Chapter Twenty

Timothy Bright was in pain. He lay in bed, the curtains drawn. The light hurt his eyes. He experienced a curious sensation, the feeling that his head and limbs were absurdly large and heavy, so heavy, in fact, that to contemplate lifting them was more work than he could bear. He had never felt this kind of pain before. His back still ached from being thrown forward when Mr. Asshole did his stunt-driving maneuver.

He had been all ready, the knife in his pocket. When the pretty boy stopped at the next light, he would come up suddenly behind him, slit his throat, push him aside, and take his car for a joyride. A joyride to a certain forest preserve, where he would wait. When darkness fell, he would drag the body to a heavily wooded area, and there he would leave it, with the hopes that the snows and ice of winter would cover it. Discovery would not be made until the thaws of spring.

If only things could have gone as he planned! But he hadn’t thought Pretty Boy would be so unnerved by his appearance that he would lose control of his car.

Timothy shuddered as he remembered the boom of the impact, the grating of metal against metal, the tinkling music of broken glass. He’d wanted to jump from the car, play dodge ’em in the morning traffic of Lake Shore Drive, and sprint off to safety. But everything hurt so much that movement was a challenge he couldn’t immediately accept. And besides, the woman in the Ford Explorer—that big, shielded vehicle—had climbed down from it so quickly Timothy had no time to move, let alone think.

So he had played possum, closing his eyes and lying still across the back seat floor. He had stayed “unconscious” all the way to the hospital, while the paramedics discussed their weekends in the front seat. He had stayed “unconscious” the whole time he was in the emergency room, while a doctor sewed up a cut in his forehead and pulled his eyelids open, looking for signs of life.

He didn’t know how he had managed to pull it off, but he had. Didn’t the stupid doctors know when someone was faking? Timothy attributed their stupidity to being overworked. The low-rent hospital’s ER that night was crawling with ODs, gunshot wounds, and heart attacks. Timothy supposed there just wasn’t time to check his pupils and do the other tests that might reveal his ruse. Lucky him!

*

Peter and Ed hurried inside the huge hospital. Stroger Hospital, just a little south and west of the Loop, was one of Chicago’s busiest hospitals, treating victims of urban violence and those who could not afford to go anywhere else.

After checking at the main information desk, the two headed on an elevator to the seventh floor, where the woman behind the desk had directed them.

At the nurse’s station, Ed asked, “Could you direct us to the room of a John Doe who was in an accident yesterday morning?”

The nurse, looking harried in spite of the youthful flush of her cheeks and her shoulder-length blonde hair, rolled her eyes and pulled out a log. She rubbed a hand tiredly over her eyes. “Do you have a name?”

“No. The person in this accident has never regained consciousness and had no ID.”

The nurse nodded. “I know who you mean. He’s in 725.” She pointed down a hallway to her left. “It’s down that way, three or four doors, on your right.”

“Thanks.” Both men hurried down the hallway. Ed wondered anxiously how he would feel when he came face-to-face once again with the person he might have spoken to back in August. He worried that if this was the guy, he would never regain consciousness and nothing would ever be solved.

And what if the murders continued?

But such worries were unfounded. When they entered the room, all they found was an old man lying asleep while an IV tube dripped a clear liquid into his arm and an unmade bed on the other side of the room, looking recently vacated.

Ed rubbed his temples, where a headache was beginning. “Christ, what now?”

Peter touched his arm. “Relax. Maybe this isn’t the right room.”

“Right. Let’s go ask Miss Congeniality again.”

But Miss Congeniality was gone. In her place, a fat woman with frizzy black hair sat drinking coffee. “Help ya?” she croaked when she saw the two of them.

Peter spoke this time. “Uh, yes, we just spoke to a nurse, and she told us we could find the guy, the, uh, John Doe who was involved in an accident on north Lake Shore Drive yesterday in Room 725.”

The new nurse consulted the log briefly. “That’s right.”

“He wasn’t there. I was wondering if he had been moved or something.”

“No, no there’s no indication of that. He should be there.”

“Well, he’s not,” Ed said.

“Well, I wouldn’t think he could have just up and walked away.”

The nurse came with them to the room. When she saw the rumpled and empty bed, she looked as confused and lost as Peter and Ed.

“I just checked his stats this morning. I’m certain this is the right room.”

“Well, he’s not here,” Ed repeated, hoping the guy’s absence was the result of a bureaucratic mix-up and not something more disheartening.

“No kidding. Look, are you guys looking for a family member or something?”

“No, we think it’s our friend,” Peter said and looked at Ed to silence him, challenging him to disagree.

Ed said nothing.

