His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  “Be my guest,” Elliott said, uncapping the beers and handing one to Steve. They stood side by side looking out over the city.

  “Amazing,” Steve said. “I love the view from mountaintops. California’s got tons of them. Chicago’s flat as a pancake, but you can get the same effect from the thirty-fifth floor of a condo.”

  “Never thought of it that way,” Elliott replied, grinning. Actually, he had had the same impression when he sensed John at the window or on the balcony.

  They took a seat side by side on the sofa and small-talked for a moment until Elliott said, “So tell me your news.”

  Steve took a long swig of his beer and said, “A gallery wants to show my work! I’d been in touch with a couple galleries before I moved here, and Thursday night I met with one of them. They liked my portfolio and said they’d like to put me on their schedule of featured new artists!”

  Elliott reached over and laid a hand on Steve’s leg. “That’s fantastic!” he said. “I’m really glad for you! Where’s the gallery?”

  “It’s in the…what do they call it?…the River North area, on Superior near Wells. A really nice place. Needless to say, I’m excited about it. I never expected things to happen so fast.”

  “Did they give you a date yet?” Elliott asked.

  Steve shook his head. “No, not yet. Probably won’t be for a couple of months, but hey, I can wait! We’ll have to work out what paintings to show, and I’ll have to send for some of them from my folks. I don’t know if you’re into art galleries, but maybe you’d like to go down there with me sometime before the show to take a look at the place.”

  “Sure,” Elliott replied. “I’d like that.” Actually, he did like and appreciate art, but he hardly considered himself an art connoisseur, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually been to a real gallery. Since his mother had given up trying to stuff culture into him like cornbread dressing into a turkey when he was a teen, most of his “gallery” experience had been through art displays at street fairs.

  He’d just returned to his seat from getting them another beer when the front desk called to say the pizza man had arrived. Elliott okayed his coming up, and went to the front door, fishing out his wallet on the way. They ate at the dining room table, which was the only concession to formality. Paper towels, the opened pizza box, and fingers substituted for napkins, plates, and silverware; neither used a glass for their beer. Steve seemed as comfortable with the arrangement as Elliott was.

  As they ate, they exchanged information on family backgrounds. Steve’s dad had been career military, and he’d spent most of his early years bouncing from country to country. Like Elliott, he had a younger sister, but also a younger—and gay—brother, which Elliott found interesting, since he’d always wished he’d had a brother, no offense to Cessy. Steve’s dad was now retired, his mom ran a small beauty shop in Big Bear, his sister was married with three kids of her own, and his brother lived in L.A. and had been HIV positive for six years.

  “He’s doing really well,” Steve said. “You’d never know he was positive to look at him, and his meds have everything under control. But I do worry about him. Probably more than I should.”

  “Hey,” Elliott said, “he’s your brother. You’re entitled to worry.”

  Though Elliott had a couple HIV-positive acquaintances and had known several more who had died of AIDS over the years, he’d never been really close to anyone living with the disease, and couldn’t fully comprehend how hard it must be for Steve…or his brother.

  The conversation turned to Elliott and his family background and, as always, Elliott played down his family’s wealth and connections. He talked instead about Cessy and their upbringing by parents who were gone much of the time and generally preoccupied when they were not.

  “Did you miss that?” Steve asked, “the closeness to your family?”

  Elliott shook his head. “Not really. Cessy and I are really close, and it’s not as though our parents didn’t…don’t…care about us. They were just busy with other things.”

  Steve wiped his mouth with a paper towel, then took another piece of pizza from the box. “I guess I was really lucky,” he said. “My whole family is really close. They know about Manny, and me, but we don’t talk about it much. They just accept it, and they’ve been incredibly supportive, especially of Manny.”

  Before Steve arrived, Elliott had brought Moonrise from the den and laid it on the living room coffee table. When they’d finished eating, they returned to the living room with their beer, and Elliott tapped it with an index finger as they sat down.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said as he sat beside Steve, very aware of John’s presence. “I came across a couple photos in here that really interested me and I was wondering if you might be able to figure out where they were taken.”

  Steve grinned, reaching over to pick up the book. “I can try,” he said. “But no guarantees.”

  Elliott returned the grin. “None expected,” he said.

  “Which photos, exactly?” Steve asked.

  “I marked them,” Elliott replied, indicating the three pieces of torn envelope sticking from the book.

  Steve gave a head-raise nod and opened the book to the first tab.

  “I know that first one was in the same spot as your painting,” Elliott said, “but I was wondering just where it was? Near Barstow? Or Big Bear?”

  “Big Bear,” Steve replied. “If you turned around from where this was taken, you could see Big Bear Lake.” He moved on to the second photo, the single pine tree on the rock outcropping.

  “I know there are a hell of a lot of trees out there,” Elliott began, “but…”

  Steve grinned. “Well, I don’t recognize this specific tree, but I know there are some interesting bluffs and rock formations near Fawnskin—that’s a really small town just on the other side of Big Bear Lake from Moonridge—and it could have been taken around there.”

