Bloody Sunrise: An electrifying psychological thriller

by Gregg Bell

  Denny drove off from Brig’s. He lit a cigarette to get the taste of the pot smoke out of his mouth. Funny, pot smoke tasted okay when you were getting stoned, but sober the stuff was rancid. ‘Prince of Darkness’ Washington. Denny felt like the prison bars were already coming down around him. He needed a drink is what he needed. He dragged long and hard on the cigarette. He kept driving and driving until by force of habit he ended up at The Wild Bull.

  The Wild Bull was the scene of the crime. His crime anyway. His crime of not remembering anything. Of staggering around in a blackout. Not having any consciousness. A robot. A zombie. Who had he been? What had he done? How could he have been so utterly out of control? And here he was—he walked into The Wild Bull—ready to do it again.

  It was barely seven in the evening but the bar was already plenty crowded. Nobody he much recognized. Oh, besides the bartenders and cocktail waitresses. He felt guilty being there because of his reconnecting with George and the AA program. Still, getting drunk again was inevitable. Alcohol was who he was. His destiny. There was no point in fighting it.

  He sat alone at a dark table, well, as dark as The Wild Bull got anyway, in the corner. That hot new waitress with the nose ring came over—he forgot her name—and he ordered a pitcher of beer. Yeah, screw it. It made no sense fighting it. Things would be what they would be. Who was he anyway? A cog in the machine. A drop in the ocean. A pebble in a landslide.

  He waited for the pitcher—and waited and waited. Where was the damn thing already? The bar wasn’t that busy. There was no excuse for it not coming by now. Uh-oh. The loudmouth Rufus Tucker came rolling in with several beefy-looking friends.

  Denny took a deep breath. He looked around for other firemen. He didn’t see any. Just his luck. Tucker and his buds were headed his way. Denny remembered decking him. Payback is a mother...

  And yeah, Tucker and his guys kept coming—Denny counted five of them altogether, all beastly. Why had he sat at the dark, isolated corner table? They crowded around him. He had a hard time getting a breath.

  Tucker laughed. “Not so tough now, are you, Benny?”

  There was nothing to say. One of the thugs, a burly Italian-looking guy with a heavy five o’clock shadow and angry eyes, slipped on brass knuckles. Denny swallowed hard. Yeah, there was nothing to say. He was toast.

  “O’Callaghan!”

  Tucker and his entourage turned to look. It was Powell. The beastiest of them all.

  “What are you doing buried all the way in the corner like this? You going anti-social on me?”

  Tucker and his friends parted for Powell and then drifted off. Denny swallowed a few times and like a deer caught in headlights couldn’t stop staring at Powell. He couldn’t find the words to say, to express his relief, his gratitude. Had this really just happened?

  “You owe me, knucklehead,” Powell said with not the kindliest expression on his face and he walked to the bar.

  Chapter Nine

  Denny waited a few more minutes in The Wild Bull till his racing heart settled, then slunk out. Crazy, he was thinking. It was absolutely crazy what had just happened in there. Rufus Tucker and his thugs had him dead to rights and somehow Denny walked away unscathed. Not somehow, he corrected himself. He walked away unscathed because of Powell, of all people. And the timing—absolutely crazy. He drove to Summer’s buzzing.

  Again, she threw herself into his arms. What was up with that? Not that he was complaining but it was like the girl was in heat. But after hopefully satisfying her in bed, he needed to talk. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her ear. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened to me.”

  She laughed. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  She meant the sex. He laughed too. “Yeah, well, it was for sure, but something amazing happened earlier.”

  “What could be more amazing than you and me finally being able to be together?”

  What was she talking about—finally being able to be together? They’d been sleeping together for six months. But whatever. “I was just in a situation where I should’ve got my butt kicked.”

  “Why?” She slid down so she was face to face with him. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t mean I deserved to get my butt kicked. I meant it just seemed likely that I would.”

  She kissed him. “Okay.”

