Dark Side of Morning (Wind Dancer Book 1)

by Tierney James

  “Some water?” Cleo whimpered. When a devilish smirk toyed at the corner of his young face, she adjusted, straightened her shoulders, and stood erect. “Please. Water.” She tried to inject bravery into her tone.

  “I’ll see what we got.” He nodded then moved away toward a dimly lit area of the room.

  “What’s the plan, Chief?” The man named Ashanti headed up the stairs.

  Neosho once more invaded Cleo’s space. It was all she could do to keep from falling against the table again, but she stood her ground. “You give us medicine. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.” As the last word came out of her mouth, Neosho grabbed her around the neck with his large calloused hand and squeezed. She dug at it, squirming to be free, even as the lights around her dimmed and her strength fled to yet another universe she wasn’t ready to explore.

  Chapter 20

  The warm winds of the Gulf of Mexico barreled up the Mississippi River Valley then headed toward Chicago and Lake Michigan. For late May in Chicago, the eighty-degree weather felt remarkable. People jogging along the lake commented they loved global warming and thanked El Nino for the much-improved weather.

  News outlets recited their litany of preparedness speeches, which they knew not many would heed. Chicago was more likely to be hit by a blizzard than a series of tornadoes. Even if one did head their way, it generally struck outside the city in some cornfield. With sharp blue skies and warm breezes, the temptation of shorts, flip-flops, and sunscreen lured citizens into a state of complacent disregard for what headed their way. Memories grew short concerning the severe thunderstorms that hit the city a few days earlier.

  With the warmer weather, authorities feared people exposed to smallpox strolled among shoppers on Michigan Avenue or along Navy Pier where thousands of tourists gathered every day. City officials discussed casting caution to the notorious winds of Chicago and reopening the Field Museum the following day. The mayor refused in spite of dozens of tourists’ complaints concerning their ruined vacation plans. When the bottom line threatened to override common sense, the CDC advised the mayor to stay the course or else.

  Short of shutting down the city and making a plea for calm by Homeland Security and the CDC, they discussed the possibility of pandemonium erupting in the streets if the truth were leaked. Fear and ignorance bred the likelihood of the disease spreading beyond the perimeters of the city; best to keep people in town.

  Cleo’s friends had been escorted to a safe medical facility and given a battery of tests. They appeared to be disease-free, which meant smallpox had not yet spread to other parts of the country. Even though they were misdirected from the truth, her friends remained in a secure facility in their home cities for their own protection. They received the booster to protect them, as did everyone else on their respective planes. Keeping them sequestered in a medical facility with little or no contact with the outside world guaranteed other populations remained safe.

  Jacque rose from the lopsided leather couch against the office wall he’d collapsed onto a few hours earlier after searching all night for the Pawnee and Cleo. They remained in the front of his mind even while he slept. He could smell coffee, sour and strong, and wondered then how it would come across if he had the added sensitivity of Wind Dancer.

  “Probably puke,” he mumbled as a uniformed officer carried in a Styrofoam cup.

  “What? You calling me a puke, Detective?” The officer paused and took a step back. Jacque had a reputation for being a grouch with the young officers.

  “Not if that is for me.” He wobbled to his feet and grabbed the cup. A few drips sloshed over the rim onto his hand. A swear word exploded out of his mouth as he switched the cup to the other hand. “Any news about Joseph or our doctor?”

  “No, sir. Sorry. Some activity about five miles from here with gangs. Not the area with the Death Angels, but thought to be involved.”

  “Explain.” He tried to sip the brew then frowned down at the black contents as if doing so would make it taste better. He set it down on the corner of his desk.

  “Confrontation with a rival gang. Something about getting their territory back. Two dead and about seven needed medical attention. A few others treated and released.”

  “So they ratted the DOAs out? Hard to believe.”

