When The Tik-Tik Sings
Page 7
Ben sipped his gin, sighed, and sipped again.
“Yes, sir,” Forester repeated. “Heck of a day.” He looked at Ben. “What do you figure? Three women killed, in three undeniably bizarre accidents, in just two days? Two explosions? One man burned beyond recognition? Which must be a treat when you're still alive. Inexplicable? In the little town of Duncan? Yes? No? Is there an explanation? They were accidents, right?”
Ben stared into his glass, envying the olive. God loved a gin-soaked olive. God didn't love him, Ben realized. God sent him reporters.
“You know,” Forester said, going on. “I could have started with a 'Gee, strange meeting you here,' or a 'What a coincidence.' You know, a little bull crap to grease the way. But, like you, I'm not much of a lube pro. And it isn't a coincidence. I saw you leave Station 2 and followed you; first to your apartment, then here.”
“Whoa. That's kind of creepy.”
“It would be if I was a stalker. But I'm a reporter, so it's just annoying for you and boring for me.” Both drank their drinks. “So what do you figure?” Forester said, starting again. “These deaths?”
“Just what you said. They're inexplicable.”
“Come on, Ben, you were there. At least for the first and the last. A house explodes. The elevator explodes. There's a connection, isn't there? That connection leads somewhere?”
“Forester, I can't talk about it. If I could, that doesn't mean I would. Or that I'd have anything intelligent to say if I did. Or that you'd be able or willing to get it right.”
“Try me.”
“City Hall is full of bugles, badges, and offices with lettering on the doors,” Ben said, lifting his glass. “Why don't you go try them.”
“How can I convince you I'm on your side, Ben?”
“Who said I have a side? And who told you to call me Ben, Forester? We're not buddies.”
“All right, Mr. Court. I can keep it professional. As one pro to another, these aren't ordinary deaths. There is something strange about them. That wasn't your average house fire either. Give me a hand, can't you?”
“Against the rules. My job is frequently in jeopardy. I don't need your help.”
“The deaths are a matter of public record.”
“Unquestionably. But the details are not. They're a matter for police and fire investigation.”
“All right.” Forester dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a ringed notepad, and consulted a page. “Let me ask you something specific. What can you tell me about this… severely burned man from the Garfield Street fire, Soom-na-…”
“Soom-na-lung,” Ben said, finishing it for him. “I can tell you nothing more than what you told me. He is a severely burned male patient.”
“No one will release any more information about him. The hospital isn't allowing visitors.”
“That is not a mystery, Sherlock. No severely burned patient gets visitors. Their skin is gone. They have no way to fend off infection. As to specific information about that patient…” Ben shrugged. He caught the bartender's eye and pointed to his empty glass.
“I'll have another too,” Forester told him before he got away. “Did he cause the fire, this patient, this Soomnalung? Did he kill the burned woman? Or is he a victim too?”
The barman returned with their drinks. “Who's got the honors?”
“I've got mine,” Ben said.
Forester shook his head and waved a bill. “I've got both.”
“Where does a reporter get money?”
“Meh. Phony expense vouchers but there's no story in that.” The bartender left. Forester leaned toward Ben, lowering his voice but heightening his plea. “This woman on the roof, eh, Linnea Keddy. They wouldn't let me up there.”
“It was a crime scene.”
“Right, I agree. My point is I soon realized I didn't want to go up. The murder story was in the alley. I've seen crime scenes, and the way they were going over that alley, it was a crime scene. Why, I asked myself? Why, when the body was over fifty feet above? That question led to another. And another. Suddenly it's a story like I've never seen. But I'm an idiot because everybody with a badge keeps telling me there is no story. It stinks, Ben. It stinks grand. Now, I'm a level-headed guy; I'm not a conspiracy nut. Elvis is dead. Nine-eleven was a terrorist attack. Oswald did it. Okay? But, damn, what happened in that alley? How did the victim end up on the roof? And if I am full of cheese regarding recent events in this city, if exploding houses and bodies on rooftops are normal, okay, I'm full of it. So, tell me, what happened tonight? What about the girl, whose name is being withheld, but who is certainly Crystal Evers, twenty-six, of 600 Fenelon Place? How was she killed? Why was she on a tourist ride not in operation? What happened to the ride? What snapped that cable and dropped that car? Who was the unnamed Crystal's mysterious attacker, the man in a cape?
