Chapter Thirty-Two

Ed waited only a few minutes before exiting the house and getting in his own car. He had an idea of where they would go, the epicenter of this whole horrid business: Rosehill Cemetery. It was where they all were, dead or alive, and he thought it was logical, in its own mixed-up way, for them to go there.

The hour had grown late, and the highways were relatively deserted. Ed’s adrenaline was pumping as he sped down I-94, watching for the Touhy exit. It seemed to be taking forever, in spite of the few cars on the road. He knew it was a long way east on Touhy, and each red light, of which there were many, would be an exercise in frustration and aggravation.

What if they weren’t even there? Bright could take his aunt anyplace in the world; hunches didn’t always pay off.

He took the curve at the Touhy exit too fast and almost lost control of the car. The tires screeched as Ed fought for control. The maneuver didn’t do much for his frayed nerves. In addition to the adrenaline rush, his heart was now pumping wildly. A trickle of sweat had formed at his hairline; his hands were slippery on the wheel.

As he stopped at the first red light, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel, he picked up his cell phone.

*

He was dreaming. And in his dream, he found himself alone in a blank white room. He knew he had been put there by someone, knew, in fact, that he was being held prisoner there.

The room had no windows, no doors; even the usual parameters of a room—its four walls—were missing. The room curved in a circular shape, no way to discern which way anything faced. It was horrifyingly disorienting.

He could hear, dimly, Ed’s voice outside the room. He held himself perfectly still, stopping his breathing to listen to the muffled voice.

Ed was screaming. He was saying something, between cries of agony, about being helped.

Peter Howle awakened, his sheets wet with sweat. Outside, the sky was that peculiar predawn color that no word can describe. It was lighter but still seemed to retain the color of night, navy blue with no stars.

Why had he been so hard on Ed? The poor guy was doing nothing more than trying to save his own life. Peter could now see that he had no right to stand in his way.

But he desperately wanted nothing to happen to this man he was falling in love with. That was his sole reason for being so adamant about Ed’s continuing this little investigation of his. The stakes were too high. Why couldn’t he just find another job and forget about this Timothy Bright character? But Peter knew, deep down, that Ed’s job was important to him, important to his sense of self. How could he just expect him to drop it without a fight?

Peter sat up in bed, the sheets slipping from his chest to bunch around his waist. Dim light permeated the room, enough to see the David Hockney posters on his wall, enough to see the oval-faced deco clock his mother had given him for his birthday last year.

It was 5:00 a.m.

And the phone was ringing.

Only one person, Peter thought, could be calling at this hour. He lunged for the phone and swooped it from its cradle.

“It’s me.”

Peter caught his breath. At least Ed was all right.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in my car, heading east on Touhy.”

Peter stood and began pacing around his bedroom. The sky was getting lighter and lighter, now a pearlescent gray. “What are you doing, Ed? Why are you on Touhy at five o’clock in the morning?”

“Never mind that. I want you to forgive me.”

Peter thought how this conversation could only be taking place at such an odd hour, when the good sense of day still waited to awaken. He’d never really meant to shut Ed out anyway. His unyielding manner on this issue was nothing more than a ruse, a hope that if Ed saw what he might lose if he stayed in pursuit of things, he would give up on it…for Peter’s sake.

When you love someone, you don’t make them make such choices, even if it is for their own good.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“You’ll see me again, then?”

Peter sighed. “I really don’t have any choice. Yes, of course.”

“Good. I just didn’t want to go into this with the feeling I had lost you.”

Although he didn’t say it, Peter thought, “You haven’t lost me.” Ed didn’t really have him yet. He had been so wrapped up in this damn case that he really had never been able to give Peter his all. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“I’d rather not involve you in it.”

Peter barked out a short laugh. “It’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?”

“I guess you’re right. Still, you’d be better off just waiting for me.”

“What is this? Keeping me safe? I don’t need it, Ed. If this is going to be the kind of life you lead, then I’m going to have to get used to it. Right?”

