Bertrand fought to untie his tongue. Don't panic. They weren't on a date. There was no pressure. She probably just didn't want to walk home alone in the dark.
"So where do you live?" he asked.
"Bought a condo on Burling last year because I was fed up with the long commute. I sold my Dad's house out in Vernon Hills."
"Wow, Vernon Hills, that's way out, isn't it?"
"Half-way to friggin' Wisconsin, yes."
Why did she always seem angry with him? Did she like him? Bertrand had to restrain a snort at this absurd thought. But wait a minute, what had she said about her dad?
"You sold your dad's house? Is he—sorry, shouldn't ask."
"He's dead. Drunk driving when I was only eighteen and flipped his BMW." Joyce's eyes stared straight ahead and her voice held surprisingly little emotion.
"Wow, um, I'm so sorry."
"I was bummed at first, but he really wasn't a big part of my life. Aunt Rach pretty much raised me after mom died of breast cancer. I was eight." She looked over, her eyebrows rising in challenge. Was she trying to shock him with her tragedies, scare him away with her baggage? Well, Bertrand could meet her head-on with this one.
"So I guess we're both orphans."
"Yeah, Jeff told me about your folks. Bummer. Like, I'm really sorry too." She sounded as if she meant it, and for a moment they met each other's gaze.
"No worries." But Bertrand wanted to seize her and tell her how hopelessly lost he was without them, how he drank and ate and watched mindless TV. How he went to work dreading coming home to the empty house that he just wouldn't sell despite the memories that haunted like ghosts. "You close to your Aunt Rach, then?"
"I was 'till she died two years ago. Breast cancer, same as mom." Joyce glanced his way again. "I know. One trag' after another, but I'm good."
"So you're alone too. Like, no family."
"Yup." Joyce gave the dog a reassuring pat on its head. "My friends don't get what it's like to have no family left, to have Thanksgiving dinner by yourself."
"Spread out on the coffee table in front of the TV, with a full bottle of red," said Bertrand.
"So you do get it."
"Hey, maybe we should do Thanksgiving together this year. Catch a movie and make a reservation at some really nice restaurant." Bertrand caught his breath. What the hell? He'd just asked her out on a date. Since when did he have the balls to ask someone—especially someone he'd just met—out on a date, even if it was four months in the future?
Joyce gave a short laugh. "Who knows where we'll be in November?" She gave the dog another pat on the head, a quick one as if to check that he still walked between them. "But sure, Bert, I'm game for dinner on Thanksgiving, although when guys ask me out it's usually a little closer in time, usually as soon as possible so that they can get in my shorts."
Bertrand marveled that he felt so comfortable with her despite the angry expression she wore half the time. "Well you can hardly blame them." His jaw dropped. He had never been that indiscreet without alcohol. "I mean all the work at the gym, it's really paid off. I mean—"
Joyce stared at him, an angry frown creasing her forehead.
Bertrand decided to just go for the truth. "There's no way I can gracefully get out of this, is there?"
"Nope."
"Well, you're hot so what else can I say? But don't worry, I'm not known for my hit and runs. I don't get laid much—at all." He pinched the fat through his dress shirt for emphasis.
Joyce snorted a laugh. "Okay, fair enough. Want to get a coffee, though? I'm not suggesting anything here, but it is kind of weird that you're the only other person I know who has already lost both parents. It's kind of cool to be completely free."
"Sure." But Bertrand wouldn't have referred to it as freedom. That was college, when he was living on campus away from home with no idea that he was squandering precious time with his parents. If he'd gone to University of Illinois instead of his dad's alma mater in Rochester, would they still be alive? Would they have spent that fateful day at home with him?
They walked in silence for a time, their route taking them through the campus of DePaul University, past the glass-and-brick athletic center, only a decade or so old and yet looking fragile compared with the gray squared-stone permanence of St. Vincent de Paul Church across the street.
"I like to go this way." Joyce turned them east, Bertrand nearly tripping over the dog when it was slow to turn with her. It growled.
