveniently late.

Clever bastards.

Doug jingled the keys again.

Peter sighed and held out his hand to receive them.

* * *

Any tourist finding themselves lost on the twisting roads in western Whatcom county might wonder if the entire economy of Whatcom County is derived from U-pick blueberry farms. This is understandable, but untrue. At least half of these U-pick farms sell raspberries. And at Halloween there’s always a pumpkin patch.

U-pick, of course.

Before Peter had been a reporter, he’d had Shawn’s job—driving the truck, that is, not procuring delicious kind bud for Doug. As he made his way along the route through Lynden and Everson, Peter found himself almost transported back to his student days. Before he had any such thing as a steady boyfriend. Certainly before he had a Tom Renner award. Before he even had a reliable bike light.

Those days, when he needed companionship, he went to Vancouver and found some stranger. Now his life was so simple but also infinitely more complex. Instead of finding physical release with unknown men in bars, he made love with Nick. But Nick came with all kinds of history that he was only just now beginning to know.

And with the inclusion of a pet in their small family, Peter felt a strange sense of domesticity that he would have thought would frighten him. Instead, he felt…pleased.

Pleased that he had a boyfriend and a cat. Pleased that he had a job in a town where people knew his name. Pleased when he stopped at the U-pick pumpkin patch to procure a dozen gourds for his annual Halloween Party.

Even pleased by the knowledge that he and Nick and Evangeline would, for the first time, pay for the entire gathering themselves rather than hitting up their friends for BYOB. He felt grown up. Established.

He felt like an adult, and that itself felt good.

Filled with paternalistic largesse, Peter forked over one hundred and fifty dollars for an orange and white monstrosity the size of a beanbag chair.

He drove through Maple Falls, navigating carefully to avoid jostling the pumpkin in the back. And there he caught sight of the black truck he’d seen the previous week. It was parked in front of the Cedarwood Casino. He didn’t need to wonder if it was the same one, since it was not only still festooned with flames, but the same girl lounged against it, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the highway. The truck bed was, as far as Peter could tell, goat free.

Peter decided to pull over and have a chat. As he drew near he saw that the back of the truck held what looked like a bloodstained hospital gurney.

His reporter senses tingled, but observing the brightness and also the texture of the red spattering the gurney sheets, he realized he must be looking at a prop. Maybe for a house party or haunted house.

Perhaps even for Hell House. As he recalled, it had a couple of tableaus that included medical personnel and settings.

The girl caught sight of the Hamster truck and went from lassitude to alertness.

As Peter pulled alongside her, she straightened as if preparing to flee.

“Hi,” he said. “Nice gurney.”

“It isn’t mine.” She buried her hands in the pockets of her vest. The man working the door at the casino took note of him and began speaking into a handheld radio.

The owner of the flame truck obviously had friends inside. Peter had no illusions as to how he would fare against even one casino doorman, let alone a doorman and his friend at the other end of the radio.

“How’s it going?”

In response, the girl narrowed her eyes at him until they became mere slits made of mascara and sparkly green eyeliner. She appeared to be concentrating very hard. Peter wondered if she was trying to put a curse on him. The door of the casino opened, and a young man emerged from the low gloomy interior.

From his first impression, Peter’s inclination was to dismiss him completely. To Peter this kid could have won any award inscribed with any combination of the words “World’s Biggest Pussy.” He was thin and short, and he wore a black concert T-shirt that was way too tight. His pants left nothing to Peter’s imagination, and not in a good way. The boy’s product-intensive hairstyle resembled that of an anime character who has been unexpectedly doused by a rogue wave made entirely of flavored vodka. He wore much black eyeliner.

In short, he was Goth. Peter would have dismissed him immediately as a threat except that Shawn clearly feared him enough to leave the city.

And having been shot at before, Peter did not like the way the kid kept his right hand in his jacket pocket as he approached.

Peter went on, as though he hadn’t seen the kid. “I just wanted to let you know I haven’t seen Shawn yet, but I’ll give him your note when I do.”

“Yeah, you do that,” the girl said. By then the eyeliner boy had come up beside her. He said nothing, just smiled at Peter in an arrogant, youthful way that could be the result of just turning twenty-one or having a .45 in his pocket.

In this case it was probably both.

Peter said, “Hi, I’m Peter Fontaine. I work for the Hamster.”

The boy smirked, pulled out his left hand, and made a waving motion at Peter, treating him as though he were a Railroad Avenue panhandler or a mariachi roving through a Mexican restaurant. He said, “Go back to Bellingham, paper boy.”

Peter didn’t know whether to be insulted or amused by this high-handed dismissal. He chose amusement, since being in a truck would only get him so far if the eyeliner boy had more friends inside the casino.

As he drove away, Peter saluted the boy, who returned the salute, but with only one finger.

Chapter Nine

When he returned home that evening, he related the story of his Maple Falls encounter to Nick and Evangeline. The three of them sat at the massive dining room table. An assortment of knives and gouging devices was spread before them as well as an assortment of doomed gourds. The setup for their assembly line was simple, having been honed over the years. Peter made the first cuts, removing the stem and top intact. Then, because he lacked artistic skills, it was his job to scoop the stringy, slimy, seed-laden netting from the inside of the pumpkins before sending them down the line to somebody who could do more than carve a couple of triangle eyes and a square-toothed smile.

When Nick had first started participating in Peter and Evangeline’s Halloween ritual, there had been a slight tension. An edge of competition between them emerged as lover and best friend figured out their relative positions to each other. That first year, the pumpkins had been masterpieces of gourd flesh. As the two of them grew more comfortable, the need to impress each other faded, but the pumpkins kept evolving so that now carving them and preparing for the party was a two-day affair. They’d carve jack-o-lanterns tonight, then take the Hamster truck over to Fountain Rental in the morning to pick up tables and chairs and a punch fountain. Nick had splashed out and reserved two kerosene heaters for their patio, so that their guests could smoke without freezing to death.

This year Gigi joined them in their preparations, doing her part by walking on the table and knocking expensive and delicate carving tools down to be chipped and dented against the slate floor.

Peter was shoulder-deep in his ottoman-sized gourd when the front bell rang.

“That’s probably Tommy,” Evangeline said. “He said he might come by after work.”

Neither she nor Nick looked up from their work or made any move toward the door. Peter knew from experience that while both of them had the best intentions of actually getting the door once they came to a stopping point in their creative process, that stopping point could take up to fifteen minutes to reach, and by then the person on the doorstep would have given up and gone away.

He toweled off his arm and went to answer the door.

It was not Tommy.

Bradley De Kamp stood on the stair, resplendent in his Burberry overcoat and generalized sense of haughty disapproval. Peter didn’t wait for him to introduce himself, seizing the upper hand. He didn’t generally feel the need to instantly dominate another man, but Bradley had insulted Nick, and Peter’s defense came intuitively.

“You’re Bradley, right? I’m Peter Fontaine.” He held out his hand, which Bradley reluctantly shook. “Just to let you know, you almost ran over me the other night.”

“I—”

Peter gave him a hard, bright smile. “No hard feelings, man. It’s hard to see in the fog sometimes. Just letting you know, there’s a lot of cyclists on this road.”

“Thank you for that information.” Bradley stood stiffly, without leaving the foyer, without removing his coat. “I’d like to speak with Nick Olson if he’s here.”

Nick saved him the trouble of yelling his name by sidling up beside him. He held a squirming Gigi in one palm.

“What’s up, Bradley?” Nick’s attempt at casual language was undone by his flat tone. Bradley didn’t seem to notice, though.

