“It sounds like her,” Erin said to Chandler. “But it doesn't sound like a robbery. Why chuck the purse off the roof if you haven't bothered to rifle it?”
Detective Chandler's eyes were daggers, his jaw set, as he nodded. “Good question. Tell him, please, to put the purse back where he found it.”
She did and, below, Traer did as instructed. A moment later, the humbled patrol officer was back on the air. “There's eh… There is a red high-heel by the corner of the building at the mouth of the alley. Eh, nobody touched it.”
“Better and better,” Chandler muttered.
Erin's radio squawked again. “There's blood beside the dumpster.” The young officer pointed, first at one spot, then at another. Soon he was indicating dried splotches all over the gray asphalt. Erin's radio clicked. “Looks like it rained blood.”
Chandler looked from the alley below to the body behind them, and back again. He disappeared deep in thought and, when he returned, said only, “Maybe it did.”
“Hold further reports,” Erin was telling her radio. “I'll be en route.” She looked to Chandler. “There are too many scanners in Duncan.”
“I agree,” he said, nodding his approval.
“This doesn't make any sense,” she went on with a sigh. “The purse, the shoe, blood, and signs of a fight, all down there. The body up here, covered in defensive wounds, but with no signs of struggle anywhere around. How did it get up here?”
“That,” Chandler said, “is the question.”
Pickles ogled a meat thermometer and scribbled a note. Shane, with stilted steps and tape in hand, measured the body's relationship to its surroundings. The 'B' Shift gang hovered, waiting to be let go. All perfectly normal activities at a scene that was anything but normal. Erin felt something in the air – more than death, something darker.
Six
After a morning of sitting home alone, Ben was so sick of his own company he'd have been glad to talk to anyone up to and including his chief. When his cell phone finally rang, and he saw it was Erin calling, he grew giddy as a school boy. “Hey there. I almost didn't answer. Couldn't read the name on the screen. It can't be right, can it?”
“Why?” she asked, sounding far away and tired. “What's wrong with my name?”
“It's too long.”
“Erin is too long?”
“No. I saved your name and number before we were an item. Vanderjagt? I see it every time you call and… I don't know. You say it and barely get past the 'r' before you're exhausted. You should consider changing it.”
“Uh-huh. Any suggestions?”
“Anything would be an improvement. How about Court?”
“Ooohhh, I don't know.”
“It's dignified. It makes a statement. It's short.”
“It's more brusque than short. And it's deceptive. Listen to it. Court. Makes a lot of promises it can't keep, don't you think?”
“Wow. That's harsh.”
“You started it. My daddy worked hard to give me that name.”
“You're right. I apologize.”
“Yeah, until the next time. What are you doing?”
Ben plopped into his sagging couch. “Completely wasting the vacation day you told me to take. But you didn't call to hear me whine, so I'll change that to, I'm enjoying a relaxing day off.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Yeah. Hey, what are you doing tonight? Want to hook up? Get something to eat?”
“You must not have heard the news. We've got our second suspicious death of the week. And this one's stranger than the last.”
“What happened?”
“I'm not allowed to say beyond the publicly issued 'A body has been found. An investigation is ongoing'. If you want saucy details, talk to Nestor. He can tell you what I can't. Anyway, I called to tell you, if nothing else happens, I'll be doing paperwork until midnight. Then I'm going home to crash.”
They commiserated several minutes more, then Erin returned to work and Ben returned to sulking. Misery might love company, but Ben wasn't loving anything about his day. Not long after hanging up, his phone rang again. This time, he would have been delighted to read 'Vanderjagt' but it wasn't in the cards. The screen said 'Fire Station 2'.
The long unusually hot day became an unseasonably cool night and a thick and rolling fog moved in from the river. In that pea soup, the blue door of Room 101 of the Quality Stay Motel jerked open. A young blonde, her blouse torn open, was propelled across the broken sidewalk and onto her scrawny behind in the lot. Her handbag sailed after her, missed her head by inches, and slid across the pavement. A torn jacket and shoe, matching the one she wore, came after, thrown with passion. The pitcher appeared in the doorway, a sculpted black mass backlit by the light of a bedside lamp and the flickering blue of a television. “What's the matter with you, bitch? I gotta get up outta my bed; be called down here? 'Cause you don't know how to treat yo' damned customers?”
