by Mike Omer
“No girlfriend?”
For a confused second, Zoe thought she was referring to Marvin’s girlfriend. Then she got it. “No. Uh . . . I don’t think so. Tatum doesn’t have a girlfriend.” She took a sip from her beer, wishing Tatum would come back.
“And what about you? Do you have a husband? Or boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.” O’Donnell tilted her head.
“What?” Zoe asked, feeling annoyed.
“Nothing. Well . . . the way Tatum looks at you and talks about you. I just wondered.”
“Wondered about what?”
“If you two ever hooked up.”
“Of course not.” Blood rushed to Zoe’s face. Flustered, she turned away, gulping some beer.
“Why not?”
“We’re working together. We’re practically partners.”
“So . . . what, you didn’t hook up because it’s against the bureau’s regulations?”
“Yes. No! We didn’t hook up because we’re not interested in each other like that.”
“Okay.”
“You’re doing that thing with your head again.”
“What thing?” O’Donnell blinked innocently.
“This . . . thing.” Zoe tilted her own head to demonstrate.
“I don’t do that.”
“You do that all the time.”
“Look, I’m just saying: Tatum practically worships you. I think that’s an attractive quality in a man. Plus, you know, he’s actually attractive. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
Zoe thought about that morning. Waking up to see Tatum there. The feeling of being held in his arms. She shook her head violently. “That would be a terrible idea even if either of us were interested.”
“No argument there. I’m just messing with you.” O’Donnell winked at her and finished her mug. She motioned to the bartender and asked for another.
Zoe still felt unsettled by the entire idea. “No guy is worth throwing away your professional life for.”
“Maybe that’s true about your professional life. My job ain’t that precious these days. Of course I’m already happily married.” She waggled her fingers, showing her ring. But something dampened her smile. She seemed suddenly broody.
Zoe finished her own beer and decided to order another one as well. After doing so, she asked, “You aren’t happy with your job?”
O’Donnell snorted. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not everyone’s favorite person in the department.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
O’Donnell rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be more perceptive?”
“Why do you think people don’t like you?”
“I’m on the division’s shit list,” O’Donnell said, her tone brimming with sharp edges. “O’Donnell the pariah.”
“Why?”
“My last partner was dirty. He’s under investigation by IA. Suspended.” She pursed her lips, glanced at Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not dirty, in case you were wondering.”
“Okay. Then what? People think you are?”
O’Donnell shook her head. “They think I ratted him out.”
“Ah.” It was a universal, ancient rule. One of the first things you learned as a kid. Snitches get stitches. People could forgive a lot, but it was hard to forgive a snitch because you never knew when he’d turn on you. Life was full of moments when you needed someone to turn a blind eye, instances when the rules clashed with reality, and nothing was black and white. And the last thing you wanted in a moment like that was to wonder if the person who had your back might stick a knife in it instead.
“They don’t even care what he did,” O’Donnell said vehemently. “It’s all about what they imagine I did. The deals I made with Internal Affairs. How I sold him out. I’m paying for Manny’s mess.”
Zoe nodded. She wanted to say she was sorry but felt that if she did, O’Donnell would bite her head off. “It’ll blow over,” she finally suggested.
“Maybe. If I was a man, it definitely would have. But if a woman’s a snitch, everyone thinks, She’s screwing the guy from Internal Affairs. Or She was screwing Manny, but he dumped her. Or She was screwing Manny and dumped him for the guy from Internal Affairs.”
“You don’t know that’s what they think—”
O’Donnell whipped her head, grimacing, nostrils flaring. “Don’t I? You think people here are subtle? Want to see the note someone left on my desk? Or one of the emails I got?”
Zoe bit her lip, saying nothing.
O’Donnell sighed. “Never mind. You couldn’t possibly know.”
Zoe chose her words carefully. “I know what it’s like to be resented.”
“Well, yeah, maybe, but I really tried, you know? I wanted to be liked.” O’Donnell sipped from her mug and then, realizing what she’d said, hurriedly added, “Not that you didn’t. I mean . . . ugh. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”
Zoe raised an eyebrow. “It’s fine.” She emptied half of her glass.
“I sometimes feel sorry for myself,” O’Donnell said. “It’s not a fetching quality.”
“I never really tried,” Zoe admitted. “I wanted people to like and respect me for who I am. But I can be blunt and insensitive. And it pushes people away. Even people who are close to me.”
O’Donnell fiddled with a beer coaster, slowly peeling it apart. “Tatum seems to get you.”
“For now. But one day I’ll say the wrong thing . . . or maybe it won’t be one thing. Maybe I’ll just erode him.” She was surprised to feel the tremor in her voice. “Just one blunt comment after the other. I’ll exhaust him.”
O’Donnell leaned closer. “Zoe, seriously, the way he looks at you, there’s no way—”
Zoe shook her head. “Forget it. I’m just being stupid.” But she wasn’t; she knew that. It had happened before, with other friends. Now with Andrea, who could hardly talk to her. She felt like she couldn’t explain that feeling to anyone. Except O’Donnell kept looking at her, a tiny reassuring smile on her lips, and maybe she really could understand. Zoe took a long breath. “It’s just that—”
“Speak of the devil,” O’Donnell said, glancing over Zoe’s shoulder.
