The Prophet (13 page)

After dialing Marcus for the fifth time and still receiving no answer, Ackerman threw the disposable pay-as-you-go cell phone across the dingy little room. It shattered against the wall, the pieces raining down over the two dead bodies that had been shoved into the corner. The men had been scumbag drug dealers peddling a chemical escape to anyone with the cash. Ackerman didn’t understand drugs. What did normal people need to escape from? Why burn up your precious brain cells and your intellect along with them for a cheap high? He would have given anything to be like the people he passed on the streets every day, to be normal, to escape from the monster in the mirror. But fate had chosen a different path for him. He accepted that. But others longed for an escape from the normalcy and monotony that he craved. It was human nature, he supposed, the grass always being greener on the other side.

He pounded his fist on the 1970s-style table decorated with different-colored boomerang shapes. Why wasn’t Marcus answering? He was clearly upset about his friend. But the least he could do was give Ackerman a chance to explain. He hadn’t meant to harm anyone, hadn’t meant for Allen to fall. It had all just been a terrible accident. He had even grabbed for the old man as he’d tumbled over the railing.

Not that he really cared whether or not Brubaker lived or died, but he
did
care about Marcus. Their tenuous relationship was about to go through a major upheaval. His plan would be put into action soon. The incident with Allen shouldn’t affect that, but he didn’t like leaving things to chance, either.

The entire incident had been his fault. He had screwed up in the parking garage. He had been sloppy. The call to Marcus should have taken place while they were on the road. It wasn’t a mistake he would make again.

The smell of the small house located in Englewood, one of Chicago’s most notorious neighborhoods, was beginning to truly bother Ackerman. The decomposition of the bodies—which he needed to dispose of soon—contributed to this, but it wasn’t the main factor. That was a smell that he had become accustomed to, even comforted by. But the filth that the two degenerates had been living in was a different matter. Not even Marcus could possibly fault him for the disposal of this human garbage.

He reached out with his left hand for another unopened phone resting on the table, and pain lanced through his shoulder. He touched the ragged bullet hole, and his fingers came back bloody. With thoughts of Marcus plaguing him, he had almost forgotten about his injury. Luckily, the big .45 caliber bullet had pierced straight through the meat on the edge of his shoulder as he had ducked down. It was all skin and muscle damage, barely more than a grazing flesh wound. A minor annoyance. Still, it needed to be tended to in order to stop the bleeding.

Ackerman stood and moved to the kitchen of the dilapidated little house. As he flipped on the lights, cockroaches scattered. Dirty dishes and moldy food dotted the counters, and trash covered the yellowed linoleum. A musty, fungal smell mixed with a smoky taint burned his nostrils. The space disgusted him. He wished he could revive the two drug dealers and kill them again. But he had lived in far worse, and it had never really bothered him before. It must have simply been his anger over being ignored by Marcus that was coloring his attitude.

An ashtray filled with ground-out cigarettes sat atop a lime-green table. A dark purple book of matches rested beside it. He ripped off his shirt, but as he glanced around the noxious little kitchen, he couldn’t see anywhere he really wanted to lay it down. He decided to drape it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and opened the pack of matches. It was nearly full. He tore out the whole contents and rolled them into a round bundle. Then he struck one of the matches and used it to start the others burning.

The matches in his right hand found their way up to the bullet wound, and Ackerman jammed the flaming wad inside the hole in his flesh. The more pleasant smell of sizzling meat overpowered the other aromas in the house. His teeth ground together, and he lost himself in the ecstasy of the pain. Over the course of his life and the experiments conducted upon him by his father, the pain had actually become a comfort to him. It centered him. Cleared his mind and gave him focus. He was strangely at peace in his pain, and he imagined it to be comparable to the feeling that a normal person would experience when returning home for the holidays after a prolonged absence.

His gaze fell on the cover of the book of matches. The address and name of a bar adorned its front in a plain, utilitarian script.
The Alibi Lounge.
Judging by the address, the bar wasn’t too far away. He considered this and decided that a little walk might do him some good.

But first, he put on a clean black polo shirt and chinos, opened up a new phone, and tried Marcus again. No answer. This time he resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. The anger at how easily Marcus could dismiss and ignore him burned and roiled through his guts. Ackerman’s hunger grew in the darkest part of his soul.

Maybe he’d find some interesting playmates at the Alibi Lounge.

Margot Whitten lived in a yellow split-level with brown shutters. Two large maples bordered a short blacktop drive. Next door was another split-level that was identical except for its color and landscaping. It had once been the home of a woman named Sandra Lutrell—the first of the Anarchist’s latest victims. Margot had witnessed a man in the alley that night.

As they pulled up in front of Margot’s home, Vasques received a phone call. Judging by her reactions, Marcus knew the news wasn’t good.

“They found Jessie Olague’s body,” she said. “This time he did the deed in an empty house on the south side of town. Same as the others. Maybe we should put this off and head over there instead?”

