Asking For Trouble (9 page)

To say Mike disliked Toby was harsh. He felt for the guy, but if he were honest, Toby’s presence made him uncomfortable. Toby was so excruciatingly self-conscious about his acne he was painful to be around. Unlike Mike, Barnett wasn’t an empathetic person at all. His brash personality meant Toby shouldn’t even have registered on his radar except as a target of ridicule.

“What are you up to?” Mike asked.

“Why would I be up to anything?” Barnett failed to look innocent.

“When Toby transferred to this college six months ago, you bitched that he screwed up the class’s harmony. So why the big change? C’mon, you aren’t fooling anyone.”

Barnett ignored him and checked his watch. “We’d better get back to class.”

Mechanical science defied the laws of time, and the class dragged on longer than it normally did. Mike’s thoughts and gaze wandered in Toby’s direction. Toby diligently took notes and worked through the class problems. Mike noticed that Barnett’s gaze was on Toby, too. Barnett
seemed too interested; there was something more to his philanthropic plan. Mike didn’t know what it was, but he was sure he wasn’t going to like it when he found out.

Mercifully, the class ended, drawing the college day to a close. Mike got tangled up with a homework assignment and Barnett went ahead of him outside to the quad. When Mike caught up with Barnett, he was deep in conversation with Toby outside the engineering block. Toby looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hey, Toby,” Mike said, walking up to them.

Toby nodded awkwardly.

“You think about it and let me know,” Barnett said.

“I’ll do that,” Toby said nervously. “I’d better go. Things to do. Catch you later, yeah?”

“Yeah, later,” Barnett said, and Toby slipped away.

Both Mike and Barnett watched Toby scuttle away to his beat-up Ford Escort and race away as fast as the tired engine would allow.

“What are you playing at?” Mike demanded.

Barnett winked. “I’ll give you a ride home, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Halfway to Mike’s apartment, Barnett’s restored VW Bug was still managing to produce an arctic breeze from its heater. Barnett wiped at the continually fogging windshield with his hand. Mike cracked open the window.

“I want to fuck a guy,” Barnett announced.

If Mike knew Barnett to be anything, it wasn’t gay. His dangerous personality attracted women by the armful, making this, his “coming out,” less than credible.

“What?”

“I’ve screwed chicks—blow jobs, anal, the works. I’ve done it and had it done to me, but I’ve never done a guy.”

“I’ve never been shot in the head, but I don’t think I need someone to shoot me to know it hurts like a bastard.”

“See, that’s where you and me differ. I need to experience everything before I die.”

“And you need to fuck a guy to accomplish that?”

“Yep.” Barnett grinned at Mike. “Don’t look so worried. You’re not my type.”

“But Toby is.”

Barnett mulled the thought over and nodded. “I think so.”

This was wrong—very wrong. But Mike couldn’t come out and say it. If he did, Barnett would just dig his heels in. No, Mike would have to play it careful. If he planted enough seeds of doubt in Barnett’s head, then he might drop the idea.

“How do you know you’re
his
type?”

“I don’t, but I’m sure I can bring him around to my way of thinking.”

“Barnett, you don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“I’m not gay, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

“So your sudden interest in Toby is so you can see what it’s like to fuck a guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t force him to have sex with you.”

“I won’t force him.” Barnett grinned. “I’ll coerce him.”

“Why him?”

“Why not?”

Barnett dropped Mike off outside his apartment. Barnett’s plan completely disgusted and shocked Mike. Mike knew why Barnett had chosen Toby—Barnett was a predator, and he sensed Toby’s overt weakness. He hadn’t been joking when he said that Mike wasn’t his type. Mike wasn’t invincible, but he would fight back if Barnett got ideas about him. Toby, however, had victim written all over his acne-pocked skin. It was obvious Barnett sensed he wouldn’t put up a fight. It was all academic, anyway; Toby hadn’t agreed to Barnett’s dinner date.

Yet...

***

“He said yes,” Barnett said, grinning, and sat in the lounge chair opposite Mike.

Mike put his book down, arthritic fear paralyzing his body. He didn’t have to ask who had agreed to what.

A couple of weeks had passed since Barnett had first mentioned his scheme. Mike knew he’d had a couple of more tries at Toby, but to Mike’s relief, Toby had cringingly declined each time. Mike had thought—hoped—Barnett had given up on the idea, or at least on Toby as his prey.

