A howl reached his ears as Chandler reached the garage entrance. He stopped in his tracks and peered in. Beyond the first few cars, he couldn't see a thing in the dark. But he could hear it, a screech and its echo, the arrhythmic flapping of its wings, distant but chilling. He didn't know if he was being a coward or merely making a sensible choice but joining the monster in the dark suddenly seemed a bad idea. The detective vetoed it for good, opting instead to continue around the structure to the open grass lot on Main Street. From there he backed up toward the Town Clock Center hoping for a better look.
The plaza was empty and deathly quiet.
Then a shriek tore the fabric of the night. The creature exploded from the shadowed third level of the garage swooping thirty feet at Chandler. The detective fired two rounds as he dropped to avoid the grasp. The creature stroked the air and disappeared around the corner. Chandler stood back up with a tear in the knee of his three-hundred-dollar suit and a matching tear in the ligaments of his knee. He groaned and grit his teeth against the pain, and hearing the shatter of glass ahead, limped after the beast.
The Town Clock, one of Duncan's most prominent landmarks, was erected at a cost of $3,000 at the end of the Civil War, atop a downtown department store. Less than eight years later the one-ton gong, half-ton bell, four-hundred-pound clock, and belfry toppled, destroying the store and crushing three shoppers. But folks love their symbols, and within a year, the clock was restored. One hundred years later it was relocated to Iowa's first pedestrian mall, aptly named Town Clock Plaza. A new thirteen-ton tower was bolted to a supporting four-column concrete pedestal. The clock's four faces, weighing a combined nine tons, were crowned by a seven-ton cupola and now stood two feet taller than it had in 1864. Add another five feet in height if you counted the creature perched at the top.
Limping, Chandler grabbed a lamp post for balance. The lamp was out, the ground covered in broken glass, and he scanned the empty plaza to see that all of the lamp globes in a row from there to the clock had been shattered. Owing to the dark, and decorative trees, he couldn't see the top of the clock. Nor could he see the creature when it leapt. Again he escaped its grasp and lunged, from post to post to a tree, trying to keep distance between them. He fell through the oval of concrete pylons guarding the site against errant drivers, rolled to his good knee and came up firing. The bullets hit home, but the dark thing wouldn't be denied. Hovering, darting, and retreating, the creature ignored the shots and attacked, wings flapping, arms striking, claws scratching, fangs flashing. But what the hell was it!
Ducking, Chandler pushed himself off from the base of the clock and stumbled nearly to the street before he fell. The creature rose up shrieking, green eyes glowing. Behind Chandler came another sound, an eerie and awful Tik. Tik. Tik. The detective ignored it, instead unloading his last three rounds into the green-black chest of the thing above him. Driven backwards, the creature smashed into the south face of the clock and shrieked as glass rained around it.
Spent, badly cut, out of ammunition, Chandler fell. The creature fell too, and lay less than ten feet from the detective at the base of the clock's pedestal. Sirens wailed from every direction. Exhausted but determined to get a look, Chandler dragged himself toward the monster. For his trouble, the creature slapped him with a wing and sent him cartwheeling away. It lifted its head and dragged itself toward the wounded detective. Chandler tried to scream when it grabbed him, but his broken jaw released little more than a groan. The creature unfurled its wings.
Forester shouted through the shot-out window for someone in the Stopwatch to call an ambulance. Shane lay dead. Catherine lay injured. Her son's nose had stopped bleeding but the boy was still crying. (Forester couldn't blame him.) The little girl, back in her stroller, played as if nothing had happened.
Across the street, on the far side of the parking garage, Ben hurried to the plaza. Sirens, cops, and firefighters were just behind him, rolling and running in from every direction. A new, city-sponsored pandemonium erupted. Ben stood on crushed glass and spattered blood, beneath the damaged town clock, searching in a circle for the detective. He searched in vain. Peter Chandler had vanished.
Eleven
Erin's squad was the fourth to arrive, and as the senior, she immediately took over. The patients were removed by ambulance, the children with minor injuries, Catherine Herrera unconscious and unable to tell anyone what had happened. Shane had taken whatever he knew with him. Erin alerted dispatch to send in the scientists, though there were no detectives left in Homicide to investigate. Chandler had vanished.