  Elliott looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not making these names up, are you?” he asked. “Fawnskin? Moonridge?”

  Steve raised his right hand. “Swear t’God,” he said. “Fawnskin’s got maybe 400 people, and Moonridge’s a comparative metropolis with almost 3,000. How they can stand to live in such close quarters, I’ll never understand.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you’ve got that many living in this building alone.”

  “Not quite,” Elliott said. “This block—close.”

  Steve shrugged and returned to Moonrise and the final tab—the photo of the new moon balanced on the sagging roof.

  “This one I’ll bet I know,” Steve said. “It’s just off highway 38 going into Fawnskin. I’m into barns and I always wanted to paint this one but never got around to it.” He looked at Elliott closely. “Interesting that you should pick out three photos taken so close to one another. Are you sure you haven’t been there?”

  Elliott shook his head. “Coincidence,” he said.

  “Uh huh,” Steve replied.

  “I know this sounds a little odd, but could you check and see if you can tell if any others might have been taken in the same area?”

  Steve gave Elliott a sidelong glance, pursed his lips, and went back to the first page of the book.

  He picked out half a dozen other photos he was pretty sure were taken within ten miles of Big Bear Lake, and when he’d finished, he closed the book, set it on the table, looked closely at Elliott again, and said, “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Elliott felt not unlike a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing.

  “You know that picture I had of the guy from the emergency room when I had my accident? The one I was trying to see if anyone recognized?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he was from the same area as Hill photographed.”

  “Based on…?”

  Elliott was pretty sure he was blushing now, which disturbed him, since he was not the type to
blush. “I don’t know. I just feel it.”

  Steve grinned at him again. “Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”

  “Hill? What would…?”

  “Not Hill The guy from the ER.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “So you said. But there are more things ’twixt heaven and earth, as they say. I never really did get a very good look at his photo. If you think he might be from around Big Bear, maybe if I could see it again…?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Elliott said, rather surprised to find himself getting up even as he spoke. He hurried into the den and took the manila envelope from between two books, where he’d stashed it, removing the photo as he returned to the living room. He handed the photo to Steve, who looked from him to the photo.

  “Nice-looking guy,” he said. “A real shame he’s dead. How did he die, do you know?”

  “Murdered,” Elliott replied. “Shot six times and left in an alley with no I.D.”

  Steve sighed, shook his head, and studied the photo more carefully.

  “Have you seen him before?” Elliott asked, and Steve furrowed his brows as he studied John’s face.

  “Geez, it’s really hard to say. I could have. He looks like a lot of guys I’ve seen. But I don’t actually know him. If I’ve seen him, it was just in passing, maybe in a store or at a gas station. An awful lot of people come through Big Bear all the time.”

  “So you don’t think he lived there?”

  Steve shook his head slowly. “Of course I didn’t know everybody who lived there, but I’d guess if he did, it probably wasn’t right in town—not Big Bear City, anyway. It’s possible he lived in the town of Big Bear—they’re all of five miles apart, but I think I know most of the locals. And, of course, a lot of city people have cabins in the area and just come up from time to time. As I told you, there are a lot of places around there for people to lose themselves if they want to.”

  “I wonder why he’d want to?” Elliott asked.

  “Beats me,” Steve said. “Everybody’s got a story—who knows what his might be. The fact that he ended up getting murdered might be a pretty good indication that he had one.”

  “Point,” Elliott replied.

  Steve returned the photo, and Elliott put it back in the envelope.

  “Well, I wish you luck in finding him. What do you do now?”

  “Since my brother-in-law is a homicide detective, I’ll ask him if he can send it to the various police jurisdictions in the Big Bear area. It can’t hurt.”

  “It’s a reach,” Steve said.

  “I know. But better something than nothing.”

  Steve stifled a yawn, then gave him an embarrassed smile. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not the company. I got up at dawn this morning, and the beer didn’t help. I’d better get going.”

  “You have to go? I thought you could spend the night.”

  Steve grinned. “Well, I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

  Elliott, still standing, extended his hand to pull Steve off the couch. “Consider it an open invitation,” he said.

  * * *

  I’m really not trying to be difficult, the soundless voice said out of the blackness of sleep.

  I know.

  And I know you want me to know more than I do, or to react to things that I have no basis for reacting to. It’s hard.

  I understand, but I’d think you’d be able to make associations more easily. Why is it that I get such a strong sense of your presence when I go through the Hill photographs, yet Steve’s painting of the same area elicited no response?

  I don’t know. They’re just…different.

  Are you G.J. Hill?

  No.

  Elliott was startled and baffled by the same sudden strong charge of emotion as he had when John recognized himself in the photograph.

  How do you know?

  I told you before. I may not know who I am, but I do know who I am not. I am not G.J. Hill!

  CHAPTER 7

  He awoke in the morning to find Steve propped up on one elbow, watching him.

  “Good morning,” Elliott said, wiping his hand across his eyes.

  Steve grinned down at him. “Do you know you talk in your sleep?” he asked.