  “I was at The Wild Bull.”

  She sighed. “Please don’t tell me you were drinking.” She frowned. “I don’t smell anything on your breath.”

  “No, I didn’t drink. And that’s another amazing thing because I really need to stay sober while all this stuff is going down about Rashida’s murder.”

  She whispered in his ear, “That’s all in the past, baby.”

  Yeah, whatever. But he needed to talk. She should just let him talk. “So the thing is I was sitting in the bar. In this dark corner. And I really wanted to drink. I even ordered a pitcher of beer. But it never came.”

  Summer shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. But that was only the first amazing thing. Because after that, this guy that had a beef with me came in with a bunch of his thuggish pals. They were going to beat the hell out of me. I just knew it. They surrounded me. There was nothing I could do.”

  “So what happened?”

  “One of the thugs slipped on brass knuckles.”

  “Oh God.”

  “But before anybody could do anything Powell came in and saved me.”

  “Who’s Powell?”

  He backed off to look at her. “You know Powell. Frank Powell from the firehouse.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess.”

  What was up with her? It was like she was on drugs—she knew who Powell was. “So yeah, I was stunned that he would pull me out of that mess.”

  “Why stunned? He’s a fireman. You guys stick together.”

  “Well, because I’d given him a hard time earlier in the day. Actually, I’ve always given him a hard time, and he was the last person on earth I would’ve figured to help me.”

  “So Powell is actually a good guy, then?”

  He nodded. “And it was magical the way the timing played out too. Just amazing. Everything fell into place at exactly the right moment. It was almost as if...” He stopped.

  “As if what?”

  “Well.” He swallowed. “As if God was watching out for me.”

  “God,” Summer scoffed.

  “What?”

  “No such thing.”

  “Well, that’s usually how I feel too, but this time it was so incredibly unlikely things could’ve fallen into place the way they had any other way. Why the waitress didn’t show with the beer, which kept me sober. The timing with Powell showing when he did, which kept me from being beaten to a pulp. And why he—of all people—would help me. It takes my breath away.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “You were just lucky, that’s all.”

  “Maybe but I’m not so sure. Personally, I think the whole thing smacked of the supernatural.”

  “There’s no God, Denny. Grow up.” She frowned. “People do what they have to do to make the world the way they want it to be. Do nothing and you drift. Life slips away on you. You have to act. If I wasn’t taking this broker’s class, do you think things would just ‘fall into place’ for me and I’d ‘supernaturally’ become a broker? No, I had to take charge. Make the decision and then act. It was all me.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “So spare me the God crap. Next thing you know you’re going to be telling me about guilt and sin and I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t.”

  * * *

  What was up with Summer? Denny wondered. She was weirding him out lately. Yeah, he slept with her again but she didn’t seem herself at all. Then she wanted him to stay the night but he just had to get out of there. Too much happening.

  And maybe he was weirding himself out too. God. God was watching out for him. Had he really said that? It had seemed true when he’d said it, but the more he thought a
bout it, the more he realized that was crazy. Because if it was true, why would God have watched out for him and not Rashida? Rashida was a much better person than he’d ever be. No, Summer was right. There was no God.

  As he drove home, what Brig said weighed on him. Detective Washington was POD Washington. Prince of Darkness Washington. Denny knew some aggressive cops. The glory seekers. The SWAT and undercover types. But Washington didn’t seem like one of them. He seemed a stand-up guy. But now with what Brig said, Denny could see Washington as an angel of light, and if that’s what demons masqueraded as, well, then Washington was the head demon, Lucifer himself.

  Listen to me, Denny told himself. God. Demons. Angels. Pretty soon he’d be going to church again. But it had been a long day. It was no wonder he wasn’t thinking straight. All he knew for sure was he’d been anticipating getting arrested any moment and somehow he’d managed to stay free and—maybe even more amazingly—stay sober.

