Chapter Eleven

Ed restlessly moved from one channel to the next. A hundred and fifty stations and nothing worthwhile on any of them. In that other life, the one he had just a few months ago, it didn’t matter how many channels he had. Cable was a luxury he had often thought of getting rid of, since the TV was on so little. Back then, his job had filled so many hours—hours he sometimes cursed but was ultimately glad to have put in, the work being interesting, never knowing what each new day would bring. And then there was Dan, and when he wasn’t working, the hours were filled with him. He thought, of course, of their lovemaking first but also thought of the simple happiness they’d had: the walks by the lake, the hours of conversation, planning their future together, the hotly contested games of racquetball, the board and card games they played, the friends they visited. Ed thought, with more than a little sadness, of how we really don’t know what waits for us around each corner. Life was filled with surprises, and just when you thought you were settled, it threw a new curve your way.

He switched to ABC. The local ten o’clock news was just beginning. The lead story caused a jolt to run through Ed, making him sit up on the couch and lean forward. Sheila Martin, Channel Seven’s amber-haired anchor, was looking into the camera, her carefully made-up face assuming an expression of sobriety and concern. “Richard Lewshevski, head of the Chicago Police Department’s Detective Division, announced today the formation of a task force to investigate a spate of recent killings in Chicago’s gay community. Since last August, three gay men have been brutally murdered in their homes. The victims have been identified as Anthony Evans, twenty-three, David Westhoff, forty-two, and Milton Weinsap, thirty-eight. All of the men were victims of stab wounds and strangulation. Further details are being kept confidential by the department. None of the victims’ residences bore any signs of forcible entry. Lewshevski stated that since nothing was missing from the victims’ homes robbery has been ruled out as a motive. Richard Byers is on the city’s North Side with more.”

Ed watched as Richard Byers, a young black reporter with close-cropped hair and a well-groomed mustache, stood in front of Carlisle’s, a popular gay bar on Halsted Street. Ed couldn’t remember when he’d last been there—probably with Dan for happy hour many months ago. The bar’s mahogany- and glass-fronted façade looked unreal on video, like a set from a movie.

“Thank you, Sheila. I’m standing in front of Carlisle’s, one of the city’s more popular gay gathering places. Halsted Street, the hub of the city’s gay community, is quiet tonight. I’ve spoken with several men and have discovered that Chicago’s gay men are living in fear. Tonight, talk inside the bar centers around the three dead men and who will be next. The Pink Angels, a voluntary protective group in the neighborhood, are upping patrols, and several men have commented they are using extreme caution when meeting strangers. All of the victims, except for the first, lived within a one-mile radius of Halsted and Roscoe, where I’m standing right now.”

The station cut back to Sheila Martin, who concluded, “In a statement released just this morning, the Chicago Police Department has announced that formation of the task force to track the killer is just about complete. The mayor has appointed several of the city’s North Side detectives, along with circuit court judge Martin Anger, the city’s first openly gay elected official, to serve. Lewshevski said that with the combined efforts of the force, the killer will be caught soon. Leads are coming in from all over the city, and Lewshevski is confident that one of these leads will bring detectives a break in the case.”

The news was interrupted by a commercial for Aleve pain reliever, and Ed hit the Mute button. The volume went up when commercials came on, and Ed was finding more and more in his life to be annoyed with. Lewshevski was a pompous asshole, more caught up in appearances than doing any real good, and Ed scoffed at the idea the killer would be apprehended soon. He knew, from his own work and from what Joey Mantegno had told him, that the force had no idea, none whatsoever, who was doing these killings.

But I do, Ed thought, feeling a tense rigidity in his back. Timothy Bright. The name haunted him now on a daily basis. He couldn’t even confide his concerns to anyone in his former department, because they had already sanctioned him for his association with the deceased.

And now the killings were big news. Ed flung a pillow from the couch across the room, knocked over a plant, and began massaging his throbbing temples. He felt powerless, angry, and it seemed he would never discover anything more than he already knew.

