Chapter Thirty-Five

Ed arrived home without a clue. Where was Timothy Bright? Had this nightlong episode resulted in him learning anything more? Had it advanced his investigation in any worthwhile way? He had learned, maybe, how a dead man could be walking around killing others. And sure, he had perhaps saved Helene Bright’s life. But even on that score, he was doubtful. Her wounds were mostly superficial; she would have survived. Ed had merely been the one who had discovered her first. Once Rosehill opened its gates, someone would have found her in short order and done what he had done. All he’d done for her was save her from some publicity, something he knew she would have abhorred.

His apartment seemed especially empty. He wished he had asked Peter to meet him here. At least that way, there would have been something other than scattered magazines, newspapers, and clothes to greet him when he walked in the door, exhausted and frustrated.

Thoughts of Peter endowed him with a small kernel of energy, lifting his spirits. Although lifting his spirits was a relatively easy task, since they had nowhere to go but up.

He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He looked years older from the night, his eyes bloodshot, ringed in darkness. His face seemed to have lost some of its resiliency; it sagged.

Peter. Before he did anything else, he must call him. The poor guy had put up with so much, and he must be worried. Ed would try to make it up to him, even though it still seemed there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

Ed went in his bedroom, picked up the cordless from its base on his dresser, and punched in Peter’s phone number.

Ed felt chilled as he listened to the four rings, then Peter’s voice. “Hello, this is Peter. I’m not here right now. But if you leave a message, I’ll call you right back. Thanks.” The message, so often heard in the past, chilled Ed. He glanced at the clock. It was only seven thirty. Peter never had to be at work before 9:00 a.m.

Where would he be at seven thirty in the morning? Peter, who loved his sleep almost as much as he loved his sex. Peter was not the kind of guy to already be out.

Fear rose up in him, like icy fingers stretching from his gut to envelop his heart, to squeeze, tighter, tighter.

Ed recalled their quick conversation earlier that morning.

“Should I meet you there?”

Oh God, he didn’t.

“Should I meet you there?”

The simple words taunted him. He imagined Timothy Bright listening in on this tiny mental loop and laughing at him.

“Should I meet you there?”

Perfect. Taking Peter would be perfect. Why hadn’t he insisted Peter stay put? Why hadn’t he let Peter meet him someplace safe? Guilt and panic set his adrenaline to pumping. What if Peter had shown up at the cemetery before him? What if he had been there to interrupt Bright’s flight from the cemetery?

It was too perfect a windfall for Timothy Bright. He would have loved it.

Ed picked up the phone again and dialed. Heard the same now-grim message again.

“Shit.” Ed hurried into the bedroom to change his clothes. There would be no rest for him, not yet.

Just as he had slipped into his jacket, ignoring the burning in his eyes and the ache in his muscles that told him he desperately needed sleep, the telephone rang.

Ed sprinted toward it, mumbling to himself, “Please let it be him; please let it be him.”

“Hello.”

“Mr. Comparetto?”

The voice sent a vise grip of ice around his heart. It was Timothy Bright.

“Timothy?” Ed could not let his fear or his anger or his frustration show. Somehow he had to at least make an effort to let Bright think Ed had the upper hand. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to update you on your aunt’s condition. She survived.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, she always was a resilient little bitch, sidestepping death at every turn. I’ll have to make sure I finish the job.” Bright laughed. “Where is she?”

Ed closed his eyes. He could practically feel the cold chill of evil coming through the phone. “Now, Timothy. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Oh, my little man, you have no idea how smart I am.” There was a pause. “Your boyfriend is pretty smart too. Isn’t he?”

“What are you talking about?” Please God, don’t let him say he has Peter. Please, there’s still a chance…

“Oh, nothing.”

“Stop it, Bright. I’m too fucking tired for games.”

“You suck cock with that filthy mouth?”

Ed sighed. Just come to the point. “Where is Peter?”

“Peter and I are getting acquainted.”

“So he is with you?”

“Oh yes. Most definitely. He sure is cute. I just might steal him away from you.” Bright laughed again, but there was no mirth in it, only menace. “In more ways than one.”

“What the fuck?”

