Chapter Thirty-Seven

It had been years since he had done this. Not since he was a teenager had Ed stood beside a roadway with his thumb out. He hoped the crashed car behind him would tug at the heartstrings of some Good Samaritan.

Yet the cars whizzed by him, all with places to go too important for the drivers to stop and lend a fellow traveler some aid. He looked down at his watch and saw that his time was almost up. He thought of Dorothy in the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz and knew just how she felt. A wave of nausea rolled over him as he watched another car pass him without even slowing and realized how the most innocent of events could conspire to create a true tragedy.

Just as he was thinking these grim thoughts, a beat-up VW bus pulled over to the berm, kicking up gravel, its taillights glowing in the gray light of the day.

Thank God, Ed thought, running toward the old orange vehicle. Thank God.

Just let me make it before it’s too late.

*

“Well, my little homo pal, it seems your time is almost up. Maybe your boyfriend doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die.”

Peter wished he could see Bright, wished he could speak to him. He felt so helpless, lying here on this dirt floor and waiting for his life to be taken. He couldn’t even curl into a compact ball to protect himself. There was nothing he could do.

And even if Ed did show up on time, what guarantee was there that Bright wouldn’t just kill them both?

If Peter had been a religious man, he would have prayed, begging forgiveness for his sins. Now was the time…

*

The VW bus dropped him off at David Long’s driveway. Ed thanked the driver, a man close to fifty, with his long salt-and-pepper hair snaking down his back in a braid.

He hopped from the bus and sprinted up the brick driveway, shouting as he ran, “Bright! Bright! I’m here. It’s not too late.”

Timothy watched from David Long’s kitchen window. “Perfect,” he whispered as Ed Comparetto came into view, arms pumping and screaming for him. “Perfect. I’ve got you just where I want you.”

Timothy enjoyed the look of terror on Ed’s face for a few moments before heading toward the door off the kitchen.

*

Ed paused, looking around the driveway. No one was in sight. The only sounds were the twittering cries of the birds in the trees. All the windows in the big house were dark; there was no movement behind any of them.

His heart thumped wildly. What if this was yet another ruse on Timothy Bright’s part? What if he and Peter weren’t here at all? What if, as he stood here, gasping for the cold air that surrounded him, they were somewhere else, and right now Timothy was readying a blade for Peter’s throat?

What if Peter was already dead?

Ed tensed as he heard the creak of a door opening and then a slam as it closed.

Ed turned, and as he did so, Timothy Bright moved into view. Ed sucked in his breath. How could someone so small, so elfin really, have caused all this mayhem?

Bright stood before him, grinning, about fifty paces away.

“I see you made it. And not a moment too soon. I was just about ready to fillet your boyfriend.” Timothy pulled a butcher’s knife from behind his back. He held it before him as a child might hold a new toy. There was the same delight in holding the object and, if one didn’t know better, the same absence of malice.

“Where is he?” Ed croaked, still out of breath, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, shooting his blood pressure up, causing his heart to pound and the sweat to run, in spite of the chill in the air.

“All in good time, my pretty, all in good time.” Timothy approached Ed until he was within a couple of feet from him. He ran the dull side of the knife along his palm and then grinned. “We had a deal. Remember? We were going to make a trade, you for him.”

“Right.” Ed could barely speak, so dry were his mouth and throat. “So, I’m here.”

“I want to be sure you don’t have any little tricks up your pathetic sleeve.”

“I don’t; I swear. Now will you let him go?”

“Slow down there, pardner. You seem to forget who’s running the show here.”

Ed bowed his head. In spite of the rage seething within him, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s better. Now, the first thing I need from you are any weapons you’ve brought along.” Timothy stared at Ed, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“I don’t have anything. I swear.”

“Your word is about as good as mine.” Timothy giggled and deepened his voice. “I’m going to have to frisk you. Put your hands in the air.”

Ed closed his eyes as he felt Bright’s hands begin to wander his body, patting him down, rubbing, pausing at his crotch. The touch was sickening, having all the appeal of a cockroach skittering across his chest.

“What kind of a dumb fuck are you?”

“What?” Ed was confused.

“You call yourself a cop, and you show up here without even so much as a pocket knife?”

“They call it anticipation, Bright. Now, will you bring Peter to me?”

“Once again, you’re out of line. What are we going to do about that?” Without waiting for a reply, Timothy went on. “I’m in charge. Things will happen when I deem them ready. Do you understand?”

Ed bit his lip hard to keep from saying something that might jeopardize Peter’s future. That is, if Peter was even still alive. “Yes,” he whispered, the s coming out sibilant, a hiss.

