Chapter Fifteen

Ed was certain this was one of the last beautiful days, Ed was certain, the sky bright blue, laced with a few strands of cirrus up high. A warm wind blew out of the south, cutting the chilly undercurrent that would take its hold as the sun sank later in the west. Many of the leaves were already off the trees, lying about in heaps of auburn and deep brown, giving off a rich scent of humus, decay…the harbingers of winter. The leaves that remained on the trees were fast losing their color, yet shades of red, orange, and yellow still dazzled in the play of shadow and light.

Ed was west of the city, in a forest preserve parking lot. To his west lay Schaumburg, home of corporate headquarters, brand-spanking-new houses and apartment buildings, shopping malls and chain stores and restaurants of every description. Schaumburg was a place that could have existed anywhere in the United States, and Ed thought, as he sat in his Monte Carlo, that all too soon the rest of the country would look just like Schaumburg, one town indistinguishable from the next. Going away on vacation would be like never leaving.

The parking lot was virtually empty. A couple of cars—a taxi-cab-yellow Camaro and a rusted-out pickup—cruised by every so often, but neither of the men inside resembled what his recollections told him Timothy Bright looked like.

Perhaps he wouldn’t show, and with that thought, Ed took a measure of relief. He wasn’t too sure that meeting Timothy Bright like this was such a good idea. He had told no one about this rendezvous, save for Peter.

“You’re nuts,” Peter had protested. “I thought you had more sense than going out to some woods to meet this character. Why couldn’t you meet him somewhere more public, like a mall or a McDonald’s?”

“I tried that. He wouldn’t go for it. This was my only choice.”

“What do you think he wants to get out of this?” Peter’s voice was tinged with anger and concern.

“I don’t know. But I need to take what I can get. This guy could very well hold the key to my getting back my job.” Ed had snuggled closer to Peter in the warm darkness. It was still raining outside, and right then he felt more safe and secure than he ever had. “Even more important, this guy could very well be the killer.”

“So what are you gonna do? Talk him into turning himself in?”

“Maybe.”

“Right.” Peter had rolled away from him, and his body had stiffened, the armor going up.

Ed leaned close and squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, are you mad at me?”

“Listen, I just don’t want to hear on the news there’s been another killing.” Peter turned to Ed. “I’m just getting attached to you.” He smiled, but the smile was wary, and even in the darkness, Ed could see Peter’s eyes were bright with fear.

“I’ll be okay. There’ll be other people around. It’ll be broad daylight. I was a police officer, remember? I can take care of myself.”

“Are you taking your gun?”

Ed flushed. “I don’t have a gun anymore. I turned it in with my badge.”

Ed did wish, now, that he had a revolver concealed underneath his denim jacket. Peter had been right, and even though Ed had tried to reassure him, Ed was just as afraid of meeting this guy, if not more than Peter was.

But he was beginning to be afraid that his fears were groundless. He had sat alone in the parking lot for almost an hour, playing with the radio and trying to read that day’s paper but unable to keep his eyes on the type long enough to digest anything.

Perhaps this was yet another taunt, like buying him a drink in the bar and, yes, even like showing up at the scene of the first murder and claiming he had found the body.

What was Bright’s connection to Tony Evans anyway? At the time, Ed had talked with associates of Evans, doing background, looking for answers. But he had never explored too closely Bright’s connection, because there was really no reason to. How would Ed have known, at the time, that the Timothy Bright he had spoken with was officially dead? Ed decided that another tack he might take, if he made it out of this forest preserve today—grim chuckle—would be to revisit Tony Evans’s fellow bartenders and the various friends he had spoken with back in August to see if any of them knew Bright.

The yellow Camaro had pulled in a few spaces down from Ed, and Ed could feel the driver’s gaze on him. A young guy in a baseball cap was looking intently at him, and Ed realized this park must be a cruising ground. Ed looked closer, trying to see if any blond hair was falling out of the cap, or if the face beneath its bill was kind of elfin, with a turned-up nose that made the man whose face it graced appear younger than he was.

But the guy in the Camaro had a dark mustache, dark eyes. He was probably Hispanic. Ed turned away and looked out the driver’s side window, to make sure the guy got the message he wasn’t interested.

And when he looked, he saw the figure in the woods. A man stood just behind where the grassy area ended and the trees began. It was hard to see his face, because the trees and the bright sunlight merged to cast a shadow across his features. But his stature was small, and the hair Ed could see, blowing back in the wind, was blond.

The man knew he was staring. He lifted a hand in greeting.

Ed swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry. Even without a positive ID, Ed was sure it was Bright, standing there just behind the tree line. But what was he doing in the woods? Why not come out in the day’s bright sunlight? Come out where the two of them could talk at a picnic table. And why hadn’t Ed heard a car? There was only the Camaro in the lot now, the pickup having abandoned the hunt, presumably to look for greener pastures. How had Bright gotten here? The forest preserve was alone in a sea of mirrored office buildings, and none of those was very close. Had he trudged along Golf Road, then ducked into the woods somewhere just out of sight of the parking lot?

And how deep did the woods go?

Ed felt a chill in spite of the sunlight that warmed his car. The man waved again, and this time Ed could see he was motioning him to follow. Logic told him to simply turn the key in the ignition, throw the car into reverse, and get the hell out of there. But there burned within him a desire to know. He had to find out what was going on, and this was probably the only way.

He would be careful.

He reached down and grabbed the door handle, opening it in spite of the sensible little voice inside telling him that he might indeed find out what was going on, but this information could well be the last he’d ever receive.

Before he exited the car, Ed reached into the glove box, brought out a Phillips head screwdriver, and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

It was better than nothing.

