Date: Sat, 27 May 2017 14:47:49 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 12

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

I pull him tight to me. "I didn't hit you, Logan, I slapped your
face. There's a difference. And you have no idea, Logan, just how hard I
can hit. But I will never, ever hit YOU. I expect both of us will be
slapped a few times, we've already been! But I will destroy anyone who
comes for you, Logan. They can come with a warrant or a gun or a syringe,
it doesn't matter, you will never, ever be taken from me. I... I need. I
need your love too much, Logan, and need so, so much to love you back."
Neither of us try to stop the tears then.

*****

Lake Desolation 12: Sword of Damocles

By Bear Pup

Sunday (7)

*****

I chivvy and half-carry Logan to bed. I strip us both and curl us under the
covers. Logan's confession left him exhausted and he is asleep in
seconds. Me? Not so much. What I'd said in the heat of that moment had,
actually, been true. I will never allow anyone to take this man from
me. But what does that mean, and how can I possibly fight if it's the
police who come for him?

Tonight, when I'm in such turmoil, is naturally the night that the
withdrawal nightmares return with a vengeance. I have just dozed when Logan
makes a strangled sound. I wake and find his body stiff and clenched,
trying to scream in that special horror that nightmares can bring that
prevents you from forming the words, just releasing guttural cries of
terror.

I soothe and pet and calm him until the nightmare abates, but the next,
perhaps two hours later, is so much worse. It's obvious that his brain has
dragged in enough of the real world to amplify the horror. I am not a
comforter and protector; I am the very monster of his dream so any touch or
caress or hug or soothing word has the opposite effect. I finally have to
leave the bed entirely to prevent his flailing arms and legs from hurting
himself or me.

I kneel next to the bed, calling softly, "Logan? Logan, I need you back
here. Logan. Come back, son." He finally pulls in a shuddering breath and
starts awake. He sees me and begins to cry.

I pet his face softly, then climb in and cradle him face-first into my
chest. He finally sleeps, but I cannot. I get up without waking the boy and
move to the laptop, booting it silently again. I open my mail and see a
note sent only a few hours earlier from Pigtails. I smile. As usual, it is
a rambling, good-natured mix of teen angst and triumph. My breath, my heart
and my world stop at the postscript. 'BTW, Dad is coming tomorrow with
groceries after church. Maybe 11?. He said he wants a chance to talk to
your nephew again. I guess he really liked him. I know Josh did.'

I know with fell certainty that it means Joshua Miller knows something and
doesn't want his daughter to find out. It can be nothing other than Logan's
identity. Every nerve feels like it is on fire. I literally shake myself to
bring a sense of calm thought back. I stare at that postscript for nearly
thirty minutes, mind completely elsewhere. When I finally blink, strange
orange after-images of the text float around the room. It takes several
more minutes until I can navigate the laptop.

I set myself in frantic motion. First, an online form and an instant
confirmation, then a reply to Pigtails.

'Honey! What perfect timing! I meant to write last night to ask your father
if it was possible to give Larry and me a lift to town. His parents are
going to be in The City and we're going down there for dinner and possibly
a show. I also thought Larry could use a chance to get out and see NYC, and
be around people other than crotchety old coots for a few days. Ask if he
can drop us off at Tinney's around noon, please? We've already got the car
booked. And, no, you cannot go with us. This is about Larry and his parents
and how much better he's doing after a couple weeks of fresh northern
air. Maybe next time, Pigtails. Love & Kisses, -Papa McKay.'

My first thought was plane or train to, well, anywhere until I realised
that, even if Logan had a shred of ID (which he didn't), it would set off
alarms you could hear in Vermont! A car, though, is another matter. I was
known to hate the delays at ALB (Albany's airport), and Maria and I had
found years ago that a limo was less costly and just as fast as plane
tickets. And, of course, infinitely more enjoyable.

