Chapter Nineteen

Rosehill Cemetery is situated on Chicago’s North Side. Its large Gothic gates welcome visitors off the narrow street of Ravenswood, which runs parallel to the Metra train tracks. The cemetery has graced this location for more than a hundred years, and among its monuments are memorials dating back to the Civil War. It speaks of a bygone era, when people, mourning, built statues, tombs, and other relics to commemorate their dead. Even though this is an urban cemetery, its grounds sprawl, covering acres and acres. Situated on this land are a chapel, several ponds, and wooded copses. It is a beautiful place to stroll on a warm day.

This day, as Ed and Peter found a spot just outside the gates, was not warm. Early November, it looked as if the days of Indian summer were nothing more than a memory, something to be treasured through the long months of frigid cold, evil winds, snow, and gray skies. Now a light drizzle fell out of a slate-blue sky. Ed had had to use his headlights on the trip over.

The day was perfect for wandering through a cemetery, in an Addams Family sort of way. The two walked wordlessly through the gates and were transported, almost magically, into another world. Gone was the large, sprawling city of Chicago. They were in a peaceful place now, surrounded by trees stubbornly holding on to the last of their leaves, brown and drooping, more and more joining their kindred on the ground below with each gust of wind.

“There’s a kind of directory,” Peter said, maneuvering Ed to their right, where a small house stood, looking vaguely liturgical with its yellowed cement façade and stained glass windows.

The two entered and found a sort of museum had been set up, explaining the history of the cemetery and who some of its more notable residents were. Another day they would have lingered among the history, picking up one of the maps so they could do their own tombstone hunting.

An old woman with reddish tinted hair streaked through with gray sat behind a desk. A pair of pince-nez glasses were perched on her nose, and the glasses were attached to a chain which wrapped around her neck. She was busy at a calculator, papers spread before her on a desk. She wore a pale-blue cardigan over a navy dress.

She looked up when she saw the men and smiled. “Can I help you?”

Ed looked at the piece of paper he had clutched in his hand since the two had exited the car. “Yeah. I was wondering if you could help us locate a grave.”

The woman pulled a map from a drawer in her desk. “What’s the name, sir?”

“Timothy Bright,” Ed said, his voice coming out soft. It seemed strange to be uttering that name here, among the dead. He imagined the woman examining the map and looking up, somewhat confused, and saying there was no such person buried there. How could there be when Timothy Bright had to be alive?

She traced a red-painted fingernail over the black-and-white surface of the map. Finally she paused at a particular location. “If you follow the main road back toward the chapel, you’ll find the Bright site off to your left, before you get to the pond.”

“Thank you.” Ed and Peter went outside once more, where the rain had begun falling in heavy drops, splattering on their faces and making them wonder what purpose this mission would serve.

They located the area quickly and, wandering among the tombstones, crypts, and monuments, soon located the Bright family plot.

Peter was the one who found it. “Here it is,” he called out to Ed, who was staring at a statue of a little girl encased in glass.

Ed hurried over to the line of tombstones and saw first the name Daniel Bright. He had been born in 1945 and had died in 1970. Next to him was Lanta Bache, born in 1947, died in 1970 as well. Who were these people? Did their names and untimely deaths have anything to do with what was turning Ed’s life upside down now?

“Here,” Peter whispered, standing by a black granite marker, which had been engraved with lilies and the name Timothy Bright. Ed stood above the tombstone, not knowing what to say. The legend on the marker was simple: Timothy Bright. Born 1969, Died 2003. May the Wings of Angels Enfold and Protect.

Ed stared at the tombstone for a long time. Finally he said, “Yes. He really is dead.”

“What about this?” Peter was staring at another marker, identical to Timothy’s and just adjacent to it. Ed took a long look at the marker, wondering what the procedure for an exhumation was, picturing a backhoe and a vault broken up, a pile of dirt on the dry and yellowing grass. He imagined Bright’s coffin opened, the sun a pale-wafered witness. Inside, they would find nothing but a satin lining and a Bible.

Ed moved to where Peter was standing and looked down at the marker. Theodore Bright, Born 1969, Died 1988. There was no comforting epitaph on this one, but it made Ed wonder. Timothy must have had a brother, a twin. Who was Theodore, and what fate caused his early death? It seemed the family had been plagued by many youthful deaths. What had brought them about?

Ed looked at Peter, at the rain dripping off his nose, and said, “This doesn’t give me a fucking clue. Not one.”