“I just might steal him away from everyone, if you get my drift, asshole.”

“He’s all right?”

“About as well as can be expected. He’s scared.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Tell me where my aunt is and I’ll tell you where your fuck buddy is. Fair enough?”

Ed bit his lip, tugged at his hair. God, what could he do now? Lie. “She’s at Thorek Medical Center on Irving Park Road. Intensive care.”

“How easily you cave, my friend. Well, I’ve got to be going. Got another real hot little number to attend to here.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare hang up!” Ed could play games too. The number from where Bright was calling was captured on his Caller ID.

“Oh, I’m not going to hang up, you little queen. I don’t know how you got to be a cop. You’ve got no balls whatsoever.”

“Cut the shit. You wanna tell me where you are?”

“Yes, I do. Perhaps you and I can effect a little trade. You like trade, don’t you?”

“Love it. Now just get on with it.”

“You come out here, alone, and I’ll set your little Peter free.” Bright giggled.

“Done. Now where do I go?”

“I’m at David Long’s. Lake Bluff, Illinois, pal. It should take you less than an hour to get here. And remember two things. One, you take longer than that, let’s say a half hour more, and I fuckin’ kill him. Two, I see you pull up with anyone else in tow or if anything looks suspicious, I kill him. See, I have a unique vantage point, and if anyone else is with you, he’s dead. I don’t care anymore about getting caught. I’ll sit in jail for the rest of my life or fry in the electric chair just to have the satisfaction of taking your boy from you.”

The line went dead.

Ed rushed to the door.

*

Timothy hung up the phone. He smiled; things were just too sweet. He wondered how other killers managed to get caught. His little reign of terror seemed to have no end in sight, what with his “death” over two years ago protecting him.

And once he got Ed Comparetto here and disposed of, another obstacle would be removed. It would be kind of sweet, in a way, sending the star-crossed homo lovers off to eternity together.

And then, of course, he must get to Aunt Helene. That was an issue that did cause him some concern, her lying in a hospital with all that information. She wasn’t stupid, and she, of all people, could figure things out.

He wished Ed Comparetto would hurry. Timothy had a busy day ahead of him, and he was eager to get started.

*

Ed headed west once again on Touhy, anxiety mounting. This road charted his frustration and anger. His hands drummed restlessly on the steering wheel at every light, while he muttered, “C’mon, dammit, c’mon. Change.”

And when he wasn’t stopped at one of what he thought suddenly was an incredible number of red lights, he was speeding, gunning the car up as high as it would go without knocking off another car or hitting a pedestrian, weaving dangerously in and out of lanes in a desperate effort to clear a place for himself.

It could all be ended right here, today. Ed wondered what it would feel like—of course, he had thought all along that if he could crack this case, he might be reinstated on the force, but now those thoughts were uncertain. They had not given him even the smallest chance to tell his side of things. They had never even bothered to listen. His years spent on the force, doing a good job, meant nothing.

Perhaps he would go into business for himself, become a private detective. The scenario certainly had its appeal, being his own boss, not having to deal with institutional politics… But thoughts like these were for later. Peter was somewhere north of Chicago, and God only knew what was happening to him.

*

Timothy sat on the bed with David Long. “You were the first. You were the one who initiated me. You taught me how to give pain.” Timothy reached down and brushed the salt-and-pepper hair away from David’s brow. “Sometimes it didn’t seem so bad.” Timothy slapped David’s face. “What am I talking about? You stole it all from me! Was that your plan from the start? Is that why you started dating Aunt Helene?”

Timothy curled up beside the body, which was but a shadow of what he had been before, the virile, muscular man he had once known. How much had changed. This body bore little resemblance to the one that had raped him throughout the years. The man lying beside him was emaciated, the ribs sticking out through sallow flesh. The chest, which only hours ago had labored to draw breath, was now still.

“He was going to die anyway,” Timothy whispered. It had been easy to wrap his hands around the neck, easy to squeeze what life was left in David Long. He had done him a favor, really.

“I like you this way.” Timothy drew his leg up over David Long’s thigh, kissed the hair on his chest, and closed his eyes.