"Sorry there puppy." Bertrand gave its head a pat but there was no friendly response.
"You'll have to forgive St. Mike. He thinks of you as competition. He's like that with all the guys I know, even Jeff."
"St. Mike? That's an unusual name."
"See how his ear is torn?" Joyce ran her hand over the dog's head, for a moment caressing the short ear. "When he was still pretty young, he saved me from a pit bull named Satan while I was out for a run. Moron owner let him run loose in the park and the bastard came after me. St. Mike got in between me and the pit bull, and there was a hell of a fight while the asshole owner just stood there laughing—until Mike got a hold of the pit bull's balls and just about ripped them off, that is. Then the asshole was calling me every name under the sun and threatening to sue. That's when I found out the dog's name was Satan, 'cause the guy was crying over it like it was his own balls that'd been ripped off."
"Smart and strong." Bertrand gave the dog another tentative pat on the head, trying to communicate that praise. Above them an 'L' train rushed along, quickly followed by another going in the opposite direction. After that they passed into a residential neighborhood like Bertrand's—narrow century properties set back only a body-length from the sidewalks. Occasionally the renovated old houses were interspersed with modern constructions that stood out and, to Bertrand's eye, didn't belong.
They walked without speaking, but even after the trains had passed and they were far along the quiet street, they didn't resume their conversation. Instead they walked in silence, and Bertrand enjoyed the peace, marveling that he'd found someone else who didn't have to fill every empty space with prattle.
Finally Joyce spoke. "So I was thinking we'd go to Starbucks over on Halstead. A friend on my works there and she may be on—"
A scream—a terrified scream—ripped from the nearest house.
Bertrand turned before he could think and slipped up the latch on the wrought-iron gate. He ran up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. The house was either new or had been so ruthlessly renovated that it might as well be. The doors were mostly glass, with stiff, sheer curtains for privacy. Joyce had followed, and now she leaned forward, hammering on the wood of the door above the lock, making the doors rattle.
"Anyone in there?" she shouted. Every light in the house blazed.
A dark shadow flitted between one light source and the door. Bertrand drew in his breath sharply, because it reminded him so much of his experience the previous night at Needleman's.
"Stop right there!" He leapt the porch rail as he shouted, landing on the tiny lawn that sat between the sidewalk and a chest-high brick wall, which ran from the corner of this house to the clapboard house next door. The red brick had clearly been chosen to make the wall look old Chicago, but it was a modern construction for privacy. Bertrand stood in front of the wall, peering into the dark backyard, trying to decide if he'd lost his mind. He had no right to shout orders. He had no right to go running into someone's backyard in the dark, but he didn't want a repeat of Needleman's, to find nothing but blood and a mystery.
A low growl startled Bertrand. St. Mike stood beside him, his teeth bared.
"Grab him!" shouted Joyce from the porch. "Quick, grab his collar."
But it was too late. The dog tensed and sprang straight up, his nails scrapping the top of the wall for purchase as he crossed into the backyard.
"Shit!" Joyce leapt the rail and landed considerably lighter than Bertrand, but she continued in one fluid motion, taking three steps pas
sed the bow window of the house to bring her to the wall, which she scaled with speed that would make an army sergeant proud.
"Joyce! Wait! The dog's on to someone! Don't go back there!"
But she was already in pursuit of St. Mike, who ran for the far side of the yard with quiet determination. He was going for a kill. Bertrand grabbed the wall and hauled his bulk up, scrabbling with his feet to climb the brick, rolling on his chest over the top and falling awkwardly onto his feet, scraping his back as he slipped down. He ran after Joyce but didn't have to go far: St. Mike had come up against a fence of pressure-treated wood that hid the back alley.
Bertrand could hear the hurried footfall of someone retreating on the other side of the fence, and St. Mike growled—again with bared teeth—but this time the fence, higher than Bertrand's head, was too high for the dog. Joyce and Bertrand exchanged a look of puzzlement and disbelief.
"What the ... ." said Bertrand.
