by Dorien Grey
Steve made a point to introduce Elliott to just about everyone, including his boss and the CEO of the company and their wives, none of whom, from the casual way they mixed in with the others, he would have picked out by their titles.
On their second trip to the buffet table, and while they were momentarily alone, Elliott noticed a man and woman standing apart from the main concentration of people, looking mildly bored.
“Who are those two?” he asked with a small nod in their general direction. “I think those are about the only people I haven’t met.”
Steve gave him a small grin, helping himself to a couple of bacon-wrapped dates. “I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t notice,” he said. “That’s Bruce. I assume that’s his wife.”
“And Bruce is…?” Elliott asked, prompting.
“Other than a pain in the ass? He’s an arrogant prick, a world class ass-kisser, and,” he said, picking up another bacon-wrapped date, “a raging homophobe.” He looked at Elliott and his grin grew broader. “And those,” he added, “are his good qualities.”
“Good. I want to meet them.”
The grin faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement. “You’re serious?”
“Sure. I love making bigots squirm.”
The grin returned. “Step this way,” Steve said, picking up his plate with one hand, his drink in the other.
As they approached the couple, Elliott took stock of them. The man—Bruce—was tall and thin, his posture and his facial expression all but exuding superiority. The woman somehow reminded him of a young Tammy Faye Bakker at her evangelical “Praise the Lord” best. Both were casually but expensively dressed, subtly making it clear they would not be caught dead inside a Walmart. He noticed that Bruce appeared to be wearing a Rolex, and was pretty sure it wasn’t a knock-off.
When Bruce spotted Steve approaching, he made no attempt to conceal the fact he was not too happy about it.
“Bruce,” Steve said pleasantly, “I’d like you to meet my…friend…Elliott Smith.”
Elliott suppressed a smile at Steve’s deliberate pause. “Elliott,” Steve continued, “this is Bruce Stiles.”
CHAPTER 8
Elliott nearly dropped his drink.
The wife beamed. “So nice to meet you,” she said, extending her bejeweled hand. “I’m Marylinn Hightower.” She gave a “Jesus thanks you for your offering” smile to her husband and added, “I kept my maiden name after we married for business reasons. I’m in real estate—Brighton Realtors.”
She quickly reached into her handbag and extracted two business cards, handing one to Steve and one to Elliott.
Her husband had said nothing and made no move to offer to shake hands. Elliott, hoping the degree to which he had been rattled did not show, extended his.
“Bruce,” he said.
Stiles looked at Elliott’s hand as though it might bite him, then reluctantly took it without a word for a quick, limp shake, dropping it as soon as he could.
“Are you by any chance related to Aaron Stiles?”
Steve turned quickly to look at him, total surprise on his face. Stiles looked distinctly uncomfortable, and his wife, for an instant, lost her expression of studied perkiness before quickly re-donning it. She glanced at her husband.
“I was,” Stiles said, speaking for the first time. “He’s dead.”
“I know,” Elliott said, noting he had not clarified his exact relationship to Aaron. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“I gather you…knew…him,” Stiles said, his meaning clear. “Not in the biblical sense,” Elliott said lightly. “As a matter of fact, we never met.”
Stiles radiated disdain as he slowly and deliberately looked from Elliott to Steve.
“Oh, you were wondering because Aaron was gay?” Elliott asked pleasantly. “A number of people are, you know. We don’t all sleep together.”
Eyes narrowed to malevolent slits, Stiles reached out for his wife’s arm as she struggled to maintain her benevolent mask. Elliott felt as though he were in a snapshot, caught forever in time, until, “I need another drink,” Stiles said archly. With a withering glance at Elliott and ignoring Steve altogether, he took his wife’s elbow and guided her through the crowd toward the bar, their still half-full drinks in hand.
Both men watched them go without a word, until Steve broke into a broad grin. “You’re evil.”
Returning the grin, Elliott said, “I’ll take that as a compliment. You aren’t so bad yourself; I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble.”
“Not at all.” Then his grin faded, replaced by a mixture of confusion and something Elliott could not quite interpret. “Bruce is related to the same Aaron I’ve been dreaming about? The one who died in your building?”
“Yes, that Aaron. I’ll wager Bruce is his brother.”
Steve shook his head slowly. “That’s incredible! And how did you put the two things together?”
“No mystery. A guy I talked to who knew Aaron mentioned that Aaron had put his brother through art school. And Stiles isn’t that common a last name. And Mrs. Reinerio, who lives in the building, was telling me about Aaron’s brother and his wife having come over immediately after Aaron’s funeral to strip his place bare. So, I took a wild guess. You never heard Bruce mention having a brother?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. He’s avoided me like the plague ever since he found out I was gay about two days after I started, and we hadn’t talked much even before that. I honestly had no idea he had a brother, let alone that his name was Aaron. The only way I knew he had a wife was because he keeps waving his wedding ring around.”
“How long has he been working here?”
“About five years, I think. Not sure.”
