Continued warning—bad language, violence, m/m sex. These beautiful but crazy men don't belong to me. And, as always, thanks to Miss Becky for inspiring and beta-ing.
Secretsby Melody Wilde
Part 10
"My, my, my. So now you're lettin' your fuckbuddy buy your clothes for you. You have come down in the world, Mr. Rainey."
Mort spun at the sound of Shooter's voice, grabbing a pair of jeans and holding them in front of himself protectively. Shooter was standing in the doorway of the dressing room, shaking his head.
"You know what that makes you, don't you. His whore." Shooter took a step forward, and Mort backed away as far as possible in the confined space, trying to press himself through the wall.
"Yes, sir, his whore." Shooter slowly removed his hat and hung it on one of the hooks, then rubbed his hands together. "And a man that'll sell hisself once'll do it again. I gotta wonder what you'd charge me."
"Get away from me." Mort was dismayed to hear that his voice sounded more terrified than threatening.
"Or what? You'll call your friend to come in here?" Shooter leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "He can't help you none right now. Don't you know that he's not here."
"Nightmare. I'm having a nightmare. That's all this is. A nightmare."
"There you were, thinkin' you'd be safe from me, sleepin' in the bed with him and all. But you were wrong." Shooter's hand came forward to stroke his cheek, and he whimpered.
"Leave me alone."
"That boy truly does think he's gonna get rid of me. He don't know that he can't, 'cause I'm not real."
"He will. He'll find a way."
"You think so? Is that why you let him touch you when you all went to bed? Why you let him put his hands and his mouth all over you? Why you put your mouth on him? 'Cause you think he can get rid of me?" Shooter bared his teeth in a smile. "Or maybe it's 'cause you like them things. Why, next thing you know, you'll be lettin' him fuck you in the ass and not hollerin' rape."
"Oh Jesus..."
"You better remember that he's gonna be gone one of these days, but I'm gonna be with you for the rest of your life. You better start bein' as good to me as you are to him. 'Course, I'm way ahead of him there." He pulled the jeans away and lay a hand on Mort's bare chest. "'Cause I've already been inside you." His hand began to slide downward. "I been inside you for three years now."
Mort screamed.
"Mort!"
A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He jerked awake, shaking uncontrollably, chest heaving. Can't breathe. I can't breathe. Can't...
"What is it? What is wrong, my friend?"
Scared. I'm so scared. Shooter...what he said. He's…he's…
"He's right."
"Who is right?" Bain's hand was kneading gently, soothingly, on the back of his neck.
"Shooter. He's right. You can't get rid of him. You'll never get rid of him. Never never never."
"Shhh." Bain's voice was little more than a whisper. "You have had a nightmare."
"No. I mean, yes..." A nightmare. I know it was a nightmare. I knew it was a nightmare, even...there. But that doesn't make what he said any less real. What he said is as real as...as he isn't.
Bain leaned across him to turn on the light by the bed. "Look at me. You are awake now. You are safe. Whatever happened to you in your dream, it is over. Gone."
"He'll never be gone." Mort rolled onto his side, away from Bain, curling into a ball. Today was too good. Everything about it. I was starting to think maybe I...we... So Shooter had to come and remind me that I don't deserve anything good. The only thing I deserve is to be punished for what I did. All I deserve is...
"Mort, do not do this to yourself. Please. It was only a dream."
"You don't understand."
"All right. I do not. Then explain it to me, my friend. You have told me all the things this man did—to you, to your friends. How he made you suffer. But he has been gone for some time now, no?"
"No. He's never been gone, because he was never here. I just didn't remember." Didn't remember, didn't remember. Killed four people and didn't remember. Crazy crazy crazy. Crazy Mort Rainey. Mort curled his fingers into a fist and shoved it against his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
He was being dragged upright and propped against the headboard of the bed. He could feel the metal rails digging into the skin of his back, chilling him. Cold. The room got cold while we were asleep. Or maybe it's because I'm naked. I don't sleep naked, but last night I let Bain do things to me and then I... Oh god, I'm so cold.
"Mort...my friend... Stay with me. Please. Do not go away into yourself again."
Into myself. Where Shooter is. Inside me. Always there. He's always been there. Oh Jesus, how could I let myself have such a good time yesterday? How could I get so caught up in…in the sex and friendship that I didn't think about anything else? How could I pretend I was a normal man having a normal day? That I hadn't…
His head rocked with a blow, the pain shocking him back to awareness. The side of his face stung. He lifted a trembling hand to touch his cheek, then cowered away with a wordless cry as he saw Bain drew back an open hand to strike again.
