When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  “I am exhausted. I am not hungry in the least. I do not even know… What is skittish?”

  “Nervous. Afraid because you thought someone was watching you.”

  “I was nervous. Because someone was watching me. And did follow me. But I am not nervous anymore. I am tired and my head aches.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Angelina's frown deepened. She laid a hand on her stomach. “You are a medic. You should know that our daughter does not need alcohol.”

  “Wasn't suggesting we drown you in a vat of wine. Your nerves probably have our son on edge. Was only trying to help.”

  “I am sorry. It has been a long night. And I am nervous.”

  “Let me treat you,” Nestor said, returning to the kitchen. “Made a nice casserole. Whip you up a lovely non-alcoholic piña colada to go with. Put on some music to remind you of the islands.”

  Angelina followed him and planted a kiss on Nestor's forehead. “I appreciate it. But I am just going to go to bed.”

  “What?” Nestor threw up the window, stuck his head out, and over the rumble of thunder, shouted, “Lit candles! Slaved over a beautiful casserole! Picked out romantic music from the Philippines! And my wife is not enchanted!”

  “Stop! Our ridiculous neighbor already hates us. He is going to call the police.”

  “Can't,” Nestor said, closing the window. “Except for earthshaking emergencies, there is no 9-1-1 until the end of this stupid blackout. My cooking tastes like dirt, but it isn't earthshaking and I don't count as an emergency.” He kissed her. “Sure I can't fix you a little? A small plate?”

  “I appreciate it. I am sorry, but I am not feeling well. The shift, and this head, and this storm, and… my silliness. I am going to lie down.”

  Nestor understood. He didn't like it. He was feeling sorry for himself. But he tried to keep that to himself because he did understand.

  Nestor woke to a scream. He wiped the spittle from his chin, struggled up from the couch, and fought to recognize his surroundings. The living room; he'd fallen asleep. His dinner lay picked over and cold on the coffee table, beside a half-burned candle. Again the scream. “Angelina!” He grabbed the candle, cupped the flame, and ran to the hall.

  He heard a crash of breaking glass, several heavy thumps, another scream. Angelina's scream from their bedroom down the hall. Nestor was there in an instant, but startled to find the door locked. An old lock on an old door; a lock that had a habit of slipping. The screams continued inside. With them came a series of otherworldly sounds, hissing, a breathy shriek, and the flap of canvas loosed in the wind. “Angelina,” Nestor cried in panic. “Angelina!”

  He put the candle on the floor, then he put his shoulder into the door. He smashed it again and again until an upright panel gave way with a crack. He held the candle to the opening. He strained to see. His eyes adjusted to the dark and his world fell apart. His wife lay on the floor, on her back, her nightgown torn open, a creature from Hell crouched over her.

  It looked to be a huge animal, at first. Then seemed to be a person. It was both and neither. It was hunched over Angelina with its back to Nestor at the door. He could make out few details as the only light was the lightning beyond the shattered bedroom window and, on his side, the sparse glow of his candle through the broken panel. Angelina's attacker had a head of wild hair and, incredibly, wings on its back, folded like a bat's but bigger and hinged like a pterodactyl, or a harpy. Nestor called to his wife. The thing turned, hair flying, to glare with bright green eyes over its left shoulder. It flashed yellowed fangs, hissed, then unfurled a red tongue. It rolled from the creature's mouth like a blowout party favor, a tube over a foot long that ended in a bevel. The creature turned to Angelina and stabbed the tongue into her stomach.

  Angelina screamed. Nestor shouted and smashed the door, over and over, a man possessed. The jamb cracked, the lock plate flew, the door sprang into the room with an off-balance Nestor stumbling behind. The creature blinked, hissed furiously and, as the paramedic pushed himself up, sucked its hideously engorged tongue back into its mouth.

