Free Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? by Mark Richard Zubro

Chicago Avenue, in front of the National Guard Armory, about a block from the hospital. We made a short dash through the cold down Fairbanks and into the hospital a half hour before visiting hours ended. We found his room on the fourth floor, having left a gentle stir behind us when one of the nurses on duty recognized Scott.
    We found Neil awake, alone, and bitchy as hell. “Salvation, take me away,” he commanded when he saw us. “They’re poisoning me.” One leg lay in traction. He had a private room, of course. His wealth earned him that much.
    I looked at the still uncleared remnants of dinner—swirls of muck awash between green lumps. “It’s just hospital food,” I offered.
    He rolled his eyes. He complained for the better part of ten minutes about life, the world, the lack of cute male nurses, the harridans who did take care of him, the demeaning hospital gowns, the awful schedule, waking up too early.
    â€œYou can’t be that badly hurt,” I said.
    This provoked an extensive listing of a variety of aches, pains, bumps, and bruises. Besides the leg, his only obvious wounds were nasty bruises deepening to ugly black eyes.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    He gave us each an angry look. “Fag bashers. Those fucking
heterosexual straight teenagers who need to take out their macho instincts as a large herd against lonely gay men. Fucking little bastards.” I got the actual story with only a few more tirades thrown in. It wasn’t much different from any other fag-bashing story. Four or five kids—he still wasn’t sure how many—had attacked him outside a gay bar. He’d blown his police whistle, tried to run, fought like mad, all to no avail. “I managed to land a few punches.” He licked his lips. “I nearly twisted the dick and balls off one of the little motherfuckers. I think that’s when they broke my leg. I gave descriptions to the cops, but I’m sure they’ll never catch the little no-neck monsters. They never do.” He sighed dramatically. Ever the martyr, he’d milk this for as much sympathy as he could get.
    Scott and I seldom get hassled by fag bashers. I suspect it’s because we’re big enough to give pause to all but the stupidest attackers. We talked for a while, found that his pride was hurt more than his physical self.
    Before retracing our steps to my place, we cruised up Michigan Avenue. With the newly fallen snow, the thousands of lights strung on the trees along the avenue took on a glow beyond their usual magnificence. We could have stayed at Scott’s in the city, but I had work the next day, and I didn’t have a car for the drive to the suburbs. He had an engagement at noon at the Palmer House to speak to a Boys’ Club. While we’d been talking to Neil, the snow had started. They’d predicted around two inches.
    As we drove past Orland Square Mall, I saw Scott staring fixedly into the rearview mirror. “We’re being followed,” he said.
    I sat up and looked back. “You sure?”
    â€œThose same headlights have been behind us since One Hundred Eleventh Street, maybe before. They slow down and speed up when I do.”
    â€œMaybe they’re following your tracks to keep on the road. They don’t look like they’ve been plowed.”

    While there wasn’t much snow, the wind was up, and drifts formed quickly in racing swirls on the roadway.
    Through the rear window, I watched a semi-truck barreling toward us from the distance. It rushed past our follower, came up fast, and rocketed past us, raising new swirls of whiteness. “Stupid son of a bitch is going to end up in a ditch,” Scott said.
    I watched the headlights behind us. They followed sedately. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “We don’t do car chases. A blazing rush down the highway in the middle of winter is not something I want to try.” I looked back