Bloody Sunrise: An electrifying psychological thriller Read online

  Bloody Sunrise

  a novel by

  Gregg Bell

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

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  About the Author

  Also by Gregg Bell

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  Epigraph

  From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

  —William Wordsworth

  Chapter One

  Denny O’Callaghan woke to see bloodstains on his pillow, his bed sheets. He closed his eyes, groaned and rolled over. Maybe, he figured, he could fall back asleep. Blot out of his mind what he’d just seen. But the back of his head throbbed. He touched it and felt a bump the size of an egg, and his hair was sticky and matted there. His throat was so dry. He coughed. Blurry memories, specters nearly, from the night before flitted about in his mind’s eye. Vaguely shifting images. Incomplete. He’d been drinking shots with the guys from the firehouse. Yelling. And then—nothing. He hoped if he kept his eyes closed long enough, maybe it would all go away.

  But it wasn’t going away. His arms hurt, his lower back too. No, whatever it was he’d have to deal with it. First, he needed to think though—as best he could anyway. He had to have a baseline of sanity before letting the world back in. Maybe it wasn’t blood on the pillow and sheets, he thought. It could be tomato juice or salsa. But no, that was crazy. It was obviously blood and obviously his.

  He tried to console himself with the idea that he’d been through this sort of thing before, and things had never turned out as bad as he’d thought they would. So maybe this time wouldn’t be so bad either. How often had he heard in AA meetings: ‘I’ve had many troubles in my life, most of which never occurred.’ Still, he was afraid to open his eyes again because he had a feeling that this time it was going to be really nasty. He should have kept going to those damn AA meetings is what he should’ve done. Now there could be no doubt he would get back to them. Yes, the people there tended to get under his skin, but he couldn’t deny that they knew what they were talking about when it came to staying sober.

  He tried to breathe in deep but one nostril was blocked, and his head felt like it was being compressed in a vise. He’d never drink again—it was as simple as that. Never. But for now...for now he had to find the courage to get up and face reality. He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. It had the faint cracks typical of older apartment buildings, little fissures really. Dare he look at the sheets and pillow again? First, he lifted his aching arms.

  They were scratched up real good. That and the back of his head must be where the blood was from. As his mind came more alive, his heart sunk into his stomach. How did he get the scratches? The bump? Where had he been? What had he been doing? Okay, okay, he’d begun the night at The Wild Bull Pub with Brig. Which was probably his first mistake. Brig, a nickname, was a fellow Chicago fireman and his most dangerous drinking buddy. Last night was the final night before their whole crew started vacation. Brig kept calling it ‘the party to end all parties.’ Denny had gotten into a drinking contest with him and a couple of the other firemen, downing tequila shots. Okay. Then he’d gone out to smoke a cigarette. He remembered it was snowing, the flakes drifting sideways, ticking his eyelids. But then what?

  Then nothing. That was the last thing he could remember. He coughed, a hack from deep in his lungs. He decided he’d quit smoking too. This was it—he was turning his whole life around starting right now. But what had he done after smoking that cigarette last night? Where had he gone? Or had he stayed at The Wild Bull? And yeah, just where did the scratches and bump come from? Oh, this was not good. This was so very not good.

  He pushed himself up on an elbow. He figured the only way he was going to be able to handle things would be by taking them in bit by bit. Okay, let’s keep this in perspective, he told himself. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened. Maybe he’d been going through a wooded area. Which was possible. There were trees and bushes behind The Wild Bull. Maybe he’d decided to take a leak and wandered into them and gotten scratched up that way. But come on, it had been snowing and had he done that he’d’ve had his coat on. Well, then, maybe he got scratched by a dog.

  He couldn’t remember any dogs. Whose dog? Where? But that was the thing—he couldn’t remember anything. He turned it all over in his mind again. Yes, he’d been at The Wild Bull. As usual not a few of the other firemen were there, even the Deputy District Chief for a while. He remembered they’d patiently waited for the Chief to leave before they got serious with the drinking, and maybe an hour later they started the tequila shots. It had all been cool. Great fun. Everybody having a good time. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, his back aching. So then why was he not remembering anything?

  Maybe he’d gotten the scratches and the bump in a fight? It wouldn’t have been the first time Brig got him into one. Brig was his best bud but he also had a knack for getting into trouble. He got his nickname for how often he was in the Marine lockup, ‘the brig,’ during his tours of duty in Afghanistan. After living in a combat zone, life being anything less than an out of control party was intolerable to him. And out of control parties often end in trouble, in violence. But if Denny’d been in a fight, he’d been in a fight with who? Brig? A stranger? He coughed again and stood, his legs unsteady under him.

  His brain felt like it had rocks in it, crashing back and forth with the slightest movement. He turned and looked at the bloody pillow and sheets. Oh God. He needed to sit back down but forced himself to walk, his legs hardly feeling like they belonged to him. He headed for the kitchen. Damn. He’d left the shades open and here he was in his underwear. He hurried to the windows, noticing it was snowing again, and yanked the shades down. So yeah, maybe he’d been in a fight. He opened the refrigerator. Four cans of beer were still tethered by their plastic pack yoke. Ugh. This was it. He was serious about quitting drinking. He grabbed the beers, popped them open and dumped them into the sink, which filled with foam, the kitchen reeking of the King of Beers.

