Holmes pointed to a second dot. “And this one? What’s there?”
Hester turned the map a bit to see the street name.
“Oh, that’s the location of the famous St. Valentines’s Day Massacre.”
Holmes frowned. “You have a museum for such a thing?”
“No. It’s a pizza restaurant now. But there’s a small plaque and tour companies take visitors around to the various sites involving Al Capone.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. Hester smiled. “It’s actually an interesting tour.”
Holmes leaned near enough that she could smell the scent of aftershave and pipe smoke.
“One finds it hard to believe that a simple plaque at the scene of a thug’s murderous crime spree could be interesting, but I’ll take your word for it.”
Their faces were only inches apart and from this distance she could see a small scratch where he’d cut himself shaving. While not conventionally handsome, the intensity and intelligence that blazed from him was powerful and appealing. Hester forced her gaze back to the map.
“And this”—she pointed at another dot—“is nearby. It’s currently a cocktail bar, said to be haunted. When the owners went into the basement they found a pentagram on the floor and Egyptian markings on the ceiling. Many think it was the site for meetings of the American chapter of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Not the recent neo-nazi group, but the original spiritualist group from the 1800s.”
Holmes nodded. “I’m familiar with it. They started in Great Britain and many famous people were members. Did anyone die there?”
“An elderly woman claims to have witnessed a murder during a Golden Dawn meeting back in the 1930s.” Hester’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. She pulled it out.
“Another bomb just detonated further south.” She pointed to an existing dot on the map. “Drake says to take the car. He’s staying here, but called ahead so that we can view the site.”
“What ghost photo number matches this new location?” Holmes asked.
“Four,” Hester said. “It’s definitely a pattern.”
She got out of the back and slid into the sedan’s driver’s side. Holmes joined her up front, but as she pulled away, he shook his head.
“Forget the bomb site, we won’t find anything of use there. They’re using it as a distraction. Tying up Chicago’s resources.” Hester thought Holmes was probably right. The entire exercise felt like a wild goose chase. “Take me to the Virgin Mary image,” Holmes said. “Is it far?”
“Not at all. But why?”
“It’s another strange thing occurring in Chicago right now. Likely a coincidence, but we should at least check it out.” Hester wasn’t sure that the side trip was worth the time, but a small part of her wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
They pulled up to a corner west of the viaduct and two blocks away. A long line of people waited patiently in the weak October sun. Policemen lined the sidewalk all the way to the viaduct and Hester showed her identification each time they tried to wave her to the back of the line. Half a block from the image, on the opposite side of the street, a bearded man in a tattered black suit stood on an overturned crate, a microphone in his hand.
“Isn’t that the same guy from the lakefront?” Hester pointed at the preacher. “They’re taking full advantage of the situation, aren’t they?”
“Someone needs to confiscate that megaphone,” Holmes said.
“Repent your sins! Behold the power of light and turn away from darkness. Place your alms here to show your commitment to the light. I’m Ezekiel the Prophet!” Spittle formed on the man’s unkempt beard and he waved the Bible in the air. At his feet was an upturned hat, filled to the brim with dollar bills that those in line added as they passed. Around him stood ten others, all carrying various signs with what appeared to be warnings of the coming apocalypse.
As they neared, the preacher seemed to laser in on Holmes.
“You, in your slick topcoat and with your ill-gotten gains, and you, with your belief in science above the Light, turn away!”
Holmes stopped walking and stared at the man while the others around him raised their signs and began chanting “Turn away! Turn away!”
“You think he knows who you are?” Hester asked in a low voice.
“Not likely. But he appears to know that you’re a scientist and probably saw us together at the McPatrick site.” Holmes held up his camera, snapped a photo, and took a step closer to the preacher, who hastened to step off the crate.
“The Great One will protect me from harm!” he said as he backed away. Holmes stayed put, staring at the man. The chanting followers surged around their leader as if to shield him.
“Go away! Go away!” they chanted.
“I do believe our pastor is frightened of you,” Hester said.
Holmes nodded. “I take a dim view of those who would attempt to profit from another’s religious experience.”
Soon they stood inside another cordoned-off area with three more policemen. Hester walked up to the first.
“Agent Percy, FBI. Quite a crush here. That the image?”
The police officer nodded.
The water stain did, indeed, appear to be the picture of a woman’s bowed head, her veil flowing down over her shoulders. Above it was the faint circle of a possible halo. When Hester stepped to the side, though, it changed into an average line of dripping condensation from the metal struts above. Every few seconds the police waved the next in line forward and they snapped a photo, made the sign of the cross, and were hustled away.
“Who’s the preacher?” Holmes asked.
The cop shrugged. “Some guy from out of state. We’re told to leave him alone as long as he stops at sunset and doesn’t incite violence.”
“What happened to the tent city that used to be here?” Hester asked.
“They moved on to the next viaduct. Didn’t like all the commotion.”
Back in the car, Hester paused.
“Do you mind if I make a stop? Nothing to do with all this, it’s just that there’s someone from the old tent city that I want to check on.”
“Of course. I, too, have eyes and ears all over London and from every walk of life.”
