So Bertrand walked right past his little clapboard house and headed for Webster Avenue. It wasn't dark yet, so he decided the open sidewalk was safe, but it wasn't the Sheffield neighborhood he remembered. People hurried along the sidewalks and cars raced through the streets, litter chasing. Since when did his neighborhood have so much litter? Where were the Madvacs and the street sweepers? Where were the cops that usually laid the odd speed trap to remind drivers to slow down?
But the people fascinated Bertrand the most. Their hurry wasn't that of commuters rushing to pick up kids from daycare or get dinner. Instead people looked over their shoulders to ensure they weren't being followed. They avoided eye contact with Bertrand. Some ran, even though they were burdened with bags or high heels or too much weight. These weren't fitness freaks like Joyce and Jeff. These people hurried to beat a deadline far grimmer than any boss could hand out. They were fighting the sunset.
Bertrand stopped in front of Nolan's house, the gray clapboard well-maintained, the house far larger than Bertrand's but still humble compared to the monster homes far out in the suburbs. Thomas Nolan was a bit crazy when it came to his fear of the dark, and Bertrand worried that he had caught some of that craziness, that paranoia. But the house next door still had a For Sale sign on the lawn, the one put there by the cops.
A car with two men in it sat not far down the street past the For Sale sign, looking for all the world as if they were on a stakeout. Bertrand turned away from Nolan's house, his heart rate picking up. Was Nolan right after all? Was the government after him for knowing they were in on the Chicago Ripper murders? Had Nolan's blog got him in trouble?
Bertrand wanted to challenge—to do something—so he headed straight for the car. It was still daylight, and he was a law-abiding citizen if you discounted the Glock he had tucked under his jacket near the small of his back. But the car pulled out as he approached, the driver hurrying away, but not before Bertrand got a good look at him. He had only met that man once before—on the night he and Joyce had discovered Stan's blood-soaked body. The car's driver was the investigating detective: Somebody Sinclair. Maybe Michael Sinclair?
What was he doing here on stakeout and who was the other cop with him? Did they have a clue about the neighbor's murderer? Were they hanging out because they finally believed Nolan's ravings that it was the supposedly dead wife who cut the guy's throat? Were they waiting to see if she returned? Why didn't they want Bertrand to see them?
He turned back to Nolan's house and climbed the four stairs to the porch, pondering these puzzles. The doorbell chimed when he rang, but there was no angry voice over the intercom demanding his name as usual. Bertrand tried again a few more times, and finally used his cell to try phoning Nolan, but the phone rang on. Bertrand could even hear the ring through the front door.
What the hell? Nolan was never out after dark, and while not yet sunset, he had a stated preference for getting home a couple of hours early. Bertrand walked back down the stairs to the sidewalk, glancing up and down the street to see if there were any witnesses, but all was quiet, like the hush before the storm.
The red brick wall proved far less of a challenge for Bertrand than it had on that summer night when he'd been forced to chase Joyce and her dog into the neighbor's backyard. The workouts had paid off, slimming Bertrand's waist and strengthening his muscles, but he still had a stubborn beer belly. Yet, he had never been so fit, felt so strong.
He literally hopped the little chain-link fence from dead neighbor's yard to Nolan's yard. All was quiet at the back of the house, and Bertrand's hope that he would find Nolan frying a few burgers on his barbecue ended—it was covered and cold to touch. Bertrand peeked in the window and noticed something unusual: the two-by-four that Nolan usually used as extra security to prevent the screen door from opening lay on the floor by the window, the unfinished yellow of the two-by-four a garish contrast to the finished wood floor.
Nolan must be out. But another thought struck Bertrand as he turned away from the sliding door: why would Nolan leave by the back door when he could leave the extra protection of the two-by-four in place and leave by the front. This made no sense. Wait a minute. Nolan's sliding door had been from the eighties or nineties, something that didn't have modern triple-pane glass of these very new sliding doors.
