Chapter 18
Karl
Ted was frantic. I tried to calm him down, my iPhone pressed tightly to my ear.
I paced my small apartment while I talked.
“We don’t know a thing. Not yet. All could be fine.
” The words were, I knew, what was expected.
They were also empty and I hope my voice didn’t convey my lack of conviction.
I was worried about his friend, Camille, just as he was.
Ted had begun calling her in the wee hours of the morning.
Now, it was noon, and she still hadn’t answered.
“But she always picks up. At five in the morning, I could understand. She was asleep, her phone on its do not disturb setting. But now it’s long past the time when she’d be awake. That woman is up with the dawn, working, downing coffee, smoking cigarettes.
“I had this nightmare—”
I cut him off. “I know. You told me. What do you want to happen, Ted? I’ll do what I can to help you.
You know that.” Ted had told me everything—all about yesterday and seeing Josh outside Camille’s building when she was taking him to what he called his safe house.
I wondered if such a place existed, especially in our world, where Josh was a constant, almost supernatural threat.
And supernatural aside, I wouldn’t put it past Josh to furtively slip a tracker on a car or into a phone.
“Listen,” I said as I pulled on my shoes and grabbed my keys from the secretary near the front door. “I’m coming over there. I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but we’ll go together to her place and make sure she’s okay.”
“What do you mean not a good idea? She’s my friend. She’s in harm’s way. We have to do all we can.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Ted—and you miss my meaning.
I understand your worry, but breathe, please.
I only said it wasn’t a good idea because we both know Josh has her place staked out.
If he’s there again this afternoon, he’ll be sure to see us.
This time we might not be so lucky and he’ll be watching from his car.
” I didn’t want to add to his worry by also saying, and then he can follow us wherever we go.
“I’m on my way.” I hung up, knowing I could do more good with him in person than I could via this electronic, and less effective, connection.
I also didn’t want to give him a chance to speak more.
It sounded cruel and unsympathetic, but I’ve talked with enough people over the years to know that sometimes panic will rile you up and talking about it, rather than serving as a release, can also be the wind stoking the flames of anxiety.
I hurried downstairs and to my car, parked on the next block west of my building. I was due to record another podcast today and I certainly had enough material to fill the forty minutes it typically ran, but, but… Well, priorities.
As I drove up Lake Shore Drive, the lake at my right, I pictured Ted in that seedy motel, wringing his hands and pacing, worried sick that something had happened to one of his dearest friends.
Alone with my thoughts, I had to admit that maybe something had happened to her.
She knew too much. She was an obstacle. She could be a thorn in Josh’s side, a wrinkle in his plans.
None of this made sense, of course not. But Josh was not a rational man.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t even a sane one.
Everywhere, in his mind, were people out to get him, to persecute him, to prevent his happiness.
We were all the bad guys and he was forever the victim.
What if he’d been lying in wait for her when she returned from dropping Ted off at the motel?
What if he demanded to know where Ted was and, when she didn’t cooperate, felt enabled to torture her for the information he needed?
And if she held fast to her silence, to her damning false admission that she just didn’t know? What then? Would he kill her, too?
It seemed absurd.
And all too realistic. A sociopath thinks of no one but himself.
As I rounded the curve where Lake Shore Drive becomes Sheridan Road to eventually head west on Ridge, I prayed we’d find nothing more out of whack than the woman’s cell battery had died, or she’d lost her phone, or she simply was exhausted after dealing with Ted and was sleeping late.
And yet, my crime podcaster self couldn’t hold back the image of a female corpse lying in a pool of blood on some living room floor, her body riddled with stab wounds, all because she happened to be friends with the wrong person.
I shook my head, trying to clear it of the imagery. But when you do what I do for a living—so inextricably linked with the world of true crime—it’s way too easy to imagine the worst. My dreams are composed of death and dismemberment, not sunshine and rainbows.