  “I do?” Elliott asked, both shocked and mildly embarrassed.

  Steve merely nodded.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “Pictures,” Steve said. “And G.J. Hill. I didn’t catch it all.”

  Elliott reached over with one hand and ran it across Steve’s smooth chest, fascinated as always by the color and feel of his skin. “I’m really sorry. I had no idea I talked in my sleep. Have I been doing it all along?”

  “This was the first time I was aware of it,” Steve said, running his own hand across Elliott’s chest.

  “In a hurry for coffee?” Elliott asked.

  “Not particularly,” Steve said.

  “Good.”

  * * *

  It was early Sunday evening before he had a chance to call Brad. He waited until after seven, when he was pretty sure TV’s “big game” of the day was over. He knew that when they didn’t have company over for Sunday night dinner the family usually ate on TV trays in front of the set while they watched the game, so he didn’t worry about possibly disturbing their dinner.

  Cessy answered the phone, which tied him up for a good five minutes before she transferred him over to Brad.

  “Hi, Elliott. What’s up?”

  “I’m pretty sure I might have a lead on our John Doe,” he said.

  “Really? That’s great! Who do you think he is?”

  “I don’t have a name,” he admitted, “but I ran into a guy in one of the bars who had just moved here not long ago from southern California—the Big Bear area. He’s pretty sure the guy in the picture is from there. He recognized him right away.” He was lying, but hoped Brad didn’t sense it. He didn’t pause after the lie, but kept going. “I know, it’s a real coincidence, but the gay world is pretty tight-knit, so it’s worth checking out.”

  “Big Bear, huh?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah. It’s in San Bernardino County, which is a pretty big area. But maybe if you could get it to the county sheriff and the local law enforcement agencies around Big Bear—Big Bear, Big Bear Lake, maybe even Barstow—there’s a chance he might be recognized even if he hasn’t been reported missing. The very fact that he was murdered might mean he’d been in some sort of trouble out there, too.” He knew he was stretching, but he was willing to try anything.

  Brad was silent a moment before saying: “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. There’s still been nothing on him from this end. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great! I really appreciate it. I just want to give this guy a name, and let his family know what happened to him.”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “Me, too.”

  * * *

  Returning home from work Monday night, Elliott checked his computer for messages, and felt a surge of excitement to find one titled “G.J. Hill.” He quickly opened it.

  Mr. Smith:

  Thank you for your inquiry regarding G.J. Hill. As is our policy, we have forwarded it to Mr. Hill for his possible response.

  We appreciate your interest in Retina Press.

  There were three other messages, none of them from G.J. Hill. Actually hearing from Hill wasn’t as important as it had been before he’d met Steve and was able on his own to pinpoint the area in which he was pretty sure John had lived, but considering John’s attraction to Hill’s work, it would be nice to see if there might be some direct connection between the two.

  Checking his email again on Tuesday, he found a message titled: Automated Response, which said:

  I’m currently on assignment but will respond to your message as soon as I return. Thanks. G.J. Hill.

  Elliott wondered about the “assignment,” but it was the date the message was posted that caught his attention—roughly two months earlier. Whatever “assignment” Hill w
as on, it was obviously a long one.

  And he was more than a little disturbed by, for the first time while he was awake, his awareness of John’s silent voice, somewhere in his mind, saying, I am not G.J. Hill! The fact that he had expressed himself as strongly only once before—when he recognized himself in the photograph—was clear evidence that while John may not have been G.J. Hill, there was a strong connection to him.

  But with Hill not available to clarify matters, Elliott had few options rather than to wait to see what Brad turned up and go on from there.

  Still, on the far outside chance that Hill might return soon, or that he might be checking his email from wherever he was, Elliott used the address on the automated response to send off another note. For the subject line, which he hoped might catch Hill’s eye among all the other emails undoubtedly awaiting him, he chose Seeking John.

  Mr. Hill:

  I am looking for information on a friend or acquaintance of yours whom you’ve not seen or heard from since about the time you left on your last assignment. His first name is John, and he may have told you he was coming to Chicago. I regret to report that he was murdered here, and because we have no last name for him, was listed as a John Doe. We have strong reason to believe that he had some direct association with you. Any information you can provide would be most appreciated.

  Thank you,

  Elliott Smith

  He rather hoped that the use of the “royal we” might imply some connection to a governmental agency, which might elicit a response more readily than a note from a private citizen. He looked the note over, then sent it. If Hill was the only one to use his computer, the message would sit there until he returned, but at least he felt he’d tried. He also wasn’t sure how, if anyone did respond, he might explain how Hill’s name had come up in the first place, or on what basis he assumed a connection. But, he decided, he’d handle that when and if the time came.

  The next couple of days passed quickly. He talked to Steve on Wednesday, and to Cessy both Wednesday and Thursday, but heard nothing directly from Brad and didn’t want to press him. There was no response to his email to Hill, other than a duplicate of the automated “I’m not available” response he’d gotten the first time.