“Why don’t the two of you wait up by the nurses’ station, and I’ll see what I can find out.” The woman’s dark features were creased with worry.

Ed and Peter waited for almost a half hour before the nurse returned. She sat down beside them, shaking her head before she said anything. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” She paused. “What relationship did you have to this person again?”

Peter said, “We’re his friends. But we’re not even sure this is the person we’re looking for. Just tracking down a lead.”

“Right,” Ed agreed, already feeling his hopes deflate.

The nurse said nothing for a moment. “Look, I probably shouldn’t even tell you this, but the guy in 725 has disappeared. No one’s seen him since they came around with breakfast this morning. It looks like he just up and walked out.”

“What the hell?” Ed glared at the woman.

“Listen, honey, this isn’t my fault. It happens sometimes, but I wouldn’t have expected it from this guy, who hasn’t said anything or moved since we brought him in.”

Peter asked, “Were his injuries severe?”

“That’s the weird thing. He had a cut on his forehead and what appeared to be some strain on his back, but otherwise he seemed fine. The doctors don’t believe he was comatose or anything, because none of their tests indicated that. We were just thinking he was in shock or something.”

“And now he just walked out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Ed stood up. “You can’t imagine how sorry.”

The nurse stood with them. “Well, look at it this way. This might not have even been the friend you were looking for, and if it was, he’s at least well enough to walk out of here on his own.”

“It’s alarmingly comforting.” Ed frowned.

Peter pulled him away. “Thank you very much.” He gave Ed a shove toward the exit. “She might be right, you know,” Peter said as they headed toward the bank of elevators.

“So where does that leave us? Where does that leave Mark Dietrich? Who dies next?”

“Don’t think that way. This could be something else entirely.”

“I wish we had such luck. But it doesn’t seem to be running that way lately.”

*

After a few aspirins and some water, Timothy was feeling marginally better. At least he didn’t feel weighed down as he had before, although his back ached every time he moved, and the pain behind his right eye had not subsided.

He wished there was someone he could call. But there was no one. Aunt Helene wasn’t far, and she had always made an excellent angel of mercy, but a call from him would probably send her to the nearest mental hospital. The same was true of almost anyone else he used to know.

Timothy Bright was alone. And being injured like this increased the feeling, made of it some strange, hulking thing that weighted him down with pain and immobility.

But there was one way to make a connection. And perhaps that way would at least take his mind off the pain and the loneliness, if only for fifteen minutes or so.

He pulled himself over to the computer and, with a couple clicks of the mouse, was in Men4HookUpNow.

Who would he be today? He could be anyone. And anyone out there with whom he made contact was safe. He was too tired and in too much pain to even consider getting out of bed.

Wasn’t he?

*

John had never actually gone online. Well, he thought, I mean, not for sex. Oh sure, he had seen the ads in the back of Gay Chicago, had looked at the chiseled muscles of the models there, had even fantasized about what it would be like to be with one of them. The anonymity of the whole thing intrigued him.

He looked around the small studio he occupied. It was only the one room, really, with a bathroom attached to it. Kitchen along one wall, two windows to the left of the kitchen, a table, two chairs, a futon and coffee table comprising the living room. A bookshelf held rows of Modern Library classics he had studied as an English major at the University of Illinois: Moby Dick, The Scarlet Letter, The Sun Also Rises, Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, the whole panoply of authors he supposed no one ever read anymore, save for English majors. There was no TV. A Colt magazine lay open on the table.

The men from Colt had usually been enough for him, their hirsute, muscular forms coming alive for him as he stroked himself, picturing these same men doing things to him that he could never admit to anyone.

Lately, though, the pornography failed to arouse him. He longed for a more corporeal connection. It had been years since he had felt the warmth of flesh pressed against his.

John Austin was ugly. Another thing his apartment did not contain was a mirror, save for the one over the bathroom sink. While at the university, he’d had to take at least three science courses to fulfill his BA requirement, one of which had to be a lab class. John loved the “mad scientist” look of the chemistry lab, with its beakers, Bunsen burners, and glass tubes. A kind of alchemy, he thought. As a junior, John had done poorly in the book portion of the class but had looked forward to the Monday night lab sessions. It was during just such a lab session that John got creative and tried throwing together things that he didn’t realize were explosive when merged. The resulting explosion did him no disabling harm, but the splash of acidic liquid altered his face forever. The hair at the front of his head never grew back, and his face had that Freddy Krueger look everyone loved to whisper about. Except this wasn’t makeup; there was no removing the burned scar tissue at the end of the day. Now John existed on big-billed Cubs caps that he pulled low on his face, hoping the shadow would spare him from distasteful—or worse, pitying—glances he encountered in the street.