Peter shrugged and wiped some water off his forehead. “I think you should try to find out who this Theodore was. I think we need to do a little family history research.”

Ed shrugged. He suddenly felt tired and sure that doing research would only lead them down another, pardon the pun, dead-end street. “Let’s go.”

Peter took Ed’s hand in his. “We’ll figure this out.”

“We have to,” Ed said, walking more briskly now through the rain. Thunder rumbled, and the sky went white with lightning. “But what if there are no logical answers?”

“There have to be. C’mon. I’m getting cold.”

*

The argument between Peter and Ed had been the day before.

“The guy’s an asshole. We’re never going to get anywhere with him. Damn, selfishness like that makes me so mad.” It was the first time Ed had displayed his temper in front of Peter. Ed realized it was a big step in their relationship. He had always hidden his anger, ever since he was a little boy when such displays were greeted with a back of the hand from his father. He had learned to keep it bottled inside, where it was safe, where it wouldn’t offend anyone. But there were times, like this one, when he just couldn’t keep it in check. Lurking just beneath the surface, his anger, when it did boil over, was often too much.

Peter looked at him with what Ed interpreted as surprise, the poor guy probably never having realized Ed’s gentle voice could become so deep and…loud. “You don’t scare me, mister,” Peter said, smiling. “I grew up in a family where loud voices were pretty common, but we always worked it out.”

The two were dressing to go out to a movie. Ed had flung the shirt he planned on wearing against the wall.

Peter wore a calm smile. “Just get it all out, honey.”

The statement, uttered in a camp voice Ed would have detested under other circumstances, diffused his rage, but only a little. His head still ached from the blow he had received in the forest preserve. “I’m just saying…”

“And you’ve said it over and over. There’s nothing I can do. I’ve called and called; there’s no answer.”

“Probably hiding out with Mommy and Daddy.”

“Can you blame him?”

Mark Dietrich had been supposed to show up that morning. Peter had talked him into discussing what had happened to him with Ed, on the promise that it would go no further than the two of them. That is, if Ed could do nothing to help.

“I’m getting to really hate this guy.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Exactly.”

Ed had sat on the bed, balled-up shirt in hand. His breathing was coming faster, and he knew if he didn’t rein in his temper, he might do or say something he would later regret.

Peter sat next to him and massaged his shoulders. “God, you’re tight. It feels like steel.”

“It’s just so fucking frustrating.” Ed fell back on the bed, one hand on Peter’s back. “I don’t know what’s going on, and this guy could help. He could save a life. Maybe his own.”

“I think Mark realizes that. That’s why he finally agreed to talk to you.”

“The reason he agreed is that you begged him, and he probably wants to get in your pants.” Where had that come from?

“Can you blame him?”

“Certainly not.”

Peter had lowered himself over Ed then, and their mouths merged. Mark, at least for the next hour, was forgotten.

And now it was the next day, and the guy hadn’t even called. They were at Peter’s apartment when the phone rang.

Peter got up from the couch, where the two of them had sat reading that day’s Chicago Tribune. Each was looking for news on the killer, and both were hoping they wouldn’t find any.

“Hello?”

Ed watched Peter as he spoke in hushed tones. When Ed heard Peter say, “That’s horrible,” Ed stood and came closer. “Are you sure? What hospital?”

Peter hung up the phone and stared into Ed’s eyes. He bit his lower lip.

“What is it?”

“Mark was in a bad car accident yesterday. On Lake Shore.”

“Is he okay?”

“No. In fact, no, he’s not. He’s in a coma at St. Francis in Evanston. He’s in critical condition.”

Ed put his arms around Peter. “I’m sorry.”

“He was probably on his way to see us.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry I was such an idiot yesterday.”

“You didn’t know. You had every reason to think he’d blown us off.”

“Is he going to pull through?”

“They didn’t know.”

“Who was that?”

“Ellie James. She works with me at the library. She met Mark through me; she was dating him.”

“Christ.”

Peter sat back down on the couch. “There’s something else.”

Ed joined him. “What?”

“There was someone else in the car with him. A guy—small, with blond hair.”

Ed felt his spine go rigid. No, it couldn’t be… Ed was unable to find words for a minute or two. Could this be the end? “Well, do they know who this other guy is?”

“All Ellie knew was that they took him to Stroger.”

“We have to go check this out.” Ed was already shrugging into his jacket.