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the Gulf of Mexico, anything could happen. A few years back the sirens in Todd's neighborhood hadn't gone off until five minutes after a tornado had Hoovered the better part of a strip mall into the heavens.
    Todd didn't like this.
    And apparently no one else did, for he looked up and down the bridge and didn't see another soul. Something was going to hit—and soon—and everybody but Todd had the brains not to venture out onto a high bridge over an endless wash of water. A human weather vane Todd did not aspire to be.
    He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty-eight. He would give this guy seven minutes and then Todd was out of there.
    As he continued to the middle of the bridge, Todd wondered why the hell he'd gotten the call in the first place. Was it his notoriety and his relatively new position as investigative reporter at Channel 10? Or the fact that he was queer?
    Because some part of Todd would always be paranoid, he suspected the latter, that this might be some kind of bizarre setup. In his early forties and in great shape—“If you're gonna work in broadcast you gotta keep that chest bigger than your gut,” his agent, Stella, continually prodded—Todd had thick brown hair, a handsome face that was a tad broad and a tad rugged except for the eyes, which were soft, too soft for his face. Whereas he used to be extraordinarily closeted, the events of his life had now made him the most visible gay person in Minneapolis, and from time to time he got calls at the station asking him out to dinner. From time to time, too, he got threatening messages on his Voice Mail. Hate mail too. Which is what he feared out here tonight, an attack of some sort. But, no, thought Todd, the tension and worry in the caller's voice had been real, hadn't it?
    Reaching the midway point of the bridge, Todd stopped and looked around. Virtually no sign of anyone, male or female. He stared at the falls as they roared over a broad concrete apron the milling giants had built so long ago. Looking straight down more than a hundred feet, the dark, muddy waters of the Mississippi swirled and churned. Next, raising his head, Todd gazed at the glass towers of downtown Minneapolis, huge modern boxes that sprouted like Oz on the plains. Oz, Todd mused, about to be slapped by an evil storm, for the thunder was starting now, not just an occasional burst, but long and steady rumbles. This was going to be a biggie.
    Something grasped his right shoulder, and Todd jerked away and spun around. “Jesus!”
    Before him stood a young man, twenty-five, maybe thirty, short brown hair poking out from beneath a blue baseball cap. His face was pure, simple, with a lot of color in the cheeks, and there was no doubt about it, he was gorgeous. A plaid shirt concealed his upper body, but even so his strength was more than apparent.
    “You're Todd Mills. I recognize you from TV,” he said, with a broad smile that showed off bright, white teeth.
    He was awfully pretty, this guy, and Todd couldn't help it, couldn't help but wonder: gay? Their eyes caught and held for a millisecond too long, and before Todd had a chance to consciously contemplate the other man's sexuality, his instincts flashed: yes. So what, wondered Todd as he noted that the other man's eyes perfectly matched the blue plaid of his shirt, is this all about?
    Todd said, “And you're …”
    “I'm Mark.” He saw the confusion on Todd's face, and added, “Mark Forrest.”
    A few drops of rain started to fall, and Todd looked at this man, who on the phone this morning had sounded so secretive and confused, yet now appeared so animated, even jovial. Tread carefully, Todd told himself, determined not to be duped either by this guy's good looks or his story, whatever that might prove to be. Who even knew, thought Todd as he double-checked and noted that the other man wasn't wearing a wedding band, if Mark Forrest was his real name.
    “So what's up?” asked Todd, glancing over at the clouds and thinking they had