Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  “Sure, okay, Mr. Clarkson, I thank you for that. Me and my men, we’ve got all of your stuff loaded on the truck, and we’re almost done.”

  Clarkson tipped the bottle, looked to see how much was left.

  “Me too.”

  “Right. Well, all that’s left to go is this table and that chair you’re sitting in. Do you want us to just leave them, or are you ready to go?”

  Martin thought about it for a moment, then without fully realizing his arm was in motion, threw the shot glass into the pool. An instant later he heard it shatter against the bottom at the far end.

  After an uncertain attempt, Martin managed to stand up as he clutched the bottle by its neck.

  “Take it. Take all of it.”

  As he stumbled toward the pool, then sat down at the edge, Martin thought he heard William say, “Yes, sir,” and call to one of his fellow movers.

  Martin looked out over the empty pool, and through the haze filling his mind and clouding his eyes he could almost see her emerging from the still water. And then Kimberly wasn’t there anymore, no matter how hard he tried to picture her.

  It was time to go.

  He rolled onto his side, making certain to hold the bottle steady, and pushed himself to his feet. The table was gone, the chair too. The moving truck’s engine bellowed to life at the end of the long driveway. They were waiting for him.

  Martin straightened up, told himself that what was over, was over. Committed in that moment to do his best to believe it. Then started to walk in the direction of the driveway, heading for the moving truck. Away from this place and the pain that now defined it, and toward a different direction for his life.

  Until something caught his eye.

  He stopped and looked at the small dark blotch on the concrete, where the table had been. Then Martin walked over to that spot, no stagger or uncertainty in his step now.

  The outline of a table leg, painted in rust, created a misshapen circle around the small stick figure. As he squatted to get a better look at the grotesque ink drawing, the bottle slipped from Martin’s hand. Its contents washed across the area by his feet. Bathed in scotch, the figure appeared to come to life as it glistened in the afternoon sun.

  It seemed to be mocking him.

  Whatever resolve Martin Clarkson had managed to build up in the weeks since his wife’s death vanished that instant. It was buried under the shards of blue sky that were crashing down all around him.

  Chapter 43

  Chapa eased off the gas as he passed through the last of several speed traps on his way to the park. He scanned a mental list of questions he now had for Martin Clarkson, while doing his best to not get too pissed off over the ones he should’ve already asked.

  Why haven’t you coordinated your investigation with local authorities? Have you created a list of potential suspects? And why the hell are you dragging me out to a park on the outskirts?

  Getting information from people who didn’t want to give it was one of Chapa’s special talents. But then again, it was probably one of Clarkson’s, also.

  Nikki had been thrilled to hear from him. Maybe because it pulled her away from schoolwork for five minutes. Maybe because she truly missed him. Chapa settled on the latter.

  Erin too was happy that Chapa had called, at least until he told her where he was going and where he’d been.

  “You’re not doing what you’re supposed to be doing, which I thought was following in Chakowski’s footsteps.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, Erin. I think this may be exactly what Jim was chasing.”

  “Okay, and look what happened to him.”

  Having Nikki around seemed to be having an effect on her. It was as though Erin was now acutely aware of every bad thing that could happen to him. He was too. Over the many months since Carla had moved Nikki to Boston, Chapa had become more accustomed to the feeling of not being tethered to anyone. Not that he would act any differently under other circumstances.

  There had been some reckless moments after Nikki’s birth and before the divorce. Of course he’d feared for his safety, worried that he might never again see the people he loved, recoiled from pain or danger on several occasions. But Chapa feared something else, too, perhaps even a little bit more. He was scared of losing his edge. Worried that if he ever flinched away from a story or stepped back from trouble, he might never be the same.

  Besides, how much trouble can you get into while writing about changes in zoning laws, or negotiations over the building of a new grocery store? That’s what Chapa was telling himself as he pulled into one of the forest preserve’s parking lots and began searching for Clarkson’s silver Impala.

  Chapter 44

  Martin Clarkson had been pacing the same nine feet of weathered pavement for nearly ten minutes. Clarkson wasn’t waiting for Chapa, he expected that guy to be late. Members of the press usually were, it was some sort of industry-wide epidemic. Calling Chapa had been an afterthought, anyhow.

  But the contact from downtown that he was supposed to meet, Clarkson’s real reason for being there, didn’t seem like the sort to keep someone waiting. Clarkson circled the windmill again, just as he had done when he first got there. It was some thirty feet in diameter, narrowing at the top like a funnel, in decent shape for its apparent age, and entirely out of place in the middle of a forest preserve.

  He’d hesitated calling out, for fear that some hiker or vagrant might hear him. That could mean trouble in this area where everyone seemed to know someone who knew everybody else.

  The hell with it, Clarkson thought, and was about to head back to his car when he heard a sound coming from inside the structure. He was certain they’d agreed to meet by the windmill, not in it, but maybe there had been a misunderstanding.

  He walked up to the main door and pulled on the handle. But the old wood, misshapen by seasons of expansion and contraction, groaned against Clarkson’s effort and refused to budge.

  “Hello?” he whispered, but his voice was carried off into the wilderness by a stiff gust.