The clinking of someone tapping on a glass cut Steve off as the company’s CEO called for attention. He motioned for everyone to gather around, then embarked on a series of toasts and a pep talk during which he extolled the virtues of his late father, the company’s founder, whose birthday was celebrated annually with this party. He outlined the progress of the company, spoke glowingly of its future, congratulated everyone on their work, and urged more of the same.
Elliott viewed all this corporate togetherness with mild interest, while deliberately, and with some difficulty, keeping at bay speculation about the coincidence of one of Steve’s coworkers being brother to the spirit haunting his building. He also found puzzling the fact that he had not sensed John’s presence all evening, even during the revelation that Aaron’s brother and Steve worked together. Well, he told himself, I’ll find out about that later.
The party broke up around ten, and he and Steve, slightly buzzed, took the bus to Steve’s for the night. Though he had done his best to push the implications of his meeting Bruce Stiles out of his head, he was aware of them, much like he was aware when John was nearby. It vaguely disturbed him that John had not been nearby during the encounter.
Though he appreciated John’s discretion in not intruding on his private time with Steve, he rather hoped he might hear from him during the night.
He did.
I’m impressed.
I thought you didn’t watch.
He felt John’s laughter.
No. I’m impressed with Steve. He’s better than I thought.
Meaning?
Meaning he somehow sensed a link between Bruce and Aaron, and once he made it, Aaron picked up on it—that’s why Aaron knew about Steve. I had no idea Bruce worked with Steve, but Aaron made the connection.
Don’t you think there’s an awful lot of coincidence going on here?
Not at all. Life is coincidence. Most people just don’t realize it. Was it a coincidence that you ran into Steve in the first place? Was it a coincidence that you and I were taken to the same hospital at the same time? Who knows?
But that Steve and Aaron’s brother would work in the same place…
So? Like you told Steve, they’re both artists…though I’d imagine Steve is head and shoulders above
Bruce Stiles. They have to work somewhere. Even in a city as big as Chicago, there aren’t that many places.
I suppose. But I—
He felt a hand on his shoulder and was instantly awake. “What?” he asked, opening his eyes to see Steve propped up on one elbow looking at him.
“I think I’m going to buy a tape recorder,” Steve said with a grin.
Elliott took the hand on his shoulder in one of his and raised it to his lips. “Hey, I’m really sorry. Talking again, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Making any sense?”
“Nope. Not much, anyway. Exactly what’s going on with this Aaron thing? You sure have latched on to it.”
Elliott wiped his eyes with the palm of his free hand. “I don’t know,” he lied. “You know how dreams are. I just found it really interesting that you work with the brother of a guy who died in my building. You want me to sleep on the couch?”
Steve grinned. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. I can always get ear plugs. But now that we’re awake…” He took Elliott’s hand and brought it over to his chest, slowly sliding it downward.
“You’re amazing!” Elliott said, though making no effort to resist. “Do you realize what time it is?”
Continuing the downward movement, Steve lay back on the bed. “So, we’ll sleep in.”
Sighing, Elliott rolled over on top of him, the tips of their noses touching.
“You’ve convinced me,” he said, freeing his hand and sliding both arms around Steve and pulling him closer.
* * *
“So, do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked, filling Elliott’s coffee cup as they sat at the kitchen table.
Not even trying to pretend he didn’t know what Steve was getting at, he shrugged. “Just a weird dream,” he replied, hating to lie. “What was I saying?”
“Something about me and Aaron. Like I said, I should get a tape recorder so I won’t miss anything next time.”
Elliott reached for the half-and-half and grinned. “Hopefully, there won’t be a next time.”
Steve responded with a raised eyebrow and look of skepticism. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
They drank their coffee in silence until Steve said, “So, what do you make of all this—Aaron and his brother, and me knowing the guy from your building’s name was Aaron and you talking in your sleep about Aaron and me?”
Elliott thought carefully before he answered. “I don’t know that it’s necessary to make anything of it. You’ve got the ability to pick up on things most people wouldn’t. It’s possible that, at some point, you might have overheard Bruce mentioning his brother at work. As for me talking about you and Aaron, that’s not too much of a leap. I was really surprised by the coincidence of your working with the brother of a guy from one of my buildings.”
“A dead guy,” Steve interjected, and once more Elliott felt guilty.
He wondered just how long he was going to be able to keep dancing around Steve’s questions. Steve was far from stupid, and some of Elliott’s concern was simply that he would be “found out,” as he thought of it. He wasn’t sure why that should bother him, since Steve knew and casually accepted being more sensitive to things than other people. Yet, while Elliott disliked the constant evasions, he still could not open up completely, not even to Steve. He had never mentioned John to another living soul, and wasn’t about to start now.
* * *
The weekend passed quickly. On Saturday night, they attended an opening at the gallery that had been displaying—and selling—Steve’s paintings ever since Steve’s own show there not long after he’d arrived in town. The featured artist, according to the brochure handed them when they entered, was an “abstract minimalist,” and since Elliott was a fan of neither abstract art nor minimalism, he concentrated largely on the wine and food and being with Steve.
