Chicagoland by Gail Martin (important books to read TXT) 📕

at the photos again when we get back,” I suggested. “Maybe we’ll see new details once we’ve had a chance to think about them.”

“I can play with the developing,” West offered. “I did the quick-and-dirty version to get us started, but I might be able to tinker a bit and lighten them up, enlarge them, so we can see better. Those lights were pretty dim, but I didn’t want to risk using a flash bar. That would have gotten us caught for sure.” The blinding white light of the magnesium flash might make a photographer happy, but it played merry hell with being able to see afterward, not good when something might be waiting in the shadows to attack.

“Do you mind if I take one with me to the museum?” Sarah asked, although she had to be pretty sure that West wasn’t going to turn her down. “Something reminds me of an exhibit I saw there, and I want to see if there’s a connection.”

“Be my guest,” West said. “Just have a good story in mind if someone asks where you got it.”

Sarah flashed us a grin that made it clear she relished the intrigue. “Always!”

I went into the bathroom to get the pastry icing off my hands. I heard the phone ring and figured West would handle it. When I came back, West was finishing another Danish and washing it down with coffee.

“Ness said he’d meet us at Death Alley,” West said by way of greeting. “I told him to bring a shotgun and salt rounds.”

I nodded, taking a Danish for myself and refilling my coffee cup. “Our shotguns are ready to go. Made sure we had plenty of rounds last night while you played in the bathroom in the dark.”

West rolled his eyes. “It’s called a ‘darkroom’ when film’s developing.”

I snickered. “It’s a ‘dark’ room when the light’s out too.”

We headed down to the lobby and hailed a cab from the swarm that waited near the hotel’s front doors. If the cabbie who drove us wondered what was in the army surplus duffel bag, he kept his mouth shut. After all, this was Chicago. At least it wasn’t a violin case.

Ness was waiting by the entrance to the alley in a black Buick, and I’d have bet money it had reinforced steel doors and bulletproof glass. He got out and held his shotgun down along his gray topcoat as if that made it less noticeable.

“Salt rounds?” he said by way of greeting. Chatty bunch, him and West.

“Dispels ghosts,” I replied, pulling an iron knife out of our bag and handing it to him. “So does iron. If the ghosts attack, shoot them or slice them. I want the two of you to bottle up the alley so the ghosts don’t come out and people don’t go in. I’ll take a little stroll and see what’s got them riled up.” I grabbed my shotgun and a knife. I didn’t think the ghosts could hurt me, but they could be damned inconvenient, and I didn’t want to find out what it felt like to be mobbed by hundreds of angry spirits.

I probably didn’t need Ness and West for backup, but in case I had to blast the ghosts, I wanted guys with Fed badges to vouch for me with the local cops. Gunfire draws unwanted attention, even in Chicago.

I’d made West stop on the way so I could buy three canisters of salt. I handed two of them to West and Ness and kept one for myself. “Ghosts can’t cross a salt line. Lay down a solid line across the entrance to the alley, and don’t let it get broken. If you have to come in, step over the line—you’re safer out here,” I told them. Then I walked into the alley and glanced behind me to make sure they followed through.

The Iroquois Theater had touted itself as the most modern showplace in the city back in 1903, claiming to be absolutely fireproof. That turned out to be like the Titanic being unsinkable. As it turned out, the theater skirted most fire safety requirements, locked gates kept those in the balcony from escaping, and the doors opened inward. When stray sparks ignited a blaze, the standing-room-only crowd was trapped inside. Over six hundred died, and more were injured. The Iroquois was renamed and remained open for a few years before being torn down and another theater built on the same lot.

The ghosts never left.

I felt their presence as soon as I entered the alley. Even in daylight, the air felt cold, and shadows shrouded the space. I thought I could hear voices, just far enough away to not quite make out their words, although the malice in their tone was unmistakable. It didn’t surprise me that I was alone here. No one mortal—or sane—should enter.

After Sarah left for the museum, I’d spent the rest of breakfast talking with West about the strange deaths in the alley. While everyone agreed that the back street had been haunted since the fire, there hadn’t been reports of the ghosts causing injuries. That had only changed recently, and all the victims had ties to Capone.

Since the Mob boss wasn’t a witch—as far as we knew—then he had to have some kind of supernatural help to turn regular spirits into killers. That meant the ghosts had been forced into murder after they had already suffered a tragic death. I needed to stop the killing. But more than that, I wanted to let these spirits finally rest.

This had to end.

The idea of Capone taking advantage of the ghosts made me angry, and I was, after all, the instrument of Krukis’s vengeance, the champion of the powerless.

I could feel the charge in the air, like static electricity before a storm. The ghosts were all around me—I didn’t need to be able to see them to know that in my bones. I said a prayer to Krukis before I entered and felt his magic wash over me, making