Date: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 20:05:42 -0400
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Psychic Detective 28

Psychic Detective 28
By: Jake Preston

This is a work of erotic gay fiction, intended for readers who enjoy a
murder mystery in which fully developed characters interact sexually and in
other ways. Their sexual encounters are sometimes romantic, sometimes
recreational, sometimes spiritual, and almost always described explicitly.
My attention is equally divided between narrative, character development,
and sex scenes. If you don't care for this combination, there are many
other excellent "nifty" stories to choose from. And remember that while
nifty stories are free, maintaining a website is not. Please think about
donating at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Writing is usually a solitary avocation, but not necessarily so on
nifty.org, where a longer story appears in installments. If my characters
and my story grab your attention, you can always intervene with suggestions
for improvements. All sincere comments will get a response!

Jake, at jemtling@gmail.com


       *  *  *  *  *  *


Chapter 28
Loose Ends


	"Deputy Nelson had scant reason to boast- how he blackmailed the
Sergeant into leaving his post.- They got picked up like fallen angels and
marched to the coast.- And they looked fine at first but ended up looking
like ghosts"- Dmitri strummed his guitar and improvised a popular tune
about getting stranded in Juarez during Holy Week. The setting was the
hearth in the lodge at Wayward Island Resort. Tom Preston was there, and
David, Göran Svenson, Harv Winik, Red Hawk, and Sheriff Ron Matthews,
who made the drive north from Duluth to manage law-enforcement issues
associated with the death of 'Brad Nails'. If Nelson should come back,
Matthew thought that there was some danger that he'd arrest Red Hawk for
homicide.

      Anna Ravitch was in South Dakota at this time, accompanying Dark
Eagle, who was making the rounds on the Res in search of a future
shaman. Jack and Calvin were on the road, heading for Lakota.

      David decided not to press charges against the Deputy for false
imprisonment. Sheriff Matthews wanted to charge Nelson with rape, because
of the vagnini-probe that he had done on David, but David declined for the
sake of Redman, the something-like-straight lumberjack, who had been his
fellow jailbird in the Sheriff's Office in Ashawa. "If the case goes to
court," David reasoned, "it'll be obvious that Redman had sex with me,
consensual sex. I'd be embarrassed, but Redman would be devastated, because
he'd be outed. I don't want that."

	Sheriff Matthews accepted David's decision, if only because Nelson
agreed to retire. He appointed Svenson as the permanent new Deputy in
Ashawa. The Sergeant returned to his post.  Baily Arlenas spent a week in
Ashawa's small hospital, suffering from near-starvation and PTSD. He was
"skinnier than a stick to shoo cats with," to quote a phrase from Reinaldo
Arenas.  He didn't want to return to Duluth, so Red Hawk found him a job in
Ashawa's only coffee-shop.  He moved into Jake Preston's cabin with Red
Hawk, where he slept in the loft.

	As for the identity of 'Brad Nails', Matthews referred the problem
to the FBI, along with photos, fingerprints, and dental X-rays. With Albino
still at large, neither Svenson nor Winik could be bothered with Brad
Nails. His identity remains unknown. Apart from the relatives of his
victims, the only person still interested is Jack Jackson, who has taken on
the task of writing a book about the murders at Eight Eagles, Buffalo Run,
and Eagle Cap. It's a book he can't finish, or publish, until Howard
Coleman, otherwise known as Albino, finally gets caught, or killed.

	Meanwhile, in Superior, the two hapless youths who were arrested
for marijuana- possession were charged by the district attorney for dealing
in crack cocaine. Sheriff Matthews appealed to a judge and obtained a court
order requiring a chemical analysis of the crack, in comparison with
samples stashed in the FBI evidence room. The chemical analysis disclosed
that the crack had come from a five-year-old drug bust. The criminal
charges were quietly dropped.  Matthews told Agent Eidan that he wouldn't
investigate what called "a disturbance in the chain of evidence" if the FBI
devoted their efforts to identifying the bodies of Albino's victims. "That
should keep them out of our hair," Matthews told the group gathered in the
lodge.

	"Do you think Mrs. Ravitch and Dark Eagle might be in danger?"
Dmitri asked Göran Svenson.

	"I think that if they are, the danger is considerable. We still
haven't found Craig Clark, the percussionist at Apollo's who went
missing. But no one knows Albino better than Jack, and no one is keener to
keep them safe," Göran replied.