“Come with me.” Timothy turned in the direction of a stand of pine and maple trees to his left. Ed could see the white outline of a small structure in the woods. He started to move toward it.

“Wait a minute. You don’t think, even for a moment, that I’m going to give you complete freedom of mobility?”

“Of course not.” Ed continued to eye the little structure in the woods. That had to be where he was holding Peter. If he could just…

Without considering his actions any further, Ed took a breath and began sprinting through the woods, finding a small cobblestone path that led to the little outbuilding before him. He reached it, listening as Timothy’s hurried footsteps fell behind him.

Ed threw open the door and gasped in horror. Peter lay on the floor, ankles and wrists bound so tightly, Ed could see the purple bruises beginning to form above the hemp. He was blindfolded with a black bandanna, a piece of duct tape stretched across his mouth.

But worst of all, what seemed to be a concentration camp victim lay beside him, perfectly still, the once-handsome features appearing to be cast in alabaster, so pale were they. The skin already had a bluish tinge to it, and the body had the stiffness that described the onset of rigor mortis.

He slammed the door shut just as Bright approached and looked wildly about for something to hold it shut long enough for him to get Peter unbound. The two of them, he thought, could handle Bright, no matter what weapons he had.

Holding his shoulder against the door while Bright banged against it, Ed continued to search through the detritus for something with which to bar entrance. Near the back, in one corner, stood an old wheelbarrow. Its red coat of paint was dull, dulled further by dust and cobwebs. Spots of rust, like some sort of cancer, dotted its surface.

But how could he get to the wheelbarrow and continue to keep the door blocked? Moving toward the wheelbarrow would give Bright the second or two he needed to get inside.

And then what would happen?

*

Timothy banged against the door, hard, not caring how much it hurt his shoulder. This bastard was ruining his plans. He couldn’t let that happen. He hurled himself against the door once more, muttering to himself, whimpering at the pain the jolt sent through his shoulder. This maneuver looked so easy in the movies. Why wasn’t it working now?

He answered himself. Maybe because the guy on the other side has about fifty pounds on me and is much, much stronger.

Fuck that! Timothy grunted and threw himself at the door again.

He was not about to let this happen.

*

Ed stared over at Peter. “Peter! Peter, I’m here! Things are going to be okay.” Ed hated to lie, but he had no degree of certainty that things would be all right.

In response, Peter mumbled through the duct tape.

Ed leaned hard into the door. His shoulder ached. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold off Bright’s onslaught. He pressed his shoulder with even more force against the door and reached out with his foot to snag the wheelbarrow. If he could just reach it, he could wrap his foot around the bottom and tug it toward him.

It wouldn’t work. The wheelbarrow was still at least a foot beyond his reach, no matter how much he stretched.

Besides, would the wheelbarrow even hold? It was a stupid idea. One good shove and Bright would be inside before he had even the smallest chance of unbinding Peter.

*

It wouldn’t be long now, Timothy thought with glee, not long at all until he was inside. He could feel the fight being put up on the other side beginning to wane.

This was going to be so sweet. Leave them all dead and he could run away to a place where no one had heard of him. He could begin his life anew, now that all his wrongs were reversed.

And sweetest of all would be letting the blood flow from that pansy little weasel who called himself a hero…

*

Ed had almost missed it. But there it was, on the dirt floor. Such a small thing, really, but it just might work.

Ed positioned his hip against the door as he stooped over to pick up the rusty hoof pick lying there on the earth floor. Maybe there was some way he could grasp it, scoop it up, and slide it somehow through the metal handle of the door. And of course, then pray it held long enough for him to set Peter free.

Oh God, why had he brought this innocent man into this situation?

Ed grunted and stooped farther, extending his fingers outward to grasp the pick.

His hip wasn’t enough. He felt a great rush, and then the door pushed open, letting in a draft of cold air and…

Timothy Bright, whose small frame filled the doorway. He laughed as Ed stumbled backward into the shed.

*

Timothy wanted to use some cliché movie line like “Trapped like rats” but was afraid that would lend too comic an atmosphere to the scene, as if he wasn’t playing seriously. And he was.

Dead serious.

Seeing the carnage he had already wreaked gave him a feeling of triumph. He wished he had a photograph to memorialize the dead man who had defiled him, the terrified, angry expression on Ed Comparetto’s face, and the bound and gagged form of his lover. Too sweet.

“Comparetto. Don’t move an inch. You do and there will be no negotiating. It’ll be over. You’ve already demonstrated to me you’re not to be trusted.” Bright moved in closer to Ed. “Back up against that wall there and sit your ass down on the floor.”

Ed complied.

“Now put your hands together and lift your wrists to me. I’m sure you’ve played this little game before.”

