Rain Will Come

by Holgate, Thomas

  Eventually the nausea would pass. He had already given himself a shot of Palladone. All he could do now was lie down and allow the narcotic to do its job.

  If he was lucky enough to fall asleep, he prayed for a dreamless slumber. Because now he even dreamed of pain.

  Daniel used to believe that there was no truer adage than that of youth being squandered on the young. Now he was convinced he’d found one more accurate: health is squandered on the healthy. He wondered if Bartlett’s would be interested in such a profound sentiment, then realized the drug must be working.

  Daniel’s sole pursuer commenced his month-long assignment by meeting a freckled redhead at the El Capital, one of the city’s most disreputable hourly establishments.

  Sexually, Czarcik didn’t have a thing for redheads, finding them more homely than exotic, but his prejudices didn’t extend to conversation. This one actually had a good story. Until she was eighteen, she had been under the impression that her mother was her older sister. The revelation had affected her so profoundly that she promptly left home and hadn’t been back since.

  It wasn’t the usual tale of small-town woe, but even as she was telling the story, he found his mind drifting back to his conversation with Groucho.

  Czarcik wanted him dead more than ever.

  When Czarcik arrived back at his office at BJE headquarters at a quarter past eight in the evening, he fully intended it to be the last time he ever set foot inside. From here on out, he would be on the road.

  He was far from a sentimentalist in danger of being overcome by emotion at the prospect of a transition. Plus, his office held few personal items, hardly anything to clean out. There were no photos of loved ones to be swept into a cardboard box. Most detectives kept a trinket to anchor them to their civilian lives—a pocket watch passed down from a father, a mother’s brooch—a necessity in their line of work. Czarcik had nothing except for a pot of black organic matter that had been given to him months ago by the department secretary. She had asked him to take care of her plant while she was away on vacation. Czarcik had taken care of it as well as he had taken care of Vanessa McDonald’s fish. The secretary had never forgiven him, even refusing to take the pot back upon her return.

  He had no relevant case files or paperwork to pack. These he kept under lock and key in his home office, the safest place for them. At least it had been until Groucho’s unexpected visit.

  The only item he took with him was an ornate hunting knife with a handle carved from a deer antler. Over the years, he had spent hours admiring the flowing curve of the blade and the way the steel seamlessly disappeared into the bone. Before security cams were ubiquitous, he had pilfered the knife from a crime scene. It wasn’t relevant to the case, and its absence wasn’t noticed, just the spoils of war. After all, his uncle had taken plenty of booty from dead soldiers on Iwo Jima. Back in the day, at Chicago PD, the evidence locker had been one big bazaar. In fact, it was there that Czarcik got his first taste of Colombian cocaine. In some ways, this sample had spoiled him. Finding a reliable supplier on the street whose shit was as pure was no easy feat.

  He would of course miss IDA. Since access from the road was all but impossible, if he needed her, he would have to call Corrine, who just happened to be walking toward him at that moment.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied.

  “You need something?”

  “Actually, I came to say goodbye.”

  Czarcik didn’t respond.

  Corrine continued. “The boss didn’t tell me much, only that you’d be on the road for a month or so and that I was to continue to support you and address any request in a timely matter.”

  “There you go.”

  She watched him gather his things. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

  He stopped. Looked up at her. “What makes you say that?”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know, really. This just has that feel to it.”

  “I’ll be back,” Czarcik promised. “And you’ll have plenty of time to think of new things to bust my balls about.”

  She chuckled, then said, “Paul, I know we’re not really friends. Hell, I don’t even know if I like you very much. But I will miss you. Things will be a lot less interesting without you around.”

  He extended his hand. Stiff. Formal.

  Corrine ignored it, stepped up to him, and punched him playfully in the chest. Then she walked away, laughing.

  Once Corrine was gone, Czarcik did a final dummy check, just to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything of importance.

  As he turned to leave his desk for the last time, he nearly bumped into a woman. He stammered “pardon me,” out of habit, but she was the one who had invaded his personal space.

  He had never seen the woman before, and the first things he noticed were her deep-blue eyes. More opal than ice, as if their color wasn’t quite fixed but fluctuating. The shape of her face was Eastern European, but removed by a generation or two. Raven hair offset the pools of sapphire that now held him captive. She was pretty enough to be an escort, thought Czarcik. But if she was, he would have remembered her. And he was sure he hadn’t seen her before.

  “Are you Detective Czarcik?” she asked, pronouncing his name correctly, which he chalked up to familiarity with a Slavic tongue.

  “Czarcik, yes,” he repeated.

  The woman made no apology for her bold entrance, which Czarcik found both off-putting and strangely appealing. “I was told you’re the person I should speak with.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, unconcerned with appearances, “but as you can see, I was about to leave. Whoever directed you to me must have been misinformed.”

  He walked past her, and she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Another audacious move. “It’s about your case.”

  “Any information you might have about the Fernandez murders you can share with Chief Eldridge Watkins of the Chicago Police Department. The reception desk will be able to tell you where you can find—”

  “No, your other case.”