	Events at Eight Eagles traumatized the denizens of the lodge-most
of all Dmitri, David, and Red Hawk. Dmitri and David almost died at the
hands of a fake-transvestite. Red Hawk killed a man for the first time, and
(he hoped) the last. Understandably, they took consolation in sex, choosing
partners and roles with which they already had an easy familiarity. David's
repossession of Dmitri's body was a physical renewal of vows they had made-
after two weeks of sexual adventures and misadventures. Not that they
promised or expected monogamy, but they wanted a relationship that was
something like monogamish.

	Red Hawk invited Harv Winik to his bed. Harv let himself sink onto
the voluptuous pleasure of getting spawned by the feminish lean-hipped
Ojibwe anthropologist geek, an unlikely conquest of his ass, but this
wasn't their first time. When Red Hawk missioned him, his long dark hair
draped both men's shoulders and fugitive strands brushed his face streaked
in man- sweat. Harv's self-proclaimed topness increased Red Hawk's sense of
conquest- a pleasure in from which Harv drew a vicarious share. Harv gave
himself completely to Red Hawk's breeding tube. Red Hawk rewarded his
surrender by repeating the rites of insemination for an unknown number of
times in the night. When they awoke at dawn and Red Hawk spooge-poled him
again, Harv started to rethink his TBV status. He took unaccustomed delight
in feeling and being the walking receptacle of Red Hawk's semen. However
so, later in the morning when he gazed at Dmitri and Göran, their
fuckable butts won all the points. Maybe Red Hawk was unique after all, as
the only man allowed to get his dick inside Harv.



      * * * * * *


	Once upon a time, Ron Matthews and Jake Preston were
fuck-buddies. Göran knew that from the gay rumor-mill, an omniscient
oral source about who fucks with whom, when, and how.  He knew that
Matthews had once fucked with Red Feather, too- the legendary piano-man
from Crane Lake who went to college at Oberlin and now lives with Chaim
Haiam in Brooklyn and commutes to Juilliard School of Music, at Lincoln
Center in Manhattan. He knew that Matthews kept a sling in one of the
bedrooms at his home in Duluth. He knew that at one time or another, Jake
and Red Feather had their ass in it.

	We may as well be candid about what can't be denied: gay men are
bigger gossips than other sex-orientation groups. Lesbians rank second; and
third, straight men who brag about their conquests. Straight women are
probably the only group that can be trusted with sexual secrets.  Gay men
rarely share secrets with straight people, but among themselves they're
inveterate tattlers about who slept with whom, who topped and who bottomed,
which one was cut or intact, who has a big dick and who doesn't, who's a
tight-ass or a slut, and who's willing to experiment with a bit of
kink. These details and more are grist for the rumor-mill. It's possible
for someone to know these things about a guy he hasn't even met!

	Not that they blabber in groups. Where three or more are gathered,
gay gossip rarely rises above the level of innuendo- enough for a guy let
others know that he's in the know. But one- on-one gossip is the lube that
greases the socio-sexual network.

      Ron Matthews was an exception. At no time (so far as anyone knew) was
he the giver or receiver of gossip. Since he seemed to be an eligible
bachelor with a good job, he got attention from the ladies, and dated them
on occasion, but his life was a mystery. Not even Harv Winik knew that he
was gay. Except for his liaisons with Jake and Red Feather a few years
back, Göran knew nothing about his sex-life. He'd be the last person to
gossip about Matthews, of course- why open the door to competition from
other gay guys?

      To shorten a long story, Göran formed a plan to seduce Matthews. A
better opportunity wouldn't come soon. Matthews was away from home and
could let down his guard a little. Still, it wasn't really a plan. It was a
vaguely conceived intention, and not without difficulties. First: Matthews
was his superior and was in no position to proposition Göran. If
Göran made a pass to which Matthews did not respond, that would be the
end of it. Second: What would Jésus think?  His lover was stuck in
Superior for the weekend. His bartender duties at Apollo's required it.
How would Jésus react if he came up on Sunday and found out that
Göran and Matthews were an item? Theirs was an open relationship in
principle, but in reality they were more or less officially engaged to be
married, and they had settled on the next Summer Solstice as the
date. Third, there was the TBV issue. Göran liked to bottom, but is that
what Matthews would want? He didn't know for sure, but resolved to be
whatever Matthews needed him to be.