  Clarkson remembered seeing another entrance around the backside. He started in that direction. As he came around the curve, Clarkson noticed that this oak wood door, smaller in height and width than its partner on the other side, was open just slightly.

  Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Looking around from side to side as he approached, Clarkson wondered where Chapa was. He should have been there by now.

  He pulled on the door, letting it go as the wind grabbed hold and yanked it open. As sunlight streamed inside and became refracted by the dust floating in the musty air, Clarkson saw a pair of legs in dark slacks sprawled out on the floor.

  “Hey, what happened, are you okay?” Clarkson asked, rushing inside and over to check on the man he was supposed to meet there some fifteen minutes ago.

  Clarkson leaned in, looking for any signs of consciousness. The man’s back was pressed against an inside wall, his legs spread out in front of him. Clarkson was reaching for his face with one hand, and the man’s left wrist with the other.

  Then the man’s eyes snapped open. Clarkson was relieved, but that feeling lasted only an instant. It vanished when Clarkson felt the sting of sharp metal puncturing the side of his neck.

  He froze. Years of FBI training weren’t doing him much good now, as the blade was dragged along the width of his throat.

  In that frenzied moment Clarkson couldn’t decide whether to cover the expanding wound in his neck, fight his assailant, or reach inside his holster. So he did all of these, and none at all, reaching for his throat as the blade was making a return trip and feeling it bite into his palm. He fumbled inside his coat for a weapon, but managed only to clutch his wallet instead.

  The pain was beginning to overtake him now, and Clarkson felt the warm blood dripping out of his body as chills swept through every limb. He felt the pulse in his temples grow until it pounded like a bass drum, as his chest hardened.

  And then he felt nothing more.<
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  Chapter 45

  The way to the old windmill curved for a half mile down a tree-lined trail. Sunlight filtered in through high branches that stretched to meet across the recently paved path.

  Chapa checked his watch and saw that he was ten minutes late. Clarkson would be waiting for him. That was okay. Chapa didn’t mind being a bit late. There was something about Clarkson, a lot about him, actually, that made the guy hard to trust. He was hiding something, and Chapa wondered what that was.

  The sounds of kids playing in the distance seemed to dance among the leaves. They were just on the other side of the trees, in one of the park’s play areas. The Fox River ran through the middle of the park, splitting the forest into east and west halves. It was a safe bet that even on a weekday like this one there were old men in their boats, casting a line and testing their patience.

  The Fletcher Preserve had always been a popular destination for families and hikers. It was not unusual to pass students from nearby Randall College doing the sorts of things college students do in the woods.

  As he came around a narrow bend, Chapa spotted the windmill in the distance. The slow movement of its large blades made it appear alive, like it was waving, warning anyone who came near to stay away.

  It wasn’t a modern windmill, not the sort that consists of little more than a fan blade on top of a tall pole. The century-old structure at the center of a large clearing reached up as high as many of the trees surrounding it. A long time ago it had been a fully functioning windmill. But time and decay had stripped it of its usefulness. Now it was little more than a curiosity for young people who’d never seen anything like it in person, and a shelter for any wildlife that burrowed its way inside.

  Chapa was surprised to see no sign of Clarkson as he arrived at the clearing. The windmill’s main door appeared to be locked tight, and Chapa wondered how many weeks or even months had passed since anyone had been inside. He recalled being brought here on a field trip when he was in grade school, and getting a tour of the inside. But that probably didn’t happen anymore. He remembered the spiral staircase that wound around the inside and led to the top, and wondered if it was still there.

  The building had undergone a bit of restoration in the 90s, but the positive effects of that were now a thing of the past. The wood was cracking and flaking. Its dark brown stain had faded several shades in those places where there was nothing to get in the sun’s way, and weeds had chewed through the foundation.

  “Clarkson?” Chapa called out as he scanned the area.

  A bird fluttered above, moving from one branch to another as though intent on getting a better look. The sounds of children and boaters were gone now. Too far off to be heard in this remote part of the preserve.

  Chapa checked his phone to see if he’d missed a call from Clarkson, delaying the meeting or changing its location. If that was the case, Chapa decided, he would be the one to determine the next where and when.

  No calls. And no service.

  He looked up at top of the structure. Its weary blades rotating unevenly, more out of habit than purpose.

  Chapa cupped his hands to his mouth as he circled around the backside of the windmill.

  Louder this time. “Clarkson?” he called out again, facing the opposite direction from his first attempt.

  Through the dense forest, about twenty yards away, maybe closer, Chapa thought he saw some movement. Was Clarkson screwing with him? Could this be some sort of bullshit power play?

  Make the reporter wait. Serves him right for not being here on time. Shows him who’s in charge.

  Chapa decided right then that he didn’t like Clarkson. Then realized he’d never liked him. Something about his too-perfect suit, and the darkness within that it seemed to be hiding.

  Movement again. This time from a slightly different direction, maybe a little closer.

  That’s it. Time to go.

  Chapa continued around the backside of the windmill, knowing he’d emerge right by the path. From there it would be a brisk and determined walk to his car, followed by an angry phone call to a federal agent, or former agent, or whatever the hell Martin Clarkson was.