“You've heard all the whispers.”
“I didn't need whispers. The neighbors up and down Fenelon Place want their fifteen minutes of fame like everybody else and they're babbling like brooks. I listen. I hear. I'm not one of those reporters who goes to an interview with the story already written. I want to know what happened. I'm not an angel and don't pretend to be. I'm in the business like the rest. If it bleeds it leads. But that does not mean I want it to bleed. When it does, I'll be there to get my headline. But I also want to know why it's bleeding. And how you guys stop the bleeding. And I want to know and say what the community can do to help.”
“My, oh my, I had no idea what a decent fellow you were.”
“I am. But I suffer for it. My name's mud at the paper. The editor hates me. The janitor thinks I'm a slob. The old man that runs the press would like to break my neck. I'm tolerated because I'm a damned good reporter. Everything I've heard and seen says the same for you. I'm not looking to get you in a bind. I don't want sensation. I want facts, whatever they are, and a chance to present those facts to my readers.” Forester emptied his glass. “I told you I look and listen. I've noticed your relationship with department authority. Love/hate doesn't begin to describe it. You're a passionate firefighter and a fine paramedic, but you don't follow orders and you say the wrong things to the wrong people. Every one of them from your lieutenant to that rat bastard mayor would like nothing better than to assign you to a dark basement where you could spend the rest of your career picking gnat shit out of pepper.”
“It's none of your business, Mark!”
“I never said it was. I said I saw. Thank you for calling me Mark.”
“What do you want?”
“I need a friend downtown.”
Storm clouds roiled in Ben's eyes. “I ought to knock you off that goddamned stool.”
“I don't want a spy. I don't care about fire house gossip. I'm asking for help getting beyond political bull on matters of importance to this community. I need a friend in the Fire Department and I haven't wasted time denying it. Return the favor and admit you could use a friend at the paper.”
“I have no intention of giving you dirt on my brothers and sisters in the fire service.”
“See? You're lofty too. I didn't ask it; I wouldn't. But if you're trying to convince me you're one big happy family with common goals, I'm calling bull crap. You're as far on the outs as I am and you're a pain in everyone's ass. Your chief despises you. There is no love lost between you and your lieutenant. And you and your union president?” Forester whistled. “Oil and water. They tolerate you because you're a fire eater and an excellent paramedic. In fact, if the department didn't have you they'd need to invent you. But they hate you. They live for the day they can make you go away because you won't stroke their egos and play their games. When they do finally put the screws to you, it wouldn't hurt a bit for the paper to remind the public you only eat the babies that deserve it.”
Ben sighed, sick of the day. “Fine. You're Mark and I'm Ben. We're bosom buddies. Now what?”
“Now give me something, a hint, on what's going on in this town. What do you say?”
“I did,” Forester said with a sigh of his own. “Peter Chandler is in charge of the investigations. Have you ever spoken to Chandler? The guy is a clam – and not a happy one.”
“From what I've seen, he strikes me as a damned fine cop; well thought of in the department.”
“I can't tell you how that excites me as a taxpayer. But as a reporter, I'll pass. The guy can disappear off the face of the earth any time without upsetting my digestion.”
It was lubricated talk, nothing against Detective Chandler. But, for a man who lived off words, Forester was sometimes free with them. He would come to regret those last few.
Ten
Two nights later, a block off of Duncan's historic Town Clock Square, a bone-weary Peter Chandler climbed from his unmarked car outside of a Stopwatch Hamburger joint. Though he knew the answer, manners forced him to lean back in and ask his partner if he cared for anything.
“Don't suppose I could talk you into a bottle of water?”