Joyce turned back to the house, where a sliding glass door opened up onto a spacious deck, populated with the various implements of summer living. "It's wide open," she said, as the heavy drapes flapped from within to the wave out into the summer night. "We should go in."
Bertrand remembered his sense of doom before he'd entered Needleman's house. He didn't sense it tonight, but wisdom forced him to grab Joyce's elbow. "No. This might be a crime scene."
"And someone might be bleeding on the floor. You heard that scream."
"Then we should call 911 anyway."
Joyce shook her arm free of Bertrand's grasp. She yanked a cell phone from her pocket and hit a speed dial, holding the phone to her ear while she proceeded carefully up the stairs, her body turned sideways as if expecting attack.
"Hi, yes, we were passing this house on Webster, no I don't know the number, but we're just a block or so east of the 'L.' No, listen, we heard a scream coming from the house and my dog chased a burglar out of the backyard. I'm just going to look through the door ... No, I won't go into the house unless I see someone in trouble. Okay! I won't go into the house. Would you just send someone asap, already?"
Bertrand couldn't help himself. He had followed her lead up the stairs, the superhero from last night returning. "Okay, if we're going in, let's go in fast." But when he reached for the door, a thousand tiny reflections of light scattered on the polished wooden floor warned him that the sliding door wasn't open—it was smashed.
"Watch the glass." Bertrand put out an arm to warn Joyce back, but she pushed past him and through the billowing drapes. He followed her immediately, but once through the curtains, it was clear they were far too late to help.
The dining-room table, a modern effort that would have fit in an Ikea showroom, had been tipped on its side during the struggle, its matching chairs flung about the room. A chubby man, his hair thin and his goatee gray, lay sprawled near the far wall, the blood soaking his muscle shirt and boxer shorts. A squared chunk of his neck near the jugular, just a bit wider than a human mouth, had been cut right out as if with a very sharp knife.
"Can't save him," said Joyce, frozen where she'd stopped. She turned and pushed back out to the deck while Bertrand backed out cautiously, trying not to further disturb the crime scene.
He found Joyce sitting on the steps, St. Mike close to her side, her phone to her ear as she spoke to 911 to give them further details. Bertrand sat on the other side of St. Mike, petting the dog's back as if he needed comfort.
They were still there, an hour later, when the police arrived.
Five - No News of Murder
Ordered to wait by the first officer responding to their 911, Bertrand and Joyce sat at the patio table on the deck, unwilling voyeurs of the crime-scene processing. Where not occluded by the house, flashing lights from emergency vehicles did reach the backyard. Aside from that and the troubled voices inside, they could have been any couple enjoying a summer evening.
A man in a dark suit stepped out the patio doors, his thin gray hair failing to hide that he was soon to be bald. He carried a comfortable paunch of middle age, but it was a barrel-chested shape—maybe he used to lift weights but had given it up. His tie wasn't done all the way up in the heat, and he mopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief while a uniformed officer spoke in a low voice, reading from his notebook and pointing his pen at Bertrand. The plainclothes officer nodded and stepped forward.
"I'm Detective Sinclair. I'm sorry you had to see this, but I understand the 911 operator warned you not to enter the premises." He stopped with his hands at his sides, but there was something so military in his stance that it made Bertrand wonder if the man were a Vietnam vet. The age would be about right.
Bertrand stood. "All due respect, if we'd entered the premises faster we might have saved the guy's life."
"Or been murdered yourselves. Look, I don't want to debate you here. I understand you've given your statements and I'll read those over later, but just a quick question: did you get any look at the murderer, even just height?"
Bertrand looked to Joyce, who now stood, holding firmly to St. Mike's leash as if the dog might bolt rather than sit there panting in the heat.
"He was already over the fence by the time I got back here." She pointed into the dark corner of the back yard beside the detached garage.
The chopping of a helicopter rose from subtle background to annoyance, causing them all to look up, just as a bright searchlight switched on. The letters of a TV station on the side proved that it wasn't a police helicopter.
