“ 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?
She was anxious about closing a door behind them as she entered, so she asked that the front door be left ajar. He complied with a nod and a smile, pointing in the direction of the phone, which sat on a small table in the hallway. The place was darkened and she asked that he turn on some lights as she passed from the foyer to the telephone, picking it up and dialing 911.
But before the connection was made, the phone went dead and she saw the little dwarf in front of her, grinning insanely. She was grabbed suddenly from behind, her arm twisted, her neck in a chokehold and no way to get at the gun strapped to her leg. Her eyes grew wild with fear when she saw the small ugly man in front of her amble toward her with a hypodermic needle held prominently before him. The strength of the man who had her in his grasp was unbeatable, but she used this against Gamble when he got within reach, kicking out with her feet and sending Gamble tumbling toward the half-open door where a crack of light from outside revealed Gamble's bloody