      Göran reasoned that he could turn obstacles into advantages. He
would offer Matthews a place to sleep- in his bed- where the expectation of
sex would be implied but need not be stated. In the absence of a verbal
proposition, there would be no need to articulate either acceptance or
rejection. If he got to first base with Matthews, he would be in a position
to propose a Sunday three-way with Jésus. That would get him to second
base, and third, if he mentioned that Jésus is a confirmed energetic top
man. It would be up to Matthews to score the homerun.

      As luck would have it, there was no vacant room in the lodge and all
the cabins were rented, including the one formerly occupied by 'Sheila'
Brad Nails. Göran spoke up promptly: "Why, Ron, you can stay with me on
the homestead, if you don't mind sharing a room." It didn't take much
imagination for Matthews to realize that sharing a room in a farmhouse
meant sharing a bed.

      "That's a very generous offer, Göran," Matthews replied. "I
accept, if it's not too much inconvenience."

      "No inconvenience," Göran said. "My folks don't get much company
on the farm, and they'd love to have you over." So it was agreed.



      Mrs. Svenson prepared her best chicken dinner with potatoes and
veggies, and one of those blueberry pies for which she was locally famous,
made with wild, tart blueberries picked from a mossy swamp at the edge of
the homestead. After dinner, Mr. Svenson produced a bottle of homemade
blackberry schnapps and a box of cigars, and invited them to retire to the
screened- in back porch. Their conversation ran mainly to law enforcement
in Duluth, and, of course, the Eight Eagles murder mystery. When dusk
turned to dark, fireflies lit up the back yard, one or two at first, but
they gradually increased to dozens while invisible cicadas made a
resounding chorus.  It was a moonlit night, and the sky was clear and
starry, as if each firefly had an astrological counterpart in the heavens.

      Mrs. Svenson led them outside "There's something you should see,
Ron," he said. They walked to the edge of the north pasture. "Do you see
the dim lights on the other side of the field?" he asked, and pointed.

      Ron gazed in silence at first. "Oh, yeah, I see them," he said.

      "Can you guess what they are?" Mrs. Svenson asked.

      "Some sort of animal?"

      "Timberwolves," Mr. Svenson said. "You can see the moonlight
reflected in their eyes.  This is as close as they get. They're pretty
shy. They hunt for rabbits at night, and field-mice.  They would take down
a calf if they could, but that's what barns are for. Down on the farm we
have a 'live and let live' policy for wolves- as we do for people,
regardless of who they choose for their lovers and friends."

      Ron glanced at Mr. Svenson, who kept his eyes riveted on the
timberwolves, invisible but for the light in their eyes. Matthews gave
Göran's hand a quick squeeze, and let it go to point out another pair of
eyes that appeared at the far edge of the field. "How many wolves, would
you say?" he asked.

      "They usually come in packs of six or seven," Mr. Svenson
said. "There's only one dominant male, who does all the breeding. There
might be two or three females, and maybe a subservient male. The others are
cubs. There could be more than seven, depending on the health of the pack,
and the food supply."



      "I had the honor of meeting Jésus García Moreno when I looked
into the marijuana-bust at Apollo's. The case turned into a crack-bust and
then mysteriously disappeared," Matthew said when he an Göran lay in
their queen-size bed, showered and naked. "He seems like a very nice boy."

      Svenson laid a hand over Ron's chest. Ron didn't brush it
aside. Svenson fingered Ron's right nipple, and pinched it softly. Ron
placed his left hand over Svenson's. He guided it to his left nipple. "Will
Jésus be visiting this weekend?" he asked.

      "He's expected on Sunday," Svenson said.

      "In that case, I should plan to return to Duluth on Sunday," Matthews
said.

      "Oh, no, don't do that," Svenson said. "Jésus would like to play,
too, if you can handle the fact that he's a definite top man."

      "I'm pretty much a vanilla guy, but I've been in a threesome before,"
Matthews said. "I'll stay if you want me to."

      Svenson lay over Matthews and took labiodental liberties in his
armpits while their cocks engaged in a sword-fight under the
bed-covers. Matthews kicked the blankets and sheet down to the foot of the
bed, parting his legs in the process. Göran felt the throbbing sensation
of cock and pressed his weight down on it.