“Outside of a drought,” Chandler growled. “I don't suppose you could either.” Even tired, the senior detective slid effortlessly into a Jesus speech. “America has the cleanest drinking water in the world, Horatio. Why, in the name of all you millennials call healthy, anyone buys bottled water, is beyond me.” Shane nodded like a bobble-head but wasn't listening. Chandler sighed. “I'm talking about food.”
“Nothing in there my body recognizes as food.” Shane pointed to the Fitness Center on the corner.
The older cop grunted. “The way this investigation is going?” He pointed the opposite direction, to the Senior Employment Center. “That's more likely; for me at least.” Chandler went for his burger. On the way, he tried not to think about the case but failed miserably.
Two full days had passed since the destruction of the Fourth Street Elevator and the discovery of Crystal Evers body. Two days since the Opera House and finding Linnea Keddy dead. Three days since the arson explosion on Garfield Street, the hospitalization of the Unknown Foreign Object, Soomnalung, and the discovery of Jane Doe in the burned basement. Plus, munitions, for the moment hidden at the station, unmentioned in any report. The reports! Dozens of interviews with family, friends, and enemies of every victim with nothing to show. An avalanche of reports. But who or what had set it off? What in God's name had any to do with one another? The one common factor, an inexplicable stomach wound, thought to be a gunshot at first but now known to be something else entirely. A wound so unique that, despite the different scenes, the crimes had to be connected.
Tensions were high in the police and fire departments, and more so, in City Hall. Most off-duty law enforcement personnel were working double shifts. All vacations had been canceled. The bus station, airport, and train station were being monitored, though for what, no one knew. Spot checks were being conducted on vehicles crossing the Illinois and Wisconsin bridges, but again, the feeling was all they had to go on. Anyone acting oddly was questioned. And, oh, how many odd people there were. The city map on the pin board in his office was filling with gory crime scene photos, but to what end? Forget means, motive, and opportunity. They hadn't even a clue to weapon or suspect. Three bodies, one burn victim who wasn't talking, in any language, and a lot of unanswered questions. The case offered no tunnel to look down, let alone light at the end. Neither he nor Shane would be going home soon.
He hadn't eaten all day and it was well into the night. Despite Shane's assumptions, Chandler didn't like junk food. He simply needed fuel. Stopwatch Burgers it was.
The detective did not know the young family ahead of him in line. He'd never seen Catherine Herrera before, or the girl (two-ish) in her stroller or the lad (perhaps five) pouting against mom's leg. But, always a detective, he couldn't help but detect while he waited to order. The packages in mom's arms, under, and atop the stroller told of shopping the stores off the Square. The giggles said the girl was having a grand night. The boy was tired and showing it. Mom too, had had enough and Chandler couldn't blame her. Atop her present load, the woman was very pregnant.
It took a few minutes for the woman to place her order, but Chandler didn't mind. Glad for the break, he used the time making faces at her son. At first, the lad hid behind his mother, but he soon forgot his pout and gave the detective as good as he was getting. Despite his British ancestry, Chandler enjoyed children, their energy, their honesty, and curiosity; they were natural detectives. That's what he needed in a partner, a detective with childlike curiosity. Childish was, so far, all Shane had shown. Erin Vanderjagt was suddenly on his mind again. Not in a romantic way, nothing like. She was an attractive woman, no doubt, but that had never been his focus. He was impressed with Erin, had been since the day he'd met her. Given the chance, she'd make a fine detective. She was being wasted. He'd give anything for Erin to be working these cases.
With only coffee and chicken sandwiches (one for Shane whether he'd eat it or not), Chandler's order was ready first. Offering the young mother a parting smile, the detective was suddenly struck by an idea. The wounds were not the only common factor in the recent deaths; there was another. It had been in Pickles' autopsy reports all along. He'd failed to make the connection. It might mean nothing, Chandler knew, could be merely a coincidence. But he needed a starting place. Coincidences made good ones.
He stepped from the Stopwatch, reassessing the case in light of his revelation. He took in a breath of air, but was thinking too hard to take in the night or his surroundings. So involved were his thoughts, Chandler was unaware of the thing perched behind him atop the dark restaurant roof. He remained oblivious as it slowly, quietly, unfurled its wings.