Her call for witnesses brought her equal shares of delight and anger. Ben had arrived after the shooting started. It had been days since she'd seen him; almost as long since she'd said more than 'Hi' and 'Bye' to him on the phone. Erin was glad he was there. Then, again, he was with that nosy Forester, a constant pain and they'd both been drinking. Come to think, Ben had been drinking a lot lately, and spending time in that dive bar of his, with Forester. She didn't like it a bit. She liked it even less when she got their stories. Neither had seen the perpetrator. They'd arrived after the fact and had seen nothing more than Chandler running across the street. When he was able, Ben trailed the detective to the clock plaza but, by then, whatever had happened to Chandler had happened.
There had been twelve customers in the hamburger joint, but once the bullets started flying, they'd all ducked under tables. No one saw a thing. Strike that, there had been a witness, a non-customer who'd stopped to use the restroom. Rickie Savage, Duncan's eternal child and man about town, left the john after the first round of shots. He'd seen Shane's murderer, and when asked, reported what he saw.
“A bird.”
“A bird?”
“Yes.”
“You saw a bird?”
“Yes. Big red bird.”
That was his story. He had nothing to add but concerns about his bike. It was located for him and Rickie pedaled away.
Two more days elapsed. Two days of collecting glass shards, bullet casings, and blood spatters that added up to nothing. Two days of empty interviews, fruitless searching, and unanswered questions. Two days of grief with no downtime to think about the loss, let alone accept it. There'd been no sleep for Erin since and, outside of interviews, no chance to see Ben.
Now, Erin Vanderjagt had been promoted, against her will, and officially dropped into the heart of the matter. Her protests fell on deaf ears. Taylor was retired. Tankard was beyond reach in the wilds of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. With Shane dead and Chandler missing, there was nobody else; she was lead detective. Hell, she was the only detective.
“You're going to have to get comfortable,” Chief Musselwhite insisted. “Or be uncomfortable. Incident command has been established. The case files are there. You're in charge and there's work to be done. Chandler wouldn't want it any other way.” He pointed at the door to Chandler's office. “Your office, detective.”
Erin stepped through like a naughty girl entering church. She approached the incident board, ran her hand over the victims' pictures and the city map. She paused, letting her fingers brush across the Town Clock Plaza where Chandler vanished. She breathed deeply, blinked to hold back the tears, and promised herself a long cry when the situation allowed.
Erin sat, taking in a room she'd seen a hundred times, for the first time from the lead side of the desk. She did not accept Chandler was dead, she refused to believe it. He was missing but she would find him. In the meantime, a murderer or murderers were roaming the city. They were her priority. She reached for the case file on the top of the stack.
Unshaven and unwashed, Ben pulled his rusted Impala to the curb beside Fire Station 2. He lolled his head against the steering wheel and sighed as the engine shuddered and the radio DJ muttered the end of a Public Service Announcement. “…the impending rolling blackouts throughout the city for the next forty-eight hours. The electric company is going to save some energy and, I guess, the city is going to save some money. So be prepared,
and careful with those candles, listeners, during those temporary blackouts tonight and tomorrow night.” On the verge of a blackout of his own, Ben turned the ignition off and let the Chevy cough itself out.
The last week had been a slice of hell and Ben had spent it all being questioned, by the cops, by nosy Forester, by his bartender. Outside of the nasty business, he'd had no contact with Erin. She hadn't been there for him. He wasn't allowed to be there for her; couldn't even hold her hand in public. She had no time, and if she had, their relationship was the last thing she could deal with now. Ben understood. But Erin didn't. He'd dealt with it the old fashioned way, from a comfy stool at The Well.
Ben climbed out of the car, as rumpled as his shirt and jeans. He leaned on the car, squinting through dark glasses, and deep breathing. He grabbed his duffel and coffee through the window, spilled the coffee, swore, and headed in. Inside the truck floor door, Pontius pounced on him. “What is it, Court, coming in on time doesn't appeal to you anymore?”
