Chapter Sixteen

Peter checked the clock again. It was now a quarter after six, and the sky outside made him even more nervous. The day’s bright sunlight had faded, replaced by a band of dusky gold at the horizon, fading to purple, and finally a deep navy at the top. All in all, a beautiful sunset, but the encroaching darkness worried Peter. Ed should have returned hours ago. Peter looked again out the living room window of his apartment, hoping against hope he would see the navy blue Monte Carlo coming down his street. His gut clenched as he thought of what might have happened to Ed, clenched with guilt because he’d let Ed go and because he hadn’t gone along with him.

But Ed had insisted he stay behind, fearing that if he showed up with someone else in tow, Timothy Bright would leave. Peter had, unwisely he thought now, trusted that Ed would be all right, that he could stand up to this weirdo.

But Peter knew as well as Ed that this Bright character could be the killer who was stalking Chicago’s gay men. A killer who murdered his prey with certainty and cunning. The news reports claimed that one hallmark of this killer was to never leave behind indications of a struggle.

But there was no killing today, Peter insisted to himself as he paced the apartment, passing his dining room windows, which faced east, affording a view of Lake Michigan. He looked out at the horizon once more, almost dark now, save for a pale, dusky light. The water looked black, the foam on the waves silver as it crashed into the boulders lining the shore.

Who could he call for help? Ed hadn’t been gone that long, not long enough to cause any official concern. And if something had happened to Ed, who would contact him to let him know? It could be days before he discovered anything. He realized, sadly, there would be nothing to connect him to Ed, so if something terrible had happened to the man he was sure he was falling in love with, he would have to wait to find that news out until the media released it, just like anyone else in Chicago.

Peter toured the apartment once more, too jittery to sit still. “If something’s happened to him, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.” Peter forced himself to sit and pick up the phone.

*

Darkness. A chill and dampness at his back. His head throbbed, a dull ache in the back.

Ed tried to sit up but managed only a semierect posture, supporting himself on one elbow. How long had he been out? The woods were quiet now that darkness had fallen, and the warmth of the day had gone, replaced by a bone-chilling wind that whistled through the treetops and made Ed hug himself, seeking warmth.

When he did manage to sit up, his vision blurred and nausea rose up in his gut, wrenching it and making him fear he would puke. He could hear the sounds of traffic on Golf Road, and if he turned his head—when he did, the pain made him wince, rattling through his brain like a train—he could make out headlights just beyond the thick rows of trees.

Gingerly, he touched the back of his head. It felt crusty, hair matted with a thick, viscous substance that could only be blood.

Finally he managed to stand, but only after first getting to his hands and knees, gasping and trying, with a mighty effort of will, to hold back the queasiness and the shooting pain in his head that made him see stars.

Did he have a concussion? What had he been hit with? And most importantly, was he supposed to be dead? He thought not; Bright was too smart to just leave him behind. Ed had seen one of his victims, and the guy obviously enjoyed bringing death and misery. At least with the first couple of victims, the killer had to have left confident with the knowledge that his victims would not stand up again.

Ed stumbled through the trees, grabbing one every few minutes for support. Finally he reached the forest’s edge and was standing on a plain of mushy grass. The four-lane road was ahead of him, swarming even now with cars, their headlights like insect eyes in the darkness.

He looked to the west, and several hundred feet ahead was the shape of the wooden sign marking the forest preserve. It was there he had turned in, and just a few yards down the road was the parking lot where he had left his car.

Was it still there? Or had Bright taken it? Had he vandalized it? Ed pictured the windshield smashed, tires flattened, dents of every description in the body.

He trudged through the damp earth toward the parking lot, thanking God with each step that he was still alive. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled over and over again, making of the words a self-castigating litany.

He thought of Peter as he walked, and how the poor guy had probably worried himself senseless in his absence. He had been supposed to arrive at Peter’s apartment in the late afternoon, no later, and the two of them were going to make a stir-fry dinner together. Peter knew where Ed was going and was most likely going out of his mind now with worry, sure he had met his fate.

And he had, Ed thought as his feet connected at last with the concrete of the parking lot. His car was up ahead and, under the sodium vapor lamps, looked untouched. Ed was relieved. His head was beginning to clear, just a little, enough so that he could drive himself to Peter’s. There he could discover if he needed further medical attention. He would only visit a hospital emergency room under the most dire circumstances. He didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what had happened.

He almost missed it as he reached his car. He was so grateful to just be near the vehicle that would transport him out of this mess, away from the fiasco the day had become. But as he was fitting his key into the door lock, he noticed it: a white card stuck under his windshield wiper. Sure, it could just be a solicitation from a business, ten dollars off an oil change or something, but Ed knew it was more.

As Ed headed toward the front of the car, the eerie sensation of being watched seized him again. He turned slowly—no whirling around for him—and searched the dark woods for signs of someone standing there, just beyond the tree line, watching.

But he saw no one. Ed hurried back to the driver’s side door, card in hand, and got inside, locking every door before he settled back into the seat and switched on the dome light. The handwriting was shaky, but Ed recognized it as the same he had seen on the card he was given at the Round Up.

 

Timothy Bright

5800 N. Ravenswood Avenue

Ask at information for my exact location.

 

Ed didn’t know what this could all mean. But he knew one thing for certain. When he checked it out, he would not be doing it alone.

*

When the buzzer sounded in his apartment, Peter jumped and let out a little cry. He was far too on edge for such noises. Had someone finally made the connection between him and Ed and come to deliver the bad news?

Peter didn’t even ask who it was. He pressed the buzzer to admit whoever was downstairs, praying it would be Ed.

After listening to the creak and slam of the vestibule door through the intercom, Peter stationed himself at the peephole. No one, save for a person in uniform or Ed himself, would be getting in.

And at last, Ed did appear. Even through the peephole, Peter could see his clothes were caked with mud, littered with dead leaves and twigs. He opened the door, and the face that greeted him was pale, slick with sweat. But Ed somehow managed a smile just before he fell into Peter’s arms and whispered in his ear, “Please don’t say I told you so.”