Blood Summer Read online

  Blood Summer

  Steven Dunne

  Contents

  Praise for Steven Dunne

  By the same author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Praise for Steven Dunne

  ‘A gripping serial killer story with an exceptional depth of humanity’ Stephen Booth

  ‘The highest echelons of writing’ Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘Fast-paced and thrilling, crime writing at its best’ Sun

  ‘Well-paced and engrossing’ The Herald, Dublin

  ‘Truly brilliant’ lizlovesbooks.com

  ‘Deeply unsettling’ loiteringwithintent.wordpress.com

  ‘A story that keeps you guessing throughout’ bookaddictshaunco.uk

  Follow Steven on Twitter at @ReaperSteven

  By the same author

  The Reaper (Reaper - Part 1)

  The Disciple (Reaper - Part 2)

  Deity

  The Unquiet Grave

  A Killing Moon

  Death Do Us Part

  The Ressurection (Reaper - Part 3)

  Full details

  www.stevendunne.co.uk

  Copyright © 2021 Steven Dunne

  All rights reserved.

  All characters in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Emmy Ellis at Studioenp

  1

  January 2002 - Chicago, Illinois, USA

  Trent gazed out across the skyline from the sixth floor of the Chicago Riverfront hotel on Wacker Street. From his position, he had a postcard’s view of the ramrod straight section of the Chicago River, all the way up to Wolf Point, as far as the weather allowed. The river flowed past the old Post Office building on the opposite bank, before branching inland, north and south, away from the heart of downtown through a series of canals.

  On every block, a bridge, groaning with crawling traffic and swaddled pedestrians, crossed the river of this heaving metropolis, though Chicago’s seasonal snows were doing their best to grind movement to a halt.

  Snow fell in fists onto older snow, encrusted with dirt, banked up along the edge of the sidewalk and it was difficult to see the giant banner on the old Chicago-Sun Times building on the opposite bank. The historic waterfront edifice of Chicago’s biggest newspaper was due to make way for a colossal skyscraper reaching more than a quarter of a mile into the sky, proposed by New York hotel magnate, Donald Trump.

  Concrete plans had been accepted but since the attack on the World Trade Centre, four months ago, all such ventures had been put on hold and Trump Tower was no exception. It seemed the whole country was still in shock about 9/11 and normal service had definitely not been resumed - at least until some Islamic ass was kicked but that looked some way off. Truly, it was winter in America.

  Trent’s arms extended into a yawn, his chest straining against his service harness so he pulled it over his head, wrapped the harness around the holster and placed his gun onto a high shelf out of reach of the little girl. The scratch of graphite on paper turned his head and he watched Mrs Beaumont’s small daughter, Nell, hunched on a chair, her feet in tiny sandals, reaching halfway to the carpet. Tongue out, she was shading a colouring book with a look of concentration that would have been at home on Oppenheimer’s face, as he split the atom.

  Trent smiled at the top of her head, before resuming scrutiny of his city from a vantage point rarely afforded him. Resting his forehead on the vast window, he could just see the bustling DuSable Bridge on the bend of the river, a line of cars inching along Michigan Avenue onto the Magnificent Mile.

  Out of sight, the river waters continued out towards Lakeshore Drive to the grey mass of Lake Michigan although, to the consternation of most tourists, it didn’t actually work that way.

  ‘I’m bored,’ said Nell. ‘Can we go out, mom?’ she wailed towards the next room. ‘I wanna make a snowman.’

  ‘We have to stay in with Mr Trent, honey,’ came the muffled reply. Nell groaned. ‘Don’t you like Mike?’ said the voice. Trent glanced across at her and winked.

  ‘Sure, I do, mom. It’s just…’

  ‘Hey kid. Come over here,’ said Trent. ‘Want to see something cool?’

  She hesitated, before slipping off her chair and walking to the window. ‘Sure.’

  ‘See the river there,’ said Trent.

  She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. ‘D’uh.’

  Trent grinned. ‘That’s the Chicago River.’

  ‘I know that, silly,’ said Nell, laughing.

  ‘You do?’ exclaimed Trent. ‘Okay. So, which way is Lake Michigan, genius?’

  Nell looked at him, stared down at the river and raised her right arm to point towards the unseen lake.

  ‘Very good,’ said Trent. ‘So, which way is the river flowing?’

  She stared at him with narrowed eyes, took a quick glance down at the DuSable Bridge and pointed in the same direction. ‘That way. To the lake.’

  Smiling, Trent grunted a two-syllable, game-show sound effect to signal her mistake.

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘Wrong. The river flows from the lake into Chicago and out to the countryside.’