      Svenson raised Matthews to erotic pitch by sucking his erect
cock. Then he explored every e-zone with fingers and tongue: ears, eyelids,
pits, nips, navel, piss-slit, scrotum, perineum, cleft, asshole. He even
sucked Matthews's toes and stuck his tongue into the spaced between.
Matthews cooperated with very pose Göran could think of, and added a few
of his own. He tried to kiss Göran's lips, but Göran darted aside,
swiveled, and rimmed his ass. The body-worship made him feel younger,
getting it from a young stud who was normally the object of body- worship
by others. When Göran thumb-fucked Matthews with lube, he changed his
mind about bottoming and decided to top him instead. Göran punctured the
twinkling pink-and-brown portal with the knobby head of his circumcised
cock. Matthews gasped, wide-eyed. Göran pushed his shaft half-way into
the tight love-canal. Matthews groaned and cried out at the burning pain in
his inner sphincter. Göran ignored his cries and pushed his cock to the
hilt. Matthews panted and groaned, but he made no effort to push him
away. "I like the mission position because there's more pressure, and it
gives more pain, and I can see the look in your eyes, like a deer stranded
in headlights," Göran said. "But I'll be merciful. I'll hold still for a
while, to give your ass time to adjust to the unfamiliar volume of my
cock."

      When Matthews stopped groaning and panting, Göran gave him the
kiss on the lips that he had sought earlier. "Ordinarily I'm a bottom, but
I can't resist fucking the Boss," Göran said.

      Matthews reached between his legs to check that Göran's
penetration was complete. He fingered the hardened base of Göran's dick,
and fondled his scrotum. "I've got you by the balls, so you'd better give
me a wild ride," Matthews said.

      Suddenly Göran drew his cock out of its snug new-found nest. Then
he rammed it inside again, all the way, with a powerful thrust. That was a
prelude to rhythmical swiving. They fucked every which-way in different
positions. Fucking from behind, Göran planted seed in Matthews's
butt. Then he flipped Matthews over, sat on his cock, and pinched his nips
till he spooged.

      "For the rest of the night, my ass is yours," Göran said when they
settled own and snuggled. "I'm counting on revenge for the tough love I
gave you."

      Matthews took him at his word, it can't be denied. It cost Göran
many a groaning, and more inseminations than he had expected from a
middle-aged man. When they awoke in the morning, Göran was Matthews's
bitch. Matthews planted nether-lips over Göran's red rubies and growled,
"Fuck that hole with your tongue!" Matthews reciprocated by plowing
Göran's butt with his prick.

      Then it was time for breakfast and civility. Göran and Matthews
helped Mr. Svenson milk the cows, and returned to Wayward Bay for a day of
canoeing and water-skiing.

      Saturday night differed from Friday. Göran fucked Matthews
standing in the shower. He used soapsuds for lube to achieve penetrative
difficulty at a level approximate to missioning, or so he told
Matthews. "Don't cum yet," Matthews said. "I want you horny when I work you
over." Matthew made love in bed, his way- he coursed over Göran's
e-zones with fingers and tongue with a double purpose, physical and
psychological: to enjoy the sight and touch of Göran's amazing body, and
to drive him to unforeseen heights of pleasure. He took time and exercised
patience, but relentlessly probed the crannies of Göran's body to test
his responses.  Göran's body wasn't virginal. Other men had worked over
his anatomy, but the psychological game was new to him, and Matthews played
it with a style that probed him out of his comfort zone. Göran willed
himself to non-reflexive compliance when Matthews stuck a thumb in his
mouth, an index finger into his navel, and then up his butt while propped
on a pillow with his legs stretched upward in a V and one finger graduated
to four up to the knuckles. He drew an unfamiliar vicarious satisfaction
from Matthews's obvious delight in having mastered his mind.  He lay back
on the bed with his limbs stretched out like Leonardo's Universal Man-
metamorphosed into a starfish when Matthews mounted him.

      "May I ask you a personal question?" Matthew asked later, in
pillow-talk.

      "You just fucked my brains out and you have to ask?"

      "I wonder, now that you're with Morales, do you still love Jack?"
Matthews asked.

      "I'll always love Jack."

      "You and Jack are so much alike, two robust hunks in law enforcement,
both smart guys and educated- your friends assumed you'd stay together. Did
something happen that made you go separate ways?"