Before I knew it, I pulled into the rarity of a Chicago parking lot that was spacious and didn’t charge for the privilege of putting one’s car there. Ted was in a second-story room and I looked up for the number as I exited my car.
The day was saying that even though the calendar maintained it was autumn, winter had come to Chicago, not right on time, but early as was its custom almost every year.
I don’t know why we’re always surprised.
Despite the dire situation and the discomfort of the cold, I kind of liked it.
The chill off the lake, a couple miles over, was invigorating.
The snowflakes dancing in the air, no serious threat, harkened back to my childhood and the freedom of snow days.
Even the dark skies, heavy with charcoal clouds, seemed dramatic, ready for Ansel Adams’ camera.
I dashed up the stairs, two at a time, both because the situation was an emergency and demanded haste, but also because I couldn’t wait to see Ted.
I’d made it a policy since the very beginning of my podcast and even before, when I covered the crime beat for the Chicago Tribune, to never allow myself to get too emotionally involved with my contacts. It was a recipe for disaster, an enemy of objectivity.
But, as they say, the heart wants what it wants.
Although I’d yet to admit it to him, Ted was what my heart wanted. Even if he wasn’t in peril, I would have thought of him nearly every waking moment, as I did now. There was no denying it. I’d fallen for the guy, which only served to ramp up my protective instincts.
I wanted to clear up this nightmare because it was right, on the side of goodness and safety, but also because I needed life to return to some semblance of normal.
Why? So I’d have the chance to do normal, stupid things in the name of romance—candlelight dinners, walks on the beach, silly Hallmark cards, red roses, and yes, passionate kisses that would be akin to spiderwebs: both leading to the undoing of a fly.
He must have heard me coming. Or maybe he sensed it through a telepathic connection? Silly. I didn’t believe in such things. Yet I so wanted to, especially in this situation.
There he was, his hair tousled, barefoot, and waving. He wasn’t smiling, but the vision of him, so near, almost sucked the breath right out of me.
He turned so I could follow him into the room. Again, I wished these were normal times and this was a booty call and not a rescue mission for a woman whose fate may have already been sealed.
We can’t be too late for Camille. We just can’t.
Inside the room, Ted fell into my arms. Again, my subconscious, and even my conscious, longed for a different scenario than the one before us.
I reveled in the feel of him, strong and solid, against my chest. I pulled away before that revelation morphed into full-on arousal.
I was ashamed to admit to myself I was already halfway there.
“We need to get over there,” I whispered in his ear, reluctant to pull away but knowing it was absolutely necessary. I forced myself out of his clinging grasp, as much as I hated to.
He sort of stumbled back and away, his eyes wide. “What if it’s too late?” he gasped. “Besides, didn’t you say it was a bad idea to go to her? That Josh could be there and see us?”
“I know, I know. But what else can we do? We’ll be stealthy,” I said, trying to convey a confidence and faith I didn’t feel.
I drew in a deep breath and decided this wasn’t a time for platitudes or trying to smooth over a perilous situation—I needed to respond honestly to his true concern.
“Then it’s too late. Ted, there’s nothing either of us can do to change what’s real.
We can hope for the best. We can hope that we’re panicking over nothing. Worrying or dread won’t change facts.”
My words conjured up a vision of Reggie, one I’d never seen, except in nightmares—his body spread out on oily bricks, his blood pooling in the cracks, eyes staring upward at nothing. “Let’s go.”
*
As we drove over, the snow flurries changed to a sleety, needle-like sleet that tapped on my windshield, icy fingernails.
We were silent as we made our way through the mid-afternoon traffic, both, I suppose, immersed in similar thoughts and fears.
At one point, a car in front of us on Sheridan lost control and slid in a circle, traversing all four lanes of north-south traffic.
A part of me wished the car would hit us, end this insanity.
And then I realized how insane my thought was. I concentrated on the rhythmic swish of my wiper blades.
Get through this. There’s light at the end of this tunnel. I glanced over at Ted and thought how he was the light. There could be a future with this man, once the trauma of our current situation was over.
