The Manhattan Hunt Club Read online

  He started thinking how pretty he was.

  Almost pretty enough to kiss.

  He’d cut that thought out of his head. Where the fuck had it come from anyway? He wasn’t a fag!

  But the more he tried not to think about it, the more he kept thinking about it, even though he knew it was all wrong.

  Jimmy was a guy, for Christ sake. He had a dick!

  But if he didn’t, and if he had boobs . . . boobs like Cherie’s . . .

  He sucked in another hit on the bong they were all sharing, and then things started getting kind of hazy. He couldn’t remember what happened after that, except that he wanted to touch Jimmy. Wanted to touch him really bad.

  But it was wrong—it was all wrong! He was a guy, just like all the rest of the guys.

  But then he figured out how to make it right! All he had to do was fix things.

  Fix Jimmy.

  Cherie had fallen asleep, and now Jimmy was smiling at him again, smiling the way that made Jagger’s stomach feel all queasy, and his balls start to ache, and his dick get hard.

  “Come on,” Jimmy whispered. “Come on, Jag—you’re my bud. You know what you want. So come on and get it.” He’d lain back on the floor then, and Jagger knew that Jimmy wanted him to do it.

  Jimmy wanted him to fix it so they could be together.

  The knife slid into Jimmy easily—just slipped through his shirt and between his ribs and into his heart. It didn’t hurt Jimmy—Jagger never would have wanted to hurt him. Jimmy just looked sort of surprised for a second, and then he lay real still, stretched out on his back, his eyes fixed on him.

  And he was still smiling at him, so Jagger knew it was okay.

  He slid the knife into Cherie next. She didn’t even wake up—she just lay there, but her boobs stopped moving like they had when she was breathing.

  He undressed both of them, being really careful not to disturb Jimmy. Then he cut Cherie’s boobs off, and carefully put them on Jimmy’s chest.

  Then came the worst part. He didn’t want to touch Jimmy’s dick—didn’t even want to look at it. But he had to, in order to cut it off. It was a lot bigger than his own, and it seemed to take a long time to get it off. But finally he cut it free, and then everything was all right.

  Jimmy didn’t look like a guy anymore—he looked like a girl.

  A pretty girl.

  Exactly the kind of girl his mother would have wanted for him.

  Taking off his own clothes, Jagger lay down next to Jimmy.

  He stroked Jimmy’s face with his finger, tracing his smile, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.

  He kissed Jimmy, gently at first, then harder.

  He pressed himself close to Jimmy, pressed their bodies together, rubbed himself against Jimmy’s strong torso, until . . .

  He couldn’t remember anything after that—not until the police came.

  He’d told them it wasn’t his fault, that it was Jimmy and Cherie’s fault. If Jimmy hadn’t been planning to go away with Cherie—

  But they’d locked him up anyway, locked him in jail.

  Locked him up, and told him he’d never get out.

  And that was where he’d stayed until they came for him the other night. He hadn’t said a word when they took him out of his cell and put him in the van, but he listened, and he heard where they were taking him.

  To a hospital.

  He figured it must have something to do with Bobby Breen. Jagger had liked Bobby Breen almost as much as he’d liked Jimmy. And Bobby Breen had liked him, too. But something had happened to Bobby—something Jagger couldn’t quite remember. They’d been together—real close together—in one of the little closets behind the kitchen where they both worked. Then something had started happening to Bobby. He’d started turning into a woman—a beautiful woman. Jagger had wanted to kiss the woman, to make love to her.

  And she’d let him. She let him do everything he wanted to do.

  She hadn’t moved, hadn’t tried to push him away.

  She’d just lain there on the floor, very still, and for a long time after he’d loved her, he just looked at her. She was beautiful—even more beautiful than Bobby Breen had been. He didn’t remember much after that. Some people asked him what he’d done, but he hadn’t said anything, knowing that nobody was going to listen to him anyway.

