Be Still Read online

  Sadler laughed out loud.

  “No. Not quite. Just an average joe. Works at the Alistaire bathhouse. A masseuse. But he’s pretty well known around town. One of those kind of guys.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Met him a few times.”

  Dale nodded toward the room and all the screaming. “Is he in there?”

  Sadler shook his head. “Couldn’t reach him by phone. I’m about to swing by his house.”

  “Did Mira say how the attack happened?”

  Sadler shook his head again.

  “Did she give a description of the killer?”

  “Just that he had crazy eyes. She kept repeating that. Crazy eyes, crazy eyes.”

  “We can’t very well start pulling in everyone in town who has crazy eyes,” Dale said.

  He ran a hand over his face. Another victim. A survivor, thank god, but Dale was no closer to answers than he’d been when he arrived. He hoped his frustration didn’t show to Sadler and Nash. He wasn’t being callous to Mira Lyndon. He just didn’t want anyone else to end up like her, chopped up, screaming in hysterics.

  Sadler pointed back into the hospital room, where Mira Lyndon’s thrashing and screaming continued. “That’s the shrink in there now, Dr. Wells. He and those nurses are trying to get a sedative in her. He said that once it sets in, we might be able to talk to her.”

  Dale looked behind them. There was a small couch.

  “What do you say, Nash? Want to wait?”

  Nash checked his watch. “I don’t have anywhere else to be at 4:30 in the morning.”

  “I’m afraid I do, however,” Sadler said. “I gotta go find Clyde Bowen. And tell him somebody cut up his girlfriend.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ventress looked at Nash with an anxious, hungry, dark smile—as if the words she had resting on her tongue were so deliciously twisted she could hardly wait to get them out.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?” she said. “Sitting in the hallway, listening to Mira Lyndon’s screams.”

  “Honest answer?”

  Ventress nodded.

  “Yes.”

  Nash hated her. Hated her. Oh god, he despised her. She was trying to humiliate him.

  But he could hurt her…

  “Sick. Just sick,” Ventress said. “That’s the sort of thing that got you kicked out of the FBI, isn’t it?”

  “You know that it is.”

  “If only fate hadn’t paired you with Dale Conley, you might have continued to live your little double-life. God, what star-crossed morons you two are. Absolutely amazing that you crossed paths. What was it? What sent Conley to you in Detroit?”

  “Like all his assignments, there was a historical connection to our case. And it was a fascinating one.”

  They were in Nash’s office in downtown Detroit. It was the first time they’d had a chance to go there during the assignment, and Nash was proud to show it off. It had a chic, modern design—polished metal, black accents along the shelves, orange carpeting.

  But Nash could tell that Dale was too distracted to be impressed. He was too engrossed in historical intrigue. They could have held their discussion in a gas station bathroom; it wouldn’t have mattered to Dale. At that moment, the only thing of interest to Dale was the bit of unsolved historical mystery he’d unearthed, which was going to help them catch Ike Gallo.

  “Do you see what I’m getting at?” Dale said. He had a huge, excited smile with a complementing set of wide and twinkling eyes. A pure, childlike enthusiasm.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Nash said.

  “Where was the biggest fire our arsonist has set so far?”

  “Peshtigo, Wisconsin.”

  “Exactly. Imitating the worst fire in American history, one that destroyed Peshtigo and a dozen other villages, killing a minimum of 1,200 people but perhaps twice as many. Absolutely devastating. But it’s been mostly forgotten. The worst fire in American history has … been lost to history. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “Of course it does. But it’s not my job to—”

  Dale held up a finger.

  “I’d noticed Peshtigo’s date during my research, didn’t give it much thought until it lined up with another date.”

  Dale rolled out the regional map of the Great Lakes area that they’d been using for the case. His hand writing was on the map, black ink Xs scattered over the region.

  “In addition to the fire in Peshtigo, Ike Gallo has set the four fires in Michigan: Alpena:, Port Huron, Holland, and Manistee. And all four of these towns have devastating fires in their histories.”