Bain froze. "You are back with me now?"
Oh god, he's going to hurt me again.
Bain dropped the hand. When he spoke, there was genuine regret in his voice. "I am so sorry, my friend. I did not want to do that, but I had to do something to stop you—to bring you back." He tugged at Mort's wrist. "Let me see."
Mort dropped his hand onto his lap and let Bain lightly touch his cheek. I can't... It's... I think in just a few minutes here I'm going to start screaming and I'm not going to be able to stop.
"I believe we have to talk. And I believe we must do it now."
"Wh…" He swallowed. "What about?" Stupid. You know 'what about'. This is going to be bad bad bad.
"Many things, my friend, but the most important is…this." He gestured. "What is going on in your busy mind. What makes you act so…"
"Crazy? Because I am." He tried to look away, but Bain caught his chin between a thumb and forefinger.
"Look at me, Mort. What makes you think this thing?"
"I don't think it. I know it." He wanted to let his head droop, let his bangs cover his face, let himself drift away into his madness and never come back.
"All right. What makes you know this thing?"
"It's a long story."
A corner of Bain's lips twitched. "We have time. I do not think either of will be going back to sleep for a while."
Okay, he wants to hear the ugly truth. Only maybe it won't be so ugly to him, him being an assassin and all—assuming he wasn't lying about that to try to scare me.
"Mort?"
Mort straightened, regaining control of himself with an effort. "Okay. But can we go downstairs to talk? I could use a glass or two of that wine about now." Maybe if I can get a little drunk, it'll make it easier to say what I have to tell him about Shooter. About me. About Amy and Ted and oh fuck...
Bain nodded. He rose, leaned down to retrieve Mort's jeans and sweater and tossed them onto the bed. Mort fumbled himself into his clothing. This is the end of any hope I might've had for us to…no. Don't think that. You never had any hope. Just some stupid pipe dream about being…where are my socks? It's so cold.
Bain held onto his arm to steady him as they descended the stairs, steering Mort to the couch, then crossing to the fireplace and beginning to build a fire with quick, efficient movements.
I don't want to do this. I want things to go on like they did yesterday. I don't want to think about Shooter or the things I did. I want…
The quilt was still there, folded across the back of the couch. Mort shook it out and wrapped it around his legs, then drew them up onto the seat.
"Are you really what you said? An assassin?" His voice sounded small in the darkness of the room.
Bain struck a match, lit the fire, then began to feed wood into it. At last he rose, his shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug.
"I am sorry. Yes. I am. I was."
So he wasn't lying. I wonder how many people he's killed…no, don't think about it. But maybe he'll think me killing only four people is nothing. That I'm just a beginner. Maybe the killing won't bother him. Maybe...
Maybe he wouldn't mind being with a crazy murderer. Mort tilted his head back, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. I am not going to cry. I am fucking not going to cry any more.
"Here. Drink this."
A glass was pressed into his hand. He looked down. Bain had decided to bypass the wine glasses—the wine glasses that Amy insisted we bring here for God knows what reason—and had poured a tumbler full of the burgundy liquid. He raised the glass and gulped down half the contents without pausing for breath, feeling it burn its way down through him.
Bain had left the lights off, as if he knew the near-darkness would make it easier for Mort to speak. He touched Mort's hair quickly, then moved to perch on the other end of the couch.
"Now tell me why you think..." He lifted a finger and tilted his head, correcting himself. "Know that you are crazy."
Mort stared toward the fireplace, unable to look at the figure beside him. "That night...when I told you all those things about Shooter...about the things he did... I thought it was the truth. I thought he was real. I've thought that since...he left. Didn't leave." He took another swallow of wine. "I was wrong. There is no John Shooter. No such person. There never was. I...I forgot what really happened. What I did." He stopped.
"And that is?"
"I'm the one who killed them. Amy. Ted. Tom. Ken. God knows who else...who else I've killed along the way and then just forgotten about it. Just...fucking...forgotten." His chest hitched. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Cry.
"Why do you think these things, Mort?" Bain's voice was impossibly soft.
"That day…when Shooter was by the bed talking to me and you didn't see him... All of a sudden I knew. He wasn't there. Because he wasn't real. He never had been real. And then I started to...remember. I remembered slicing Ken open with the hatchet. Driving a screwdriver into the side of Tom's head. Oh Jesus..."