  They’d taken him to the hospital, but instead of putting him in a room, they brought him down into the basement. That was when he began to think maybe something was wrong, and he’d finally spoken. “Where the fuck are we?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”

  But instead of answering him, one of the orderlies hit him—hit him hard enough to knock him out. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room he was in now.

  A room that didn’t have any windows, and stunk of urine and shit and garbage. There were a couple of moldy mattresses on the floor and only one light—a naked bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.

  The only door was locked from the outside.

  Jagger didn’t have any idea how long he’d been in the room—didn’t have any idea what time it was, or what day it was, or even if it was night or day. Every now and then the same guys who’d taken him out of the hospital opened the door and gave him some food. Mostly it was stale bread, but sometimes there was some meat, and they usually gave him an old tin can filled with water to wash it down.

  Every time they came, he asked them what was going on, but they never told him. “You’ll find out,” was all they ever said. “And when you find out, you’re going to like it—you’re going to like it a lot.”

  Now he could hear them coming again, hear their footsteps outside the door. He heard the key working in the lock, and heard the bolt slide back.

  The door swung open, a man was shoved inside, and then the door was pulled closed again.

  Pulled closed, and bolted.

  Jagger looked at the man. He was young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

  Just about the same age Jimmy had been.

  But he didn’t have blue eyes like Jimmy’s. He had brown eyes.

  Brown, like his mother’s.

  And curly hair like his mother’s, too.

  And he looked scared.

  “You got a name?” Jagger asked.

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “Jeff.”

  “Jeff,” Jagger repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded. “I like that. I like that a lot.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The silence between Mary and Keith during the drive back to Bridgehampton had none of the easy comfort that surrounds couples who have lived together for enough years so that each can sense the other’s mood without a word being spoken. Rather, their silence was a gulf, a chasm that had widened over the years to the point that now, even with the tragedy that had mutually befallen them, they were unable to make any kind of connection.

  Yet Mary felt she had to say something. Keith’s pain was an almost palpable presence in the truck, and she knew that he didn’t have the resource of faith to help him bear it alone. So at last, after having offered up every prayer she knew for the salvation of Jeff’s soul, she turned her attention to the man who had been her husband for so many years. “I know how hard this is for you, Keith,” she said softly, facing him directly. “But if you’ll just let Him, the Lord will help you bear whatever burden He gives you.” She bit her lip, knowing her next words would cause Keith pain, but knowing as well that they had to be spoken. “It’s because of us,” she said. “So many years ago, when I let you—” She fell silent, no longer willing even to speak the words out loud. “Well, you know what I’m talking about. It’s our fault—all of it.”

  For a moment Keith made no reply at all, only glancing across at her and shaking his head sadly. “For God’s sake, Mary,” he sighed. “Why do you want to blame yourself? We didn’t do anything wrong, no matter what Father Noonan says. And Jeff certainly didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “If he didn’t do anything—�
�� Mary began, but Keith didn’t let her finish.

  “Don’t give me any crap about the jury, or Cynthia Allen, or anything else,” he growled. “Jeff didn’t do a thing to that woman. No way.” Finally looking straight at her, he said, “And that body in the morgue? That wasn’t Jeff.”

  The words struck Mary like a punch in the stomach. Not Jeff? What was he talking about? But of course she understood—the pain of what had happened was too much for him to face. But to deny it—to try to pretend it hadn’t happened—would only prolong the agony and make it worse when he finally had to accept it. Mary reached out and took her husband’s hand in her own. “Keith, you were there—you saw him. It won’t help to try to pretend—”

  Keith jerked his hand away. “Pretend?” he cut in. “What are you talking about, pretend? I’m telling you, Mary—that wasn’t Jeff we saw back there!”

  Mary shrank back. “For Heaven’s sake, what are you talking about? What are you saying?”

  Keith took his eyes off the road long enough to throw her an angry glare. “I’m telling you that wasn’t Jeff. When I was there this morning, that body was different.”