  “Not exactly. They weren’t outnumbered according to one of the nurses who overheard them talking at the ER. Said some badass Indian busted heads faster than they could make contact. They seemed pretty freaked out about the whole thing. Kept calling him a Packer’s Indian so probably our guy. Even street thugs have a little loyalty to the home team.”

  “None of the DOAs hurt?”

  The officer shook his head.

  “Interesting.”

  “Maybe they didn’t show up at the ER because they’ve got your doctor friend to patch them up. There was a break in at a mom-and-pop pharmacy near the area. Took drugs, of course, but the owners say they also took first aid supplies like antibiotic creams, bandages…well, you get the picture.”

  His phone vibrated on the floor where it had fallen out of his pocket. Chasing it down, he snatched it up and stared for a second at the caller ID. Taking a deep breath then releasing it in a gush, he took the call as he waved the young officer away.

  “Detective Marquette.” He picked up the coffee again and gulped it like a shot of Jack Daniels then shook his head to free himself of brain cobwebs.

  “You sound like hell.” It was FBI Agent Farentino. “No luck finding your friends?” The word of their disappearance had traveled to other law enforcement agencies at the speed of light.

  “Thanks for your perceptive observation.” He let the sarcasm sink in before continuing. “And nothing on Joseph or Cleo. Anything on your end?”

  “Maybe. CDC went to the storage facility this morning and found their vaccines compromised. Headed there now. Want to ride along? From what I hear, there is someone on the security tape you might know. They’re waiting.”

  “Meet you out front.” Jacque twisted around looking for his wallet.

  “You better get those gangbangers vaccinated.”

  “On it.”

  The storage facility, located only a few blocks from the precinct, was locked down and crawling with Homeland Security and CDC agents. The nondescript brick building gave no evidence of the contents. When the detective exited the car, he paused and admired the blue sky. The wind seemed a little too calm for Chicago and gave him an uneasy feeling, a sense of storms headed their way, not to mention the growing ache in his leg.

  Would these approaching storms open up more holes to a parallel universe, letting Neosho escape with Cleo? He had to find her before the weather grew ugly.

  Several low-level Homeland agents raised their chins in a “what’s up” gesture as Jacque and Agent Farentino passed them. Once inside the facility, the CDC woman scurried toward them, winded as if she’d taken a quick run around the block. Her gray-streaked hair still showed the wind-blown Chicago style. Jacque couldn’t get past her small rat-like eyes of some undetermined color, so unlike Cleo’s pale-green eyes with flecks of gray. He shook it off.

  “What you got for us?” Agent Farentino addressed the CDC woman in a cool, polite manner.

  Jacque strolled past the CDC woman as if he didn’t care about her answer. She jabbed her glasses higher on her pointed nose with a frustrated huff.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said, leading the two men to a computer monitor, “what we got.” She offered a snarl toward the detective. “Dr. Sommers broke in here last night and stole some of the smallpox vaccine.” Her voice reminded Jacque of a rusty knife scratching on a piece of metal.

  He watched the video loop several times before commenting. It was Cleo, all right, with some young black man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He dressed like one of the Death Apostles and seemed a bit more careful around the security cameras than Cleo. It was the man seen with Neosho in the park.

  “Didn’t the alarm go o
ff?” Jacque glanced toward the woman who had folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight to one hip.

  “No. Dr. Sommers got us this place and knew the code. Guess we know why.” The words seem to vomit out of her pinched mouth. “Guess you can’t trust anyone these days.”

  The detective didn’t believe in harming women, but for the first time in his life he had the overpowering urge to smack one. Cleo had become a friend. The doctor would not purposely steal lifesaving vaccine. She’d impressed him the moment he’d first interviewed her as both determined and innocent of any crime. It didn’t hurt she was smart and easy on the eyes.

  Reviewing the security loop, the detective watched the video feed again. Cleo moved at a determined clip, seeking out the camera several times as if she wanted to be recognized. The black guy put his hand between her shoulder blades to keep her momentum on track.