"Aw, damn, already?" Sinclair's shoulders sagged. "Look, folks, I'd consider it a favor if you didn't speak to the news media. The last thing I need is to turn this into more of a circus than it already is."
A few days ago Bertrand might have quietly acquiesced, but this was the new Bertrand. "I'll keep my mouth shut if you answer just one question."
The detective's eyes hardened. "I'm not at liberty to answer questions about ongoing investigations, and if you feel uncooperative I can take you in for questioning for the night."
Bertrand held up his hands, palms out to signal surrender. "No, it's okay, I'm not going to ask about this case. I heard from another cop that Ripper murders are happening in other cities, but I've heard almost nothing on the news. So that's my question: are Ripper-style murders happening in other cities."
Sinclair's lips pressed into a tense line for a moment as he sized Bertrand up.
"Okay, I'll answer this one, but then you leave through the neighbor's yard and you don't talk to the media at all. You seem to be good at fence hopping." He pointed to the next yard over, the corner house on the street.
"We can do that," said Joyce.
"There have been Ripper murders all over the world, but in most cities they seem to have stopped. No reports of any in places like Paris or London for a month anyway. But why ask me? Google it."
"It's tough searching through the weird conspiracy shit. I thought you might have the inside track."
"If I did I couldn't share it with you. Now that's your question, Mr. Allan. Time to go."
The short fence to the neighbor's yard proved no effort even for Bertrand, although he had to help Joyce shove the dog over the fence, who seemed unwilling to jump without serious motivation.
The clapboard house was wider than Bertrand's narrow house and a full two stories—big by downtown standards. Bertrand glanced at the house as they hurried through to the street, wondering if this house, like his, had survived the Great Fire. A modern sliding glass door at the back opened onto a deck similar to the one they'd just left, and a man in a bathrobe stood safely inside the house, the door firmly shut. He held a shotgun, his wide face shockingly pale, even with three days of stubble.
"Stay away!" shouted the man.
"Just passing through." Bertrand tried to sound disarming, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have strangers run through your backyard while news choppers circled overhead.
The man responded to Bertrand's wave by stepping back a pace and lev
eling the shotgun.
"Let's get out of here," said Bertrand. Joyce only nodded her agreement as they scrambled over the low chain-link fence on the far side and into the street.
They walked to Joyce's condo in silence, one of four in a line of row houses—boxy, modern affairs that probably won awards for the architect in the eighties but now just looked dated.
"Hope you don't mind that I don't invite you in for a nightcap." Joyce didn't look back as she put the key in the lock.
"Yeah. Murder just spoils the mood, doesn't it?" Bertrand considered smacking his forehead. What had possessed him to say that?
Joyce turned back from her door, a smile teasing the corners of her lips but a frown moderating it. "You're a no bullshit guy, Bert. I like that. I'll see you at the gym."
She shut the door.
*
The first thing Bertrand did when he got home was turn on every light and search every corner of the little two bedroom house to ensure he was completely alone. He checked that all the doors and windows were locked before he booted his laptop, grabbed a beer from the fridge and turned on the TV to the local station, settling into his La-Z-Boy just as the eleven o'clock news rolled with all the dazzling graphics.
Absenteeism at city hall was the lead story, with the reporter interviewing people angry that they were unable to complete basic tasks, like getting building permits or paying taxes. A representative for the mayor's office stood just outside city hall, the street lights on and people hurrying by, some with looks back at the camera. His suit was impeccable and his tie a sharp red. "The mayor would like everyone to know that Chicago is still open for business. We have had some staffing issues over the summer due to the unexpected flu that's going around, but we're working late into the night to clear the backlog. We've extended our hours to include a special session between nine p.m and midnight, so if you were turned away today, please come down now and you'll find us open and ready to serve."
Bertrand put his beer down and opened his laptop. This was weird. Why not lead with the new Ripper murder? A quick check of the TV station's website, the same as the letters on the helicopter that had circled the crime scene, proved that there was no coverage there either—not a word, not even a headline promising more details to follow.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 4
