Chapter Text
Prologue
The shadows are dark and thick in the folds of the curtain pulled back from the stage. It’s a small auditorium and ancient, with a smokers’ loge and a raised semicircular stage against the back wall, rows of fold-up seats marching down a gentle incline. The man in the shadows appreciates the faded grandeur of chipped gold paint, velvet upholstery, and even the musty smell of the big, thick curtains that hide him from sight.
He returns his attention to the brightly lit stage where the performers are rehearsing. This is no community theater play or high school talent show. Stone the Crowes, an up-and-coming band, are playing tonight. He watches the young men in their bright clothing, watches the supple limbs as they move about the stage, watches the way their hair shines as flows back from their beautiful faces. He watches out of love. He watches out of hate. He watches because he cannot help himself.
And he watches one in particular. The lead singer’s stage presence is so blatantly erotic, the watcher is convinced the young man is possessed by a demon of lust. As he gazes intently, the singer throws an arm around the neck of the lead guitarist. His breath quickens as the raven-haired guitar player turns his head, his lips almost touching the singer’s skin as they harmonize. His heartbeat triples as the gap is closed, and the singer’s sensual mouth moves on the guitarist’s lips. He turns away, shaking and sweating, his fists clenched, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. He stands rigidly until the spell passes.
When he has mastered himself, he looks at the stage again. The russet-haired singer is still hanging from the guitarist’s shoulder. Both are laughing. The watcher is enthralled by the singer’s mouth. The way the lips curve and recurve, each small movement a change of expression, endlessly varied and infinitely fascinating. The glimpses of strong, white teeth. The pointed canines denting the pink lower lip. The simple act of speaking was a seduction. And when he sang…
The watcher realizes he’s falling into a trance, as he does when he sits in his van watching the only Stone the Crowes video in existence, as he does when he daydreams about that mouth and what he would do with it. He pushes the point of the knife he holds into the ball of his thumb, next to other small scars, and the pain clears the fog. He dared not become mesmerized in public where he would be easy prey. Quickly and quietly, he makes his way unseen to an emergency exit.
Break
The watcher stepped into the bright daylight, walked briskly down the alley, and was out of sight of the old auditorium in seconds. His van was parked on the street a half block away. In less than two minutes, he was locking the door and turning the key in the ignition.
As he drove to his spot at a rest area just off the interstate, he was careful to keep sinful thoughts of the lithe and alluring singer from distracting him. Soon, he’d be parked, and he could fantasize to his heart’s content.
The watcher drove onto the grass and past the picnic tables to the bordering woods. He pulled in under the shade of some cottonwood trees, turned off the engine, and started the small, muffled generator bolted to the back. As he listened the small sounds of the motor cooling, he inspected the duffel bag again. Nestled in the bag were a bundle of tie wraps, a homemade ball gag, a black scarf suitable for blindfolding, a buck knife, and a roll of paper towels. You never knew when you’d need to wipe something up.
Satisfied that his kit was ready, he checked the handgun in the glove box. The Cobra was right where it should be, loaded with the safety on. After a look out the windshield, he put the sunshade on the dashboard and pulled down the shades on the driver and passenger windows. With no other light sources, it was now dark enough to watch the video.
He knows that someday the Crowes will be famous, and there will be a glut of videos to choose from, but for now, his is the only one in existence. He filmed it himself at a performance in Austin. Encouraged by the intoxicated and very liberal audience, the singer had outdone himself in displays of his wicked fondness for men. Sloppy kisses where you could clearly see tongues glistening with saliva. Blatant crotch groping. Rampant fondling of all stripes.
He watched, hunched forward over his hard-on, eyes inches from the laptop screen. He didn’t hear the generator or the sounds of leaves crunching underfoot. He was completely taken by surprise by the knock on the side door.
Heart pounding, he muted the sound. “What?” he shouted.
“Highway Patrol, sir. I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“About what?”
“Open the door, please, sir.”
He slid the door open. “What can I do for you?"
The patrolman’s face was shaded by his Smoky hat. His mirrored sunglasses showed the watcher nothing he wanted to see. “We’ve received several complaints about someone camping here."
“I’m just parked.”
“But it isn’t the first time you’ve ‘parked’ here, is it?”
“Would you get to the point?”
The trooper’s demeanor stiffened. “Happy to oblige. I’m ordering you to leave now. Pack up and drive off, or I’ll arrest you.”
“I don’t believe you have any grounds to arrest me.”
“You don’t want to find out, believe me.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Why don’t you make this easy on yourself? Turn off that piece-of-shit genny and move on down the road. There’s a legit campground just three miles that way. It ain’t expensive.” The trooper pointed.
“This used to be the land of the free,” the watcher said bitterly. “My taxes paid for this rest area.”
“You and a few hundred million other folks. I don’t want to stand here debatin’ you all day. I want to see you in the driver’s seat in five.”
“I’m busy right now. I’ll go later.”
“That’s not how it works. Come on out of there. I was going to let you drive away, but now I want to see some i.d. and proof of ownership of this van.”
“Fascist,” the watcher said under his breath as he climbed out. “Hang on. It’s in the glove box.”
The trooper followed him around the front of the van and watched as he opened the door and leaned in. When the watcher turned, he was holding the Cobra. To his surprise, the cop also had his gun in his hand.
“Put it down,” the trooper said. “Now!”
For a split-second, the watcher wavered, but the set of the trooper’s face convinced him to drop the gun. He held up his hands as he stepped away from the van.
“You could be driving down the road right now,” the cop said, as he put the handcuffs on the watcher. “The most I would’ve done was issue a citation, and you’d’ve paid a fine. Now, you’re going to jail for pulling a gun on an officer of the law. I don’t think this went quite the way you planned.”
“You’re correct. If I could take it back, I would.” He sighed. “Can I get my i.d. out of the van?”
“Where is it?” The trooper marched the man over to his cruiser.
“Under the front seat. There’s another gun under there by the way.”
“Wouldn’t happen to be booby-trapped, would it? You got a rattler in there or some such?”
“No, sir, but—"
The trooper shoved the man into the back seat and shut the door. Helplessly, the man watched as the cop walked to the van and reached for the door handle. When the handle was pulled, the small bomb exploded, blowing the door off the van. The trooper landed several feet away. He was stunned, but the door had protected him from the worst of the blast.
The man in the backseat watched the trooper lying on the ground and tried not to imagine what might happen to him if the cop was dead. Obviously, other cops would come looking for him, but how long until they found him? It was a hot day to be locked in a car with all the windows up. It was a unique quandary. If the trooper was dead, he couldn’t arrest anyone. However, if the trooper was dead, the watcher might die too. If nothing else, rescuers would have questions about why he was in the back of a patrol car in handcuffs.
It was with a peculiar blend of relief and dismay that he watched the trooper stir and eventually get to his feet. Wincing in pain, the trooper shuffle/staggered to the car and got in.
“Asshole,” he said as he reached for the radio. “You’re goin’ away for a loooong time.” The trooper was a true prophet, but a long time was not enough time, as it turned out.