And now his brothers were dying; slow, horrible deaths, Ed was sure. Deaths marked by terror.

The phone rang. Ed picked it up. “Hello.”

“Ed? Is this Ed Comparetto?”

The voice was unfamiliar and male. “This is he.”

“Hi, Ed, this is Peter.” A pause. “From the library?”

“Oh sure, how are you?” Ed rolled his eyes.

“Good. Listen, the reason I was calling is you, well, I don’t know if it matters or not, but you left your pen behind when you were here the other day.”

“I did?” Ed hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah. It’s a pretty decent pen, a pewter Cross fountain pen, and I thought you’d like it back.”

Ed didn’t own a Cross pen, fountain or otherwise. He was partial to Bics, the cheaper the better. Either that or a pencil. He started to tell Peter the pen wasn’t his, then thought of the guy’s face, the way he’d smiled, and how helpful he’d been. Maybe, especially since his days were lately filled with nothing but TV and brooding, he shouldn’t be so quick to cast away this opportunity. “Oh?” Ed didn’t want to say the pen was his, but he didn’t quite want to close the door either.

“Yeah. I brought it home with me for safekeeping.” There was a long pause, and Ed felt for the guy. Who hadn’t been in this situation before? This call had nothing to do with a pen. “I was wondering if I could get it back to you.”

“That’d be great.” Ed was suddenly feeling generous. “When do you work again? I’ll drop by the library.”

“Actually, I’m off for four days.”

“Oh.”

“But I was thinking maybe I could meet you someplace. Um, maybe we could have a drink or something, and I could give you your pen back.”

“Well, my schedule’s pretty open. When’s good for you?” Ed could sense the relief at the other end of the phone.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“That would be just fine. How about Carlisle’s, say nine o’clock?”

“Sure. I’ll see you then.”

As soon as he hung up the phone, Ed thought of hitting the automatic callback code and calling the whole thing off. What was he doing? He was in no state to be meeting people, gloomy and preoccupied as he had been lately.

A little voice inside chided, You might get rid of some of that gloom if you got out and met someone—maybe, God forbid, even got laid.

“Oh, shut up,” Ed whispered to the little voice and grinned. He flipped the sound back on and switched to another channel.

*

It was eight thirty the next night, and Ed still hadn’t left his apartment. He recalled his high school days, when he was into heavy denial and was dating girls. He was feeling the same kind of sick nervousness now, queasy with anticipation. Part of him wanted to stay home. There was laundry that needed doing, and a new Ruth Rendell Inspector Wexford mystery was on his end table, waiting to be opened. Hell, the guy would get over being stood up. It happened to everyone occasionally.

But Ed knew, damn himself, that he was too decent a guy to stand anyone up. And it was too late for calling him and making an excuse. Peter had probably already left for the bar.

Ed took one last look at the Rendell book—a longing look, he thought—and stood.

In the bathroom, Ed checked himself out. The strain of the past few weeks had changed him. He could swear he looked older; there were new lines he’d never noticed around his eyes. He yanked a gray hair from his coarse black curls. His skin didn’t quite retain the olive/tan hue he’d always gotten compliments on. Rather, he looked sallow in the light above the medicine cabinet mirror.

At least the clothes were all right. A deep forest-green corduroy shirt Dan had given him last Christmas and a pair of well-worn blue jeans showed off his broad shoulders and slim hips. “At least I haven’t lost that,” he said to his reflection. Ed quickly brushed his teeth and went to get his keys, wallet, and brown leather bomber jacket.

*

Carlisle’s had a good crowd. Not so many people that you were crushed against other bodies as men restlessly moved from the front of the bar to the back, where a dance floor and a room with pool tables competed for attention, but not so few as to seem sparse. It was always nice to have the sound of laughter and conversation around, especially when one didn’t have a clue as to what to say to your date for the night.

But Peter wasn’t a date, not really. He was merely returning an item a library patron had left behind.

Right. And Timothy Bright was a very nice guy.