Next is lodging. Chrome knows my Marriott info and I have a double-queen
booked on the concierge level of the Downtown, overlooking the World Trade
Center Memorial, in minutes. This chose to Christmas, it might have been
impossible at most of the other NYC hostelries, but it's location and my
Marriott status work in our favour. Maria and I have stayed there many
times when I had business in town. It isn't convenient to anything, really,
but the view is wonderful, and the cabs and black-cars ('limo' is
apparently too plebeian for NYC) are plentiful.

Next is a seemingly-innocuous note to a fellow author, William Walter
Grey. 'Hey Wally! I'm going to be in your quaint little town for a couple
days. Any chance we can meet and catch up? And I've got a plot to run by
you. I'll treat you to the best Pint that the Tell-Tale Harp has to offer!
I might even throw in one of their Reubens! Thanks a Million, -Stet'

Wally is a semi-retired (defined in my world as 'rich enough to write only
if he feels like it') author whose books are set in his own origins, the
areas of New York and New Jersey still virtually owned and run by
'Boyos'. Calling them the Irish Mafia would be incorrect on a dozen levels,
but their ruthless business practices make the comparison valid. One of his
RCs (recurring characters) is Reuben, a back-room tough whose expertise is
'paper'. He operates out of an equally-fictional Irish pub called the
Tell-Tale Harp.

We'd done a rather complex favour for Wally at London (they keep wanting
people to call it the LBF for London Book Fair, but everyone ignores
them). He was 'entertaining' two young and very curvaceous fans --
20-year-old twins, no less, the reason he caved to a seduction he'd
normally have resisted -- when his wife arrived. Let's just say that quick
juggling between me and Maria got him out of his sex-reeking room and into
ours, avoiding an exceptionally-costly divorce. Wally had been grateful to
say the least.

Logan has a less-intense nightmare around six, and I get him up as it
lessens. We get cleaned up together in the shower. He starts to play and
notices my tension and complete lack of sexual interest. He starts to shake
like a leaf as I explain what is happening. He's crying and I'm holding him
up as I finish, but he's calmed by the time we're dry.

"So, this is... g-g-g-goodbye?" I am so tense I explode.

"NO! Goddammit, how many times do I have to say it? Fuck, Logan!" He eyes
are wide and I take a deep, steadying breath. "I'm sorry. I am as tense as
you are, probably more. This will work out, Logan, I promise. First, let's
get dressed." He's like a manikin, but does anything I tell him.

I guide him into boots, jeans and a henley over a dress shirt. I find an
old wallet and stuff it full of receipts so it's thick and stick in his
front pocket. I shove a literal wad of cash into the other packet, knowing
that neatly-folded bills are usually an oddity in the young.

I finally take a deep breath and step back. I start to dress myself and
notice that Logan is shakily making the doesn't-suck oatmeal for
me. "Logan, I think you are finally past the Cream of Wheat stage. Join me
for oatmeal?" He smiles fragilely and starts adding more to the pot. I grab
a backpack-style carry-on and put three changes of clothes in for Logan,
and find my laptop case into which I add two changes for myself. We sit and
enjoy the oatmeal, the warmth and flavour seeming to melt the icy worry.

"I-I'm sorry, Logan. I shouldn't have gotten so worked up, and then I
didn't even tell you there's a plan to make this work. You've got to be a
wreck."

"No. N-n-not really. You said it would work out, Jake, so I know it will."
That blank-cheque confidence nearly undoes me completely but I fight back
the rush to worry, horror and fear. I give him a brief summary of what is
about to happen.

"So, who are you?"

"Larry (really Lawrence) Logan Mallory. I was a freshman at Miami until Dad
saw a Facebook pic someone else posted of me with a joint. They decided
I've suddenly become a pothead and pill-popper and probably a drunk so they
shipped me to this frozen hell where my, uh, my Nana Ruth's? Uh, cousin's
husband?" I nod "has been really nice to me." He smiled shyly and lovingly
at me then, and I melted a bit.

"Okay. Good. Logan, have you ever travelled anywhere in the South?" He nods
slowly. "Yeah. We went to see my Mom's family in Savannah when I was like
12 or 13. Does that help?"