Tatum walked over to them and plopped himself on the stool, looking very annoyed.
“Everything okay?”
“I probably need to fix the TV,” Tatum said. “Someone broke it. Apparently the remote control ended up in the fish’s bowl. Marvin claims it’s part of a mind game between the cat and the fish. Aren’t cats and fish known as self-sufficient animals?”
Zoe cleared her throat, getting her bearings. “Maybe they are, but grandfathers aren’t.”
“True. So what were we talking about?”
“Who even remembers?” O’Donnell said. “We got a second round.”
Tatum emptied his mug in one long gulp. He put it on the bar and motioned to get the bartender’s attention. “Then I need to catch up.”
CHAPTER 44
This time, their vehicle didn’t stink. He’d insisted on it. Daniel had complained that it ended up costing them double, but the man in control didn’t care. They could afford it.
It was a different parking lot than last time, but after a while, sitting there, he couldn’t even be sure of that anymore. It was more of the same—rows of cars, trains rattling, brakes screeching, passengers going back and forth.
And waiting. Endless waiting. He repeatedly shifted in his seat, opened and closed his window, tapped the steering wheel, one leg constantly jumping as if it had a mind of its own.
“What’s the matter with you?” Daniel barked at him finally. “Can’t you sit still?”
He couldn’t—that was the thing. He nearly whimpered at the itch under his skin, at the tension in his gut. He needed this, needed it to be over.
The one o’clock train had already gone by, with five passengers, all men, walking past them. There was one more train. Daniel had said that if that train
was a bust, they’d go home, try again the next night. But he couldn’t. He needed the hunt, the prey, the blood.
And then the train stopped. The first passenger, walking in the shadows, was a man.
Then, the thin form of a woman.
“There we go,” Daniel growled. “Are you ready?”
Was he ready? He was born for this. He was already poised to move, to stalk her, to pounce, to feed. His mouth salivated as he imagined the iron taste of blood . . .
“Ah, shit,” Daniel said.
A man joined her side. They were a couple. But the man was small. They could easily take him out. He would tear the man’s throat with his teeth, leave him to bleed to death. He opened his door, put one foot on the pavement.
Daniel caught his wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ll handle him,” he hissed at Daniel. They had no time. The couple was getting away. He needed this!
“No!” Daniel pulled him. “Close the damn door.”
For a moment he nearly punched Daniel’s face. His fingers tightened into a fist as he clenched his teeth . . .
He didn’t. He was in control. He relaxed.
“Tomorrow,” Daniel said. “We’ll find one tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” He shut the door and started the car, still vibrating with tension. “Tomorrow.”
Rhea woke up with a start and looked around her, confused. She had fallen asleep in her clinic, by her desk. That was a new low, even for her. She remembered doing some paperwork, then thinking she’d just lean back in the chair for a minute, give her eyes a rest. Ugh, it was already dark outside; she must have slept for over an hour.
She got up and shut all the windows in the clinic, then went over to the alarm panel and switched on the alarm. The thing emitted its shrill beeping, and the display counted down from twenty. She grabbed her bag, shoved her phone inside, and blearily shuffled to the door. She slid outside, shut it, then locked it. Inside, she heard the alarm panel giving its final beep as it turned on.
She turned around, took a few steps down the street, then frowned.
It was way too quiet. The road was empty of traffic, and there was no one around. Sure, her clinic wasn’t exactly in the busiest part of the city, but still. What time was it, anyway?
She checked her phone, blinking in shock.
Half past two in the morning?
She’d slept over six hours in her chair. No wonder her body felt so stiff, her neck like a rusty hinge.
Her house was only fifteen minutes away on foot. She walked to her clinic and back home every day. But she’d never done it so late at night.
For a second she considered going back inside, calling an Uber. But she’d already locked the clinic and turned on the alarm, and besides, taking an Uber for less than a mile drive?
This was one of the safer neighborhoods of Chicago. Didn’t she always tell her parents that when they fretted? Her dad practically thought she lived in a war zone. But in all her years in Chicago, she’d never been a victim of a crime, unless she counted spam mail.
She began walking home.
There was something creepy in striding down the empty dark street. And it was so freaking cold. She shivered, told herself it was because she was freezing, not because she was afraid. She would get home, take a nice long hot shower, and sleep in her bed, like people actually did. And in the morning she’d definitely book an appointment with Dr. Brooks, because falling asleep for six hours in her clinic wasn’t normal. It wasn’t a problem that would go away by itself.
But first she’d go home and get some sleep.
“Don’t be disappointed,” Daniel told him, his voice loud over the engine. “We’ll go again tomorrow.”
“I’m not disappointed,” he answered, fists clenching on the steering wheel. He wanted to explain to Daniel that you couldn’t be disappointed by the complete lack of air. You couldn’t be disappointed when your throat was parched and the oasis you thought you’d spotted in the distance was nothing but dry sand. Disappointed didn’t even begin to describe it.