  Mary felt dizzy. Different? What was he talking about?

  “The tattoo!” he said, his words coming in a harsh torrent. “Jeff had a tattoo, and that body didn’t have one!”

  “I know about Jeff’s tattoo,” Mary replied, trying to fathom what he was talking about. “But it was gone. It was—” She hesitated, shuddering as the image of Jeff’s burned and disfigured body rose in her mind once more. “It was burned, Keith!” she finally managed to blurt. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there!”

  “But it wasn’t burned this morning,” Keith shot back, his hands tightening on the steering wheel and his foot unconsciously pressing on the accelerator. “When I was there this morning, that part of that body wasn’t burned.” His voice rose. “And there was no tattoo, Mary! I’m telling you—”

  “Look out!” Mary yelled as the truck threatened to smash into the back of the car ahead of them. “Will you calm down? Do you want to get us killed, too?”

  Keith slowed the truck, then reached over to take Mary’s hand. This time, though, it was she who pulled away, shrinking back against the door, moving as far from him as she could. “He’s dead, Keith,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jeff’s dead, and you’ve got to face it.”

  “I don’t have to face anything except the truth. And I’m telling you, that wasn’t Jeff they showed us down there!”

  An angry reply rose in Mary’s throat, but she bit down on her lip—bit it hard, until the wave of anger ebbed away. When she spoke again, she kept her eyes straight ahead. “Take me home,” she said. “Just take me home. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to know.”

  “I’m thinking—” Keith began, but Mary cut him off.

  “Our son died this morning,” she told him. “I have to get used to that. I have to accept the burden that has been placed on me. I don’t know how I can do it, but I have to. But I can’t do it with you trying to pretend it didn’t happen. So just drive me home, Keith. Just drive me home, and don’t talk to me.”

  Another silence fell over them, and this time neither Mary nor Keith tried to break it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Until that day, Jeff hadn’t realized he was afraid of the dark. But until that day, he had never before experienced true darkness, the kind of darkness that makes you wonder whether you’ll ever see again, that wraps around you like a shroud, that suffocates you as much as blinds you. He had no idea where he was—no idea how long he’d been there. All he knew was that the single dim lightbulb that hung from the ceiling had become his lifeline to sanity.

  He’d made a mistake—he understood that now. When the man who’d guided him down the stairs into the Bowery subway station jumped off the platform and dashed into the shadowy darkness of the tunnel itself, he should have stayed where he was—should have waited for the police who were only seconds behind him. But he hadn’t been thinking—hadn’t had time to think. And so he’d followed his instincts.

  And the instincts that had leaped up from deep within the most primitive part of his brain were those of a wild animal that was being pursued. He’d turned and fled into the subway tunnel, suddenly less afraid of the man who had led him down the stairs than of the people racing toward him on the platform. He’d pounded down the tracks, desperately trying to keep up with the figure ahead of him—a fleeting form made visible for only an occasional second or two by one of the tiny bulbs that were the tunnel’s only illumination. He’d almost crashed into the running man, unaware that the man had stopped.

  Over the panting of his own breath and the pounding of his heart, he heard a sound.

  A familiar rumbling sound that was getting steadily louder.

  In the distance, a light appeared.

  “Off the tracks!” the man barked. “Now!”

  Jeff started to step over the rail to his left, but the man grabbed his arm. “Here!”

  Half guiding, half dragging him, the man led him up onto a narrow catwalk. He pulled Jeff after him into a shallow alcove in the tunnel’s concrete wall.

  The rumbling became a terrifying roar, and the spot of light grew into a beam that pierced the darkness of the tunnel. Jeff shrank back, pressing himself against the cold concrete.

