Tribe

“
Tribe
tells a gay story of intrigue and deceit that drives the reader forward with compelling prose.”

—In Touch

“ZIMMERMAN IS A SUPERB WRITER, building suspense through genuine surprises while creating believable characters.”

—The Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“VIVID…A REAL PAGE-TURNING YARN…Along with deftly weaving unexpected elements from the characters' past and present, Zimmerman introduces a creepy religious cult, with suspenseful results.”

—Q Monthly

“The real test of a detective or mystery novel is its ability to hold the reader's interest and keep those pages turning. Zimmerman succeeds at this quite well.”

—TriCity Herald

“R.D. ZIMMERMAN IS A WONDERFUL WRITER OF SUSPENSE and surely the most original storyteller of the genre.”

—Sharyn McCrumb, author of
If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him

“R.D. Zimmerman is one of the best of the new generation of thriller writers who use the form to entertain and enlighten us on the highest level.”

—Roger L. Simon, creator of the Moses Wine series

“ZIMMERMAN'S WRITING IS TOO BREATHLESS TO LEAVE YOU DISCONTENTED.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Innuendo
Outburst
Hostage
Closet
Red Trance
Blood Trance
Death Trance
Mindscream
Blood Russian
The Red Encounter
The Cross and the Sickle

And by R.D. Zimmerman writing as Robert Alexander

When Dad Came Back As My Dog
The Romanov Bride
Rasputin's Daughter
The Kitchen Boy
Deadfall in Berlin

A Novel by

R.D. Zimmerman

ScribblePub

Minneapolis, MN

the most original of the original™

Tribe

Copyright © 1996 by R.D. Zimmerman

www.robertalexanderbooks.com

MOBI ISBN: 978-1-61-446007-7

ePub ISBN: 978-1-61-446006-0

Published in the United States of America

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the authors or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Evanston, Illinois

December 1973

This was about sex.

They stood, the two of them, in the small bedroom on the fourth floor of the fraternity, the door carefully closed and locked, the desk light turned to the wall to dim its light. This was as private as things got at Northwestern University, or any college, for that matter. As intimate, as quiet. For days the two young men had been exchanging furtive glances, eyeing each other at the dinner table, peering down the hall, and, above all, staring in the shower room. And now they stood motionless in the narrow chamber, one next to the single bed, the other by the door, each of them silently daring the other to act first or at least say something, anything.

Sure, this was about sex, and it was making Todd sick. Brown-haired and handsome in a rugged, youthful way, seemingly always cool, even happy, his entire stomach now seemed to have caved in on itself, tightening his gut painfully. Oh, God, this wasn't what he wanted out of his life, was it? Hell no. He was the guy with the broad shoulders and quick legs, the captain of the frat-house intramural football team. All fall he'd been dating one of the cutest girls on campus. He'd worked so hard at making sure everyone liked him. Which they did. And now, biting his lip, he appraised the situation. There were clothes strewn everywhere: jeans on the bed, a gray sweatshirt tossed on a chair, socks and underwear all over the avocado shag carpet. But those were merely yesterday's clothes, and lanky Pat, his blond hair pulled into a ponytail, was still dressed. Thank God. Just get the hell out of here, Todd told himself.

But he couldn't force himself to move because his body was telling him something entirely different from his mind. It was as if there were two parts of him, each at war with the other. To be sure, this power that was surging in his loins was everything Todd hated about himself. Christ, he should just turn and run. Run right to his shrink. Or should he even tell his therapist about this? Would he be horribly disappointed in Todd, or would he merely shrug and turn up the electricity on the aversion-therapy gizmo and really shock the hell out of Todd whenever he visualized a naked, aroused man?

“I can't help it,” said Pat, the first one to shatter the crystalline silence. “I…I want you again.”

As much as Todd wanted to forget, they had done it before, twice to be exact. Todd now slumped against the door, horrified by what he felt, paralyzed with fear that others might find out, and yet overwhelmed with an animal urge to take this young Pat and wrestle him naked to the floor. He closed his eyes, clung to his silence. The walls up here on the fourth floor were so thin, nothing much more than Sheetrock and a coat of paint dividing the rooms. Everyone could hear them, couldn't they?

