An Echo of Death Read online

  All the times I’d driven up this way, I didn’t ever remember seeing a person going into or coming out of one of these homes, much less someone lounging on the lawn or even simply staring out a window. It was as if the inhabitants were as misty and ethereal as the miasma of clouds that were now trying to engulf them.

  We got slightly lost as we drove through downtown Highland Park. We passed recently closed Fort Sheridan. Developers slavered over the possibility of grabbing morsels of the property so it could make them richer than they already were.

  The funny thing was, I’d grown up in your average middle-class home. On a teacher’s salary, I could never possibly have afforded one of these homes. Because of the fortuity of circumstance, I was the lover of one of the highest-paid baseball players in the country. Now we could, if we so chose, live in one of these dream homes.

  Just past Lake Forest College, I spotted the turnoff for the Proctor property.

  I checked carefully at numerous intervals, but I couldn’t detect anyone behind us. Following Lester’s directions, we pulled up at a pair of pale brick columns that flanked a vast iron gate. We couldn’t see the house because of the six-foot brick wall and dense foliage inside.

  I didn’t see any button to push to announce our presence. A largish cottage made of the same pale yellow brick as the wall and gate posts stood off to the left inside the wails. An actual lodge keeper emerged from a small door in the overgrown hut and strolled up to the gate. I saw the look in his eyes that I’d seen only in crazed marines in Vietnam just before they marched into the jungle, not caring when or if death dared get in their way. I wouldn’t be surprised to see this miscreant in combat fatigues and toting a machine gun. Right now he actually wore an open beige rain slicker over gray pants and a white shirt and black tie.

  In a very soft voice, he asked us our business.

  We told him we were expected. He told us to wait and took his good time returning to the lodge. He emerged about five minutes later with a large key that he used to unlock a small portion of the gate that was wide enough for only one person to squeeze through at a time. After a searching look behind us along the road, and a few brief words spoken into a walkie-talkie, he slowly pulled out another key, slowly inserted it in the small lock in the center of the gates, and slowly pulled them open.

  We drove Lester’s silver BMW onto the property. The driveway couldn’t have been less than a quarter of a mile long, with nary a pothole or blemish. I assumed it was against the law in these kinds of suburbs to permit such flaws in the pavement.

  We arrived at the exterior of a two-story gray brick Gothic Revival home that looked to be sitting on at least an acre of land. To the left I could see tennis courts and an Olympic-sized pool covered for the winter. I saw oak trees of tremendous girth standing as sentinels beside the immense pillar-encrusted square porch. An enormous number of brick chimneys sprouted from the parts of the roof I could see. We pulled up in the circular drive. Before Scott had the engine turned off, a liveried servant emerged from the front door and silently led us up the steps and into the foyer.

  This room was three times as big as a school classroom. Double doors led off to rooms left and right. Ahead of us was a grand staircase with halls on either side with openings showing more corridors leading deeper into the house. The servant asked us to wait and left us.

  The floor was lined with broken granite and marble mosaics laid in a star pattern. At regular intervals, bronze vases filled with artificial flowers lined the walls. A ten-foot-by-ten-foot Rubenesque painting featured a woman with naked breasts and well-rounded rear, surrounded by flowing robes. It dominated the room from its location on the right-hand wall.

  Scott nodded toward the painting. “I bet it’s not a reproduction,” he said.

  The set of doors on the left slid open silently. A man in his early twenties looked at us, glanced up the stairs and down both hallways, and then beckoned us over.

  Everything he wore was white: shorts, shirt, socks, shoes, with a towel draped around his neck. He had the lightest-gold blond hair I had ever seen. It was cut short on the sides, and the wispy waves on top were something I could have buried my nose in and run my fingers through a thousand times. His stomach was flat; his calf muscles and biceps stood out with definition but not bulk. As we neared him, he turned sideways for more-anxious looks up the stairs and hall. His butt had the same perfect roundness of Glen Proctor’s. The blond hair and the swath of freckles across his nose that his perfect tan couldn’t hide told me this had to be a close relation.

  He confirmed this by saying, “I’m Glen’s brother, Bill. I don’t want anyone seeing me with you, but I’ve got to talk to you when you’re done with my father.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “No time now. I’ll find you after you’re done.” He shut the doors.

  “He’s beautiful,” I said.

  “He looks a lot like Glen,” Scott said. “You didn’t think he was so hot-looking.”

  “I never said Glen wasn’t hot, but this guy is perfection.”

  Scott raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you smitten?”

  “I recognize perfection. Half the faggots in the city would pay a fortune to go to bed with that guy. Artists would flock to sculpt his figure.”

  “Maybe they already do,” Scott said.

  I shook myself. “He’s scared about something.”

  “How are we going to talk to him in secret if servants greet us at the door, and a gatekeeper is blocking the entrance? They must have people spying out of every nook and cranny.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I said he was beautiful. I don’t know how bright he is, but he may know or suspect something. We’ve got to try to talk to him.”