  Back at his apartment he microwaved a frozen pizza and hunkered down at his kitchen table. He needed to get control of his life. And really what had he done to do so all day? Oh well, he thought, yeah, at least he hadn’t gotten drunk—the AA people said he could always consider that an accomplishment. After eating, maybe he ought to go straight to bed. He was tired enough after all the nervous energy he’d spent and sleeping with Summer. But it was only ten. The night was young. He could walk to the liquor store for a six pack. Just a six pack, just enough to take the edge off things, that’s all. Damn stinking thinking. There was a rap on the door. Then another one.

  All he could think was that Detective Washington was back. He froze. Maybe the wisest thing was doing nothing. More knocking. Crap. He went to the door. “Yeah?”

  “Denny, it’s Orson. Open up. Hurry.”

  Orson. What the hell. He opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Orson walked by him into the apartment.

  “Why didn’t you call first?”

  Orson stood shivering in the living room, even though he wore the knee-length heavy coat. “I didn’t have my phone.”

  “Why not?”

  Orson looked around as if the walls had ears, then said softly, “I didn’t want to be tracked.”

  “Have you been drinking, buddy, or what?”

  “Just a few beers.”

  “Well, that explains—”

  “Just enough to overhear Rufus Tucker congratulate Brig for killing Rashida.”

  “Hey, what sort of nonsense is that?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  Denny looked at him long and hard. He had no reason not to believe him, but even so. He shook his head. “That’s crazy, Orson. You misheard.”

  “I was a table away, but no, I didn’t mishear. That’s what I heard.”

  This day just wasn’t going to end. “You could’ve heard a lot of different things.”

  “Denny, I’m sure of what I heard.”

  “A hundred percent sure?”

  Orson nodded.

  “Well, did you tell the police?”

  Orson shook his head. “I don’t trust them. Look at Jimmy Clarke.”

  The way Jimmy Clarke had been bamboozled had everybody on edge. “Well, hell, Orson, why you telling me, then? I certainly don’t want to tell them.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think either of us should.”

  “Well, if what you said is true somebody’s got to tell them.”

  “No one needs to know we know.” Orson sent Denny a rock-solid look. “It can be just between you and me.”

  This was getting too crazy. Where was Orson going with this? “So what are we supposed to do, then?”

  “I don’t know.” Orson shrugged. He seemed to be thinking. “I suppose we could just take care of it ourselves.”

  Take care of it? “Orson, we don’t know Brig killed her.”

  “I know he did.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.” Denny put his hand on Orson’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “You need to go home and get some rest.”

  “Denny, I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I think Brig knows I overheard them.”

  “Oh, forget about it, Orson.”

  “No, man, he killed Rashida. He can kill me too.”

  Denny looked him in the eye. “Nobody’s going to kill you.”

  “The way I see it.” He swallowed. “Is we gotta take care of Brig before he gets to us.”

  “Take care of him? What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Kill him? Denny laughed. “Now I know you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, then maybe you need to get drunk.” Denny pushed him to the door. “’Cause you’re talking absolute nonsense.”

  “I’m telling you, I have a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling.”

  “It’ll be all right, Orson. Bad feelings don’t kill you.”

  * * *

  Orson was losing it, Denny thought. Rufus Tucker might be a dirtball but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to congratulate somebody for committing a murder. Or was he that stupid? And what nonsense was Orson talking about ‘taking care of’ Brig? He was actually talking about killing him! Denny waited long enough to make sure Orson had left the parking lot, and then he bundled up and headed over to Summer’s. Yeah, Summer had been acting strange lately, but with everything going on he didn’t want to sleep alone. He had to be at the firehouse at seven the next morning for the fitness test, but even so, he didn’t want to be alone. No, not tonight.

  And Brig didn’t kill Rashida. Despite his macho Marine PTSD or whatever. Coming home from a war zone might be hard but it didn’t turn you into a psychopathic killer. It seemed like Orson had it out for Brig. Which also made no sense. Okay, Brig routinely ignored Orson at the firehouse but nobody there particularly got along with Orson. Yeah, that Orson was talking such outlandish trash just didn’t make sense.

