Chapter 45

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"That was a delicious and satisfying meal," Will proclaimed as he reclined against a sticky plastic booth. They had just finished a lunch of all-you-can-eat pasta and salad at the Lincolnwood Olive Garden.

"Oh, I don't know," Laura stifled a burp, "I think my esophagus is none too happy with the whole ordeal."

"You, my dearie, are a bit too dyspeptic all way around! A little marinara is good for the soul!"

"Good for the heartburn, you mean."

Weaving their way through close-set tables on their way out, Will halted at the hostess station to grab a generous handful of buttermints. They ventured out into the chilly December evening. No snow yet, but the sharp snap and a brisk wind off the lake promised later flurries.

"Shall we do a little holiday shopping in the mall, or head back to our room?" Will asked, a glint of hope in his eyes.

Laura glanced dubiously toward the glittering lights of the run-down shopping center. The dingy north-side Chicago neighborhood had offered a surprisingly secure place to lay low while tracking down the next clue, but she wasn't one to push it.

"I don't know, Will," she chattered through her teeth, "Just going out to eat was a risk. I think we should head back to the room. We don't want to be spotted."

"Or cause a riot. My, the glamour! The notoriety! Mercy sakes, my Georgia peach, I'm going to miss our fame when it's gone!" He pressed his knuckle to his lip, eyes aglow with drama. "But, of course, you're right. We must maintain a low profile. We are incognito!" He pulled his scarf up around his ears, burrowed his chin down into his coat and darted across the street, pulling Laura into a garishly decorated purple monstrosity.

"Ahh, the glamorous Ratty-ass hotel," he bellowed in the lobby of the Lincolnwood Radisson. A white-outfitted maid waiting for the elevator with a cart of cleaning supplies shot a curious glance.

"Will, you ..." Laura hissed.

"Will I what?" he responded broadly, flashing a charming smile at the cleaning lady. "Not my real na--ame," he sang through his teeth into Laura's ear with an exaggerated air of subterfuge.

Laura let out an exasperated breath. "Let's go the room." She said flatly.

"Oh, you naughty girl!" he cooed, winking broadly to the bewildered desk clerk. "She's insatiable!"

Back at the room, Laura sat at a small, circular table in the corner, pen in hand. Will reclined on one of the beds, leafing through a Chicago guidebook.

"Chicago newspapers ... shy little town on the lake ... Where else is this going?" Laura had a tendency to mutter when she was thinking intently. "A piece must be missing..."

In the past week, they had criss-crossed the city by the lake several times. Their first stop had been Takamoto Industries. "It would be just like Simon to require a return to same spot for new clues!" Laura had offered brightly.

It would be just like him. Only this time, it wasn't.

Reaching the Takamoto lobby, Will and Laura found no new clues. In fact, the 'Tribute to Americana' that had dominated the lobby just one year ago had vanished without a trace. All that remained was the cold corporate lobby and a rather suspicious security guard. No secret panels, no large oaken doors, no underground passageways.

The site of the Eastland disaster represented a similar dead-end. After last year's Carpenterian onslaught on Chicagoan ears, precautions were redoubled to make the tower on the Clark Street Bridge unassailable. Heavy chains festooned the entryway to the tower staircase, and local cops on the beat barred the entrance to thrill-seekers and tourists tempted to retrace the steps of the intrepid Will and Laura.

Except for one local cop, that is. While Laura had darted around the tower hoping to find some clue, Will befriended a local man in uniform. Using his best 'gentleman-in-distress' act, Will had convinced the officer to allow them onto the bridge tower -- and to provide a burly escort as well. "She's looking for her cat," the officer explained to passers-by, as Will called out "Here, pussy, pussy, pussy," in the background.

But it was no go. No clue. Even the venerable "PUSH ME" button was gone.

Which left them right where they started, in another hotel, paging through yet another local guidebook, another local tourist brochure.

Will stretched and thumbed lazily though The Irreverent Guide to Chicago. "Oh, here's something! The Chicago Supernatural Tour! Maybe our clue is hidden in some crypt or graveyard."

"For the hundredth time, we are not blowing $30 apiece on some cheesy ghost tour. Will you be serious?"

Laura returned to her careful study, but her concentration was blown by three sharp raps on the door.

"Oh, my!" Will interjected, leaping from the bed. "Rappings from beyond! Perhaps we are being visited from some poor, departed spirit, longing to redeem a dissipated life with one last good deed!"

