Concrete Savior (23 page)

After all, look at Casey. Going on the names, places, and times she’d given him, he’d saved the lives of three people—okay two, the girl had drowned, but he’d almost made it, according to the papers. That meant nothing was set in stone. There was no supreme being perched on some golden throne and deciding minute by minute who was going to be the next person to die. The future was
changeable
, and Casey was absolute proof of that. Yes, she had blood on her hands through Casey’s actions, but because of her own circumstances, her efforts to save Vance, that couldn’t be helped. That part had been out of her control, but her husband’s ultimate fate, his
final
one, could still be within her grasp.

She would start by going to the shop and retrieving that woman’s business card from the trash bin. There had been something so strange about her, so . . .
off
. What had she said?

“
I can find your husband.”

Gina hurried into the bathroom, moving with purpose for the first time in days. No one was watching her, no one was spying on her—the voice had no idea the tall woman with the deep red hair and tan eyes even existed. Gina had panicked yesterday, but no more.

You can’t do this by yourself.

No, she couldn’t, and she was finally realizing that. Could the police find Vance? She didn’t think so . . . but she thought maybe yesterday’s visitor could. In the meantime, she would not answer the phone anymore. There was no usefulness in it, and she no longer believed that giving the voice any more information would help Vance in any way. If that was true, then it was time to change tactics.

No matter what the voice said, she was going to get some help.

FOR AS LONG AS
he’d had her, Eran had taken Grunt for a walk around the neighborhood every morning. The routine was well-set: they headed east to Clark Street, then turned left and as a socialization exercise for the Great Dane, made their way through the pedestrians headed to work. Eran wasn’t a particularly gregarious man but he did the grin-and-bear-it thing because he wanted Grunt to be comfortable in a busy environment and with strangers—he detested dogs that couldn’t be controlled around people. Finally they got to Deming and turned west, where Eran could relax and enjoy the beauty of the old, upscale homes. A left on Orchard in front of Saint Clement Church and another left on Arlington, and they’d made a full circuit.

Grunt’s injury had changed things a bit, but Eran was determined to get it back to where it had been. Eran missed that routine, the way it had been an easygoing start to every day despite the Clark Street antics of his overly friendly dog. Grunt had gone to the closed gate in the yard a number of times, but Eran had been reluctant to try it. Today, he decided, was as good as any. She wanted to walk, he wanted to walk, and the weather was good. They would go east to Geneva Terrace then head toward Deming. The culmination would be the corner of Deming and Orchard and then they’d head back, staying away from Clark Street where the fresh scar that covered her shoulder would draw too much attention.

Eran let Grunt set the pace, enjoying the walk and the way she inspected everything, as though she might have missed something in the time she’d been confined to the house. He was watching her instead of everything else, and it wasn’t until he was almost to the steps that he realized they were headed right into the people waiting for the start of the eight o’clock Mass at Saint Clement Church. Eran started to turn around, then realized there were more people behind him on the sidewalk than in front of him; he might as well keep going and turn left on Orchard the way they always did.

“Another burn victim, I see.”

Eran stopped at the sound of the familiar voice. “Father Murphy—how’ve you been?”

“Well.” The green-eyed priest came up and offered his hand, eyeing Grunt as he and Eran shook. The last time he’d seen her, the dog’s coat and skin had been flawless. “Better than her. You making a habit of this, Eran?”

Eran’s face flushed. “Of course not.”

“Speaking of burns, how is Brynna these days?”

To Eran’s dismay, he felt the heat in his cheeks rise another notch. The priest had risked more than Eran could guess by giving Brynna a place to heal after she’d been set up by a trio of gangbangers. Eran was still amazed he’d been able to convince Murphy not to call either an ambulance or the police. “She’s fine—completely healed.” He resisted the urge to add,
Like I told you she would be
. Despite his Catholic beliefs—or perhaps because of them—the priest had not been able to accept that Brynna was a fallen angel in human form. The reminder would do nothing to change Murphy’s mind, and in all honesty, did it really matter? Not a bit.

Now Father Murphy nodded. “Good to hear.” He bent on one knee and scratched Grunt behind her ear. “And what happened to you, girl? That looks pretty painful.” He looked up at Eran.

“She got in between Brynna and a bad situation.”

“Another gang person?”

Eran locked gazes with the priest. “No. Something a whole lot worse.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Father Murphy rose and glanced at his watch. “Time for me to get inside,” he said. “Give Brynna my regards. And take care of the dog . . . and yourself.”

Eran watched him go and tried to figure out what was going on inside his own head. He wasn’t sure if he felt regret or disappointment, or a combination of the two. The incident with Brynna had put an unspoken wall between himself and Paul Murphy—perhaps that was the source of the regret. The disappointment was easier to pinpoint: the priest simply didn’t believe him. Eran didn’t think the man thought he was exactly lying, but he still couldn’t accept it. As a result, he had no one with whom he could talk about Brynna, about who and what she really was, about how he felt about her, about what their future did and did not hold.

So be it. If Father Murphy was very lucky, Brynna would never end up in a situation that would make the holy man have to change his mind.

“YOUR PHONE RANG,” BRYNNA
told him as Eran led Grunt inside. The Great Dane headed to her water dish and drank, then endured Eran wiping her mouth with a paper towel so she wouldn’t dribble on the floor.

