Three - Day Shift
For the first time all year, Bertrand didn't have to stand on the 'L' train as it rocked along its elevated path into downtown Chicago. Usually the suburbanites had claimed all the seats by the time the train arrived at Armitage, not that Bertrand cared, because he lived only four stops from the Loop. This morning he not only had a seat, but the one next to him was empty as well. He had never worked down town through a summer before, so he assumed that many of his fellow commuters had fled the city heat for a week, taking their kids to cabins by cool lakes.
Still, as he hurried down the steps, Bertrand did think it odd that the whole city seemed quieter than usual. Not that the noise of the train scrapping onward above his head on its way around the Loop was any quieter, but the bustle of traffic, both car and pedestrian, was subdued today, as if marking a day of mourning.
Bertrand hurried over to Lasalle, walking quickly because he'd slept late. If he skipped his coffee, he could be at his desk before Whitlock made his grumpy morning rounds of the cubicles. Bertrand reached the building on Monroe—a white monolith emanating solidity and permanence, towering over the corner—and joined a few stragglers heading for the elevators. Again, he was surprised that he didn't have to squeeze on board. If only things could be this spacious in the winter, when everyone packed into the metal boxes with heavy coats and colds and flu.
Any hope of avoiding Whitlock vanished as the gleaming elevator doors slide open. The man stood there as if waiting for Bertrand, checking the watch on his thick wrist, his normally tanned complexion a little redder than usual—a sure sign of stress. His muscles bulged below the short sleeves of his dress shirt, indicating that he hadn't missed his morning workout, which usually mellowed the man. His graying mustache was trimmed with military precision.
Bertrand tried to slip past him with an innocent nod, but Whitlock caught his arm. "Bert, thank god. We're down five people this morning. There's some kind of weird flu going around." He turned and led Bertrand through the rows of cubicles to their enclave near the north-facing windows. Bertrand had often looked at the gleaming office towers that blocked his view north. Would he be able to see the trees of his street if the view were unobstructed?
"Get in the queue," Whitlock said. "Start with the chats 'cause they're usually faster. Move onto the phones in between. We're backed up over half-an-hour. I have to go upstairs for a confab about employee absenteeism. As if I have time." He marched away before Bertrand could ask about the promised promotion to programmer. Probably not the right time anyway, he decided. Whitlock may have been willing to overlook Bertrand's tardiness, since the office was short-staffed, but the man angered easily, and he was clearly under pressure.
Bertrand logged on to his terminal and joined the queue, but the list of those waiting for tech support stunned him. "What the fuck?"
"Bert, here dude. It's gonna be a long day." Jeff Aubert, holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the office's kitchen, kicked out the chair in the opposite cubicle, leaning his long frame over to place one of the cups on Bert's desk. "Thought you'd skip your coffee this morning." He placed his own down before he sat and pulled back his blond hair, binding it into a short ponytail with an elastic band. Jeff was only a year older than Bertrand, but cigarettes and booze had taken the youthful shine from his face. No one asked him for I.D. anymore when he visited a bar.
"You're a god." Bertrand popped open the plastic lid and took a sip, burning his tongue but still savoring the strong brew. "What's up? How many people skipped off?"
"I think half a dozen or so, but the problem isn't who skipped off here, it's who skipped off from the clients. There seems to be a lot of newbies doing the payroll this week, and they don't know a damn thing about Timetracks."
"Weird. Everybody's run away from the heat, I guess."
"Wasn't like this last summer." Jeff reached for his earphones and mic headset. "Should we do lunch?"
Chicken wings and beer. Bertrand's mouth watered at the thought.
"If Whitlock let's us."
He selected the first chat, a question about pulling payroll reports out of the database, completely basic stuff. He checked the client name—a big corporation, one that should have a deep pool of staff in accounting. Who was doing payroll there this morning? They should know how to do this. It was going to be a long morning.