Bertrand's heart raced now, not for fear for himself but his friend. He rushed over to the barbecue and threw up the vinyl rain cover, finding utensils hanging from the side shelf. He snatched up the spatula and turned to the door, shoving it between the lock and the door jam. It took several tries to get it beyond the latch, but then it was easy to shove down and unlock the door. Bertrand damaged the door frame in the process, but he now feared Nolan was beyond caring about such earthly concerns. The door opened easily, something that could never have worked if Nolan's two-by-four were in place in the track, blocking the door's slide.
The vertical blinds parted, and Bertrand stopped to listen in the gloom.
"Thomas? It's me, Bertrand Allan."
Not a sound except for the blinds clacking together behind him as they settled back into place. The house was empty.
Bertrand decided against turning on lights, just in case that cop circled the block and was watching this house rather than that of the murdered neighbor. He headed for the basement door, hoping to find it bolted, hoping that Nolan was asleep in the basement in his bomb shelter, but the door swung at a touch. It had been left open a crack. Downstairs, the evening sun filtered through the orange curtains on the two high windows, providing plenty of light to show that all that seventies furniture was undisturbed. The fridge behind the wet bar was in place too, but it slid aside easily and so did the wooden panel in the wall. A firm shove on the vault door proved it was unlocked. It swung in noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges. The gunroom—the refuge—was vacant.
Where the hell was the conspiracy blogger?
Back upstairs to check the front door. Locked, but the bolt wasn't shot, indicating a departure by someone with a key. Maybe he had gone out and just forgotten about the two-by-four at the back window? But something literally didn't smell right, a scent of bad meat. Bertrand walked back into the dining room, sniffing as he studied the room, but then he noticed the painting. It was not art by most standards—a simple still life of a bowl of fruit, perhaps painted by a friend or relative—but it was big, easily three feet by three. The painting was no longer centered on the wall beyond the dining-room table. It had been moved so far to the right that the hole for the old nail showed starkly in the center of the wall, even in this low light.
Bertrand walked around the table slowly, approaching the painting with caution, lest he disturb some precious clue that must be preserved for a forensics team. The floor was perfectly clean, though. He retrieved a pen from his pocket and used it to lift the corner of the painting from the wall so that he could look beneath.
Thomas had not died without a fight. A shotgun blast had sprayed pellets into the wall in a pattern about the diameter of a tennis ball. The painting had been moved to hide this evidence of violence.
"Fuck!" Bertrand released the painting and turned away, punching at the air in his anger. "Assholes!"
He headed back into the kitchen, grabbing the counter near the sink and breathing deeply, trying to convince himself that this wasn't proof of murder, but then the dining-room carpet caught his eye. It wasn't centered under the table anymore. He lifted a corner, not getting far when the carpet stuck, forcing him to give it a strong yank at whatever glued it. The brown proved that this was the source of the slight scent of rot. The blood stain blended well with the wooden floor, barely visible in the waning light, but on the carpet it was an obvious brown circle. The carpet had been moved to hide Thomas's blood. They hadn't even bothered to clean it up.
"Bastards!"
Bertrand shoved open the sliding door and drew deep lungfuls of cool air. They'd murdered Thomas Nolan and covered it up—this sick cult of rippers. Rage such as he had never kn
own welled up from the pit of Bertrand's stomach. He had to fight not to draw the Glock and fire randomly around the neighborhood in frustration. Where were they?
He ran back through the house and out the front door, slamming it behind him, and rushed down the stairs and out into the middle of Webster. Where was that cop—that so-called detective who was more concerned about the news media than the victims? The street was dead. Hardly a car moved anywhere near here, as if the whole city held its breath in anticipation of the night. The sun hung low, turning high cirrus clouds a delicate pink, a beautiful sunset that Bertrand might have enjoyed with his parents at a cottage by a lake in other years. But now the sunset promised danger and menace, a bloody sky and not a peaceful sight. An 'L' train crossed over the street in the distance, for a moment occluding the sun and startling Bertrand into motion.