  He grabbed a can of coke from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table. What he’d done would come to him, he figured. It usually did. He took a long drink of the soda, the effervescence sneaking up his nose. Oh, he knew the AA people would’ve called what he’d experienced a blackout. But he’d remember. He felt confident he would.

  But there were times this had happened and he couldn’t remember, and he’d had to piece together the night’s events by calling friends, asking leading questions, and trying not to be too embarrassed in the process. ‘So, that was a pretty crazy time we had last night at McCutty’s?’ he’d say, and his buddy might reply, ‘Yeah, but things didn’t get really crazy until you insisted we go to The Devil’s Den and do watermelon shots.’ And that way, little by little, the night would re-materialize.

  He felt like
he had sand in his eyes. The caffeine in the coke was waking him a touch but he needed more, so he shook a cigarette loose from a packet on the kitchen table and lit it—he’d quit smoking tomorrow. Today it would be enough to quit drinking. He took a deep drag. Ah, that was better. He was feeling just a little less miserable. In fact, he was feeling strong enough to really examine the scratches on his arms, and he felt the bump on the back of his head again—at least it stopped bleeding. The idea of fighting with someone and not remembering who was weirding him out. Like he’d see the guy on the street and the guy’d be thinking about the fight, ready to punch him, while he’d be clueless.

  He looked in the kitchen mirror. His neck was red above his t-shirt. He pulled the t-shirt down—more scratches. He shook his head and frowned. How could a person forget being in a fight? But he had. Maybe, he couldn’t help but think, maybe it was like the AA people said, a blackout. And they said nothing could be remembered from blackouts. And when it came to things like that, they were usually right. He swallowed hard.

  The phone rang. He looked at it. It was another fireman, Orson. And Orson had been at The Wild Bull last night. Oh well, might as well face the music. Denny set his cigarette in a plastic ashtray on the kitchen table. “Yeah, Orson?”

  “Hey, Denny. What an insane night last night. I can hardly believe it.”

  Hardly believe what? He couldn’t come right out and say he didn’t remember a damn thing. “Yeah, the tequila shots were probably a bad idea, and anyway, I blame it all on Brig.” Denny laughed. A laugh that sounded phony even to himself.

  “No, I mean, you didn’t hear?”

  “Didn’t hear what?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Uh, no, I guess not.” Denny gripped the phone tightly. “Why don’t you just tell me already.”

  “I’m sorry, Denny, I didn’t realize you were that out of it.”

  “So what the hell happened?” Denny braced for the worst—he’d pulled his pants down, had sex with a hooker, crashed his car?

  “You sitting down?”

  There was no joking in Orson’s voice. All his prefacing was making Denny angry enough to hang up but also scaring the life out of him. Put on your big boy pants, he told himself. He bit his lip and said, “Yeah, Orson, what?”

  “Your ex-wife was murdered last night.”

  * * *

  The phone slipped from Denny’s ear and fell to the floor. He stared straight ahead. He knew he’d heard right but hoped he hadn’t. His cigarette tilted out of the ashtray and tumbled onto the kitchen table, rolling a couple of inches. He didn’t pick it up. Somewhere, somehow, at some level he heard Orson’s voice calling, “Denny! Denny!” But Denny was no longer able to register the information. His ex-wife, Rashida, was dead, Orson said. Murdered. And Orson might be on the geeky side but he was no practical joker. This could only mean one thing—Rashida was really dead.

  He slumped in the chair. Memories of her flooded back into his mind’s eye. Her smile. Her infectious laugh. The pride he’d had in her. Yes, they’d had their problems—well it was more he’d had his problems—but they’d been husband and wife. It was a bond he still felt bound by somehow. He still dreamt about her, even though they’d been divorced nearly three years.

  Still the fact that she was dead wasn’t registering. She couldn’t be. She was the same age as him, only thirty-four. No, dead? It wasn’t possible. He didn’t care if it was reliable Orson that told him. It must be a mistake. Rashida wasn’t dead.

  “Denny! Denny! You there?” The tiny voice continued. Denny looked at the phone on the orange carpet. He really ought to steam clean that carpet. It had gotten grungy. He picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay, man?”

  Denny inhaled deeply and blinked. His eyes moved to the cigarette, smoldering, melting the veneer on the kitchen table. He picked it up and snuffed it in the ashtray. “Yeah.”

  “I know, it’s unbelievable and I hated to tell you but you had to know.”

  Denny shook his head. “You’re sure, Orson?”

  “Positive. It’s all over the news.”

  “All right.”

  “And, Denny, what, you don’t remember anything from last night?”

  Denny sighed. “No.”

  “No, as in you’re not sure or no as in you’re sure?”