*

Ed didn’t know what to do. He slid slowly to the floor, his back against the wall. He couldn’t let Bright bind him like this; it would remove any leverage.

“Wait a minute, man. You said you wanted me out here for a trade. Before I let you tie me up, you need to let him go.”

Bright shook his head back and forth, as if he were encountering a misbehaving child. “You just don’t learn, do you? It’s no wonder the police department booted your ass.”

“What do you know about that?”

In reply, Bright only grinned. “Anyway, I’ll remind you once more. I call the shots. When you do as I’ve said, I’ll let your little friend go.”

“No dice, Bright. That just won’t work. What assurance do I have?”

“None.” Bright stood smiling at him, and again, Ed noticed how pale his eyes were, almost feral. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t have any negotiating power here.”

“Where does that leave us, then?”

“It’s going to leave you with a gaping hole in your chest if you don’t do as I say. Now, I’m getting tired of this shit.”

“Me too.” Ed was gaining confidence during this exchange. Bright was just a little guy, a weak little man. He had no muscular development. So what if he had a knife? Ed knew a little about how to subdue an armed assailant. He just might be able to fight him off…

Just as these thoughts were gathering momentum and giving him confidence, Bright moved toward Peter. Ed saw what was happening and started to get up from the floor to a crouch.

That movement was all it took. When Bright saw Ed begin to get up, he was on his knees with lightning speed. Just as quickly, he lifted a whimpering Peter, positioned himself behind him, and then, in a deadly caress, wrapped his arm around Peter’s neck, positioning the blade at Peter’s throat. When Bright spoke, his voice was no longer high-pitched and giggly, but low, barely above a whisper, and it had all the menace of a growl. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. Sit back down. One more movement from you and I’ll cut him. I swear to God I will.”

Ed had no doubt of the man’s intentions. He was a killer. Ed flashed on the gory bathtub where he had found Bright’s first victim. No, Bright would not hesitate to kill Peter.

He lowered himself back down to the dirt floor, touching Peter’s bound hands as he did so.

“Isn’t that sweet? Just keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself.”

Ed placed his hands in his lap. There was no choice; he had to let Bright bind him.

*

Good, Timothy thought, I’ve finally got this little macho asshole cowed. It was even a little easier than I thought. He could feel Peter’s back against his chest, the heat transferred, the sweat causing Peter to adhere to Bright. The sensation was not at all unpleasant, and Timothy found himself getting aroused. He wanted so much to stick Peter, to watch as his life force pumped out of him, to experience the contortions as another young man fought valiantly against the unstoppable, his final demise. Such delirious pleasure.

Timothy didn’t want to move away from Peter. It felt too good being this close. He enjoyed the feel of the sweat-soaked bound body pressed hard up against him, the muscles in his back bunched with tension, the tangy, sour smell of his sweat and fear in the air.

Why not do it? Bright wondered. So what if Ed Comparetto was there? By the time Ed got up to intervene, Timothy would have already sunk his knife home into the little faggot’s throat. Bright realized he might have a fight on his hands, but there would be nothing Comparetto could do to stave off his lover’s death.

Timothy pressed the blade close to Peter’s throat, sinking it in deep enough to cause the skin to dimple inward and, finally, a small crimson line to form there. Peter winced, and his body bucked, which aroused Bright all the more.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Comparetto’s voice was shrill.

He was as alarmed at the sight of the blood as Timothy was aroused by it. He started to get up again, and Timothy growled, “Don’t fuckin’ move, asshole. I’ve got it already going in. You make even the tiniest motion, and it goes in all the way.”

The argument had caused Timothy’s excitement to ebb. He needed to take care of Comparetto now, while his buddy wore a razor-thin smile on his throat. Timothy slid out from behind Peter, rubbing against him as he did so. He scrambled to his feet and moved to stand in front of Comparetto.

*

Mutely and with resignation, Ed lifted his hands to Bright. “Go ahead, you bastard. Just get it over with.”

Ed watched as Timothy first laid the knife out of reach from Ed’s grasp and then stooped to pick up the coil of rope that had been on the floor the whole time. Ed wished he had thought to at least kick the rope into a corner. Now there was nothing he could do to prevent what was coming.

Timothy lifted the rope and, grinning, knelt down beside Ed. As he reached out with the rope, Ed joined his hands together and brought them up suddenly, with all the force he could muster, square into Timothy’s face.

Timothy gasped in surprise and pain and went reeling over backward.

“You son of a bitch!” Within a second or two, he had righted himself, grabbed the knife, and was bearing down on Ed, the knife held aloft.

They all froze as the sound of a siren ripped through the night.