We just have to live through it.
“She’s going to be all right,” Ted finally said as we turned off Sheridan Road on to Camille’s little one-block street ending at the lakefront.
“She’ll be just fine.” Her yellow brick courtyard building was on the right.
“She’s going to be all right,” he repeated.
I realized his words were a mantra, a prayer.
“Of course she is.” I glanced around nervously, expecting to see Josh standing in the freezing rain, hands in pockets, watching us.
But the street was deserted. Still, I had an idea. I turned the car around, heading back out toward busy Sheridan. “Let’s approach a little more stealthily.”
Ted caught on immediately. “Good idea.”
I continued west and parked the car a few blocks over. “I wish the weather was better, but we can’t be too careful. We’ll walk down the street south of her and come at her building from the back, by the beach. You have the key, right?”
“In my pocket.” Ted patted the front of his jeans.
If all went well, we’d creep up Camille’s back stairs to her kitchen door, undetected by Josh or anyone else.
We’d made our way through what had now turned to an ugly, steady rain. I was grateful for it, to be honest, because it made it a little less likely Josh was watching. Even in his car, his view would be obscured by the downpour.
We were both shivering as we mounted the wooden stairs at the back of the building. The lake’s roar snatched our breaths and most of our words away. Part of me wanted to get inside, with its promise of warmth and dryness.
The other part dreaded what we’d find.
Ted led the way. When we got to her door, he held up his hand to stop me. “Let me go first.”
I nodded and huddled under the eaves, wondering if I was doing the right thing by complying.
He disappeared into the dark apartment. Shouldn’t there be lights on in there? After all, the day was now akin to night with its dark clouds and precipitation.
I waited for what seemed like an absurdly long time. He finally returned, features creased with worry.
I cocked my head. “What?”
“She’s not in there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe she’s just gone away for a couple days. A little break?” I moved closer and Ted stepped back to allow me inside.
The place was quiet. Dark. The only light was a side-table lamp Ted had switched on in the living room. The air was stale. There was a sense of emptiness to the place, as though no human had walked here for some time.
Mrs. Davis perched on the back of the couch, observing. I sent out a little gratitude, glad at least she was okay.
“I don’t think so. Look.” He pointed toward the front door, which was slightly ajar.
There was a smear of blood on the wall next to it.
I tried not to react with what I was feeling—horror, despair. “Looks bad, Ted. But it still could be nothing. A cut? Kitchen accident. We just don’t know.”
Ted said nothing. He simply stared at that small line of blood on the gray wall. The more he stared it, the more I did, until it began to look like a minus sign.
“We should get out of here,” I told him.
He grabbed Mrs. Davis and clutched her to his chest; she wriggled and hissed. He put her down. “I can’t leave her here now.”
As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. So I simply nodded. “I’ll gather up her stuff.” As I was pulling together Mrs. Davis’s things—cat carrier, litter box, food and bowls—Ted’s phone chirped.
He showed me the screen. “It’s her.”
I set down the cat stuff. Mrs. Davis did a figure eight between my legs. “Put it on speaker.”
Ted answered. “Camille?”
Her voice, sounding tinny, came through the small speaker. “Ted? Ted, it’s me.” She sounded confused and panicked.
“Are you okay?”
“No, Ted. I’m not. I need you to meet me.” She drew in a quivering breath. “I’m not alone.” There was a long pause, long enough to cause me to wonder if she was still there. Then she said, “I need you to come to me.”
Ted looked to me, a question on his face. I read it as, what do I say?
I shrugged, feeling helpless.
“Where are you?”
There was another long pause and then, “You know where the tunnel is under Lake Shore Drive? The one just north of Fullerton?”
“I know.”
“Meet me there in two hours. Don’t be late, okay? You must not be late.” The terror in her voice was real. “Hurry, Ted, I think—”
The line went dead before she had a chance to continue. I didn’t need to hear the rest, anyway.