“I want to know what’s going on with the insurance payment.” He stood eye to eye with Nick, though with a slightly thinner frame. He had silver hair and a lot of it.

“You could have called,” Nick said. “I have company right now.”

“I did call. You didn’t answer,” Bradley said. “If you had, I could have been spared a drive.”

“Look, there isn’t a payment yet. The investigators haven’t even come up here.” Nick lost his hold on Gigi, and she bounded away to freedom.

“Whereabouts did you drive from? Do you live in Seattle?” Peter inquired.

“I fly in every couple of weeks on business,” Bradley said.

“Bradley works in the software industry. Borealis Microsystems.” Nick explained. Then to Bradley, “I told you that I would forward all communications that I had with them. There just hasn’t been any.”

“You should be keeping in better contact than you do. It’s a lot of money we’re talking about.” Bradley straightened imperiously and took on the air of a parent admonishing a child.

“I don’t know what I can do. I can’t make the insurance investigators work faster,” Nick said.

“Maybe it would save us all time and aggravation if you just cut a check for the amount owed to Troy and me now.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Oh come on. Surely you get that much on print royalties alone.” Bradley brushed a raindrop off his sleeve.

Peter’s patience for this pompous jackass came to an abrupt end. “So I guess you must be hurting pretty badly for cash, huh, Bradley?”

At this comment, both Nick and Bradley turned to stare at him, but for different reasons. Nick seemed genuinely surprised, with just the beginning of amusement lighting his face. Bradley looked like he’d been given a cold jelly enema.

“I beg your pardon?” Bradley actually spluttered, an action that Peter had previously never seen anyone reduced to.

“Anybody who knows anything about insurance companies would know that Nick wouldn’t have the money yet. You don’t look like a guy who knows nothing of insurance, so you clearly knew when you were driving up here that Nick wouldn’t have the payment yet. You would have known it starting out. So why come up here?”

“To make sure—” Bradley began, but Peter cut him off.

“That was a rhetorical question. I already know why you came up here. To squeeze some money out of a guy who’s young enough to be your son.”

“I’m well aware of Mr. Olson’s age,” Bradley replied frostily.

“So why are you so strapped for cash? Software business in the toilet again, or did you just spend all your savings on hookers and blow?” Peter didn’t really think that Bradley was a hookers-and-blow sort of guy, but he’d learned through countless hostile and semihostile interviews that throwing out a fatuous accusation often reaped rewards.

“I don’t need cash. But as long as we’re all being offensively honest, I am looking out for my and my brother’s financial interests because I don’t trust Mr. Olson at all.” Bradley stated this coldly, as if Nick had forced Walter into homosexuality by trickery.

Peter regarded him narrowly. “I don’t buy it. You came here to pressure Nick into cutting you a check. You hate him, so you must need money bad.”

“It doesn’t matter why or if Bradley needs money. The fact is I don’t have it,” Nick said, finally relaxed enough to lean against the wall, hands in pockets, scruffy as a model in a cologne ad. “Bradley, I don’t know why you think that your father’s art is earning millions in print rights, but you are truly mistaken. I promise that I will send you what is due you just as soon as I have it. In the meantime, I’d like to get back to my guest.”

Nick gestured toward the door.

Bradley went without another word, too mortified or too angered by Peter’s provocations to speak. At first, Peter thought Nick angry with him as well, but as the door closed, he pulled Peter to him and pressed a whiskery kiss into Peter’s cheek.

“You’re really something,” he whispered. “You just go for the jugular right away, every time.”

“I can’t help it,” Peter said. “Mom says I was born without tact. Are you mad?”

Nick laughed softly. “Not at all. Just amazed, that’s all.”

From the kitchen came Evangeline’s voice calling, “If you guys are done with your big family scene out there, I was wondering if you could come back and tell me all the details. I couldn’t hear anything from here.”

Chapter Ten

The morning of the big party, Peter woke early, too excited to sleep. As usual, Nick had already risen and doubtless was somewhere in the house creating some sort of art. That or lifting weights. On the way to the bathroom, Peter peeked into the guest room, hoping to see the spectacle of reps and curls, but Nick had already been and gone elsewhere.

Peter found his lover sitting cross-legged on the silk rug in the living room, a long, scroll-like piece of Japanese mulberry paper unrolled in front of him. Nick held a sumi brush in one hand and a bottle of ink in the other, painting wide expressive strokes on the porous paper. Gigi slept beside him on the rug.

After kissing Nick good morning, Peter went to engage the shower. While he enjoyed the exquisite four-head spray, a curious thought occurred: what about Bradley? What if he had stolen the sculpture himself? He plainly needed money. He wondered if Borealis Microsystems kept a log of which of their salespeople had been in the Pacific Northwest on, say, the Fourth of July. Invigorated, he lunged from the shower and, wrapped only in a towel, first visited the Internet and then made a few calls.

Afterward, puffed up with pride, he went to crow his triumph to Nick.

“Borealis Microsystems says that Bradley De Kamp hasn’t worked for them since June.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” As usual, Nick didn’t look up from his work. The brush strokes began to assemble themselves into the shape of a cat. “He’s always been better at selling himself than actual products.”

“I don’t follow.”

“He keeps getting jobs but also keeps getting let go after a few years.” Nick dipped his brush in the ink again. “The business world is rough for those of mediocre ability.”

“So I’m thinking that we have another option in terms of people who could have benefited from theft of the statue.”

Nick let out a snort of laughter. “I cannot imagine Bradley figuring out a way to move something that heavy. You saw his problem-solving skills in action last night.”

“I suppose so, but what if he and Stephano worked together?”

“Not possible. They’d be working at cross-purposes. Either the university can get the money or Bradley can, but not both.” Nick drew a long, sinuous stroke to represent Gigi’s tail. As if sensing the complete drawing, she woke, stretched, and immediately went for the sumi brush. Nick removed the brush, saving it from a mauling. In her zeal, Gigi had darted onto the paper, walked across the wet drawing before coming to rest at the upper end of the paper, printing a trail of black cat paws behind her. Nick cocked his head slightly. “Nice background there, cat.”

“Come on, admit it. You like her,” Peter said.

“I like her best when she’s asleep.”

“So we’re going to keep her?” Peter asked.

For the first time, Nick met his gaze. “Only if you admit that I was right.”

“About what?”

“Wanting to keep this cat from the very beginning.”

Peter hung his head. “Okay, I wanted to keep the cat from the very beginning.”

Nick reached out to stroke his bare shoulders. “Me too. Now get dressed. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

* * *

Before Bellingham was amalgamated into the City of Subdued Excitement, it was made up of four separate towns: Fairhaven, Whatcom, Fountain, and Bellingham. During the time of its founding, Bellingham was the least of the four start-up towns but was lucky enough to have the Bellingham Bay and British Columbia Railroad Depot. Once the canneries and sawmills of Fairhaven imploded, the railroad-endowed municipality of Bellingham subsumed the others. The names of the original nineteenth-century towns linger as designated neighborhoods with distinct characters. The original fountain that gave the neighborhood its name has long since gone, but Fountain Rental remains the place to acquire not only everything one needs to throw an average wedding or wake, but also a truck to move it all with.

Peter had no need of any of the trucks available, though some of the big dualies appealed strongly to the four-year-old within him. He and Nick loaded the beat-up Hamster truck with tables and chairs and kerosene heaters. Last he carefully nestled a three-tier punch fountain between two stacks of chairs while Nick signed the rental agreement. They made good time, arriving back at their house just as Evangeline pulled up to help them unload and start decorating.

