The Dead Caller from Chicago

Начало книги

Mary Anne Bigane, Joe Bigane, Patrick Riley, and Marcia Markland prod me into doing better,

India Cooper polishes a thousand things,

Kat Brzozowski keeps track of it all, with grace,

Jack and Lori give me meaning,

and Susan gives me wonder.

It was March, well past midnight, and it was cold. The only light came dimly from the streetlamp at the far corner.

The blurred shape of the bundled-up man moved low through the shadows of the fronts of the darkened houses. His feet crunched loudly on the crusted snow. The noise would sound no alarm. It was late. No one would be about.

Except this night. Another man followed fifty yards behind, tight to the same dark buildings. His shadow, too, was formless and indistinct. This man dared to make no sound at all.

Suddenly, the bundled-up man in front froze, then in the next instant rose from his crouch to look behind. In that moment, he was backlit by the pale milky light at the corner, a man wrapped so thickly against the cold he appeared more square than tall. He strained, listening.

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