A red tainted Silence (77 page)

But Nick’s thoughts were far, far away from those who might or might not take offense at two men holding each other as if they were lovers. Which, of course, we were.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?”

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“Yes, it is,” I whispered in his ear, laughing softly as he giggled at the warm brush of my words.

“I’ve never been on a mountain, really. Not like this. Have you?” I thought a moment and shrugged. “Sort of. When I climbed Ayers Rock in Australia that time, I felt on top of the world. But this is even higher.”

“Was it pretty up there?”

I chuckled at that, hugging him again. “Yes, it was. Beautiful. But a different sort than this. Maybe someday I’ll get you up there and you can see for yourself.”

“No way. No, too hot for me. And gritty. And all that sweat, no thanks.” He paused.

“Unless you could helicopter me up there.”

I pointed to one of the mountains, far off to the side, on our right. It was flatter than the others, and bare of snow. “See that one? It reminds me of Ayers Rock, sort of. Kind of shaped like it.”

“I wonder who owns it. Maybe I could buy it for you.” I laughed at that. “You’re nuts, Nicholas. What would I do with a mountain?”

“I don’t know. Just enjoy it. Build a cabin on it and stay there whenever you wanted some peace and quiet. I’d like a home up here. Wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe we’ll have one someday.”

“Just you and me.”

“And a big giant bathtub with a picture window so we can look out at our mountain while we splash in our tub.”

“A big giant bed.”

“Lots of lube.”

I laughed. “And yeah, lots of lube.”

“Lots and lots. I wish we were there now, could stay there for a whole month.” He sighed against me. “I miss you so much, Brandon. Sometimes I wish things were simpler, that we could be together like we are now. No one’s paying any attention to us; we’re just two strangers holding each other.”

“Two fags holding each other,” I said, noting one person at least who looked up at us with disapproval in his eyes.

“Fuck him,” Nicholas muttered, making me laugh.

“I’d rather fuck you.”

He drew in his breath at that. Clutched my hand and sneakily reached behind and gave my dick a quick squeeze. Even with all the clothes I had on, I swear I felt the heat of his hand. It seared me.

We stood there for the longest time, just looking down the mountain. Later, when we got back, Mr. Curious actually looked into that other mountain, to see if it was for sale. It A Red-Tainted Silence

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was privately owned, much to our surprise, and was used for hunting moose during the season. There were several cabins on the property for rent, and Nicholas promised me we would get one the next winter and escape for a long, decadent weekend; at least, he’d planned on that until he learned just how basic those cabins were.

My brothers were visiting us then, and Adam regaled us with just how tough it would be. He and my dad liked to hunt, something neither Jon nor I enjoyed it, though I didn’t let Nick know that. It was too much fun to tease him.

“No central heat. You have to chop your own wood, too, Nicholas,” Adam said, laughing at Nick’s expression.

He had been horrified. “Chop my own wood? Are you nuts? I suppose there’s no running water, either?”

Adam had smirked. “Or electricity.”

Jon had winked at me. “And no beds. Or pillows.” Nicholas stood. “Crazy fucking hunters. It’s cold. What man in his right mind would subject himself to that?”

I’d laughed, then, at his silliness, at his absolute conviction there was no way any human being could survive long, and definitely not for a whole weekend, in such abysmal conditions. No way. Especially not him.

Later, of course, he learned otherwise. That he could, and for much, much longer than a weekend.

But right then, all such thoughts were quickly pushed aside as we made love with our hotel windows open so we could see the mountains. Not quite the view we wanted, though when we finally did buy our house, after he was rescued, I was very happy that he finally got what he wanted.

But what a hell of a way to have it come about.

* * * * *

Some of it he forgot -- the worst of it, thank God. Writing it down now hurts so bad, but maybe ... maybe if I do, the demons that sit on my shoulders will shut up. The guilt’s eating me from the inside out, even now that I now he’s okay. Maybe if I’d gone with him, he wouldn’t have gone through this. I could’ve told him not to stop, leave the old man, forget him.