  We heard a discreet cough and turned to see the servant who led us in standing near the bottom of the stairs. He beckoned with his white-gloved hand. We followed him down the hallway to the right of the grand staircase, made a right turn halfway down, then through a door to another hall that led past numerous closed doors. This corridor had dark maroon carpeting and was hung with impressionist paintings, each with its own brass-covered light.

  The servant, a man in his mid-thirties, opened a door at the end of this passage and said, “This way gentlemen.”

  We strode though the entry into a room that let in tons of light through floor-to-ceiling picture windows in both walls. A tall man with gold hair flecked with silver held out his hand to us. He introduced himself as Jason Proctor and murmured polite greetings. When I glanced around the room, I realized that the servant was gone. I hadn’t heard him leave.

  The focal point of the room was a thirty-foot stone fireplace. The sofa across from it was only long enough for one baseball team to take naps on at a time. Another wall had a pine media cabinet with a branch bench nestled nearby. Easy chairs in the same plush fabric as the sofa were spaced around the room and against the walls. Handwoven silk pillows clustered at various points on the couch and loungers. Brass fish on stands gathered on one end table and three enameled spheres rested on another. The coffee table had an enormous collection of dried flowers in a gargantuan brass pot. Wicker chairs and an oak coffee table along with wooden beams in the ceiling added to the rustic effect. One could get lost in and read books forever in the comfortableness of these surroundings. Scott was rich, but this was real money spent to feel comfortable and luxurious at the same time.

  Jason Proctor wore a white button-down shirt, peeking from under a gray cashmere sweatshirt sweater that zipped up the front, beige slacks, gray and red socks, and Loro Piana gray cashmere slippers.

  Proctor led us to the couch. He took a seat opposite on a lounge chair.

  “Mr. Carpenter,” Proctor said, “I have followed your baseball career for many years. I am an admirer, although I admit I don’t attend many games. I’ve often thought of buying a team. I did watch the seventh game of the World Series you pitched several years ago. Magnificent.”

  They talked baseball for
a few minutes.

  “And you, sir?” Proctor turned to me.

  “He’s my lover,” Scott said.

  “I’m a schoolteacher in the south suburbs,” I said. And somehow felt foolish for saying so. I guess the surroundings intimidated me more than I thought.

  Proctor gave no indication that our being lovers made a difference to him.

  “Teaching is a noble and highly underpaid profession,” Proctor said. He managed to sound paternal, but not condescending. I wondered whether it was a trick he had.

  Scott said, “We’re here about your son.”

  “Yes. I’m aware of what you say happened. The police called, and your friend Lester mentioned it. We have been in almost continuous contact with the police in Chicago and in Mexico. I talked with the team owners this morning.”

  Apparently Jason Proctor didn’t have to go through intermediaries.

  “We can confirm that he is not with the team at the moment,” Proctor said.

  “We aren’t lying about what we saw,” I said.

  He studied us for several moments. The flesh on his face was still taut, and his frame was well muscled, if beginning to sag a little in the middle. He was in good shape, and I could see where his sons got their athleticism. When he was younger, he might have been as attractive as the son who’d met us in the hall earlier. He trained his sharp blue eyes on us.

  “I cannot believe something has happened to my son,” Proctor said.

  I felt as if I were trying to fill Lake Michigan with a thimble, but how can you press a parent when you are bringing the news of the death of a child?

  “I know this can be difficult, sir,” I said, “but do you have any idea if Glen was in some kind of trouble, doing anything illegal?”

  “I have no idea. He has had troubles before, as everyone knows, but I thought after this last time he was clean. I had hoped so. I talked to him two weeks ago before he left for Mexico, and all we talked about was the team, baseball, and his prospects for the coming season.”

  “Do you know if he had any other plans while he was in Mexico?” I asked. “Something to do with your businesses?”

  “He might have spent some time with some of my executives,” Proctor said. “A few of them have been down there looking for ideal locations to build. We’ll be moving more operations down there now, with the North American Free Trade Agreement. I often had Glen work for me. I wanted to help him. Give him a sense of responsibility.”

  “Did he have any enemies here or in Mexico?” Scott asked.

  “None that I know of,” Proctor said. “This is difficult for me to discuss with you gentlemen. I understand you were friends with my son, and if your news is true, it will be a … crushing … unbelievable blow. Please understand, I don’t mean to denigrate what you’ve said or your intentions, but I have a large number of business dealings in Mexico, and I’m having everything there examined carefully. If Glen is dead, and if he was in trouble in Mexico, I want to find out about it first—not read it in some sleazy tabloid.”

  “Your son is dead, Mr. Proctor,” I said.

  His eyes lit on mine and kept their gaze there. He looked away first. I saw his hand tremble. “We’ll have to see what the future brings,” was all he said.

  He pressed a button on the side of his chair and stood up. I had a lot of other questions, but the interview was obviously over.

  I didn’t know the servant had entered until Proctor said, “James, please see these men out.”

  He shook our hands, wished us luck, and we were out the door.

  Halfway down the hall, I said to the servant, “James, when was the last time you saw Glen?”

  His voice was correctly cold and disapproving when he said, “I’m sure Mr. Proctor has answered all of your questions.”