“I’ll check it as soon as I get Grunt settled,” he said. He led the dog to the bathroom, where she dropped gratefully onto the dog bed in the corner. She had been limping toward the end of the walk, but when he inspected her wound, everything looked okay. It was still raw at the center, but he thought another week would see the burn fully covered in new skin. How things would go from there remained to be seen; the vet had said the scar tissue, which went so deep into the muscle in several places that the profile of Grunt’s shoulder was deformed, would pucker and tighten. He would need to work vitamin E oil into it at regular intervals for the rest of the dog’s life. He gave Grunt a final pat on the head, but even the shortened version of their walk had worn her out and she was already asleep.

Back in the kitchen, he picked up his cell phone and saw the missed call message, but the number wasn’t one he recognized. The caller had left a message, and when the voice mail started playing, Eran almost dropped the phone.

“Detective Redmond, this is Casey Anlon. Listen, I’ve thought a lot about what you said, and about what I should do. I lied when I said I wasn’t planning on rescuing someone else. Hell, you probably knew that already. The thing is, I can’t
not
do it. No matter what the risk, I just can’t sit by and let someone die when I know I could save them. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that no matter how I acted yesterday, I wasn’t ignoring you. I’m not a bad person, I swear. If you were in my situation, I bet you’d take a chance, just like I’m going to.”

The message cut off and Eran snapped the phone shut. “Damn it!”

“What’s wrong?” Brynna said as she came out of the second bedroom. She was dressed and looked ready to take on the world. Good, because Eran thought that was just about what they might have to do.

“Casey Anlon left me a message,” he told her. “He’s decided to go through with his next rescue.”

“Which is what?”

“Not a clue.”

Brynna held out her hand. “Let me listen to the message. I can use it to find him.”

Eran blinked. “What do you mean?”

“This”—Brynna took the phone from his outstretched hand—“is like the ultimate GPS. Haven’t you ever wondered why I would never record an answering message on my cell phone? Or why I never leave a message when I call and you don’t answer?”

“I thought it was just one of your endearing quirks,” Eran said. “Although I did find it pretty damned annoying.”

“Well, there’s a reason behind my quirkiness,” she told him. “It’s because if I do that, anyone like me”—she touched a finger to her collarbone—“can then find me.”

He let this notion turn over in his head. “Always?” he finally asked.

“Always.” She grinned. “Actually, it’s kind of cool. If someone calls me and leaves a message, I never need directions to find them. Once I listen to it, it’s like a voice print on my subconscious. And it never goes away.”

Eran rubbed his forehead in the way he always did when there was an information overload going on or something he didn’t understand . . . usually about her. “You sure must have a lot of voices going on in your head.” He gave her a little smile.

Brynna squinted at him for a moment, then she had to laugh. “It’s not that I hear crazy voices all the time, Eran. It’s more an impression of sound, a resonance. And like each person’s unique scent, I just follow it. It’s not that hard.”

“Right,” Eran said. He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Not that hard. Hey, is this something you can do from just talking to people face-to-face?”

“If only it were that easy,” she replied. “No, it has something to do with . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Sending your own voice out as an electrical wave. I don’t understand it well enough to give you a better description and let’s be honest—I’m not sure there
is
a logical way of explaining it. Anyway, do you want to find Casey or are you just going to stand here and talk about telephones?”

Instead of answering, he pulled his holster and jacket from the front closet, grabbed his detective’s star, and motioned for her to lead the way.

A half hour later, Eran steered the car toward the parking lot that was closest to where Brynna’s directions had taken them.

“He’s in there,” she said, pointing.

Eran scowled as the vehicle slid into a vacant spot. “Navy Pier? Christ, we’ll never find him.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Brynna said with just a hint of sarcasm. Eran started to retort, then closed his mouth. When he’d finished parking the car, she said, “Come on,” and pulled open the passenger door.

With an expression that was more like a grimace, Eran got out of the car and hurried after her.

ALTHOUGH CASEY DIDN’T KNOW
what he’d expected, there were a lot more people at the Smith Museum of Stained Glass on Navy Pier than he’d anticipated. Gina had given him details on where to go to find a man named Tate Wernick, whose life would be lost because of a fight with a stranger, but Casey was having a hard time locating the right spot. The museum was big and stunningly beautiful. It held everything from multishaped small windows rescued from churches and condemned structures to full walls of opalescent glass made by people whose names even Casey knew, like Tiffany, Frank Lloyd Wright, and John LaFarge. It was one of those places that made him both sad and elated. To see such beauty created by people but know that they could throw it all away in a single second over a stupid disagreement—like the one he was supposed to stop today—was incredible.

When he finally got his bearings, he spotted the exhibit—a stained glass rendering of the American flag with “God Bless America” and “Sept. 11, 2001” in the glass—and recognized the guy instantly from Gina’s detailed description. He was tall and almost skeletally thin. His head was shaven and he was wearing a T-shirt with a combination picture of Charles Manson and Che Guevara on it above jeans that were worn but clean. His feet were encased in boots that looked like they probably had steel toes. Despite the workingman’s attire, he still looked like an everyday kid who’d never done manual labor. His face and arms were pale and Casey could see from where he had positioned himself that the skin of the guy’s hands was smooth. He wore no jewelry and had no tattoos. Still, there was something about him that was just a little on the scary side and it gave Casey a moment of hesitation. Was he really doing the right thing here? Or was there something more about this young man in his mid-twenties that Casey didn’t know, something awful?