“It’s just better—”

“Right?”

“I suppose. Why do you need to know, anyway?”

Peter shook his head. Daylight was creeping steadily into his room, and with the light he was waffling, beginning to question his involvement with this man who was either extraordinarily dedicated or nuts. “I need to know because I care about you.”

“It’s a long story. I’m on my way to Rosehill Cemetery.”

“Should I meet you there?” What was wrong with him? Peter suddenly questioned his own sanity. He had never imagined having a boyfriend who would involve him in such life and death situations.

“No. Absolutely not.”

There was a click. Peter sighed.

Rosehill wasn’t that far. Peter headed to his chest of drawers for jeans and a T-shirt.

*

Ed arrived just outside Rosehill Cemetery at a quarter of six. He parked his car on Ravenswood and sprinted across the street.

The gothic castle façade at the front of the cemetery looked imposing against the slate-blue sky. Everything was silent. No cars were rushing by; no birds were singing.

The gates were locked. It was what he had expected. But did the locked gate mean that Bright and his aunt could also not be inside?

Timothy Bright was far too clever for that. Rosehill was one of the largest cemeteries, if not the largest, in the city limits. Surely, among its many borders, one could find access.

Ed looked down Ravenswood, searching for the car that had taken them away less than an hour ago…and saw nothing more than parked cars, none of which bore even a passing resemblance to Timothy Bright’s vehicle. Here and there along the rows of buildings that faced the L tracks there was a yellow light in a window, indicating someone was up, about to start a normal day.

Ed wondered if life would ever be normal again. It was hard to remember back to the time when his days were relatively unmarked by stress, a time when everything was just as it was supposed to be and the only tension was of the everyday variety.

How would he get past the cemetery’s locked gates? And even if he did get in, what would it gain him? Would he be able to find Bright, rescue his aunt? Or would he only be breaking into a place where he was the only living being, save for the swans, geese, and ducks that swam in the pond near the chapel or the squirrels that foraged among the tombstones?

But there could be other life, and if he wasn’t too late, Ed might find two living souls, one in grave danger and the other—just out of the grave?—twisted and with homicidal impulses.

Ed walked beyond the castle-like façade of the cemetery. A high wrought-iron fence surrounded everything. Was the fence, Ed now wondered, to keep intruders out or to keep the dead within? Were the people who managed this parklike monument to death privy to knowledge the rest of the world didn’t have? Had they seen people, caked with grime, walk out of the cemetery when, for all intents and purposes, they should have lain within these fenced borders for eternity?

He traveled a great distance, the sounds of the awakening city his only company, north on Ravenswood, then west on Peterson, until he saw a break in the fence. The break was small, and he didn’t know if he could fit through, but it seemed like his only chance to gain entry.

Ed sucked in his breath and worked his way into the opening. The iron of the fence pressed against his back and stomach, almost cutting off his air. He was in far enough that whether he could get either in or out became something Ed pondered. How humiliating to be discovered here by a groundskeeper, unable to move.

He pushed, sliding himself toward the well-manicured grass and the tombstones and mausoleums to his right. And couldn’t move. It was as if he had caught himself in a trap. Perhaps this was just the kind of trap the admittedly clever Mr. Bright would be laughing about now, in some other location, the blood-soaked body of his aunt lying on the floor before him.

He sucked in his breath until his lungs hurt, until he thought he could stand it no more, until he thought he might burst, and let himself almost fall into the cemetery’s grounds.

There was a moment when he thought it wouldn’t work, and then, with a dizzying loss of balance, Ed fell to the ground. Inside the cemetery. His shirt had ripped, and there was a bright red line on his stomach, already raised, with dots of blood showing on its surface.

Ed would deal with that later. Right now, there was no time for his own pain. He got up, gasping for the air he had denied himself, and began to run.

But where? This was a huge cemetery, occupying entire acres. Bright could be anywhere. The most logical place to look would be, of course, at the Bright family plot. It had seemed somewhat of a useless mission when he and Peter had visited the gravesite weeks ago. Now he was grateful he knew in which direction to head.