  I didn’t bother to ask again. James let us out the front door. As I put the key in the car door, a voice called to us. I looked up and saw Bill Proctor beckoning to us from the side of the house. We joined him there.

  Proctor said, “I knew James wouldn’t let you out of his sight. He’s a nosy old queen.”

  “So are we,” I said.

  Proctor raised an eyebrow, but he said, “I wanted to catch you here. Dad has a whole mess of guards. ‘Way before Ross Perot brought his paranoia thing to national attention, Dad was heavily invested in protection. Of course, my dad’s not as rich as Ross.”

  Bill Proctor led us to a side door, down a hall, and up a staircase. This hall matched the others for simple elegance. Proctor addressed comments to Scott as he led us. “My brother told me you were his best friend on the team. That you were the only one who stood by him when he got suspended the first time. He also said you were a fag.” At my frown Proctor said. “Sorry. That’s what he called you. That’s kind of what you said a few minutes ago. Are you guys really gay? I didn’t believe him when he told me Scott Carpenter was gay. Hard to believe a professional baseball player bends over. Kinda unbelievable.”

  Scott stopped in the middle of the hall. You couldn’t hear a sound in the entire house. Scott and I looked at each other, then back at Proctor.

  Scott said, “Sometimes I bend over, sometimes Tom does. If we’re really in the mood, we both do at the same time. It’s magic.”

  “Oh!” Proctor said.

  I let silence build for a minute, then said, “You wanted our help?”

  “Yeah, right.” He cleared his throat, then continued down the hall to the last door on the right.

  “This is the room Glen grew up in as a kid,” Proctor said as he opened the door.

  Glen’s room had a king-sized bed with a quilted flannel bedspread, made of warm autumn colors. He had a dresser and a chest of drawers of solid oak. The carpet was deep plush gold. The white walls over the bed were filled with pictures of all the big-name athletes of the past fifty years. One other wall was filled with a fantastic array of posters of unicorns. On top of the dresser were a wide variety of bongs and water pipes. An open door off to the left showed a bathroom with a sunken tub. In a sitting area opposite this door were a brown leather couch and two matching chairs. A large picture window had let Glen look out on the world. Outside I could see the wisps of fog had changed into a thickening mist. Visibility was maybe a hundred feet. I could make out thirty or forty feet of relatively calm lake. The waves barely brushed the shore. Hardly a ripple disturbed the cold gray surface. I could see the dim outline of a pier with one boat anchored at each side and one at the far end.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you guys back there,” Proctor said.

  “What did you want?” I asked.

  “I need to talk. Something screwy is going on. My father told me that you were coming and that it was about Glen, but he wouldn’t say what. I’m worried about him.”

  Obviously his dad hadn’t told him about what we’d reported to the police. His manner certainly didn’t seem to include sorrow or suffering. He was more like a kid who had been playing a prank and was worried about how much trouble he might be in.

  He’d changed into blue jeans and running shoes. He wore a white fisherman’s sweater partially covered with a blue denim jacket.

  He leaned back in the chair. “I don’t trust my dad or the servants. I’ve got no one else to turn to. I need your help.”

  First the one brother and then the other. Who knew how alike they might be? No matter how pretty he was, I wasn’t prepared to trust him very far or help very much until it was proven to me that we could trust him.

  I said, “You better not be trying to jerk us around.”

  Scott said, “That’s awful harsh, Tom.”

  “I don’t know who I trust at the moment,” I said to him. Then I turned to Proctor. “I’m not sure what your game is, but we’ve been chased and shot at, and I’m not willing to take any chances at the moment.”

  “Is this necessary, Tom?” Scott asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I was fully prepared to list the problems his sympathy had gotten us into. At this point, all p
recautions were to be taken.

  “Look,” Proctor said, “I really think Glen’s in trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”

  He looked and sounded sincere. His brother was dead, and he had sounded as if he genuinely cared about him.

  “I don’t know what to do to get you to trust me,” he said. “My dad said you had news about my brother. What’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve got bad news.” Suddenly I felt ashamed and awkward. Here I had been bullying some probably-innocent kid, to whom we were about to give perfectly awful news.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated as if my sorrow could take some of the sting away. “We found your brother last night at Scott’s. He’d been shot through …” I paused, cleared my throat, shook my head. “He was dead.”

  “No,” Proctor said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said and felt silly for saying it for the third time, but I don’t know anyone who has the perfect words for horrific moments like this.

  Tears came to his eyes. “I really loved him. I’ve looked up to him ever since I can remember.” He turned away from us. Tears flowed down his face. “I can’t believe it.”

  His shoulders began to shake. Scott reached out, and the kid sagged into his arms.

  I felt awful for him. I know I’d be devastated if I found out one of my brothers or my sister was dead.

  Scott held Proctor, patting the blond hair, rubbing his hand in a circle on the back of his jacket.

  I wondered whether his dick was getting hard and felt like a crude creep for thinking such a thought.

  Proctor’s crying turned to sniffles and muted gulps for air. “This is awful,” he said. “What happened?”