For the past 12 parts, we've been hearing what Mort thinks about the situation with Bain. Now it's time to get Bain's point of view...
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 13
Mort Rainey was sleeping.
Miguel Bain, assassin, fan, would-be friend, lover, sat by Mort's bed, his hand still linked with Mort's, staring sightlessly ahead. Mort thinks so very much and so very deeply. I wish I could think like him. Work things out. I wish I could see an ending for us that is not...this.
The doctor's words—the listing of Mort's injuries—echoed in his mind. It could have been so much worse. It would have been so much worse, if he had not fallen. This is not what I wanted for him. For us. I wanted...
He did not want to remember the foolish dreams he had brought with him when he had come to Mort's cabin. They had been foolish even for dreams, because he was a man of the world, a man who had killed too many people and made love to too many more. He was no child, to entertain fantasies of forming a lasting friendship—and more—with a stranger. Sex, yes; most of the sex he had known in his life had been with strangers. But friendship... He had never had a friend, not since he was little more than a baby back in Madrid. He did not know how to be a friend. His demon would not allow it.
But amazingly, incredibly, those dreams had been coming true. Mort was becoming his friend...an enthusiastic lover...someone who trusted him. And now...
Now, any dreams I might have had...they are gone. Over. There are no more chances for us...for there to be an "us." I will not allow it. There cannot be a chance for me to hurt him again and again, until I hurt him in the final way. Until he becomes my last victim.
He shifted his eyes to Mort's face. Mort's features were relaxed, the dark eyes closed. Mort Rainey is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, but I do not think he realizes this. He does not try to be beautiful. He simply is.The dark bruise beginning to discolor one of the high cheekbones...the wide white bandage covering half the forehead...the swelling closing one eye...all screamed accusation at him. I have been responsible for marring that beauty. He fell because of me. Because he was trying to get away from me. This is not acceptable.
He leaned forward, pressed his face against their clasped hands, and began to weep.
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He knew what he had to do. It was not a decision that had to be made; it was an acknowledgement of the inevitable.
He sat by Mort's bed, leaving only to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on his face, then to go for coffee. He waited as Mort slept his drugged sleep. When Mort woke, then it would be time.
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Mort was staring at him, eyes glazed but seemingly aware. Bain forced himself to smile and moved his chair even closer.
"You're...still here." Mort's voice was weak, breathless, blurred with medication.
"Yes."
"I was afraid..." The eyes closed, re-opened. "I'm glad. Stay..." And then he was gone away again.
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The next time Mort opened his eyes, Bain could tell that he was more aware of his surroundings. Mort lifted his right hand, groping toward Bain. Bain caught the hand and pressed it between his own, being careful of the needle taped into a vein.
"Good morning." He tried to keep his voice calm.
"Um. Don' think...mornin'..."
"No. It is actually very late in the evening. Almost midnight." He glanced toward the darkened window at the side of the room. "How is the pain?"
"Okay. Don' feel much." Mort moved slightly and turned his head on the pillow to try to peer down at the wrap immobilizing his arm. "Wha'...wha' did he say?"
"Your doctor?"
"Yeah."
The doctor had come to check on Mort more than once while Bain had waited. During one visit, the man had admitted, with a surprisingly shy look, that he was a fan of Mort's writing and, because of that, was giving Mort special treatment. Bain had nodded and replied simply, "Me too."
"He said things went well with your shoulder. You will have to be careful with what you do and work to strengthen the muscles around it, but it will be good. You have many bruises. Some cuts—your forehead is the worst. But there is nothing else serious. You are very fortunate you were not injured more severely."
"Lucky. That's wha'...they keep tellin' me." The tip of Mort's tongue came out to lick at his lips.
"Would you like some water?"
"Yeah."
Bain filled the glass from the pitcher setting on the bedside tray, then rose and leaned over to slide a hand beneath Mort's head and lift it. Mort managed to get the straw between his lips and sucked greedily at the cool liquid.
"Thanks." He moved his head, pushing the straw away with his tongue. Bain set the glass back in place.
"Are you going to stay awake for a while now?"
"I think...yeah."