  Nash waved his hand impatiently. “Which is exactly why you were brought on—to analyze that history. What’s your point?“

  “The date! All of the Michigan fires happened on the same day. They are collectively known as the Great Michigan Fire. October 8, 1871. And these places aren’t close to each other. Not by any means. They’re all over the state, hundreds of miles apart. A pretty amazing and devastating coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “How could it not be amazing?” Nash said. “But it’s not like it’s not been noticed. You said yourself—the event got a collective name, the Great Michigan Fire.”

  “I also mentioned that the Peshtigo Fire was the worst fire in American history, but it’s been lost to time in only a hundred years. Guess the date on the Peshtigo Fire.”

  Nash paused for a moment before he answered. “October 8, 1871?”

  “Bingo,” Dale said.

  Nash had to hand it to Dale. Even in the midst of their hunt for Ike Gallo, this historical revelation he’d uncovered made Nash’s mouth open in surprise. “That’s … that’s pretty wild, Dale. But what I need to know is how Ike Gallo—”

  Dale held up a finger again.

  “But wait. There’s more,” Dale said in the cheesy voice of a television commercial narrator. “We’ve established that Peshtigo is the worst fire in American history. But what’s the most famous fire in American history?”

  “The Great Chicago Fire, of course,” Nash said. “Mrs. O’Leary’s clumsy cow and all that.”

  “And from where does Ike Gallo, the firefighter-turned-arsonist we’re chasing, hail?”

  “Chicago.”

  Dale grinned. “Want to take a guess as to the date of the Great Chicago Fire?”

  Nash paused. “No way…”

  “Say it, Nash.”

  “October 8, 1871.”

  “That actually … is pretty fascinating,” Ventress said. Her mouth was wide open. “All those massive fires … on the same day …”

  Dale’s historical find was so beguiling, it had even impressed Alberta Ventress…

  “That’s right,” Nash said. “And all scattered around the Great Lakes. Dale found a few different theories for the coincidence. One of the ideas is that a meteor shower hit the region.”

  Ventress shook her head with amazement. Smiled. Then caught herself. Regrouped, putting the scowl back on her face and crossing her arms.

  “That was Dale in his element,” Nash said. “Stitching together pieces of historical intrigue. That’s how I know him—a smile on his face and a smartass comment coming out of his mouth. Not like when I last saw him. In the rain.”

  “What was different?” Ventress said.

  Nash’s mind flashed back to the hospital. Rain washing over Dale’s cheeks. The steely expression, the dark eyes. The gun.

  “There was … so much darkness in his face. But I supposed that’ll happen when nothing’s going your way. Dale’s used to winning. He’s used to catching the bad guy.”

  “What about Ike Gallo? Your bad guy in Chicago.”

  “He was a Chicago Firefighter, and his wife, Tricia, was the fire commissioner’s daughter. He’d always felt inferior, being a lowly firefighter, and when he got sacked, he was convinced it was his father-in-law’s doing. So he starts fires all around the Great Lakes, replicating the fires of October 8, 1871. Trying to make it
look like the Tricia’s dad had done it. The last piece was going to be Chicago, the city Tricia’s dad was sworn to protect. He was going to burn it like the Great Fire. We’d already found him out by then, so no one was ever going to think that Tricia’s father did it. But Ike thought he could still humiliate the man.”

  “And, of course, you stopped him.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And that’s how Conley found you out in Chicago, as I understand it. Right after you two caught the bad guy.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The misty air surrounding Buckingham Fountain felt cool, refreshing against Dale’s skin. The water show was in full swing, and in addition to the spray it was creating, there was also the thunderous, booming sounds of the jets of water. Dale caught a glimpse of the center jet shooting way up above him, 150 feet in the air. It was a stunning display and one that Dale would love to witness had he not been chasing an arsonist.

  He and Nash sprinted off after Ike Gallo.