      "Maybe it was the excitement of matching wits with two serial
killers," Göran said. "For Jack and me to be together, one of us would
have to give up his job. Jack belongs in Lakota.  He's doing what he was
born for, but with such a small population there's no opportunity in law
enforcement for me there. We had a realistic discussion about our
prospects. That happened before I met Jésus at Apollo's. That's where
Jack met CC, too."

      "I took it for granted that Jack was your soul-mate, not that there's
anything wrong with Jésus, but he's so different from Jack, and from
you," Matthews said. "Jésus is such hot-wire, a lean energetic guy, and
rather emotional at times. He seems the exact opposite of you, Göran.
He's so... what's the word I'm looking for?"

      "Mediterranean?"- Göran suggested.

      "Yeah, okay, Mediterranean," Matthews agreed.

      "A man can have more than one soul-mate," Göran said. "It's a
romantic myth that for every guy, there's only one person in the world who
can be an ideal partner. And a soul-mate isn't always a mirror reflection
or a double. He might be just the opposite. That's what I learned from
Jésus."

      "He said that?"

      "No, of course not," Göran said. "I figured that out for myself
after being with him. It's possible for two guys to relate to each other
through their differences. Besides, there's more to Jésus than the guy
behind the bar at Apollo's. He reads books in Spanish, you know, mostly
novels, while most of his friends spend their spare time playing
video-games or listening to pop music. He keeps up with writers like Javier
Sierra, and Ildefonso Falcones, and Homero Aridjis.  He's the only person I
know who's made it all the way through Carlos Fuentes's Terra Nostra
without skipping some of the chapters. If he doesn't talk about this, it's
because he doesn't know anyone else who knows or cares about these
authors. He turned me on to Falcones. I've been reading Cathedral of the
Sea, and I'm starting to understand what he means when he says that the
world's best fiction is currently being written by Spanish and Latin
American authors."



      Matthews was at odds with himself about staying over on Sunday. Would
Jésus and Göran want a three-way, or would he be a third wheel? When
he thought about his uneventful sex-life in Duluth, he decided to stay. His
fling with Göran opened the door to future encounters.  Adding Jésus
to the mix might double his chances. So Matthews stayed in the game,
determined to please while day-dreaming sex-scenarios in which he escaped
getting screwed by Göran's hot- wired Latino boyfriend.

      They knew they were two tops (Jésus and Matthews) and one bottom
(Göran), but Jésus wanted to make things more interesting by allowing
only one man to top. "We can draw cards from a deck," he said. "Whoever is
first to draw a King wins the top position." Matthews suggested an
improvement: deal five cards to each player. The position of top goes to
whoever gets the most Kings in his hand. If no one gets a King, of if
there's a tie, we keep drawing until the tie is broken.
      Jésus expected to win the game. He could be unrealistic about
things like that, but the first King came into Göran's hand. Göran
declined the honor and prevailed upon Jésus and Matthews to play a
second round. That's when Matthews won the title of Top for the night. Hed'
already had Göran, but lust came to him with the prospect of possessing
Jésus. Sometime before the night was through, he's line Jésus and
Göran side by side doggie-style and alternate between them with his
throbbing erection, like a honeybee between two roses.

      Göran had a special request: "Teach Jésus that mind-game you
played with me"-so foreplay was all about conditioning Jésus to relax
and comply with invasive techniques on his anatomy. Göran improved on
the game by producing a vibrator from the bottom drawer of his
dresser. "This will make you a bottom for sure, if only temporarily,"
Matthews wisecracked as he plunged the vibrator into Jésus's unflinching
portal and turned it on.



      * * * * * *



      Summer gave way to autumn. 'Albino Season' was over-that's the name
Göran gave to the months that he thought Howard Coleman was active as a
serial killer. He theorized that 'Albino' had a college teaching job during
the school year, and unleashed his killing-obsession late in May, or in
June. But Göran warned his compatriots: "Now that 'Brad Nails is dead
and Albino knows that his identity has been exposed as Howard Coleman, all
bets are off. Without access to references, it'll be harder for him to find
an academic job. We can't predict what he'll do next, but Coleman likes
corpses as much as gay men like cock. His human sacrifices will continue,
perhaps in a new venue. Without Brad Nails, he might simplify the
ritual. We'll either catch him or find out the hard way."