*
Bertrand wondered if they'd get a seat fast enough at Flynn's to squeeze in a pint over lunch, but he needn't have worried. Only a few tables of the brewpub were occupied, and the young bartender—looking barely old enough to drink himself—just waved them in the direction of the line of booths by the window. "Wherever you want, gentlemen. Tracy'll be out in sec'." He continued hanging clean wine glasses above the bar, since there were no patrons on the stools awaiting his service. To the right of the bar, the high glass windows gave a view of gleaming brass tanks so that patrons could see their suds under production, but the rest of the place was styled as an upscale Irish Pub.
"Okay, this is just too weird." Bertrand slipped into one side of a booth that could comfortably hold six. "Where the hell is everybody?"
Jeff leaned his tall frame back on the opposite seat, one arm resting on its back, the fingers of his other tapping the table. "This has been building for a while."
"What are you talking about? Building? You mean emptying."
"Yeah, maybe. You've been such a lunch-time saint lately that you don't know: the restaurants have been hurting all around the Loop—especially the lunch crowd. We're not the only ones dealing with growing absenteeism." He held up two fingers to the bartender, who nodded and began pouring the pints.
"What'd you just order me?"
"A couple of Flynn's lagers. Don't worry, if you don't want one I'll drink both."
But Bertrand did want one, and he silently apologized to his waistline as he took the first cool sip, and he simply nodded when Jeff asked, "Chicken wings?"
"Speaking of totally weird," said Jeff after his first sip. "My neighbor went off the deep end last night. First it sounded like a party, loud music, that kind of thing. Then there's screaming like crazy, not fooling around screaming, or getting off screaming. I mean totally freaked out screaming. Horror movie screaming. It took me a couple of minutes to realize it was a guy screaming and not a girl."
Bertrand thought of the scream from Needleman's house. "So anybody call 911?"
"'Course." Jeff leaned forward now, both hands holding his pint, his expression embarrassed. "I mean, I guess I should've sooner, but I kept thinking someone else would call because the whole building must've been able to hear it, and it was above me, so I figured his next door neighbors would call."
"What happened?" Bertrand didn't like where this was going. It sounded too much like his own experience at Needleman's.
"Cops took nearly an hour to get there, and by that time the screaming had stopped. Me and a few others met them in the hall and they said they had no justification for entering the unit. Said since it was quiet and no one was answering the door that the party must be over. But one tough old lady—I don't know her name—she just pushed past the cops and tried the door. It wasn't locked. She shamed the cops into going in. Guess what?"
"Blood, but no body."
Jeff sat back in surprise. "Crap, how'd you know?"
"Same thing happened to me with my neighbor last night. Blood on the living-room floor. No body, and as far as the cops were concerned, no crime."
"That's just what they told us. The old lady went straight in there, that's why the cops followed her. She said there were handcuffs on the four-poster bed, like four sets for kinky stuff lined with pink fur. She said there was blood on the pillow, a fair amount."
"What did the cops say?"
"Said it was bondage gone too far and the couple had gone to the hospital and would be back today. But the old lady said that she saw him ... crap, I can't remember his name either ... she saw him get home last night with an entourage, four hot c
hicks. She thought it was weird 'cause he's no lady's man—makes you look fit. Oh, sorry."
Bertrand took a sip of his pint before he spoke. "You know what? My neighbor, he's a recluse, and I know in my soul someone cut him last night. He's dead. I don't know where the body is, but he's toast. I think your neighbor's toast too."
"My thoughts." Jeff looked around the restaurant for a moment as if worried he might be overheard. "Do you think the Chicago Ripper is doing way more people than the police are letting on? I've heard talk of copycat killers."
"One cop I talked to last night was a good guy, and he said there are copycats in other cities, maybe even a devil-worshipping cult. I mean, what are the odds of both of us losing neighbors last night? One guy can't have been running around that much, especially if he's getting rid of bodies. Besides, there were three confirmed Ripper murders last night, and that scumbag doesn't hide his bodies. What's really weird though is that your neighbor said hot girls, like a honey trap, like they were doing the killing. Doesn't fit my image of serial killers."