“On time?”
“Yes, on time. Or, for that matter, in uniform, shaved, ready to do your job?”
“I'd like to respond with something witty. But I don't have it in me this morning.” Ben pulled his turnout gear from its hook and started for the ambulance.
“We're having this conversation too often.”
“Then why have it again?”
Pontius lowered his voice. “We're all under a lot of pressure, Ben. Is there something special going on in your life?”
The paramedic paused in stowing his gear. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
Pontius nodded solemnly. “All right. If I can help let me know.”
Ben watched him go, wondering if Hell had actually frozen over.
Fire station kitchens were simple, table and chairs, stove, coffee pot, and despite the stories, built for quantity, not necessarily quality. The talk of firefighters as great cooks was horse manure. There were those who could whip up a five-alarm chili, requiring a wet towel around the neck to catch the glorious bursts of sweat, no doubt. But in most fire houses the microwave got as much exercise as the oven.
Nestor, Tuck, Arbuckle, Pierce, and the lieutenant had the table surrounded, as usual, reading newspapers, eating breakfast, drinking coffee and spreading lies as Ben pushed in from the truck floor. A chorus of hoots went up in his honor. He ignored them and grabbed a mug, pulled the pot from the machine, and poured himself a cup while the still-brewing coffee ran out onto the burner and across the counter top.
“For God's sake, Ben!” Pontius bitched above the roar. “Do you have to do that every morning?”
“Just like jerking off,” Tucker shouted. “Once a day, every day.” More laughter followed, this time in appreciation of Pontius' distress, as Ben replaced the pot and half-heartedly ran a rag over the mess. He disappeared the way he'd come, trailing his middle finger at his jeering co-workers.
Ben sipped his coffee, set the cup on the soap rack, and held his head beneath the shower. He closed his eyes, praying for a path through the gin fog, and let the water run over him.
Ben entered the living room, clean and in uniform, but still hung over and looking it. Pontius was there like a gnat in his ear. “The chief just called.”
“Who dialed the phone for him?” Ben turned for the paramedics' office.
The lieutenant followed. “Did you hear me, Ben? Castronovo called. I don't know from where. That means he could be on his way here. That means tuck in your shirt.”
Ben closed the door in his face.
Nestor turned from the computer, gave his partner and friend the once-over, and smiled. “Much better. You only just look like hell now.”
“Thanks,” Ben said, thanklessly. “What have I missed?”
“Judging by your delayed motor skills I'd say everything since midnight last night. Meanwhile, I'm working the second half of forty-eight hours in a row and look and feel great.” Ben rotated his hand in the air, imploring his partner to get on with it. Nestor pointed at the computer screen. “I was going over the ambulance reports, because of something odd Angelina told me the other night—”
The door opened and Pontius poked in his head. “Pena, the chief called again.”
“Is the guy lonely or what?” Ben asked.
“Butt out, Court.” The lieutenant returned his attention to Nestor. “There's going to be a temporary shift change. You're being sent to 'A' Shift to cover their ambulance until Cooper's arm heals.”
“ 'A' Shift?” Nestor moaned. “Who's been working for her?”
“Soetoro. But Captain Ethridge is complaining he can't find his ass with both hands. He wants someone with experience.”
“Experience at what?”
“Anything, I guess.”
“But Ethridge hates me,” Nestor said.” He says I'm a screw-up.”
“He thinks everyone on 'B' Shift is a screw-up,” Pontius grumbled. “He's probably right. But you're a veteran screw up and he wants you, so you're going. Take today and tomorrow off. Report to Station 1 on 'A' Shift day after.”
Ben butted in again. “Why can't he work today and report on 'A' Shift after one day off?”
“Whose side are you on?” Nestor demanded.
“Mine. You're my partner. Let Ethridge get someone else.”
Pontius growled. “How about this? How about it's not up to you clowns?”
Pierce eased past the lieutenant into the room. “My gear is by the ambulance,” she told Nestor. “As soon as you remove yours—”
“We were just discussing that.”