As Ed began to scan the faces in the crowd for one topped with curly reddish-brown hair and marked by a well-trimmed mustache and goatee, his feelings began to waver. When he didn’t see Peter in the crowd, relief and disappointment coursed through him all at once.

He stepped up to the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock, still searching in vain for Peter. He encountered a few interested glances as his eyes met those of strangers across the bar and even got a few smiles. It made Ed wonder how many of these guys would go home with him tonight, merely on an introduction and few minutes’ conversation. Sadly, he knew there were far too many. Even with a publicized gay serial killer on the loose, there were still far too many men willing to take a chance with a stranger. It was how Dahmer got by, how Larry Eyler got by, and how John Wayne Gacy ended up with a cemetery in the crawlspace of his Northwest Side home.

Ed took a swig of his beer and headed toward the back. Perhaps Peter would be there. Again, Ed felt conflicting emotions. Half of him hoped he wouldn’t be there—then Ed could go home and curl up in bed with the latest adventures of Chief Inspector Wexford—and half of him was sick with dread that he’d be stood up—adding to an already bad case of flagging self-esteem.

Peter was not on the dance floor. Nor was he shooting pool. He was not standing along the wall that lined both areas, drink in hand, an optimistic smile beneath the reddish mustache.

Ed looked around once more. There were a lot of people here, and perhaps he’d just missed him. But a careful survey of all the men present did not reveal Peter Howle.

“Hello, stranger. Looking for anyone in particular?” Ed turned, and there stood Peter, a Budweiser in his hand, grinning.

Ed was shocked at how pleased he was to see him and couldn’t hold back the large smile that spread across his face.

“I was beginning to think I’d been stood up.”

Peter cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “Bathroom. Beer and a pea-sized bladder make that part of the bar a very popular place for me.”

Ed nodded, still grinning, and didn’t have a clue as to what to say.

“Want your pen?”

“Oh sure, sure.” Ed waited for Peter to reach into his pants pocket, but Peter didn’t do anything.

“You didn’t really lose a pen, did you?”

“I never said I did.”

Peter shook his head, smiling. “A little ruse of mine. I thought if you were interested, you’d play along. I wasn’t even sure you were gay, so I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when you suggested meeting here.” Peter looked Ed in the eye, and Ed noticed how pale blue his eyes were. “You’re looking good tonight.”

“And you.” And he did look good. Peter wore a pair of cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and an open white chamois shirt over it. He still had on the same hiking boots he’d worn in the library the day they met.

“Wanna go up front and sit down?” Peter offered, and Ed was grateful to follow. It gave him time to think of something to say.

It was amazing how quickly 2:00 a.m. and last call came along. Ed wanted to tell Peter how grateful he was to him for getting his mind off his problems for a night. It had been so long since he’d had a few hours of freedom from the mess his life had become. But he didn’t want to whine, and he didn’t even know if Peter was ready to hear the twisted tale of the last few months.

The two had spent the entire evening discussing everything from movies to books to music, and neither had brought up the subject of work. Peter knew and loved Ruth Rendell but was more partial to her Barbara Vine stories of psychological suspense, while Ed preferred the mysteries and police procedurals he’d used to feel such a part of.

“Want another?” Ed indicated the brown bottle in front of Peter.

“Nah. I’ve just about filled my quota. You go ahead.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Should we get going, then?”

The “we” sounded awfully familiar, and Ed wondered if it was a veiled invitation. But how to ask?

“Yeah. Early morning?”

“Not at all.” Peter winked. “I told you on the phone, I’m off for four days. Remember?”

“Well, do you need a ride home?”

“I’d love a ride home. The L is my car, you know.” And then abruptly, Peter grabbed Ed and pulled him close. Ed was too stunned—and, he had to admit, aroused—to do anything but hug back, enjoying the warmth and firmness of another man’s body pressed against his, a feeling that had been absent for far too long. Peter whispered in his ear, “What I’d really love is a ride back to your place.”