Not that trips in public were that frequent. His English major and ability to work fast procured a job as a copy editor with an educational publishing house. Every week a new book arrived via Federal Express for him to edit. He rarely had to make any sort of human contact, which was just fine with him.

John fingered the keyboard in front of him. If it hadn’t been for his job, he didn’t think he would have even bothered with the expense of a computer and an online service. But he needed to be available for emails from the publisher, and some of the smaller stuff he edited online. Once in a while, he got an email from his mother in Carbondale. But this contact, John thought, was just to assuage her guilt. Ever since the accident, she could barely stomach looking at her son with his new face, the face that bore no resemblance to the rest of the Austin clan.

He could do without contact from her.

He logged onto Google and typed in Men4HookUpNow, the service that had the biggest ad in the back of Gay Chicago. Of course, it came up at the top of the search engine listings. He clicked on the URL and paused at the home page screen.

Where did he suppose this would get him? There was no need to post a photo of himself, no need to even describe what he looked like. A lot of these guys, he saw at a glance, listed only what they were looking for and hardly said a thing about themselves. What would a guy do when he opened the door to John’s face? Would he welcome him in? Or more likely, would he slam the door and retreat, gibbering in horror, to the safety of his abode?

There was always phone sex. He had availed himself of such measures before. John supposed he could be someone else entirely, optic fibers and imagination making of his flabby body an Adonis, with lean, chiseled muscles and a huge cock. His face would be handsome: cleft chin, wavy auburn hair, perhaps a goatee. Of course, an eagle tattoo would adorn his chest, a band of tattooed barbed wire around his sixteen-inch biceps.

But talking had all the appeal of the Colt magazine. Empty. Relying too heavily on his imagination. He didn’t want to sublimate his consciousness to try for another sad orgasm.

And he longed for the touch of another. No one ever touched him, not even in the most casual way. He craved touch the way a man stranded in the desert craved water.

“Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can have it,” he said to himself.

He stared at the monitor screen, wondering how he should approach talking to someone. If he started getting anywhere, should he tell him the truth? It seemed his only recourse, because if he did make some sort of connection, he wouldn’t get very far. Why waste both of their times?

Perhaps a mask? John had an idea. Maybe someone out there would get into some sort of fantasy scene. A rape, complete with ski mask. He imagined himself asking his potential suitor to leave the door unlatched, and he would enter, cutting through the darkness, moving toward a bedroom where a warm man waited. Waited to take him into his arms, hold him and caress him, kiss him through the slit in the knitted cap.

This is what I have to do for love, John thought, the despair and dejection rising up in him like a wave of nausea. Well, you never get anywhere unless you try….

He took a deep breath and began the process of creating a screen name and online profile. He signed up for the monthly renewable billing plan because the site told him that this was the best value. Who knows? Maybe this will work out, John thought, with the optimism of the desperate.

It didn’t take John long to figure out the instant messaging system. Just glance at the list of screen names of online suitors, click on one, see how they looked and sounded—although John didn’t think he had much right to be choosy, he still had his likes and dislikes, no matter how unappealing he might be to others—and then click on the IM button next to the guy’s name. He noticed there were currently twelve pages of guys online. Surely, among these dozens, he could find one other lonely soul who would go along with his needs. Perhaps a masochist, who would get off on the anonymity John was thinking about.

John sent out three or four instant messages to guys who looked promising, but all of them went unanswered. He imagined that they could look through their monitors at his scarred face. Reality told him it was more likely the fact that he had not posted a photo online… Almost everyone had some sort of photographic representation. He tried one more, wondering if this process was always so long and involved. Patience. This guy’s screen name was BrightBoy, and he also had not posted a pic. At least he couldn’t hold that against John.

“What’s up?” John keyed in. And then, because he thought he should try to take control, he typed: “What are you looking for?”

“Looking to get together, maybe.”

“Me too. I’m in Bucktown.”

“Looking for company or travel?”

“Either way.”

“Cool. I need to stay in. What do you look like?”

John couldn’t respond.

“Hello? Still there?”

“Yes. I’m six one, 195, brown hair and eyes.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I just want to—” John stopped. “Actually, I’m looking for someone who would be into a fantasy scene.”

“Oh yeah?”

It almost seemed John could sense the other guy’s interest being piqued through the computer. “Yeah. Would you be into a little role-playing?”

“Maybe. Depends on the part.”

“I was hoping to do a little rape scene.” John thought for a moment. “Nothing too rough, of course. Pretty vanilla, really.”

“Sounds cool. Tell me more.”

