The Less-Dead (9 page)

Doomsday bursts out laughing. “You better watch out, boys. That Quindlan, he’s a bit of a schizoid.”

Quindlan winks at me. My face burns as I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Same here. We were hoping you’d stop by. Doomsday’s your father’s biggest fan.”

“Nice,” I say. “I’ll be sure to let my dad know.”

Quindlan moves on to Carson, who doesn’t look too thrilled about the handshake either. “We saw you here on the Drag last week,” Quindlan says to Carson, “playing evangelist and chasing after that pretty girl.”

“Yes, we did,” Doomsday chimes in, giving Carson the death stare. “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out! Better to lose one part of your body than to have your whole body thrown into hell. Matthew five, twenty-nine.”

Carson’s speechless. He looks at me.

“Don’t mind Doomsday,” Quindlan says. “He means well; he just gets carried away sometimes.”

Carson leans over and gives me a nudge. “Come on, dude, get on with it.”

“Listen, maybe you guys can help us,” I say. “We’re looking for Will. Do you know where he is?”

“We might,” Quindlan says, “but, please, come join us for a while. Doomsday was just finishing a beautiful passage from
Leaves of Grass
. The man reads with such heart.”

“Oh, no thanks,” I say. “I mean, we’d like to, but we’re in kind of a rush.”

“Yeah,” Carson says. “A big rush.”

“Plus,” I go on, “we’re really worried about Will, so if you could—”

“Will’s fine,” Quindlan says. “Absolutely fine. And besides, there’s always time for poetry. Especially if Doomsday’s reading.” He gazes up at the UT tower. “Did Will tell you? Doomsday used to be a professor at the college. He taught American literature. In fact, that’s how he and Will got to be such good friends. They both love words.”

Jeez, maybe Quindlan is a schizoid. “Um, no, he didn’t mention that. But if you would just—”

“Please, come, sit down. When Dooms is finished, we’ll talk about Will.”

I look at Carson and shrug. It’s not like we have much of a choice. We take seats on the ground opposite Doomsday. Immediately Quindlan’s mangy dog jumps into Carson’s lap and starts licking his face. “Hey, what do you know?” Quindlan says. “Hercules likes you.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” Carson says.

Doomsday continues reading from
Leaves of Grass
.

I have to admit, the guy’s got perfect diction, a lilting cadence, and just the right amount of emotion. If you closed your eyes and breathed through your mouth to avoid the occasional whiff of rank air, you might think you were in a college classroom.

When Doomsday is finished, he sighs deeply and closes the book. He holds out a hand to me, and this time I make sure I don’t hesitate. We shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. Your father is a great man. A modern-day John the
Baptist. A true hero.” He tightens his grip and looks into my eyes. “We need to talk. I’d love to hear your opinion on end-time prophecy.”

“Well, actually, I don’t know anything about that.” I wiggle my hand free and turn to Quindlan. “You said Will was okay. We really need to see him. Please, can you tell us where he is now?”

Doomsday peers at me. “Why,
exactly
, do you want to see Will?”

“Because we’re friends. He hasn’t been at school, and with everything that’s going on, you know, with the two foster kids who were murdered, we’re worried.”

Under his breath, Doomsday mutters to Quindlan, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.”

Quindlan pats his knee. “Calm down, Dooms.”

Doomsday exhales loudly, waves Quindlan away, and goes back to his book. He mumbles, “‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you.’”

“Come on, boys, follow me,” Quindlan says. He motions for me and Carson to get up. We do. As he leads us to the other side of the church, Hercules trails after Carson, whimpering.

“Okay, I’m going to draw you a map that will take you to Will,” Quindlan says. “Here, turn around, Noah.” He plucks a pen and paper from his pocket. I lean over, and he uses my back for a hard surface. He begins to draw.

Meanwhile Carson stoops down and pets Hercules. He peers at Doomsday, who’s still hunched over his book in the distance. “Quindlan?” Carson says. “Were you joking before, about Doomsday being a professor?”

Quindlan stops drawing. “That’s no joke. Doomsday taught at UT for almost twenty years.”

“So what happened?” Carson says.

“Well, after a while the past finally caught up with him. When he was a student here, his fiancée was killed by the UT sniper.”