“When?” Mike asked.

“Thursday night at eight. He’s going to help me with my differentiation problems.”

Mike leaned forward to give them some privacy. “Barnett, I can’t let you go through with this.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Barnett said matter-of-factly.

On one level he was right. It didn’t. Barnett was a friend, but Mike wasn’t his keeper. The same was true of Toby. Mike wasn’t obliged to look out for him. Barnett could do whatever he wanted and Toby was adult enough to stand up for himself. Still, the situation compelled Mike to get involved. Barnett’s bankrupt morality disturbed him because Toby wasn’t strong enough to survive his onslaught. Barnett’s plan didn’t involve two consenting adults having sex. Yes, it didn’t have anything to do with Mike, but he couldn’t walk away from this situation.

“Barnett, you can’t invite Toby over just so you can fuck him. That’s rape! Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“It’s not if he agrees.”

“What makes you think he’ll agree?”

“I’m a persuasive person.”

Mike knew all about Barnett’s persuasive powers. He’d witnessed them up close. Barnett was a great guy—if you were one of his friends—but he did have his vicious side if you weren’t. A year ago, he’d jammed a classmate’s face an inch from an operating lathe over a minor disagreement. Two years ago, he’d kicked a girlfriend from a moving car after he’d found she’d been cheating on him. If Toby didn’t warm to Barnett’s advances, then Barnett would make sure he did.

“Don’t you think, Mike?”

This kind of remark would have normally come with a smile and a twinkle in the eye, but not now; Barnett was clearly irritated. Mike’s protests were pushing him to the limit. If Mike wasn’t careful, he was in danger of pissing Barnett off and losing any sway he had over his friend and the situation.

College had a habit of putting together people who wouldn’t normally cross paths. That was the case with Mike and Barnett. The dorm-room gods had put them together. While Barnett’s dangerous personality disturbed Mike, Barnett was a good friend. Mike never doubted that Barnett would have his back in any situation, and it was only right that Mike had his. The way Mike could do that was to act as Barnett’s conscience. When he could get Barnett to admit to the selfishness and ugliness of his whims and desires, he tended to lose interest in them.

“Look Barnett, you can’t go through with this. Fuck a guy by all means. Pick up a gay guy who wants to sleep with you, but not Toby. It’s wrong, dude.”

“You don’t have any say in the matter.”

“I believe I do,” Mike said, knowing he had crossed the line with his friend.

“So what do you think you’re going to do about it?”

***

Mike had hoped his empty threat was enough to change his friend’s mind, but in his heart of hearts, he knew it hadn’t been. Barnett had just become quiet and distant, and their conversation dwindled. Thursday evening arrived, and Barnett seemed to be going through with everything. Leaving school, Mike glimpsed Barnett chatting with Toby in the parking lot. At home, he watched the time inch toward eight o’clock. He felt like a death row inmate receiving the last rites. Finally, he couldn’t help himself anymore, and he snatched up the phone and dialed Barnett’s number. He listened to the phone ring until the answering machine kicked in. He hung up. There was nothing else to do. He had to go over there.

Mike rang the doorbell for the third time. No one answered, but Barnett was clearly inside. The lights were on and an ambient trance beat spewed from within.

“C’mon, Barnett,” he thumped on the door, “answer the damn door!”

Finally, the door opened, but it wasn’t Barnett—it was Toby.

Toby, as impossible as it seemed, was whiter than usual. His zits looked about to burst all at once. Three missing buttons from his shirt exposed scratch marks raking his skeleton-thin chest. His belt hung from one belt loop and his shirttail poked through his open fly. Mike froze. Blood soaked his groin and a kitchen knife ran red in his grasp.

“Toby,” Mike managed.

“Hey, Mike.” He sounded a million miles away.

“Where’s Barnett?”

“In the kitchen.” He jerked the knife in the direction of the kitchen.

Mike eased past Toby and headed for the kitchen. Toby followed. Mike’s steps were awkward and shaky. He had the terrible sense that Toby would use the knife on him.

Barnett was indeed in the kitchen, facedown on the vinyl in front of the sink. An alarming amount of blood had emanated from his stomach and blossomed across the floor, encompassing him from head to toe. All color, as well as life, had drained from his face. His eyes were open, and a confused expression consumed his features. Barnett had gotten more than he’d expected.

