The Battle for Jericho (2 page)

Needless to say, there was a backlash. Stung with embarrassment, most of the folk in town grew even more pissed. My dad kept saying that the whole “sick, sorry affair” could have been avoided if the “Godless homos” had just kept their mouths and their drapes closed. When the subject came up at school—in the locker room after gym class, of all places—Mac became livid.

“Freaking faggots,” he snapped, his mouth twisted with disgust as he slipped into his jeans. “Always stirring up trouble.” He’d been pumping iron in his bedroom for months now, and it showed. Damn it.

“Why can’t they just keep their freak in the closet?” wondered Hutch, a guy who’d transferred to Gordon Browning High a little over a year ago after getting kicked out of the Holy Madonna Academy. He’d been caught smoking marijuana on academy grounds. For the third time. The old three-strikes thing.

“Maybe somebody oughta help them keep their freak in the closet,” Mac said slowly. From the gleam in his eyes, it was clear his intentions were not especially charitable.

Hutch had disappeared into the showers by the time Mac got around to laying out his plan for dealing with the happy couple. And that was probably a good thing. Hutch’s dad had threatened to box him up and FedEx him to an Alaskan boot camp if he got so much as a detention. I didn’t have anything in particular against gays. For the most part, I avoided thinking about them, because the thought of guys being attracted to each other made me feel scared and sort of guilty, and I hated feeling that way. If those two news-making queer dudes blew out of town, I could go back to ignoring homosexuality again. Mac was my boy, and if he needed my help getting a message through to Dylan and his boyfriend, I was more than game.

“What you got in mind?” I asked.

Mac explained it to me. At the time, it sounded reasonable. Hell, I thought of it as a matter of civic responsibility, like voting and jury duty.

Chapter 2

M
AC
and I made it a point to get our homework done during study period that Tuesday afternoon. (Hey, there’s a radical concept. Most times I use that period for texting Lissandra, my girlfriend, while she goofs off in her craft and design class.) After school, we stuffed our books in our hall lockers, and as other kids made a dash for the exits, I followed Mac back to the gym.

The football team was slowly drifting in, congregating around a blackboard that Coach Gabe had set up outside his office at the south end of the building. Apparently, they were going to study new plays. Most of the team knew us, and many of the guys waved as Mac and I headed for the locker room. We were on the basketball team, and while the start of basketball drills was more than a month off, our presence was hardly unusual. All team players are assigned a locker in the gym year-round.

The locker room was empty when we walked in. We stopped at Steve Barrow’s locker. Steve played goalie on the hockey team. I had three classes with him this year, and we sometimes hung out bowling or playing miniature golf on weekends. I also happened to know the combination to his locker. I popped that sucker open and dug through the pile of junk at the bottom until I came up with two of the old Jason Voorhees hockey masks Steve had ordered off eBay last year for him and some of his buddies to wear around school on Halloween. The masks fit neatly in my empty backpack. Mac and I strolled out of the gym, cut across the football field, and headed down Juniper Street.

The second part of Mac’s plan posed a bit of a problem. The news crews had disappeared days ago, but twelve men and four women—all done up in black suits and dresses (respectively, of course)—were still marching up and down on the sidewalk in front of the fag house like a line of ants caught in a loop. They were, according to news reports, from the Church of the Most Holy, and they dressed in black to symbolize their mourning for the souls soon to bake eternally in hell. Their “God hates fags” signs, I noticed, had gone from being crudely handwritten to professionally printed. I guess it’s true: God don’t like ugly.

Mac and I stopped on the corner, staring at the picketers half a block away. “Damn,” said Mac. “Why don’t they give it a rest and go home?”

“They probably wouldn’t rat us out, man,” I suggested. “If we told them what we’re gonna do, they’d go ‘Hallelujah!’ and kick the door in for us.”

Neither of us was willing to risk being seen, however, so we trotted ourselves over to Whispering Valley Street and casually strolled until we reached the house directly behind Dylan’s. It was barely three thirty, and most folk weren’t home yet. There was no fence at this house. We crossed to the backyard as though we were the rightful owners.

There
was
a fence bordering Dylan’s property, a six-and-a-half-foot tall wood privacy job with boards so close together I doubted air molecules could squeeze between them. The supporting crossbeams, which made wonderful hand- and footholds for climbing, were on the other side.

Damn it.

Mac didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the top of the fence, planted a foot halfway up the board in front of him, and hoisted himself up and over in a single, smooth motion. Those newly minted muscles came in handy. It took two attempts on my part before I finally made it, hauling my skinny self slowly over the top of the fence. I perched there for a moment, draped like a rug that had been hung up to dry, negotiating a way to get my legs over and under me so I could jump down. Irritated, Mac reached up, grabbed the front of my shirt, and yanked. I dropped headfirst, did a tuck and roll, and found myself sitting on a neatly mown lawn next to a stone bench.

“Man, you are so weak,” Mac said with surliness I felt was entirely uncalled for. He reached over my shoulder, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out a hockey mask. Slipping the mask over his face, he headed for the house. I got up, put on the second mask, and followed.

The landscaping was impressive, just what you’d expect from fags with nothing better to do. There were sculpted dense shrubs, winding brick-paved paths, dogwood trees, life-sized ceramic fauna—rabbits, turtles, squirrels, and such—and a pond filled with bright orange koi big enough to swallow mice in a gulp. At the center of the pond, water spiraled gently up in a fountain, sparking in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the treetops. For a yard like this, my mom would trade me off in a heartbeat.

We knew Dylan had security cameras monitoring the front and sides of his house. We could see them when we walked past on our way to and from school. It was no surprise when we spotted a camera above the patio. That was the reason for the masks. We skirted the patio and went to the rear door.