  The train shot by, so close that if he’d reached out, he could have touched the glass and metal monster roaring past. Swirling dust enveloped them, and as Jeff drew in a breath, he took in the dust and began choking and coughing. Automatically, he raised his hand, and the man next to him in the alcove caught it before it would have brushed against the speeding train. Suddenly, it was over, the roar of the train fading away as quickly as it had come. Still choking on the dust the train had stirred up, and trembling so badly his knees threatened to buckle beneath him, Jeff sagged against the wall until his coughing finally ceased.

  “It’s worst the first time,” the man beside him said. “After a while you learn to hold your breath—that way the dust don’t get to you so bad. Come on.”

  As surefootedly as if he were walking the streets on the surface, the man jumped back onto the tracks. Jeff followed, and a while later his companion ducked into a passageway leading off to the left, then led him up a ladder and through another series of passages, these filled with pipes.

  Jeff had no idea how long they’d moved through the tunnels, nor how far they’d gone. There was no way to tell what time it might be, and he’d lost all sense of direction within seconds after he’d climbed the first ladder. All he knew was that if he didn’t keep up with the man, he’d be hopelessly lost.

  Lost somewhere under the city.

  Lost in the darkness.

  When he was so close to exhaustion that he wondered if he could go any farther, they came to a heavy, metal door. The man opened it and pushed him through. The door closed behind him with a hollow thud.

  At first, the light inside the room had been so bright that its glare blinded Jeff. But a few seconds later, as his eyes adjusted, he realized he wasn’t alone. There was another man in the room—a man a few years older than he.

  A few years older, and a lot bigger, maybe four inches taller. The man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and none of the extra weight looked like fat.

  Jeff recognized the orange jumpsuit as what the inmates at Rikers Island wore, once they’d been convicted. It was what he himself would have been wearing now, if not for the car that had crashed into the van.

  “You got a name?” the man asked.

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Jeff.”

  “Jeff,” the man repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded, too. “I like that. I like that a lot.”

  The man smiled at him, revealing a missing tooth. “I’m Jagger,” he said. His smile faded as he looked at Jeff’s clothes. “You ain’t from the jail, are you?” he asked, his voice turning suspicious. “ ‘Cause if you think I’m goin’ back, you
better get a whole lotta help. I ain’t goin’ back.”

  Jeff shook his head quickly as he saw Jagger’s right hand ball into a huge fist. “I’m not taking you anywhere. I don’t even know where we are.”

  “Under the hospital,” Jagger told him, sinking down onto the mattress that was the only thing in the room.

  “The hospital?” Jeff asked. “What hospital?”

  “The one they took me to.”

  “When was that?”

  Jagger frowned, then shook his head, shrugging. “Don’t know. Sometimes it’s hard to think, you know?” His smile returned, and he patted the mattress next to him. “You want to sit down?”

  Jeff hesitated, then shook his head as his hand closed on the knob of the door behind him.

  Though the knob turned, the door was bolted.

  Jagger uncoiled from the floor and took a step toward him. His voice dropped and took on a menacing edge: “You ain’t leaving. I don’t want you to leave.”

  Jeff thought he knew which hospital Jagger had said they were beneath. It had to be Bellevue. He’d heard stories about the place from people at the Tombs. “I’d rather be at Rikers,” most of them said, shivering. “At least out there, everybody isn’t crazy.” But why had they taken Jagger to Bellevue? And why had he been at Rikers in the first place?

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d said as Jagger’s hand tightened into a fist again. He moved away from the door, and Jagger’s fist relaxed.

  That had been an hour ago—or maybe two, or maybe even more. Jeff wasn’t sure. He’d finally sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. He thought he might have fallen asleep for a few minutes, but wasn’t any more sure of that than of how long he’d been here. But when he opened his eyes, Jagger was sitting on the mattress, watching him. Jeff’s muscles ached, and the cold of the concrete seemed to have sunk into his bones.

  Then the light had gone off, and the terrible darkness closed around him.

  Darkness, and silence.

  A darkness so thick and heavy it felt like he was suffocating, and a silence so complete, it seemed he might never hear again.