The girl, pinching her blouse together with one hand, collecting her scattered belongings, fighting not to cry, dropped it all again at her feet. “He's a pig!” she screamed. “I'm not doing that with a pig!”
“He's a payin' pig. S'all that matters. Who the hell you think y' are?”
A second shadow, short and grossly fat, appeared behind the first. “Who you calling a pig?”
“I didn't call anyone a pig, bitch. Shut up and back up. I ain't talkin' to you. I'm talkin' to my lady.”
“She ain't a lady. She ain't nothing. She sure ain't what I paid for. She won't—”
The big shadow turned on the fat one. “Why the hell you think I'm here? Shut the fuck up.”
“I'm the customer. I'm the one that's paying!”
“Yeah, man, I know. You'll get what you paid for. Just go back inside.”
The fat shadow disappeared. The big one stepped out onto the sidewalk. No longer backlit, he became just an average pimp. He pointed at a parked Lincoln like a manager calling to the bullpen. “Alice!” A meaty brunette hopped out, and eying the blonde with contempt, hurried to her man's side. “Get in there. Shut that son of a bitch up.” Alice obeyed while the pimp returned his attention to the blonde. “Hit the bricks, tramp. Don't come crawlin' back here.”
The blonde shrieked, grabbed the loose shoe, and ran at him. He retreated and slammed the door. Screaming acid, she beat the door until she ran out of breath, and the room number and the heel of her shoe came off at the same time. Red-eyed and exhausted, she turned away. She covered her breasts as best she could with the torn material and two remaining buttons and scooped up her belongings. With nothing but anger and humiliation for fuel, she picked a direction, and crying again, headed out. Her name, if you care, was Crystal Evers. She felt certain not a soul on earth gave a damn.
The quickest direction away from the motel would have been to head down the hill to Dodge Street, the main thoroughfare for traffic coming from Illinois across the Grant Bridge. There, by shaking her ass or maybe just undoing one of the remaining buttons on the blouse, she could get a ride, some cash, or if she wanted, a place to sleep. Then again, Crystal had had it with creeps for the day. Weren't all men creeps? She didn't want to hook up. She didn't want to hear another word. She didn't feel like telling another lie, not that night.
Her mom's place was some ways away, ten or fifteen blocks. But they were dark, quiet – and tonight – foggy blocks where she could walk alone and be alone. Yeah, her mom was a selfish old cunt and they didn't get along. But by this time of night she'd be drunk and ready for bed. Snagging a sandwich and a corner of the couch would be no biggie. Maybe there'd even be a beer left.
Crystal took in the long Hill Street drive that served as the motel entrance but decided against it. For the rest of the night, it would be nothing but shortcuts for her. She pulled off her remaining shoe and started barefoot through the bushes to the north, headed up toward the intimidating Duncan Memorial Hospital. She crossed the open field and the painted pad where the medical helicopters landed. She
crossed Williams Park into the hospital's lot and to the opposite side. She crossed Langworthy Street and cleared the hospital property. She paused, stared up the bluff, and sighed. Some short cut. Like the rest of her life, it was all uphill. Crystal wiped at her tears and started walking.
She'd only been at it a few minutes when a cab eased to the curb and a drunk leaned out with a slurred proposition. Crystal continued walking without a glance. The drunk called her a name and rolled the window back up. The cab disappeared into the fog.
Crystal was too tired to wonder what else the night concealed. Had she, she could never have guessed that ahead on the bluff, on a limb midway up in an ancient oak tree, on the grounds of the nearly-as-old nursing home, the dark thing perched, watching her heading its way.
It wouldn't be a chance meeting. Moments before it had landed atop the oblong sign of the Quality Stay Motel. It grabbed the metal frame of the wooden billboard with a barely audible snick and scratch of its claws and folded in its leathery wings. It aimed piercing green eyes below and inhaled, sniffing for a particular scent despite the heavy air of the Mississippi fog. Then the door to Room 101 jerked open, the young whore was tossed out, and the dark thing's senses came alive. Oh, the smells; the booze, the smoke, the sweat, the old sex doused in lilac perfume; deeper odors yet, scents the world could neither sense nor relish. It watched the violent drama play out. Then, when the girl walked away, it unfurled its wings and took to the air. It circled the lot. It climbed and swooped, loving the darkness. It trailed her to the bluff. Now, from the oak tree standing sentinel at the old nursing home, a place rife with pungent odors of its own, the dark thing watched the girl approach.
