A Dangerous Game (22 page)

Maybe he knew because he had stolen the wallet or arranged for someone else to pluck it from his jeans in the crowded bar. Wren forced his mind away from his memories and tuned back in to Rufus speaking.

“It was a double-edged sword kind of thing, Dave meeting me. I didn’t know it, but I was looking for a hero, someone who could save me from myself. Dave did just that. He put me up in that very studio you and I stayed at, and for three of the most miserable months of my life, either he stayed with me or had someone else stay, never allowing me a minute alone. He made me eat right. He took me to the gym. He made me quit smoking. He told me I was an investment.”

“So it was Dave who got you clean? You must be very grateful.” Wren hoped Rufus couldn’t hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“I am. But to say he did it selflessly or because he wanted to help me would be a lie. He did it because I’m hot—and I don’t say that with vanity—and he knew I’d be good for business. You think I like what I’m doing?” A note of bitterness crept into Rufus’s voice with his question.

“Well, yeah. Why else would you do it?”

“Because he—and it—saved me from myself. It saves
me
. Every day. Dave sees to it that I don’t use again. Even though I’m tempted, even though I dream about the stuff.” He leaned forward a little to engage Wren’s gaze for a moment. “You know I have to pee in a cup every Monday morning and he tests it? If I use, even a little, I’m out on my ass. He holds the title to this place, this furniture. Hell, if he could find a way to have an interest in old Lucy there, I’m sure he’d do that too.”

“You’re clean now. And you’ve been clean for—how long?”

“Almost a year.”

“So you lose some of your stuff. You have to slide down the ladder a bit. Maybe you have to go to some dead-end job and live in a shit hole one-room apartment. Look at me—that’s my fuckin’ life, man. But it’s mine. It’s
mine
. Is it worth being a slave to that dude for some material things? Things which, I don’t know, you might be able to get on your own anyway, if you applied yourself.” Wren had almost added that he knew Rufus had once had a white-collar job, done something that would have brought him, if not a sizable income, at least a livable one. But if he did that, he would have to reveal how he knew so much, and he didn’t want to.

Rufus didn’t say anything for a long time, and Wren hoped maybe he was considering what Wren had said—maybe it hadn’t occurred to him he wasn’t as trapped as he thought.

Then Rufus spoke. “You don’t get it, little man. It’s not all this stuff that I have, although I will admit that’s all pretty sweet. It’s the fact that Dave keeps me clean. You know? Without him I would go back. I know it as sure as I’m sitting here. I almost did when I heard Evan Maple had been killed. But I resisted.”

“See? You
can
resist.”

Rufus shook his head. “No. I called Dave that night.
After
I had called my dealer. Dave waited with me for the guy to show up in his Lexus. I don’t know what Dave did, but he got rid of the guy, and I’m pretty certain he made sure that dealer would never take another call from me again.

“See, though. I want this. I want someone to keep me on the straight and narrow. I want to be free. But I can’t do it alone.”

“You’re not free.” The words escaped Wren’s lips before he had a chance to censor them. All at once he felt sorry for Rufus. He was trapped. He would never know real freedom until he embraced quitting himself, until he did it for himself. Now he was simply in a cage.

A frisson of hatred coursed through Wren, like a drug injected into his vein, for Davidson Chillingsworth. He was using Rufus’s weakness as a way to control him and use him. Wren felt vulnerable and impotent. He could sympathize with Rufus, but right now he had no idea how to help him.

“Ah. It’s tough. But are any of us really free?”

Wren wanted to say he was. He wanted to tell Rufus about a song his mom listened to, by some raspy-throated woman who had died long before Wren was even thought of. There was a line in that song about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose.

Maybe being poor was the ultimate freedom.

Hey, look at me, Ma. I’m free!

Wren said, “I’d like to think some of us are, or as much as we can be, anyway.”

Rufus, surprisingly, nodded. “Dave gives me my freedom by erasing any chance I’ll use again. You know what? And don’t laugh at this. But I am not a half-bad writer. That was always my big dream—to write that Great American Novel.”