“Can you give me a hand with this heater?” she asked. “I don’t want to scuff the truck.”

“This truck couldn’t get any more scuffed than it already is,” Peter said. “You’ll see when we get the stuff out of it. It’s in serious need of gator liner.”

As they progressed Nick knelt to run his fingers along a deep gouge in the truck bed. “I see what you mean about being scuffed.” He suddenly lifted his fingers and peered at them.

“Did you cut yourself?” Peter moved to check, as did Evangeline. Nick’s skin was unbroken. A splinter of rock stuck to his index finger.

“This is Italian yellow granite.” Nick bent to search the crevices and crenulations of the truck bed, finding several small shards of the same stone. A couple of them were as big as a fingernail. “This is the same stone Untitled Five is made from. Look at how polished this side is. These are fragments from the sculpture, and this—”

“So…” Peter drew the word out as he came up to speed with Nick’s discovery. “Untitled Five was in this truck at some point?”

“Not just at some point. Recently. And I don’t even know what to make of this.” Nick held up a small wad of black fur. It looked like a tuft of hair from a black cat.

“Is that from Gigi?” Peter asked. Nick shook his head.

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Evangeline said. “The only people who drive this truck are you and Shawn.”

“And Doug,” Nick added.

“Doug’s hernia doesn’t even let him lift twenty pounds,” Peter said. “But what the hell would Shawn want with a statue? More than that, why is there a chunk of hair from our cat in here as well?”

“Maybe we should ask him.” Nick pocketed the shards of stone. Both he and Peter turned their gaze on Evangeline, who immediately threw up her hands in protest.

“I swear I don’t know anything about this.”

“But you know where Shawn is, don’t you?” Peter leaned in close.

“Of course I do. He’s my cousin.”

“Would you please, please tell us where to find him?” Nick said. “I don’t want to get him in trouble. I just want to talk to him.”

“He’ll probably be coming to the party tonight. Why not just wait for him?” Evangeline crossed her arms, pulling her sweater closer against her bountiful breasts.

“Because I’d like answers to my questions now,” Peter replied. “And because if he had anything to do with hurting my cat, I don’t want him at my party.”

Evangeline flushed, immediately ready to defend her kin. “What makes you think he’d harm any animal?”

“You were the one who said he was hanging out with Satanists and taking the wrong drugs,” Peter reminded her.

“That doesn’t make him a cat skinner. And a couple of marble chips doesn’t prove anything!”

“I didn’t say they did,” Nick cut in smoothly. “I just want to find out what he knows. You saw how Bradley was acting last night. This whole thing has gone on too long, and if I can find Untitled Five and avoid giving that dick a cent, I’d really like to. Please help me.”

* * *

Nick pulled into the dirt lot behind Boundary Bay Brewery just past noon. Because of the adjacent farmer’s market, the lot was crammed with both cars and people. Peter scanned the bunched-up lines of vehicles for beige Westphalias. There were three.

Typical hippie town.

He searched for signs of a tall Asian guy with dreads.

Again, not as easy to single out as one might have imagined. Then, behind a clot of cross-looking Russian women, he spied the dreads he sought. They were covered by a large cotton head wrap printed with multicolored shooting stars.

“Stop.”

Nick applied the brake, and the car came to rest with a crunch of gravel. Peter launched himself out of the car, heading toward his quarry.

Shawn looked about to flee in the face of Peter’s purposeful approach. Then, as if overcome with a sudden wave of calm, he seemed to steady himself and relax.

“Hey man, how have you been?” he asked mildly. “I didn’t think I’d see you until tonight.”

“I’ve been good. Listen, I need to talk to you.”

Shawn glanced over Peter’s shoulder and said, “Hey Nick.”

Nick also seemed taken aback by Shawn’s lack of guilty response. He brought himself up alongside Peter and said, “Shawn.”

“So what did you need?” He leaned against the side of his van.

“I found a chunk of Gigi’s fur on the back of the Hamster delivery truck,” Peter said. “I was just wondering if you had any idea what happened to her.”

“You found…” Shawn’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What did you find?”

“A chunk of fur that I strongly theorize came off the back of my cat.” Peter crossed his arms, glad Nick was there in case Shawn freaked out and attacked him. From inside the beige Westphalia came a strange, high-pitched sound.

Shawn glanced over his shoulder, forehead suddenly sweaty, fingers flexing and straightening. “I don’t know anything about your cat.”

“Do you know anything about granite fragments?” Nick pulled his hand out of his pocket to display the almost powderlike granite that had been left there.

Shawn’s eyes went wide, but he said, “No, I don’t know about gravel either.”

“This isn’t gravel. It’s a few fragments of Italian yellow granite, which is what the missing De Kamp statue happens to be made of.”

Again, the animal sound emitted from the back of Shawn’s vehicle. Sick fear churned through Peter’s gut. He couldn’t imagine Shawn ever hurting an animal, but then he hadn’t predicted him having to leave town for three days to avoid his dealer either. He could picture in his mind’s eye another little kitten back there, bleeding, waiting until someone had time to finish it off. He could stop it, he realized. He had that chance now.

“What the fuck do you have in your van?” Peter demanded.

“It’s nothing.” Shawn stepped in front of the door.

“It’s not nothing. There’s an animal in there.” Peter reached for the door handle, and Shawn shoved him away. Nick moved in immediately, pinning Shawn against the Westphalia’s side panels. Peter jerked the sliding door open, expecting to see a little ball of fur come shooting out. Instead, sitting quite calmly on the floor of the van, was a black goat. She—he could tell it was a she from the udder—chewed a mouthful of some haylike substance and regarded him with calm detachment. Then, catching sight of Shawn, she bleated. Unless Peter was mistaken, this was the very same goat he’d seen in the back of a black truck one week before.

“Let me go, you fucker!” Shawn struggled against Nick.

“Why do you have a goat in your van?” Nick’s emphasis on the word goat clearly indicated that he, too, had expected to find an injured feline.

The goat stood, took a couple of steps toward Shawn, then stuffed her muzzle into the deep pocket of his North Face jacket. From this she pulled a small sandwich bag of Fritos, which she started munching, plastic and all.

“Don’t let her eat the bag!” Shawn struggled again, and this time Nick let him go to disengage the goat from her plastic treat.

“Shawn,” Peter said. “I’m going to have to ask you again why you have this goat in your van.”

“I saved her,” Shawn said. “And then she saved me. I’ve been clean for a week now. It’s because of her.”

Watching Shawn stare lovingly at the goat, a horrifying thought crept into Peter’s mind. Clearly the same thought had formed in Nick’s mind because he said, in the dry, unflappable tone he used when he expected to be repulsed, “How did she do that?”

“She made me understand that I’m a hero.” Shawn nodded, both to the goat and to himself. He flipped his uneven, waxy dreads out of his face. “All right, I’ll cop to moving that penis statue, but I didn’t steal anything except this goat.”

“You moved the statue, but you did not steal it?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “I think you have to explain.”

Shawn didn’t begin immediately. Instead he stared fixedly at the goat for a few seconds as though she were psychically coaching him. Then he nodded at her and took a deep breath. “I was in the Hamster office alone a couple of Fridays back answering the phones because Doug wanted to go check out the grand opening of that new vegan raw-foods place on Cornwall Avenue.”

“He knows the owner somehow,” Peter explained to Nick.

“She’s his cousin’s daughter,” Shawn said. “Anyway I was there answering the phone, and somebody called about the statue. She said that she’d seen it at a house party near Whatcom Falls Park. I asked her if she knew who owned the house, and she said she didn’t remember, but that it was there in the shed.”

