Storm's Cage

by Mary Stone

  He just had to hope the decision wouldn’t circle back to bite her in the long run.

  4

  Through the haze that hung like a poisonous cloud in my mind, I couldn’t tell if I was awake or if my dreams were mirroring reality.

  The room was mine. I knew that much.

  Dark sheets and a gray comforter lay disheveled from where I’d been sleeping only moments ago. The icy blue glow of a digital alarm told me it was a quarter after five in the morning. But as I shielded my sensitive eyes from a sudden stream of sunlight, I knew that couldn’t be right.

  The sun didn’t shine at five in the morning any time of year, much less at the beginning of September.

  As soon as it had appeared, the pervasive glow vanished, leaving me alone in the darkness.

  Blinking to clear my vision, I moved across the plush carpet at a painstaking pace. With each step, I swept one foot forward to feel along the floor in front of me as I waited for my eyes to adjust.

  But the darkness only intensified as I grew closer to the hallway. When I glanced over my shoulder, I half-expected the blue numbers of the clock—my only anchor to reality, if that’s what this was—to be gone, swallowed by the inky black that was so complete, it permeated the air around me.

  Through my sleepy vision, I managed to focus on the eerie glow. It was my touchstone to this reality. But as the numbers came into focus, a shadow flitted in front of the clock. My blood instantly froze in my veins.

  I couldn’t be sure in such absolute darkness, but my first instinct told me that the figure was a man, though their movement was far quicker than that of any human being I’d ever seen in my years as a homicide detective.

  The faint scraping of nails against drywall was followed by the muted shuffling of bare feet on the carpet.

  With a slow step backward, I squinted into the oppressive gloom, seeking the source of those sounds. As I searched, the cadence of my rising heartbeat pounded at my head with the force of a sledgehammer. Over the rush of my pulse, all I could hear was my labored breathing.

  My forearm brushed against the doorframe as I backed up another step. I was almost to the hallway, and as soon as I set foot on the hardwood, I would turn around and run as fast as my legs would carry me.

  And then, in the corner of my eye, I spotted movement. The quiet scuffle turned into a grating screech as a shapeless mass of shadow clawed its way up to the ceiling.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, I eased my foot down until my heel met the cool hardwood. I grasped the doorway with one hand to balance myself as I spun to face the hall. My footsteps thudded against the floor as I took off through the ubiquitous darkness.

  I skidded toward the end of the hall, moving so fast that I worried my feet would fly out from under me before I came to a stop. Throwing one arm up to keep myself from toppling over, I came to an abrupt halt as my shoulder slammed into the wall. A faint crackle, like the crunch of a dry leaf, sounded out behind me.

  Without stopping to gauge my location, I crossed over the threshold to the kitchen. Outdoor light cast an eerie glow to the marble countertops. Though I squinted against the sudden change, I was overcome with a soothing wave of relief.

  I could see.

  Grasping the edge of the counter with both hands, I gulped in as much air as my lungs would allow. The ruddy orange of a nearby streetlight was all that remained after the flash had cleared, but to me, the glow was like sunlight.

  My heart still knocked against my ribs as I turned to take stock of the doorway from which I’d just run.

  To my surprise, the darkness had vanished. The beige drywall and rich hardwood floor were as well-lit as the kitchen.

  I looked past the stainless-steel appliances to my right before rubbing my eyes with both hands. As a sudden realization dawned on me, I froze in place.

  Though the fixtures all matched my apartment near downtown Chicago, the layout of the house was all wrong. My apartment was an open floor plan. The kitchen was nestled in a corner, and a breakfast bar looked out over the dining and living rooms.

  This layout was… Ian’s house.

  Another scuffle reminiscent of the legs of an insect drifted over to me. Inch by agonizing inch, I turned to face the doorway.

  Another flash of white light revealed syrupy blood running down one of the man’s muscular arms. Even as I traced the rivulet up to his shoulder, I already knew the source.

  A droplet dangled from his earlobe like the earring of an eighties lead singer, and when I met those familiar green eyes, I wondered how much longer my legs would hold me.

  The light flashed again, and this time, a faint voice followed. A woman’s voice.

  “Ian,” she cried. “Please, honey, where are you?” Her words came out choked and tearful.

  Guilt gnawed at my heart.

  Shaking my head, I took hold of the counter as I stepped backward. “I’m sorry, Ian. I…I had to.”

  Crimson stained the ceramic tile as he advanced on me. I’d been so focused on the unbridled hatred in his dead eyes that I hadn’t noticed the shadows swirling behind him, eating everything in its path.

  They were waiting for something. His command, maybe.

  The woman called out again, but Ian’s malevolent stare was unwaveringly locked on me. “You broke the code. You turned your back on your brothers, and now the darkness is coming for you. You belong to it now. It owns you.”

  I opened and closed my mouth, but no sound would come forth. Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I backed up again.

  This time, Ian didn’t follow. As the living darkness crept closer, he turned his back on me and headed down the hall. Before he disappeared into the shifting abyss, the streetlight revealed a mass of ruined brain tissue oozing from a crater in the back of his head.