"How much to remember about the city?"

"Oh, lots! The squares and parks are beautiful and the marshes, they call
it low country, goes on forever. Black-water bayous and plantations and--"

"Perfect! You grew up in Savannah. Talk about how beautiful it is. Be
vague. If they push, play the sullen teen with plenty of 'dunnos' and
'problys'. Okay, Good. Perfect. School, uh, can't be public school. Was
your Mom religious?"

Logan smiles, "Yes, Catholic, of course. Like all Latinas, right?"

I frown then laugh. "Fine. Pick a saint you know something about and you
went to St That Person School. Mass every day, nuns with rulers, all that."
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Just keep it consistent and keep it
vague. Anything else, wing it."

"Okay, professor. I went to St Thomas the Apostle. Really nice school, none
of that 1960's 'nuns smacking your knuckles with rulers' nonsense. The
chapel was beautiful. Glass window of him evangelizing in India. School
sucked at sports. I played soccer a year and just didn't like sports so I
gave up. Didn't get a scholarship to Georgia so went to Miami where I
qualified for one. Hoping to major in English if I ever can convince the
rents that I just got stoned that one time. Dad was pissed cuz he's a huge
UGA fan. Got a picture of that dog in his office. But at least I didn't go
to Bama. He'd'a disowned me!"

I blink in shock and Logan chuckles. "What, you never saw 'Midnight in the
Garden of Good and Evil'? You should. Okay, what else?"

"Parent's names?"

"John and Louisa Mallory."

"When did you get here?"

"Uh, let's see. It's hard to keep track of time when there's not TV, you
know. Today is Sunday... Gosh, three and a half weeks!"

"Right. And John and Louisa are coming to NYC on business and to do the
Christmas Shopping Thing."

"Yep. They are very sad I won't be with them for Christmas, but they're
going to be visiting Liz in London. It's my niece's first Christmas! Julia
was born in April. I was supposed to stay on campus over the holiday and
now they can't get me a ticket, so it's Christmas at the North Pole for
me."

I pull him to me and kiss him deeply. "I love you, Logan, Larry, whoever
you are!" We kiss like that for perhaps half an hour, ending up on the
couch. Finally, I get jarred out of the mood by several DINGs in rapid
succession. One is Pigtails' response wishing us a great trip, telling me
her Dad will be here around 11, and remining me that this is the THRID time
I've taken a limo to NYC and promised -- PROMISED -- her she could go 'next
time'. After that was a series of punctuation marks that I assumed meant
'sulky face emoji'.

Next is from Saratoga Limo confirming who the driver will be. As it
happens, it's Christopher, a really charming young man that Maria had liked
so much and semi-adopted. The next is from Christopher himself, explaining
that he is really grateful because he'd wanted to go into The City this
year and didn't have the cash. Lastly is from Wally and I sighed
deeply. 'After fish-n-chips in London, I'm buying YOU that Reuben. And I
know the best in town! -WWG'

Logan has already cleared the kitchen and started general 'company coming'
cleaning. I pull down my winterizing checklist, turning down this and
adjusting that so the place will be cold but safe while we're gone. We're
both finishing when Logan's head pops up. A moment later, I hear that deep
rumble of the Diesel.

I bundle the laptop into the case and put both bags on the porch. Logan
will wear my Light Coat and I'll wear Second. Kids can handle cold better
than old folks like me. He gets my deerskin gloves and I use the thicker
ones. We look at each other and I can see both fear and trust in his liquid
eyes. I grab him and give him a kiss, then we both go onto the porch where
I lock the elaborate bolts that keep the place nearly-impregnable when I'm
away.

I hear Logan gasp and I turn. The passenger seat contains a man clearly in
a Saratoga County Sherriff uniform. I squint, then smile and lean
over. "Logan, this couldn't be much better. Trust me, son, okay?" He
swallows several times and then puts on a bored-teenager face and slouches
against the door.