Bain waited patiently, silent and immobile, until he could go on.
"I remembered hitting Ted in the face with a shovel. And then when he was down I hit him again and again and again until...until he didn't have a face. And then I went to Amy and..." I can see her expression. Hear her crying. She was scared, so scared, as scared as I am now. "And then I buried them in the garden and planted corn over their graves and went inside and forgot everything."
"And Shooter?"
"There was no Shooter. Just me. I made him up. I made him up so he could do the things I couldn't. Burn down my house. Kill anybody who got in the way. Kill Amy and Ted. But it wasn't him. It was me." He drained the glass, hoping Bain would go for more.
"So." Bain leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "For the past three years you have believed John Shooter killed your friends. That your wife and her lover ran away. But now you suddenly...'remember'...that it was you who did these murders. That these people did not run away. That they are all dead at your hands."
"Yes."
"Am I understanding what you are saying to me, Mort Rainey? You are saying that you believe you have an evil side, who appeared to you as a man named Shooter."
"Yes."
The fire popped. Bain rose, moved to stir it and add another piece of wood, then returned, sitting closer and laying a hand on Mort's arm. "You are not crazy, my friend. This is only one more manifestation of your most understandable confusion."
"What?" What the fuck is he saying? Didn't he listen to me?
"You think that you have an evil side?" Bain shook his head. "I do not believe this. You write about evil—and write well—but you know nothing of real evil. Of the evil men do to each other. Of the evil..." His fingers tightened. "Of the evil I have done. I am the one here with an evil being inside. A demon that I cannot control, who takes over to make me do things I would not. To give hurt when I would love. Me, not you. You saw this. You were hurt. You know."
"But..."
Bain raised a hand to silence him. "Let me explain what I think has happened. You were ill. It was my fault. As you...slept, I could see that you were having very very bad dreams. I felt that this, too, was my fault, that these dreams were caused by the the terrible things I did to you."
He laced his fingers together and nodded, speaking slowly. "When you woke, I believe you were still dreaming for a time—still caught in your nightmare. You thought this man who had done so much hurt to you—this other man, not me—was beside the bed, talking to you. Because it was only your dream...your hallucination...I could not see him. And so, in your weakness, your confusion, you became convinced he was not real. And then…"
He turned his face toward Mort, the firelight throwing shadows across his features. "And then you convinced yourself to regain these so-called memories. You believe they are real, but they are false. They are as much a fantasy as the figure of Shooter by the bed that day. Shooter, who is a real man. But not on that day. Not that one time."
Mort could only stare at him in stunned silence. What he's saying makes sense. I've read about cases like that—lots of them—where folks remember things that never happened. But...oh shit I wish to god that was it, that it could be that simple, but it's not going to be that easy. Because the memories are real. I do remember. And I did murder...
Why don't I remember killing Chico?Something thumped hopefully in his chest. If I remember the others in such detail, why don't I remember putting the screwdriver into my dog? Is it because… Could he be…
"You are thinking again, and this is good thinking. You see that what I am saying is right."
"No." Not right, but...possible? "Maybe."
"I am right, my friend. You are not a man who is capable of killing."
"You don't know that. You don't know me."
"I know your work. I know the things I have read about you. I know you from the time we have spent together, even though it has not all been a good time. And I know killers. You are not like that."
He's so convinced. Maybe...maybe he's right. Maybe...
"There is, of course, an easy way to settle this." Bain's tone was smug.
"How?"
"Tomorrow morning, I will dig up your cornfield."
"What?"
"If there are no bodies, I will be right and you will see that you have been wrong. And if there should happen to be bodies, then..." He shrugged. "But there will not be. It is simple, yes?"
Yes. Simple. And when...if he finds them…then what?
"This will destroy your crop, but I believe it will be worth it to bring you peace of mind. You can always buy corn." He rose, as if the matter were settled. "Afterwards, we will discuss the things that are between us. The good and the bad. We will talk about what I did to you and how I can repair the pain in your heart and your mind which is responsible for this breakdown. But for now..." He gestured. "Come back to bed and let me warm you."
Mort's knees were wobbly when he stood. Too much wine. Too much...fear...hope...oh god, I don't know what to believe now. He swayed against Bain, and Bain's arms were around him, holding him, supporting him, protecting him.
"Yes, my friend. Lean on me."
Warm me. Please.
And Bain did, for the rest of the night.