  Nell giggled. ‘That’s stoopid. Rivers flow into lakes. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Usually, you’d be right. But the Chicago River is different. You see, about eighty years ago, the people of Chicago decided to reverse the water’s course and make it flow back through the city.’

  ‘That’s silly.’ She chuckled again, her untidy blond curls bobbing up and down as she laughed.

  ‘Well, they didn’t think so,’ said Trent. ‘So, they got the best engineers to come up with a plan and now the Chicago River flows from the lake to the city and out west, to the plains.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Lake Michigan provides Chicago’s water for drinking and washing and stuff.’ Trent glanced up to see, Nell’s mother brandishing the coffee percolator. He checked his watch. His shift was almost up, not that Rentoria was likely to be on time and, as he needed to hang around and have words with him, he nodded his thanks. Her smile lingered before she disappeared back into the kitchen to make coffee.

  ‘But why did they need to reverse the water?’ asked Nell, tugging on his shirtsleeve.

  ‘Because in the early part of last century, the river flowed through the city picking up pollution from all the homes and businesses on the way, including toilet sewage.’

  ‘Yeeuuw.’

  ‘Exactly. And sewage carries bacteria so people got sick from drinking the water and a lot of them died.’

  ‘Sick from diseases?’

  ‘That’s right. Bacteria from what was going in the water, was going into people’s bodies. So, to stop pollution flowing into the lake, they reversed the river’s course to protect people’s health. It wa
s one of the greatest engineering feats in American history. So now, water is pumped from the lake, back up the river and anything harmful is washed back upstream, out along the connected canals they built to spread the water around. In that way, the lake’s water supply is always clean and available for public consumption.’

  ‘Don’t people get sick in the suburbs?’

  ‘No, because once the water’s there, it’s specially treated to make it cleaner.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘No cream, no sugar, right?’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  Trent smiled. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Mike.’

  ‘Thank you, Gwen.’

  ‘And I’m Nell,’ said Nell, holding out her small hand to shake.

  ‘I know that,’ said Trent, shaking her hand. She giggled again. ‘And it’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mike,’ she said.

  ‘Nice to meet you too.’

  She chuckled. ‘That’s funny because we already met.’

  ‘Ah, but now we’ve been formally introduced.’

  Smiling, Nell wandered to the window to stare at the river to process what she’d just learned, hoping to actually see the water moving upstream.

  Gwen leaned against the door jamb, gazing pensively at her daughter. She beckoned him over with a long delicate hand and handed him a mug in the compact kitchen. ‘Thank you, Mike. You’re making this much easier than it might have been.’

  ‘It’ll all be over soon,’ said Trent, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.

  ‘Will it?’ She closed her eyes in despair and Trent took the opportunity to examine her unblemished face. Her eyes opened and she caught him looking. He dropped his gaze, taking a hurried gulp of coffee. ‘I don’t know. These people seem pretty pissed and awful determined.’

  ‘Once the trial’s over and your testimony is on the record, they’ll have no reason to hurt you.’

  ‘Revenge seems like a good reason.’

  ‘They’d have to find you first.’ Trent smiled to reassure. ‘Mrs Beaumont…Gwen, there’s no logic or profit in trying to hurt you once you’ve testified. Besides, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I suppose withdrawing my statement wouldn’t help.’

  ‘The people who killed your friend and your boss would take that as a win and unfortunately…’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’d still know what I know and they could never be certain I wouldn’t talk in the future.’

  Mike nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. You’re a loose end and people with this little regard for human life are neat freaks about their exposure, especially with serious years in the pen hanging over them. Without your evidence, the court gives them a free pass and the trial is over. And after the fuss has died down all they have to do is wait, knowing the FBI can’t keep you under the radar forever. Not without a change of identity and a whole new life.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour, Mike.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not in charge of these things. I wish I was.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. No-one could’ve done more. Your help these last two weeks has been…’ Her expression changed and she dropped a soft hand onto his wrist and moved closer, eyes examining the scar that ran from above his right eye, across his forehead before disappearing under his hairline. He looked up at her with longing as she gazed back into his steel grey eyes. At that moment, the doorbell rang and she smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s just not my year, is it?’ She moved towards the door but Trent caught her wrists.

  ‘Hold those horses,’ he said, pulling her back and heading for the door.

  ‘But that’ll be Agent Rentoria.’

  ‘You can see through doors now?’

  ‘No, but the spyhole…’

  ‘What’s rule number one?’ he said, cupping his ear theatrically.

  She smiled. ‘Never answer the door.’

  ‘Never. Answer. The. Door.’ He dispensed his reprimand with a smile. ‘And Two?’

  ‘Never look through the spyhole,’ she said, sighing.