I know. I know. I’ve read some of it.
Wren didn’t dare voice the words, but he so wanted to. He wanted to tell Rufus that, along with the anguish so convincingly portrayed in the pages he’d read, he had seen talent. It made his love for Rufus grow even more.

Rufus went on. “I’ve been writing. A lot. The first time in years I’ve actually written something with meaning. And you know what? It doesn’t suck.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Wren said softly. He knew it didn’t. But would Rufus ever be able to take charge of his own life enough to escape? Would this business kill him one way or another, sooner or later, just as surely as cocaine would have?

“You got to get away,” Wren said.

Rufus said nothing for a long time. “I can’t. I’m in too deep.”

“No, no, you’re not. There’s help out there for you. Twelve-step groups and shit like that can help you stay clean without selling your soul and your body.”
Great. Now I sound like a preacher.

“I’m in too deep,” Rufus repeated.

“What do you mean?” Wren asked over a crash of thunder outside, which was followed by a sudden deluge of rain. The storm had returned—with what sounded like even more force than before.

“I think I have an idea why these killings have happened. At least I can think of some damn good motivation.” Rufus blew out a quivering breath, then stared at Wren, his eyes shining with fear.

There was a flash of bright white light, another crash, and the lights went out.

In the dark, Rufus said, “And I think I might be next.”

“WHAT ARE
you talking about?” Wren whispered, the darkness all around them, the wind whipping up outside, hurling twigs and street detritus at the windows. The renewed storm, with its literal second wind, commanded respect, which was why Wren didn’t dare raise his voice. That, along with Rufus’s admission and terror that he might be the next victim, sucked the air—and his voice—right out of him.

“Will you hold me?” Rufus asked just as softly.

Wren wondered if he would have had the courage to make such a request if they weren’t steeped in shadow. Of course Wren was delighted to wrap his arms around Rufus, drawing him close so that Rufus’s head rested against his chest. Wren stroked his hair, tangling and untangling his fingers in it, wishing the two of them could stay this way forever.

For a while they simply listened to the fury taking place outside, saying nothing as the rain at last ebbed to a steady flow, then a trickle. The lights didn’t come back on, a fact for which Wren was grateful.

“Why did you say that?”

“What?” Rufus’s voice came out gruff, sleepy, and Wren wondered if he was on the verge of surrendering to oblivion right there in his arms. Things could have been worse.

“That shit about you being next.”

Rufus didn’t respond for so long that Wren began wondering if the next sound he would hear from the man would be a snore. But finally Rufus spoke.

“You weren’t in À Louer long enough to know what was really going on. The bad stuff.”

“You mean there’s stuff worse than prostitution?” Wren didn’t want to insult Rufus, but he had to ask. Was he just being naïve when nothing else occurred to him? What other shady enterprise could the business be up to?

“I don’t look at what I do as prostitution.” Rufus sat up, moving away from Wren.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Wren didn’t want to get into this same debate about exchanging only
time
for money that he’d had with Chillingsworth at the outset. “So what’s going on? Can you even tell me?”

“No one is supposed to know about this. You can’t let Dave know I told you.” Rufus sat up and put his face in his hands. After a moment he sat back again. “Dave might have gotten you involved if you had stayed long enough for him to trust you. He doesn’t usually let people in on the
real
way he makes money until they’ve been with him for a while.” Rufus sighed. “For some of the guys, that time never comes. They’re the lucky ones. I wish I could have stayed like them.”

Wren looked around the darkened room. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and everything was now clear, albeit murky. He wondered what time it was and if Rufus would expect him to go home tonight. He also wondered what the hell he was talking about. “So are you going to clue me in? Can you trust me enough?”

“I don’t know.
Can
I trust you?”

“Yes,” Wren said softly.

“You can’t repeat this. If you ever do, I’ll deny it came from me.”

“Enough with the suspense already. You have my word—this conversation goes no farther than the two of us.”

“Blackmail.” Rufus spat the word out as though it was something unsavory in his mouth.

“Blackmail?”