"Stranger and stranger. Ah, wings. Thanks, Tracy," he said to the waitress, who smiled before she turned away. Bertrand's eyes followed her tight bum in her black polyester pants for a moment, then caught Jeffery's sly smile. He grabbed a wing from the basket to cover his indiscretion.
"My doctor will be furious with me." Bertrand tore into the steaming wing, the Tabasco sauce making his eyes water.
"You still got that blood pressure thing going on?"
"And high cholesterol."
"Dude, you gotta get in shape. I eat anything I want and I'm still at the bottom of the body mass index."
"Go screw. You're naturally skinny."
"I work out every night. Running, machines and I got a karate sensei who works us to death twice a week. Why don't you come out tonight? Might not hurt to be in better shape. If the Ripper comes after you, it'd be good if you could at least put up a fight."
"That's what guns are for."
"Think you can get a personal carry permit?"
Bertrand reached for another wing. "Is the karate tonight?"
"Nope, machines and running. Don't worry, Joyce is the coach on tonight and she's a trained pro. She'll set you up with a good program, and Bert, she's not hard on the eyes."
Bastard. Jeff had just found the one argument that would make him come out of his shell, get off his ass.
"I don't have any gym gear." Bertrand still held the chicken wing, ready to take another guilty bite.
"Dude, don't give me lame excuses. We'll buy you some stuff on the way and you can store it in the closet with all the other gear you own. Yeah, I thought so. Nada. You'd have to buy some shorts and good shoes anyway, because you can't run in those beat-up Reeboks you got on your feet right now. Don't worry your wallet 'cause there're great sales on everywhere this summer." Jeff leaned back and waved for another pint. "Eat without guilt. We're gonna work it off tonight at the gym."
Bertrand considered other excuses, like his possible heart attack on the street in front of Needleman's, but the truth was that he hadn't felt this strong since his teens. Last night's panic must have been a psychosomatic event—like Dr. Sloan had been talking about in his sermons on anxiety—his body just freaking out because his mind anticipated horrible things.
Besides, this Joyce woman sounded interesting, and Bertrand didn't want to die a virgin. Perhaps if he lost some weight and built some muscle he might finally get laid. Maybe even Tracy, the waitress with the amazing red curls and the freckles, would go out with him.
"Okay, I'll give it a try." Bertrand laughed before he bit into the wing, because he couldn't imagine being able to fight anyone, let alone the Chicago Ripper.
Four - Murder
Bertrand stood on the scale, his ears burning with embarrassment.
Joyce—the pint-sized Amazon in bum-hugging shorts and a restraining tank top that ended far above her belly button—gave a low whistle. "Can't say as I'm surprised given the beer belly. You have to lose at least forty pounds."
"My doctor said twenty." Bertrand stepped off the scale, wanting those glowing red numbers to vanish.
"Your doctor wants you to lose enough to live another twenty-five years. I'm going to put you on a program that'll turn you into a hot body within a year."
Bertrand couldn't restrain a snorted laugh. "I'm a call center tech. I don't think there ever was a 'hot body' under this flab." He pinched at one love handle for emphasis. There was nothing he could hide from this woman if she was going to be his personal trainer, and so there was no chance she would sleep with him, even in the dark. Somehow this thought helped him relax.
Joyce walked over to a pack hanging on the wall in this corner of the weight room. Machines—some of which Bertrand couldn't even determine a purpose for—sat empty over a large area, with only Jeff peddling on an exercise bike on the far side of the room, his iPod plugged into his head, his Kindle in one hand.
Joyce pulled a photo out of her bag and handed it to Bertrand.
"This is me four years ago. My life seemed empty and pointless. I had nothing to fight for and no reason to stick around. I was clinically depressed and my doctor had written a prescription for Prozac."
An angry woman looked out of the photo, clearly peeved with the photographer. Loose track pants barely contained wide hips. The extra large sweatshirt bulked in the wrong places, and her face seemed an inflated version of the woman standing before Bertrand.