Marcus considered it for a moment but replied, “It’s your call, but I’d let the cops do their jobs and process the scene. We can head over after we talk to Mrs. Whitten.”

Vasques nodded, and the three of them walked up the snow-covered sidewalk to the front door of the split-level. Margot had been expecting them, and she quickly opened the door and ushered them in from the cold. Vasques made the introductions, and she and Andrew sat down around a glass coffee table on a white floral-patterned couch. Margot sat on the edge of a tan recliner while Marcus remained standing and examined the room.

A glass display case filled with Elvis memorabilia sat along one wall of the living room. The knick-knacks and souvenirs weren’t of any real value, but Margot had amassed quite a collection. A little table next to the display case held a phone with a lifelike Elvis figure in a gold jacket mounted on top.

“I’ve seen these,” Marcus said, gesturing to the phone. “He dances when you get a call, right?”

Margot smiled shyly and scrunched up her nose. She had short white hair and was well built. Not fat, but thick. “And it plays
Blue Suede Shoes
.”

“You’ve got a nice collection. I’m a collector myself. Movie memorabilia, mostly. But I like yours better. Mine’s all stuff that I’ve bought on the Internet. But I can tell that every item in this case has a story behind it. That’s what really makes a good collection. Not just the stuff, but the memories that go with it.”

“Thank you,” Margot said. “It’s a hobby. You know, I was there at his last concert.”

“June 26, 1977. Indianapolis.”

Margot’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. I’ll never forget it. I got to hear the last song he ever played on stage.
Can’t Help Falling in Love
.”

Marcus walked over and sat down on the love seat next to Margot. “Can you tell us about that night, Mrs. Whitten?”

“The concert?”

He grinned. “No, ma’am. The night you saw the man in the alley.”

“Oh, right.” Her expression turned somber. “I want to help in any way I can. Sandra was a very nice young woman. I still can’t believe . . . I’m sorry. I really don’t remember much.”

“That’s okay. Anything you can recall could help.”

“Well, I work as a garbage woman so I keep pretty odd hours. I typically wake up between two and three in the morning. Then I’ll fix myself some breakfast, watch some TV before work. Anyway, that morning I saw a man park in the alley behind Sandra’s house.”

“Do you remember anything about the man? Anything distinctive?” Marcus wasn’t taking any notes. He’d never needed to.

“Pretty average size. He was dressed all in black or dark blue, but I couldn’t see his face. I was suspicious at first, but he knew right where she kept her key. I figured he was just some new boyfriend.” Tears filled her eyes. “How else could he know about her key? He just didn’t act like he was out of place. But I . . .” She looked away, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Marcus leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. I know there’s nothing I can say to really convince you of that. Guilt’s funny that way, but—trust me—you couldn’t have known. That man is the bad guy, not you. He’s the one to blame for this. The only one. But if you can remember anything else about him and help us find him, I promise I’ll make sure he never hurts anyone else.”

“I’m sorry. I just . . . I did look at his license plate, but I didn’t write anything down. It started with an M or N, but I can’t really remember.”

“What did the car look like? Did you recognize the model?” Andrew asked from the couch.

“It was dark. Like I told the others, I just don’t know.”

Marcus decided to change tactics. “Let me ask you this, Margot. What were you doing at the moment when you saw him?”

“I was making breakfast.”

“Cooking?”

“Yeah, I was frying a couple eggs. Why?”

“This may seem strange, but would you mind cooking some eggs for me? I’d like you to try and re-enact exactly what you were doing when you saw him. Most people don’t realize it, but smell has a powerful bond to memory. Sometimes doing the same thing, the same smells and sounds, will help you to remember things that you didn’t even realize you had seen.”

“Anything to help.”

Margot’s kitchen also served as her dining room. The whole room was white with red accents. White cabinets, red handles, red countertop. White table, red chairs. Red and white knick-knacks on white shelves. White curtains with red dots.

The room made Marcus feel like he was drowning in blood, but he supposed that wasn’t the reaction a normal person would feel. To most people, red was just a color.

Margot took a skillet from a white cabinet and cracked two eggs.

“Just go through everything as you normally would. Exactly like you did that night. Try to imagine that you’re back there in that moment, watching him pull up and get out of the car. Try to recall every detail.”

Her brow furrowed in concentration. She closed her eyes, opened them, and closed them again. “Okay, the guy pulls up. The car’s dark, blue or black maybe. I don’t know.”

“Don’t force it. Take your time.”

She sighed and was quiet for a long moment. Then she added, “The brake lights slanted inward and down, and there was a silver emblem above the license plate.”

Silence stretched out again. The smell of sizzling grease wafted up from the stove. Marcus didn’t rush her.

Margot suddenly turned her head quickly toward him and got very animated and excited. She was almost bouncing. “I remember. I remember. The license plate was MJA 4 . . . and then maybe a 59 or a 69. But I’m not sure about those last two digits. Does that help?”