*

“What do you mean, you can’t give out his home address?” Ed clenched the cell phone so tightly his knuckles were white. He had tried every tack he could think of to induce the nurse to give him David Long’s home address: that he was an old friend, that he had an emergency.

“I’m sorry, sir, I just can’t give you that.”

“What can I say to convince you that this is a life and death situation? I really need that address. Please, please give it to me.”

“Who did you say you were again?”

“My name’s Ed Comparetto. The truth is I’m a private detective working for a friend of Dr. Long’s.”

“And what is this emergency?” The nurse sounded tired. Just as Ed was about to reply, the nurse interrupted. “Hang on a second.” Ed was switched into the Muzak oblivion of hold. Up ahead was the west entrance for I-94. Ed swerved onto the ramp and gunned the engine.

The nurse came back just as Ed was merging onto the expressway. She still sounded hassled and harried.

“Look, if I give you his address, you didn’t get it from me.”

“Understood.”

The nurse recited the address and hung up before Ed had a chance to thank her.

*

Peter watched as a beetle crept up his leg. His bonds were so tight, he couldn’t move. He could only watch helplessly as the insect made its crawly way up his leg. The feeling made him recoil, made him want to scream, had that been possible.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t have much time left.”

Peter jumped at the sound of the voice, coming from behind the darkness his blindfold imposed. He turned his head toward the direction from which the high-pitched voice came.

“I told him I’d kill you if he didn’t get here on time. The way I see it, he has only about twenty minutes left.”

There was silence for a few moments, long enough for Peter to think with horror of how he would die and the stupidity of it all being over like this. He had never thought he would die a murder victim, but then, who does? Then Peter heard something heavy being dragged across the dirt floor of the stable. What could only be a body landed beside him. He felt a head lolling on his shoulder and would have jumped, had he the freedom to move. The cold flesh against his made him shudder.

“Two of a kind,” Timothy laughed. “That’s what you’ll be if he doesn’t get here soon.”

Peter held his breath. Death, he thought, might just be preferable to this suspense.

*

Ed headed north on Route 41, painfully aware of the clock on the dashboard. The fact that he had only minutes left made sweat start at his temples and armpits, every so often rolling down to tickle him like the legs of a spider.

As he headed north, the suburban landscape changed. Instead of housing developments and chain stores to his right and left, there were now trees, bereft of their leaves. Traffic was light, and Ed was able to make his way easily, accelerating up to eighty, ninety miles per hour. At this rate, he would be at David Long’s home with time to spare.

Ed caught up to the light blue Buick too easily. Through the Buick’s back window, he could see the car’s driver, an old man in a hat. Not a good sign. Just as he was about to pass, a tractor trailer came bearing down on him, horn blaring to prevent him from switching lanes. Ed winced and veered back right as the truck blew by him.

“Damn.”

He pulled out behind the truck and realized the old man he had been tailgating wanted to play games. The driver increased his pace to match Ed, zooming up to ride alongside him. Ed looked over, desperate, and caught a look at the man’s face. Old, shriveled, with a yellowed mustache over thin lips, he was laughing at Ed and pointing.

How could he tell this old fool he wasn’t just some young guy in a big hurry with no purpose? How could he let him know this was a situation that could have dire consequences if he didn’t let him by?

There was no way, so Ed slowed and took his place behind the Buick once more, figuring he’d have a chance to get around him once the old man got reacquainted with his snail’s pace and figured he had won the contest and put Ed in his place.

But that was not to be the case. It seemed suddenly that no one, not even God, wanted him to make it to David Long’s house on time.

A deer, its sleek brown coat shining dully in the diffused sunlight and its eyes sparkling wildly with fear, darted in front of the Buick. The driver swerved to miss it, slamming on his brakes and skidding. The car loomed up in front of him; Ed swerved opposite to avoid impact.

The car shimmied under the pressure of the sudden turn. Ed flew off the road, headed toward a copse of pine trees at the side. The only thing that saved him was the ditch, into which the car nosedived, coming to a sudden halt that sent Ed flying forward, the seat belt and air bag mercifully shielding him from shattering the windshield with his head.

Ed listened as his back tires spun in the air, and the traffic whooshed by behind him.