  A siren blared and blue lights lit up behind him. Oh, it can’t be for me, he thought. He checked his rearview. The cop was pointing him over. Denny looked at his speedometer—he was going thirty-six in a thirty-five zone. You’ve gotta be kidding. He kept driving. A loudspeaker blasted, “Pull over, Camaro!”

  Unbelievable. Denny veered onto the shoulder. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was Detective Washington, the Prince of Darkness, come to arrest him. He rolled down his window, the cold outside air ushering into the car, the spotlight from the squad reflecting sharply off his side mirror. Something momentarily broke the light and a hatless heavyset Chicago cop, his breath coming out in huge vaporous clouds, shined a flashlight into Denny’s face.

  Denny could hardly see because of the glare, but the cop wore eyeglasses strapped on with an elastic band, like a racquetball player would wear. “License, insurance and registration,” he said, while waving the flashlight and looking all around inside the car.

  Denny leaned over and rummaged through his glove compartment. “Did I do something wrong?” He handed the documents over.

  “Your license plate sticker is expired.”

  Denny had to think. It probably was. Keeping up with stuff like that was hardly a strength of his. “Oh, my bad. I’ll get it first thing in the morning.”

  “Please remain in the vehicle.” The cop walked off.

  Denny sighed. There seemed to be no give in this guy. He’d run his license—see he had no warrants out—and then come back. Denny’d get a ticket or not. Whatever. He hardly cared at this point with all the madness going on in his life. So he waited. And waited. And waited. A half hour later the light was interrupted again.

  It was as if the cop had taken a ‘lighten up’ pill. “Tell you what,” he said, flashlight-less this time, handing Denny’s documents back. “I’m going to let you slide on the sticker but before you leave, mind if I take a quick look through your car?”

 
Denny thought about it. He had nothing bad in the car. At least he thought he had nothing bad. No, he had nothing bad. The cop could search. But should he let him? “Why do you want to?”

  “Well,” the cop said with a friendly grin. “It’s just the state of the world we live in nowadays. People, even people you’d least expect, are moving guns, drugs. I’ll just take a quick look if it’s okay with you?”

  Denny thought about what Aunt Elizabeth said about not talking to the police. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “You don’t want me to?”

  “Well.” Denny shrugged. “I don’t have anything like that in the car.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.” The cop nodded.

  Denny frowned. “No.”

  “No?” the cop said, scratching his head. “Is there any reason you wouldn’t want the car searched?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, it’ll just take a minute.”

  “Hey, you stopped me for my sticker being expired.”

  “Oh, okay, right, I see.” The cop leaned low, really low, right next to the open window and sniffed. He straightened up. “Please step out of the vehicle.”

  What? “I told you I wasn’t agreeing to the search. It was a sticker, for God’s sake. Give me the damn ticket already.”

  “Please step out of the vehicle.” Firmer.

  Forget it. This cop was back to playing hardball so he wasn’t lying down. “What suspicion do you have for a search?”

  “The odor of marijuana. Now step out of the vehicle.”

  Denny’s mind flashed back to smoking pot, but not inhaling, earlier with Brig, but since then he’d smoked cigarettes, chewed gum, did a million things that would’ve obliterated any trace of marijuana smell. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Step out of the vehicle now.”

  There was nothing he could do. He opened the door and got out. Another squad car pulled up.

  “Any weapons, knives, needles, anything sharp in your pockets?”

  Denny shook his head and the cop patted him down.

  “Please step to the side of the road for your safety.”

  Denny knew enough about Chicago cops not to resist. He obeyed. And watched as the cop crawled into his car—tearing out floor mats—searched there, then searched the trunk, under the hood, the wheel wells. He searched for an hour, while Denny sat on the curb, shivering, wondering what bad star he’d been born under that his life had turned to such utter crap.