"Wow!" he said, looking from the photo to Joyce and back. "Wow! I mean, you look great. I can't believe this is—" He broke off in embarrassment. Since when did he openly complement a woman's figure, let alone imply that she had been fat in the past?
"You can't believe it's me." She snatched the photo and stuffed it back into her bag. "I keep that with me for the unbelievers like you, and whenever I don't feel like working out, I take a good long look at it to remind me why I'm here. Let's head for the track. I want to get your heart rate up before we start, so that you don't drop dead from a heart attack in the first set."
She'd jogged out the door and through the spacious lobby, heading for the open staircase to the second floor. Bertrand was winded before they even reached the narrow running track. It ran around the walls above the lap pool, leaving the center open for height above the water. A stiff wire mesh rose from the inner side of the track to the ceiling, marring the view of the swimmers, but it ensured fools couldn't try to jump the two stories from the track into the pool, probably missing and clipping the tile edge.
After the first lap, Bertrand stopped with one hand on his knee, gasping for breath and pressing a hand to his chest, but while his heart beat fast, it didn't race out of control like last night. There was no panic.
"Buddy." Joyce had already lapped him and stopped to walk beside him. "This is pathetic! Move your ass or I'll sic my Rottweiler on it. I don't care if you walk, limp or crawl, but don't you dare stop on my track."
Bertrand lurched into motion, but he failed to stifle a laugh.
"What?" Joyce turned and jogged backwards along the track, a don't-fuck-with-me frown creasing her forehead.
"I didn't realize this was boot-camp fitness, Sergeant."
A smile cracked. "Call me captain and run for your life."
*
The showers were empty and so was the change room, but Bertrand still washed the sweat off his aching muscles and dressed hurriedly, careful not to look at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. One workout would not have made a difference.
Jeff had finished his workout and left earlier. "Can't keep a prospective ball and chain waiting," he'd said on his way out. It took Bertrand a moment to decipher that Jeff meant he had a date.
A date. It should be a normal event, but to Bertrand it was exotic and foreign. He'd made a few fumbling attempts at dating in college, but even if he didn't get a polite refusal right off the top, the evening could usually be measured by stilted conversations, the excuses about needing to get to bed early, or
the deathly "we should just be good friends," which usually meant he would never see her again in a social setting. He just wasn't bold enough for the ritual dance of mating.
Take tonight, for instance. If he'd asked Joyce for a date, what excuse would she have made? I don't date fat guys? He would actually prefer that honesty. He finished dressing and pushed out of the club, his new pack slung over his shoulder.
Joyce was leaning against a concrete utility pole while studying a cell phone. She wore shorts a little longer than the ones she had in the gym, as well as a sleeveless shirt, loose and buttoned-down because of the evening heat—or maybe to reveal a bit of cleavage. A large Rottweiler panted beside her, its tongue lolling out. Its red-rimmed eyes would have fit well on the Hound of the Baskervilles, and its impressive yellow teeth warned of a strong jaw designed for ripping and tearing.
Joyce looked up from the phone as the club door banged closed. "What's up?" she said, as if they'd arranged to meet. "Jeff said you live just a couple of streets over from me, so I figure if you're walking I'll keep you company."
Bertrand had actually planned to head for the 'L' station. Only two quick stops south and he'd be home, but he didn't dare admit that laziness to Joyce.
"Sure." Did he sound too eager? Did he sound like he had suddenly imagined he and Joyce naked in his bed? He started walking, his feet automatically aiming for the Diversey Station while his brain tried to come to grips with the fact that a woman actually wanted to hang out with him. The Rottweiler, however, walked between them without a sniff in Bertrand's direction, the dog's attitude showing all the warmth of an armored car guard on his way out of a bank.
Bertrand could see the station and gave it a last, wistful glance as Joyce turned them south on Sheffield, heading past the seventies-era high-rises that sat back from the road in the middle of their park-like lawns. Opposite, the red brick of St. George's Greek Orthodox Church rose in its nineteenth-century glory—the large addition desperately trying to match the flavor of the old church but still coming across as twenty-first century because of the parking lot beneath.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 3