“Well, I could wear a mask, and you could leave your door open and wait for me in the bedroom, pretend like you were asleep.” John closed his eyes in self-loathing. No one would ever go for this. It was so unsafe. Of course some guy’s going to leave his door open for a perfect stranger to walk in and have sex with him. Right.

“That could be fun.”

John was shocked. He had read in the paper about the serial killer in Chicago. Didn’t this guy have any sense? Still, his loss could be John’s gain. And the desire rose up in him, the prospect of being close to someone again, his hands exploring willing flesh, a warm beating heart pressed against his.

“When would you want to do this?” John asked.

“Now.”

John looked out his windows at the gray skies. The world today was monochromatic, industrial buildings contrasting the sky in various shades of their own drab gray. “Sounds good. Where do you live?”

“Just take Lake Shore Drive north…”

 

Timothy logged off the computer. What was he doing? He needed to rest. But the guy online sounded so perfect, so willing, so right up his alley.

Wincing, he got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. “Rape scene, indeed. That’s my line,” he whispered to himself. “We’ll see who’s the one getting penetrated.” He giggled.

In the bathroom, he bent over, giving out a little cry at the sharp pain in his back when he did so, and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, the bandage on his forehead, the lackluster blond hair. “Not exactly my best,” he whispered to his reflection. “But who gives a fuck?”

Timothy slid into a pair of navy sweat pants and managed to pull a T-shirt over his head. He put a baseball cap on over his dirty hair. “Twenty minutes, a half hour.” He shook his head, thinking how this was too perfect. Someone into rape. Just the kind of bastard he wanted to get revenge on.

“Revenge for killing me!” he shouted.

 

John made his way north, following Sheridan Road when he reached the curve where Lake Shore Drive ended and became Hollywood. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. His face wore a sheen of sweat under the stocking cap. His stomach churned, and at each light, he contemplated turning the car around and heading back to the sanctuary of his apartment. What kind of person would want to go through with this, anyway?

 

Timothy darkened his little apartment, drawing blinds and curtains across all the windows, shutting out what feeble light the gray day had to offer.

“What are you doing?” he asked his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror in his front hallway. “What the fuck are you doing? One cardinal rule: never have anyone here.”

He pulled the chef’s knife from its oak block in the kitchen and went with it to the bedroom, where he placed it under his pillow. “Bastards like you make me sick. You’re getting just what you deserve.”

What would he do with the body? Solve that problem later. Maybe you shouldn’t answer the door; that way you’ll still be anonymous, the voice of reason whispered in his ear.

Timothy answered back. “I’ll still be anonymous because this dude ain’t talkin’. Not ever again.”

 

John made his way past Loyola University, where a group of students waited to cross the street under the L tracks. At the red light, he watched them as they passed by, laughing and talking to one another. He had been like them once, carefree and connected. The blue-jean-clad boys hurried across the street, unappreciative of all they had.

All John didn’t have.

When the light changed, he gunned the accelerator and sped north until he came to Estes, where he made a right and headed back toward Lake Michigan. The guy had said his building was last, next to the water. A white brick courtyard.

John located the building, but finding parking was a problem. He ended up having to park on Sheridan Road and walk back. People tried not to look at this tall man in the black ski mask, but failed. Even though the day was damp, dim, and cool, it was still far from being weather for such attire. He kept his gaze leveled at the sidewalk and hurried back to Estes, where his “date” waited.

What would it be like? John’s nerves pulsed like electric impulses. What would his hands touch? What would the skin of another feel like? It had been so long since he had touched flesh other than his own, he wondered if he wouldn’t come immediately, after just lightly running his fingers along someone’s back.

And suddenly he felt tears well up in his eyes. Cursing himself, he wiped them angrily away, before they had a chance to dampen his mask.

He paused in front of the building, looking at the black wrought-iron gate that barred him from the courtyard. Once, he supposed, the fence didn’t exist. But those were safer times.

What if, when the fantasy was played out, the guy wanted him to remove the mask? What would he say? Would he do it? If he did, he was certain it would ensure there would be no repeat performance. He supposed he could plead he wanted to keep the fantasy alive. And if the guy liked it, he might agree, and they would see one another again and again, faceless lovers bound up in dishonesty and subterfuge.

 

Timothy peeked through the curtains when the buzzer sounded. Below stood a tall man wearing a nylon jacket, dark gray, and a black ski mask. What was with this guy, anyway? Timothy had supposed he would put his mask on when he entered the building, or just outside the door. Why wear it outside?

Timothy crossed to the front hallway and buzzed him in through the gate, watched his progress through the courtyard, then buzzed him in through the door to his entrance. He unlocked the door, leaving it slightly ajar, and went into the bedroom, where he lay curled, his hand lightly stroking the knife under the pillow. He put his thumb in his mouth.

