The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (3 page)

The heavy cop—clearly close to retirement and fed up with dealing with the public—looked up from his phone. "Shut your yap if that's all you got to say."

The younger officer didn't exactly roll his eyes, but he looked like he wanted to.

"We're sorry for the delay." His expression was sincere. "The call volume tonight is unusual even for a hot night. Now, what makes you think Mr. Needleman was the victim of an assault? Did you witness an attack?"

What had he seen? Had he imagined the dark figure with the human-shaped burden? He'd just had a panic attack, after all, maybe even a mini-heart attack. He should go see his doctor tomorrow, but he felt just fine right now, better than ever.

"No." Bertrand didn't like admitting this fact. "But there's blood on the carpet in the living room and the glass in the back screen door is smashed."

The older office looked up from his phone. "Well it's fricking obvious isn't it? The guy was probably stupidly drunk. He fell into the glass and cut himself and didn't even know it, and then went to sit and have a few more beers. Moron realizes he's bleeding and heads out for the hospital to get stitches and you waste my time with a 911."

"You've been over there?"

"Of course, sir," said the younger officer. "We even saw a bloody footprint going from the living room and out the back door of the kitchen. He clearly left there strong enough to walk. It couldn't have been a very serious injury."

"That was my footprint. That's how I found the blood. I stepped in it."

The officer drew a notebook from his chest pocket and flipped it open. "Are you a regular guest of Mr. Needleman?" It was an accusation accompanied by a frown.

"What? No. I mean when I was a kid I used to go over there sometimes when he was working on something out back. He used to build little stools and stuff and sell them at garage sales, and sometimes he let me help. I haven't been over there since before college."

But Needleman had come to the funeral in his seventies-era three-piece suit, which bulged with the weight the man had added since its purchase. He'd even patted Bertrand on the shoulder as if he was still a little boy. "They were good people," was all he had said.

"So you really had no right to enter the residence." The young officer was all business now, no longer placating. The older officer looked up and put away the cell phone, studying Bertrand with new interest.

"Can I come in?" Big Belly officer walked up the stairs as he spoke and moved into Bertrand's personal space, which prompted Bertrand to step back as if he were giving an invitation. Before he knew it both cops had pushed past him, the younger one going into the living room and Big Belly heading for the kitchen.

"Hey, wait!" Bertrand followed the younger cop. "Excuse me! Officer ..."

"Gonsalves." The introduction sounded friendly, but Gonsalves surveyed the room with a trained eye. It wasn't that different from Needleman's in layout, but it was clean, the sofa only ten years old. Bertrand had just purchased the La-Z-Boy last year, and the huge flat-screen TV that hung on one wall had been his birthday gift to himself.

"You don't think I had something to do with this?"

Gonsalves turned to Bertrand. "May I see your shoes please, the ones you wore while you were in Mr. Needleman's house."

The ones with Needleman's blood on them. Bertrand stooped into the front-hall closet. How had this gone so strange? Why were they treating him like a suspect instead of a concerned neighbor? He looked at the bottom of the Nikes as he handed them over, appalled that he'd forgotten the blood, that he'd put them away when he had burst into his front hall, already speaking to the 911 operator on his cell. One sole was brown and sticky. Any other day this might have turned Bertrand's stomach, but he had some new superpower this evening, some calm presence that strengthened his heart.

Gonsalves studied the shoes and leaned toward the stained one to sniff.

"That's blood alright. Bring them outside please."

Big Belly returned from the kitchen. "Dinner's in the microwave," was all he said before he started up the stairs. It wasn't clear to whom he was speaking.

Bertrand followed Gonsalves to his car, which was stopped in the middle of the street with the flashing lights quietly clicking away. Gonsalves produced a very large Ziploc and held it open for Bertrand. The order was obvious: hand over the shoes.

"Look here," Bertrand said while placing the shoes into the bag. "I was just trying to help. You should've heard that scream. It was, like ... It was a dying scream." But Bertrand knew that he had no true experience with death. He'd often imagined his parents' last moments, but he hadn't been with them, sitting in the backseat of the car. How would he know the sound of a dying scream?

