Strode Prairie, Illinois. Population 12,000. A 142-mile drive from Chicago, it had a historical downtown section, a local university, and lots of big Victorian houses. I parked in front of one, checked the address my client had given me, and headed across the lawn up to the door.
Twilight, with a light rain falling. I pulled my hat down over my head, stepped up onto the porch, and rang a doorbell. Waited. Rang again.
A young man opened the door, 20s, thin, with a beard, peered through the screen. “Yeah?”
“Brett Martin? My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective working for Charles Williams.” I showed him my card and a photocopy of my P.I. license. “He sent me here to ask if you’ve been in touch with his son, Meyer Williams.”
Martin flinched. “Meyer? I haven’t seen him since . . .” He hesitated. “In years.”
“His father believes he may be in the area. He gave me a list of names to check.”
Charles Williams had called me this morning. “My son Meyer is—missing,” he said. “I’m very worried. He’s been—well, he’s been under treatment at a mental health facility for several years, and he’s apparently disappeared. I think he might try to contact a group of his college friends. I’m disabled, and I don’t live in Strode anymore. So I need someone to check in with these people as soon as possible. Could you do that?”
I could. Even though I didn’t understand why Williams couldn’t just call the people himself. He said he didn’t think they’d talk to him, but why he thought they’d be more willing to answer questions from a complete stranger wasn’t something he could articulate. “I just think someone else would have better luck,” he insisted.
Still, it was a job. Business had been steady lately, but Rachel was always worried about paying the cable bill so she wouldn’t miss the next episode of “Real Housewives,” wherever they were.
Rachel’s my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, a graphic designer, she sometimes helps me with cases where her psychic powers add a little extra something.
But she wasn’t wild about the idea of driving out to Strode Prairie on a gray, rainy day where she had multiple conference brochures to design for a big, well-paying client, and a dinner to plan for friends—a rare event for us. “You go. Have fun. Don’t forget to pick up groceries for tomorrow.”
Brett pushed the screen door open, leaning forward to take a look outside. When I was in the house he pushed me aside to lock the screen door and the front door right away. He tested the knob to make sure the bolt was secure.
Then he crossed his arms. “What about Meyer?”
“He’s left the facility where he’s been living, and nobody knows where he is. For some reason his father thought he might come here.” The facility, Loomis Sanitarium, was 250 miles away. How Meyer would make it to Strode on foot was a question Williams couldn’t answer, but he was convinced his son would come here.
“Oh my god.” Brett shook his head. “He escaped?”
“He left. That’s what I was told.” I was puzzled. “Are you scared of him?”
“You don’t know? Jesus Christ.”
“Wait a minute.” Now I was getting scared. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t know? Oh, man, that’s crazy.” Brett stared into my face. “Meyer killed four people. That’s why he was in that place. He’s insane.”
Oh hell. “Who?”
“Juan. And a professor. And Alex and Megan. Jesus, didn’t his father tell you any of this? That figures. That guy is a rat bastard, from what Meyer always said.”
I swallowed. “Uh, no, he did not. So, you haven’t seen or heard from Meyer at all?”
“Not in four years. Look—” He shook his head. “You’d better get out. Out of town. You don’t want to run into Meyer. I mean, maybe he’s cured, maybe not, but—” He stared at the locked door. “I don’t want to see him. At all. Got it?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
I heard the locks click behind the door as I left.
In the car I called my client. He didn’t answer, so I left a detailed message without hiding my annoyance. Then I called Rachel. The sky was dark, and the rain streamed down my windshield.
“Hey, jerk, what’s up? How’s the middle of Nowhere, Illinois?”
Middle of nowhere—that felt right, especially now. “The client’s son killed four people.”
“Holy shit.” Rachel sounded pissed. “Are you coming home?”
I wanted to, but—“Not before I talk to him. The client, I mean. He’s not answering his phone.”
“Screw him. Get out of there. We’re having company tomorrow, and you need to help set the table. And stuff.”
“Yeah.” Georgeanne and her latest girlfriend were coming for dinner. I didn’t want to miss that by getting killed. “Let me try the client one more time. Then I’ll come home.”
“You could come home and then call him. But whatever. I knew I should have come with you.” She hung up.
I was glad Rachel was home. Safe. Dry. I called Williams again, got his voice mail again, and left a message again.
Then I checked the list of people to contact. One was just across the street. Allison McCoy.
I’d told Rachel I’d leave right away. But this would only take a minute. And maybe I’d get more information. And I didn’t have to tell her. I mean, mass murderers are scary, but so is Rachel when she’s mad at me for doing something stupid.
I took a long look up and down the street, then opened my door.
This house was smaller than Brett Martin’s place, a one-story ranch house. I walked to the porch and pressed the doorbell.
I didn’t have to ring twice. The door opened almost instantly. Allison McCoy was blond, in her 20s, wearing a long T-shirt, sandals on her feet.
I introduced myself. “I won’t take much of your time. I’m only here to ask if you’ve seen or heard from Meyer Williams. His father—”
Her face went pale. “M-Meyer? Wait. Wait here. Don’t move.”
She ran down the hall. Through the screen I could see her fumbling at the drawers in her kitchen. I stayed on the porch.
Allison came running back. She held a knife almost as long as my arm with both hands. The knife shook as she pointed it at me from six feet away.
“Who did you say you were?”
“Tom Jurgen.” I held my hands up. “I’m harmless. I’ll leave—”
“Don’t move!” She backed up even further. “How can I be sure?”
Huh? “Sure about what?”
She peered into my eyes through the screen. “That you’re who say. How do I know you’re—not him?”
“Meyer Williams?” I dropped my arms. “Do I even look like him?”
“He can look like anyone!” She clutched the knife in both hands. “He can change his face!”
I took a step back. “Okay. I didn’t know that.”
She let her knife drop a few inches. “You, uh, believe me?”
I’ve run into a lot of weird, scary things as a P.I.—and before that as a reporter. I don’t go looking, but they just seem to find me. Okay, maybe I do go looking, because I keep asking questions when other people want to stop. But on a scale of carnivorous plants to psychotic vampires, face-changing murderers was 9.9 or higher.
I tried to keep Allison’s knife iand her face in sight at the same time, my nerves tense. “Let’s just say I’ve been around. You haven’t seen him?”
“No.” She searched my face, looking for some clue I wasn’t who I said I was. “I don’t want to see him. Or talk to you. Go away.”
I nodded. “Fine by me. Let me just—” I reached into a pocket for a card.
“Don’t!” She shook the knife. “Just get out of here!”
I dropped a few cards on the porch. “In case you need to call me. Be careful.”
Her lips curled in a menacing grin. “Oh, I will.”
I turned and headed back to my car. The rain was getting harder.
Meyer Williams closed the door, walked back into the kitchen, and tossed the knife in the sink.
Allison McCoy’s body lay on the floor, blood from her throat still spreading over the dirty gray tile.
He gazed down at her for long minutes, breathing hard, until his own face returned.
He pulled off Allison’s T-shirt and kicked her sandals across the room, bending down for his own clothes. If only he could change those too, not just his face and his skinny, pale body.
But this was good enough.
Good enough for his revenge tonight.
Next, across the street for Brett.
Then . . . all the rest.
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