  “What are you trying to find, Detective?” The CDC woman snapped then exhaled in disgust.

  Both the detective and the FBI agent ignored her.

  “No gun, but look here,” the agent said, pointing to the man’s shirt.

  Jacque nodded. “Shirt is too big, and there is a pistol bump. Probably carrying it in his waistband since his drawers aren’t falling down around his butt. And here”—he pointed to the bottom of his pant leg—”too fat, probably another weapon, maybe a knife or small caliber gun. Kind of the DOA’s signature. They wear boots, and usually there’s a sheath sewn around the top or attached with Velcro.”

  “Is there audio?” the agent asked the CDC woman.

  She shook her head no.

  “Watch when she faces the camera.”

  “I see it. She’s saying ‘help me.’ And when she puts in the combination, she’s holding up fingers against the door, four, then two then…”

  They watched her step sideways and do something else with her hands as the man fumed at her then said something to someone they couldn’t see.

  “Seems like this guy on screen is a bit protective when he whispers in her ear. Maybe a warning. She doesn’t seem worried about him.” Agent Farentino touched the spot with his index finger.

  “Hmm,” Jacque continued. “But he didn’t touch her in any threatening way. She nods and tries the combination one more time then puts her fingers like earlier.”

  “What the hell is she doing?” the FBI agent said, peering closer.

  “She’s telling us where she is.” Jacque couldn’t contain his excitement over the discovery. “I think it’s sign language. Her old man probably made her learn it somewhere along the way or maybe she had to, working in the ER dealing with every Tom, Dick, and Harry she treated.”

  The FBI motioned to another agent. “Get Maddox in here. Isn’t his sister deaf?” The agent nodded and went outside to make the call.

  Jacque continued to watch the loop. It took the doctor three times to get the code right. He wondered if she was scared out of her wits or the stress of the situation made her fumble with the security code, but, either way, the fourth time, the door opened. They disappeared inside and returned in only a few minutes.

  “Here. See the shadows here? I’d say there are a couple more of those guys staying out of camera range. The one with Cleo must be the sacrifice.” The agent straightened. “He’ll get caught and won’t give them up. Must be a newbie.”

  “Okay. They leave the refrigerated room with several boxes that Cleo knows contain the vaccine. The man now decides to protect his face then turns around, lifting the box high enough where only his eyes show. Dumb kid.”

  Cleo glanced up at the monitor again and made another casual hand motion he hoped would be another clue as to where she might be located.

  “Here’s Maddox. Let’s see what he has to say.” Agent Farentino made introductions then played the loop again.

  He watched with the same intensity as other FBI agents Jacque knew. Even though they sometimes stepped on his toes and stole cases they didn’t deserve, he admired them. They could be serious as a heart attack on most issues and counted on when you needed them. It was the times he didn’t need or want them which rubbed him the wrong way.

  “Yeah. She’s signing, all right. The movements aren’t perfect but close. From what I can tell, the message is 421 South across playground. Maybe South Cross playground. The last sign says fish.”

  “Thanks.” Jacque took out his phone and dialed about the time Agent Farentino made the same gesture. He gave some information to the dispatcher and hung up. “Maybe we’ll get a call with the location. I told them to put all the parks on the grid where a playground and fish pond are located.”

  “Ditto.” Agent slipped his phone inside of his suit coat. “Our computers might be faster.”

  Yet another thing to rub Jacque the wrong way about the FBI; their toys of mass communication. He bent over the computer monitor and played the loop again as the CDC woman mumbled her displeasure.

  “You can watch it all you want. It’s not going to change the outcome, Detective.”

  Normally he would hurl an inconsiderate and possibly belligerent response to someone who got on his nerves, followed with a reference to questionable heritage. She stepped up her retreat when he leveled a sideways glance, hinting he may not be the one to second guess.

  “Detective, we’ve got nothing.” The agent returned with a cup of coffee in each hand and extended one to him.

