The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [109]
Nada had slipped out the French doors of Jameson’s library, the room where Russo had treated her the day before, without a sound. The nice thing about a big house, she knew from her childhood, is that it’s easy to be lost. Once outside, in the dark, in the rain, walking north through the neighborhoods—Lincoln Park, Lakeview, Boystown, Andersonville—the people in the streets sluggish from the heat, she felt alone and alert. Although she had a hollow pain in her stomach from not eating, she had no headache. No cramps. Whatever was in Dr. Russo’s bitter powder—electrolytes mostly, he’d said—had her feeling almost normal in less than twenty-four hours.
Forearms over her soaking head, she followed a narrow walk between the house and a chain fence that separated this property from the one next to it. Unlike the well-groomed front, the backyard was overgrown with weeds and grass gone to seed. A cover from the rusted propane grill was caught against a corner of the fence. Rows of tomato plants withered from neglect in the heat. Flowers dead and colorless. Nada stepped up onto the small square deck and tried the back door. Also locked.
Drifting backward again, examining the house from the rear, she saw a basement window inset with a piece of plywood. There were striations in the dusty concrete below where someone had tried to sweep away broken glass, and tiny grains of crystal still glimmered among the raindrops. Nada pressed on the board with a finger. It moved. She pushed with a palm and it lurched backward with a splintering crack. She glanced at the empty house behind her, kicked with her foot, and the board disappeared into the darkness beyond, smashing and tumbling to the floor below.
This was the way Dr. Falcone’s killer had entered, and to know it gave Nada a horrible thrill. What was he looking for? What am I supposed to be looking for?
Clutching her purse tight to her ribs, she lowered herself into the basement. It was surprisingly cool. She wrung water from her shirt and removed from her bag a small flashlight, borrowed from Hugh, who had asked no questions.
The basement was square and unfinished. A clean metal workbench. A Peg-Board with hooks but no tools. Washer and dryer, a freezer—all unplugged. Empty wine rack. Metal shelves with gardening supplies, household chemicals, pesticides, lightbulbs.
She found the stairs.
The intense antiseptic smell in the kitchen started her gagging. She remembered the masked crew that had come after her father’s murder, a private outfit specializing in crime-scene cleanup, which even young Nada understood to mean they were experts in blood, jumpsuited vampires who sucked the stuff from carpets and crevices instead of veins. When she finally sneaked back into her father’s office, weeks after his death, she was met by this same sting in her nose. The smell that killed every microorganism in the wake of a messy murder. The smell that meant no life remained.
In seconds she had found the spot where Dr. Falcone must have died, or at least the spot where she had done the most bleeding. The lingering odor of bleach was strongest here, the tile dull where the scrubbing had been intense. She scanned the room, which was ringed with shining stainless-steel appliances, each twice as wide as ones in an ordinary kitchen. The countertops were uncluttered, the stovetop unmarred. Cabinets and drawers had been emptied of Marlena’s pots and pans and silverware and aprons. There was nothing to indicate why this woman had been killed or what it had to do with Nada.
It had to have something to do with her. Otherwise, Burning Patrick wouldn’t have given her the newspaper. Otherwise, Jameson wouldn’t have taken her to, of all the doctors in Chicago, the one who’d worked across the hall from Marlena. Nada was wary of coincidences, but this one was making her spider tremble and ring like an old phone.
Room by empty room, dull light flooding in through open shades, she looked for clues only she would recognize. She sat in every corner, studied each space from every angle, methodically