Joshua Miller unfolds his big frame from the truck as does a very good
friend, again thanks to Maria's meddlesome and lost-stray ways. Hal
Wallborn, now Trooper Wallborn, was in Tinny's Tavern with friends one
Friday evening while he was in high school, years and years ago. The rowdy
teens were enjoying the pizza. When the bill came, we could see the boys go
into a conspiratorial huddle. It looked like the group was ganging up on
one of their number to do something stupid. The gangly kid finally relented
and went up to pay the tab at the register.

Tinny's at the time was run by a truly cantankerous old fart -- it's me
saying this so you can only imagine! -- while the old man rang up the bill,
the obviously-nervous kid slipped a pack of gum in his pocket. Ah ha! A
dangerous game indeed with Malcolm at the helm! Sadly, the kid flubbed it
and the old man snagged him by the shirt collar and started yelling about
calling the cops and having him arrested. The kid was white as a sheet and
scared out of his mind.

Maria calmly wiped her mouth on her napkin and marched up. "Malcolm! Hush!
What's this fuss?"

"This little brat just stole a pack of gum. I'm sick of these thieving
kids! This one going to Juvie!" He crowed.

"Have you finally lost your mind, Malcolm? You saw him put in his
pocket. He made sure you saw it. The fact you were too preoccupied to ring
it up is simply nonsense. Now quit this foolishness." She pried the stunned
and speechless man's hands from the kid's collar and smoothed the boy's
shirt, then turned. "And if anyone should complain, it's him! You never did
give the boy his change. I'm about halfway to thinking this nice young man
wasn't the one doing the thieving!" Malcolm, completely undone, fumbled and
gave the boy his change (without charging for the gum).

Maria marched him out into the parking lot where his 'friends' were
waiting. I left the money and tip on the counter for Malcolm and scurried
out to watch the fun. Hand locked on the kid's shoulder, she gave the whole
crew a tongue-lashing that left them looking like puppies with tails
tucked, trying not to wee on the sidewalk. She dispersed them with a "GET!"
and they got, evaporating like steam.

She then spun to the cowering boy who, moments before had *thought* he'd
escaped only to find that nothing could be further from the truth. I had a
feeling that given the choice, he'd have picked Juvie. "What is your
name?!?" His mouth worked for a minute soundlessly, and Maria was having
none of it. "Well? SPEAK UP!"

"Ha-Ha-Ha-Hal?"

"Let me tell you, Ha-Ha-Ha-Hal, you *ever* do such a thing in your *entire*
life, and I *will* know. You know who I am. You think that old curmudgeon
is trouble? You. Have. No. Idea. Now you go back in there and tell Malcolm
that he still didn't charge for the gum and pay the man. I'll wait here."
The kid fled and was back in moments, blushing brightly in the evening
light. "Now. You go on home. And if you let them boys coerce another kid
into something stupid like that, let me tell you. I'll hold you
*personally* responsible. Do. You. Hear. Me. Ha-Ha-Ha-Hal?"

Hal left at a speed normally reserved for NASA tests. We made it to the
street before the giggles hit, eventually erupting in side-splitting
laughter from both of us. It was a delightful late-spring evening to walk
home, perhaps 10 to 15 minutes away. Hal, now standing before me in his
shiny uniform, had come to deeply adore Maria, and was one of the many
crushed by her death. He told me once that Maria and the night at Tinny's
was the reason he became a cop.

"Hal! Sorry, Trooper Wallborn! Why it's been too long. Larry! This is Hal
Wallborn, a really good man. Hal, this is Larry Mallory, my 'nephew' for
lack of a better word. He's up here from college in Miami for some
straightening out. While that was Maria's specialty," I cock an eyebrow and
Hal blushes, and not from the cold, "he's a really good kid at
heart. Larry, say hello to Trooper Wallborn."

"G-Good morning, sir."

"Oh, hell, Joshua. I'm such a dunce. I forgot you were bringing supplies!
I've already sealed up. Do you mind terribly holding onto the stuff until
we're back around the end of the week?" I turn to Hal who is intently
studying Logan's face, something that just will not do. "Hal, Larry's
parents are in NYC for a Christmas Shopping trip and we're meeting them in
The City." Hal's eyes never leave Logan.