Soon the creak of floorboards heralded his arrival. The door closed, the latch falling into place. Every muscle tightened, and Timothy closed his eyes to see a bright play of colors—red, yellow, orange—swim beneath his eyelids.

He could hear the guy’s progress down the hall, across the living room, and finally the creak of the bedroom door.

And then he could feel the man’s gaze on him, appraising. Would this one turn and leave?

Timothy wouldn’t have it. This one was not getting out.

“I thought you’d be naked.” The voice was deep and sounded odd in the quiet apartment.

Timothy didn’t respond. At least not verbally. Instead, he flipped onto his back, stretching as if in sleep. Casually, he pushed the sweat pants down and off, kicking them sleepily to the floor. A turn of his head and the baseball cap tumbled off, landing on the floor beside the bed. There was no way he could remove the T-shirt while pretending to be asleep.

Apparently it was enough. The floorboards creaked as his suitor for the afternoon crossed the bedroom. Timothy could hear him breathing as he stood beside the bed.

 

John gazed down at the body before him. It was nothing like the bodies he fantasized over in his Colt magazines. Almost hairless, the body was lithe and small, the legs well muscled, the penis lying in a nest of soft, pale brown hair. The guy’s face was small too, the features elfin, turned-up nose, blushing cheeks, the full lips parted as in the breath of slumber.

Tentatively John reached down and laid his hand on one of the legs, splayed out across the sheet. In the dim light, it was hard to discern the color of the sheets, but he could tell they were faintly striped.

The touch was electric. The skin was impossibly smooth and John sucked in his breath at the feel of it. He moved his hand down the thigh, over the bump of the knee and down, reveling in the feel of the coarse blond hair, which was invisible in the half-light. John tried to quell the trembling the touch caused, steeling and tightening the muscles in his arm…to no avail.

 

This one takes his time, Timothy thought, trying not to recoil from the touch of his warm hand, trying not to scream at the feel of the fingers on his shin. It made him think of a cockroach crawling down his leg. He bit his lip and rolled over.

 

John couldn’t believe it. The sight of the two half moons of the man’s ass before him caused his breath to quicken, caused his heart to hammer, tight, stealing his breath.

 

The feel of the hand on his ass made Timothy stiffen so much he had to bite his lip, bite so hard he tasted metal, the copper of his own blood. He couldn’t stand being touched there, conjuring up as it did the worst memories. He gripped the knife under the pillow, curling his fingers under the shank so tightly his knuckles went bloodless, his palms slick with sweat.

 

John could feel the tension in the man’s buttocks when he touched them. Clenched tightly, the half moons became iron, muscles bunching beneath the baby-smooth white skin. He stroked, letting his fingers lie gently in the crack.

He began to undress.

 

When Timothy heard the rustle of clothes dropping to the floor, he became so filled with rage, his eyes snapped open, and he whirled on this fucker who had come to call. The memories rushed back in, making his temples throb and his head ache. Even after all these years, the night rushed back to him with all the clarity of a motion picture.

There was Teddy, the pain in his eyes real, gasping for breath under the tutelage of forcible pain. It was his own face, Timothy thought.

 

Just as he removed the last of his clothes, save for the ski mask, John watched as the man turned, shocked by the pale blue of his eyes meeting his own. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

“No,” he whispered. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” The moment deflated the strength of the fantasy the way a pin deflates a balloon.

“Fuck you.” The man stared at him, challenging.

It was then John saw the glint of silver, dull but horrifyingly obvious even in the dark of the bedroom.

As he turned, the bedsprings creaked. John reached down for his jeans and sprinted toward the door, nausea and terror rising up in him. The door was not far, not too far. He had to make it.

He stumbled as he left the bedroom, and he could feel the man right behind him. Something hot and metal brushed down his back as he pulled away. He turned and saw the man standing behind him, a huge knife held aloft in his right hand.

“No,” he whimpered, reaching for the weapon.

It sliced, hot, through the skin of his palm. He tried to wrap his fingers around it, despite the pain. Just as he did so, the man yanked the knife back, slicing deep.

John gasped as the blood poured from his palm, splattering on the hardwood. Tremors seized his entire body. His head shook, an icy chill shot through him, and the shit left him, splattering on the floor to combine with his blood.

He reached out to grab the man’s throat with his left hand, and as he did so, the knife plunged in, through his ribs.

John gasped, sinking to his knees, wondering where all the air had disappeared to.

 

After he was done, Timothy pulled the mask from the face and gazed down in horror at the scarred brown tissue there.

“And you weren’t even cute,” he whispered. A single giggle escaped him.