“So how did you find the house it was at?” Peter asked.

“Oh, I recognized the caller’s voice. Plus there’s caller ID in the Hamster office, so I knew for sure it was Jessica Mehrton on the phone. She’s going out with my friend Billy, so I called Billy and asked him where the house party had been and he told me. Ironically, I’d been there too, but I didn’t go in the shed.” Shawn paused briefly to scratch the goat. “Plus I don’t remember being there at all. I was really wasted.”

“Just out of curiosity, why did your friends go into the shed?” Peter flipped out his notebook.

“Jessica saw Billy flirting with this other chick and got mad so he pulled her into the shed to talk about it so they didn’t make a big scene,” Shawn said. “Anyway, I thought it would be cool if I just went and got it instead of calling the cops.”

“Why wouldn’t you do that?”

“I had just been to a party there. I didn’t want to be a bad guest. Plus there was no reason to involve the police since I could just claim I couldn’t reveal my source for where I found it. You know, because we’re a newspaper. Plus I’m an ordained minister through the Church of the Divine Man.”

“I don’t think the cops would have bought either of those reasons for withholding information, but I can see how you were thinking. Okay, go on,” Peter said.

“So I went out to the house and found the statue right where Jessica had said it would be. I put it into the truck—”

“How?” Nick broke in.

“Well, I’ve been reading a lot about pyramids and how the ancient Egyptians built them—”

“You brought a bunch of Jewish slaves along to help you?” Peter could not help this interjection.

Shawn gave him a withering look. “No, I used my long board, some two-by-fours, and the winch on the truck.”

“That would explain how the statue got chipped,” Nick remarked.

“And how the bed of the truck got so scuffed,” Peter added.

The goat, apparently growing bored with their story, stood, stepped out of the Westphalia, and ambled toward the a dirt embankment, which had been planted with ornamental native shrubbery. She sampled this and, finding it pleasing, started eating in earnest.

“So,” Peter prompted, “how did you not manage to bring the statue back to the Hamster office after removing it from this unnamed person’s garage?”

“As I was driving back here, I got a call from a guy I do some business with. He wanted to see me, so I went over there, and he started hassling me about some money that I guess I owed him.”

“Does this guy, by any chance, worship Satan?”

Shawn looked up in surprise. “You know him too?”

Peter gave a noncommittal shrug.

Shawn continued, “Then you know what a prick this guy is. He said he’d forget about the money if I consecrated my life to Satan, sucked his dick, and drank the blood of a black cat. He had a cage of cats. Some of them had collars. They were people’s pets. And there were skins.”

“Did you do it?” Nick’s eyes flicked to the goat, then back to Shawn.

Affronted horror played across Shawn’s face. “No, man, I believe in the light. Plus I’m a vegetarian. I told him I’d pay him back in three days. I figured that since he was worshipping Satan, I might be able to trade them this big cock statue for an extra weekend.” Shawn shrugged. “I told him that he could probably sell it on the black market if he wanted to, but I think he just liked it cause it looked like a dick. I gave them the statue to keep as collateral. Once I got the money and paid them off, I went back to get the penis, and it was sitting in the middle of this pentagram made of red stones. The cats weren’t there anymore, but there was this sad little goat tethered to the sculpture, and I just kind of…I snapped I guess. It was like I was her…or something. I started crying, and then I just took her. Oh, Melinda…”

Peter was about to ask who Melinda was when he realized that there was only one female in the parking lot with them. Shawn sat half-inside the van and gazed at the goat. Seeming to sense Shawn’s distress, she returned to the van, climbed back inside, and sat primly alongside him. She didn’t seem to mind it when he draped his arm across her neck. In fact, she didn’t seem to mind anything about her current living situation, which Peter found remarkably copasetic behavior for a goat.

He said, “Well, she seems to like you.”

“Yeah, she’s wise. She knows I mean her no harm,” Shawn said.

“That or she has Stockholm syndrome,” Nick muttered.

Peter went on before Shawn could comment or ask him what Stockholm syndrome was. “If this is true, then you know who owns the property where you originally picked up the sculpture. Even if we don’t report it to the cops, I think Nick has some things to say to her. She owes him an apology if nothing else.”

“I guess that’s fair. It was at Anne Gerholt’s place.”

“Professor Gerholt?” Peter couldn’t imagine the prim, tidy math instructor pumping her own gas, let alone masterminding the theft of a massive chunk of granite. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Her creep boyfriend, Stephano, was there hitting on anything with tits and telling everybody that he was going to have a piece in the Western sculpture garden soon,” Shawn said.

At this Peter glanced to Nick, whose expression darkened. “Then as far as you know, the sculpture is still where you left it?”

“Unless they took it someplace.” Shawn shrugged. “I didn’t really think about it, since I was stealing a goat right then.”

“Okay, Shawn. I’m sorry, but you really have to tell us where this Satanist lives,” Peter said.

Shawn said, “If I tell you where to find the statue, will you keep the cops out of it?”

“Why would we want to keep the cops out of it?” Nick asked.

“Because they’ll know I was the one who tipped the cops off about it, and they’ll kill me and consecrate my soul to Satan against my will,” Shawn said.

“Could that really happen? I mean, I know they can kill you, but I’m pretty sure the light will protect your immortal soul.” Peter’s mind chased after his own words as he spoke. They almost made sense in an Evangeline-logic kind of way. He went with it. “The most they could do is send you into the light faster.”

“And if they do that, who is going to take care of Melinda? Technically they own her.” Shawn looked miserable.

“Even if we went there by ourselves to get it, they’re still going to know you told us where to find it,” Peter reasoned. “Maybe the cops can protect you if—”

“What if I just gave you a couple grand and twenty-four hours to get out of town?” Nick interrupted.

Shawn stared at Nick, an almost vulnerable expression in his eyes. “You would do that for me?”

“Just promise me your love for Melinda is purely platonic, and I’ll go to that cash machine right there and get you your money.”

“What does platonic mean?”

“It means you’re not a goat fucker,” Peter explained.

“I am not a goat fucker,” Shawn said emphatically. “I can’t believe you would think something like that about me. That’s why I stole Melinda in the first place. I couldn’t take the idea that they might—”

“Enough said.” Nick held up a silencing hand. “I’ll get the cash. You give Peter directions.”

Shawn described the location of the property where Untitled Five had last been spotted, and Peter took careful notes. When Nick returned with the money, Shawn took it reverently. “I will use this to do good in the world. Maybe in Northern Cali.”

“Just use it to save your neck,” Nick replied.

They said their good-byes, Shawn even going so far as to embrace them each in his gratitude before collecting Melinda and firing up his van.

Peter and Nick watched him drive into the cool afternoon. Finally, Peter said, “I guess you probably want to get home and help Evangeline decorate.”

Nick surprised him by saying. “Since I’m already in town, I think I’d like to have a word with Professor Gerholt first.”

Chapter Eleven

Dr. Gerholt’s home near Whatcom Falls Park was typical of the area. One level of unimaginative brick bungalow was surrounded by a nondescript fenced yard. Looking at the facade, Peter could easily imagine how Stephano could be appealing to the person who inhabited it. He’d never seen such severe corners on a lawn outside of a golf course.

Peter knocked, and after listening to the sound of many deadbolts and chains being undone, Dr. Gerholt answered. She looked just as Peter remembered her from his undergrad days. Slim, attractive, and neat in a way that always reminded Peter of a figurine that been freshly popped out of a blister pack in mint condition. She had dark, glossy hair done in a bob cut and the same heavy, square-framed glasses that nerds who wanted to convey some sense of style always seemed to wear.