If he’d woken me up, I would’ve gone with him, and then he wouldn’t have been alone.

There’s several ways to get to Nick’s house from LA, but his favorite is longer, winding, and remote. That’s not the road he took. Maybe if he had, then he wouldn’t have been caught by his kidnapper. No, instead he took the most direct route. He was in a hurry. He 458

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wanted to get to Barkley and then to Blair’s for supper and no doubt tell her about what happened between us. But for some reason, reasons he says he doesn’t remember because he’s kinda fuzzy on that point, he stopped.

A man who passed by in his truck came forward later and said he saw a gray car by the side of the road and an elderly gentleman with a thick, bushy beard standing beside it. He had a flat tire. We think that Nicholas stopped to help the so-called elderly man because that’s just the way Nicholas is, although got to admit I’ve never, ever seen Nicholas change a flat tire.

I sure as hell didn’t think he knew how.

He pulled up either behind or in front of the man’s car and got out, left his car running -- it was still running when the police pulled up to it approximately fifteen minutes later when a passing motorist called in that this really nice bright yellow convertible was just sitting there on the side of the road, idling away, and no one was around.

Nicholas had put the top of the convertible down. It was such a pretty day that day, he said. He remembered that, the feel of the cool breeze and the warm sunshine on his face. He remembered being so happy, and confident, having made love to me again at last. He said his mind had been drifting some; he was singing to the radio and remembering how I’d given myself to him. How good and incredible it felt to be inside me, like he’d dreamed of for so long.

I felt like crying when he told me that. Still recovering from his surgery, he’d been barely coherent when he tried to tell me what all had happened, but that he remembered, he said. He remembered driving along and reliving making love to me.

Nicholas walked up, talked to the man, offered his help. The man opened his trunk to show Nicholas the spare, hit him on the back of the head, stuffed him into the trunk, and drove off. Nicholas doesn’t remember much about the ride, floating in and out of consciousness like he did, but he remembers everything afterwards.

Everything.

Yet though he says that he’s told me what happened, I know there is much he has chosen not to tell me. There’s no doubt about that. He’s not seen all the pictures I have, and he never will -- I will never, ever let him -- and what those pictures told me are indescribable. Terrifying.

I feel sick now, writing this, knowing how scared he was, and no one there to reassure him. No one was there to chase away this particular demon. I would’ve lost it, gone insane with fear, I think. But Nicholas is and always will be stronger than me. I admire him so much for that, for his inner beauty, his inner strength.

He woke up in the back of a van. He was naked, wrists and ankles bound, and was in a large wire dog crate. It was hot and still, and he remembered being very hungry and thirsty, barely able to breathe. The van had stopped, and Nicholas remembers a whistling sound, and then the man opened up the back of the van and took pictures of his captive.

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He made Nicholas pose, reveal himself to the man’s eyes in ways only I have ever seen.

It disgusts me and angers me now, what the man did to him, and when Nicholas protested, he poked him with a broomstick, or threw water on him until finally Nicholas did as he was told.

Then the man said the words that gave Nicholas his first dose of real terror -- and hope.

“Brandon’s gonna love these,” the man said, his voice hoarse, deliberately so. As if he didn’t want Nicholas to recognize him.

Those were the first pictures I got, courtesy of Federal Express. I received them the day after my endless, mindless drive. I was fast asleep on the couch, cradling my teddy bear.

I remember my mom was still waiting for me when I got home the night before, and she’d insisted on staying with me. Jenn had showed up sometime that morning, cooked me breakfast, and nearly force-fed me. I finally ate. Full for the first time in days, and beyond the point of exhaustion, I had passed out on the couch after giving strict orders to everyone to leave me alone.

But my mom woke me up anyway.

“Son, wake up.”

I blinked, looking up to find my mom and Jenn staring down at me. “What’s wrong?” I bolted up. “Is it Nicholas? Did he call? Did they find him?”