But he didn’t say anything. It dawned on him that even Daniel didn’t really understand him.
They were waiting at a red light when he spotted the movement. A thin silhouette walking in the shadows. A woman.
“Light’s green,” Daniel said.
She was walking alone. The street was empty, not another car in sight. He couldn’t believe it.
“Hey, are you paying attention? The damn light is green. Drive!”
He drove. Swerved to the left, van screeching. His foot flooring the gas pedal.
“Where the hell are you going?” Daniel shouted.
The woman looked back, alarmed. The van’s lights shone on her face. She was beautiful.
Daniel was still shouting. “What the . . . no. No!”
Yes.
The driver was clearly drunk. Rhea moved farther from the road, waiting for him to drive past. But he didn’t.
Instead, the van swerved toward the sidewalk, its brakes squealing as it hit the curb with a bump, just a few feet away from her. She froze in shock, staring incredulously at the bright lights. The asshole could have run her over!
The driver’s door opened, and she was about to shout at him, when she caught a glimpse of his face.
She’d seen that expression before, when she’d had to put down a dog with rabies. The snarl, the glistening eyes, the drool.
Reflexes kicked in. She turned and ran. Heard a growl behind her. She ran faster, giving it all she had, fumbling in her purse for her keys. She could key his eyes.
“Help!” she screamed. “Someone help me!”
A sudden burst of pain flared through her scalp. He’d grabbed her hair, pulled her back. She let out another scream. He clamped his fingers on her mouth, her nose. She couldn’t breathe.
Something metal in her fingers. Her keys! She thrust the keys in the direction of his face, felt the scrape as she hit something, then an angry grunt. She bit hard on his fingers, tasting sweat and blood, but she kept biting, shaking her head, gnawing at it.
He shoved her, and her body exploded in shock and pain as it hit something metal. A lamppost. Her vision blurred, and now there were two figures, not just one, and they were dragging her, and she lost her keys and couldn’t scream, or talk, or even move. The lips of one of them brushed her cheek, wet and slimy. The street dimmed, her thoughts fogging.
Then her vision focused, and she saw they were manhandling her toward a black maw, and she knew if she let them drag her there, it was all over. She struggled again, and one of them cuffed her across the face.
“Stop that, bitch,” he snarled.
And then they tossed her into the blackness—the back of a van. She was about to scream again when they crammed something into her mouth. With blood running from her nose and the rag in her mouth, she could hardly breathe. One of them rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her arms back, a sudden pinch on her wrists as he somehow tied them together. She whimpered into her rag, tried to kick him, but it was feeble and useless.
“Get behind the wheel—let’s get out of here!” one of them said to the other.
She was pushed onto her back, saw their vague shadows.
“Let’s go! Someone probably already called the cops.”
Please. Let the cops come. Please.
And then the second man bent down and, to her disgust and horror, licked her face.
“Damn it!”
Daniel wrenched him back, and for a moment he fought to get to her face, to taste her again.
Daniel shook him. “Get a grip!” he roared at him. “We need to go!”
He nodded, scrambled to the driver’s seat, with Daniel still in the back with her. He turned the wheel, maneuvered them back to the road, floored it, the engine screaming, getting them away.
“You asshole, what did you do?” Daniel screamed at him. “Do you want to get us both arrested?”
He heard the words but didn’t care. Her taste stil
l lingered on his lips.
It was sublime.
Now he knew that all the rest of his victims had been contaminated, even Catherine. He’d known Catherine wasn’t pure, had known it for some time. He had actually told Daniel about it.
And it turned out he was right.
This woman, she was the real thing. Completely pure, her blood touched by the divine. A mere taste of it could perform miracles. Not just for him. He wasn’t the only one who needed help, after all.
“Drive east, to the lake,” Daniel said. “We’ll find an abandoned beach, handle her there.”
“No,” he said, his voice thick with certainty. “We’re taking her home.”
CHAPTER 45
Friday, October 21, 2016
Logan Square’s streets were dark and silent, sunrise still a few hours away, the residents enviably asleep. But as O’Donnell turned onto North Spaulding Avenue, the atmosphere changed. Flickering red and blue patrol car lights, multiple silhouettes of cops moving briskly throughout the street. Many houses had their lights on, figures standing behind windows, watching a true crime show that none of them had asked for.
O’Donnell parked her car and stepped out, hunching her shoulders against the night’s chill, her breath expelling a cloud of mist. She flipped her badge at a cop who approached her and brushed past him. She’d already spotted Lieutenant Samuel Martinez.
He talked on the radio, looking sharply around him. He saw her and motioned her over, still talking on the radio.
“The tech crew is still not here,” he was saying.
The radio crackled. “Bravo twelve, this is dispatch. They’re on their way. They’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Copy. Get them on the phone, and tell them to turn on their damn radio.”
“Bravo twelve, copy.”
Martinez glanced at O’Donnell, the squad car lights reflecting on his spectacles. “O’Donnell, thanks for coming.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s an abduction case,” he said. “Twenty-nine-year-old Rhea Deleon was snatched from the street. Several witnesses said she was dragged into a black van by two men wearing hoodies at a quarter to three.”