  He swore he caught the hint of a smile, as if she knew she was about to spook him.

  “A judge in Texas named Jeral Robertson.”

  Czarcik sat right back down, as if the color that drained from his face was physically pulling him into the chair. He tried to maintain his composure and licked his lips, afraid his voice might crack if he spoke.

  For a brief moment, he wished that Groucho could be here next to him. The comedian would certainly appreciate the irony. They had each tried so hard to keep the judge their little secret. And now, this secret was being casually revealed by another stranger.

  Czarcik reached over, grabbed a chair from the adjacent desk, and pulled it over. He motioned for the woman to sit down. “What about Jeral Robertson?” he asked quietly, never taking his eyes off her.

  “I know who his killer is.”

  “The judge’s killer?” He wanted to make sure there was no miscommunication.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?” Czarcik asked.

  “Because he’s my husband.”

  SIXTEEN

  Twenty minutes later, Detective Czarcik found himself sitting across the table from Chloe Langdon, no closer to determining the true color of her eyes. In the restaurant’s muted amber light, they appeared to oscillate even more.

  They were in a booth against the back wall of Dnieper, a restaurant tucked away in a side street of the Ukrainian Village, which had been open since the neighborhood was home to actual Ukrainians, not hipsters. Although Dnieper was never crowded, it was the kind of place that somehow managed to stay in business.

  Czarcik favored the eatery because it was dark and quiet. The drinks were strong, and both the staff and other patrons kept to themselves. Dnieper offered no music, only the soft white noise of a snowy television above the bar, perpetually tuned to a European soccer match. He had been coming here
regularly for over twenty years. The owner, a large Ukrainian woman who always looked old but never seemed to age, had never given him a nod of recognition. Just the way he liked it.

  He and Chloe had barely spoken since leaving BJE headquarters together. Just a few words about the location of the restaurant. Czarcik drove them. Chloe had no car, as she had taken the L and then walked over to his office.

  Now, in lieu of a formal introduction, Chloe thrust a stack of glossy folders at him. He opened the top one. Inside were articles about the Judge Robertson case. In the left inside pocket were photos from a color printer; screen grabs from the infamous video. They were poor quality, but Czarcik could still make out the terrified expression on the face of Judge Robertson’s daughter as her head snapped back in pain. In the right pocket were printed maps of what looked like the judge’s property, with various spots circled in black marker.

  Czarcik closed the folder and placed it at the bottom of the stack. He opened the next one. More articles. He scanned them quickly. Something about a chronic drunk driver. Maybe the clippings would prove valuable at a later date, but right now, they weren’t the proof he needed to tie the two cases together.

  What he needed was in the next folder. The entire sick saga of the Fernandez family, complete with court transcripts.

  A waitress with coarse gray hair, wearing an apron decorated with some Eastern European flag, placed two glasses of water in front of them. In a thick accent, she asked if they wanted anything else to drink.

  “I hope you don’t have anywhere else to be tonight, Mrs. Langdon. We could be here awhile,” Czarcik warned. She shook her head. He turned to the waitress. “A double Cutty on the rocks.”

  “For you, miss?” the waitress asked.

  “A glass of wine. White, please. Whatever kind you have.” The waitress nodded, seeing no need to furnish Chloe with the name of the wine she would be bringing.

  Czarcik watched the woman walk back to the bar. When she was out of earshot, he turned to Chloe. “OK, Mrs. Langdon, I guess the first—”

  “Chloe,” she interrupted. “If we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, and I’m afraid we are, it’s Chloe.”

  “Chloe . . .” He liked the way her name sounded as the syllables rolled off his tongue. “I guess we should start with the obvious. But first, I need to let you know, I’ll be your only contact with both the Bureau of Judicial Enforcement and the Chicago Police Department. I don’t want you talking to anyone, no matter who they are or who they say they are. If you have any questions about that, you check with me first. This might sound irregular to you, but it’s necessary. Is that clear?”

  If she found it odd, she didn’t show it. She nodded.

  “I’m assuming you saw me on TV, or on the internet, identified as the detective working the Fernandez murders?”

  “That’s correct. I googled the case after I found these folders. My husband’s folders.”

  “Well, if you watched the entire press conference, you would know that we have a suspect in custody. What makes you think we have the wrong man?”

  “Because unless my husband is psychic and in the habit of collecting newspaper articles about people who are about to be murdered, he’s responsible.”

  “Where is your husband now?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused. “But unless we find him quickly, a lot more people will die.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks. “Can I bring you some food?” she asked.

  Czarcik motioned to Chloe. “If you’re hungry, it’s obviously on me.”

  She shook her head. “Just the wine, thank you.”

  “Nothing for me either,” he told the waitress. Again waiting until she was gone, he gulped down the Cutty, feeling as revitalized as a Bedouin drawing from a desert well. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me everything.”

  Chloe took a sip of wine. Her red lipstick left a ghostly print on the glass, a permanent reminder of her presence. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow.

  She took a deep breath and began. “I’m not exactly sure what’s relevant in your line of police work, Detective. So if there’s something I’m not explaining correctly, or something extraneous, please don’t hesitate to interrupt me.”