Barefoot, Crystal's step was silent as the night around her. Tik-tik, Tik-tik, tik, tik, tik…
Crystal heard it, a strange fast song from a bird maybe, or an insect – she didn't know. Other than crickets, what insects did she know? One of a thousand, a billion, creatures of the night. Crystal knew it was creepy, and that in the thick wet air, finding the singer would be impossible. She didn't want to try.
North, that's where Crystal was headed. Uphill, straight up James Street. Until she stopped. Tik, Tik. Until she thought she'd change her mind. Tik, Tik. It wasn't the night. It wasn't even the weird noise, Tik, Tik, tik, tik, tik… though the noise continued and was creeping her out. It wasn't that; it was her route. If she took Burch, she'd have to pass the old folks' home, the place where her Gran had died. The only person in the world, her Gran, who had ever treated her like a human instead of a punching bag or a cum dump. She loved to visit when Gran was alive but now the place freaked her out. She couldn't stand the sight of the building, the memories. She jogged right at Third, avoiding both, and yeah, if she could, avoiding the weird sound.
She stayed on Third an extra block, then headed north again on Summit. Okay, not a short cut, Crystal knew, but what the hell, memories were real. A block later she reached Fenelon, the street her mom lived on, and headed up the bluff again. Tik, tik. Tik, tik. Tik, tik, tik, tik, tik…
The sound again. Something more; something behind her. No, she suddenly realized, something above her. Bed sheets on a clothes line billowed by the wind? That was it. But that was silly. Where in the street could…? Tik, tik. Tik, tik. Tik, tik, tik, tik, tik…
Crystal turned, searching downhill, but saw nothing. The flapping grew louder. A hair-raising shriek split the air. Crystal looked up, screamed, and took off up the bluff. Running for her life.
Seven
Crystal Evers raced through the shadows up the bluff, up Fenelon Street, in terror. She heard the leathery flap of wings and the shriek again. This time, she didn't look back. In the night and fog there was nothing to see. She just ran.
A glow appeared on the left, a street lamp taking shape, and behind it the outline of the Thatcher House. The beautiful Bed and Breakfast had always been a palace in the mind of the little girl inside of Crystal. She'd grown up catty-corner from it on the quiet intersection. She knew her mother's house was there somewhere, lost in the gray swirl. She couldn't go home, you'd need a home for that, and she'd never be safe. But she was almost at her mother's and it had a door. But the flapping, the shrieking, and now a guttural growl, were right over her shoulder.
The wet concrete made the sidewalk slippery. Her bare feet and mostly naked chest were all-but numb with cold as she reached her mother's unkempt yard. She hit the steps running and dove for the porch. On her knees, she threw the screen door open. It banged and echoed in the thick air as she grabbed the inner knob. Panicked, she tried to turn it and nearly broke her wrist. Why was it locked? Why in God's name was her mother's door locked? This night of all nights? The bitch hadn't locked a door at night, hadn't done anything responsible, in twenty years. Crystal balled her fists and banged. “Helen! Helen, open the door!” Something thumped heavily on the porch roof. “Helen, open the door!”
The heavy something scraped the shingles creeping to the roof's edge. The eave was a black line, the world beyond a gloomy gray in the street lamp's nimbus. The gray was broken, Crystal's eyes grew wide, as a thin hand with clawed fingers reached down and grabbed the gutter. The scraping again. Something flitted behind the hand. It took a moment for Crystal to recognize the tip of a huge wing. She screamed. She darted a glance to the door and realized it was useless. There was no answer, never would be. When had there ever been safety with her mother?
She heard a hiss. Something more – a head she decided – followed the hand over the edge. Backlit, it showed no features, just a black head with stringy tresses hanging down and swaying as it undulated. It opened two almond-shaped eyes, bright green in the dark. More of the wing presented itself, fluttering. The dark thing hissed again and reached for her.