Slipping to the door, he peeked surreptitiously out the peephole. "Aha! Human it seems. Or is it?" he flourished maniacally, throwing open the door.

A pleasant, mild-looking young man stood in the threshold, hands clasped in front of him. He was dressed in neatly pressed chino pants and a meticulously clean white sweater. He glanced up shyly and looked cautiously into the room. Laura thought she recognized him, but couldn't quite place the face. He raised his hand ever so slightly to a wave, and smiled at Laura. "Hello, again." There was a soft, slight Louisiana lilt to his voice.

Will beckoned him into the room with an expansive gesture that nearly turned to an embrace. "Laura," he addressed her, never turning his eyes from the newcomer, "You remember Officer Jack Thibodaux."

It was the cop. The cop from the Clark Street Bridge. The unlikeliest Chicago cop in the history of the Windy City. Pleasant, understated, nattily turned out and, apparently, quite attracted to one young Will Gilbert.

"So nice to see ..." Laura trailed off, confused. "How did you ...?" She looked to Will, her brow compressed in a slight crease.

"Wasn't it swell of Officer Jack to drop by and check on us? He was ever so helpful and kind the other day, somehow, I knew, we had to see him again."

Will smiled stiffly at Jack and pulled Will to her. "Will ... what the hell are you doing? We're supposed to be low pro here. How do you know we can even trust him?"

Will scoffed. "Look at him! He's a puppy! Such warm, sensitive eyes. Such a sweet demeanor. Trust me, I know men ..."

"Yeah, like you knew Sebastian Moffet, aka Vesper Shillington?"

Will pulled a pout. "Well, I'm not kicking him out. Jack," Will raised his voice. "It seems my intrepid partner thinks you're a baddie. Could you show her your badge, and put her girlish heart at ease?"

Laura's face reddened with mortification as he pulled a leather fold from his pocket and flashed the shiny shield at her. "Oh ... it's really not necessary ..." Laura sputtered and gave up. Will would have his way. And the young man did seem harmless and ... trustworthy. "How long have you been in Chicago," she asked brightly.

"For the last four years. I'm from Baton Rouge, originally. I like it up north here -- It's nice to have the seasons."

"And you know the city pretty well?" Laura asked.

"Know it?" Will interjected. "He practically owns it! He's one of our brave boys in blue!"

Laura accepted the interruption without the flicker of an eyelash. "Good. Maybe you can help us."

******

Mike leaned back to stretch. He doubted his creaky old desk chair was ergonomically designed. And right now it was causing him some serious pain.

Running his fingers across the piles of printouts in front of him, he did a quick mental calculation of the documents. vampyr had really done his work. He'd cross-referenced every date from the clippings Will and Laura had found in Cheyenne with all records on Simon Waterbury. He'd turned up detailed paper-trail on Waterbury's movements and actions from that exact span of time -- including flight records for commercial and private air travel, phone records and shipping receipts. Over the last few weeks, Mike had cross-referenced those bits of information with suspected U.S. government departments every way he could think -- Congressional hearings that convened on the dates the articles had appeared, headlines about international policy, the movements of the president ...

Not every lead panned out. In fact, the vast majority steadfastly refused to lead anywhere. Like a needle in a haystack, Mike sighed to himself. No, not even a needle in a haystack. At least with a needle, you know what you're looking for.

All he had was a mass of details, all pointing in different directions. Simon's 'clues' could lead anywhere. Or nowhere. Or two places at once. Since he'd been on this case, Mike had seen the treasure hunt clues seem to point in all those directions. And he still wasn't sure it was going anywhere at all.

But still, he needed to look for the pattern. Hopefully, he'd light upon the one significant detail, the one uncanny connection that would make it all fall into place. But that would take time. Time that he didn't have.

********

"We generally return to the Sooner Than Never when we've gotten to a location where we think there's a clue," Laura explained to Jack. "Each location tends to point to the next -- but it doesn't tell us exactly where to go once we get there. We've gone over and over Chapter 8, but we just don't know where it's leading. We don't know the city well enough."

"But you," Will chimed in, his eyes sparkling, "You're a cop on the beat! If anyone could recognize landmarks, it's you! Am I right?"

Jack blushed at the attention. "I guess," he muttered, averting his eyes. "But remember," he added, with a meticulous clarity in his voice, "I'm not a native. I'm really not an expert."

"But he's a history buff!" Will gushed. "An aficionado of Americana. Give it a shot," he nudged.

