Behind him he heard Brewer bitching about being unable to find the goddamned lights when suddenly he did and the house was lit, but only dimly. The bulb must be colored a strange hue, and some kind of odor was rising from it.
“ What the hell is that smell?” Brewer wondered aloud.
Otto was too impatient to care. He moved along the corridors, his gun extended. Even though Otto believed the place to be empty, his gun and his hands over the gun were shaking. Brewer was right. Something about the smell of the place, like a rank, animal musk.
“ Good Christ,” muttered Brewer behind him.
“ What is it?” he called back.
“ Friggin' light bulb.”
“ What about it?”
“ It's-it's painted red, Otto.”
Otto knew instantly now what the odor was-hot blood. The bastard used the blood to decorate his bulbs to create the red glow of the room that he apparently grooved on. Brewer's remark had made Otto look away from the corridor he was going down, but a sudden flicker of noise made him wheel and fire. A single shot plastered Matisak's big black torn cat to a back wall, blood streaking the floor to mark the trail of its having impacted with Boutine's bullet.
“ Son of a bitch,” moaned Boutine.
Brewer rushed to stand beside him, wondering what the sudden, high-pitched screech was. Boutine hadn't heard the screech because of the noise of the gun in his ear. The taste and smell of gun smoke intermingled now with the odor of dried, sizzling blood on the bulb as it grew hotter and hotter.
“ Think we'd better turn on some more lights,” suggested Brewer.
“ I want everything in this filthy place torn apart,” Boutine replied.
“ Where you going?” asked Brewer.
“ Get in an E.T. team and to check to see if anyone's got any word on Jess.”
“ Sure, leave me alone in this,” said Brewer, whose eyes turned toward the darkened bathroom.?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gamble led the way. It took them between two apartment buildings through a gangway with an overhead tunnel that was dark. A perfect ambush, she thought. But they arrived on the other side, staring out on a backyard with a walk and a little garden patch, a fence and a dilapidated old garage which belonged to the place next door.
It was dark and a strange wind that seemed to come from nowhere swirled in spiraling eddies about her legs. She felt the cold metal of her gun at her ankle, wondering if it was not time to yank it out, but so far there was nothing that called for a lethal weapon or a show of force. Thus far, Hillary had also managed to keep his robe on as well.
“ Come on,” he whispered.
“ Where is the van?”
“ The-the other s-s-side of the garage.”
“ Are you sure he's not home?”
“ Y-yes. Follow m-m-me.”
The only light here came from a distant streetlamp, the closest one having been broken by some child's rock.
Jessica stopped Gamble with a tug at his robe, which he seemed to be pleased with, and then she whispered back to the stubby, Truman Capote look-alike, repeating herself. “Are you absolutely certain that he is away from his place?”
“ My b-b-b-bedroom w-w-window overlooks his place.” His raspy voice was filled with annoyance now. “I dunno w-w-why y-y-you don't b-believe m-m-me.” How long does he usually stay out?”
“ W-w-w-weeks at a t-t-t-time.”
“ But that's got to be only when he has his van with him, right?”
“ I… y-y-y-yes… I g-g-g-guess you're r-r-right.”
“ Then you'll have to watch out for me.”
He nodded in the dark, standing before her in the robe, looking like Yoda of Star Wars fame. “He has a-a-a Hun-Honda Civic… for-for just a-a-around.”
They'd gone to the corner of the garage that abutted Gamble's fence and there it was, a light gray van with the Balue-Stork insignia so aged and peeled as to be nearly unreadable. The gray looked white to silver in the night. She recalled Candy Copeland's pimp, Scarborough, in Wekosha and sensed that he, too, had once seen this very van. She sucked in a deep breath of the warm night air, feeling her heart panting wildly beneath her blouse.
Could it be this easy? Had she finally narrowed the field down to one suspect, finding him amid the millions of people in Chicago, amid all the wackos and sickos that had confused the issues of the case? She thought of the many thousands of so-called leads that hundreds of law enforcement officials had followed, of the thousands of telephone calls and tips that had had to be checked out. Could it possibly be that she had gotten luckier than anyone had a right to be?
Or was it all just too bloody neat?
She again considered the possibility that Gamble had called her in order to lure her here, and that Teach was close enough to hear them breathing; that Teach was at this moment watching her every move. The thought sent a chill through her spine. Where was he, if he was here? In the garage? In the house, staring out from a window? In Gamble's house, waiting for them to return, waiting for her to begin to let her guard down, thinking she was safe enough with Gamble? Or was the bastard in the van that Gamble had led her to? Was the van the trap that would snap on her neck? She could be at her gun in an instant, but for now she merely checked over her shoulder to locate Gamble. He was still in the shadow of the garage.
“ He unloads from here?” she asked.
“ Yes.”
“ Why doesn't he use the garage?”
“ Too-too clut-t-t-tered.”
“ I'm going to inspect the van.”
“ I–I-I'd be very k-k-k-careful.”
“ You just stay here, Mr. Gamble.”
“ D-d-don't worry 'b-bout that.”
Jessica found the driver's side door locked, and so she inched her way toward the rear of the van. She had a sensation she was being watched and that Gamble had not stayed put. Glancing back, however, she found the strange, little pervert picking his ear where he stood just below the canopy of the alleyway. She watched his hand go across his mouth to cover an anxious burp, or was he trying to hide his jagged, stained teeth in an unconscious gesture? Or was he covering a leering grin? Impossible to tell, but if it was a grin, she might be in for a surprise. She readied herself for any eventuality.
She cursed when she found the rear door to the van also locked. She'd like to examine the interior, but without a warrant, what purpose would it serve? Still, if she could see inside… With the weak light of the streetlamp halfway down the alley, she might just see something useful. She stepped up onto the bumper and stared into the dark hole of the interior, her eyes widening, straining, when she saw a large, square, metal container, a cooler or freezer which looked very expensive, the kind seen in ambulances, used to transport donor organs and blood. Her heart skipped like a stone over frigid water. It could be the very container used to transport Candy Copeland's blood from Wekosha to Chicago.
She was without a warrant. Smashing the glass with a brick to get to the contents could only lead to problems with the evidence down the road, if this were indeed the killer's van. She tried to make out other strange objects in the van: ropes coiled like so many snakes lying in wait; a tool box and several objects that might or might not be power tools. It had to be him, or it was all very innocent and Gamble was the idiot that he appeared to be.
She got down from the bumper and rounded the truck, suddenly startled by Gamble, who was standing there, a sneer curling his fetid lips, saying in a whisper, “I t-t-t-toF you s-s-so! It's him, ain't it?”
She caught her breath, having been frightened by the little runt. “Gamble, I told you to stay where you were.”
“ I–I-I am where I–I-I wa-was.”
“ I've got to use your phone. Now!”
“ No problem. I–I-I'11 s-sh-sh-sh-show y-you w-where it is.”
His stutter seemed to be getting worse with time. Her mind was on getting a message through to Boutine and Brewer if it meant getting the entire CPD off their asses, but far to the rear of her thoughts she seemed to recall a bit of psychology that said a stutterer's stutter grew worse with stress and anxiety. Was Gamble stressed over the fact that they were so near to entrapping his neighbor? Or was he anxious about her entering his home?