Mac wrapped the tail of his shirt around his fist and punched through the glass. It never occurred to either of us that, along with the cameras, Dylan might have installed a sophisticated alarm system. I’d learn later that there was indeed such a system in place. Fortunately, it wasn’t activated at the moment. Mac carefully reached through and unlocked the door, and then we were in the kitchen.

“Okay, you start in here,” Mac said, whispering. “I’m gonna find their bedroom.”

“Cool,” I whispered back. Neither fag was home, but something about the moment seemed to require hushed tones. Maybe it was a rule in the breaking and entering handbook.

Mac disappeared into the deeper regions of the house, and I started opening cabinet doors. The plan was to vandalize the place, then scrawl “Get out!” and similar go-to-hell phrases on the walls with the black markers we carried in our pockets. Instead, I found myself taking inventory. The stuff in their cabinets was fairly standard—cans of soup and green beans, boxes of noodles, a jar of red plum jelly, white dishes trimmed in gold. How disappointing. I’d expected something different. Like purple plates and pink cups.

The contents of the fridge, however, were downright exotic. No salami and American cheese for these fluffs. There was a cellophane-wrapped pack of what appeared to be two thick, unbaked fruit pies. The label identified this stuff as “Salmon Wellington.” Two mini-chickens (Cornish hens, I would come to learn) lay marinating in a pan, all stuffed, dressed up with veggies and ready to go. Three tall, slender bottles bearing labels written in a foreign language lay in a wine rack. A small wheel of white cheese sat on a wood saucer under a glass dome. Next to that was a covered plastic tray with six petit fours covered in white icing and topped with yellow candy rose petals. A pineapple as big as my head had a shelf all its own. The fruit bin held mangoes, kiwi, and a yellowish, fist-sized spiny pod that looked as if it should have been wriggling across the bottom of some ocean. On an alien world.

I’d found my inspiration.

I started with the Salmon Wellington. After digging my fingers through the cellophane, I heaved the pouch-like things, one after the other, up to the ceiling. Each made a thick, muffled
gloop
when it struck, and they clung there for a moment before dropping to the floor, spewing out a fishy white and red filling. Delightful.

Next, the little chickens took flight, splatting against the walls and spraying vinegary juices everywhere. The pineapple looked formidable, as though it would permanently disable your hand if you grabbed it, so I stuck my foot in and hooked it out onto the floor. It made a slight bounce but didn’t split open as I expected. Oh well.

I took out the tray of petit fours. From the outrageously high price on the label, I understood why Mom never bought this crap. If she did, the hit to the family bank account would give Dad a heart attack. I opened the tray with the intention of practicing free throws into the garbage can. Then I decided to sample the goods. I lifted the hockey mask, left it to rest atop my head like a cap, and took a bite out of one of the little cakes.

Hm. Not bad.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

The voice had a low, clipped modulation. I thought it was Mac, doing a bad imitation of my dad. As I turned, a twinge of embarrassment went through me. I figured Mac was pissed to find me snacking instead of making mayhem.

But it wasn’t Mac. Dylan Cussler stood in the doorway to the dining room. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a rumpled black T-shirt. He was as tall as Mac and even more muscular, short blond hair sticking out in messy spikes about his head. His eyes were at half-mast, as if he was just coming out of a deep, cozy sleep, but they quickly sharpened, focused entirely on me. He obviously did not like what he was seeing.

I dropped the petit fours.

Dylan took a slow, determined step into the kitchen. I swear to high heaven, he seemed to swell with indignation as he moved. His shoulders and chest bulged as he squared his muscles beneath his shirt. He tensed his arms, fingers flexing at his sides, and just like that, he was ready for whatever came next. His eyes, now filled with simmering rage, never left my face; he didn’t even blink.

I took a step back. There was no way in hell I could go toe-to-toe with this dude. Ordinarily, there would be some degree of shame in such an admission. The guy was
gay,
after all. At the moment, however, I was only concerned with keeping my neck unbroken.

Dylan lunged with the suddenness of a predator striking. I was even quicker, ducking beneath his outstretched arms and giving a loud, throaty yell. That cry was intended to alert Mac, wherever he was, so he could make a hasty exit. I spun and made for the back door.

Dylan snagged the backpack. There was a sharp pain as the straps dug into my armpits. My body flew backward, and a big, hairy arm looped around my neck. Within seconds, blackness swirled in as I began to lose consciousness. Desperate, I managed to plant my feet against the refrigerator. Getting away from this guy was the one and only thought in my head. My thigh muscles bunched, and I shoved us both backward.

Dylan’s head and shoulders smashed against the cabinets. He released me, and I dropped to my knees, gasping and coughing. As Dylan slid downward, the stack of white and gold dishes spilled forward over him. I heard Dylan’s body hit the floor, followed by the raucous crash of shattering plates.

“What the…!”

I looked up. Mac, still wearing his mask, stood in the doorway. Confused, I reached up, groping at my head for my own mask. Mac rushed in, hauled me to my feet and hustled me toward the back door. I glanced over my shoulder. Dylan lay on his side, unmoving, surrounded by shards of china. There was a gash in the top of his head, and blood trickled through his hair onto the floor.

Oh God. I’d killed him.

“Wait!” I tried to go back to him. Mac shoved me through the door, sending me stumbling over the threshold and face down onto the lawn. I scrambled to my feet, intent on returning to the kitchen, but Mac grabbed the back of my shirt. I must have levitated or something, because the next thing I remember was going over the fence. Then we were running, as though a pack of wolves was snapping at our heels.

Chapter 3