“Well, this isn’t an informant. Just a man I met though my charitable work. His name is Bruce. He’s homeless and an ex-vet.”
Hester drove two miles to the next viaduct over the highway entrance, where the roadway shielded pup tents, camp chairs, and laden grocery carts. She climbed out of the car and headed to the cluster. As she did, one man rose from a chair. He wore jeans with holes in them, a dark army coat, and a heavy sweater. He swigged from a beer bottle as he ambled toward them.
“Hey girl, who’s your friend?” he said. Hester introduced Holmes, who muttered a greeting. “Nice accent. Smart guy, huh?” Holmes’ mouth just quirked.
“I was just checking up on you. I saw that everyone left the other viaduct.”
Bruce nodded. “We don’t like no trouble, and that preacher man is trouble, I can tell you that.”
“Why do you say so?” Holmes asked.
“They came two days before the image thing. I swear they created it just to make some cash. And they were real secretive-like. When they found out some of us were ex-military they started harassing us. Calling us ‘war mongers’ and said that if we didn’t move they’d take care of us, just like the others. You see that preacher man’s eyes? Dead pools.” Bruce took a swig of his beer and offered it to Hester, who waved it off. Bruce got a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry. Ain’t got no coffee.” Hester just smiled and patted him on the arm.
“Thanks anyway.”
“Did they tell you what others they ‘took care of’?” Holmes asked.
Bruce shook his head. “No. But we heard rumors that they take the guys and try to ‘convert’ them to their way of thinking. Half those people carrying signs were converted. It’s a cult, if you ask me.”
“I have a photo of him and will
arrange to have someone run a background check,” Holmes said.
“I’ll keep a close eye on them.” Bruce drank again from his bottle.
“Be careful. You have any trouble, you call me, okay?’ Hester said. Bruce patted his pocket.
“I got that phone you bought me. Don’t you worry about me.”
Back in Drake’s car, Hester started toward her neighborhood.
“Let’s go to my house. I haven’t eaten all day, and we can analyze the file.”
Holmes gave a quick nod. As she drove, he seemed to be lost in thought.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I don’t like that the bombs are moving south. Toward . . .” He didn’t complete his sentence.
She did. “My house.”
“Yes.”
Hester didn’t like it either. “If you’re worried about being there, I understand. We can go back to the FBI offices to work.”
“I’m not worried,” Holmes said.
“Do you think—”
“Stop!” Holmes spoke so suddenly that Hester startled and jerked the wheel. “Pull over.”
Hester did, pulling in front of a white building with a side yard. Holmes bounded out and stood in front of it. Hester joined him on the sidewalk . Holmes pointed at the building.
“Is this building on the map?”
“No.”
Holmes breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you know what this is?”
Hester was confused. “Sure. That’s the famous Chess Studios. Some of the greatest blues players in the world recorded here. Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, Howlin’ Wolf, Etta James, and Willie Dixon. The Rolling Stones made regular pilgrimages. Unlike the St. Valentine’s Day massacre site, this is a museum.”
“As well it should be.” Holmes said. His excitement was palpable and unlike his usual dour exterior.
“You’re a music fan?”
Holmes nodded. “Classical. But the blues is an art form that holds its own with the masters. I’m truly glad it’s not on the map.” Hester smiled at him and he seemed slightly embarrassed. He swung back into the car and a bemused Hester retook her place behind the wheel.
Back at Hester’s house, she cooked an early dinner of spaghetti Bolognese and they pored over the file, tossing ideas out and discarding them. Drake called to say that another bomb had been found, this one within a mile of her home, and successfully disposed of by the bomb squad. Holmes asked if there was any news of the missing terrorists.
“None,” Drake said, “except that they’re known for their improvised explosive devices back in their home country, so the bomb squad believes they’re behind this string of explosions.” He rang off, promising an update if anything occurred.
“Sounds like your distraction idea is the right one. These guys keep the city busy while they hunt me,” Hester said to Holmes. She sounded calm, but inwardly she was anything but. She took a sip of her wine while she contemplated how close the latest blast was to the house. Holmes frowned into his own wineglass, and once again she imagined that she saw the gears of his mind turning.
“What we need to do is to discern where the next ghost sighting will be and catch them in the act,” Holmes said. “Then we can find out how they created the McPatrick photo and whether they have him hostage.”
Hester headed to the freezer and removed a carton of chocolate ice cream and held it up in a silent question. Holmes shook his head and poured more wine into his glass, and, after a slight pause, refilled hers. Wine and ice cream seemed like an unlikely mix, but Hester thought Holmes had it right and the circumstances called for both.
The map was spread on the table as well as the photos, with the exception of the evil one, which Hester had turned on its face. Now she stared at the dots.
“Each sighting is by a landmark that involves a famous event in Chicago.”
“And all involve death in some form or another,” Holmes said. “Let’s catalog which ones are left.” Hester shoved her plate aside and pulled the map closer.