  He was about to come around the last turn behind the windmill when Chapa noticed a back door. This one had a latch, but no padlock. As he got closer, Chapa saw that the door was open just a crack.

  “Clarkson, are you in there?” he said in a flat, measured voice.

  No response. Just the crunching of dead leaves and broken twigs, some twenty yards into the woods. Probably a raccoon or possum, or even a deer hiding somewhere in the shade, staring at the dumbass walking around the windmill.

  This door was not as solid as the one along the front. It consisted of a series of wide oak slats held in place by three other large pieces of wood, one across the top, a similar one across the bottom, and another connecting the two, forming a backwards Z.

  Chapa angled around as he approached, hoping to sneak a glimpse inside and have some sense of what he might be getting into. The door was open an inch, maybe two, no more. It appeared to be slightly warped, suggesting that it might’ve been hanging this way for some time.

  Chapa stopped a few feet shy of it, extended his right arm, and reached for the door, cupping his hand around the uneven edge. The splintered wood bit into the palm of his hand as he took hold and gave it a tug. The door trembled but did not budge. He looked down and saw that the bottom half was sticking.

  Setting aside any thoughts of safety or hesitation, Chapa wrapped both hands around the edge of the door, near the top, and pulled hard. It popped free, then wheezed open.

  He stepped back and tried to look inside from several feet away, but saw only darkness.

  “Clarkson,” Chapa said, and was troubled as much by the hint of fear that he heard in his own voice as he was by the silence that followed.

  An empty windmill in a long forgotten section of a large forest preserve. Chapa wondered what the hell he was doing here. Clarkson had blown off their meeting, maybe because something had come up, or because he wasn’t the most stable or reliable person. He might’ve given up after Chapa was a few minutes late. Whatever was the case, Chapa was done being spooked, and pissed off that he’d had to make that decision in the first place.

  A fistful of wind punched its way through the trees, shifting empty branches enough to allow a grasp of sunlight to slip inside the darkness and touch something black and shiny within.

  Chapa forced the door open as wide as it would go. An instant later, the sun reached inside the structure again, just enough to reveal a pair of legs sprawled across the dirty concrete floor and wearing expensive gray slacks that led down to a nice pair of black shoes and back up into the shadows.

  “Clarkson!”

  He was sitting up, but in an unnatural way, folded not at the waist, but higher, around his rib cage. Chapa rushed inside, squatted, grabbed Clarkson’s shoulders, his suit coat still crisp to the touch, and shook him gently.

  “Martin?”

  Clarkson’s head swung from side to side like a broken toy.

  Then Chapa saw the blood, caked on Clarkson’s collar, coloring his white shirt. Chapa recoiled when he spotted the gash across Clarkson’s neck, so long and wide it looked like a grisly smile.

  The blood appeared slick, which meant it was still fresh. Though Chapa figured Clarkson’s heart had stopped pumping it ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago, tops. It was an educated guess, based on years of reading coroners’ reports and attending more autopsies than he wanted to remember.

  Clarkson could just as easily have been killed ten minutes after Chapa spoke with him, or ten minutes ago. And that’s when Chapa felt a cold chill surge through his body and into his mind.

  The killer might still be in here.

  From his squatting position, the open door behind him, Chapa pivoted left, then right, and tried to peer into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Remembering that Clarkson had carried a gun under his sport coa
t, Chapa carefully took hold of a lapel and began to peel back the blood-soaked cloth. He’d just about succeeded in exposing the holster when another swipe of sunlight revealed that Clarkson was clutching something in his left hand.

  Chapa leaned in for a closer look, knowing better than to touch it. It was a snapshot of a woman, attractive, nicely put together, wearing a discreet swimsuit and standing by a backyard pool. A fresh finger-streak of blood split her image in half. Clarkson’s wallet lay open on the concrete by his side.

  From above, Chapa heard the windmill’s blades squeal into motion, then a rushing sound behind him an instant before the door slammed shut, and darkness took hold.

  Chapa fumbled for the holster inside Clarkson’s coat, felt sticky, half-dried blood smear across the back of his hand, didn’t care. From the other end of the darkness, a rustling. He grabbed the handle of the weapon and pulled on it, but the holster was snapped shut and his effort tipped Clarkson’s body sideways, toward Chapa.

  Clarkson’s head bobbed to the side and came to rest on Chapa’s thigh, but he wasn’t about to let that concern him. Reaching inside the coat with both hands, his back now turned toward the sound he’d just heard a second time, then again, closer now, Chapa unsnapped the holster, withdrew the gun and spun around.

  Two eyes stared back at him. They were small and belonged to someone or something that was tucked into a far corner, behind the ladder that led to the top of the windmill. Arms extended outward, gun clutched in his left hand, Chapa slowly stood.

  The eyes followed him up, but remained near ground level. Chapa felt foolish, now, realizing that a raccoon, or possum had sent him into a panic.

  Chapa’s heart was working his chest wall over like a cheap punching bag, as he forced himself to breathe and took stock of the situation. He needed to find a park ranger, or get back to his car, where he’d have a cell phone signal again.