Chandler reached the squad and his bored-looking partner as Catherine Herrera left the restaurant with her children. The detective heard the oddest sounds, a leathery flap like the main sail of a Galleon caught in a typhoon, and then a scream. He dropped the sandwiches and coffee.
It took the detective several seconds to wrap his mind around what he saw; a completely alien flying creature with massive wings beating the air, bobbing above the mother and her kids. He couldn't get a good look. The light was dim, the shadows stark, and the creature facing the opposite direction. It darted at the mother like an angry bee. Catherine was the target, but the children were in danger all the same. The boy cried out and fell, slapped by the creature's left wing. The other broomed the stroller aside. Chandler ran toward the scene. Shane jumped from the vehicle, pulled his gun, and following the rising and falling target, started firing.
Half-way back to the restaurant, Chandler turned and shouted, “No!” Yes, the thing needed to be stopped. That didn't justify discharging his weapon in the heart of the city, in the direction of a victim, and an occupied restaurant, over his head! His complaint was academic. In the time it had taken to form the thought, Shane's gun was already empty.
A restaurant window had shattered, hit either by a stray bullet or one that had passed through the flying thing. Glass shards littered the walk. Chandler, near enough to make out a head of wild black hair and human-like hands tearing at the mother, could also see several entry wounds in the creature's back. They oozed a dark fluid, unlike any blood he'd seen. The children were crying. The mother, torn and bleeding, looked to be unconscious. Chandler dove under the hovering thing to cover the woman. The creature shrieked.
Shane saw the thing dive on Chandler. Gobsmacked, trying to reload, the junior detective shook so badly he dropped the fresh cartridge. With no choice but to take his eyes off of the attack, Shane swore and dropped to retrieve the ammunition. He didn't hear the Tik-tik, Tik-tik, Tik, tik, tik… above his head. He found the cartridge, slid it home, and looked up into a flurry of black and red. He saw bright, slitted eyes and a flash of talons. Tik. Tik. Tik, tik, tik… A razor-edged vise clutched his throat, another his face. His weapon clattered to the paveme
nt, smoke rising from the hot barrel. Shane fell beside it, streaming life-blood in the same way.
The Well, Ben's old drinking habitat, was quickly becoming his new bad habit. The paramedic sat sipping a tall cold glass of escape, with Forester beside him. It would be a stretch to call them friends, or drinking buddies, but over the last days with Ben off, Erin always on, and Forester circling an epic story but unable to land, they had, like homeless men sharing an alley, forged a trust-free bond of commiseration. They finished their drinks, traded last words, and stepped outside.
Neither Ben nor Forester saw anything. But they heard enough gunfire, shouts, and screams to think they'd stepped into the streets of a banana republic in revolution. They raced to the end of the block, turned the corner, and pulled up to glare at chaos.
A window was gone from a restaurant. The few customers inside were under the tables with their heads in their hands. On the sidewalk, a woman lay in a pool of blood, and what appeared to be black paint; a crying little boy and an overturned stroller and its wailing occupant lay on either side of her. In the lot, a man, also covered in blood, sprawled unmoving beside an unmarked police car. And running across Iowa Street, Ben would have sworn he saw Peter Chandler. Gun in hand, the detective was staring into the decks of a concrete parking garage.
Ben ran for the injured woman and kids with Forester right behind. Ben uprighted the stroller and lifted the girl. The reporter picked up the boy. He had a bloody nose, his sister minor scratches. Both were crying in fear but seemed unhurt. Forester tucked his rolled jacket under Catherine Herrera's head. Ben shouted quick instructions and the reporter took over nursing the family. Ben hurried across the lot to find Detective Shane dead.
Chandler dodged a car on Iowa, counted his lucky stars, and got out of the street. Safe on the curb, he returned to searching the shadows for movement. The thing, whatever it was, had flown into the parking garage on the second level. But all four levels were connected by open ramps within; the creature could be anywhere. Chandler knew he'd have to go in after it. He hurried around the corner, headed for the nearest in-ramp.