“Dr. Gerholt? I don’t know if you remember me.”

“Fontaine, Peter,” she said.

He smiled. “That’s me. This is Nick Olson, my boyfriend.”

“Oh, yes. I recognize you from gallery walk,” she said pleasantly. She made no effort to move away from the door or to let them in. Her reticence aroused his suspicion but also seemed natural for a person who clearly had more than one deadbolt in a town as sleepy as Bellingham. “Did you come about the kitten?”

Peter opened his mouth to say no. Then his brain caught up to the conversation. “A little black one?”

All at once her demeanor brightened. “You found her? Is she all right?”

“Peter found her in Whatcom Falls Park.” Nick had apparently come up to speed with the sudden left turn their conversation had taken. “Is she yours?”

“Not exactly, but I was still worried about her. That’s why I put up the posters,” she said. Then seeming to remember her manners all at once, she invited them in. Inside her home was as sterile as the outside. Lots of cream-colored carpeting that Peter couldn’t see jibing with ownership of a black feline.

Dr. Gerholt started for her refrigerator. “Can I get you something to drink? I’m having some milk.”

“I’m all right,” Peter said. “I was just wondering if you knew how she got the injury.”

“Oh, no. I don’t know what happened to her back.”

“How did you know it was on her back?” Nick asked.

Dr. Gerholt stopped midpour, face aghast. “I saw it, of course.”

Peter moved in for the kill. “Why didn’t you take her to a vet?”

“I couldn’t catch her.” She finished pouring her milk. “Kittens move fast.”

“Especially after you’ve cut a chunk of their skin off,” Peter said.

“I beg your pardon!” Dr. Gerholt’s face went white. “That is the most insulting—”

“Then you didn’t do it?” Peter stepped slightly closer to Nick. Although he had turned out to be in no danger from Shawn, he had the sinking suspicion that Anne Gerholt might chuck a glass of milk at him.

“I most certainly did not!”

“Good, then I’ll send the police around here to take a statement about it. They’re looking for leads in the case. They’re worried that there’s another cat skinner at work in town.” Peter started toward the door. “Cruelty to animals is one of the hallmarks of a budding serial killer, you know. I think they’ll probably want to canvass this neighborhood.”

“Wait!” Dr. Gerholt rushed ahead of them, losing her grip on the milk. The plastic carton bounced to the floor, splashing milk all over the kitchen. She placed herself between them and the exit. “You don’t need to send the police. I cut the kitten, but it isn’t what you think.”

“I truly don’t know what to think,” Nick commented, drawing an acid stare from Dr. Gerholt.

Peter fell back slightly, kicking himself for not locating a second exit before starting his accusatory speech. “So tell us what happened.”

“I was trying to snip off a piece of her fur, and I got the skin. That’s all.” The professor’s eyes brimmed with tears. “There’s no need to inform the police.”

“Why were you cutting her fur?” Peter resisted the urge to flip out his notebook.

“I was—” Dr. Gerholt broke off, stared at the milk on the floor, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “I was trying to cast a love spell on my boyfriend.”

Of all the explanations Peter had expected to hear, this was the least plausible. And yet somehow, seeing this sterile environment he could almost believe it in a sick, stupid kind of way.

He said, “Go on.”

“The only scissors I could find were those little curved ones you use for nails, and I guess I just didn’t realize how close I was to its skin.”

“So what you’re saying is that while you were using nail scissors to get some fur off this kitten in order to complete a potion to put a spell on your boyfriend, you accidentally cut its skin off?” Peter could hardly believe was he was recounting. How stupid. How pointless.

“That’s right. And then the kitten got away, and I couldn’t find it again to take it to the vet.”

“Who does the kitten belong to?” Nick asked.

“I’m pretty sure it originally belonged to the kids across the alley, but when they moved out, I think they left it,” Dr. Gerholt replied. “It seemed so lonely. I was thinking of adopting it.”

“She’s already got a place to live.” Nick’s words had a ring of finality that warmed the cockles of Peter’s heart.

“That’s good.”

If Peter had not been so upset by the idea that Gigi had been harmed to complete something as stupid and pointless and completely imaginary as a magical spell, he might have sent Nick a sideways glance at this statement. As it was, he focused on getting more of the facts.

“So, did the spell work?”

“What?” Professor Gerholt seemed confused.

“The spell you were trying to put on Stephano. He’s your boyfriend, right? Did it work?” Peter asked.

“How should I know?” she said. “And it’s not like I believe in that stuff. I was just really really…”

“Drunk?” Peter supplied the word.

“Upset.” She gave him an angry glare. “I was upset that he had disrespected me.”

“Did his disrespect have anything to do with a stolen statue?” Nick took over the questioning.

Dr. Gerholt’s eyes popped open wide. Nick continued, “We know you had it on your property. But I don’t think you were the one who stole it, were you?”

She shook her head. “He stored it in my shed without even asking me. How was I supposed to move something that heavy?”

“Why did he store it here?” Peter asked.

“Because his condo doesn’t have a garage.” Professor Gerholt looked miserable. “He never respects anybody’s boundaries. I guess I know that, but I really thought he was making progress once we started couples counseling.”

“Wait a minute,” Peter said. “You two are in couples counseling? I didn’t realize that you were married.”

“We’re not, but we were thinking of it. I thought it would help his career if he got married. You know, everyone thinks that he’s gay.”

“Not me,” Nick remarked.

“Of course not you, but other people who aren’t so familiar with the GLBT community as you are. It’s because of his name,” she said.

Peter marveled at the fact that she could be so clueless as to describe Nick, an actual homosexual, as “familiar with the GLBT community,” but swallowed the emerging comment and went on. “How could being perceived to be gay possibly hurt Stephano’s art career in this day and age?”

It was Nick who answered. “You’d be surprised.”

Peter nodded, taking Nick’s word for it, though perplexed by why he wouldn’t have mentioned something like that before now. Hadn’t Nick and Walter lived together openly for years to the detriment of no one’s career?

Dr. Gerholt sighed and found a towel, which she threw down on the spilled milk. “He always says that that was why no one has ever bought his work—homophobia. He feels real sympathy for the gay community because of that. He was one of the organizers of the Join Hands Against Hate project.”

“But he’s not gay. He’s just bad. I don’t think not buying bad art from a bad artist qualifies as a hate crime, unless it’s been made a crime to hate bad art.” The words were out before Peter could remember that diplomacy existed or that bridges work better if they aren’t burned.

Dr. Gerholt turned bright red, and her lips pressed together so tightly that they became practically nonexistent. Nick, who had until this point been maintaining a grim posture of stolid Scandinavian disapproval, bent with unexpected laughter.

“Mr. Fontaine, I think it is really unprofessional for a reporter to make commentary like that about a person’s significant other. I’d like you to leave now,” she said.

“I’d argue that it’s equally unprofessional for a professor at a university to participate in the theft of a valuable sculpture from the university grounds,” Peter pointed out. “And unless you want to be charged for that, I think I get to choose when I leave.”

For one moment, Peter thought Dr. Gerholt would finally strike him. She had her hand slightly raised in that way that Gigi did when she was thinking of swatting something. The professor’s face went white, then red, then white again, then a kind of purplish blue.

Then she burst out in an ear-flattening wail.

“It’s not my fault!” she sobbed. “It’s not even here anymore. It was stolen again.”

“We know. I’ll be in touch about that.” With that, Nick tromped through the puddle of milk toward the door.