  When the darkness was only inches from me, it began to scream…and scream…

  I sat bolt upright, my arms coming up to my ears to protect them from the sound.

  It came again…and again.

  “What?” I pushed the sweat-soaked strands of hair away from my forehead and glanced around the room. I was in the center of my king-sized bed.

  Only when the ring sounded out again did I recognize the source of the disturbance that had pulled me from the nightmare. My phone.

  I scooted to the edge of the mattress and scooped the device off the wooden nightstand. With a cursory glance at the screen, I swiped and raised it to my ear.

  “Hello?” I didn’t bother with sounding sleepy because most cops I knew could go from sound asleep to wide awake in an instant.

  “Hey.” The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “This is Detective Floyd Yoell. I’m sorry if I woke you. I know you have the day off, but well…it’s about Ian Strausbaugh.”

  My pulse spiked, but I kept my tone level. “Ian? What about him?”

  “His body was found this morning, just a couple hours ago.”

  This was the part I’d dreaded. I’d known Ian for years, and the man had become one of my close friends. How was I supposed to act when I already knew that he was dead? When I was the one who had killed him?

  I gritted my teeth and let the line lapse into silence. I’d been around long enough that I’d seen fellow officers, even fellow detectives, fall in the line of duty. The most recent friend of mine to meet his untimely end had been a younger guy from the homicide department of a neighboring district.

  Trevor Storm.

  But that had been almost three years ago, and I hadn’t known Trevor half as well as I’d known Ian.

  “Detective?” Floyd’s voice snapped me back to reality.

  “Where? How?” My voice wavered, but only some of the uncertainty was feigned. I inhaled through my nose and straightened my back. “Where was he found?”

  “At his house. His wife was out of town with her sister, and she’s headed back to Chicago now. Ian’s, sorry, Detective Strausbaugh’s stepdaughter found him when she got home from her mother’s house this morni
ng.”

  “Does…does Dana know? Dana, Ian’s wife, does she know he’s dead?” The question was stupid, but those in the throes of grief didn’t always make logical inquiries.

  “Yes. I made sure her sister was driving her back. I didn’t want her to have to make the trip by herself.”

  “Sarah isn’t Dana’s sister.” Some detective Floyd was. “She’s Ian’s sister. Dana’s sister-in-law.”

  I couldn’t think about the two heartbroken women in that car. A sister and a wife both trying to comfort each other.

  “Oh.” Floyd sounded flustered. “I didn’t realize that.”

  No, shit.

  I cleared my throat when emotion tried to creep in. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Well, you know what’s coming, right?” Detective Yoell’s voice was calm and non-accusatory, and I had to remind myself that he’d been on the job for almost as long as I had.

  “I know. You need me to come to the station.” I pushed to my feet. “It’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  “I appreciate it, Detective. Be safe.”

  “You too.” Swiping at the screen again, I dropped the phone to the crumpled sheets as I mostly stumbled over to the closet.

  Though the world seemed crooked, like my version of reality had been knocked askew, I went through my morning routine. Part of it, at least.

  I wondered if I should wear a black suit, but in the last second, decided against it. The color of mourning was too on the nose. Instead, since it was my day off, I threw on a t-shirt and jeans.

  Regret burned in the back of my mind, but I knew that if I made one misstep today, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle. All I had to do was get through the round of interviews with Detective Yoell and his partner, and then I could request some personal time to mourn the death of my friend.

  Admittedly, I hadn’t prepared for this day. For a beat, I’d even convinced myself that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone. Two of the three men who could identify me from Alton Dalessio’s warehouse basement were dead, and I’d never crossed paths with any of the surviving girls.

  I’d have been more comfortable if Alton was the sole survivor, but from what I understood, Carlo Enrico was a tenured Leóne soldier.

  Alton and Matteo had both died by their own hand, though Alton’s suicide was more indirect. Where Matteo had put a bullet through his temple, Alton had committed suicide by cop. Or suicide by Fed, as it were.

  Not that I cared about the two Leóne men. I’d gotten along with Alton well enough, but we’d been more business partners than anything else.

  Ian, on the other hand, had been my friend, but his curiosity and his sense of duty had pushed him into my crosshairs. I’d seen the bold determination in his eyes when he’d asked me and the others about the Kankakee County farm.

  I’d seen that look, and I knew what it held in store. That look, that glimmer of defiance and righteousness, had made Ian into one of the precinct’s best homicide detectives. And that look told me that if the FBI’s investigation led them to Ian, he’d roll over like a trained puppy.

  Though he was a Leóne ally like me and the others, he’d never bought into the crime family like we had. He’d followed while we had led.

  But the choice had come down to him or me, and the decision had been clear. I wasn’t a coward like Alton or Matteo, but I also wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life in a Federal prison.

  Plucking my keys from the edge of the marble breakfast bar, I took in a steadying breath to return myself to the real world. The sense of regret weighed on me, but the sentiment was useful. Regret and grief occupied the same emotional sphere, and I could spin the remorse into mourning with minimal effort.

  I closed my hand around the car keys until the metal bit into my palm.

  I had an act to maintain, and it was showtime.