  Jacque accepted the cup as he drew out his phone to check for a text. “Me, either.” He took a swallow of the black brew and raised his eyebrows before checking the side of the cup. “Fancy. You FBI jerks know how to live. Guess your pay is higher than mine. What this set you back?”

  The agent shrugged but flashed a taunting smirk. “So let’s take another crack at the video loop. I’m thinking we missed something.”

  Setting his cup down, the detective watched with crossed arms then rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Maybe the numbers are something else, like adding them together. Instead of 421, maybe it is 61 or 43. It isn’t a playground but a name of a place. Maybe it’s fish play or cross fish.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there,” chimed in one of the security maintenance crew who had set up the system.

  “What?” asked both men at the same time.

  “Fish Play over on South Cross. Best catfish dinner in the city.” He patted his stomach, which spilled over his belt. “A little dive, easy to miss, with a psychedelic fish on the window. My wife doesn’t like going there. Says it looks buggy.” He added a deep laugh and moved to the other side of the room.

  Almost at the same time both men used their phones to call for reinforcements. They instructed the men to stay back until Jacque and Agent Farentino checked out the restaurant. But, after slipping inside during a busy lunch hour and talking to the owner, who was also the cook, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The owner calmly encouraged them to have a look around so he could continue to work.

  “Time is money,” he reminded them, and then offered to pack them a lunch to go, on the house. After passing along the rave reviews they’d heard earlier, they meandered up the open staircase, stepping aside only once when a waitress rushed past them with an order of fish and chips.

  “Thinking I’m going to take the sack lunch,” the agent mumbled as they topped the stairs.

  This part of the dining area had fewer customers. Several stood to leave when the officers didn’t seem to be going to sit down and order. Jacque stood at a window overlooking the back of the property, admiring a series of row houses, all with nondescript one and two-car garages. This time of day things were quiet, with little or no activity. A workday, even in this neighborhood, housed hardworking folks who probably had a tough time making ends meet.

  Some reports had the Death Apostles in and out of this area, even though it was on the fringes of their known territory. Most of the gangs he’d come in contact with liked to leave some kind of signature of their domain. The detective likened it to a dog marking its territory. He didn’t shy
away from expressing his opinion concerning shiftless gang members who preyed upon neighborhoods with their street justice, drugs, and intimidation of good people who needed a break. They became the mangy dogs of society.

  “Anything?” Agent Farentino came alongside the detective.

  “Maybe.” He pointed at a rundown garage with an upstairs. “Other side of the alley. Single-car garage, peeling paint, only one with no usable rear window.”

  “What about it? Looks like every other crap hole on the block. Guess the street hasn’t been part of the urban renewal you see out front.”

  “Except it appears to be a little worse at a glance. The back window has been covered up with paper from the inside. The gate leading to the yard is iron not wood. Probably creaks when anyone comes through. You can see the side door pretty clearly, and it isn’t wood like you should find. More like steel or some other kind of reinforced material, a gray or metallic color. My mother had one put in her basement, thinking it would be hard to break in. Pretty much the same kind of door.”

  “I don’t think I can get a warrant on your train of thought.” Agent Farentino sighed.

  Jacque kept staring out the window but let a lopsided grin take over his mouth. “You FBI boys always this law abiding?” The agent remained passive. “I’m pretty sure I saw an Indian wearing a Packers jacket goin there.”

  The agent took out his phone. “You’re talking my language. Let me see what I can do.”

  “In the meantime, I think I’ll stroll over there. Need to stretch my legs.” The detective ignored the agent, holding up a wait-for-me finger and followed Jacque like an obedient puppy.

  Chapter 21

  “Wind Dancer?” Two Feathers sounded surprised as the Pawnee emerged from out of some bushes behind the Field Museum.

  It was apparent he’d slept on the ground with dead grass clinging to his long hair. With his movements, slow and unhurried, he dusted off his body, head to toe while closing the gap between him and the tribal representatives.