by Dorien Grey
He wasn’t sure whether the surge of nameless emotion he experienced was his, or Aaron’s, or a combination of the two.
* * *
When he picked Steve up for their Friday night dinner, he gave him the news.
“I don’t know what to say, other than congratulations,” Steve said. “I mean, do you realize what you’ve done? You actually solved a murder. My God, that’s incredible!”
“Well, I couldn’t have done it without your help. Without those cans, I don’t know how I’d have managed to get Bruce’s fingerprints.”
“You’d have found a way. I’m truly proud of you. This calls for a real celebration.”
Elliott grinned. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll think of something. Whipped cream and honey come to mind.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Sure.
“Do you think Aaron knows?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I suspect he does. He’s really been on his best behavior lately, but I’m very much aware he’s still there.”
“Let’s hope not for much longer.”
“Amen to that!”
* * *
It struck him, as he and Steve finally settled down to sleep, that John had been notably absent during Brad’s revelation.
I figured it was your moment. Yours and Aaron’s.
So he does know what’s going on?
Yes.
Did he say what he intends to do now? When he might…well move on, or whatever it is he should be doing?
Aaron and I still don’t communicate like you and I do. It’s still more in emotions and impressions than in words and sentences. But I do get the idea he is almost free of that bottomless tar pit of sorrow that has held him for so long.
I’m sure he must realize there’s really nothing more he can do here. He wanted your help, and you gave it to him. It’s now out of your hands; and in the hands of the police. The most important thing is that he knows now that Bill didn’t abandon him, and who was responsible for Bill’s not coming back. And I suspect your thoughts about Bill waiting for Aaron got through to him.
You know about those?
Uh, yeah. You weren’t exactly whispering them.
I hope you’re right!
Trust me.
* * *
Monday morning, Larry called to say he had presented the offer to the owners of the Fullerton property and that they’d be getting back to him shortly. He asked if the “problem” with the current building had been resolved, and Elliott took a leap in assuring him it had and setting up an appointment for that Thursday for him to come take another look.
Aaron, he could tell from the moment he walked into the building Monday, was still there, though the sense of his presence was different somehow. Less intense? Fading, even? He finally gave up trying to figure it out.
His own mood, however, continued to bother him. He should have been vastly relieved that he was finally going to get his life back. Unlike with John, when they were trying to discover John’s identity and who had killed him, he had never gotten comfortable with Aaron as a person. He’d grown to really like John in the course of their search, but he couldn’t say the same for Aaron.
He sent Arnie, Sam, and Ted home at three o’clock, telling them he’d let them know as soon as he could about the Fullerton property, and promising to try to line up some work for them at one of his other apartment buildings while they waited. He was on his way home when his cell phone rang.
“Elliott, Brad. The D.A. is taking the Stiles case to the Grand Jury. I wanted to let you know, and to thank you for your help in nailing Stiles.”
“Thanks, Brad. I wish I could say it was my pleasure, but… So, are they indicting just Bruce or his wife, too?”
“Just Stiles, for the moment, but I think he might be open to implicating her if the D.A. offers him some sort of reduced-charge deal for his cooperation. We’ll see.”
“I really appreciate your keeping me posted.”
“The least I can do. Talk with you later.”
* * *
His mood had not materially improved as he sat, after dinner, in front of the TV. Not even talking to Steve seemed to help lighten it, and he couldn’t understand why. It was still with him as he went to bed.
You are a piece of work.
Meaning?
Meaning you’re moping again.
I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.
Come on! You’re going through exactly the same thing as you went through with me when all the pieces came together. I’d have thought you’d have learned.
Damn it, I expected…I don’t know…more! Where are the balloons and the dancing bears and the fireworks? That big “stand up and cheer” ending? Nothing. It’s just…over.
He felt the slight tingle of John’s laughter.
When are you going to learn that life just isn’t like that? You’ve done a terrific thing here—you’ve caught a murderer…maybe two…and you’ve rescued someone who was really suffering and allowed him to move on. Your family loves you, things are going great with Steve, you’re still rich. What in the world more could you ask for?
Yeah, but if this was a book, or a movie, or a TV show…
But it’s not. It’s life, and like it or not, this is the way that life works.
I suppose. But…
Suddenly, Elliott heard a deep rumble, followed by an increasingly violent shaking. He heard things falling, glass shattering. Looking out the window toward the towers of the Loop, he saw rising clouds of dust as buildings crumbled. The Hancock Tower and the Sears Tower leaned toward one another as they slowly toppled into the rising dust cloud. Far out on the lake, a rising wall of water moved relentlessly toward the city as pieces of his own building began cascading past his balcony. He glanced up to see his ceiling dropping slowly toward him.
With a gasp, he sat up in bed, eyes wide open, bathed in sweat.
And in his mind, he heard John’s voice once again: Like that one better?
Despite himself, Elliott grinned and, after a rather long time, went back to sleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dorien Grey started out as a pen name, nothing more, for a lifelong book and magazine editor who wanted to write his own novels as a bridge between the gay and straight communities. However, because he was living in a remote and time-warped area of the upper Midwest where gays still feel it necessary to keep a very low profile, he did not feel comfortable using his own name—a sad commentary on our society, he admits.
But as his first book, a detective novel, led to the second and then the third, he found Dorien slowly became much more than a pseudonym, evolving into an alter ego.
“It’s reached the point,” he said, “where all I have to do is sit down at the computer and let Dorien tell the story.”
Dorien’s “real person” had a not-uninteresting life. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. He washed out and spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing.
Returning to college after service, he graduated with a BA in English and embarked on a series of jobs that led him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A.-based international gay men’s magazine.
Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mudslides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Athena from the head of Zeus.
He—and Dorien, of course—moved to Chicago, and devoted their energies to writing. He completed more than 20 books, including the Dick Hardesty Mystery series, the Elliott Smith paranormal mysteries, the western/adventure/romance/mystery/
YA-oriented Calico, and other stand-alone works of fiction and nonfiction.