"Mort..." Bain sat back down, folded his hands as if in prayer, and rested them against the edge of the bed. "I am going to have to leave."
"You mean...go home..."
"No. Leave. Leave here. Leave you. Go back to..." He shook his head.
Mort's eyes darkened, and he tried to sit up. "No. Don't. You..." He sank back. "Why?"
"You know why."
"I fell. You didn't...it was my fault..."
"Yes, my friend, you fell. I did not push you. I did not hurt you. But if you had not fallen..." He shuddered. "You know what would have happened. You would be hurt much worse than this, perhaps."
"Bain..."
"Listen to me now, carefully. Do not interrupt. Here is what is going to happen." He spoke quickly, anxious to have this difficult thing—the most difficult thing he had ever done—over. "The doctor has said you will stay here for at least two more days. It is perhaps not a necessity, but he will allow this. I am going to take your car back to the cabin. I will call your agent and tell him that you are hurt and that he should come to help you, or send someone, so that you will not be alone. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I will lock your house and leave your keys in a hidden place where your agent can find them. And then I am going to take my car and go. I will not be back. We both understand why this must be."
"No. Please..." Mort's head was moving slowly from side to side, the light fading from his eyes. If I were a fanciful man, I would think I see something dying in this man. The same thing that is dying in me.
"You will be well, Mort Rainey. This is the right thing to do." He stood, reaching back to retrieve his jacket from the back of the chair and fold it over his arm. "Our time together was..."
His throat closed. He smiled and shook his head. It doesn't matter. There are no words adequate.
"Good bye, my friend."
"Miguel..."
The anguish in the single word—his name—almost undid him. Mort never called me by my first name before.He bent over the bed, brushing his fingers across Mort's soft hair, and touched his lips to Mort's forehead.
"Know that I love you," he whispered. Then he turned and left the room, moving slowly, then more quickly, breaking into a run. He took the stairs three at a time, down, across the parking lot, fingers diving into his pocket for the keys, flung himself into the car, and ground his forehead against the steering wheel. Only then would he allow himself to cry again.
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Everything was done. The cabin was secured, no water running, the fireplace cold and still, all the lights turned off except the one by the door where he stood. He had spoken with Mort's agent, explaining the problem, and been assured the man would be arriving early tomorrow morning. This morning. It will be morning in a few hours.His bag was packed and stowed in the back seat of his rented car. He had left nothing, and he was taking...almost nothing. He had tucked one of Mort's oldest, most disreputable sweaters into his bag. That was a foolish romantic gesture. Not like me.
He flipped off the light switch and stepped onto the porch, locking the door behind him and then hiding the key. Straightening his shoulders, he left the house behind.
There was a full moon, and he had never minded driving at night. When he pulled onto the Interstate, he headed south, driving as cautiously as he had driven Mort earlier that day, being careful to obey the speed limit.
I can return the car later, after I have taken care of the things in the trunk. Perhaps I will take them to Mississippi and bury them there.
He let his mind drift to the moment his digging in the garden had unearthed a skeletal foot. The sight had startled him, but Miguel Bain was a man who could deal with being startled and make a quick recovery. He had thrown some dirt over the bones to hide them, then sent Mort on an errand that would keep him away for at least half an hour—time enough to deal with the unexpected development. It had been simple for a man with his skills.
The remains had been tied in trash bags and locked safely in his trunk long before Mort had returned with gloves and a shovel and anxieties. He had left that shovel with Mort, taking the older one to do what he would do later. No one would ever find it, or any traces of the woman who should have given love to Mort Rainey but had given him betrayal, or of the man who had led her into that betrayal.
He was right. There was no Shooter. Only Mort.
It did not disturb him in the least to know that Mort Rainey was a murderer. That Mort Rainey had a demon, like himself. He had thought they were much alike...but they were more alike than he had even suspected.
He must never know the truth. I will spend some time in Mississippi, as I planned. But the rest...I cannot go back to him, to tell him that I found and killed this man. I will send a letter instead. I want him to believe that Shooter is dead, so that Shooter can never return to ruin his life. As I can never return to ruin his life.
Bain flipped on the radio and drove away into the night.