  Shouting her name, Nestor bulldozed the creature off Angelina. It snapped and bit, claws scratching, wings struggling to open. Its skin was as slimy as a fish, wet from rain, warm with sweat, and gave off the stink of putrid meat. Only his fears for Angelina, and a deep breath, kept Nestor from vomiting in disgust. He pounded on it, driving his fists into hard muscle, coarse hair, and if he wasn't off his rocker, breasts. The thing fought back with the strength of a demon, broke free, flitted to right itself and, using its arms for propulsion, leapt for the window. One of the wings smashed the upper pane. Nestor ducked the flying glass as the monster slipped beneath the sash. Framed by the casement, backlit by lightning and the downpour, the creature hissed again with bared fangs and glistening eyes. Thunder rolled as the thing vaulted out, stroked the air, and vanished into the storm.

  Fifteen

  Ben turned his phone off. It was a hell of a response in time of emergency, he knew, but he couldn't take the ringing. A hysterical Nestor had called. A shocked Erin had called. An alarmed dispatcher had called. All demanding he come to the hospital; Angelina Pena had been injured at home. Nestor had rushed her to the Emergency Room on his own.

  Having abandoned Engine 2 to their communication monitoring, Ben and Kristina Pierce roared 1-Boy-16 into the hospital parking lot like NASCAR veterans crossing the finish line. Ben won the race to the door, but inside, both pulled up. Like everything they'd seen that week, the ER was a madhouse.

  Ben heard Nestor before he saw him.

  “Trying to tell you what happened. Don't really know myself. It was dark. I just woke up. Angelina was screaming. Had to break down the door. She was being attacked. Don't know what you want me to tell you? I don't understand why we have to do this now?”

  Ben turned a corner and saw his partner at the far end of the hall, shouting and crying. Even from that distance, he looked like hell. His shirt was torn and hanging, bruises, scratches, and streaks of blood marred his face. If anything, he sounded more hysterical than he had on the phone and he was giving both barrels to a cop. Ben headed for them, so alarmed himself he was almost on top of them before he realized the officer was Erin.

  He could have grabbed, hugged, and kissed her for the relief he suddenly felt. Then he felt the tension and realized she wasn't offering Nestor comfort. Erin had a notebook and pen in her hand and was squared-off on him. Whatever the situation, his girlfriend and his best friend were at odds.

  “What did you see?”

  What Nestor saw was Ben's arrival. He broke from Erin's questioning and shouted, “Angelina was attacked. She's hurt, Ben. The baby…”

  “What happened?”

  “That,” Erin said, interrupting, “is what I'm trying to find out.”

  Ben glared. He hadn't seen Erin, except to be questioned, for days. She wanted things professional in public and he got that. He was Nestor's pal and she was best friends with Angelina, he got that. But damn… You couldn't have chopped the ice in her voice with a pick. “What the hell's going on?”

  “Officer Vanderjagt,” Nestor blurted. “Suspects me of hurting my wife.”

  “That's nuts.”

  Erin scowled at Ben. “Thank you so much.” She turned on Nestor. “That's a gross exaggeration. I'm trying to find out what happened to your wife. For some reason, you are not being helpful.”

  “Sorry, Erin,” Nestor said, sounding like he was. “I'm worried about Angelina and the baby.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Do we have to do this now?”

  “You said she was attacked; that the attacker got away. Give us someone to look for.”

  Nestor stared at Erin, then into space, obviously trying to decide something. Finally, he said, “When I broke the door down, Angelina was on the floor. Her attacker… went out the window as I came in.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Didn't get a good look,” h
e answered with a shake of his head. “Barely got a look at all. He was going out.” He hesitated again. “Just some guy.”

  “Some guy? Alone?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No. Just him. But he was already out the window. Couldn't say for sure.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Don't know. It was dark. Can't think right now, Erin. Please, can we do this later?” Erin nodded, tucking her notebook away. Nestor headed into Angelina's room.

  Erin and Ben watched him go, Erin in annoyance, Ben in confusion. Nestor had always been a rotten liar and Ben knew damned well he was lying now. But why? Erin wondered too. No, she wasn't an idiot and she wasn't fooled. His story stunk to high heaven. Neither Erin nor Ben shared their thoughts with one another.