  ‘Top marks. I’m sorry other agents on shift haven’t emphasised that as much as they should, but I’m happy to be different. This is our work - please let us do our jobs.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, with a salute.

  Trent delicately turned her around, by the shoulders, and directed her towards the lounge. ‘With your daughter, please, Gwen.’ She obeyed and he followed her in to pull his gun harness from the shelf and over his shoulders. Putting his jacket on over the top, he closed the kitchen door behind him and stood beside the main door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Housekeeping,’ called a female voice, in her second language.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Trent took a dinner plate from the drainer and held it to cover the spyhole, mimicking a head blocking out the light. When no explosion ensued, he opened the door a notch and peered over the chain.

  A diminutive, dark-skinned girl smiled a greeting. ‘Housekeeping, sir.’

  ‘We’re okay today,’ said Trent, recognising her.

  ‘You want fresh towels?’

  ‘Leave them by the door, I’m in the middle of something.’ He fed a five-dollar bill through the gap and the smiling girl affected a bow of gratitude and arranged the towels on the floor before pushing her trolley towards the next room, wreathed in smiles.

  Trent unhooked the chain and retrieved the towels. He glanced testily at his watch and stared down the corridor in both directions. Placing the towels on the kitchen counter, he returned to his coffee.

  A minute later, the bell tolled for a second time. ‘Who is it?’ he said at the door.

  ‘Jose,’ was the muffled reply.

  Trent opened the door but left the chain on. ‘You’re late.’

  Agent Rentoria shrugged an apology. His cropped black hair was damp with snowmelt and he held a Starbucks coffee cup in his right hand. ‘The L was jammed,’ he said. ‘Had to take a later train.’

  Trent slid the chain from its housing but stood to block Rentoria’s way, his expression like flint. ‘The L was busy, uh? In winter, in rush hour. Who knew?’

  Rentoria grinned. ‘Yeah, maybe we should call FEMA.’

  ‘You think this is funny, Agent Rentoria?’

  Rentoria sighed. ‘No, sir. But it is rush hour. What are you gonna do?’

  ‘Gee now,’ said Trent, rubbing his chin. ‘Would trying for an earlier train be too radical or even, knowing you’re running late, skip the Starbucks run?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Rentoria, regret the furthest emotion from his face. ‘It won’t happen again, sir. Can I come in now, sir?’

  Trent stepped to the side, eyes glued to his colleague. Rentoria moved past Trent and put down the polystyrene cup to take off his jacket but Trent stepped into him and grabbed the jacket, twisting it hard to immobilise Rentoria’s arms in the sleeves before removing his gun from the holster. ‘Jeez, Jose. How easy was that? The hell is with you?’

  ‘Get the fuck off me, man,’ he wailed, roughly shrugging his jacket back on. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  Trent ejected the clip, spun Rentoria round and handed him the Glock. ‘Nothing. I’m doing my job and if you can’t do yours properly, you can get the hell off my detail.’

  ‘Your detail?’ Rentoria glanced suggestively at the door through to the lounge, raising a lascivious eyebrow. ‘You’re taking this one way too personal, man.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Come on, Mike. That’s one fine looking woman in there. Unattached. Bored.’ He winked and leaned into Trent for emphasis. ‘I seen you looking.’

  ‘Only friends and valued colleagues get to call me Mike,’ snarled Trent.

  Rentoria raised his hands. ‘Whatever you say, Special Agent. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes here.’

  ‘I’m not getting through to you, am I, kid? Let me give you some advice,
if you want to make it in the Bureau. You’ve only just moved up to the big leagues from Shit Kick, Wisconsin, because Homeland Security has left us short on manpower, nationwide. We get that you’re only used to auto theft and pinching college students hustling a little Canadian weed across the border, so we start you off easy. But even with a straightforward babysit, you’re not cutting it. You need to get serious about your work or you’re heading back to the minors, starting tomorrow. Be on time. To. The. Second. No late train and no coffee run! Capiche.’

  ‘I told you, it won’t happen again…’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ said Trent, holding up a finger. ‘Show me. Turn up late tomorrow and I file paper and you’ll be back in Marquette freezing your ass off on campus stakeouts. Am I making myself clear?’ Rentoria’s head dipped in faint acceptance. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Clear. Wow. Okay! Sorry about today. I got things going on.’

  Trent picked up a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the kitchenette counter. ‘So much that you can’t follow basic instructions.’

  ‘Phillips put that on the door.’

  ‘Then why was it still there when I swung by after your shift started?’ Rentoria stared, unable to answer. ‘Because you left it there.’

  Rentoria sighed. ‘I should have taken it down. I’ll tell Phillips when he signs in.’