“I like doing it, you know, with guys. I can't help it. I…I just do. I mean, I just can't control it.” Pat paused, shifted awkwardly on his feet, rubbed his right shoulder, and asked, “What about you?”

Todd opened his eyes, stared across the dimly lit space, and saw Pat's tempting image outlined in front of the single, large window. No. Don't get into this. Hold back.

“Oh, come on, loosen up,” urged Pat. “You don't have to be so uptight about it. Have you been down at the gym at night? You should see all the guys down there. I mean, there's even a couple of guys from the club hockey team hanging around in the showers. And have you seen what's going on down at the beach? Man, everyone's got a sexual secret.”

Todd had always wanted just one thing in life: to be straight. He'd have given anything not simply to have this torture subside, but to be normal and accepted. If his father ever found out what lurked in Todd's head and what he'd actually done a handful of times, dear God, the old Pole would really go into a rage. And if he'd been dipping into the vodka Todd would get the crap beat out of him. Perhaps even the belt.

“Fuck, it's happening right here too. Right at the frat house. I've done it with one of the other guys here, you know. Someone who's crazy for me.” Pat pleaded, “Come on, say something.”

“Listen, I…I…” began Todd, but then cut himself off when he heard one of the guys shouting downstairs.

“It's okay,” said Pat in a soft, soothing voice. “The door's locked.”

Right in front of him Pat started to lift off his sweater, pulling one arm from the sleeve, then the next. Todd knew this was the last moment he could escape, yet he stood there, both captive and captivated.

“Just relax,” continued Pat.

In an instant the sweater was gone, one sleeve flung over the back of the yellow plastic molded desk chair, the other draping to the floor and onto a stack of biology books. Todd was paralyzed, his eyes fixated on Pat's hands as they slowly moved down his old plaid shirt, unfastening one button at a time and unveiling a perfect chest, that of a swimmer, sleek and smooth and muscular. Then finally the shirt was rolled off the shoulders and not flung, not tossed, but slowly dropped onto the green shag. His heart charging with lust, his mind churning with confusion, Todd stared at the long arms, the flat stomach.

“You like?” taunted Pat.

Sure, he did, but still Todd didn't move and couldn't bring himself to verbalize his lust. He stood rigid across the room, braided with desire and guilt. And then Pat started unfastening his jeans, the metal button at the top, the zipper. Todd swallowed, heard more steps somewhere down the hall, a voice or two, but paid no attention, unable to conceive that just on the other side of the old, battered door, over thirty frat boys were going about their business, some listening to Cat Stevens, the pensive few listening to Judy Collins, a couple of guys torturing a mouse, and a handful of others huddled out front around a grill, barbecuing some hot dogs on coat hangers as the chilly December winds gusted. No, all of that was another, distant world, totally blocked from this dark, carnal den. Todd felt the desire rising painfully in his crotch and watched transfixed as Pat continued his strip show, shedding his worn jeans, stepping out of them, and then standing there in his Jockeys, his own excitement more than evident. Oh, dear God.

Todd took a deep breath and realized he couldn't hold himself back anymore. He took a step forward, opened his arms. In an instant the nearly naked Pat was in his arms, and Todd clutched the other young man, pulling him against himself as hard as he could. No, he couldn't stop himself, never would be able to, and he ran one hand down Pat's spine and under the elastic band of his cotton underwear. If this is so wrong, thought Todd, his eyes drifting shut as he kissed Pat on the ear, why does it feel so right?

Pat groaned and said, “Oh, my God, you feel good.”

Todd was so nervous, so excited, he could only moan, “Yeah.”

Something hit the window. A branch, he assumed. Todd opened his dreamy, lustful eyes. Looked up. But instead of a wintry, spindly, leafless branch tapping the glass, he saw a figure pressing against the window and a shocked pair of eyes staring back at him.

“Oh, shit!” shouted Todd.

The face, that of one of his fraternity brothers. It was Greg, the guy from the room next door. Short. Stocky. Glasses. A big face. As if he were flying among the trees, he hovered right outside the window, looking right at Todd and Pat. Shot with fear, Todd hurled Pat back, pushing him out of his arms, trying to distance himself, desperate to make it appear that this was anything but a homosexual love scene.