When the man in the woods saw him heading in his direction, he turned and started moving farther back into the trees.

“Hey!” Ed called, trying to thwart this move. One thing he didn’t want to do was go deep into the woods with this guy.

But he didn’t stop. If he heard Ed, he gave no indication. The figure moved rapidly, deeper and deeper into the trees, and Ed had to quicken his pace to keep up with him. Ed paused then, seriously thinking of aborting this whole mission. Peter was right. What would he get out of this encounter anyway? Ed was probably the only person who knew who Bright was and, dead or alive, knew he had some solid connection to the killings.

But common sense deserted him in the wake of wanting to know. Ed crossed the tree line, keeping his eye on the red windbreaker the man wore. Perhaps it wasn’t Bright at all, just someone who looked like him. Perhaps this man was leading him into the woods for a sexual encounter. Wouldn’t that be just perfect? Still, Ed supposed someone trying to give him a blowjob would be better than stabbing him.

There was a small incline in the woods, and the figure dipped down into it, disappearing from Ed’s view. When Ed got to the top of the rise, he could see no red windbreaker. The forest suddenly appeared empty, with nothing more than the wind rustling the few remaining leaves on the trees. Where had he gone? Was he now lying in wait behind that big oak tree just ahead, the knife gripped tightly in a sweaty palm, its blade reflecting the sun?

Or, Ed thought, feeling stupid even as he thought it, was Timothy Bright really dead and what he had just seen only an apparition? A ghost?

Ed moved farther along the path, stiffening when he heard a rustling of leaves to his right. He whirled, his breath coming faster now, to see a squirrel scamper up the bark of a tree and, when it reached the security of a high branch, look down on him and begin scolding.

Ed gave out a short, nervous laugh.

He stopped. The day really was gorgeous, the sun’s rays slanting down between the branches to illuminate the forest floor littered with dead leaves and twigs. Under other circumstances, a perfect day for hiking, for disappearing for hours, alone with one’s thoughts, the trees providing a roof.

And then, up ahead, a flash of bright red.

“Wait up!” Ed called. He began running, the red jacket and the figure growing larger as he neared them.

He was close enough now to see the face of Timothy Bright. Ed flashed on a hot summer day, and it all came back: the queasiness he had felt after just seeing a mutilated body in a bathtub full of gore. Bright was grinning at him, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets.

And what did those pockets contain?

Just as Ed was within a few feet of Timothy, he turned and ran, leaves rustling, going so deep into the trees that the sunlight became muted. Here a semidarkness surrounded them. Stillness pervaded, eerie in its absolute lack of sound. The wind had died, and no longer did Ed hear the cries of birds, the humming of bees.

He chased Bright, who seemed to have an almost superhuman quickness. Before long the trail ended, and the two were passing through brambles and tree roots sticking out of rich black soil. Ed saw his foot catching on one of the roots, saw himself fall and lie there, ankle throbbing, until Bright returned to claim his prey.

But he didn’t fall. And he couldn’t keep up with Bright, who turned right, moving through the trees as if he had charted his course in advance.

“Why are you running from me?” Ed cried out, throat burning and lungs constricting. Heat shot up from his lungs; his legs ached.

Bright was out of sight once more. Ed stopped and put a hand to the rough bark of a maple for support. He was unable to suck in enough air. Perhaps Bright was having his fun with him; Ed couldn’t permit that. If the guy wanted to talk to him, that was one thing, but this asinine game was getting him nowhere.

He turned and could no longer see the parking lot. In fact, all he could see were trees. It was as if he had been transported to northern Minnesota or some other heavily wooded area.

He had lost his bearings. As his breathing returned to normal, he realized he wasn’t sure which direction to head to get back to the parking lot. This was ridiculous. Who got lost in a fucking forest preserve? The wind blew overhead, and Ed was gripped by a strange sensation. He didn’t know if this sensation stemmed from paranoia or if it was the real thing. But he had the distinct impression someone was watching him. He turned in every direction, trying to see beyond the vertical lines of the trees, trying to make out a flash of red amidst the brown.

But he saw nothing. And yet the feeling persisted.

“Bright? Why don’t you come out? What did you want me to come out here for if you were going to pull this shit?”

Ed knew the answer, and an icy hand gently fingered his spine.

He looked up, thinking the little bastard might have climbed a tree and was now above him, watching, laughing, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

But there was nothing. Sun broken up by jagged branches, nothing more.

Ed was still, listening for the sound of rushing traffic in the distance: Golf Road. When at last he picked up on that faint but familiar drone, he headed toward it, trudging through the woods, making his own path. None of it was easy.

How could Bright have virtually vanished? Ed had never believed in things he couldn’t put his fingers on, had always thought supernatural notions were nothing more than fanciful ideas, the province of the mentally unbalanced.

Now, as he trudged through briars, mud, and fallen leaves, he wondered if he hadn’t been too quick to deny things that were inexplicable. Timothy Bright was a dead man. He had seen it on the front page of the Chicago Tribune; he had scrutinized police department records. And now the man was present, seemingly of flesh and blood and then gone the very next moment.

He kept trying to move toward the sounds of traffic on the road just outside the forest preserve, but progress was getting more and more difficult. But there, up ahead, was a break in the trees, and Ed could see, in the distance, a large office building, its blue glass mirroring the clouds, and at the top, a bit of the sun.

Thank God, Ed thought, quickening his pace, thank God. When Peter hears about this, there will be no end to his “I told you sos.” And that was all right.

He was just happy to be getting the hell out of there.

It was then he felt the blow to the back of his head. He gasped and started to reach back to where the pain was beginning to burrow into his skull like a razor-toothed animal and a warm wetness was already dampening his neck, and then everything went dark as the earth rose up to meet him.