I turn around. “Oh my God, you’re kidding.”

“Sadly, no.” Quindlan points to the tower where the sniper, Charles Whitman, shot several students back in the late sixties. Carson and I both know the story. Just about everyone in Austin does. “Her name was Mary. She died right here on Guadalupe. It’s almost like Doomsday’s been keeping vigil.”

“That’s heavy,” Carson says.

“Yeah, most people think Doomsday’s just some crazy old man. The truth is, most of us around here have a story to tell.”

“What about you?” Carson says. “What’s your story?”

“Me? Oh, nothing, really. Just down on my luck. Lost my job a few years back and things kind of spiraled downward fast. Came to Austin from up north about six months ago and met Doomsday and Will. I decided to stay put for a while. They’re like my family now. Anyway, let me finish this map.”

“Sure.” I turn around. When Quindlan is done, he hands me the paper. I take a look. It’s a map of the Barton Creek Greenbelt.

“Will’s at the greenbelt?”

“Yep. Camping out. It’s a good place to be lost.”

The sketch is meticulous. Every gate and milestone is marked. A small X shows where Will has set up camp.

“I just didn’t expect that,” I say. “Anyway, thank you.”

“Noah, before you leave, I need to talk with you.” Quindlan glances at Carson. “Alone, if that’s okay.”

“Um, sure,” I say. “Hey, Carson, I’ll be right back.”

Carson nods and takes a seat on the church steps; Hercules happily jumps onto his lap. “No worries, man. Go ahead. Me and Hercules will chill out here for a while.”

Quindlan leads me to the side entrance of the church, opens the door, and ushers me inside. We take seats on the back pew. There are a few people praying in the front row, but the place is mostly empty and eerily quiet. I’m wondering what Quindlan can’t say in front of Carson.

He shifts in his seat. “Noah, this might be a little awkward for you, but are you aware of how Will feels about you?”

“Uh, well, if you mean …”

He nods.

“Yeah, I figured it out. Actually, Carson caught on first and told me.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Well, it’s the first time a
guy’s
had a crush on me, but I think I can handle it. Why?”

“I just wanted to make sure. Will’s a sensitive kid, and I don’t want to see him get hurt. Anyway, I’m glad you’re open-minded. Not everyone is. Like Doomsday, for example. He and Will are friends, but Will doesn’t share the fact that he’s gay. There’s no point, really.”

“But he shared it with you?”

“Yes. And he told me what happened at your house Monday night—the way your father reacted.”

“Right. My dad. Chased him off.”

“Well, yes and no. Will’s pretty independent. He has a hard time accepting help from anyone. Plus, he was really upset about what he heard on the news that night. About the second murder. He wanted to find out who the boy was. As it turned out, he knew this kid too. It shook him up badly.”

“Oh, God. Who was it?”

“His name was Paul Mateo. He was a kid Will knew when they were younger. Will said Paul used to get picked on a lot. It’s really sad. Seems like this killer not only hates gay people, but preys on helpless kids too. Hopefully the guy they arrested is the one.”

“Warren Banks,” I say, picturing his mug shot on TV. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “He used to go to our church. He was my sister’s Sunday school teacher.”

Quindlan nods. “I know. Will told me.” There’s an uneasy silence between us. “Noah, I understand how you feel about your father. I grew up in a family like yours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Before, when Carson asked what my story was, I didn’t tell you. I have a hard time talking about it. You see, my father was the founder of an evangelical ministry called God’s Warriors. His mission was to bring the gospel to teenage gang members in the South Bronx. And, well, he did a lot of good things, helped kids get off drugs and off the streets, but he was pretty hard-core about his beliefs. When he found out my brother was gay, he basically wrote him off.
A year later we found my brother in the bathtub. He’d slit his wrists and bled to death. He was only seventeen. After that, I left home. I was eighteen.”

I look at Quindlan. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. God, I wish …”

“Things were different? Me too.”

“I’m just so sick of Christians, or people who
call
themselves Christians, being so hateful,” I say. “They judge everyone who doesn’t fit into their stupid mold. So, if you’re different, if you’re gay, well, then it’s a sickness, a wrong choice, a sin. It’s so screwed up.”

“I agree,” Quindlan says.