He patted his back where the Glock rested in its inside-the-belt holster, his wide hips and extra weight helping to hide it. Bertrand set off at a fast pace, not for home, but in search of an enemy he could kill. A monster of rage had taken hold of him, and it needed to be satiated. Let them come for him, these rippers. He was ready to fight.
Twelve - Battle at St. Michael's
For an hour, Bertrand had the streets of Chicago remarkably to himself. Car traffic, even on major streets, trickled along, nothing like the gridlock that would have been normal even this late into the evening. Pedestrian traffic was even less, leaving Bertrand feeling as if he traveled in a post-apocalyptic world. Only the windows proved that he wasn't alone, but usually drapes were drawn and voices were few. No laughter carried into the dusk.
At full night, a man walked out of a house just ahead of Bertrand, prompting him to reach back and lift his jacket and shirt, going for the Glock, but the man simply turned up his collar against the autumn chill and headed away, walking in the same direction but faster. Soon other people walked under the streetlights here and there, most ignoring Bertrand although one or two nodded a greeting as they passed.
Bertrand's rage subsided as his confusion grew. These were just normal people going about their evening. They weren't rippers, and they certainly weren't vampires.
He had talked to Nolan two nights ago, a short conversation about food, about how grocery store shelves were increasingly empty, as if the supply chain had broken down, even though the news media didn't seem to notice. All the conspiracy bloggers had many theories, most of them echoing Nolan's government conspiracy theories.
So sometime yesterday, someone had murdered Nolan. Was it something to do with his blog? Bertrand couldn't imagine that they'd ever have got him to leave his vault at night, so had someone murdered him during the day? If that were the case, the theory that the rippers only operated at night was out the window. But then why were so many people working nights instead of days?
Teenage laughter behind caught his attention, because young rogue males are unpredictable even without a cult of rippers. Bertrand glanced over his shoulder. Three young men—probably not old enough to drink and barely shaving—followed about half a block behind. The good news was that none of them carried beer bottles, so perhaps they were sober, although their excessive giggles hinted at drug use.
Fish, Bertrand's karate sensei, had taught him that confrontation should be a last resort, and as much as Bertrand wanted to fight now, he wanted to fight an enemy of civilization, like the so-called "boss," rather than exuberant teens. Besides, they weren't threatening him, so he turned south, heading toward St. Michael's Church.
More laughter, mean laughter, forced Bertrand to again glance over his shoulder.
They had turned to follow.
As if the world hadn't become crazy enough, now he had to deal with the mundane problem of bored teenagers looking for someone to harass. Okay, it could simply be a coincidence, and it certainly had nothing to do with Nolan's death. Bertrand forced himself to take several deep breaths to calm that raging monster inside that wanted to turn and attack. Had he always been this person?
He intentionally slowed his pace, projecting ignorance of their possible attention. When teenage males are looking for trouble, the biggest mistake is to show fear. He could run, of course, but that would set off a pack mentality, and he would be playing the part of a well-fed deer. Best to just relax and not change his direction.
Now Bertrand was in the Old Town neighborhood, proven by the fact that he could hear St. Michael's bells chiming eight o'clock. The church was Bertrand's destination, and the high spire on the left side rose above the houses to guide the way. His parents had taken him there a few times when he was a child as part of his religious tolerance education. They'd also visited several Protestant churches, a mosque and a synagogue, but Bertrand had been awed by the ornate grandeur of St. Michael's, of the gold and the statues, of the stained glass and the high columns that swept up to the ceiling.
His parents had taught him that St. Michael's was a symbol of Chicago's diversity, built by German immigrants before the Great Fire. Its sandstone brick walls survived when the conflagration swept through Old Town, consuming everything else in its path, and its parishioners rebuilt the interior in just a couple of years, extending the bell tower to well over 250 feet, making it the highest landmark in Chicago in its early days.
When young Bertrand had suggested that it was a miracle that the church had survived the Great Fire, his atheist parents had assured him that it was simply a testament to the faith of the Germans who had saved and restored their church, making it the anchor of their neighborhood. It was a monument to community, they had assured their little boy.
