Page 40 of Jealous of the Clouds
She closed her eyes for only a moment in realization. “He knows.”
“Right. He knows where I am.” I felt a rush of panic. “He knows where you live.”
Camille turned suddenly onto a side street and lurched into the only open space—next to a fire hydrant. Her hands trembledand she stared resolutely out the window. She looked a shade paler than she was before we started driving. I hated that I’d drawn her into this nightmare web. She didn’t need this and really, should have never been a part of it.
I was grateful, though, that she wanted to. That she cared so much about her friend that she would risk herself in this way.
I put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move. “I’m so sorry, honey. I put a target on your back. All you did was offer me shelter, some kindness. And what thanks do you get? Being put in the crosshairs of a killer.”
I wanted to jump from the car and run. Who knew where? Who knew what good it would do. I had drawn this poor woman, one of my dearest friends, into a situation where the only escape could be, realistically, death.
Camille drew in a deep breath and turned to root around in her big purse at my feet on the floor. She brought out a cigarette and lighter and lit up. Blue smoke filled the car’s interior before she lowered her window. “Shit. When I bought this car, I promised I’d never smoke in it.” She took another drag and regarded me. With hatred? Regret?
Then she said, “I would do it all over again, Ted. I love you. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. This isnotyour fault. It’s his. You did nothing wrong, other than try to love him. And then you came to me for help. Help I gladly give. And would give any day of the week.”
“But staying with you is now out of the question.”
She couldn’t argue. She nodded. “I know,” she said, her usually strong voice the whisper of dried leaves. “I know, sweetheart.”
“And I’m worried now about you.”
She let out a long sigh, finished her smoke, and flicked it out the window into the street. “Her doesn’t know me from Adam. My building is secure—locked vestibule, triple-locked,now, front door. He doesn’t know my name or, I hope, what unit I live in. Common sense, whatever it’s worth in a situation like this, dictates that he can’t get at me. And really, psycho or not, why would he? I’m nothing to him. I have no skin in this game, no role in this play.”
I could almost hear her saying the words, even though she was too kind to speak them.You’re the one he’s after. You’re the one he wants.
“Still…” I felt such guilt and remorse. I should have left her out of it. If anything happened to Camille, I could never forgive myself. And her remark about having no skin in the game made me think how that didn’t matter. None of this was logical. None of it had any rationale or sense to it. If there was, it was beyond my comprehension. And I’m grateful for that. My whole world had morphed into the kind of dark fairy tale, complete with an ogre, I enjoyed as a boy.
“Still nothing, Ted. He’s not going to come after me. But we need to think, now, what to do with you. Where can I take you to keep you out of harm’s way?”
I thought of Karl and, as much as I wanted to be with him, I figured he’d be the worst possible choice. He was best in a lot of ways—he knew Josh, knew his madness, and his capability to be lethal. But he was also the person Josh probably knew most about, including where he lived. This last thought sent an icy chill up my spine.
Was no one safe?
I doubted I had ever felt more like I wanted to escape. The old chestnutstop the world, I want to get offcame to mind. My life had gone from boringly normal to a nightmare, a horror movie, to living in abject and hopeless fear.
As though she’d read my thoughts, Camille took my hand and squeezed it. “He’s a monster, but not like the ones in a King novel or a horror movie. He can’t rise from the dead; he can’t flyor teleport. He’shuman. He has the same limits we all do. You’ve listened to the podcast, to what his sister said, to what Karl knows. This cold case is heating up. He’s also hiding, Ted. He’s desperate. That’s no comfort, but it’s a reflection of his anxiety, his worry, maybe, that things are closing in on him.”
“What am I gonna do, Camille? Where can I go?”
“Well, for the moment, I think you’re in luck. He didn’t follow us, so we can get you someplace safe, or at least relatively so. Here on out, though, we have to be super careful. I’m going to find a motel—I have a place in mind—and check you in. We’ll pay cash if they’ll let us and use an assumed name.”
“I guess that’s a start.”
“Sure it is. Once we get you settled, we can decide how to deal with the threat, with the danger.”
“Karl can help.”
“I know, but we have to be very careful, for his sake, too.”
Again, I simply wanted to act on my flee instinct. I had no fight in me.
“Where are we going, Camille?”
She smiled, “Why, we’re going right to the very heart of Chicago.”
*
She wasn’t kidding. I’d driven by the Heart O’ Chicago motel dozens, if not hundreds, of times during my time here in the city. It sat on north Ridge at a busy intersection in the part of the city known as Edgewater (although the water’s edge was a good two or three miles away from its front door). It had been here for as long as I could remember and I recalled hearing once that it stood in its place, looking all suburban and Motel-6-ish, since the 1950s.
