Patrice Rhys. Novelist in the seventies. Author of a dozen best-selling novels of "gothic horror." Patrick Rice. Novelist in the fifties. Author of twenty novels--noir thrillers "with a gothic touch." The connection came through a master's thesis written five years ago--one of the many pieces of flotsam and jetsam that wash up on the Internet. The student had been writing on the evolution of gothic romance and had compared the works of Patrick, Patrice, and Patricia. She'd found enough thematic and stylistic similarities to decide that Patrice and Patricia had been heavily influenced by Patrick, down to using a variation on his name for their pseudonyms.
Or they could be the same person.
I found a photograph of Patrick Rice from the fifties in an archived interview. Otherwise, Rice was something of a recluse, as were Patrice and Patricia, none of them touring or giving interviews. But for Patrick, there was that one photo. And I had only to look at it to know, beyond a doubt, that Patrick Rice was Patrick from Cainsville.
I was printing the photograph when Gabriel swung into the office with "Lunch?"
I handed him the picture. "Meet Patrick Rice. Noir author from the fifties."
Gabriel's brows lifted in a flash of surprise before his expression settled into a pensive frown.
"Yes, I know," I said. "We could argue it's his grandfather or some relative who looks exactly like him--and shares his first name and occupation."
As Gabriel studied the photo, I could see that compulsion sliding in, insidious and overwhelming, manifesting in the undeniable urge to say, It's a coincidence.
"That's him," he said finally. "I don't understand how, but that is undeniably Patrick. You found it on the Internet?"
I nodded.
"Then it could have been planted or--" He stopped so abruptly his teeth clicked shut. "I'm sorry. Yes, that's him."
"And I have checked the source. It's from the archives of a Chicago magazine. I found a secondary reference, too, in a biographical sketch that references the article. Patrick has become much more careful about interviews, but in the fifties no one would have guessed that one day we could locate that photo from the comfort of our homes."
"It's still risky, though. Living in the same place, staying the same age. We're mistaken. We must be--" Another emphatic stop. "Why can I not stop doing that?"
"Part of it is simple logic. We're reasonably intelligent, educated people. If we saw a man biting a woman's neck in an alley, we'd presume kinky sex, not vampirism."
"Please don't tell me you think vampirism is the explanation here."
I shuddered. "God, I hope not."
"We do see Patrick during the day," Gabriel said.
"Bram Stoker's Dracula went out in the daytime."
"You aren't helping."
"Sorry." I wanted to tell him what I suspected, but I couldn't bring myself to, not until I had more. "The specific answer isn't as important as the general one, which is that Patrick isn't human. That something is going on in Cainsville, and we're caught up in it, and Macy Shaw seems to be caught up in it, too. So we need to talk to her."
"Give me two
minutes."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Macy Shaw lived in Bridgeport. In Chicago's distant past, the Irish ruled the neighborhood. It's a lot more diverse now, but you can still see its roots, including unmarked pubs that you'd best not enter unless you know a regular.
Bridgeport is working-class. There are signs of gentrification, but that's common everywhere people see cheap property and think they can change the landscape to better suit their tastes. Bridgeport is a strong enough community to hold out, and I'm glad to see it. The city is for everyone.
There are, however, areas where . . . well, a little gentrification wouldn't be a bad thing, if it meant architectural preservation. Pockets where the beautiful old homes and buildings are in sore need of a little support--financial and structural. Macy's street was marked by neglect. While the residents couldn't afford the massive renovations needed to return their homes to their former glory, you got the feeling most wouldn't see the point anyway. The long grass and weeds in the yards hid some, but not all, of the trash littered there. People sat on dilapidated front porches, eyes narrowing as we went by, more like junkyard dogs than proud home owners.
We passed one house with three men on the porch. All had the build of retired construction workers: wide shoulders, brawny biceps, and potbellies. None was over thirty, though. The porch was the most decrepit one on the street, so run-down that it made me nervous to see one guy leaning against the railing.
As we passed, Gabriel murmured, "Move to my other side, please."
His gaze was fixed on the road ahead, with no sign that he'd even seen the men, but he said again, "Olivia? My other side. Please."
By the time I figured out what he meant, the three were on their feet, coming off the porch, and I wasn't about to scurry behind Gabriel then. He still tried to move in front of me, but I put out my arm to stop him.