“Here is where Richard Speck killed some nurses in 1966, and here’s Rosehill Cemetery, where they buried Bobby Frank, the young victim of Leopold and Loeb. Somewhere in this area was the infamous murder house of the serial killer H. H. Holmes, during the 1893 World’s Fair.” She looked at Holmes. “No relation, I presume?”
“None, I assure you,” he said. “But that site is very close.”
“Yes. The house is long gone now.” She sighed. “It’s a devil’s list for sure, but I imagine any large city would have as many, if not more.”
Holmes patted through his pockets and came out with a pipe.
“I see you have an outdoor deck.” He held the pipe up. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” Holmes grabbed the wine bottle and both their glasses and headed outside.
Hester made an after-dinner espresso while Holmes sat on the deck and smoked. It was full dark now, and a luminous moon rose above the trees. She poured her espresso into a tiny cup, pulled an oversized cable sweater over her head, and joined him on the deck. He appeared to be brooding once again.
After a time, he spoke. “You must go to the H. H. Holmes site and keep watch. I will stay here. Do you have a gun?”
Hester sipped her coffee. “Sure. On the roof.”
“A handgun.”
Hester nodded. “In a safe in the master bedroom. Why?”
“I should like to have it. In case I need it.”
“What, here?”
“I expect them to come here tonight. Whoever they are.”
“Can you even shoot a gun? Other than using it to tattoo your boarding house walls, of course.”
Holmes slanted a look at her. “That story is making the rounds, is it?”
“Yep.” She set down her espresso. “Let me get this straight. You want to banish me from my own house in order to ambush and possibly kill an intruder with my gun.”
“It’s for your own safety,” Holmes protested. “If we call Drake and they openly position police around this house you can be sure no one will risk it, which will defeat the purpose entirely.”
“What if they toss a bomb over the hedge? Then a gun will be of no use to you.”
Holmes shook his head. “That’s not efficient. They want you alive to give up the missile secrets. Throwing a bomb is too risky.”
“More wine, please,” Hester said and Holmes reached over and filled her glass.
“You treat your colleague, Dr. Watson, like this?”
“At times.”
“Well not me. We go to the Holmes site together. If they trigger my alarm, my phone will light up—I can even watch the proceedings from it. I’ll give Drake the code so he’ll see it as well and send in the troops. There’s no reason for anyone to place their lives in jeopardy to protect my empty house.”
“But they may get away and you will remain a target.”
Hester finished the wine and stood, putting a hand out to him. “Come on. Let’s go catch a ghost.”
Two hours later Hester was hunkered down near a large bush with Holmes at her side while they watched the space that was once a serial killer’s house, now a post office building. The moon above their heads cast a glow, and whatever the moon didn’t accomplish, the street lights did. They’d been crouched for a long while and absolutely nothing of interest was happening.
“This is a bust,” Hester whispered.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out. Holmes moved closer to view the screen. Immediately her burglar alarm app lit up, and when she tapped it her yard came into view. Two ski-masked men were crab-walking toward her back deck. She watched a split screen as the gun rose from the turret and began spitting fire and belching smoke. It rained rubber bullets down on the men, hammering into their heads and shoulders.
“I thought you’d programmed it to avoid hitting anyone?”
“I may have tweaked the program.”
Holmes smiled. “Excellent.”
The entire yard f
illed with uniformed Chicago police and the two men froze with their hands in the air. Drake strode into view of the camera and Hester could see him giving orders. Her relief was profound.
“Well, that’s over. Let’s hustle back to the house. We can interrogate them and see if they know where McPatrick is.” Her phone buzzed again and she looked down. “It’s Drake. Said he found a note in one guy’s pocket with my address on it and McPatrick’s underneath. He texted a photo.” She showed Holmes.
Holmes frowned, but said nothing. He waved her toward the car.
“You’re right. There won’t be a ghost sighting here.” Another buzz sounded—this time, Holmes’ phone. He read the screen and if anything his frown deepened. “The British agents found Dr. Carleton. She’s unharmed.”
“That’s wonderful news! Why are you still frowning?”
“That note Drake sent you. It showed your address first, not second. People don’t write ‘to do’ lists in reverse order. These two hadn’t yet gotten around to McPatrick. They started with you.”
“Maybe they were aware of my house’s superior security, so they went after the easier target first?”
Holmes shook his head. “Then they would have taken you on the street, not attempted this tonight. Why risk triggering your alarm when they could simply follow you and abduct you off the street? I was right. These two and those who kidnapped McPatrick are unrelated.”
Hester beeped open the car. If Holmes’ analysis of the situation seemed right, the implications for her future safety were once again dire. She wanted the whole thing to be over. She heard a text come in, and paused before starting the car in order to read it.
“It’s Bruce. He said to come to the tent city right away. Something’s happened.”
The tent city residents milled around, some drinking and others wringing their hands. Hester bounced the car up onto the sidewalk and jogged to Bruce’s tent.
“You looking for Bruce?” a wizened-looking woman holding a cigarette asked.
“Yes, is he okay?”
“No. He came running around the corner claiming he’d seen a ghost. Said he was going to text a friend and then took off. Ghost! Not sure what he’s been drinking.”
For the Sake of the Game Page 23