“You did great. That’s more than enough for us to track the plate.”

Ackerman sat down on a black leather stool in front of the bar at the Alibi Lounge. Chips and channels, marks of age, grooved the bar’s surface, which was in need of a coat of polish. The place was small and narrow with a few booths and tables, a pool table, and a dartboard along one wall. The bar and rows of liquor bottles rested along the opposite side. A haze of smoke infected the air, even though smoking in a bar was illegal in Illinois.

“I’ll take a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” he said to the bartender.

She was abnormally tall, with freckles and a long puckered face. A front tooth was chipped and jagged. She looked Ackerman up and down, and he knew what she was thinking. He was too clean-cut for this place. But she didn’t say a word. She just dropped a shot glass onto the bar and filled it up.

Ackerman had called Marcus again during his walk to the bar. Still no answer.

He slammed back the shot and tapped the bar to indicate that he wanted another. She tipped the bottle and let more of the brown liquid flow into his glass. She still didn’t speak. It wasn’t the type of place where the patrons expected conversation.

A beautiful young woman sat two stools down from him, leaning her elbows atop the bar and flipping the cap from a bottle of Bud Light between her fingers. She sported a black long-sleeve shirt displaying the picture of a heavy-metal band. Long dark hair flowed over her shoulders and hid one side of her face.

Ackerman gave her his best movie-star smile. She blushed, and a grin almost formed on her lips but then disappeared. Her gaze darted back to the pool table as if to see if someone there was watching. He glanced in that direction and found an enormous biker with a shaved head and unkempt goatee who was wearing a black Harley shirt. A tattoo of an eagle stretched across the back of the biker’s neck. The man’s partner had dark skin and short dreadlocks. Another pair of goons matching in appearance and attitude were watching the game from a small table nearby.

He looked back at the woman on the bar stool. Her lip was pierced, and he could see the tip of a tattoo jutting out from beneath the sleeve of her shirt. Tattoos and piercings were typically a turn-off for him, but in her case, the unnecessary adornments were unable to mask the beauty beneath. And something about her—the eyes, cheekbones, facial structure—reminded him of his mother. She glanced in his direction, again noticing his attention, but she turned away quickly. As she did, her black hair swept away from the left side of her face, leaving it exposed for the first time. A large purple bruise that she had tried to cover with make-up ran down her cheek.

Ackerman smiled. Apparently, fate had led him to the right place at the right time, as always.

He moved over to the stool directly beside her and said, “Hey, bartender, I’ll take a Budweiser and another Bud Light for the lady.”

The tall woman behind the bar didn’t move or speak. Her gaze shifted slowly from him, to the dark-haired beauty, to the bald biker. Ackerman’s gaze burrowed into the bartender, and after a moment, she reached down into a cooler and pulled out two bottles. She placed them on the bar and then walked away.

The dark-haired beauty kept looking over her shoulder, but apparently, she didn’t want to cause a scene or draw her boyfriend’s attention by refusing the drink. Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for the drink, but you need to back off. If that guy over there sees you flirting with me, there’ll be trouble for both of us.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t scare easily.”

“You should. He’s not a nice man.”

“Then why are you with him?”

She wouldn’t make eye contact, and her breathing had become short and ragged. “Listen, just stay away from me.”

Ackerman thought about the situation for a moment. Then he said, “So you’re afraid of this guy, and he treats you like a piece of property. He hits you. Probably abuses you mentally as well. Calls you names. Makes you feel like you’re inferior, broken, that no one would ever love you. Despite all this, you stay with him. Are you really that afraid of this man? You think he’d kill you before he let you leave? Maybe he’s told you as much. Or do you actually believe the things he tells you? Do you honestly believe that you couldn’t do better?”

She swallowed hard, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Please, just . . .”

“I tell you what,” he whispered. “Let’s play a little game. Rules are simple. I’ll let you choose. If you really want, I’ll pay my tab and walk out that door. You can go back to your life, continue on like nothing ever happened here. But after tonight, it will be a prison of your own choosing. Because I’m offering you deliverance. I’m giving you a way out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“So that’s option number one. You keep going down the road you’re on. Wherever it leads. Option number two is that I make sure that he will never hurt you again. That choice has consequences as well. Ones that you’ll have to live with. You’ll feel responsible, guilty, ashamed even. But you will be free.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why not? Sometimes fate intervenes when you least expect it. It has a funny way of turning your world upside down and setting you on the right path. I’m just the instrument of your course correction. Like I said, it’s simple. If you say no, I’ll leave. But if you say yes, fate will intervene on your behalf.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Her hands shook against the sweating bottle of beer, and her breathing was fast but rhythmic. Each breath a fall and a crescendo, fall and crescendo. She turned and studied him, probably trying to gauge the validity of his offer. She looked away again. More tears fell. But then she whispered, “Yes.”