and accessed their weather history. Last night in Chicago at nine p.m ., the wind was calm, the sky was
clear, the barometric pressure was holding steady and the temperature was in
the mid-fifties. No tornadoes in the
vicinity. No high or low pressure
systems in the vicinity. What the hell
happened?
Glancing over at the television that was on, but muted, he
noticed that the news ticker at the bottom of the picture mentioned the park
where the attack had occurred. Reaching over, he grabbed the remote and turned
on the sound.
“This is Channel 7
news reporter Mimi Garcia at the scene of last night’s horrendous gang fight on
the city’s South Side.”
The camera scanned the scene, showing yellow police tape
cordoning off a majority of the field beyond a playground. The police were
keeping the camera crews far enough away from the scene that nothing grisly or
gruesome could be aired.
“Sources on the scene have estimated the death
total to be over one hundred, but those same sources have confided that because
of the brutality of the murders, it will take the Coroner’s Office weeks before
they can piece the bodies back together to get a final count. There has been no
official comment from the Mayor’s office yet this morning. But detractors
wonder if the Mayor is even concerned with the death of a hundred gang members.”
The scene switched to the front of Cook County Hospital.
“The lone survivor is
said to be in good condition at Cook County Hospital.”
“What the hell?” Sean growled. Slapping his mug down, he
lifted up his cell phone and called the police station. “Yeah, this is
O’Reilly,” he said. “Can you find out who the hell is spilling their guts to
Channel 7 and shut them down? And have someone go to Cook County and make sure
the survivor has some security.”
Returning to his computer, he paused again when he heard a
light knock on the door. “Just a minute,” he called, pushing back his chair and
walking across the room. He peeked
through the spyhole in the door and saw Ian and Gillian standing on the other
side.
Professor Ian MacDougall was not your typical professor; he
was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes and the body of an athlete. He was a little younger than Sean, in his
early thirties, but his looks and his age often camouflaged his intellectual
capabilities. A computer prodigy at a young age, he then turned his questing
mind towards researching a topic that had interested him since his own
near-death experience at the age of three, paranormal psychology.
His fiancée , Gillian Flanagan, had
the creamy skin and the soft scattering of freckles that were characteristic of
her Irish background, as was her lively personality and quick wit. Her sparkling brown eyes, auburn hair, impish
smile and diminutive height brought to mind the pixies that had been fabled to
roam her homeland. But those who knew her realized her petite frame housed an
IQ and a personality that transcended her outward appearance. She was always ready for a lively discussion.
Whether it was about the best beer to be found in the world, Guinness, or international
relations and economics, she always had an opinion and she wasn’t afraid to
voice it.
“Okay, give me a
second,” Sean said, unhooking the pans. “I have to de-iron the door.”
A few moments later, the pans stacked on the bar stool next
to the door, he swung it open and let them enter.
“De-iron the door?” Ian asked. “Is that an American thing I
haven’t heard of yet?”
Sean angled his head in the direction of the stool. “You
told me to put iron over the door to protect myself,” he said. “That was the
best I could do.”
Chuckling, Gillian stepped forward and hefted one of the
pans. “Aye, that’ll do just fine,” she said, turning to Sean. “Would you be
expecting a pack of boggarts to be coming this way?”
“Boogers?” Sean asked, scrunching
up his face in disgust.
Gillian’s grin widened.
Jo Willow, Sharon Gurley-Headley