“The property was once owned by one of those end-times cults, which is how it got named Rapture Hill. Then the cult disappeared. Right off the face of the earth. Got raptured up to heaven, some folks said. Other folks said the cult somehow ran afoul of the Gort twins, and they’re all buried somewhere up there in the quarries. Only thing anyone knows for sure is that there was nobody to pay the mortgage, so now the bank’s got it. Hard to sell with the isolation and the peculiar history, so they decided to rent it.”
“The flowers are amazing!” Laura Conway appeared beside Brambledale. “The house itself is kind of plain, but wait till you see the flowers!”
“Flowers?” said Gurney.
“As part of our management service, we check on our rental properties at least once a month, and when we were up there two months ago we discovered that the tenant had Snook’s Nursery put in these beautiful beds of petunias. And lots of hanging baskets in front of the house.”
“Blaze Jackson hired Snook’s Nursery to plant petunias?”
Conway nodded. “I guess to cheer the place up. After that disappearing cult business, it always felt kind of spooky up there.”
Mystified, Gurney thanked them both for their cooperation and returned to his car.
Although the Rapture Hill property was certainly more intriguing, it made logistical sense for him to visit the Bacon Street apartment first. He checked the printout Conway had given him and entered the address in his GPS.
He arrived there in less than three minutes.
Bacon Street had that universal quality of run-down areas—the brighter the day, the worse it looked. But at least it had escaped the arson outbreaks that had made some Grinton streets uninhabitable. The building number he was looking for was in the middle of the block. He parked in a no-parking zone by a hydrant and got out. It was a convenience when one was on police business, with the downside that it announced that one was on police business.
A man with tattooed arms and a red bandanna on his head was working on one of the ground-floor windows. He commented as Gurney approached, “Nice goddamn surprise.” His voice was rough but not hostile.
“What’s the surprise?”
“You’re a cop, right?”
“Right. And who are you?”
“I’m superintendent for all the buildings on this block. Paul Parkman’s the name.”
“What surprised you, Paul?”
“In my memory, this is the first time they sent anyone the same morning we called.”
“You called the police? What for?”
He pointed to a pried-apart security grating on the window. “Bastards broke in during the night. Vacant apartment, nothing to steal. So they shit on the floor. Two of them. Two separate piles of shit. Maybe you can get some DNA?”
“Interesting idea, Paul. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” He uttered a sharp bark of a laugh. “Then what
“I need to check one of the apartments. Top floor, 4B. You know if it’s occupied?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?”
“Yes, there’s officially a tenant. No, they’re never here.”
“Never?”
“Not to my knowledge. What is it you want to check? You think someone’s dead in there?”
“I doubt it. Any obstructions on the stairs?”
“Not to my knowledge. You want me to come up with you?”
“No need for that. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Gurney entered the building. The tiled foyer was reasonably clean, the staircase adequately lighted, and the all-too-common tenement odors of cabbage, urine, and vomit blessedly faint. The top-floor landing had been mopped in the not-too-distant past, and the two apartment doors on it were legibly marked—4A at one end, 4B at the other.
He pulled his Beretta out of its ankle holster, chambered a round, and clicked off the safety. He stood to the side of the 4B door and knocked on it. There was no response, no sound at all. He knocked harder, this time shouting, “Police! Open the door!”
Still nothing.
He inserted the key, turned the lock, and pushed the door open. He was struck immediately by the musty odor of a space whose windows hadn’t been opened for a very long time. He clicked the safety back on and slipped the Beretta into his jacket pocket. He switched on the ceiling light in the small entry hall and began making his way around the rather cramped apartment.
There was a small eat-in kitchen, a small living room, and a small bedroom and a closet-sized bathroom—all looking out over a weedy vacant lot. There was no furniture nor any other sign of habitation. And yet Blaze Jackson, supposedly acting for Jordan, had paid cash for a yearlong lease.
Had the place already served some purpose and been abandoned? Or was it intended for some future use? He stood at the living room window pondering the situation. The view from that window included some of Grinton, some of Bluestone, a narrow slice of Willard Park, and—he’d almost missed it through the hazy glass—the front of the police headquarters building. As he watched, a uniformed cop came out the main door, got into a squad car in the parking lot, and drove off.