But to Bertrand the story of St. Michael had been as captivating as the church. It awed him that anyone, even an archangel, would agree to go down and fight Satan mano-a-mano, to risk all to defeat evil. Even as late as high school, when particularly troubled with teenage angst, Bertrand had often visited the cobbled yard in front of St. Michael's to stare at the life-sized white statue on its pedestal facing the church. The Archangel stood with his left hand over his heart and his right hand casually holding a sword with the point down. His left foot was planted on the head of a figure, presumably Satan, and his right foot on the vanquished one's back. It took Bertrand a few years before he realized that the statue was also a war memorial. The inscription read: "St. Michael Archangel assist us in our battles against the evils of the day."
The teenagers laughed, approaching casually as if they had always intended to come this way, yet heading straight for Bertrand and St. Michael's statue.
"Assist me now," Bertrand whispered up to the statue before turning to climb the steps to the church, the gothic architecture and columns and statues still amazing him. How many laborers and artisans had struggled to create this masterpiece?
The heavy door swung open, granting Bertrand sanctuary and peace. He proceeded down the aisle, his neck tipped back, as if he were still six, so that he could stare at the blue and gold vaulted ceiling in awe. He headed for the altar, wondering what they called the elaborate structure behind, rising like the facade of an elaborate cathedral, as complicated and delicate as any church Bertrand could image. The cupola rose high above the altar, gold and white, with symbols that were a mystery of the religion to Bertrand. Why was that heart impaled by a sword? What did that mean? On the stained glass, a woman received a blessing from a saint or an angel. Was that the Virgin Mary, and who blessed her—Angel Gabriel?
Bertrand had reached the front row pew and was about to take a seat, when the great door of the church banged shut. Teenage giggles proved that they had followed him into the church.
A taunting voice called out. "He thinks he's safe here, that we're old movie vampires."
Vampires? Bertrand turned to face them. The three approached up the aisle, white kids trying to look like gangstas, their baseball caps sideways and their jeans hanging low, their baggy jackets hanging open to reveal T-shirts and gold chains. Bertrand had grown up in the city and knew that real gangstas wouldn't waste their time harassing
someone who didn't owe them money. There was stuff to do, and there was no benefit in dealing with the heat that came with a beaten or dead taxpayer. These kids were wanna-bees who didn't even know what that life involved.
The Glock hung in that little holster still pressed into his spine. Should he draw it now? Why? They hadn't made any specific threats.
"Long way from the suburbs, boys. Shouldn't you be running home?"
"Yo, I burned my home and fed on my parents!" shouted the teenager in the center, taller than his friends, his body gangly and yet to fill in to match his height.
Still Bertrand resisted the temptation of the Glock. He couldn't just start shooting people because he was angry or because they were rude. But why had one talked about vampires? Bertrand struggled with his desire to lash out. Instead, he stepped into the altar area, where the public could only go for readings or their weddings by invitation of the priest.
The kid spoke of feeding on his parents, but he was in a church. Bertrand walked to a pole with a shining crucifix at the top. He had a vague memory from his childhood of an altar boy carrying this at the head of a procession on a Sunday, and Bertrand had begged his parents to allow him to train for that job. They had taken him to a Quaker service the next week instead.
He hefted the pole of the crucifix and it lifted out of its base. A little kid could carry this? It was pretty heavy. Bertrand could finally lead a procession if one happened by, but he again turned to face the teenagers. "If that's true that you murdered you're parents, you're going to hell."
The teenagers laughed, looking to one another for support.
"Fuck you," said the leader. "You have to die to go to hell, and we're brids. We've evolved. We'll never die."
Brids? Evolution? These kids talked just like the dancers at Goth Knights. This was a cult. Bertrand's heart rate didn't speed up so much as become more pronounced, pounding in his chest with a heavy rhythmic thump. For the first time in his life, he knew he was going to fight, not a school-yard fight but a fight to the death. Still, he had to give this kid one last chance.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 10