“No, no,” Jenn said, shaking her head. “Oh, Bean, this came for you and I opened it.

And, well, sit down. Try not to touch them.”

I sat as she handed me a FedEx envelope. I stared at it for a moment, then slid its contents onto the coffee table and stared numbly at the pictures.

They were of Nicholas.

Inside a trunk, clearly unconscious.

On the ground beside a car, trussed up and seemingly dead.

Stripped naked, hands and feet bound.

Inside a dog crate, his eyes wide and blue with terror, his body positioned for the ultimate humiliation.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” I said. I stared at the envelope again -- it’d been stamped in California.

The cops came and took the envelope and its contents. The next one came a day later.

More photos, mailed from a different location.

The next day, the same.

And the next.

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For seven straight days the envelopes came and I lived in stark fear that each one would be the last, that each photo that showed Nicholas more and more filthy, stressed, hurt, would be the last -- would be of him dead.

Then they stopped coming. For two weeks, nothing. I was beside myself. Which was worse? The envelopes showing the slow progression of Nick’s descent into hell, or nothing at all?

My family watched over me. Adam left the group he’d been playing with and moved in to help keep an eye on me. I actually welcomed his presence. Our anger toward each other had tempered over the years. I was insensate. I was nearly insane. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Every time the phone rang or the doorbell buzzed, I thought it would be the final one, the one I dreaded.

I started to get packages again, but not from the kidnapper. Instead, it was something else entirely -- the fans. Oh, yeah, Nick’s fans were living the horror right along with me, those nameless, faceless, loving thousands who filled the internet and bulletin boards and even my inbox and our record label’s with sobbing emails over the disappearance of Nicholas Kilmain. They sent me flowers, packages, presents, good-luck charms, books and clothes and even food.

They sent me their love. As if they’d forgiven me for destroying Nicholas.

It’s not every day that a celebrity gets kidnapped. I was inundated with phone calls, requests for interviews, my thoughts on what could’ve happened to Nicholas, how the investigation was coming. And I did them. I had to. I talked to radio stations, gave interviews, desperate to keep the investigation alive, to make the investigators keep working on Nick’s case.

I read everything I could, all the notes and emails and message boards and journals, thinking maybe someone knew something, would see something, could help me somehow. I answered every email, practically begging the fans to be looking out for Nicholas. One person was all it could take to find him.

But finally it was too much, all the anguish, the crying fans, the well-wishing. My obsession with being everything to everyone was killing me. Marisa took up fielding a bunch of it, she and I having established a truce of sorts.

The hope that someone out there would know something that could help began to fade. I told Marisa not to tell me anything anymore, and I collapsed into myself like I’m so good at doing, hiding from the world, slipping into a state of numbness that even Jenn failed to pull me out of.

Adam fielded everything else the best he could, convinced me to hide away in a hotel for a while, but news would get out where I was and I’d have to move again. It’s an odd thing to me but the brother who hated Nicholas was there for me when the one who loved him refused to be.

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It hurt, how it hurt, the day Jon did come, not to see how I was doing, but to make sure there wasn’t anything else he could do on his end to help find Nicholas. There wasn’t, of course, and how I ached, how I cried after he left, longing for him to hold me again. Just once, to let me know he loved me, forgave me, believed Nicholas would be found.

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Then the kidnapper made his mistake. He sent another picture of Nicholas. He’d lost weight, and was filthy, but scratched into his side in the grime was the letter A. That’s all, just an A.

Nicholas had found a way to give me a clue.

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Carolyn Gray

It is really weird, being in a grocery store and hearing your voice wailing over the loudspeaker. I’d been lost in thought, thinking about what I’d read earlier in Brandon’s journal. We’d all started calling it that. The journal. What are you doing now, Nicholas? Oh, I’m reading the journal. It had become the center of my life, the keeper of secrets, the only hope I had for Brandon’s salvation. I was as fixated on that journal as Brandon had been on the pictures of me. He’d found what he needed to save me in those pictures, but I feared I wouldn’t be so lucky.