William David Thorndyke closed the door of his 1978 Chevy Nova behind him, and beamed at the handsome face walking toward him. "Helloooo, Joe!"
They jogged toward each other and threw their arms around one another. "Hi, beautiful!" Joe said.
Moving to Los Angeles the moment he turned 18 had been the best decision Bill Thorndyke had ever made. Back in Akron, Ohio, he'd been under constant torment from his shrew of a mother and his two snotty sisters. The former seemed to take her resentment of his estranged father out on him, and the latter had never done anything but make fun of him. True, he hadn't gone to college or a trade school, but living off odd jobs in the low-rent district beat staying in that hell hole. If not for L.A., the women in his family might have turned him outright misogynistic. With two-thirds of the continental U.S. between himself and the family he'd left behind, he could finally come out of the closet to them. It had still been scary to send that letter, but it was also liberating. And ... exhilarating.
Then a year later, he was working part time at a little off-beat bookstore, when in walked Joe. Disheveled, and dirty, and destitute, and oh so gorgeous.
Joe was in even worse straits than himself. While Bill was poor, Joe was homeless. Perhaps it was some nurturing instinct Bill didn't know he had, or perhaps it was something more animalistic and basic, but Bill fell for him hard. And Joe returned his affections tenfold. It was a heady new romance, and Bill asked Joe to move in with him within a week. Joe refused. He said it was a matter of fairness, that he didn't want to be a burden to his better-off boyfriend. In truth, it was more a matter of pride — the same reason he refused to accept handouts. This didn't keep Joe from letting Bill take him out to dinner, quite often, but Joe convinced himself that this was "different" because it was "dating."
"I was thinking of taking you to a fancy French restaurant today," Bill said. "It's called Jacques . . . in the Box."
Joe snorted. "I've always wanted to try their specialty, the Jumbo Jacques. You know, to see how the other half lives."
"You know me," Bill said, "Always living high on the —" He patted his left back pocket, and realized it was flat. Darn it, he'd done it again. "Hold on, let me go back to my car and get my wallet."
He jogged the short distance back to his '78 Nova. Opening the driver's side door, he looked back over his shoulder; Joe blew him a kiss from the other side of the block. He was bending over to pick up his wallet off the passenger seat when a tan VW Vanagon skidded to a stop right next to Joe. The side door slid open and three guys jumped out, all wearing white skin-tight Lycra with twin blue stripes down each arm, the kinds of outfits bicycle racers might wear. Two of them grabbed Joe, who screamed before the third assailant threw a gag over his mouth, and the three threw him in the back of the van, piled in behind him, and yanked the side door shut.
The van took off again before Bill could take two steps.
Bill's heart raced in near-panic. Holy crap. They'd just kidnapped Joe! He dashed into his front seat, slammed the door shut, started his car, and took off down the road after the tan van. It was nearly a block ahead of him, and just about to turn the corner to the left. He couldn't afford to lose sight of it. He gunned his engine, dodged a Toyota Corolla, then screeched left around the corner. He barely caught sight of the van again before it turned right down another street. Once more, he zipped around the corner. This time, the van was only half way down the next street. He was catching up to them. He got right up behind them two blocks later . . . then stopped closing.
What could he do to them if he actually caught up to them? He didn't have a gun to shoot their tires with. He couldn't block them with his car, the van doubtlessly weighed a lot more than his old Nova. Maybe he could try something desperate, like slamming into their front wheels from one side; but even if he brought the van to a stop, they could get out and overpower him, maybe even shoot him. And even if they didn't, they still had his boyfriend as a hostage to use against him. No. All he could do was follow the van and see where they were taking Joe.
A mile later, he had the answer. The van turned into a dilapidated parking lot in downtown L.A.'s Warehouse District.