“That night, before Will left, I got so angry. I challenged my father. I said, ‘What would you do if
I
was gay, Dad?’ He couldn’t even answer me.”

“I understand, Noah. Some people choose their beliefs, no matter how wrong they are, over their own families.”

“Yeah.” I look at Quindlan. “I’m really sorry about your brother.”

“Thanks.”

Suddenly I feel a stab of guilt, remembering how good it felt to punch TJ Dumont, watch him fall on his ass. All because he called me a queer. Why didn’t I just ignore the moron and walk away? Why didn’t I keep Will’s book instead of throwing it into the trash?

“Come on,” Quindlan says. “You’ll want to find Will before it gets dark.”

CARSON AND
I follow the rocky path through the dense woods filled with juniper and oak trees. When we reach the twin waterfalls, the smell of burning wood grows stronger. We follow it and find Will. He’s far from the beaten path, sitting in front of a small campfire. He leans forward, squinting at us. “Noah? Carson? What are you guys doing here?”

Before either of us can answer, I hear a rustling in the woods. We stop. Footsteps draw closer. Suddenly Hawk appears right in front of us, carrying a bundle of wood and sticks. He looks like he just stepped out of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. “What the hell … ?” He glares at us like we’re trespassers. “Who told you we were here?” He sees the map in my hand and snatches it. “Who drew this?”

“Um, Will’s friend Quindlan,” I say.

“Quindlan?
Damn
that idiot. What’s he thinking?” He turns to Will.

“Hawk, dude, calm down,” Will says. “Noah and Carson are cool. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, there’s plenty to worry about. I told you, Will, I never should have given Noah that note.” He gives Carson and me a disgusted look, then marches to the fire and tosses in the map. The paper flares up quickly, then dies, smoldering. Not exactly the reception I was expecting.

“Don’t mind Hawk,” Will says. “He overreacts to everything. Come here, sit down. I’m glad you guys found me.”

As we weave our way over to Will, Hawk throws the wood into a pile, plucks a rope from the ground, pulls out a pocket knife, and cuts the rope in half. Mumbling to himself, he proceeds to tie one end of the rope to the branch of a tree.

We take seats on either side of Will. “So you guys met Quindlan and Doomsday, huh? What did you think?”

“I think they’re both pretty nuts,” Carson says. “Especially Doomsday. Quindlan’s all right, I guess. His dog’s pretty cool. Anyway, I’m glad Quindlan drew us that map. We’ve been worried about you.”

I watch Hawk from the corner of my eye. He’s tying the other end of the rope to an adjacent tree. When he’s done, he plucks a wet towel from a nearby branch and hangs it on the line to dry. I look around the campsite. A jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread sit on a tree stump. A gallon of milk is chilling in a bucket of ice. A sleeping bag is spread out on the ground. Hawk is taking care of Will. Making sure he has everything he needs. I consider asking how things went in jail, but I figure that’s not a good idea.

“Will?” I say. “Quindlan told me you knew the kid they found near Town Lake. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. Paul Mateo. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he was one of the first kids I got to know in foster care after my parents died. We were both, well, different, which is why we became friends, but Paul got teased a lot. The other kids called him faggot and queer. I feel bad now because I never stood up for him. I guess I was afraid those same kids would turn on me, too. Anyway, I found out that Paul had been hustling on the streets. Right before the murder. I had no idea.”

“Hustling?” I say. “You mean …”

“Right.”

No one says anything for a while. Hawk is standing quietly by the clothesline. He’s been listening the whole time.

“Hey, Will?” Carson says. “How did you find out it was Paul? I thought the police weren’t releasing his name because he was under eighteen.”

Will opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.

Meanwhile Hawk strolls over and sits opposite us. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “Be careful what you say, Will,” he mutters.

Hawk and Will lock eyes for a moment; Will nods, then turns to us. “The undercover detective I’d been working with, the one who had me wear the wire, he told me it was Paul Mateo who was murdered. That’s one of the reasons he thought I should disappear for a while. If Warren Banks isn’t the killer, then the guy’s still out there. And if he is still free, he may have been following me, too. Anyway, the detective also told me that the police just hired a criminal profiler.
A guy from the FBI. They’re trying to cover all their bases. The case is close to being solved. At least, that’s what he tells me.”