"Really? You going home with them, Mr Mallory?"

"N-No, sir. They'll be in London for the holiday with my sister, my older
sister, and her, uh, their baby. My niece's first Christmas." He gives a
rather tentative smile, which works quite well.

Joshua's eyes are still narrowed as Hal continues. "Mr Mallory, where are
you from?"

"W-Well, like Papa McKay said, I'm going, well, *was* going to the
University of Miami, but we're from Savannah."

"Odd. You talk like a native upstate."

"Well, mom's from up here and S-Savannah isn't that, you know, harsh an
accent."

"Hmm. Mr Mallory, do you perchance have some form of ID?" Logan reaches as
if for the wallet and I grab his hand, my voice as cold as the wind.

"Hal, I mean 'Trooper' Wallborn," I add the verbal air-quotes and am
satisfied that he blushes. "I think you should explain that question, and
you had better do so right now."

Hal swallows and looks back and forth from Joshua and me. "Well, sir, we, I
mean the department, we had a report that, well, that there was someone
wanted in a crime that might be up in this area."

I stare at Joshua, letting the venom drip from each word, "A report, eh?
Really?" He flushes near purple, half with defiance and the other with
shame. "And what crime?"

"Robbery and attempted murder at a convenience store."

"Larry!" Logan jumps a foot and looks at me, "Have you been robbing and
killing people again?"

I leave him with his mouth working and turn back to Hal, "And when did this
crime take place?"

"Um, two weeks ago today."

"Larry. When did you get here?"

"I g-g-got here, um, Thursday three weeks ago, sir. You know that. You
walked me up from Tilly's!"

"Of course I remember!" I add a bit of crotchety old man spike to
that. "I'm not THAT old. Hal, are you seriously suggesting that this young
man snuck out of my cabin and went to... where did it happen? There's not a
convenience store for miles!"

"Uh, Saratoga Springs?"

"Hal, honestly? Honestly? I don't have a CAR, Hal. It's the reason I'm the
only person around the Lake to whom you haven't awarded a traffic ticket!"
A low blow, but I don't care. Hal's only real job is revenue collection in
the form of traffic stops. I think the last serious crime that wasn't a
domestic dispute was kids breaking into cars. "This kid, the one shaking so
hard he's freezing to death in this little breeze, WALKED to Saratoga,
robbed and murdered someone, and then walked BACK?"

"B-b-but Mr McKay. We had a report! We had to ask!"

I turn again to Joshua and simply glare, "And tell me, Hal, does the person
who made this 'report' still think this foolishness is warranted?" Joshua
knows he's beat and shakes his head. "Hal, is there any chance your patrol
car is down at the Forest Road? We need a ride to Tilly's"

Joshua finally speaks, mortified now, "Aw, Stettler, don't do this. We
worry about you. Sarah would be crushed if anything happened to 'Papa
McKay' and you know how protective Patty is!" As if the mention of his wife
brings the thought to mind, a whine enters his voice, "Do you KNOW what
she'll do if I let you walk to the road? In the SNOW? Come on, Stettler,
I'm sorry. Just get in the truck."

"No. Not until you apologise to my nephew."

"Larry, I'm real sorry. I didn't mean any harm. Really. We just love your
uncle or whatever so much and after Maria... passed..."

"You don't have to apologise, sir." Logan's voice is low and simple and
heartfelt. "In the last few weeks, I've come to understand why everyone
loves him so much. He's been better to me that I deserved."

The two shake hands. Thank GOD for the stiff, biting wind. Eyes always tear
up because of that... not that what Logan said is making me cry or
anything. My heart is so big right now that I'm afraid everyone will notice
my chest swell up. I can't look at Logan. If I do, I'll simply lose
it. 'Yes,' I tell Maria silently, 'yes, I swear to God that I'll let him
love me.' I feel the warmth of her smile.

<eof>

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