by Dorien Grey
He had become so accustomed to the sense of John’s presence—constant but low key—that he seldom thought of it. The exception was when he had to go into the basement at the Sheffield building on Thursday and was aware of a strong surge of John’s presence, which puzzled him. Why should that place still elicit such a response? Perhaps, he thought, it was his own general reaction to the whole incident.
But that night, shortly after falling asleep…:
There’s more.
More to what?
To the basement.
What do you mean?
I don’t know. I just know there’s more, somehow.
Elliott was never quite sure why or how, with few exceptions, each morning after having had a conversation with John, he was usually able to remember it so clearly; whereas, his memories of other dreams were seldom so detailed. Nonetheless, he left for work earlier than usual Friday morning to spend some time in the basement.
John’s presence was clear in the laundry-and-equipment half of the room, though nowhere near the intensity of before the discovery of Donnelly’s body, and not specifically concentrated in any particular area. He had no idea of what he might be looking for. The building’s blueprints showed there were no other false walls, and the entire basement had been totally redone since he took possession. After a while, he gave up in frustration and left the basement.
On returning home from work Friday, he found a message from Brad asking him to call. He did so immediately, and after the usual five-minute buffer conversation with Cessy, Brad came on the line.
“Brad!” Elliott said. “Anything?”
“I’m afraid not,” Brad said. “I faxed the photo and his physical description to the San Bernardino Sheriff’s office and to the police departments in Barstow and every town around Big Bear big enough to have a police department. Nothing. So, either he wasn’t from around there, or he kept a very low profile and never had a run-in with the law. There was one missing persons report filed with the Sheriff’s office by someone in San Luis Obispo on a guy who roughly fit John Doe’s description, but there was no photo. They said they would check it out, but….”
Elliott sighed. “Well, it was worth a shot,” he said. “I really appreciate your going to all this trouble.”
“Hey, no trouble,” Brad replied. “We want to give this guy a name as badly as you do. I’ll let you know if anything else should come up.”
“Thanks, Brad. Tell the kids hi for me.”
“Will do. See you later.”
His spirits followed his arm’s downward arc as he hung up the phone. All the doubts he had thought he had resolved about John and the question of his reality came flooding back. He thought back on his sleep-talks with John, and the fact that he had “heard” John while awake. Was John becoming more communicative, more real, or was Elliott’s mental stability deteriorating at an accelerating rate? How could he possibly know?
He’d been so sure John was from the Big Bear area, only to find he likely wasn’t—well, he told himself, John still could be from that area and Brad was right that he just hadn’t had any contact with the police. The thought provided less comfort than he would have preferred.
He found himself going into the den to turn on his computer, figuring he might as well become totally depressed while he was at it.
The minute he saw the name G.J. Hill in his Inbox, his spirits shot skyward, and he immediately clicked on it.
Mr. Smith:
While checking G.J.’s mail, I came across your note. Please tell me more about this John Doe, and describe him. As G.J.’s partner, I might be able to help you.
Sincerely,
Rob Cole
Without a second’s hesitation, Elliott hit Reply and began typing.
Mr. Cole:
Thanks for your reply…I assume Mr. Hill is still on assignment.
The man in question was murdered on March 22 on Chicago’s north side. He was 5′11″ tall, 175 lbs, brown hair and brown eyes, and somewhere in his mid-to-late 30s. He had no scars or tattoos, and perfect teeth with no cavities. I have a post-mortem photo which I can send if you think he sounds familiar.
Could you please let me know one way or the other?
Thanks again.
Elliott Smith
He considered sending John’s photo along with his email, but thought better of it; he’d wait for Cole’s reply first. He realized, of course, that except for the detail of having perfect teeth with no cavities, John’s description would easily fit any number of people. Still….
He tapped the Send key.
So, he reflected as he sat at the computer, staring at the screen, G.J. Hill had a partner. He wondered if Cole meant that strictly in a business sense. Somehow he doubted it. Which meant G.J. Hill was also gay. He also found it interesting that Cole referred to Hill by his initials. He was a little surprised by his sense of anticipation, and wondered briefly how much of it might be John’s.
Finally pulling himself back into the moment, het got up to go to the kitchen to see about dinner.
* * *
The nice thing about TV dinners, he had learned, was that they didn’t require dirtying many dishes, but he found the dishwasher was nevertheless loaded with silverware, cups and glasses, so after he’d tossed the empty TV carton and rinsed his silverware and glass, he put them and powdered detergent into the machine and turned it on.
Returning to the den, he picked up the TV remote, but as he passed his computer, he leaned over the keyboard and moved the mouse to his email icon. Once again, the name “G.J. Hill” and Hill’s return address leapt off the screen. He quickly put the remote aside and sat down at the computer to open the message. It was brief and to the point:
Mr. Smith:
Please call me immediately when you get this. I need to talk with you about your message. 805-896-7897.
Rob Cole
Elliott immediately took his cell phone from his pocket and punched in Cole’s number.
The phone rang three times before he heard the receiver being picked up, and singularly expressionless, “Hello?”