Crystal screamed and ducked. She bolted around the outstretched claw and off the porch. She slid to a stop in the street, terrified and unsure where to run. Then it came to her, a hope for shelter. The focus of everyone on the bluff in that silly tourist town, the elevator!
There in Mayberry, Crystal knew, to the goobers on the bluff, the elevator had always been the tits. At 296 feet long, angled from the top of the 190-foot bluff, the Fourth Street Elevator was the shortest, steepest railroad in the world, a funicular railway, listed in the National Register of Historic Places. It had two cars; one atop the bluff, one at the base. Connected by cables, they counterbalanced each other and passed one another at the mid-point. Each car was a solid box with a sliding door. She could hide, she hoped, in the car at the top. Crystal raced for the Fourth Street Elevator.
The frantic flapping of the horrible wings sounded behind her, coming on. Despite being barefoot on slippery pavement, Crystal ran with all her speed. She jumped the turn-style at the entrance and juked the zig-zag path to the tourist attraction. The top car appeared out of the fog ahead but, with less than ten feet to go, the creature was upon her. Shrieking, its wings whipping the air, the dark thing grabbed for her. Crystal slapped at the grasping claws. Razor nails slashed her arms, bit the flesh of her wrists, dug into her hair. Screaming, hysterical, Crystal blindly lashed out, punching scaly flesh, hard muscle, coarse body hair. She yanked the hair dangling from its head. The dark thing retreated, flapping madly to regain elevation. Crystal, feeling no victory, used the pause to dive into the tram.
The flying thing would not be denied. Behind her, it hit the door with a crack, folded its wings, and used its arms to swing through. Crystal spun, falling onto the wood bench, and threw her feet up. She kicked and screamed at the top of her lungs. Hissing and shrieking, unable to get hold, the creature leapt out of the car and into the fog. An indescribable silence followed. Torn and bleeding, her blouse in tatters, crying and trying to catch her breath, Crystal eased herself up on the bench. Fog curled into the car. Tik, tik. Tik, tik.
Crystal gasped. The strange noise again and the frenetic flapping of leather. Weight and substance hit the roof. The tram shook violently. Crystal screamed until she thought she'd lose her mind. The car stoppe
d shaking and she caught her breath. Silence again and wet gray fog. The thing was gone.
Sniffling and wiping at her swollen eyes, Crystal stood. She scanned the fog, straining to see, to hear. Then again, a noise outside of the car. Distant but nearing. She held her breath to take it in. A low growl and the same evil song. Tik, tik. Tik, tik. Tik, tik, tik.
The car rocked. Crystal yelped and grabbed for the bench. There came a snap and a metallic twang. The car jolted as something lashed the rear wall like a bullwhip. Crystal jumped as the car lurched. She screamed as the bottom fell out of her stomach and her world. The tram rattled on its tracks as it plunged down the bluff.
An alarm tone sounded. “City Fire, Station One. Engine and ambulance needed, Cable Car Square, for a reported explosion. Engine and ambulance needed for a reported explosion, Cable Car Square. Time out – 21:36 hours.” A radio crackled and, over the air, the voice of 'B' Shift's Captain Rosenka dispatched Engines 1 and 2, and 1-Boy-16. (A temporarily rented 1-Boy-16 standing in for the smashed original.) In the ambulance, in the fog, blocks away from the station, Ben reached for the radio mic.
Yes, Ben Court. No, you haven't missed a chapter. You knew Ben took a day off, at Erin's request, to spend with Erin. That, due to uncontrollable circumstances, she'd been called to work leaving Ben with no plans. Bad, but it got worse. Without mentioning Erin, Nestor let slip news of Ben's tanked day off and the rookie got an idea. Pierce called Ben, and as his day was a bust, asked if he'd cover her shift for a few hours. With no reason to refuse, Ben was now filling in on the ambulance with his own partner on his vacation day without pay. As the Looney Tunes would have it, it was a revolting situation. He and Nestor were returning from an uneventful non-emergency when dispatch reported… what they'd reported.
When The Tik-Tik Sings Page 5