While the artist’s style was the absolute antithesis of his, Steve was enthusiastic. Somewhat to Elliott’s surprise, the artist was a woman in a black body suit accented with a bright red scarf. Her greying hair was pulled back so severely he wondered if that was the reason she had no wrinkles on her forehead. He much more readily envisioned her running a ballet school than being a painter.
However, when Steve insisted they go over and meet her, he felt an almost physical shock at the woman’s uncanny resemblance to Louise Reinerio, to the point where he told himself that if it turned out she and Mrs. Reinerio were by some coincidence—that word again—related, he’d simply throw up his hands and walk away.
But there was no indication John was there, and the woman, whom he found quite charming, had a distinct Down Under accent and mentioned that she’d moved to Chicago only recently from New Zealand, where she’d been born and raised.
* * *
The tingle of John’s laughter interrupted a dream about elephants.
You really need a vacation!
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Bullshit. You’re letting yourself get too wrapped up in this Aaron thing. You can’t be any good to anyone if you start seeing ghosts and goblins behind every tree.
That’s not what I was doing. She did look a lot like Mrs. Reinerio.
The tingle again.
A lot of people look like a lot of other people. Just relax. It’s like meeting a dog—it works a lot better if you let the dog come to you rather than trying to chase him all over the yard.
I suppose you’re right. Anything new from Aaron?
Yeah, as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m here now rather than waiting until you were sleeping alone tomorrow night.
Did you know I talk in my sleep?
Not really. I’m inside here with you, remember.
I just don’t want to wake Steve up again. I’m sure he’s getting a little suspicious of what’s going on.
Well, at best all he hears are bits and pieces of one side of our conversation—yours. If he heard both sides, then I’d start to worry.
So, what about Aaron?
I think he’s making overall progress, though there’s a lot of backsliding. There are still times when I can’t get through to him at all, and when I do, it’s sometimes like listening to a radio full of static. But there’s something about threats—whether to Bill or him or both isn’t clear—shortly before Bill disappeared, and strong feelings about Irv Wilson are associated with them, so I’d hazard a guess Wilson made them, whatever they were. Nothing specific, but I’ll keep after him to find out more. You might want to do a little more checking into Irv Wilson on your own.
Well, if you’re talking out loud I’d better go before Steve wakes up again. Don’t want to get you in trouble. Later.
* * *
Despite his protests that he could just as easily take the bus, Steve insisted on driving him home Sunday evening at around nine. He had every intention of just watching a little TV then going to bed, but for some reason found his mind constantly turning to John’s comments of the night before…and specifically about Irv Wilson. The fact that Aaron was still apparently unable or unwilling to convey cohesive thought was frustrating. He was curious as to what Aaron might be getting at with his conveyed impressions of some sort of threats from Irv Wilson.
He was becoming more than a little impatient with Aaron overall. He fully realized he was hardly qualified to pass judgment on Aaron’s lack of progress. Until John had entered his life, he had never given a moment’s serious thought to the possibility of there being such things as ghosts and spirits and whatever else there might be out there. John had been his first, and he would have been just as happy to have him be his last.
In the equivalent period of time during which he’d been aware of Aaron, John had been far more pulled together than Aaron yet gave any semblance of being. Perhaps John was just the exception to the rule—if there were, in fact, any rules.
He thought, too, of Steve’s abilities when it came to awareness of things outside daily existence. He had no idea just how far that awareness went,
but it was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one with such abilities.
He considered once again telling Steve about John, and wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t. It certainly wasn’t because he thought Steve would think he was crazy. Steve readily admitted his own belief in ghosts—and maybe that was part of the problem. Elliott didn’t think of John as a ghost. Ghosts were visible apparitions. He’d never seen John, so, therefore…
But he was sure Steve knew he was keeping something from him. He’d hinted at it several times already, particularly following the sleep-talking episodes.
Elliott prided himself on his pragmatism, and John’s appearance in his life had deeply shaken the foundations of his well-ordered world. To openly admit John’s existence to anyone, even Steve, was simply not something he was willing to do. Perhaps someday, but not now. He knew secrets could undermine a relationship, however, and he didn’t want that to happen with Steve.
* * *
Following Steve’s office party, Elliott found his mind turning to Bruce and Marylinn, and the possibility of their having been involved in Bill’s death. The fact that Bruce was, by all accounts, a greedy, ungrateful, and thoughtless clod did not automatically qualify him as a murder suspect. Still, he couldn’t totally dismiss the idea.
Immediately after dinner Tuesday he called Steve, ostensibly to check on plans for the weekend but also to bring up the subject, as subtly as possible, of Bruce Stiles.
“You said you never heard Bruce talk about Aaron to anyone at work. Does he have any friends there he might have mentioned Aaron to?”
“He’s really pretty much a loner at work. He hardly ever talks to anyone except to suck up to the boss and bum cigarettes and a light off anyone who still smokes.”
“It never occurs to him to buy his own?”
Steve laughed. “No, he’s always complaining that his wife refuses to let him smoke at home, and every time she finds a pack of cigarettes or even matches, she throws them away then denies doing it. I get the impression that, for all the sweetness and light she projected at the office party, she rules the roost, and he doesn’t like it but doesn’t have the balls to do anything about it.