“I don’t understand it,” Toby said. “We made dinner and we talked about everything—college, music, films. It was great. It was the first time since I transferred here that anyone treated me like a friend. It was going so well until we started cleaning the dishes. I said I’d wash, and he said he’d dry. But he didn’t. He came behind me and pressed up against me and whispered in my ear that he wanted to make love to me. I didn’t know he was gay.”

“He wasn’t,” Mike mumbled. “What happened?”

“I told him I wasn’t like that. He said he didn’t care. I told him I was going and he slammed me against the sink. I tried to push him off and he ripped at my pants.”

Mike winced at Toby’s account, living every moment. He knew how Barnett would have sounded. He’d seen the seamless ease he exhibited when shifting from the compassionate to the vicious when events weren’t going his way.

“I was washing the carving knife when he forced himself on me. I spun around and stabbed him. I didn’t mean it. It just happened.”

Mike studied the blood. Barnett hadn’t been stabbed just the once. There was too much blood for that.

“How many times did you stab him?” he asked.

“I stabbed him over and over again. I don’t know how many times. What are we going to do, Mike?”

We? When did this become his problem to solve? He thought again. No, he hadn’t killed anyone, but he was just as guilty. He could have prevented this, if he’d handled Barnett differently. Knowing what Barnett was going to do made him just as culpable. Toby was the innocent one.

“Don’t worry; we’ll sort this out.”

Mike turned the music down. Now wasn’t the time to draw attention to themselves.

“What do you want me to do?” Toby asked.

Mike turned to him. The knife was still in his hand, blood dripping from the tip. “Stand still. Don’t move.”

Mike tiptoed around Barnett and dug out a self-sealing bag from a kitchen drawer. He slipped the bag over the blade, took the knife from Toby without touching it, and sealed the bag. That was the weapon taken care of for now. He glanced over at Barnett. That was a totally different problem. He wouldn’t be so easily dealt with.

“Mike, I’ve got blood on me.”

“I know.” Mike eyed the splatter. “Take a shower. Put your clothes in this.” He snatched up a garbage bag from under the sink. “We’ll burn them.”

“What will I wear?”

“You’ll have to wear something of Barnett’s.”

Toby nodded and took the garbage bag. He trudged into the bathroom.

Mike waited until he heard the hiss of water striking the bath before moving. He scoured the small apartment for more garbage bags. He found none, but he did find an old blanket that would wrap a body easily. He laid the blanket out next to Barnett, careful not to allow the material to touch the blood. He was wondering how to move Barnett’s body without making a mess when Toby wandered into the living room.

Mike recognized the clothes from Barnett’s nightclubbing collection. They looked sharp on Barnett, but not on Toby. Everything hung badly on him. The pair of black trousers was too long in the leg. The pale gray shirt he wore was misbuttoned and half-tucked into the trousers. The cuffs were too long, exposing only his fingertips. Mike wasn’t sure if Toby was still in shock or just totally inept.

“Help me put him on the blanket,” Mike instructed.

Robot-like, Toby did as he was told.

“Turn him as we lift him.”

Mike grabbed Barnett’s wrists without thinking. His mind had been on how to dispose of Barnett. It never entered into his head that he was handling a dead body. His hands were locked around Barnett’s wrists when it hit him that he was holding a corpse. His grip tightened with fear then his hands snapped open, dropping Barnett’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” Toby asked.

Mike blushed, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

He retook Barnett’s wrists. His friend was still warm, not normal body temperature warm, but warm enough not to feel like a corpse. Mike was reminded of an old girlfriend he’d had in school. She blamed her cool touch on poor circulation. It couldn’t be any worse than Barnett’s was now.

They lifted and flipped Barnett onto his back in one fluid move, but Barnett’s dead weight was too much for them and they dropped him onto the blanket with a thud.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike said.

He saw Barnett in all his slaughtered glory. His stomach was a mass of puncture wounds. Toby had to have stabbed him at least twenty times. Barnett had really met his match.

Mike glanced at Toby. He had a hand to his mouth, just as shocked to see the carnage as Mike was. Mike supposed the horror was just sinking in for him.