Peter took this as his cue to leave. Converses sodden with two percent, he quit the premises and threw himself down into the passenger seat of the Audi. “For fuck’s sake, is anyone in Bellingham not worshiping Satan these days?”

“I think technically Professor Gerholt was practicing witchcraft. ’Tis the season.” Nick shrugged as though it was not only academic but inevitable. The autumn sun had already begun to slip below the horizon. At this time tomorrow this street would be thick with trick-or-treaters.

“Not so fast, Olson. ’Tis not just the season for Internet spells and blood sacrifices. ’Tis also the season for bite-size candy bars. ’Tis the season for little kids dressed up as tigers holding plastic jack-o-lanterns. For—”

“For dressing up like a slutty nurse?”

Peter nodded sagely. “For dressing up like a slutty nurse, indeed.”

“We should be going home and getting into our costumes and greeting our guests.”

“No, I want to drive out to the county and find that damn sculpture.”

“Out of the question. We said we’d give Shawn a day to split town. Tonight there’s nothing for you to do but drink and dance.” Nick glanced at his watch. “Evangeline will be wondering why we haven’t come back.”

“She’s got a key; she’ll be fine. But what if Shawn warns those guys that we’re coming. What if they move the sculpture? I’ve been chasing this penis for weeks now. I don’t want it to slip out of my grasp.”

“Baby, I wouldn’t worry about any penis slipping out of your grasp,” Nick said chuckling.

“Please, can we at least drive out there and look to see if it’s there? It’ll only take twenty minutes.”

“Yes, but our guests could start arriving in twenty minutes as well.”

“It’s like curiosity doesn’t kill you,” Peter remarked sourly.

“It’s like you don’t remember that curiosity has nearly killed you at least twice,” Nick growled.

“If you don’t drive me out there, I’ll just sneak away in the middle of the party and go by myself in the dark dressed as a slutty nurse,” Peter said.

“What kind of ultimatum is that?”

“It’s not an ultimatum at all. It’s just a statement of fact. I know myself. I know what I’ll do.” Peter shrugged helplessly. “Some people are junkies; some people are gamblers. I’m nosy and I can’t help following my gut. My gut says something creepy is going on out there with Untitled Five, and so I need to know. Otherwise it will just drive me crazy all night. End of story.”

“If you see that it’s there, do you promise that we can go back and manage to be present at our own Halloween party?”

“I promise.” Peter solemnly raised his hand. “Slutty nurse’s honor.”

Following Shawn’s directions, they got on 542 heading east, past Nugent’s Corner, where Peter had intercepted the death threat, and on toward Everson, where orchards and granges dotted the country roads.

The drive was easy to find. Partly because it was well marked and partly because there was a black truck decorated with flame decals turning out of it.

This time, poking over the edge of the truck bed, rendered in beautiful Italian yellow granite, was the slightly bulbous head of Untitled Five.

Peter gaped, and his arm shot out like as if he were a character in a wacky seventies chase film. “Follow that cock!”

“That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.” Nick put the car into gear and started down Everson-Goshen Road.

“I can’t believe that Shawn screwed us,” Peter said. “I went to that guy’s birthday party.”

“We don’t know that he screwed us,” Nick countered.

“Why would they be moving the sculpture, then?”

“Maybe they’re moving it for their own reasons. People seem to be independently deciding to cart it around for reasons of their own.”

“Or are they?” Peter said ominously.

“Or are they what?” Nick glanced askance at him.

“Are all these people truly deciding to move Untitled Five by themselves, or is the sculpture making them do it? Maybe it’s got a hex on it.” Peter did not believe in hexes, but the giddiness of actually being within sight of his quarry suffused him. They were going to recover the piece after all. Hours spent searching the city, following false lead after false lead would finally pay off. He could finally finish his article. “Or maybe the statue itself is haunted.”

”The spirit of the season is strong with you isn’t it,” Nick said drily.

“I just can’t help myself.”

They passed U-pick blueberries and U-pick raspberries until the truck turned onto a long dirt drive lined with cars. A brand new sign at the top of the drive read WHATCOM COUNTY CHURCH OF CHRIST.

Tacked to the bottom of this, written in marker on a piece of orange poster board, were the words HELL HOUSE—NEXT RIGHT.

Chapter Twelve

Though the sun had just set, Hell House, being a family event, was already busy. A thick line of people wound through the field. To the casual observer they looked just like any other group of revelers. Maybe there were a few more angels than would normally be represented at a Halloween party, but everyone seemed in good spirits—no pun intended. Peter was very, very glad that he hadn’t already donned his costume. This crowd was not the accepting and loving community that he’d grown used to in the sheltered little bubble of what was downtown Bellingham’s art community.

Nick paused on the road, blinker on but not turning. Then he pulled onto the property, following the pickup in front of him down the loose lines of cars parked on the south side of the property. He parked, but left the keys in the ignition. “I sincerely hope you’re planning to call the police.”

“I am, but what do you think they’re bringing the sculpture here for?”

“I have no idea.” Nick turned to face him fully. “Baby, I know that you think you’re impervious, but this is not a good place for us to be.”

“I just want to see inside,” Peter said.

“You can look it up online when we get home, I’m sure,” Nick commented. “They’re obviously going to put it in some display.”

“But the question is which one? I’d like to get a picture for the article. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Who the fuck cares where they put it? Now that these assholes have moved it, this entire thing is over. We can report that we’ve seen it without endangering Shawn—”

“Assuming that Shawn didn’t tip them off,” Peter put in.

“That is my working theory at the moment. So, like I said, now we can call the cops to come recover the piece before it gets more damaged.”

“I know I’ve gotten into some scrapes—” Peter had his hand on the door latch.

Nick autolocked the door. “Scrapes? You’ve tried to get yourself killed at least once a year for as long as I’ve know you. What I’m saying is this is different.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll be in public the whole time. No one here seriously wants to do anything to me. Especially not in front of so many people.”

“You don’t know that. I think I can see at least ten candidates for people who would try and do any number of things to you anywhere that was convenient for them. And you know what? No one here is going to stand up for you if that happens.” Nick’s gaze was intense. “I love you, Peter, and if you go in there, I’ll go with you, but you should know that I can’t protect you from this many people. So please don’t go into that building. A photograph just isn’t worth it.”

“I honestly do not think I’m going to be killed in there, Nick,” Peter began.

“I’m not thinking you’ll be killed, really,” Nick said. “I just don’t want you to be hurt by what you see. Don’t think you won’t be. No one can stand in the face of such naked hatred and not feel it.”

Nick unlocked his door, sat back, and stared forward, waiting.

Peter could see from the resigned set of Nick’s jaw that he fully expected Peter to go, and he expected to have to follow—that he would follow even if Peter didn’t want him to.

And what if something did happen? What if Nick was hurt? He already had the story.

He gazed out at the shifting shadows the bonfire cast across the crowd. Despite their costumes, they weren’t monsters. They were just people.

People who very likely feared and hated him.

People who very well might turn on him if they suspected that he was merely gay, let alone a gay reporter hostile to their event.

Well, that’s what reporters did, didn’t they? Go into situations where other people wouldn’t go? How could he respect himself if he didn’t go in there now?

And yet the knowledge that Nick would follow him inside was unbearable.

So, was getting the photograph really worth it?

Not this time.

He took his hand off the door handle, pulled out his phone, and started to dial. He glanced at Nick, still sitting rigid in the driver’s seat. “We should start heading back before our guests think we’ve abandoned them.”

Nick’s stiff shoulders relaxed.