  “No, as in I’m sure I don’t remember a damn thing. For God’s sake, Orson, what’s the big deal?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, man. I’m sure you must be reeling right now.”

  “But it makes no sense. Who would kill her? Why?”

  “I know. I know.”

  Silence, then Denny said, “Well, how did she die?”

  “They’re saying she was strangled.”

  Denny closed his eyes and blew out a breath. This was a nightmare. He must be dreaming. As he sat there an anger kindled in his chest. Some scumbag murdered his beautiful wife. Strangled her. His anger grew. He opened his eyes. “Do the police have him?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “Orson, listen, you’re absolutely sure? I mean, absolutely? This couldn’t be an elaborate hoax, some practical joke somebody’s playing?”

  “No, Denny. She’s dead. She’s really dead.”

  * * *

  Denny hung up the phone, his head throbbing worse than before. He wished he hadn’t poured the beer down the drain. He guzzled from the coke can and lit another cigarette. He had to do something to knock back the pain.

  Rashida was dead. She was really dead. Even just thinking the thought seemed impossible. She was so pretty, so vivacious. Yes, at times she was a pain in the butt too, but that was her—spoiled, special, intelligent, much more intelligent than him. Now some psychopath strangled her. The thought flashed through his mind he wanted to see her body. Yes, he needed proof. But Orson was no liar. Denny finished the coke and drew hard on the cigarette. Rashida was dead.

  He took a shower, hoping it would help clear his head. He felt like a robot, stepping in, turning the handles, pulling the diverter knob to start the spray. Emotionally spent, he sat down cross-legged in the tub. This couldn’t be, he thought. It just couldn’t. But the sting of the water on the scratches and the bump on his head reminded him it could. He felt the tenderness of the bump—somebody had cracked him there good. But the physical pain meant nothing compared to the fact that Rashida was dead. His wife. He let the water run over him until it turned cold. He struggled to his feet.

  Except for a fitness test, he didn’t have to be at the firehouse for ten days. That’s what had led to the insane drinking—his firehouse team’s vacation starting the next day. He toweled off and figured he’d shave. He didn’t know what to do. Rashida was dead. Should he go to her house? The house that used to be his too. Call her parents? And say what? Who would know what to do in a situation like this? She was dead. She was really dead.

  The bath towel was tinged red from the scratches and the bump. He figured whatever redness might be left over on the bump wouldn’t show with his dark brown hair, but it would be embarrassing if people saw the scratches. And so when he dressed he chose a long sleeve shirt and buttoned the collar and sleeves. He didn’t need the questions that would inevitably follow seeing the scratches. Not that he was expecting to see anybody. Maybe Rashida’s parents. But he wasn’t even sure about that.

  Crazy. The whole situation was crazy. Absolutely insane. Then it came to him. A thought that had been nibbling at the edge of his consciousness finally hit him full-force. Someone murdered Rashida last night and he couldn’t remember what he’d done last night. No, no, no! He banished the thought that up till now had been unthinkable. But it came back. No. He loved her. He would never be able to do that. Never.

  Still, the voice kept returning. He didn’t know what he’d done. Whatever he might say, he couldn’t deny that it was possible he’d killed her. And hadn’t he been violent in bar fights he couldn’t remember? Granted, he’d gotten bea
ten up as much as he’d beaten. But the one bar fight the cops got called to was a mess—if he hadn’t been a fireman and the fire department brass hadn’t pulled a few strings, he would’ve done some time.

  That was the thing about drinking. He never knew where it would take him. It could just be a night out with the guys having fun—or anything at all. It was scary. Add the fact that he’d never been able to quit drinking no matter how many times he’d tried, and it was even scarier. And then there was the time he’d thrown the TV remote at Rashida. It was the reason she left him, the final straw, something he’d regretted ever since. He hadn’t hit her with the remote, didn’t mean to, but...but...but he had to admit that his anger was real.

  Still he would never hurt her. Never. Even drunk. Even in a blackout. (Yes, he thought the word again—damn those AA people!) And yet it had been making him crazy that she’d been sleeping with one of the other firemen. If she’d slept with anybody else it would’ve been all right. But sleeping with Powell, the sex addict. That had just about done him in. But that was what it was, he’d dealt with it. It was over. In the past. He’d accepted it. Well, for the most part, because when he was honest with himself, he admitted he still had twinges about it now and then.

  It was hard though because he still thought of her as his wife—and he still loved her.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Chapter Two

  Denny had to get it. Already swamped with uncertainties and doubts, if he didn’t answer the door he’d go crazy wondering who it might have been. He took a deep breath and headed down the little hallway of his apartment to the living room and front door. He ran his hands through his hair. Thank God he’d showered. There was no peephole and although he usually opened the door without saying a word, this time he called, “Yeah?”

  A moment of silence and then: “I’m Sergeant Nemiah Washington, a detective with the Chicago Police Department.”

  Denny leaned against the wall. He wanted to ask, ‘What do you want?’ but that wasn’t going to happen. The police. He felt a sudden urge to urinate but there was no time. He had to open the door.