Ed pulled back, trying to look surprised but smiling too much to pull it off. “Aren’t you the forward one?”

“Hey, I believe in taking the bull by the horns, or horn, in this case.”

Ed laughed. He wouldn’t have guessed it before he went out tonight, but he was ready for this. Maybe it was moving too fast, and maybe he should listen to the critical little voice he’d heard earlier, the one that talked about how many of these guys would easily go home with someone they barely knew. But Peter was kind and intelligent, and besides, he was great-looking.

Ed shut off his own response before it got going too far. The one that told him that was exactly the kind of thought Anthony Evans, David Westhoff, and Milton Weinsap might have had just before they were murdered.

Ed dug his keys out of his pocket. “Let’s go. I lucked out. I’m parked just up the street.”

*

Ed wished he’d cleaned up his apartment. He’d grown accustomed to the scattered newspaper sections and magazines that littered the living room, the half-filled glasses and mugs on the coffee table, the way one miniblind was slightly askew and the plants in need of watering. Now as he switched on the light and saw them through fresh eyes, he was embarrassed. What shape were his sheets in? Ed thought of the kitchen sink, filled with three days’ worth of unwashed dishes.

“What a dump!” Peter said in his best Bette Davis voice. Ed was grateful that his best Bette Davis wasn’t even close.

His quip helped break the tension. “Sorry. I really wasn’t expecting company tonight.” Ed set to gathering up the newspapers and magazines and then folded his arms around them and headed toward the wastebasket in his den.

“Aren’t you the pessimistic one?” Peter grabbed him by his shoulders and maneuvered himself in front of him. “Here, let me help you with those.” Peter gently pulled the newspapers from Ed’s arms.

He flung them to the floor. “There,” he whispered, pulling Ed close. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Works for me.”

Their mouths met in a kiss. Ed closed his eyes, trying to force out the image of Dan that went with this familiar feeling. He grabbed and held Peter tight, grinding his lips into the other man’s, feeling the wonderfully rough texture of Peter’s facial hair on his skin.

Peter was a good kisser, Ed thought as images of Dan dispersed, relegated (he hoped) to the realm of memory, where the present could wash them away. Peter’s body was lean and hard, and as Ed moved his hands up and down his back, he felt flooded with warmth. He could feel Peter’s hardness against the front of his jeans, and Ed ground his hips against Peter’s.

When they broke from the embrace, both were breathing heavier, and Peter’s pale blue eyes were alive in the half-light. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.” Peter stroked one side of Ed’s face. “I have a feeling this might be a little too fast for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ed pulled Peter against him once more, kissing first his eyes, then his nose, the reddish stubble on his chin, and finally moving back to his lips. “I suppose I should tell you I haven’t done this for a while.”

“Married?” Peter kissed Ed’s left earlobe, and it caused a deliciously cold shudder to move down his spine.

“Five years. His name was Dan.”

“How long since you broke up?” Peter’s hand brushed across Ed’s crotch.

“Months and months. Too long.”

“A sensitive guy. I like that.” Peter unzipped Ed’s pants and snaked a hand inside the opening. “Very sensitive.” He gave Ed’s cock a squeeze.

It had been so long. So many empty nights, alone with the DVD player and a lubed-up hand. Ed was afraid the evening of romance would be over all too quickly if Peter kept rubbing and squeezing the way he was doing right now. Gently, he broke away from him. “Why don’t we go into the bedroom?”

Peter followed him, taking off his shirt as he went. Ed lit a candle that had lain, untouched, for far too long on his nightstand. It sprung to life with the touch of the match, and shadows began to dance on the eggshell-colored walls.

Peter sat on the bed and began unlacing his hiking boots. His back was strong. As he bent and straightened, undoing the laces, a topography of musculature danced across the smooth surface of his skin, bisected by the orderly rows of bumps that were his spine.

Ed longed to kiss each bump. He hurried to undress, then got on the bed behind Peter, where he fulfilled his wish, licking and kissing his way down Peter’s back.