  There was another thought tugging at Dale, pulling his attention that vied for his attention from the fountain. Arancia. He’d left her behind, back near where Mike Gallo‘s Malibu sat crumpled into the lamp post, steaming. He’d had Nash lock his door, and of course he had done the same, but there would be cops soon on the scene. What Arancia be impounded? Would someone trie to steal her?

  Dale couldn’t consider these thoughts. They were too dark,

  And he had to catch the man who tried to burn down Chicago.

  Gallo was ahead of Dale, sprinting, heading toward the lake. He ran out into Lakeshore Drive, crossing about eight lanes of traffic. Cars’ horns blared. People stuck their heads out their open windows and yelled at him.

  Dale gave another quick glance back and saw that Nash was right behind him. Sprinting. They’d been in the couple chases during this assignment, so Dale have already seen that Nash was a great runner. He was in excellent condition.

  Dale and Nash dashed out onto Lake Shore. More horns, more screaming motorists. Dale spotted Gallo farther away, almost to the sidewalk. He was worming his way through traffic better than Dale and Nash. He was putting distance between them.

  When Dale and Nash made it to the other side of the road, the reached a large concrete promenade that ran along the blue water of the lake. People were jogging, walking dogs, strolling hand-in-hand. On the water beyond, boats were tied up, bobbing gently. Seagulls floated through the air.

  Dale didn’t know the full history, but he knew this area was called Queen’s Landing, commemorating the location where Queen Elizabeth II had visited Chicago..

  Gallo stole a glance behind him and started running through the people.

  This slowed him down just a bit, and Dale sprinted harder, gaining on Gallo. He could see the details clearly—the folds in the man shirt, the sunlight shining on his hair..

  A hotdog vendor was in front of Gallo, and when he jumped to the side to dodge it, his shoe caught on the cement, causing him to stumble.

  This gave Dale and Nash an opportunity. They closed the gap.

  They were right behind him now. Within inches. Dale reached out. Couldn’t quite reach him.

  A bike came in their direction, and Gallo grabbed it, threw it down. The rider—a teenage girl with an Afro—tumbled away, and the bike landed right in front of Dale and Nash.

  Both of them ran right into it.

  Nash hit the concrete hard and with a yell. Dale tripped forward, limbs flailing in front of him, but he maintained his balance, recovered.

  Ahead, Gallo pulled to the right to avoid a group of Chinese tourists. This put him closer to the water, right along the cement’s edge, right by the three-foot drop to the water.

  Dale seized the moment.

  He jumped at Gallo, his shoulder catching him in the lower back, and both men flew off the edge and hit the water with a splash.

  Arms and legs thrashed as both men broke the surface, gasping for air. Dale saw Gallo right in front of him, only inches away. He pulled back a fist.

  “No!” Gallo shouted. “I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”

  Dale lowered his fist. And watched. He gave Gallo a moment, testing his claim.

  And he quickly determined that Gallo had either been truthful … or he was a really good actor. He sputtered and gasped, arms swinging hard and chopping the water.

  Dale thought it safe to take him at his word.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Grab onto my back.”

  Gallo hooked his arms around Dale’s neck.

  Dale began swimming back to the ledge.

  “You’re under arrest, by the way.”

  Dale was still dripping with lake water as he and Nash walked through the Chicago FBI Field Office. FBI agents in suits cheered them on, congratulating them, slapping them on their backs.

  One wise guy said to Dale, “Heard you took a little swim, secret agent man. You a klutz or something?”

  “Your mom didn’t think so last night,” Dale said with a wink.

  The wise guy laughed in appreciation, thumped Dale on the shoulder.

  “You know that guy?” Nash said.

  “Nope.”

  They entered the temporary office they’d been given for the duration of the assignment, a stark, nearly empty room with a table in the center and shelves in the back with a couple cardboard boxes and some cleaning supplies. Dale shut the door behind them and started fluffing out his hair with his fingers, drying it.

  “And now they’re gonna want some paperwork from us,” Dale said, tilting his head to the to drain water out of his ear. “Ugh. Might as well get it over with. Let me see my notebook, would ya?”

