In a seedy motel off of Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, a middle-aged man carrying 40 pounds too much weight slapped Brandon around and threw him on the bed. It was all part of the arrangement. He fucked his face so hard that Brandon choked, and he spanked his ass raw and pounded his hole hard enough to tear the membranes of his rectum. Bareback. That, too, was part of the arrangement. When he was done, he wiped the sweat off of his balding head with Brandon’s underwear and got dressed. On his way out, he picked up one of the two c-notes he had left on the table.
“Hey, we agreed on $200,” said Brandon.
“You were a good piece of ass,” acknowledged the man. “I’ll give ya that.” Then, he stuffed the bill in his pocket and spit, “But you whine too much.”
It was the fifth trick Brandon had turned that day and the third time he had been stiffed. After the man left, he got up, cleaned himself up as best he could, and went back out on the street.
*******
Jeremy called Kenny from the airplane just before they got ready to land in L.A.
“He’s there, Jeremy. The FBI agents have spotted him on Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“Did they pick him up?”
“No, since you’re so close, I thought it would be better if you got to him first, so I asked them just to keep an eye on him until you got there. Mr. Leveque has a car waiting to pick you up, and the driver has the information on exactly where to take you.”
As far as Jeremy was concerned, the car couldn’t go fast enough. The looks of the neighborhood frightened him—not for his sake, but for Brandon’s.
“In there,” said Harper, the agent who met him. “Room 409.”
With no elevator to be seen, Jeremy bounded up the stairs as fast as his legs would take him. Moans, groans, and curses emanated from the room, and they weren’t sounds of pleasure. The door was locked. Jeremy threw his full weight against it, which was more than enough to shatter the thin wood into pieces. On the bed, a 40ish-looking Hispanic man covered in tattoos hunched over Brandon, who was bleeding at the mouth. Jeremy grabbed the man under the arms and hurled him against the wall. When he reached out to Brandon, the man grabbed a lamp, ready to charge at Jeremy.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” called Agent Harper, standing in the doorway with his revolver pointed directly at the assailant. “I’d haul ass out of here before I got arrested for having sex with a minor.”
“A minor! He told me he was—”
“And you believed him? What an idiot!” Of course, Agent Harper knew that Brandon as legally an adult, but he wanted to put the fear of God into the sleazy john.
The man couldn’t pull his clothes on fast enough. He was still zipping up his pants when he reached down to the table for the money he had placed there, but Harper squeezed his wrist so tightly that he dropped the money to the floor. When Harper released him, the man took off like a bat out of hell.
“Thank you,” said Jeremy.
Harper winked and replied, “I’ll be just outside when you’re ready.”
Brandon, tears streaming down his cheeks, threw his arms around Jeremy and held on for dear life. “Oh, Jeremy. They, they—”
“I know, Brandon. I know. Forget about that for now. The important thing now is that you’re safe. Right now, we’re gonna take you some place to have you checked out. Then, we’re gonna clean you up and take you to a nice hotel where you can get plenty of rest tonight. And tomorrow, we’re gonna take you home to your mom and dad. They’re worried sick about you, Brandon.”
“I know. I was so stupid, Jeremy.”
“Unh. Unh. None of that. I don’t need to hear any apologies. I just want you to get better and come home. That’s what we all want.”
On the way to the nearest emergency room, Brandon called his folks and had a long talk. Jeremy assured them that Brandon was all right, but that he needed a good night’s rest before coming come. Naturally, being his parents, they wanted him home immediately, but mostly, they wanted what was best for their son. The hospital treated his wounds, which were extensive, but not severe, and released him. Jeremy took him to the Beverly Hills Hotel and made sure that he got a good night’s sleep.
*******
Nick would not have been terribly surprised to find Johnny Duncan’s body hanging from the rafters in the barn. He never expected to find Marty Hitchins’. When they cut him down, they found a note in the pocket of his jeans. He confessed to the bank robbery and wrote that with Carl and Eddie both dead and with the money gone, he had nothing left to live for. He feared that he would be caught and vowed never to go back to jail. ‘Back’ to jail? The note said nothing about killing Carl Pipkins.
“Well, if he didn’t kill Carl, who did?” asked Chief Carter.
“I’m not sure,” said Nick, but I think it’s time we had another chat with Vernon Wooten and Johnny Duncan.” As they headed for the bunkhouse, one of the white pickups owned by the Travis Ranch came flying around the corner and nearly clipped them as it sped away from the ranch. Ben raced for his police cruiser with Nick keeping pace, showing absolutely no evidence of his prior injuries. Looking back to see if the cops were still on his tail, the driver of the pickup did not see the car approaching from the opposite direction until it was nearly upon him. Swerving to avoid the oncoming car, he flipped over into a ditch beside the road.