Peter laughed softly. “Tickles,” he whispered. At last he pulled off the boots and threw them into a corner, where they landed with a thud and disappeared into the shadows. His pants followed, landing in a bunch.

He turned to Ed, and their first naked kiss was electric. Ed suddenly realized how much he had missed this, not just the lust part—although there was no denying that was a huge part—but the simple physical closeness of another human being. He pushed Peter down on the bed and covered his body with his own. Peter was hairy where Ed was smooth, and the textures together made Ed close his eyes and moan.

Peter’s penis was pressing insistently against his belly. Ed reached down and stroked it, the silken curve of it hot in his hand. Moving downward, Ed kissed his neck, chest, stomach, and finally took Peter in his mouth, swallowing him all the way down, until his nose was nestled in reddish-brown pubic hair and Peter’s balls were brushing his chin.

Peter dug his hands into Ed’s dark curls, pulling hard and thrusting into Ed’s mouth.

The shadows on the wall, once separate entities, became one. As the two moved, pleasuring each other, cracks of light would appear in the shadows, showing the small separations as they switched positions in order to gain or give access.

Ed moved between Peter’s legs, running his hands over the hard muscular thighs, rough with coarse hair, then pushing them back toward his stomach. In the flickering light, their eyes met, and Ed wordlessly asked permission.

Peter nodded. “Got a condom?”

“Of course.”

After a short pause, the shadows on the wall merged and became one once more.

*

Ed awakened, hours later, to the sound of thunder. The room flared briefly with blue-white light, and rain pelted his bedroom window. Warm under the covers, Ed turned sleepily, throwing out an arm to snare Peter as he did so.

But all his arm connected with was the pillow. He opened his eyes to discover he was in bed alone. The thunder crashed once more, closer now, followed immediately by the flash of lightning. The storm outside left him suddenly feeling cold, in spite of the warm protectiveness he had felt only seconds ago.

He sat up. The apartment was silent. Perhaps Peter’s small bladder and the beer he had consumed earlier had awakened him. That had to be it.

Ed swung his legs over the side of the bed and wandered into the living room, where Peter’s shirt still lay in a lump on the hardwood.

He looked to the bathroom. No light.

There was no one in the bathroom.

No light was on anywhere else in the apartment. Ed moved toward the kitchen; the doorway there was a black maw. He had always hated that his kitchen was devoid of windows.

As he headed into the darkness, thunder grumbled and the lightning flashed once more.

In that one instant, he saw Peter, his eyes alive with terror. Someone, Ed was sure, stood behind him, holding him in an embrace that was anything but loving. Another brilliant flash and crack of thunder revealed the face of Timothy Bright over Peter’s left shoulder.

It also showed the glint of a knife at Peter’s throat.

Ed screamed.

*

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Ed roughly pushed Peter away from him and opened his eyes. The sheet atop him was damp, and the images from his dream dispersed, leaving him panting and with a vague feeling of paranoia washing over him. For minutes it seemed Timothy Bright was still in the apartment, waiting just outside the bedroom door.

He turned to Peter, whose eyebrows were furrowed with concern. “You were screaming. A kind of low, muffled sound, but screaming. Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Want some water?”

“Yeah.” Ed pulled the comforter close around him and sat up in bed as Peter went for the water.

When he came back with a full glass and a full measure of concern on his face, Ed took both with gratitude. “Remember when I was in the library? When we first met?”

Peter slid under the sheets. “Of course.”

“I think we need to discuss that. We haven’t talked about our work yet.” And with that, Ed poured out the whole story.

Peter listened without interrupting, concern growing on his features.

The two said nothing for a while.

Then Peter spoke. “I think both of us might have a connection to these killings.”

“What?” Ed began to wonder how well he knew this guy in bed next to him.

“I have a friend. His name is Mark Dietrich. I think he may have had a very close call the other night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think he had a very nasty little meeting with the guy who’s doing these murders.”

Ed looked to the window, which was dry. He nestled his head on Peter’s chest, not wanting to know more, but said, “Tell me.”