  Erin found herself wondering about Angelina as well. More than once recently, during their many discussions about firefighter lovers and husbands, her best female friend had talked of changes coming over Nestor, nervousness, drinking, too frequent arguments. Pregnancy was difficult enough, without a hubby going through an early mid-life crisis. Angelina had wanted to know if she and Ben had rough patches. Who didn't? Of course, they had moments. But Erin reported fairly smooth sailing.

  “Count your blessings,” Angelina said. “That you're not pregnant.” Erin shuddered at the idea.

  Without answers for her friend, she'd tried to be supportive. Every woman on earth knew, in matters of the heart, the strongest men were weak as water. Her suggestion that Nestor was suffering a second childhood had them both in tears, laughing. What firefighter had ever left his first childhood? Maybe, Angelina worried aloud, it was deeper and darker. She told Erin of Nestor's abusive dad. Maybe his past was coming back to haunt him? Maybe, God forbid, the son becomes the father? Or perhaps it was something simple, silly, and natural like Nestor being afraid of becoming a father himself? Erin didn't know. But she'd promised to be there for her friend. Now Erin realized, when Angelina had needed her, she'd been nowhere around.

  “There is no way,” Ben said, interrupting Erin's thoughts. “No way Nestor physically hurt his wife. He wouldn't have laid a hand on her. The idea is ridiculous.”

  “She's hurt,” Erin said. “And it wasn't my idea. There's a patrol unit at his house right now. I just talked to them. His neighbor says Nestor and Angelina were arguing tonight. He heard shouting. Later, he heard screaming and glass breaking. He thinks Nestor hurt her. I'm just trying…” She was so near to Ben, and feeling so distant, Erin wanted him to take her in his arms. But he wouldn't, she knew, because of her rule, and because Nestor and Angelina now stood between them. “I'm sorry,” Erin said. “I'm sorry. I've missed you so much lately. I'm sorry about this, all of it, but I have a job to—”

  “I know. I know you do. I'm sorry too.” What more could either of them say?

  “I've got to go back out,” Erin said. “I have to check his neighborhood… for some guy.”

  “You know he lied to you?”

  Erin nodded. “Yes. I know.”

  Ben took hold of her arm. Both shivered at the contact. “I'll try to find out why,” he whispered.

  Sixteen

  The next morning, just relieved, barely home and still in his wrinkled uniform, Ben answered his apartment door to a weary Erin. Her eyes were red, her voice hollow, and her first comment came like a detached police report. “Angelina lost the baby.”

  “I know. We got a call at the station. What's happening now?”

  “I've turned the case over to Ron Musselwhite.”

  “Musselwhite?”

  “The chief of police.”

  “I know who he is,” Ben growled. “I work for the same city you do. That wasn't a 'Musselwhite, who', it was a 'Musselwhite, why'. Why aren't you handling it?”

  “How can you ask? Angelina is one of my best friends. It's possible she was assaulted—”

  “What do you mean 'It's possible'? She was assaulted. Nestor said so.”

  “You didn't let me finish. It's possible she was assaulted by Nestor.”

  “That's ridiculous, Erin. Nestor told you what happened.”

  “And you told me he was lying.”

  “He's lying about the details. For some ungodly reason that he won't cough up. He isn't lying about the attack on his wife. And he didn't do it.”

  “We're looking at what he told us and we're going to have to dig deeper. There isn't any choice. I'm not supposed to be telling you, but nothing about what he said is adding up.”

  “Nestor did not do this!”

  “I want to believe that. We all do. But we can't just take his word for it. Or yours.”

  “Then investigate. But why hand it off to a politician like the chief of police?”

  “This isn't Chicago, Ben. Chandler is missing. Shane is dead. Tankard is… God knows where in Canada. I'm the only investigator left and I have a desk full of murders. There's no one else. Besides, I am friends with the assault victim. I'm not going to tear into Nestor's life. I can't.”

  “But Musselwhite?”

  “He's the only one left. And, outside of taking lashes from the mayor, he's a good cop.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You hate your chief; his brother-in-law. You're projecting. That's not my problem.”

