Mason stood and walked to the coffee machine, inserted a pod, and hit the button. It didn’t matter that it was near ten o’clock at night; we had a long night ahead. After running his hand through his hair, he turned toward us. “Why the small factions?”
“Because they don’t report,” I answered.
“To us or anyone,” Mason added.
“And because,” Patrick began, “they’re disgruntled in the first place. That state of mind combined with high-quality firepower is the perfect mixture to elicit street fighting.”
That was true. A subset may be three guys. Three guys who for whatever reason decided that they were done being a piece of a bigger unit. They wanted more. They wanted to make their own rules and run their own show. Or they want retaliation.
“So someone is purposely supplying these groups to make Chicago look bad,” I said.
“Who is supplying the firepower?” Mason asked.
“We don’t know,” Patrick answered. “We also don’t know how these factions are being identified. It’s not like they have help-wanted ads on the internet.” He looked to Mason. “I could use your help to see if you can find anything on the dark web.”
Mason shook his head. “I’ll do it, but I guarantee if there is anything out there, it’s buried. The feds are getting too good at monitoring the dark web.”
“Another reason to stop this shit,” Patrick said. “The last thing we need is the feds infiltrating Chicago’s gang wars.”
“If it’s not on the internet, it has to come from someone on the street.”
“That fucking narrows it down,” Mason said, returning to his chair with his coffee. “Chicago has four thousand miles of streets and nearly two thousand miles of alleyways.”
“I was informed,” Patrick began, sitting back at the keyboard, “about the location where the guns downstairs were acquired.” He typed and brought together street cam and satellite images. “Remember the funeral home shootout last summer near Englewood?”
Mason and I nodded before I spoke, “Wait, this supply chain has been established in our city for months?”
Patrick nodded. “This is grainy as shit, but take a look at this image from behind Dino’s Liquor on South Parnell Avenue.”
He enlarged the image.
“Black Ford truck. Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked as I began hitting keys, retrieving the images from Montana.
“We already know that make and model isn’t unique,” Mason said.
“No,” Patrick responded, “but look. There’s no front plate.”
“Illinois requires front plates,” I said, pulling up the other images.
“If we look only at neighboring states,” Patrick said, “Indiana doesn’t.”
Leaving his warm mug on the desk, Mason stared up at that picture. “Laurel lived in Indiana.”
“When she was working on the compound,” I said. “Here, look at the two trucks side by side.”
“Can we get an image of the rear license plate?” Mason asked.
“What about the liquor store? I think we should make a visit to ask some questions.”
“We’ve got capos on that. I’m waiting on a report.” Patrick changed the image on the screen overhead. “I can locate this truck at the same liquor store multiple times over the last few months. I would be surprised if this is an outlet for only one subset. More likely, this is a supply location for many. And look at this image.” He enlarged it even more.
“I see a man with a hat,” I said. “He could be the same man from the truck in Montana.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Patrick said. “Now look here.”
“He’s not alone,” Mason said, looking up. “I fucking hate how grainy this is.”
“Does the liquor store have security?” I asked. “If it’s online, I can find it.”
As my fingers flew across the keys, it was the most energized I’d felt since we went to Washington DC. There was a chance this was another dead end, but at least it felt like it had a possibility.
Lost in our work, time passed without notice.
“Fuck,” I said, “I’m not finding online security for Dino’s. From the street cams I see other cameras. They’re either dummies or it’s an in-house system.” I turned to Patrick. “Have the capos reported back from there yet?”
“No. They’re waiting until closer to closing. Fewer witnesses.”
Liquor stores in Illinois were required by law to close by two in the morning.
“Have the capos retrieve any security tapes from the last three months,” I said.
“If they have any,” Patrick replied, looking at his watch.
His movement prompted me to do the same. “Shit.” The clock told me it was nearly one in the morning. I stood, stretching my neck and shoulders as I contemplated all the work I could be doing. “I need to head upstairs for a bit.”
“I was just noticing the time,” Patrick said. “I’m sure Maddie and Ruby are asleep.”
I didn’t want to sound like the man who answered to his wife, but if we were all honest with one another, we all fit in that category. “I’d told Lorna I wouldn’t be long and promised that I’d be back to our apartment by midnight.”
“You should go,” Mason said. “We can text if there’s anything.” He looked up from his phone. “I was wondering where Sparrow was.”
Though I’d begun to walk away, I stopped. “Is everything all right with Araneae?”
Slowly, Mason nodded, his gesture turning into more of a shrug.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
“Araneae is having memories. Laurel is with them.”
My pulse raced within my veins, the beat sounding within my ears. “If Araneae is, then Lorna...” I didn’t finish the sentence as I scanned the sensor and left the command center.
Lorna
“You look real pretty, Lorna. You look like your momma.”
The words circled in my head. From the moment I pulled back the sheet and stared at Nancy Pierce, taking in her gaunt body and graying red hair, I heard the sentences. The voice was gruff and unfamiliar, yet the sentences were there, making their way out of the shadows, taunting me.
Staring at Nancy Pierce in death wasn’t much different than seeing her alive. I believed I had—seen her in life. Not only nearly twenty years ago, but also recently.
It seemed real.
I recalled the rain falling in large drops and a storm brewing in the distance.
The hard-packed dirt quickly covered with the simmering flood-like waters, turning the earth’s surface from hard to slippery muck. She was there, leaning against a large rock. I didn’t recognize her, but she said I knew who she was.
She knew me.
She’d told someone all she knew about me.
For a moment—only one, only a second, smaller than that, only a millisecond—I thought I was seeing myself, a reflection distorted by time, a glimpse into the future of what would be. Before I could stop myself, I’d said the question, the one that to the rational mind was irrational, yet I asked, “Are you me?”