Are You Nuts? by Mark Richard Zubro Read Free Book Online Page A

be some loon from an antigay group. The people on the programs were stunned when we reiterated our refusal and walked out. Neither Scott nor I were about to debate our rights, our sexuality, or our lives with anyone, much less some religious fanatic.
    Scott continued, “What I’d really like to do is go off to our cabin up north. Better yet, I could buy us a home in the Vale of Kashmir, where no one knows us.”
    â€œI’ve got a phone message here from the Kashmir Post-Gazette . They want to interview you.”
    That got a small chuckle out of him. “I’d give my left nut to be in your arms right now.” For the next few minutes, we were as tender and endearing to each other as any two people could be without being in each other’s presence.
    I felt a pleasant glow after the call. When he’s gone on road trips in the summer, I like to stay up late reading. Perhaps the most relaxing thing in the world to me is having the window open late on a summer evening, lounging in oversized T-shirt, gym shorts, and sweat socks, my feet up, one lamp on in the whole house, sitting in my chair reading a book. The glorious silence interrupted perhaps by the rustle of the wind, or a distant train whistle, the rare swish of a car on the far-off road, accompanied by a night-bird or insect serenade. Capped off with a good book, it is totally perfect.
    This time I picked up volume three of A History of Private Life .
    At midnight I wondered briefly why Meg hadn’t called. Certainly the meeting couldn’t go that late.
    I don’t remember what time it was when I fell asleep in my easy chair with the book on my lap. I woke to the ringing of the phone. It was nearly 4 A.M . My first thoughts were that something terrible had happened to Scott or my mom and dad. I leapt up quickly. My book clattered to the floor.
    When I picked up the receiver, the line crackled for several seconds. It sounded as if I were being called from a pay phone in a crowded bar on the far side of the moon. I said hello but got no answer. I was about to hang up when a muffled and distant voice came over the line.
    â€œTom Mason?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œAgnes Davis. I was at the meeting tonight with Meg.”
    Then I heard nothing for several seconds, but finally Agnes’s voice came through much clearer and louder. The background noises receded somewhat. Agnes sounded exhausted and frightened.
    â€œI know you’re Meg’s closest friend. I’ve been trying to find out what they’ve done to her. She’s been arrested for murder.”
    Someone in the background of where she was shouted, “Stop that, you son of a bitch.” This was followed by several loud thumps and crashes.
    â€œWhat’s happened?” I asked.
    â€œJerome Blenkinsop is dead. Meg needs help. Can you get here?”
    â€œWhere are you, Agnes?”
    â€œAt a pay phone in the visitors’ section of the River’s Edge police station.”
    A deep, gruff voice shouted, “Hurry it up.”
    I heard Agnes answer, “Back off, you tub of goo.”
    I said, “I’ll call a lawyer and be right there.”
    â€œThank you. Try to hurry.”
    I hung up and dialed my lawyer. Todd Bristol was a good friend. He’d been my lawyer since before I met Scott. Now we kept him on a yearly retainer. He was a partner in one of the big law firms on LaSalle Street in Chicago.
    I woke him up and explained the situation. He’d met Meg and knew how close we were. He said he would drive out from the city immediately.
    I changed clothes, grabbed my keys and wallet, and hurried to meet Agnes.
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    River’s Edge is one of the oldest southwestern suburbs of Chicago, founded soon after Blue Island. From its outward appearance, you’d guess the police station was the first building erected after the founding. Across the street a new headquarters was under construction. The same population increase