A cold wind had blown up, and Ed remembered that forecasters last night had predicted an early snow—just flurries, but unusual for November. The prediction came true as Ed neared the Bright plot. Slants of white came down and melted as soon as they reached the earth, which still retained enough warmth to fight off its encroachment.

They had been here. Ed paused in front of the graves, panting and damning himself for being too slow. He surveyed the family plot, sickened by what he saw. The scene was unusual, with all the accoutrements of violence, and Ed wondered if what he saw was just the aftermath of a struggle or a message. More games to play…

Timothy seemed so very fond of games.

The earth above Timothy’s grave had been disturbed. Seriously disturbed. The pale grass, yellow in spots, had been overturned to reveal the rich soil underneath. Soil was scattered all around the gravesite; it almost looked as if someone had dug his way out.

That much, at least, is a message for me.

But the other thing Ed’s detective gaze took in could certainly be evidence of a violent struggle. At the top of Theodore Bright’s granite marker, there was a smear of a dark substance, almost black now but still sticky to the touch.

Blood.

The adrenaline pumping through Ed’s system seemed to ebb all at once, to wither away, leaving a vague bad taste in his mouth, disappointment that he had been too slow.

But where were they now? Ed scanned the bleak landscape, so empty and devoid of the life which was beginning to bustle just outside the cemetery’s confines.

He could search the cemetery for the entire morning. And even if they were still here, which he doubted, he might never find them. The place was dotted with mausoleums, most of them ornate and bearing inscriptions that made their occupants seem somehow more noble. There were statues erected to the memory of the dead. And there were copses of trees, though now leafless, that still offered some refuge to those who sought to hide.

Then he heard the scream. Shrill, high-pitched, and definitely that of a woman, Ed thought it came from somewhere to the southwest. Western Avenue was the western border of Rosehill, and it was from this direction that the single scream came, sounding so lonely and helpless and worse, full of terror.

He remembered when he and Peter had visited and knew there was a huge mausoleum that offered sort of a condominium-style resting place to its occupants. Imposing and crafted from gray granite, the mausoleum would offer a good spot to hide. The entrances were shielded almost entirely from view.

As quickly as he could run, Ed headed toward the mausoleum. They had to be there; they just had to be. He had been troubled too much by this whole scenario for them not to be. It just wouldn’t be fair.

Soon the cemetery would be opening to the public. And Ed knew Bright was far too smart to stick around when the cars, birdwatchers, mourners, and early morning walkers came filtering in.

The mausoleum looked deserted when he arrived. Ed took the steps up to the double doors at the front two at a time. Pressing his face against the barred glass entrance revealed nothing more than a marble interior, quiet as a chapel. Two benches stood out a little on either side of what must have been an opening to a large marble room.

Why did people spend so much on interring their dead?

The time for such questions was not now, and Ed moved quickly to the side of the building. This entrance was bordered on either side by granite slabs and pretty much blocked from view, an ideal hiding place.

Except there was no one there.

Ed backed up and repeated the process, going around to an identical entrance on the south side of the building.

Ed gasped when he saw her. At least he thought it was her. A form, shrouded in a sheet, lay on the ground near the metal doors. One of the windows in the door was boarded over, proving to Ed that people did try to gain entrance.

And sometimes succeeded.

He approached the shrouded form carefully. He knew this could be just another ruse concocted by Bright. A trap to ensure Ed was taken out of the game forever. He squatted beside the still form and reached out to touch it. It seemed chilled by the air outside, but he could tell what was within was still warm.

Ed took a deep breath and pulled back the sheet.

Helene Bright’s face was almost unrecognizable, so marred by bruises and cuts. When he turned her, she slumped over on her back, her head lolling to one side.

“Oh Christ, no,” Ed whispered, reaching down to stroke the crusty, bloated cheek. “Fuck… Why do I have to be involved in this?”

Helene Bright opened her eyes.