The police answered and immediately put Peter on hold. Halloween was a busy night for them. Glancing across to Nick, Peter caught Nick pulling a strange smile that he couldn’t quite fathom. “What are you grinning for?”

Nick’s eyes flicked over to him. “I guess slutty nurses do have honor after all.”

He cranked the ignition, put the car into reverse. Peter gazed at the black truck, watching as the blonde girl got out and walked around the back of the truck. She lowered the tailgate to reveal a slim, dark body lying in the back.

“Oh my God,” Peter breathed. “They’ve got Melinda.”

Nick’s foot came down hard on the brake. “You mean the goat?”

“Look, she’s right there.”

Nick shook his head. “It has to be a different goat.”

“She’s got Shawn’s head wrap around her neck.”

“Do you see him there?”

“No.” Peter craned his neck around, trying to get a clearer look. The girl was pulling Melinda by a rope tied around her neck. Eyeliner boy got out on the driver’s side. Initially, Peter thought he would assist her. Instead, he lifted a video camera and started filming. From the back door of the church, a collection of costumed people emerged and gathered around. One had a heavy-duty hand truck.

Melinda balked and seemed to be bleating, though he couldn’t hear her over the noise of the crowd.

“Why are they filming this?” Peter wondered aloud.

“Kids film everything these days.”

Peter squinted harder at eyeliner boy’s form. He definitely seemed to be giving directions. “What if these guys aren’t really Satanists?”

“You think they’re not?”

“They could be making a movie about Satanists.”

“There’s no reason they can’t be doing both simultaneously,” Nick pointed out. “We know for a fact that they’re dealing to Shawn, so they’re not innocent little kids.”

“True, but the old guy standing behind eyeliner boy looks enough like him to be his father. Do you really think that teen Satanists perform rituals in front of their parents?”

“Good point.”

“Holy crap. Here comes Shawn.” Nick pointed to the beige Westphalia barreling down the dirt drive. “When did the cops say they’d be here?”

“As soon as possible. They have a lot of calls,” Peter repeated dutifully. “Maybe half an hour or longer?”

“Goddamnit.” Nick sighed and parked the car again. “I guess we have to back him up.”

Peter suppressed a whoop of joy as Nick reparked the car. He got out and flagged Shawn down. He bounded out of his van, wild-eyed. “They took Melinda!”

“We saw,” Peter said. “How did they get her?”

“I went back to my place to pick up some of my stuff, and they were there.” Shawn hung his head miserably. “They grabbed her and took off while I was inside. They’re going to kill her, I know.”

The blonde girl had managed to get a rope around Melinda’s neck and had her out of the truck bed. In half a minute she disappeared through the back door. Once the goat was out, the others hopped up and tilted Untitled Five onto its side. The rolled it down a pair of two-by-fours down into the dirt and then onto the hand truck.

They appeared to be moving it toward the same door Melinda had disappeared into.

Peter looked at the long line of revelers waiting to get in the front and said, “I’m thinking that we go in the back.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, but what are we going to do once we get in there?” Nick asked.

“I don’t—” Peter stopped short because Shawn was away, weaving through the lines of parked cars toward the back door. “Oh, hell.”

The pair took off running.

If Hell House had been a dance club in LA, none of them would have gotten in. But it wasn’t. No bouncers with giant forearms blocked their way.

Armed with only a polite Excuse me, Peter and Nick pushed their way through the back door and into a small meeting room. Two rectangular tables draped with orange paper tablecloths filled most of the room. A cooler stocked with soda and spiked with dry ice sat at the end of one table, leaking spooky mist over various trays containing cookies and sandwiches. Assorted teenagers in gory outfits lounged on folding chairs, munching. Melinda stood in a clot of three girls who had an aura of 4-H about them. One girl was feeding her a wilted piece of lettuce. At the far end of the room was another open doorway draped with black cloth, around which strobe lights flashed and through which stilted dialogue could be heard.

All that stood between them and the goat were partially demolished party trays and a short kid wearing way too much eyeliner and holding a video camera. Not an intimidating figure at all. Still he managed to stop Shawn in his tracks. “I don’t want any trouble, Rory.”

Rory’s eyes flashed wide and darted toward the older man who resembled him.

Peter could imagine this introduction: Hey, Dad, this is the guy I sell drugs to and whose life I threaten every now and then…

Shawn didn’t seem to make the connection between them and pulled out a wad of cash—the same cash Nick had given him. He peeled off three hundreds. “Here, this is it.”

The older man, plainly curious, stepped up. “What’s going on here?”

Rory lowered his video camera and said, “This is Shawn. He was doing some fundraising for the haunted house for us.”

Instantly, Dad’s face brightened. “We sure do appreciate it. We didn’t know if we’d have enough cash to finish off the week.”

A thunderous crash shook the room. Rory’s dad said, “That’s my cue. It was nice to meet you, Shawn.” He fitted a latex “face of death” mask over his head and went to make his entrance.

As he disappeared Peter heard the unmistakable sound of cop voices asking who was in charge. Two deputies stood in the doorway. Beyond them, Peter could see Untitled Five lying on its side in the damp earth, abandoned.

“How about this, Rory?” Peter spoke in an undertoned rush, eyes fixed on the approaching deputies. “You give me that goat, and I don’t tell them how that sculpture outside got here.”

Rory smirked at him. “What do I care? Shawn gave it to me as a present.”

“Do you really want to reveal your relationship with Shawn?” Peter asked.

“He’s helping me with a fundraising project.” Rory’s expression was all defiance.

At the end of his patience, Nick leaned close. “Listen, you little fuck, that statue is stolen and worth half a million dollars. Unless you want to be charged with receiving stolen property, just give us that animal.”

Rory recoiled slightly, not sure whether to believe them. From the next room came the sound of Rory’s dad’s voice, reading some sort of scripture. Real loud.

He said, “Why do you want that goat so bad?”

“Why do you care?” Peter countered. “The cops’re coming right now. Make a decision.”

Shadows of anger and panic crossed Rory’s face. He grabbed the rope around Melinda’s neck and yanked her toward Peter, thrusting the rope into his hands. “Here, take it, you sick goat fucker.”

“Thank you very much.” Peter inclined his head cordially.

Nick said, “Now get the fuck out of my sight, you little twerp.”

Rory sneered and gave them one final single finger salute before he slid behind the black curtain and vanished.

Peter handed Melinda’s lead to Shawn, but there was no need. She lunged for him, yanking Peter’s arm nearly out of the socket with the force of her enthusiasm. Shawn embraced her, nuzzled her. With teary eyes he whispered, “Thank you.”

Peter said, “You’re welcome.” Then, to Nick, “I think I hear a martini and a slutty nurse costume calling my name.”

Nick gave a curt nod. “After we call your cop friends and tell them about the cage of cats.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

As Peter saw the last of their drunken guests into the waiting limo at three o’clock in the morning, he reflected that the hard part about throwing an epic Halloween party was not the decor, the drinks, or the costumes. It wasn’t attracting the bespangled and bewigged guests or choosing just the right music that allowed people both to dance and not dance whenever the mood struck them.

No, the hard thing was not drinking so many martinis that his slutty nurse costume would go to waste.

But this, he managed. He had imbibed only two of the magic elixirs and declined to drink any of the holiday-themed shots in favor of this moment, when he, tired but not too drunk, would turn to Nick and utter the words, “Well, Doctor, do you need me for anything else?”

Nick, also relatively sober and wearing a set of blue scrubs that were too tight for his shoulders, looked him up and down. Sometime during the night, Peter had abandoned his shirt and wore now only tight white pants and the white latex platform boots. His cheesy nurse’s hat with a red cross on it had been lost on the dance floor. He shuddered as the chill October fog rolled off the bay and moved across his chest.