Nick Scarpelli and Ben Carter arrived on the scene just as Deputy Holloway was pulling a stunned Johnny Duncan out of the capsized truck. “Cuff him,” yelled the sheriff.
“What the hell are you doing here, Holloway?” Sheriff Nick Scarpelli asked back at the ranch house.
“I found out something about the bank robbers that I thought you and Chief Carter would want to know. I’ve been looking into their backgrounds, and it turns out that Carl Pipkins, Marty Hitchins, and Eddie Culver spent some time in the same foster home in Topeka. Marty even spent some time in juvie. We couldn’t get this information before because the juvenile records were sealed. Once Carl was dead, though, I was able to track down the foster parents. They told me that all three of them were a handful but that Carl, being the oldest, controlled the other two—mostly for his benefit. Maybe that’s what Carl and Eddie argued about.
“So, did Johnny kill Carl?” asked Wade Dawkins when the lawmen returned from questioning Johnny Duncan and Vern Wooten in the bunkhouse.
“Johnny lawyered up before we could get the complete story out of him,” replied Nick, “but here’s what I think. Carl Pipkins was a very domineering man. Marty and Eddie both resented it, but Eddie couldn’t get away from him. Marty, on the other hand, came here to the Travis Ranch to do just that. Unfortunately, Carl tracked him down and threatened to expose his criminal record unless he joined him and Eddie in the bank robbery.”
Police Chief Carter picked up the story at that point. “On Wednesday evening before Labor Day, Carl Pipkins disconnected the tickler wire from the ignition switch and the starter solenoid on the tractor and reported to you, Wade, that the tractor wasn’t running. He said he could fix it. That gave him an excuse to stay behind while the other men rode the range. Marty and Eddie split up from the rest of the boys and circled back to the ranch just in time to meet up with Carl. The three of them went into town, stole the Camry, parked Carl’s Charger up by Horse Creek Road, went into town and robbed the bank, drove back out to Horse Creek Road to ditch the stolen car and retrieve the Charger, and then came back here to the ranch.”
“But why did they come back here?” asked Randy.
“By ditching the getaway car north of the city, they hoped to make us think that they had gone north. Carl probably figured that if they came back to the ranch for a few days, they would be much less likely to draw suspicion. Maybe Eddie didn’t like that idea. Maybe he wanted to get the hell out of here immediately. He and Carl argued about it, Eddie pulled Carl’s knife on him, and killed him. Then, in a panic, he high-tailed it out of here. My guess is that he took the money with him, but, being a dope addict, he had to make one last run to Ned Beasley’s place.”
“So where’s the money now ?” asked Randy.
“My guess is that it got burned to a crisp along with the Charger and everything in it,” said Nick.
“Incidentally,” interjected the police chief, “drugs could be what Carl and Ned were arguing about in back of the Conestoga that Saturday night. Carl was telling Ned to stay the hell away from Eddie and stop supplying him with drugs. Not that Carl really cared much about Eddie’s health, but he didn’t want anything or anybody controlling Eddie but him.”
“So, Eddie killed Carl and framed Randy?” asked Deputy Holloway.
“I don’t think so,” replied Sheriff Scarpelli. “That wouldn’t explain why Johnny was in such an all-fired hurry to get away from here. No, I suspect that when we get the full story out of him, we’ll find that Johnny went into the barn after Eddie took off. Maybe he went there looking for Randy, or maybe he had seen Eddie and Carl going into the barn and Eddie taking off in the Charger. Regardless, he got there just in time to see Randy roll off the loft and land on top of Carl’s dead body.
“Johnny was already pissed with Randy, so he saw this as his opportunity to get his revenge. He had been lacing Randy’s marijuana with sodium pentobarbital, which would explain Randy’s delirium and loss of memory. Sodium pentobarbital is one of the drugs that Dr. Weatherly used to euthanize horses, and my guess is that Johnny pinched some from him when the doctor came out to put Sugar down a couple of weeks ago. When that wasn’t enough, Johnny pulled the knife from Carl’s chest, wiped it clean, cradled it in Randy’s hand, and let it fall to the ground.”
“Wait a minute,” objected Wade Dawkins. “What did Johnny have against Randy?”
“I think I’ll let Randy explain that to you, Mr. Dawkins,” replied Nick.
After everyone had cleared out, Wade Dawkins sat down in the den with his son Randy. “Why would your mother tell me that she was sending you back to me because you had a drug problem?” asked Wade.
“Well,” Randy began tentatively. “I guess technically I do—if you consider a little pot to be a drug problem,” he scoffed. “But the truth, Dad, is that Mom just couldn’t handle the fact that I’m gay. I dunno, maybe you can’t either,” cried the teenager, preparing to storm out of the room.
“Now wait just a goddam minute,” demanded Wade. “Who says I can’t handle it? Now, you just march right back here, young man. Sit your little ass back down, and let’s talk about this.”
