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To Chase a Feather in the Wind	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 1696 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Two days later
The two friends had been traveling for just over six hours, but after spending the first five hours making small talk, Booker had felt the need to be alone with his thoughts and taking out his battered portable cassette player, he lost himself in Nirvana’s Bleach. It had been a good form of therapy, the music had helped him to forget what it was he was actually doing, because whenever he did think about it, he started to have doubts. Although he had received Doctor Mayberry’s blessing, in his mind he knew visiting Keppler’s grave was a bizarre thing to want to do. However, he also knew that if he did not do it, he would never have closure and without closure, he could not move on with his life.
The music in his ears suddenly went dead and opening up the glove compartment, he pulled out a new AA battery and fitted it into the Walkman. When nothing happened, he shook the cassette player for several moments before pulling the headphones from his ears and throwing the device into the footwell of the car. “It’s busted,” he stated with a frustrated sigh.
Tom flicked the indicator and veering right, he exited on 185. Turning his head, he gave Booker a slow smile. “I think we’ve done enough driving for one day, how ‘bout we get something to eat and spend the night at Casa Grande.”
Booker glanced at his watch. Although desperate to get to their destination, the day was drawing to a close and it was still another hour to Tucson, which meant they would not get to the cemetery until nightfall. “Sure,” he replied. “I think we could both use a rest.”
They traveled the nine miles in silence and spotting a motel, Tom pulled into the parking lot and switched off the ignition. Unbuckling his seat belt, he addressed Booker through a loud yawn. “I’ll get us a couple of rooms.”
Grinning at Tom’s barely legible statement, Booker watched as his friend climbed out of the car. “You’d better hurry up,” he instructed with a laugh. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
Tom slammed the door closed and stretching out his aching back, he winced as pain flared through his damaged ribs. Booker had given him quite a beating and he had the bruises to prove it. But with typical Hanson fortitude, he ignored the burning sensation and keeping his expression neutral, he walked towards the motel’s office.
Several minutes later, he returned to find Booker leaning against the car smoking a cigarette, their overnight bags at his feet. “I thought you gave those up,” he commented.
Dropping the butt to the ground, Booker exhaled the last remnants of smoke from his lungs. “I did,” he replied somewhat tersely. “Why? Does it bother you?”
Even though it did, Tom shook his head. He understood that Booker was feeling anxious and if smoking helped him feel calmer, he would not judge. “They only had one room left,” he stated in a weary voice. “But it has two beds so—”
“Fine,” Booker sighed and grinding out the smoldering cigarette with the toe of his boot, he reached into his pocket and pulled out several crumpled bills. “How much do I owe for my share? “
Tom’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “I don’t expect you to pay Dennis,” he replied softly. “I know things are tight—”
“How much?” Booker asked in a strained voice.
Sensing that they were about to get into an argument, Tom relented and held out his hand. “Twenty.”
Booker thumbed through his small wad of cash and peeling off two ten dollar bills, he handed them silently to Tom.
Taking the money, Tom shoved it in his pocket but when he started to speak, he received a warning look from Booker. Closing his mouth again, he picked up his bag and walked towards their room. His friend’s disposition had soured in only a few short minutes but he was not about to make comment. He knew well enough that both anxiety and tiredness were a recipe for a bad mood and therefore, he was better off leaving Booker alone.
Unlocking the door, he threw his bag onto the closest bed and turned to face his friend. “I’m going to take a shower and then we can get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Booker replied quietly and tossing his bag to the floor, he lay down on the other bed and closed his eyes.
Tom let out a sigh. He was fairly certain Booker did not have the funds to buy a meal because he had already paid for half the gas and accommodation. But he did not want the issue of money to come between them and ruin their already fragile relationship. Although he had vowed to leave Booker to wallow in his bad mood, he decided to throw caution to the wind and perching on the edge of the bed, he laid a hand on his friend’s thigh. “I don’t want you to worry about money,” he murmured. “Friends help friends out and that’s the way it should be.”
Opening his eyes, Booker gazed up at Tom. “But it shouldn’t always be one sided,” he muttered despondently. “I don’t want to always be the one who needs help.”
Tom gave a reassuring smile. “And you won’t be. Don’t worry, the day will come when I’ll be knocking on your door asking you for help.”
Booker tried to smile but his lower lip began to wobble and throwing an arm over his face, he choked back a sob. “I fucking hate this!”
Being careful to treat Booker like a friend and not a lover, Tom resisted lying on the bed and pulling him into his arms. Instead, he gently squeezed his thigh. “I know you do,” he replied softly. But it will get better, trust me.”
Lowering his arm, Booker stared up at Tom with sad eyes. “When?”
Tom smiled. “I think after this trip, things will be different,” he replied knowingly. “Now, I’m going to take a shower and then we can eat. Okay?”
Too tired to argue, Booker sighed. “Okay,” he conceded and picking up the remote, he flicked on the TV. But as Tom pulled off his t-shirt, he gasped in shock when he saw the large mass of bluish-purple contusions that adorned the left side of his friend’s torso. “Shit Tommy,” he muttered, well aware that he was the cause of the injuries.
Tired and sore, Tom was in no mood to relive the humiliation of coming off second best in a fight and glancing down at his battered body, he shrugged. “I’ll live,” he mumbled.
Climbing from the bed, Booker stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Tom’s bruised skin. “Does it hurt?”
The sensation of Booker’s fingertips lightly touching his naked flesh was almost too much for Tom and he drew in his breath. But he knew he needed to suppress his feelings and stifling a moan, he managed a small smile. “Like a bitch,” he joked, hoping against hope that he was successfully disguising his yearning to press his lips against Booker's and kiss him passionately.
Booker lowered his hand and bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized softly. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I deserved it.”
When Booker did not reply, Tom pulled his t-shirt back over his head. “I think I’ll skip the shower, I’m pretty tired. Maybe we should just order a pizza and call it a night.”
Booker nodded. It was a depressing ending to a tiring day, but he knew the sorrow inside his heart was only a fraction of the pain he would feel the following morning when he finally stood looking down at the grave of the man he had called Daddy.
**
The following morning
The two men drove the seventy miles to Tucson in good time. After stopping and asking for directions, they drove the remaining few miles to their destination and as they approached the palm tree lined entrance of Holy Cross Cemetery, Booker felt a shiver of foreboding. Tom parked the car and both men exited in silence. As they walked up the gravel path, Booker gazed at the Santa Catalina Mountains that rose majestically in the distance rather than at the looming stone monument depicting Christ on the cross. They eventually stopped in front of the statue and Tom read the inscription in a barely audible voice.
"I am the way, the truth and the life, the one who believes in me shall live."
Booker’s face visibly paled. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he exclaimed softly. “He was Catholic?”
“Yeah,” Tom replied quietly. “Apparently his family is quite devout.”
That a supposed Catholic could have perpetrated such vile acts against another human being would have been laughable if it had not been so disturbing. Not wanting to prolong the agony any longer, Tom pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read the information he had obtained. “C’mon,” he muttered, “his grave should be just over there.”
The two men walked in silence along the rows of beautifully manicured plots. After several minutes, Tom stopped and pointed at a headstone. “It’s that one,” he murmured.
Without hesitation, Booker stepped forward and read the epitaph inscribed on the decorative bronze plaque.
MAURICE JOSEPH KEPPLER