Gonsalves made a note on the Ziploc with a Sharpie and placed it in the trunk of the car, slamming the lid. He again pulled out the notebook.

"Mr. Allan. Why don't you walk me through this? Start from coming home."

Bertrand left out his panic attack. That had nothing to do with Needleman's disappearance, did it? Unless one assumed that Bertrand had just totally lost it and started seeing and hearing things. But the blood was real. So maybe the scream was real, maybe the dark figure carrying the body was real. Each time Bertrand replayed that moment in his head, it seemed more and more like the figure had been carrying a body.

Big Belly officer returned in time for the end of the tale. "So let me get this straight: lights on, nobody's home, the screaming could be drunk teenagers on a patio three streets away, but you gotta waste my time because your drunken neighbor cut himself." He got into the passenger side of car, reaching over to start it before pulling out his cell to return to his texting.

Gonsalves flipped the notebook closed and removed his cap long enough to brush the sweat from his brow, his short black curls plastered to his forehead. "Look, I think you're a good guy, Mr. Allan, so I'm going to give you some advice, not as a police officer, but as one concerned citizen to another. The Ripper killed again this evening, so that's number six. This guy doesn't seem to care if his victims are old men or young women. You were right to call us." He glanced over at his partner, but the window was up and the car's air conditioning on full. "But you were wrong to go into his house. What if you did catch the Chicago Ripper in the act? It's not like I'm giving away any secrets if I tell you that the freak is brutal with a knife. I mean, don't you watch the news? You wouldn't have stood a chance."

Bertrand nodded, ashamed of his softness and his sweaty lethargy. "You're right, of course. It was just that I felt like superman for a minute there. I heard him scream and I felt stronger, ready to fight." His ears burned. What ridiculous nonsense.

But Gonsalves nodded. "I know what you mean. I've had those superhero moments myself in the last couple of weeks. Listen, between you and me, things are getting strange." He glanced at his partner again before he leaned in close to Bertrand. "Any other day we'd be bringing detectives in to speak to you. But they're all out on the Ripper case—top priority. And it's not just Chicago that's got this asshole. There are Ripper copycats in other cities, even up in Canada and over in Europe. There's talk that maybe there's a cult, a worldwide devil-worshipping cult. Buy a gun. Get an alarm system. We can't protect you anymore."

Gonsalves hurried around to the driver's side, giving Bertrand a last glance over the flashing lights before he got into the car. It was an embarrassed look, or maybe guilt. He certainly wasn't behaving with the detached professionalism that Bertrand had expected.

He watched the car speed away with a short squawk of its siren. Where were they rushing off to now? Another nuisance call? He went inside to finally retrieve the Lean Cuisine from the microwave. The pitcher of filtered water in the fridge sat beside a cold can of Milwaukee. Bertrand intended to reach for the water, but his fingers closed around the beer. He popped it open just a little too easily as he headed for the living room, sat down in his La-Z-Boy and flicked on the TV.

"It's confirmed, Colin." The breathless blonde reporter spoke to a grave cable-TV news anchor via split screen. "This is already the third murder tonight, making this the ninth victim of the Chicago Ripper." Behind her, a stretcher with a white sheet covering a recumbent human form wheeled past, bound for a waiting ambulance. The scene was a confusion of flashing lights, police and firefighters tramping about the front lawn of a suburban house, and a crowd of curious onlookers held back at a safe distance.

"So it would seem his need to kill is growing exponentially." Colin—the mature anchor with hair that looked younger than his cheeks—said
exponentially
with just a hint of pride, as if he'd just mastered the word.

"Note to self," said Bertrand to the room as the photos of previous victims were splashed across the screen, people of all races and ages. "Tomorrow, buy a gun."

For the first time all year, Bertrand didn't have to stand on the 'L' train as it rocked along its elevated path into downtown Chicago. Usually the suburbanites had claimed all the seats by the time the train arrived at Armitage, not that Bertrand cared, because he lived only four stops from the Loop. This morning he not only had a seat, but the one next to him was empty as well. He had never worked down town through a summer before, so he assumed that many of his fellow commuters had fled the city heat for a week, taking their kids to cabins by cool lakes.