“Yes. That’s where Chillingsworth gets us to make him the real bucks. See, we deal with a very exclusive clientele. We don’t do low-money tricks, blow jobs in cars, shit like that. We’re high class. Discreet. That’s what these guys are counting on, anyway, when they first come to us. See, these are executives, doctors, lawyers, men with some money, power, position. And these same men often have a lot on the line if they were to get caught, which is why an escort service appeals to them. It’s safe. Or so they think.

“Chillingsworth has us do little things—taking a compromising picture if we get a chance with a cell phone, record a conversation. He pulls the strings in the background, finding out where these guys live, if they’re married or partnered with another dude, if they have kids, what kind of work they do.

“The ones that have the most to lose—those are the ones he has us go in for the kill, pardon the term.”

“You blackmail them, really?”

“Yeah. Some of these guys don’t even use the services of À Louer anymore. They just make a regular payment to Dave every month or so. Others we hook once, twice, for big sums sometimes.” Rufus laughed bitterly. “One of these assholes was a minister who fought against gay marriage. Ain’t that a trip?”

Wren didn’t know how to respond. He had never dreamed something like this was going on behind the scenes. This was ugly. This was life-threatening stuff.

And he could see how being wrapped up in a web like this might drive someone to kill. It certainly supplied a motivation. But the sad thing was, Wren realized, that killing off À Louer’s escorts was not killing off the problem, which was Davidson Chillingsworth himself.

Wren imagined, to anyone outside the business, Dave was a shadowy, veiled figure, completely hidden from view.

“So you think this killer is someone you’re blackmailing?”

“I think there’s a good chance. I’ve seen firsthand how hysterical some of these guys can get at the prospect of being revealed to their families, their clients.” He looked over at Wren. “I hate doing this.”

“Why, then? Why can’t you just walk away?”

“Because I’m in it as deep as Dave is. I’m an accomplice. I’m guilty too. I walk away, I talk, and I drag myself down too.”

Wren stood up, paced the room for a while, stopping to stare out the window. Outside the sky had lightened.
Jesus, it must be dawn approaching.
The streets were slick and littered with garbage and small tree limbs from the storm. Somewhere distant a siren wailed.

“You got to get out of this. You got to free yourself.”

“I wish I could, little man. Especially now that I’m starting to get scared shitless that the stakes are much higher than worrying about Chillingsworth’s wrath—or the threat of prosecution. Someone might be out there wanting to kill me, you know?”

Wren didn’t want to think of it. It was his worst fear. “Why you? How would anyone even know?”

“All that would have to happen is for one of these guilty guys on the hook to come clean to wifey or some shit like that. Chillingsworth thinks he’s so smart, but he’s not. This is a fuckin’ house of cards.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Rufus leapt from the couch, joining Wren in the pacing. “What can I do?”

Wren wished he had an answer for him, but what advice could he offer?
Go to the police?
Wren could see how self-destructive that could be—and how it might even exacerbate things and help no one.
Lie in wait for the killer?
And do what? Kill
him
? Still, that idea refused to leave his mind once it had taken root.

Wren sat back down on the couch, and Rufus joined him. Rufus said, “We’re fucked. Or I am. You were smart enough to get away before you got caught up in all of this.”

Wren thought for a long time before speaking. “If what you say is true, and this is someone going after escorts because he’s been blackmailed, how do you think he finds things out? I mean, how does he know who the other escorts even are, assuming he hasn’t personally been with every one?”

Rufus chuckled, but the laugh was bitter. “You really didn’t get a chance to find out anything about the business, did you?” He stood. “I guess that was all up to me, if we had gone any further.” Rufus crossed the room, came back with his laptop, and sat down close to Wren.

Wren glanced at the screen as Rufus powered the computer up. Once it came to life, Rufus set it on the coffee table before them. Wren eyed the little Word icon with the novel he had read and quickly shifted his gaze away.

Rufus brought up his browser. “You didn’t know we had a website?” Rufus smirked. “Everybody has a website these days.” Rufus typed in a URL, and there it was—the web home of À Louer, “Companions for Discriminating Gentlemen.”

Wren leaned forward.