by Lou Paduano
“Yeah,” he said defiantly to the city surrounding him on all sides. “It’s great to be back.”
Chapter Fifteen
Patterns. Everyone lived by them, even Soriya Greystone. When her parents and the entirety of her previous life vanished in the blink of an eye, she guarded herself to the future. She built a wall, separating herself from the pack of orphans surrounding her. Then Mentor came. The wall teetered. He built it back up, showing her how to live apart and serve a higher calling.
Then Vlad showed up, opening up another world to her. Friendship. And more. Sure, she wasn’t close any longer with the young wolfen male, not in the way they had once been. He offered her a hand with legwork on occasion, but the former feelings remained, buried but present.
There was also Loren. The other side of the equation. The normal side of the city. Their time together was some of the best she ever experienced. They were partners, colleagues, and though Loren would be hard pressed to admit it, friends. The city surrounded her on all sides and as much as she loved the thought of the disconnected path encouraged by her teacher, the city overwhelmed her judgment.
Connections were everywhere. From the street vendor with a penchant for taking in strays to the barista that sold her weapons from the back of his shop. She laughed at the idea of a life without connections. She wanted it.
But she also wanted to be what Mentor asked her to be more and more each day. She believed she was becoming that person. Trying to become that person. For Mentor. Then her associations came back to haunt her. Loren’s return. Vlad’s death. She was better off leaving Loren behind. She was better off tackling this threat solo, solving the mystery behind three murders. The “smart play,” as Mentor would see it.
Her choice instead? To ask another connection for help.
Patterns.
The neon sign over the side of the apartment complex buzzed loudly. Soriya approached the building from the rear, not wanting to smile for the cameras that lined the lobby. The blinking red lights of the Evans Luxury Apartments sign forced her to tuck in closer to the building, making her way to the small walkway that served as the emergency exit. She had discovered the faulty handle on the door during one of her visits to the complex. Though it seemed to click into place, the lock never caught, making admission to the building easy.
Climbing the steps to the third floor of the building, more doubts crept through her thoughts. Three were dead already. Though she knew of Mentor and Decker’s previous relationship, when Mentor still allowed for interaction on a professional level, she knew very little of Abigail Fortune. The loss of the woman’s eye made it clear, however, that her gift came from a unique perception of the world. Why the killer would strip her of this after death was the question. Vlad’s heart as well. What good would it do the killer? Sustenance? Ritual beyond the symbol lining the floor? Like Loren, Soriya hated the mystery of the work. Her strengths came in the physical arena. She needed to feel flesh and bone against her knuckles or the cold heat of the Greystone in her grasp when she took care of a threat. Explanations were Mentor’s strong suit and another in the long list of complaints against her own methodology. She needed to take care of this one on her own, meaning with anyone and anything other than Mentor.
Which brought her to Urg. The bouncer at Night Owls was one of the first “people” Soriya met during her early days in the city. She was only seven, walking side by side with Mentor during a bad rainstorm. The gray clouds rolled in and she hugged close to Mentor’s waist to share the umbrella he carried. That was when she saw him. He stood as tall as a mountain to the young girl, his horns cut short atop his temples. Light green skin marked his cheeks, flowing seamlessly to a deeper shade down his neck. He made no movement in the rain, simply staring up at the approaching night. His mouth opened wide and Soriya could see sharp fangs of white on the upper and lower sets of incisors. Droplets of rain crashed upon the white teeth, running along his gray lips and down his face. He seemed at peace with his role in the world. As she passed, Urg looked down at her and waved. She met his smile with one of her own and waved back. Mentor never noticed the exchange and she never mentioned it, but after that day, thoughts of the 400-pound orc never strayed too far from her mind.
Down the hall from apartment 12C, Soriya stopped. It was time to turn around. Time to walk away. Time to leave Urg to his late-night television and his ice cream topped with pig’s blood. She could handle the darkness of the city. It was her responsibility and hers alone. She knew next to nothing about the killer haunting Portents. Nothing except the strength he displayed when he slaughtered Vlad.
The image of his torn body and broken limbs snapped her back to the reality of the situation. Her need for Urg outweighed her fear of involving him. Whoever killed Vlad had muscle behind the fingers that made the killing blow. Muscle that was beyond her own. Having an orc in her corner was too appealing to pass up.
The door to the apartment was ajar and the dim light of the television flickered along the shadows on the wall inside. Again, Soriya stopped. Her left eyebrow rose. A mistake? After the night she’d had, there was little doubt that it was no accident.
“Urg,” she said, her hand resting on the doorframe. Slowly she pushed the door open. “I was hoping you were home but if I walk in and there are naked celebrity orc fights on Pay-Per-View again, I’m—”
Lying in the center of the room was Urg. A large red stain streamed from his body in a single line toward the door of the apartment. The television blared background noise over the sound of whimpers still emanating from the gray lips of the large orc. The beast’s chest heaved and more blood oozed into the stream, but Soriya failed to follow its path. She was stuck on the figure kneeling over her bleeding friend.