3 Apr 1955 - 23 Dec 1988

GOD NEEDED AN ANGEL SO HE CALLED OUR SON

HIS LIGHT SHINES ON
Keppler's family obviously did not acknowledge the sins of a man who earned his living raping underage boys, or if they did, they preferred to turn the other cheek because it was too scandalous to accept. Even though his transgressions against the divine law were plentiful; rape, homosexuality, drug use, just to name a few, if Keppler’s family really were as devout as his epitaph suggested, The Rite of Committal would have been performed and a priest would have blessed his body before committing it to the earth. It was obvious his family believed he was in God’s arms but the hypocrisy of it all was not lost on Booker and staring down at the grave, he began to giggle. However, his laughter immediately turned to loud, heaving sobs and dropping to his knees, he covered his face in his hands and unashamedly gave into his grief.
Squatting down, Tom pulled his friend into a tight embrace. He grimaced when two muscular arms wrapped around him, squeezing his damaged ribs, but he did not pull away. Booker’s mourning was the beginning of his healing and he wanted him to know that he was there for him, through thick and thin from now on. He did not profess to understand his friend’s feelings for the man who had brutally raped, tortured and humiliated him but that did not mean he would not stand by him. Booker had been right when he stated that no one could understand unless they had lived it. Tom knew he was only an outsider looking in, but in time, he hoped his friend would open up more about his ordeal and maybe then, he could begin to grasp the complexity of his feelings.
Minutes passed and eventually Booker’s body stopped trembling, and lifting his tear stained face, he stared at Tom with grief-stricken eyes. “I loved him so much,” he whispered, “but I hated him too. How can that be? Am I crazy? ‘Cause sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Although not feeling qualified to voice his opinions on the multifarious aspects of Booker’s psyche, Tom tenderly wiped the tears from his friend’s face and gave him the only explanation he had. “You’re not losing your mind, you have no control over what your heart tells you. There’s no right or wrong Dennis, there are just feelings.”
A little surprised by Tom’s insightfulness, Booker sniffed loudly and nodded his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he muttered, “but sometimes…”
His voice trailed off and he did not finish his thoughts because the truth was, they were too complicated to put into words.
Several minutes passed without either man speaking and just as Tom was about to suggest they leave, Booker laid a hand on Keppler’s headstone. “I forgive you Maurice,” he murmured softly and getting to his feet, he looked down at Tom and gave him a weary smile. “Let’s go, I’ve made my peace.”
Tom stood up and placing an arm around Booker’s shoulders, he gave him a squeeze and they walked silently back to the car.
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To Chase a Feather in the Wind