J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“Dammit, Holly! Don’t make me arrest you!”

She kept walking, but offered her opinion of my authority with a single finger.

I jogged up to her, grabbed her shoulder, and she spun around in a blur, spreading her feet in a tiger stance – her hands in underhanded fists, one foot in front of the other, heel off the ground as if cocked to go off. Without even thinking, I stepped back and fell into a back stance, my rear foot planted behind me, both arms parallel to my front thigh.

I tensed for her attack, but it didn’t come.

“You want to do this on pavement?” I said.

“I want to come with you.”

“You can’t. The last time a civilian came with me on a bust, it became a weekly TV series.”

The parking lot was dark, and I couldn’t read her eyes.

“Your choice, Jack. We do it together, or I do it alone.”

“Or I arrest you for withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.”

“You think you can? I’m bigger, younger, more experienced, and have a farther reach.”

“And if you lay a finger on me, you go to jail. That would mess up your wedding plans, wouldn’t it? Think, Holly. This isn’t the way.”

I hoped she’d back down, because she was right; I probably couldn’t beat her sparring. Which meant I’d have to shoot her.

Seconds ticked by. The night air cooled the sweat that had broken out on the back of my neck. I kept my muscles rigid, tense, fighting the adrenaline surge.

“He lives in Ravenswood,” Holly said.

“Where in Ravenswood?”

She came at me, bringing her rear foot up. I lifted my arms to block, but Holly didn’t kick. She ran past.

Holly reached the car five steps ahead of me, throwing open the door and grabbing her Vuitton carry-all. I managed to get my fingers around one handle of the bag, and Holly gripped my wrist and dropped to a knee, twisting my arm out at an angle and forcing my elbow to lock. I released the bag.

“I’ll call you when I get there.” She smiled and winked.

I swung my free fist around, but she shoved me back, onto my ass, and then sprinted down the street. By the time I got to my feet she’d ducked behind a building and disappeared.

This was what I got for trying to have friends.

I considered my options. I could call in the cavalry, but Holly was too smart to get picked up by a squad car. I could go home and let fate take its course; after all, I’d tried my best to stop her. Or I could head for Ravenswood and hope she would call.

Naturally, I headed for Ravenswood.

JACK IS COMING. Alex knows.

An anticipatory smile creeps onto Alex’s face.

This is working out better than expected.

The smell from the basement wafts up through the floor. Alex ignores it, deciding what to do next.

The apartment is a mess. There are things to fix, things to do before Jack’s arrival.

This trap must be carefully set for it to work.

“Where shall I hide?”

Alex has seen the TV show, knows all about the time Charles hid in Jack’s closet and almost killed her.

There’s a closet in the living room that will be just perfect.

“In the closet. Second time’s a charm.”

The man enters the closet, knife in hand.

I PARKED NEXT to a hydrant on Lincoln Avenue, just north of Montrose. Ravenswood covered about three hundred square blocks, and like many other Chicago neighborhoods was undergoing some extreme gentrification. Lured by affordable housing, rehabbers had been buying like crazy and slowly increasing the property value by rebuilding, remodeling, and repainting. The liquor stores and chop shops of years past were being replaced by Starbucks and Panera Bread franchises.

If Caleb Ellison resided in Ravenswood, he had thousands of houses, apartments, lofts, and condos to hide in.

Before I could dwell on how this case spiraled out of control, my cell rang.

“Hi, Jack. You alone?”

“Dammit, Holly. Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“On Lincoln and Montrose.”

“You’re close. I’m on Bell Avenue and Argyle. I’m going into the house.”

“Holly, don’t…”

CLICK.

I jammed the car into gear and did a U-turn, racing east down Montrose, and then hanging an immediate left on Bell. Argyle was eight or nine blocks up. The area was dark, residential, all houses and apartments. Eighty-year-old oak and maple trees lined the sidewalks, parked cars lined the streets.

I got to the corner ninety seconds after receiving the call, and double-parked parallel to a Saab. I hopped out of the car and did a slow 360-degree look around.

No Holly.

I checked my cell phone to see if the caller ID had picked up her number, but she’d blocked it.

She was going to ruin this bust. Or even worse, she was going to get herself killed. And she was probably within a hundred yards. That is, if she’d been telling the truth. How could she possibly think…

Three cars ahead of me was a sedan, the driver’s-side mirror missing.

I tugged out my.38 and approached the car. Though the street wasn’t well lit, I could tell that the paint job was dark gray – Titanium Pearl. A glance at the rear confirmed it was the Eclipse.

I did another scan of the area, looking for Holly. The Eclipse was parked in front of a large Victorian apartment building, yellow brick, with a walk-in courtyard. It didn’t seem like a place a serial killer would live. Too many tenants, too hard to come and go without being seen.

Next to the Victorian was a two-story red neo-gothic building, with spires on the roof. Definitely more private, but every single light in the house was on, and curtains were open on both floors.

Across the street was a three-flat. The top apartment had several lights on. The middle apartment was completely dark, and a large For Rent sign hung in the window. The basement window had a single light burning.

That seemed the best bet. I approached cautiously, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The house had a black iron fence around the perimeter, and the gate had been pushed inward. I walked alongside the building, into the backyard, and saw the broken basement window.

This was the house. And since a crime, breaking and entering, was in progress, I was legally entitled to enter the establishment. Holly’s illegal entry had saved me the trouble of needing a warrant.

I considered calling for backup, decided to check it out first, and got on all fours, climbing backward through the ground-level window.

I’d smelled so much death in the last few days I should have been used to it, but the stench down there practically knocked me over. Worse than Packer’s house in Indianapolis. Worse than Bud Kork’s root cellar.

To my left, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, I saw the source of the odor.

Three corpses, seated around a card table. Clothesline bound them to their chairs. Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s face was still recognizable, frozen in a bloated, agonized scream. Below the neck, his rib cage had been broken open, and his own hands shoved inside the chest cavity, up to the wrist.

To his left, I recognized Diane Kork from the injuries received on the video. She’d since been dressed in a push-up half-bra, which left her blackening nipples exposed. Her head tilted back, the slash on her neck yawning open like a bucket. A big bouquet of silk flowers – daisies – were shoved into the wound.

Next to Diane was a third corpse, a man with glasses and a beard. He looked the freshest, but also had the most mutilation. His abdomen was sliced open from his groin to his breastbone, and his organs had been pulled out and placed on a silver platter on the table in front of him, like a Thanksgiving turkey. In his hands were eating utensils, a knife and fork. Atop the fork was something brown and roundish. It took me a moment to realize what it was – a kidney. Some other organ was crammed into his mouth, ballooning out his cheeks.