Laura took pity on the officer's open embarrassment and decided it was her duty to remove the pressure of Will's attentions.

"I'm game. I'll read the next chapter. You just listen. Let use know if anything reminds you of a Chicago landmark, a location, a part of Chicago history ... anything. OK?"

He assented and she began.

Harlowe's cold words had shaken Violet to her very foundation. How could she have been so mistaken? How could she have misjudged? Or was it possible that Harlowe had loved, but that his foolish head had been turned by the promise of wealth and ease. Violet could not fathom the soul that would prefer luxury and material comfort to love and good fellowship. It was more comprehensible that she had merely mistaken his character from the start.

"Ah, the menfolk," she sighed to herself as she caught a glimpse of her locket, "Can they never be trusted? Must they always betray? I will fortify myself with wealth and put myself beyond their inconstant grasp!"

"This Violet seems bitter," Jack offered when Laura paused for a breath.

"Ohhh, but she has reason, hard-won reason!" Will vaunted, eyes flashing.

"Anything strike you yet? About the story, and Chicago?" Laura asked.

Jack paused, his brow pursed as he concentrated. "Sorry. Nothing. Read me some more."

Laura turned her eyes back to the book, squinting in the dim light of the hotel room.

********

Mike's eyes ached. The printouts from vampyr were pale and uneven. Change the toner cartridge, damn you! Mike cursed inwardly.

Time to review. What were the patterns? Meager and few. During the time frame of the Cheyenne clippings, Simon seemed to have done a lot of travel in third-world countries. In Africa, to be exact. And he took a lot of trips to Washington.

Mike turned back to the pile of copies made from the treasure hunt clippings. Headlines about agriculture, all of them. About the U.S.'s role as breadbasket to the world.

Wait a minute, he thought, reaching to the far edge of his desk to grasp a thick wad of papers. It was a report on U.S. grain exports for the year of 1965. He riffled through it, and pinned it to his desk with a stab of his finger.

Stretching out to the other edge of his desk, he reached frantically for a second stack, vampyr's printouts of Simon's records.

Cross-reference. Check. Score.

Mike looked up in wonderment. Regaining his equilibrium, he seized the two reports and perched on the edge of his seat. Tucking the government report under his arm, he grabbed the phone with his free hand and speedily punched in the extension.

"Fenroy? This is Agent Barlowe. I have some information that pertains to the Amber Waves case. I think we should meet immediately."

******

Her few belongings collected, Violet enrobed herself in a coarse, grey cloak. How fortunate for her she had never been granted the finery befitting her beauty! Her drab coat provided effective camouflage in this den of men; her girlish frame almost monkish in the semi-light.

But that selfsame path would lead as well to power and wealth. Wealth, Violet told herself, that was the key to independence. Once she had seized her father's cache of cash, she would be free, empowered to pursue her own will and no man's!

"It's a bit florid, don't you think?" Jack interjected.

"Oh, that's not the worst of it. Go on," Will cued Laura to continue.

Stealing out through the grey of dawn, Violet felt the chill of morn and the chill of loneliness. Reaching the high road, she quickly got her bearings and set her course for her father's lands. For three hours, she traveled unmolested until a broad coach pulled beside her.

The river which hitherto had cut a fertile ribbon through the land had dwindled to a trickle of filthy sludge. Ashes choked the waterway, slowly pouring out into the lake. Ashes floated on the surface of the once mirror-like lake, bringing death to the finny denizens. A capsized boat, stuck fast to a sandbar, served as anchor for the floating debris that caught as floated by. Rotting carcasses bobbed on the surface, mixed with refuse. It almost seemed that dry land, a shanty town, a mighty city could be built upon the garbage. Nary a street or harbor now could be traversed without touching this filth. Nary a street or harbor.

Jack's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Laura noted his reaction, and read on.

Diana looked upon the rotting land with disgust and signaled Samuel to stop the carriage. "It seems a crime to leave you in such a God-forsaken wasteland, but if that is your wish ..."

Facing the river she turned south, heading upon the path of the sails to reach the juncture with Jack's way.

A brief snort from Jack. Laura paused and continued.

Finally, it rose above her, the structure she sought. Her father's granary. Rising from the filth, refuse and desolation, it seemed to be built on one great heap of death and destruction. The squalor of the surroundings and foundation stood in stark and jarring opposition to the rising structure. It was cut all in marble, a gleaming white hall. Scenes of harvest and plenty, cut in bas-relief, festooned the outer walls. A tribute to corn and wheat, the structure was topped with a shining spectacle, a golden statue of the goddess Ceres, mother of the harvest. Violet picked her way through the garbage leading to the sumptuous granary, and began to ascend the pillared stairs.

