Harlan's Race

huh?”
    “I won’t ask what you’ve been doing. And you won’t do it any more. That includes drugs.”
    “It’s a deal.” The covers rustled as he settled in deeper, moving his hips ruttishly.
    “No more porno films.”
    “Seal it with a kiss.”
    I hesitated.
    “You are so fucking bourgeois about kisses,” he said violently. “I want to know if you’re being real with me.”
    It was supposed to be a short kiss. But his spell was on me — making me ache to feel what he felt for me. As his strong arms tightened around me, with that overwhelming tenderness, his tongue licked into mine, wolf-like. He smelled so clean now, like rain, and his mouth tasted of wild daisies. It turned into a long, long kiss, and reminded me all over again why human beings think of making love as a chance to feel intensely alive. When I felt my restraint fraying and tried to end the embrace, it was like trying to pull two ten-ton magnets apart. Thunder was muttering louder.
    “Hey, easy ...” I said.
    “No, not easy.” He was falling asleep in the middle of the kiss, mumbling. “Hard. Very hard.”
    SIX
    By morning, the storm had passed. Rays of sun sent fiery flashes of color through the wet cherry foliage outside. That beautiful morning started out as a Fire Island next-morning — one when you couldn’t imagine that anybody might want to shoot you.
    Late in the a.m., every head at the breakfast table turned as Vince and I emerged from the North Room. Vince had mellowed out, and seemed his normal self. Marian and Joe raised their eyebrows, but didn’t seem surprised to see us together. Vince made me a cup of my favorite black tea, and sat beside me. Under the breakfast table, his hand slyly slipped into my shorts pocket to feel me up.
    With one hand, I blocked his move. With the other, I gave Joe a letter from the batch of mail that they’d brought.
    “Hey, Joe, read this,” I said.
    It was from Jacques LaFont.
    Jacques and Vince had been lovers when they arrived at Prescott with Billy in ’74. Jacques was bi-sexual, a gifted runner but high-strung. But with America debating us, Jacques couldn’t handle the pressure. He dropped athletics and Vince, and married Elaine Foster. Now, at 25, he was a father, and a “new biologist” starting a career in ornithology. His dream was a population study of endangered native birds on Maui. Running was limited to the occasional road race, and he was teaching in his home state, at the University of Illinois. But he still wrote me plaintive son-to-father letters.
    Hi Harlan,
    Just a short note to say I’m thinking of all of you, and wishing I was back with my Prescott family. Eileen and Ana are fine. I wish I could say the same about my job. There has been some alumni unhappiness that this native son was one of the “infamous Prescott Three”. I have been asked to quietly resign my post in the science department. Unfortunately, the grant hasn’t materialized yet, for my Maui research. So I am up Shit Creek right now.
    Lucky for me, Eileen is being supportive ....
    Not interested in our talk, Angel drifted out to look around for Horatio.
    “Poor Jacques,” Vince said, shaking his head.
    “When will this country grow up?” growled Joe.
    “I’ll kill the university,” Marian snapped. “I’ll write them a letter.”
    “Better yet,” I said, “let’s give Jacques a job. At least till his Maui thing comes through.”
    “I’ll think how to do it,” said Joe. “We’re running top-heavy on faculty.”
    The rest of the mail included another of those cut-and-paste hate letters.
    FEAR MY NAME, WHEN YOU FINALLY HEAR IT.
    YOUR SECRET ADMIRER
    Just then, Angel came slamming in the door, his eyes wide with shock.
    “Steve!” he cried out in a strangled voice.
    We went running out on the back deck, to see a shocking sight.
    Horatio lay dead on the dock, covered with buzzing flies.
    So friendly and gentle, he had been lured — by a can of tuna, maybe — and caught. Whoever did it had castrated and gutted him, then dumped him there. A bloody trail showed where he’d crawled a few feet toward our door, before he finally expired. The blood was dry and black — he’d died hours ago. The deed must have been done after Vince and I fell asleep, and before daylight.
    We all went white.
    “Dear ... God,” said Marian, closing her eyes.
    Angel started to cry, hands over his face.
    “Some local redneck?” I asked Steve.
    “I don’t know,” whispered Steve. He was trying