The killer.
At the sound of the door opening, the shadow of a man spun around. Mismatched eyes, one of sky blue and the other of deep crimson, met Soriya’s. His frame remained in shadow, tucked beneath a large trench coat. It was in tatters, probably a result of the struggle with Vlad the previous night. In the dim light of the television, Soriya saw a grin widen on the shadow’s lipless face. The shadow took off for the large window at the far end of the living room. Something large, like a giant banner, waved in his right hand, his feet carrying steps of blood across the carpet for his escape.
“Don’t even…” Soriya yelled, giving chase. A gasp from the center of the room stopped her. Urg’s chest stopped heaving. She shook her head and kept running for the window.
The shadow slammed into the glass, shattering the window outward. Shards chimed, crashing to the alley that separated the building from its neighbor. The thick wood frame disintegrated from the force of the impact, collapsing outward against the side of the complex, its momentum bouncing it back and forth with the wind.
Soriya reached the window in time to see the shadow land on the rooftop of the neighboring building twenty feet away. Her eyes widened at the distance, her legs ready to attempt the jaunt. Soriya stopped herself from making a move, rational thought winning out over adrenaline and rage. In the blink of an eye, the killer was gone, lost among a city of shadows.
All that remained was Urg. Soriya ran to his side, knowing it was too late. She was always too late, it seemed. The giant creature’s chest failed to move. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling above, locked in fear. There was too much blood to see the wound that ended her friend, not that it would have mattered, as tears stung her eyes, clouding her vision. She fell to her knees beside her friend.
“Come on. Come on, Urg,” she muttered in the dim light of the television in vain.
Urg was dead. Another victim. Another friend lost. Her watery eyes looked up at the back wall of the living room. In a wide arc on the beige paint that covered all of the walls in the apartment was another sign.
Another calling card of the maniac on the loose in the city of Portents. Lost in a haze of grief and rage, Soriya pulled the cell phone out of her pocket. She knew the cost of the call she was consideri
ng, knew the risks involved in bringing in help. Nevertheless, she needed him; she needed someone, and knowing Mentor’s reaction left only one person.
She needed Loren.
Patterns.
Chapter Sixteen
Loren sat on a park bench across the street from the Central Precinct as the bell tower behind him chimed in a new early morning hour. From his position, the statue of William Rath stood before him. The building’s namesake towered over Loren, a fifteen-foot monument to the city’s founder though the contemplative detective believed the legend would be disappointed with the praise. The statue was cracked and worn from age. There were a number of imperfections in the face and hands as if changed after the fact. The dedication plaque held the same issues with dates overwritten and marred, either by age or man Loren could not say for certain, but the date 1893 read false when compared to the rest of the writing that adorned the stone surface of the commemoration. It reminded him of the change on the date marking the warehouse where the body of Vladimir Luchik was found.
Focusing on the statue and the plaque was the fourth distraction Loren had created to keep from leaving the cold metal bars of the bench. Anything to keep him from heading into the stationhouse and the waiting Captain Ruiz. Ruiz wanted to go over the case, the same way they always had in the past. A pot of coffee split between them and a piece or three of kuchen from the captain’s wife, Michelle. Ruiz wanted everything to be the same, the way it had worked between them for so long. Loren wanted anything but that. Things had changed. Hadn’t they? Change was good. Change was needed. Change meant growth; it meant movement, be it forward or backward. It was movement and Loren needed to keep moving.
It took three rings before Loren realized his phone was going off in the left-hand pocket of his leather coat. It took another two for him to work his hand around the thin device, scan the caller ID, and make the decision to accept the call. There were certain people who expected calls after midnight. Loren was not one of them. Family, however, trumped the late hour the same way it did almost everything else. At least, that was what Loren wanted to believe, holding the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he said over the wind. He turned away from the night chill that crackled into the phone, letting it fall on his back instead.
“Greg?” the voice on the other end asked. A deep sigh of relief blew into the line. “Oh, thank God.”
“Meri?” Loren rechecked the caller ID. It was definitely his sister. “What time is it?”
Meriwether Atkins, formerly Meriwether Loren, guffawed into Loren’s ear loudly. Loren used to enjoy the sound of his sister’s laughter when they were kids but since she had started a family of her own, he realized that her laughter typically meant something else entirely different than joy.
“What time is it?” she repeated. “About three hours past your train’s arrival. You know, that train I stayed up to meet so I could drive your ass home?”
Dammit. He had meant to call. Meant to text. Something to let her know about Ruiz’s rescheduling but it slipped his mind as if Chicago and his life there no longer existed. There was only the mystery before him, just like it had always been. Just the way Ruiz wanted it.
“Oh.” It was all he could mutter against the wind. He never should have asked in the first place but their relationship had been so strained, even with his return to Chicago. Part of him wanted to connect, or at least make the attempt he had been putting off for the last three months.
“Yeah. Oh,” Meri replied. “Anytime you want to make with the explanations and the apologies, I’m all ears. And don’t for a second start chewing in my ear with whatever nonsense flavor you’re craving today.”