Laura put down the book.

"Well!" Will broke the silence. "If it is a portrait of Chicago, it's not a very flattering one!"

"Oh, it's Chicago alright," Jack asserted. "But it's more in its allusions than in a general description."

"Exactly!" Laura chimed in. "Like the capsized boat, right? It's the Eastland!"

"Yes," Jack agreed in an orderly tone. "But it's much more than that. The ashes and garbage, the allusions to the 'shanty town,' the description of it looking like a city built on garbage -- well, that literally is Chicago. Or parts of it."

"And now's the part where we ask you for exposition ..." Will interjected.

"Yes. Well. Streeterville, in Chicago. It's what's also called the 'Gold Coast' -- one of the wealthiest parts of town, east of the Magnificent Mile, right on the lake. The thing is, it's not part of the original shoreline. In the 1880s, some steamboat captain named Cap Streeter ran aground on a sandbar off the coast of Chicago. Streeter claimed it as his 'land' and became a squatter on his own shipwreck. He invited people in the city to dump garbage on his 'land,' and eventually created a big landfill. At first, it was a shantytown, but Streeter encouraged more settlements. He even tried to declare it an independent territory -- the 'District of Lake Michigan.' He wasn't evicted until 1918, and now it's some of the most sought-after real estate in Chicago. In fact, the John Hancock Tower stands on the location of Streeter's original shanty!"

"That makes sense of the chapter," Laura piped in. "And it explains that one weird line, 'Nary a street or harbor.'"

"That's it! The next clue is in the Hancock Tower!" Will danced about the room. "To the Gold Coast!!"

"No, wait. I'm not convinced that's it. It's clear that this chapter is about Chicago, but I don't think it finally points to Streeterville. I mean, there's also all that stuff about the ashes choking the lake. Well, ashes ... Great Chicago Fire. A much better known event in Chicago history, and it's alluded to in the chapter as well. In fact, Grant Park, like Streeterville, is also landfill -- a landfill made of the debris from the fire."

"So we've got the Great Chicago Fire, the Eastland Disaster, Streeter's shanty town, the John Hancock Tower, Grant Park," Laura sighed in exasperation. "Anything else?"

"Sorry," he grimaced a smile. "Yes, I do. But I think it's the answer."

******

Mike shifted uncomfortably in the stiff, leather and bentwood chair. Why wouldn't Fenroy get off the phone? And why was he speaking in such hushed tones? Mike had been told his project was top priority. So why the delay?

Finally, Mike's superior officer concluded his call turned to Mike.

"So," he started in gruffly, "What've you got for me, Barlowe."

He won't look me in the eye, Mike noted uneasily as he prepared his documents.

"Well, I started to notice some interesting correlations, using some of the documents hacked for us and cross-referencing them with the dates of the clippings from Waterbury's latest clue in Cheyenne. There's strong correlation to agriculture, to foreign commerce policy, to the development of third-world nations and the export of U.S. surplus grain. It seems like our buddy Simon here is pointing toward the export of crops from the U.S. to Somalia, Zimbabwe and regions surrounding. I've charted on this map ..."

"Thank you. That's enough, Agent Barlowe. Please leave those documents with me. I'd also like you to hand over all your files on this case. We'll be reassigning you."

Mike's jaw dropped. "But why? Don't you want me to pursue this line of research? I thought we were getting closer ..."

"Barlowe, you know your orders. Report for reassignment tomorrow at zero-eight-hundred."

**************

"Don't hold us in suspense! Where is the clue? Is it in the chapter?"

"I believe it's where Violet finally arrives. What was that part about the 'sails path' and 'Jack's street'?"

Laura flipped through the pages. "It reads 'the path of the sails to reach the juncture with Jack's way.'" She looked up expectantly, Will leaning in over her shoulder.

"I'm guessing the 'sails path' and 'the juncture with Jack's way' means the corner of LaSalle and Jackson in the loop. Any Chicagoan will tell you, that's the Chicago Board of Trade. A big white building, with carvings of corn and wheat. Incidentally, it's topped with a gold statue of Ceres."

"Is it built on garbage?" Will asked, expectantly.

"I don't think so."

"It could be," Laura ventured, "But not literally."

"It gives us somewhere to start, anyway," Will triumphed.

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