“We're not discussing anything,” Pontius said. “You're going to 'A' Shift temporarily. Get out of here.” He looked at Ben. “You're on the ambulance with Pierce. Shut up.”
Ben and Nestor spoke in chorus: “This is bullshit!”
“Count your blessings, Pena.” Pontius turned on Ben. “The bull hasn't even started for you. The electric company's rolling blackout is going to effect the downtown area tonight. That means the 9-1-1 Center is going to be without power. That means we're standing by, for three hours, at a phone company junction box in an alley.”
“Slavery,” Tucker shouted from the living room. “It's slavery, all over again.”
Pontius left for the kitchen. Nestor left for the truck floor. Tucker, with Arbuckle in his back pocket, stuck his head in and grinned, his gold tooth gleaming. “Watch your new partner there, Court. She likes to be on top.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pierce said, taking it in stride. “I was born on top of you mugs.”
The truckies laughed a ton as they headed for the truck floor.
“What was the odd thing,” Pierce asked Ben, “that Nestor was saying he found in the reports?”
“I have no idea,” Ben said with a sigh. He sipped his coffee, unable to care.
Twelve
It was more than a special Council meeting, and less than a press conference, that took place that night beneath the gold dome (1800 square feet of 23-karat gilded pretension) of the City Hall. It was an attempt by a nervous Mayor Light, and his bulbous city attorney, to save Duncan tourism from rumor, fear, and political fire. The evening started badly before the mayor reached the chambers. Caught in the hall by an impatient Mark Forester, along with Jamie Watts and her WKLD cameraman, Light stumbled. “I don't have any answers. I think it's horrible. But we have to give our police time to stop these murders. Murders are bad. And we don't want them. I don't want murders. Do you? No.”
Snappy and impressive it wasn't, and a good many citizens and city employees saw it as they filed in. Light ducked into the chamber like a rabbit into a hole, eager to hand Public Relations off to someone he could blame, his department heads. The room found their seats and settled in, Forester and Watts with the other reporters up front. Light found his throne, and his composure, beneath the Seal of the City. He banged a gavel and called for order. Then he called for the fire chief's report.
Tony Castronovo started to rise, hesitated, then started again
, unsure whether to speak from the podium microphone or the councilman's table. The display was nothing new. There were those, Ben Court and the 'B' Shift gang in particular, who considered confusion to be Castronovo's sharpest attribute. “I think you can just stay there,” the mayor said.
The chief adjusted his table mic and commenced, reporting in generalities about the Garfield Street explosion and the Fourth Street Elevator fire without revealing anything of importance. Not a word about screams or breaking glass, and absolutely nothing about grenades, gas cans, or flying men in capes. The burned patient from the house was in critical condition and unable to provide any information at this juncture. The Fire Marshall's Office was investigating both incidents. No, his department knew nothing about autopsy reports. Outside of the fires, the Garfield Street, and Fourth Street Elevator incidents were in the hands of law enforcement. The body on the Opera House roof was also a law enforcement case.
“Please, would you hold your questions until later?”
The department had drawn no conclusions regarding recent incidents and, Castronovo stressed, suggestions to the contrary in the newspaper, particularly about arson and murder, were premature and perhaps unfounded. Moving on, he regretted having to report the loss of an ambulance. A temporary replacement had been rented until bids could be taken. Details would hopefully be available at the next Council meeting, but sadly, it was going to be a kick in taxpayers' pockets no matter the numbers.
Forester jumped up with another question. Musselwhite jumped in to save his brother-in-law's bacon, moving the topic away from fire and onto police business, deflecting Forester's question without answering it, and starting his own fact-free department report. Not that it was smooth sailing for him either. There was, after all, the death of one detective to report and the replacement of another. Lead Detective Chandler had taken a leave of absence. No, no further information on either officer was available at present. All investigations were ongoing. Personnel matters were not open for public discussion. Chandler missing? Who suggested any such thing? The idea was ludicrous and wouldn't be dignified with an answer.
When The Tik-Tik Sings Page 8
