“Did the two men who attacked you ever say what it was they were planning to do to Tony?”

Shelly took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. “Not in so many words. But it was clear they weren’t planning to give him a big kiss and a hug. They kept saying that Tony had betrayed them. One time Manny said, ‘I’ll teach that little creep what happens when he holds out on his partners.’ ”

“What happened after you made the phone call?”

“That was all they wanted from me. Manny took the hilt of the butcher knife and hit me on the head-hard. I fell to the floor. I guess I passed out for a while-I’m not sure how long. I was already woozy from loss of blood. When I woke up, I bandaged myself. It was nasty, but not fatal. As soon as I could, I called Remote Control. But by that time it was one in the morning. Tony was already dead.”

Christina nodded solemnly. “And you have no idea who the other man was?”

“I don’t. I wish I did. But they were very careful never to call one another by name. I have no way of knowing.”

“I understand,” Christina said gently. “Thank you for testifying. I know how hard it must have been for you.”

“It was the least I could do,” she replied. “For Tony. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for what I did to him. Even if he was involved with these kidnappers, the Tony I knew was kind, and gentle and… and he took care of me. Always. But when it came time for me to do something for him-I failed. Miserably.” Tears filled her eyes. “And now he’s gone. And he’s never coming back.”

Needless to say, the reporters were riveted by this sudden, unforeseen development in the case. It had been juicy enough to attract major media attention when it was an antigay hate crime. Now that it had morphed and linked itself to a notorious kidnapping, the interest rate doubled. The media scrambled, trying to figure out how to spin the new developments. They’d been treating Tony Barovick as if he were a martyred angel; now it appeared he was considerably less angelic. Did that make his death less a tragedy?

In a rare acquiescence, Ben agreed to hold a press conference in the ground floor lobby of the courthouse. While the court clerk set up the conference platform, Ben conferred with Judge Lacayo’s bailiff, Boxer Johnson.

“So you’re available?”

“If you say so,” the sturdy man replied. Ben only hoped he looked as good as Johnson when he was in his fifties. “Think I should bring my weapon?”

“Oh yeah. Bring several.”

A few moments later, Ben stepped up to the platform. First, he read a prepared statement, then he took questions. The first few were softballs that he handled with no difficulty. But that didn’t last long.

“This new development has taken us all by surprise-and left some observers extremely dubious, if not downright cynical,” a CNN reporter said.

“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” Ben answered. “We live in a cynical world.”

“When did you get the first indication that this murder was linked to the Metzger kidnapping?”

“We’ve had prior indications from an officer with the Tulsa PD that there might be a connection between this murder and two subsequent ones. We first believed there was a connection to an Ecstacy drug ring, but we had no evidence. It was only today that we learned about the connection to the Metzger kidnapping.”

“Mr. Kincaid,” the reporter from ABC chimed in, “the parents of Tony Barovick have released a statement saying that ‘this is a typical trick of a desperate lawyer. We all know who killed Tony. Why are we putting up with this?’ ”

“With due respect to the Barovicks, who have suffered a horrible loss, they do not know who killed Tony. All they know is what the police have told them. And the police were wrong. I understand the need for the bereaved to seek closure, or at least retribution. But we can’t convict the wrong man just to please his parents.”

“I notice the prosecutor has not dropped the case,” noted a reporter holding a Fox News mike. “What do you think it will take to convince him you’re right?”

Ben took a moment before answering. “I think we’re going to have to produce the fourth man. The other kidnapper. The one who’s still at large.”

“But you don’t know who he is.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ben said. “The kidnapper may think he’s safe. He may think he’s pulled off the perfect crime. But he hasn’t. I know who he is. And tomorrow morning in court-I’ll prove it.”

He snapped off the television. Well, that didn’t leave him much choice, did it? The time to act-finally and decisively-had arrived.

He wasn’t sure whether Kincaid was telling the truth. It could be some kind of trick or trap. But he couldn’t take the risk, could he? And he had been wanting to take the damn lawyers out, anyway. Toying with them obviously hadn’t been enough. He had to deliver a more final solution. So why not now? He just had to make sure he avoided whatever little defenses Kincaid might’ve arranged. And the best way to do that was to strike fast-before he expected it.

They should never have left Oklahoma, he thought, chuckling as he loaded his gun. Come to the big city and rub shoulders with the big boys-and two hicks from the scrubs are bound to get hurt. Permanently.

Zero hour had arrived. They would be so sorry they came to Chicago-in those final nanoseconds before he blew their brains out.

47

One night, Claudia Brenner came into Remote Control. I was stunned. I recognized her immediately, of course. She’s the woman who was hiking in Pennsylvania on the Appalachian Trail in 1988 with her girlfriend when a couple of backwoods freaks saw them making out and registered their displeasure-with a rifle. Her partner was killed; Claudia was seriously wounded. She wrote a book about it, Eight Bullets, probably the most moving testament I’ve read in my entire life. It was that book that inspired me to start keeping this journal. Not that anything that dramatic ever happened to me, or is even likely to. Sure, I know there are still people who don’t like gays. But I can’t imagine anything like that happening here. Not here.

Anyway, so I got a chance to talk to this woman, and she was incredible. I kept blathering on about how she was my hero and what an incredible role model she was. I probably made a gigantic jackass of myself, but she was nice about it. And when she left, I felt inspired.

I’d never been involved in gay politics. At first, because I didn’t want anyone to know I was gay, and later, because I was busy with other things. And I suppose if I were honest about it, I’d have to admit that I’m not that political. It doesn’t interest me much. But the thing is-gay rights doesn’t seem political to me. Treating people the same, not discriminating based upon sexual preference-is that political? Does that split down political lines? That’s not about Democrats and Republicans; that’s about human rights, about taking the freedoms we claim are the philosophical basis of this nation and making them real.

Ever since that night, I’ve been involved. I’m still not what you’d call a big activist, but I try to do my part. I joined the local Gay & Lesbian Alliance. I’ve marched in their parades. I’ve even allowed them to hold some of their meetings in the bar, in the back caverns.

The religious types still come to Remote Control, which they perceive as a den of premarital lust and fornication, and they rattle on a lot about Judgment Day. I don’t know what Judgment Day is or will be, but I think it’s got to be more than just the celestial accountant tallying up how many times you went to church. Surely, at some point, what’s more important is what you felt. What you thought. What you held in your heart. Whether you tried to make people happier, tried to make their lives easier.