  Nash’s briefcase was on one of the shelves in the back next to a tub of bleach. He grabbed it and retrieved a spiral-bound notebook, which he handed to Dale.

  “Thanks.”

  Dale opened it and immediately saw from the writing that it wasn’t his notebook. He closed it, looked at the front cover, which was purple.

  “This isn’t mine,” he said. “My notebook is red.”

  A peculiar expression came to Nash. It was almost a panicked look, and he quickly reached out for the notebook.

  “Oh, then let me have that back.”

  Something about the odd expression didn’t sit well with Dale. It was a very strange and unwarranted reaction. Also, he’d spotted something strange in the moment the notebook was open, a few dark words

  … I want to kill the bitch and …

  Dale stepped aside, avoiding Nash’s reach. He opened the notebook again. Looked inside.

  And felt sick.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ventress was laughing at him. And this made Nash hate her even more

  “So you accidentally turned yourself in?” Another burst of laughter bent her over, a hand going to her stomach. “You just handed the notebook right to Conley. Lord, if I didn’t know this was a tragedy, I’d swear it was a comedy.”

  She laughed again, slapped the table.

  “Are you done?” Nash said.

  She straightened up and adjusted the jacket of her skirt suit. “You’ll forgive an old gal, Mr. Harbick. I’ve heard a lot of agents do a lot of stupid things, but none quite so magnificently stupid as that.”

  She shook her head, chuckling to herself, and stepped a few feet away, took another folder out of her attaché case.

  “And in that notebook you wrote out all your secret desires related to Ike Gallo’s wife, the things you wanted to do to her. Let me guess. This was a technique some shrink told you to do, yes? To ‘journal’ your thoughts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And those thoughts got really tasty after you met Tricia Gallo, didn’t they? The wife of the lunatic who was burning up cities around the Great Lakes.” She flipped through the contents of the folder. “Oh, here’s a photo of her. Wooooow. She is a cute little thing, isn’t she?”

  Nash didn’t respond.

 
“Well, don’t you agree?”

  “Very pretty, yes.”

  “You were attracted to her straight away.”

  “Yes.”

  Ventress pulled the photo out of the folder, held it up. She was doing this for Nash’s sake, in theory, but she displayed it in a way that showed it off to the whole room. More humiliation.

  Nash hadn’t seen an image of Tricia Gallo in three years. The heart-shaped face with soft cheeks and sky-high cheekbone. A little point of a chin. Dark eyes. In the photo, her mouth was parted the smallest bit, a tiny opening between her small, full lips.

  Ventress craned her face to the side, peeked at the photo. “Oh, yes, I bet she looked at you with those big doe eyes, all scared of what her husband was doing, what he might do to her. And you liked it. Her fear. I bet she smelled good too. Real nice perfume, huh? Something flowery and sweet?”

  Taft's deep voice came from the other end of the table. “Knock it off.”

  Nash turned and saw Taft glaring at Ventress.

  She smirked it off, looked back to the folder.

  “If you liked her so much, Harbick, I don’t understand why you’d want to hurt her so bad. Here’s a quote from your notebook. ‘I want to see the look of fear in Tricia Gallo’s eyes when she sees me approach from the darkness with a knife.’ And another. ‘To be next to Tricia, to feel her soft flesh, to feel her panicked breathing under my fingers as I squeeze into her neck and—’”

  Taft cut her off. “That’s enough!”

  Ventress glanced his direction then snapped the folder shut, and tossed it on the table.

  “I don’t need to read anymore. Hell, I don’t want to. That’s all it takes for everyone in this room to know how deranged you are, Harbick. You disgust me. Freak. There’s a reason why the world weeds out people like you, pushes them to the side, isolates them where they can’t do any harm. You goddamn monster.”

  Taft bolted out of his chair. “That’s enough! Jesus Christ, lady!”

  Ventress locked eyes with Taft and gestured toward Nash.