  Extraneous. She was educated. Even if most people knew the word and understood its definition, they didn’t use it in casual conversation. Instead, they said useless, or maybe unnecessary.

  Still, she wasn’t trying to impress him. Putting on airs. Her speech was natural, slightly eloquent. It didn’t have the forced cadence of someone trying to sound intelligent.

  “Let me worry about that. The more you can tell me, the better,” Czarcik assured her, trying to appear as sympathetic as his nature would allow. “But I may interject sometimes with additional questions.”

  She nodded and took another sip of wine. He could tell she was an infrequent drinker. “I’ll start with the cancer.”

  Czarcik surprised himself by feeling a pang of compassion for this woman whom he barely knew. “I’m sorry.”

  She waved him off. “Not me. My husband. Daniel.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  She nodded and continued. “About six months ago, Daniel was diagnosed with Grade IV glioblastoma. Do you have any background in medicine, Detective? They call it the Terminator for a reason. It’s a virtual death sentence.” She held the stem of her glass and made circles, generating tiny whirlpools in the wine, seeming to lose herself momentarily in the miniature funnels. “I know I sound cold,” she said finally. “Clinical. But I assure you, it’s taken me a long time to get to this point. You should have seen me the first month.”

  “We all deal with grief in different ways. I’ve seen people erupt in hysterical laughter at the funeral of a loved one.”

  He wondered if his given example was inappropriate, but it didn’t seem to bother Chloe.

  “The doctor gave him about a year. Optimistically. Realistically, after one particularly brutal appointment, he admitted that it would probably be a lot less.”

  “There was nothing they could do? No treatment? Not even experimental?”

  Chloe shook her head. “It was far too advanced for chemo or radiation, and surgery would have killed him on the spot. The tumors were wrapped completely around the brain stem and metastasizing quickly. It’s the kind of situation where they sit you down in a room and tell you to make sure you have all your affairs in order. The prescription? Enjoy the time you have left.”

  “This came on quickly, this cancer? Out of nowhere? No signs, no warnings?”

  “Looking back, you know, you always remember things. Hindsight is what it is. Maybe he was forgetting things more than usual. A couple of headaches. But nothing catastrophic that you couldn’t chalk up to stress or simply getting older. Those silly little things we joke about being senior moments.”

  Czarcik held up his empty glass and motioned to the waitress. “More wine?” he asked Chloe. She shook her head.

  “Naturally, once we got the news, Daniel quit his job immediately.”

  “What line of work was he in?”

  “He was an engineer at CellCom out in Naperville. Been there over ten years. He had a pretty senior position. Well-liked by all his coworkers. You know, you always hear these horror stories about how cold and callous large corporations can be, but CellCom couldn’t have been more accommodating. When he explained to his boss the reason he was leaving, the company offered to keep him on salary until . . . well, you know.”

  “You’re right, usually you hear the opposite. Corporations aren’t generally known for their benevolence.”

  “We were very lucky in that regard. We were also fortunate that I never had to work. Full time that is. Daniel was compensated well for the majority of his employment.” She sighed. “So . . . we did exactly what the doctors ordered. What most people would dream of doing. Took one big trip to Italy. But that kind of travel wore Daniel out quickly. So instead we did a lot of d
riving. He liked that. Taking country roads through small towns, venturing off the beaten path to go antiquing. Saw a lot of plays. A lot of movies.” She laughed. “If I never hear the phrase ‘farm to table’ again, it will be too soon.”

  The waitress brought Czarcik another drink. She glanced at Chloe’s glass and didn’t even bother asking.

  “Other than the illness, sounds like the perfect life.”

  Chloe stared across the bar, lost in memories of a world far different from the one represented in the photos of prewar Kiev that lined the walls. “It was,” she said quietly, giving herself a few seconds to compose herself before taking a sip of wine. Czarcik didn’t press. She would continue when she was ready.

  “Then, about a month ago, something changed.” She chewed on her lip. “It sounds so clichéd. Like I rehearsed it, but other than saying a dark cloud came over him, I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  “His mood changed. His personality,” Czarcik offered.

  “Drastically.”

  “Precipitated by the cancer, I presume?”

  Chloe smiled. “I like to think so. Personality changes, even drastic ones, are common at this stage in the disease’s progression.” There was something about the way she said this. Czarcik thought she desperately wanted to believe it.

  “I know it’s personal, but I’d like to hear the specifics about these personality changes.”

  “That’s fine, but I should probably start with what Daniel was like before. Before he got sick. You know, we’ll have been married twenty years this coming January.” She snorted bitterly. “Some anniversary.”

  Czarcik forced out a small compassionate smile.

  “Anyway,” Chloe continued, “we met at the University of Wisconsin. Up in Madison. I was finishing up my degree in comp lit, and he was a graduate student in engineering. I was working part time at the university bookstore. That was when bookstores still sold books, instead of stuffed animals and god-awful vinyl releases of albums that had never been released on vinyl in the first place.” She blushed. “I’m sorry, that’s Daniel talking. He was a bit of an audiophile.”