  Ben paused, gave it thought, and laughed at his own jackassery. “You're right.”

  “On this,” she said, “I know I am. Now can we stop fighting and make up, please?”

  They fell into a clinch, without passion but with a oneness both needed. The exhaustion, the pain, the horrors of the week melted as they held each other. “First chance,” Erin whispered. “We should get out of here.”

  “A vacation?”

  She pushed her head into his chest. “An escape.”

  He held her tight. “We need a plan; in case we ever do need to escape. Listen, if one of us has to go, for whatever reason, they go to Chicago. The other follows as soon as they can.”

  “Why Chicago?”

  “Huge city, a couple hundred miles away, what better place to hide and wait? First one there takes a room in a hotel, some place in the Loop so we can find each other, but so seedy, no self-respecting civil servant would be caught dead there.”

  Erin laughed, still holding on. “What names do we use?”

  “Something to honor the hometown. Julian Duncan if I run. Julie Duncan if you go first.”

  “Can't say I like the names much.”

  “It's better than Vanderjagt.” He took her punch like a man. “We need a group name, too. Some of those places are hinky about giving out guests' names. We say we're with the Court Reunion.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never,” Ben agreed. “Never, ever, ever.”

  How wonderful it would have been to make love then. But it wasn't in the cards. Neither, just then, was a romantic escape to Chicago. Needing to hurry back to work, Erin broke the hold and escaped to Ben's bathroom. She locked the door, kneeled, and as quietly as she could, threw up.

  Later in the day, Ben entered the Intensive Care Unit and asked the clerk for Angelina Pena's room. Not bothering to smile, she politely but firmly replied that the patient was not allowed visitors of any kind. He got the impression it wasn't the first time she'd explained the situation. She added that, outside of the police, nobody was being allowed in. The cops had access only with the doctor present. She pointed to the waiting room.

  Ben followed her finger, gazing the length of the hall, to see Nestor in the waiting area in conference with the police. Not just any cops, but Chief Musselwhite himself. A uniformed patrolman, Ben did not know, stood nearby at parade rest, but looking as if he'd rather be elsewhere.

  Ben was no expert on body language but he knew Nestor, and by his animated gestures, knew he was more than unhappy. Ben arrived at the room in time to hear the chief say, “Mr. Pena, your story makes no sense.”

  “The broken window
isn't evidence of an intruder?”

  “It appears to be. But other evidence makes it questionable.”

  “So I'm a liar?” Nestor demanded.

  “I didn't label you. Many things you told us are true. But the facts of the incident as a whole do not hold together. We need to go over them again. The window was broken from the outside. But there are no footprints, neither wet ones in the room or muddy prints on the ground. There's no evidence anyone crossed the yard or climbed up to enter through that window. I've seen lawns with more grass, I don't need to tell you that. Yours is mostly dirt, mud now with the rain, and that mud is undisturbed. Have you any explanation as to—”

  The three turned like clockwork figures to Ben in the doorway.

  “This is police business,” Musselwhite said.

  “Then it should be conducted in a police interview room,” Ben replied. “Are you preferring charges against Mr. Pena?”

  “Is that any of your business?” Musselwhite didn't wait for an answer. “You're Court, aren't you? The firehouse lawyer? Chief Castronovo talks about you often.”

  “Yeah.” Ben smiled, lifting crossed fingers. “Your brother-in-law and I are just like that.”

  “That's what he says. But he just uses the one finger. I got nothing against you, Court, but one day, son, you're going to get it bit off.” Musselwhite turned to Nestor. “We would appreciate your help in investigating this attack on your wife. Please give this incident serious consideration. Then come see me at the station tomorrow morning.”

  The cops left without another word.

  “They think I did this to Angelina.”

  “They accused you?”

  “Not outright. But you should have heard the questions. What is our relationship like? Do we argue a lot? What about our sex lives? With Angelina pregnant have I been getting it elsewhere? Have I ever hit her? You should have heard them.”

  “I understand your anger. But that's what they do, Nestor. They start with the spouse and they aren't always wrong. This isn't your first day in long pants.”