Loren looked to his left hand that had retrieved a pack of gum from his pocket. He quickly tucked it back inside. Sisters. When they know you, they know you.
“Ruiz called me in.” Loren looked to the Rath Building and the dim light from the second floor office of the waiting captain. He felt the eyes of the statue of William Rath burning into him as fiercely as Meri’s undoubtedly did from the other end of the call.
“Of course he did,” she muttered. There was no surprise in her tone but Loren heard the disappointment. “He knows that’s the last thing you need, right?”
“He does.”
“But there you are.” There were things older siblings should never teach younger ones, Loren realized, hearing the biting sarcasm that filtered through every word his sister spoke.
“Here I am.” He joined her tone.
“Stop it.”
“What now, Mer?”
“Stop pretending to listen with your repeating answers and actually listen.” She took a deep, audible breath. Loren waited patiently on the bench that overlooked the front of the stationhouse of the Central Precinct. He snapped open the package of gum, slipping a stick into his palm. He let it rest there rather than incur more wrath from the responsible Loren. He knew there was enough coming his way as it was.
“That place almost destroyed you. You know this. You chose to come home, so come home. It might not be what you were hoping for, and God knows we can be just as screwed up as anyone, but family is family, Greg.”
He heard her every word. He had said them to the cracked and weary face in the mirror more times than he cared to recall. There was a time when family was king of the hill and everything else in the world was sitting at the bottom of the pile of priorities. That was how the world was supposed to be. Beth became that family to him in Portents. When Chicago no longer felt like home, she took that place. Even in her absence, she held that place while he spent every waking moment looking for who or whatever took her from him. Meri was right—he had come home, and it wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Family was family though, right?
“How is she?” he asked quietly, his eyes shifting up to the night sky.
“You should call her and ask her.”
“Meri…”
“She’s…she’s okay, Greg.” There was a sadness in her tone. “Tired from watching my kids all day but okay.”
“Good.”
“Greg. How are you?”
The question always surprised him. He didn’t have an answer. He never really knew how he was doing. Not really. Between being back in Portents with Ruiz and Soriya, and now with the case laid in his lap, there was too much to consider to answer the question neatly.
“Craving the stick of peach mango I unwrapped.”
A deep sigh was Meri’s reply. It was clear she knew the question would never be answered. “Go, Greg. Go to Ruiz and your work. I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”
“I’m fine, Mer.”
“I know.”
She was already gone from the conversation. He pushed her away as easily as he had when he first left Chicago to make a fresh start. “I’m sorry about the train hiccup.”
“Took you long enough to get there.”
“I am an idiot sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“I’ll be home soon.” The words slipped out and he tried to retrieve them by clearing his throat loudly. “I’ll call. Tell Mom—”
“You tell her,” Meri replied quickly. The phone clicked and Loren was alone once more. He let the phone hang by his ear, wondering if he would ever again feel like he could be there for his family as much as Meri had been there for him when he really needed her. There was a divide separating them, one he had put into place long ago. It was more than his work, though, which was what drove him away in the first place. That, and what his father put them through over the years. Loren couldn’t stay in Chicago and watch his family crumble. At the time, he wasn’t strong enough to stop it, the abuse both verbal and physical. His strength came later, with Beth, but by then the split was complete. And remained complete, even after so much water under and over every bridge separating the Loren family.
He tucked the phone away. Dry, cracked fingers ran through his uncombed hair, massaging his scalp to wake him up. Loren had barely slipped the stick
of gum between his lips when the phone lit up once more. He clicked the accept button, the first burst of peach mango hitting his tongue.
Her words were sparse, long pauses cutting through them that were not from reception issues, though Loren swore his phone knew when to crackle and fade with each and every call received. Soriya Greystone was distant on the other line, her mind somewhere else while she spoke.
“The apartment. Now.” Three words summed it up. Then she was gone.
Loren placed the phone back in his front coat pocket. It was the last thing he wanted. When she left him in the park next to the morgue with the address, Loren considered tossing the scrap and walking away. Soriya and Mentor ran their own tracks, investigated in ways Loren never could and rarely would. He wanted to sleep, but even after everything, he returned to the one place he escaped three months earlier.
Before that, there was Ruiz’s call at his apartment to explain. Why answer any of them? Why agree to this case? Loyalty to a friend? Curiosity? Loren no longer knew the reason. All he had was three dead bodies that needed justice or whatever the Portents equivalent ended up being. For the moment, it was enough.
The door to the apartment was open, the light of the television filling the room with a strobe effect. The carpet beneath his feet sunk in when he stepped inside. Looking down, he lifted his torn sneaker and watched the dribble of blood pool back to the floor. The small stream led to the center of the living room. With her back to Loren, Soriya knelt before a large body. Her head was low, her hands before her on the chest of the large man.
“Soriya,” Loren called out in a whisper. She nodded, acknowledging his arrival but never turned away from the lifeless husk in front of her. “Is he…?”