“Rob Cole? This is Elliott Smith. You asked me to call.”
“Yes. You say you have a photograph of an unidentified body? Could you send it to me?”
The man’s tone struck Elliott as being remarkably casual, and he was a little curious as to why Cole didn’t ask more about what John Doe looked like before asking to be sent the photo. Still, he felt a rush of anticipation mixed with an odd sense of apprehension.
“So you think you or Mr. Hill might know who this guy is?”
There wasn’t a second of hesitation before, “I’m afraid it might be G.J. He went missing sometime between March sixteenth and the twenty-first.”
The anticipation vanished, but the apprehension expanded to take its place. John had been adamant in saying he was not G.J. Hill, but that Hill had disappeared within days before John’s being murdered couldn’t possibly be coincidental.
“I’m sure it couldn’t be him,” Elliott said. “The man I’m looking for is named John.”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything in response to your first message,” Cole said. “I couldn’t allow myself to think it might be G.J. But then I realized that I don’t know of anyone named John who disappeared, and I’m sure G.J. didn’t either. But G.J. is missing.
“I left here on the sixteenth to visit my parents, and when I got back on the twenty-third, I found a note from G.J. saying he had to be gone for a few days, but that he’d be back on the twenty-fourth. But he wasn’t, and I haven’t heard a word from him.”
Elliott, still totally confused, said, “Did you contact the police?”
He heard a deep sigh. “Not right away. G.J. does this—just goes off for a while—every now and then. He’ll get an assignment to do a shoot in Brazil, and he’ll just take off. I’ve gotten used to it. But he’s always told me when and where he was going, and this time he didn’t. After two weeks, I contacted the police and fi
led a missing persons report.”
That he’d waited two weeks before reporting Hill missing struck Elliott as more than a little unusual, until he remembered the report Brad had mentioned, with the guy fitting John’s general description, but that had been from San Luis Obispo. “Where do you live?” Elliott asked. “I see you’ve got an L.A. exchange.”
“Yes, but it’s a cell phone. We actually live in our motor home, and we’re always on the move. Right now we’re—I’m—in Northern California, near San Luis Obispo. G.J.’s doing a book of photos of the coast along US 1. I took the car and G.J. was going to spend the time here going over proof sheets.”
Elliott was trying to make some sense out of the whole thing. “You and G.J. are lovers?”
“Yes, and business partners. We’ve been together two years now.”
“Well, I really don’t mean to offend you, but is it possible G.J. might have been seeing someone else?”
“I don’t think so. I’d have known, I’m sure. Of course, he could have met someone while I was gone, but….”
From what Cole was saying, and from his overall attitude, it struck Elliott that his relationship with Hill was something less than a storybook romance.
“And you have no idea where he went, or why?”
“No. And he didn’t take his camera equipment, which was unusual. He always takes his cameras. I should have called the police sooner, but as I say, he’s done this before and he’s always shown up eventually.”
“You contacted his family, of course,” Elliott said, realizing he was making assumptions.
“He doesn’t have any family,” Cole replied.
“What about friends?” Elliott asked.
“We travel so much, we’re never in any one place long enough to really make friends.”
Again, Elliott was struck by Cole’s casual tone. And he thought again of John’s denial of being G.J. Hill.
“I’m curious why you didn’t provide a photo when you filed your missing persons report?”
“Because I don’t have one,” Cole said. “G.J. refuses to be photographed. Ever. I know, that’s pretty strange for a professional photographer, but I guess we all have our little quirks.”
Elliott thought it strange, too, but didn’t say so. “Well, don’t jump to any conclusions until you see the photo,” he said instead. “I’ll scan it right now and send it to you as an email attachment. I’m sure it isn’t G.J., but please let me know if you recognize him anyway.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Okay, it’ll be coming along in about five minutes.”
“Thanks again.”
He heard the click of the phone being hung up without a “good-bye.”
Getting up from the computer as he returned his cell phone to his pocket, he went for John’s photo. He was still in a very strange and unusual state he couldn’t really describe, but he was now clearly aware that part of whatever it was he was feeling came from John.
Scanning the photo, putting it into a file, and emailing it took slightly longer than the five minutes he’d promised, so he didn’t bother including a message with the photo. He sent it and sat back, waiting—which he realized was foolish of him. There was no way he could expect an instant response.
He turned the sound up full on the computer so he could hear the “ding” of an incoming message, and got up to turn on the TV. He had no idea what he was watching, and kept looking at the clock every several seconds. Nothing. After an hour, he got up to look at the computer screen, in case he’d missed an incoming mail notice. There was none, of course, and he was mildly irked at himself for having worked himself up into such a state. This was definitely not like him, he told himself, and he rationalized that it had to be John’s influence.
An hour passed. Then two, and with every passing minute Elliott, to his dismay, found himself becoming more and more impatient. The impatience turned gradually to anger: John wasn’t G.J. Hill, but either Cole recognized him or he didn’t. If he didn’t, why didn’t he have the courtesy to call and say so?
Suddenly realizing he hadn’t given Cole his phone number, he was strongly tempted to call Cole back, but thought better of it. If Cole had recognized John, he’d have emailed.
