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.Venus,tugging at the leash, brought him back to the present.She muscledtoward the riverbank and Jim tugged her back onto the sunny trail;slowly, the disquieting sense of sadness melted in the warmth of thesunshine.V' Greg! I cringed at the name. Aren t you Greg Palmer? I turned to see a short, bald man in his mid-fifties, he worea gray, tropical-weight wool suit and sunglasses.The sunshine,gleaming off the top of his head, caused me to squint.UnconsciouslyI rubbed the scar under my arm. Do I know you? I asked.He gave me a dejected look. Don t you remember? I guessnot.You were pretty much out of it the whole time. His lips parted" 53 " RUSS GREGORYinto a small smile. Understandable.It s been a while. He offeredhis hand. It s Martin.You know, from Brackenridge Hospital. When I didn t react he said, Martin Hansen? I remembered him.My mind replayed the scene from Bracken-ridge s recovery room.I recalled the pain and anesthetized surrealism,Martin s face floating in a drug-induced haze.The memory made meuncomfortable, like a friendly reminder of a youthful indiscretion.Reluctantly I shook his hand.Twenty years ago I had cut through the secluded passagewaybetween two buildings trying to catch up with my friends; wehad planned to walk home together from a late-night party in thewarehouse district, something we often did because no one wantedto be a designated driver.But that night I was delayed leaving OilCan Harry s because the line to the bathroom was long.Marco andDanny went on ahead and, in a hurry to catch up, I turned down thedarkened passageway between the buildings.It was a decision I lived to regret.I was ten feet from the sidewalk when a lone assailant fireda shot from the driver s seat of a passing blue Ford Bronco.Thebullet slammed just below my rib cage on the right side.The forcespun me around and dropped me like a brick to the pavement.Theshot had barely missed my elbow, shattered a rib, nicked my liver,and pierced the lower lobe of my lung before tearing a nasty holethrough my back on its way out of my body.Police later found thebullet embedded in the limestone façade over the arched entrywayto the alley.It had bounced off a dumpster to get there.That act made me the sixth victim in a series of seeminglyunconnected incidents with no apparent motive, another casualty ina string of unexplained violence in Austin that year.The police werejust connecting the previous attacks, four murders and one survivor,when I was shot, and they insisted on hiding my identity while Iconvalesced in the hospital.Over the next seven months, the staff ofSeton Hospital knew me as Greg Palmer.I hadn t been called Greg since then.The shooter murders started again four days after I left thehospital.Six more bullets killed five gay men and put my friend" 54 " BLUESean Perry in a wheelchair.The murderer was extremely efficient:one bullet, one body.And then, just as mysteriously, the shootingshad stopped.Twelve attacks, without so much as an inkling of whowas responsible.No arrest had ever been made; no suspect had everbeen named.The crimes remained unsolved and I had worked hardto forget that I was ever called Greg. Sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else, I saidcurtly.I pushed past him into UT s Communications building.I hustled across the lobby, squeezing by groups of students.The crowd in the Com building was harried.I joined the rush andscuttled past rowdy underclassmen scurrying in all directions.Ihurried because I knew Marco s class had finished and I didn t wantto miss him.I made my way into a crowded hallway with banksof elevators on both sides.Both Up buttons were illuminated.Isqueezed into the queue next to a couple of nervous-looking femaleswearing sweatpants, their hair pulled back in ponytails.The three ofus watched the numbers descend. So, are you ready? one of them asked the other. Not really, but I studied all day, the other answered. I hope it s multiple choice, I can fake multiple choice. The bell dinged and the doors opened.The three of us enteredand I pressed Four.One of the girls pressed Five. Communications is not my favorite subject.I only took thisclass because I thought newscasting might be a cool job. You would really blow on TV, the other replied. You think so? Yeah, I mean with your hair and everything you d beperfect. I rolled my eyes and prayed the elevator would pick up speed. I know what you mean about Communication though.Whoknew it would be this hard? Jamey said Mallory was easy. That bitch told me that too, and I need at least a B to graduate.Maybe if I slept with him or something.I mean he s old and uglyand everything, but I really need a B. Um hmm, I hear you there.I say a girl s gotta do what a girl sgotta do.That s exactly why I slept with Gravely. " 55 " RUSS GREGORY You slept with Gravely? Girl, he s hot.I d do him even if Ididn t need a grade.I mean I know he s just an assistant prof buthe s got great legs and stuff. The bell dinged and I sighed with relief; their conversation leftme feeling disgusted and in need of a shower.The doors opened andI swept down the corridor, leaving them to discuss the vagaries of aslut s academic options.I arrived at Marco s classroom just as he was gathering histhings to leave. Hi, need a hand? Matt! He raised his eyebrows. Trolling for a date or do youneed some money? I shrugged off the put-down with a smile and said, I was in thearea, thought I d drop by. He stacked a well-thumbed notebook on top of two heftytextbooks. Umm hum.So what s the catch, what do you need? Imean other than the obvious& fashion advice. No catch, just wanted to see where you worked
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