Damn. Why did it have to be the Warehouse District? That place was so rough, even the police steered clear. Calling the cops to come rescue Joe would get nothing more than a polite "We'll put it in our record sheet." How could he save his boyfriend? Hmmm . . . wait, kidnapping was considered a Federal crime. Maybe he could call the FBI. That might work, assuming they believed him. He'd need to find a pay phone. Maybe that gas station he'd passed along the way would have one. He jotted down the only address he could see on the block, then made a tight three-point turn and took back off down the street he'd come in on.
There. There was the gas station. It looked a bit run-down, and no one was on duty there, but they did have an outdoor pay phone booth. He hopped out and picked up the receiver. It was one of those old-fashioned rotary dial phones, but it was still working. He could still hear a dial tone. He reached into his pocket for change, and . . . uh oh. Damn. He only had a nickel and a penny with him. Calls on a pay phone all cost at least a quarter these days. Wait — 9-1-1 calls were supposed to be free, right? He dialed the nine, waited impatiently for the dial to work its way all the way back around, then quickly dialed the 1-1. And . . . nothing. Silence.
Damn it. This phone was too old to handle free 9-1-1 calls.
He hung up angrily, then started looking around for anything that might help. There was no one nearby from whom he could beg for change. He had no idea how many blocks away another, hopefully more modern pay phone might be, and every second that ticked away was another second where the kidnappers might move Joe somewhere else, or just decide to kill him outright.
Then his eyes landed on something — no, someone — that made him do a double-take. Walking leisurely down the sidewalk less than half a block away was an eight-foot-tall giant . . . made of wood.
Maybe this would . . .
He ran up to the creature and, not knowing what to say first, blurted out, "I've heard of you. You're the Tree, right?"
The creature glowered down at him and grumbled, "That's what they call me." Then it proffered its hand for him to shake, and said sardonically, "Hi, my name's Rachel, what's yours?"
"I'm," he tried not to make too big of a fool of himself, "I'm Bill." He shook her wooden hand quickly and firmly. It felt hard, cool, and powerful. "Listen, I — kidnappers. Some guys in a tan Vanagon just kidnapped my boyfriend."
Tree's wooden face was stiff and artificial, but it wasn't totally devoid of expression. She could still raise her eyebrows. "Boyfriend?"
"Yes, boyfriend," Bill insisted. "I'm gay, all right?"
"Oh, no no, it wasn't that," Tree replied, waving "no" with her right hand to ward off any misunderstanding. "I just . . . really miss having boyfriends."
Bill blinked. There must be a story there . . . but no time for that now. "Look," he said, "I saw the Vanagon drive into the warehouse district. I know exactly which building they took Joe into. But there's no chance I could rescue him alone, and I know the police avoid that district like the plague. I could really, really use the help of someone like you!"
Tree folded her arms and leaned against the storefront. "How do I know your story's even legit? You could point me at a warehouse and tell me 'He's behind all those crates,' because you wanted me to move the crates for you for free. Or rob the owners."
Bill was getting flustered. "I'd pay you to rescue him, if I had any money! I swear to you, they kidnapped Joe. I can still see those goons in the white spandex grabbing him and shoving him into the back of the van."
"White spandex, hm?" Tree asked, more to play along than anything else.
"Yeah," Bill said, "Or maybe it was Lycra. It covered 'em neck-to-shoe. No logos or designs on 'em, other than the blue stripes running down their arms."
Tree stood bolt upright. "Did you say a blue stripe, on their arms?"
"Yeah," Bill began, then said "No, two blue stripes. Thin ones, right next to each other."
Tree nodded. Her wooden eyes almost seemed to harden. "That's the outfit worn by covert operatives from T.H.E.M."
Bill frowed. "Them who?"
Tree shook her head. "Tee aitch ee emm, The Harbingers of Eternal Mankind. I was part of their Perpetual Army." She glared down at her torso. "Until they did this to me." She took a deep breath with her wooden lungs, and glared into the distance. "If Eternal Mankind is right here in L.A., I'm going to wreck whatever it is they're doing." She glanced back down at Bill. "Let's go."
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