Elliott’s spontaneous dislike of Cole grew.
The more he thought about it, the stranger his contact with the man seemed. Either Cole was amazingly good at concealing his emotions, or he was a pretty cold fish. Of course, Elliott had no way of knowing what Cole’s and Hill’s relationship may have been, but he felt strongly that if he had a lover who had gone missing, he’d have been just a little more emotional about it than Cole seemed to be.
Cole said he hadn’t responded immediately to Elliott’s first message because he didn’t think it could have been G.J. Hill, but the coincidence of the date of John’s murder and Cole’s returning from a trip had piqued his interest.
And even if Hill did disappear from time to time for photo assignments, when Cole saw he hadn’t taken his camera equipment, wouldn’t that have rung a very large bell? Why would he wait two weeks before filing a report? It wasn’t until Elliott mentioned the photograph that Cole seemed to show much interest.
Strange, indeed.
Just before he went to bed, against his better judgment and chalking it up to John’s subconscious influence, he sent another email to Cole:
Mr. Cole:
I’d rather hoped to have heard from you regarding the photograph, and would appreciate your dropping me a note even if you did not recognize him.
Thanks
Elliott Smith
Still uncustomarily and inexplicably agitated, Elliott went to bed.
* * *
Why didn’t he answer you?
I don’t know. He probably didn’t recognize the photograph.
Elliott sensed John’s deep disappointment.
I don’t like him.
Any specific reason?
No. You don’t like him either. Do you have a reason?
No.
Will we ever find me?
There was apparently something about the mind’s workings during sleep that made it impossible for Elliott to lie.
I don’t know. I hope so. Are you absolutely sure you’re not G.J. Hill?
I am not G.J. Hill. I know it.
* * *
Though he normally did not turn on the computer before going to work in the morning, he did so the next morning, on the basis that California time is two hours ahead of Chicago’s, and Cole could have replied after Elliott had gone to bed. He hadn’t, and Elliott went off to work feeling both disgruntled and angry at himself for being so. And the more he thought about it—though he tried very hard not to—his anger shifted from himself to Cole. The least Cole could have done would be to have given him the courtesy of saying “You’re right. It’s not G.J.” But nothing at all?
Thursday morning, he was helping steady the last of the porch/patio doors as Sam jostled it into position when his cell phone rang. Bracing the door with one hand, he fished out his phone with the other.
“Elliott Smith.”
“Elliott, this is Brad. I thought you’d like to know we have an I.D. on your John Doe.”
The sudden force of John’s presence was like opening a door to a hurricane-force wind. It was so powerful Elliott nearly lost his grip on the door, which would have made it fall.
“You do?” he heard himself say. “How did you find out? Who is he?”
“We got a call this morning from the San Luis Obispo police. The guy’s name is G.J. Hill.”
CHAPTER 8
“That’s impossible,” Elliott blurted, without thinking. “How can they be sure?”
“Did you send the photo I gave you to Hill’s…partner?”
“Yes, but…it can’t be G.J. Hill.”
“Well, his partner says it is, and he should know. You sent the guy the photo—and I’m going to want to talk to you about how and why you picked out this Hill guy in the first place
.”
Elliott was well aware he was teetering on the edge of a very steep and slippery slope. “I sent it because I had reason to believe Hill might have known him. It can’t be Hill himself.”
There was a slight pause, then, “So you said. But I want to know how you can be so sure.”
“Well, I can’t, of course,” Elliott admitted. “Look, can I call you tonight when I get home? I’m right in the middle of a project here, and…” And he needed time to think, but he didn’t say so aloud.
“Sure, but be sure you do. I’ve got the feeling there’s something going on here I’m not aware of.”
Elliott could not have agreed more, but said nothing except, “Later, then,” and flipped off his phone.
He stood there with the phone in one hand, still propping the door with the other, totally confused. He had never before in his life experienced anything similar to his—or was it John’s?—reaction to Brad’s call. But whoever’s reaction it was, he was totally unprepared for it.
He became aware that Sam was looking at him strangely. “You okay, Elliott?” Sam asked.
He nodded and put his cell phone back in his pocket.
It took all his willpower to turn back to the task at hand. He felt as though he were a salmon trying to swim upstream through the force of John’s presence. His own confusion and frustration were compounded by the awareness that they were amplified by John’s similar reaction. There were no words in his head, but the sense of John’s turmoil as well as his own was overwhelming.
Somehow, he managed to get through the day. But the minute he got into his car for the ride home, the floodgates of his mind opened again, and as the sense of John’s presence came rushing back, one thought in particular—John’s, obviously—coming through loud and clear:
I am not G.J. Hill!
Elliott was now well beyond confused. Cole had identified John’s photo as being G.J. Hill. How could that be possible? John had been adamant that he was not G.J. Hill. But if Hill’s own lover said it was….
Elliott’s mind was spinning out of control. The whole John mystery reminded him of a popular mind-teaser game he had played in his college days. It basically involved a detailed mystery story known only to one of the group, who took the role of guide.