Immediately Nick looped an arm around his waist.

“I do need some assistance turning down a bed.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That’s candy-striper work. Call me when you’ve got a real medical emergency.”

Nick leaned close. “I’ve got a great big case of priapism that no candy striper within five miles has the credentials to help me with. I need a professional slutty nurse, stat.”

Peter snickered, trailing his hand down Nick’s abdomen, past his drawstring waist. “Dealing with problems like this is my specialty. Let’s get you into a bed right away, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Taking Nick by the hand, Peter led him back inside the house, picking his way through the carnage of the party and tiptoeing past the sleeping Gigi to their room. Peter quietly closed the door.

“So just get out of those things and lie down right over there.” Peter indicated the bed with a gesture reminiscent of Vanna White revealing the location of the letter E on Wheel of Fortune. Not exactly nurselike, but Nick didn’t seem to mind. He stripped off his scrubs, crawled onto the bed, and lay down on his stomach.

He said, “I hope I don’t have to get some sort of injection. I’m afraid of them, you know.”

Peter paused. This was new.

“Don’t worry, it will only hurt for a second.” He ran his hand along the curve of Nick’s shoulders, following it from the dip in his lower back and back up the rise of his buttocks. A shiver went over Nick’s skin. “Are my hands too cold?”

“Not too cold.”

“I just need to prepare my instrument, and I’ll be right there.” He almost managed to say this without laughing, and Nick laughed too, slightly nervously. Peter wished he’d thought ahead enough to have a pair of latex gloves on with him, but alas, he had not. Instead he made a production of fetching lube and warming it in his hands. “Now if you’ll just ease your legs apart, I can examine you.”

Nick shifted, allowed him access. Peter made a slow and careful assessment of Nick’s anatomy, murmuring reassuring phrases he’d heard on medical dramas. Finally holding Nick’s rigid flesh in his hand, he said, “This seems to be the problem right here.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“There is an experimental treatment, but I’m afraid you will need an injection. Shall I call a specialist, or do you trust me to give it to you?”

“I trust you,” Nick glanced over his shoulder. “You come highly recommended by the International Sisterhood of Slutty Nurses.”

Peter smiled, stripped off his boots and pants, freeing his own cock from the confines of the now very tight pants. He settled himself between Nick’s legs. “Now I’ll just start with a couple of fingers. You tell me if this is getting uncomfortable.”

Peter took his time working first one and then two fingers inside Nick. The construct of his role allowed him to be careful and ask questions that would seem timid or amateur out of context. When he finally pushed his own stiff cock inside that tight, hot entrance, Nick stilled against that blanching shock of pain Peter knew so well.

“Just take your time,” Peter breathed into Nick’s ear. “This injection could take a little while. Relax.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a treatment like this,” Nick said.

“I know.” Peter wrapped his hand around Nick’s erection, running his thumb gently across the glans. “I’ll monitor your progress by this. You’ll be just fine.”

Nick began to move, at first almost shy. Then, thought processes consumed with making friction, Peter’s character broke. He moaned against Nick’s back. Then they weren’t a nurse and doctor turned patient, just two men fucking.

Nick bucked back against him, and Peter responded pumping faster and harder, chasing release inside this mass of hot muscle beneath him. Nick came first, ejaculating into Peter’s hand while Peter kept pushing into his clenching body until he broke through that barrier of effort into ecstasy.

He collapsed onto Nick, breathing hard, his own heartbeat hammering through his ears. Peter rolled off him to lie flat on his back. Then he regained himself enough to ask, “Are you feeling a little better now?”

Nick moved to kiss him—a grateful, appreciative kiss. “I am. Thank you, nurse.”

He pulled the covers up around them both. Hovering on the edge of sleep, Peter heard a quiet scratching and meowing at the door. He was about to rouse himself when Nick gently disentangled himself, rose, and went to open the door.

Gigi was scaling the side of the bed in half a second. Upon reaching the summit of Mt. Bed, she trundled across the plateau of twisted covers until she reached the head. She gave Peter one vexed meow and settled in the hollow between two pillows. Nick followed, slipping back into bed, gathering Peter against him, breathing softly into his neck.

Peter asked, “So, how does it feel for the doctor to become the patient?”

“I’m feeling some relief, but I’m not sure I’m completely cured. You’ll probably have to repeat your treatment a few times for me to be sure it’s working.”

“Anything you say, Doctor.”

Epilogue

Whatcom County deputies recovered Walter De Kamp’s famous missing sculpture Untitled Five, from property owned by the Whatcom County Church of Christ on East Pole Road just before midnight on Halloween. When questioned, organizers of the church’s Hell House event claimed to have no knowledge of how the sculpture came to be in their possession, though an anonymous witness claims to have seen it being unloaded from the back of a black pickup truck decorated with extensive flame decals.

“It could’ve been brought there by the Devil himself for all I know,” stated the witness. “It seems like his kind of mischief.”

No charges have been laid.

Peter stopped typing, marveling at how nearly accurate that witness had been. On November fourth, four months to the day after Untitled Five had been removed, it was cemented back onto its pedestal in the university’s sculpture garden. Both Nick and Peter were in attendance, as were Stephano and Dr. Gerholt, both of whom seemed nervous and unusually quiet.

Though he wanted nothing more than to expose them for their crimes, the fact was he had no proof. The only witness who could place the statue at Gerholt’s house had fled the state with his enlightened goat.

The one bright spot in service of justice was that police, following information provided by a not so anonymous tipster, arrested Rory on charges of animal cruelty.

Stephano’s escape from the long arm of the law didn’t seem to bother Nick. He phoned Bradley and left a message on his voice mail informing him that the insurance claim was no longer being filed so he should probably stop shopping for that new Miata. Bradley responded, through his lawyer, that Nick would still be seeing him in court.

Altogether Peter found the whole thing frustrating but respected Nick’s wishes to keep the entire story under wraps. Because who would have believed it anyway? No one.

As though sensing Peter’s vexation through some sixth sense—most likely the expression on his face—Nick sidled up behind him and laid his hands on Peter’s shoulders. The mere touch and gentle pressure caused his muscles to relax.

Nick said, “My cousin wants to know what we’re doing for Christmas this year.”

“Not snow camping,” Peter pronounced. “I’m over snow. Plus there’s no way to pack Gigi. I don’t want her to be alone for the holidays.”

“Christmas doesn’t mean anything to cats.” Nick started to massage his shoulders gently.

Peter stretched into his touch. “Sure it does. It’s the magical day when the living room is littered with empty boxes to jump into and wadded up balls of paper to destroy. We can’t take away her first Christmas.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Nick kept moving his fingers. Slowly he bent to kiss the top of Peter’s head. “I guess the three of us are a family now.”

Peter smirked, mainly to hide the sappy tenderness stabbing through his heart. “Yeah, we sure are.”

Loose Id Titles by Nicole Kimberling

Primal Red

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Black Cat Ink

* * *

“Red Sands”

Part of the anthology Hell Cop

With Astrid Amara and Ginn Hale

* * *

“Dark Waters”

Part of the anthology Hell Cop 2

With Astrid Amara and Ginn Hale

Nicole Kimberling

Nicole Kimberling lives in Bellingham, Washington with her partner, Dawn Kimberling, two bad cats, and approximately 100,000 bees.

She is the editor for Blind Eye Books.

Table of Contents

Title page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Loose Id Titles by Nicole Kimberling

Nicole Kimberling