Still, as he hurried down the steps, Bertrand did think it odd that the whole city seemed quieter than usual. Not that the noise of the train scrapping onward above his head on its way around the Loop was any quieter, but the bustle of traffic, both car and pedestrian, was subdued today, as if marking a day of mourning.

Bertrand hurried over to Lasalle, walking quickly because he'd slept late. If he skipped his coffee, he could be at his desk before Whitlock made his grumpy morning rounds of the cubicles. Bertrand reached the building on Monroe—a white monolith emanating solidity and permanence, towering over the corner—and joined a few stragglers heading for the elevators. Again, he was surprised that he didn't have to squeeze on board. If only things could be this spacious in the winter, when everyone packed into the metal boxes with heavy coats and colds and flu.

Any hope of avoiding Whitlock vanished as the gleaming elevator doors slide open. The man stood there as if waiting for Bertrand, checking the watch on his thick wrist, his normally tanned complexion a little redder than usual—a sure sign of stress. His muscles bulged below the short sleeves of his dress shirt, indicating that he hadn't missed his morning workout, which usually mellowed the man. His graying mustache was trimmed with military precision.

Bertrand tried to slip past him with an innocent nod, but Whitlock caught his arm. "Bert, thank god. We're down five people this morning. There's some kind of weird flu going around." He turned and led Bertrand through the rows of cubicles to their enclave near the north-facing windows. Bertrand had often looked at the gleaming office towers that blocked his view north. Would he be able to see the trees of his street if the view were unobstructed?

"Get in the queue," Whitlock said. "Start with the chats 'cause they're usually faster. Move onto the phones in between. We're backed up over half-an-hour. I have to go upstairs for a confab about employee absenteeism. As if I have time." He marched away before Bertrand could ask about the promised promotion to programmer.
Probably not the right time anyway
, he decided. Whitlock may have been willing to overlook Bertrand's tardiness, since the office was short-staffed, but the man angered easily, and he was clearly under pressure.

Bertrand logged on to his terminal and joined the queue, but the list of those waiting for tech support stunned him. "What the fuck?"

"Bert, here dude. It's gonna be a long day." Jeff Aubert, holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the office's kitchen, kicked out the chair in the opposite cubicle, leaning his long frame over to place one of the cups on Bert's desk. "Thought you'd skip your coffee this morning." He placed his own down before he sat and pulled back his blond hair, binding it into a short ponytail with an elastic band. Jeff was only a year older than Bertrand, but cigarettes and booze had taken the youthful shine from his face. No one asked him for I.D. anymore when he visited a bar.

"You're a god." Bertrand popped open the plastic lid and took a sip, burning his tongue but still savoring the strong brew. "What's up? How many people skipped off?"

"I think half a dozen or so, but the problem isn't who skipped off here, it's who skipped off from the clients. There seems to be a lot of newbies doing the payroll this week, and they don't know a damn thing about Timetracks."

"Weird. Everybody's run away from the heat, I guess."

"Wasn't like this last summer." Jeff reached for his earphones and mic headset. "Should we do lunch?"

Chicken wings and beer. Bertrand's mouth watered at the thought.

"If Whitlock let's us."

He selected the first chat, a question about pulling payroll reports out of the database, completely basic stuff. He checked the client name—a big corporation, one that should have a deep pool of staff in accounting. Who was doing payroll there this morning? They should know how to do this. It was going to be a long morning.

Bertrand wondered if they'd get a seat fast enough at Flynn's to squeeze in a pint over lunch, but he needn't have worried. Only a few tables of the brewpub were occupied, and the young bartender—looking barely old enough to drink himself—just waved them in the direction of the line of booths by the window. "Wherever you want, gentlemen. Tracy'll be out in sec'." He continued hanging clean wine glasses above the bar, since there were no patrons on the stools awaiting his service. To the right of the bar, the high glass windows gave a view of gleaming brass tanks so that patrons could see their suds under production, but the rest of the place was styled as an upscale Irish Pub.