  Sipping at the paper cup of coffee in my hands, I glanced up as the heavy wooden door swung inward. Natasha Reyman’s dark eyes fell on me.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been a…busy morning, to say the least.” She pulled out a chair across the table and sat beside her partner.

  I shook my head. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s part of the job.”

  Floyd Yoell took out a notebook and fished around the desk for his pen. “Well, either way, we appreciate you coming in here to knock this out on your day off.”

  Setting the coffee to the side, I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, letting the peppermint oil I’d applied to them do its work. “It’s no problem.” I sniffed and wiped my nose on a wadded up tissue. “I just hope there’s something I can do to help.”

  Detective Yoell finally produced a pen from the interior pocket of his navy-blue suit jacket and flipped his notebook open. “Okay. Let’s just go through the basics to start with.” His pale blue eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Where were you last night, or this morning technically, between the hours of one and two a.m.?”

  I blew out a quiet breath. For a beat, I pretended to consider the detective’s words. “I was at home in bed.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this happened. How…how did he die?”

  Natasha’s eyes oozed sympathy. “We can talk about all that later.”

  Floyd scribbled a few words on the notepad and glanced back at me. “Is there anyone who can confirm where you were last night and this morning?”

  Blowing out a long breath, I ran a hand down my face. I had to play this part just right.

  I might not have thought out every detail when I’d decided to kill my friend, but I’d gone over this part of the interview in my head more times than I could count. I knew I wouldn’t have an alibi for the time of Ian’s death, but I would have only made myself look more suspicious if I’d tried to establish a way to verify my whereabouts.

  Instead, when I’d left for the Strausbaugh house, I’d left my phone on the nightstand beside my bed, and I’d exited the house through the backyard. I’d walked more than a mile to a bar—the only business near my house that was open so late at night. With a prepaid debit card and a fake name, I’d used a burner phone to order a rideshare to take me from the neighborhood pub to an address located a couple miles from Ian’s house.

  The whole process had been tedious and borderline annoying, but each step was a necessary precaution. Drivers for rideshare companies saw so many customers each night that there was little to no chance they’d remember my face well enough to place me. I’d taken an alternate route back to my apartment, and I’d been careful to use a different company for the return trip.

  I was sure I’d covered all my bases. Now, I just had to play my role.

  Finally, I shook my head. “It was just me at home. Katie and I have been separated since the beginning of the year. Divorce still isn’t official yet, but you know.” I left the comment unfinished as I played for added sympathy, fingering a peppermint induced tear from the corner of my eye. “You can probably check the GPS for my cell, and you can check with my neighbors too, if need be.”

  To Floyd’s side, Detective Reyman folded her arms atop the table. “You were at Detective Strausbaugh’s house earlier that night, is that correct?”

  Sipping at the still-scalding coffee, I nodded. “Me and a few of the other guys from homicide all got together to watch the Cubs play the Cardinals. Ian usually does stuff like that when his wife is out of town. He’ll make a giant batch of chili, and a few of us will swing by to watch a game. Sometimes, his kids are there, but last night they weren’t.”

  I dropped my gaze to the black plastic lid as the room lapsed into silence.

  Fortunately for me, cops—especially males—tended to put forth a tough guy persona around other people. On any given day, the only emotion displayed by cops in a police precinct was anger.

  Between the sense of defeat that hung on my head like a leaden crown and the stone in the pit of my stomach, I wasn’t sure I was capable of pretending to be mad.r />
  My long silences and distant stares would have to work.

  “Well, you’re the first person from that get-together we’ve talked to.” Natasha Reyman’s businesslike tone snapped me out of the funk. “Could you list the names of the other detectives who were at the house that night?”

  Tightening my grasp on the coffee, I met her chocolate-brown eyes. “Of course.”

  Floyd ripped out a sheet of paper and handed me a pen. “No rush.”

  As I jotted down my fellow detectives’ names, Natasha’s expression shifted from focused to sympathetic. “Now, this might be a little hard to answer, but do you know of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm Ian or his family? Were there any perps you’d heard about lately that might have been giving him a hard time? Threats, stalkers, or anything like that?”

  I drummed my fingers against the table and pursed my lips as I considered my next words. I was about to take a risk, but if the gamble paid off, I’d walk away from this investigation without so much as a sideways glance in my direction.

  Clearing my throat, I straightened in the rickety metal chair. “There might have been someone, but I’m not one-hundred-percent sure. All we really had to go on were rumors, but I think Ian might have pissed off the D’Amato family in a case he was working a little earlier in the year.”

  One of Floyd’s dark brows quirked up at the mention of the powerful mafia family. “The D’Amatos? How’d he piss off the D’Amatos?”

  I’d rolled the dice, and all I could do now was hope for a favorable outcome.

  If Natasha or Floyd were on the D’Amato family’s payroll, my plan could backfire. I was confident that neither detective was dirty, but in Chicago, no one could be sure.

  I clenched my jaw. “The Portelli case.”

  A crease formed on Natasha’s forehead as she drew her manicured brows together. “Gerard Portelli? That Leóne soldier who was killed outside a Target about six months ago?”

  My nod was slow and measured. “That’s the one.”