Into the Light (The Light #1)(52)

“It was found in the same neighborhood as the woman from a week ago,” I said softly, hoping my voice didn’t transcend the phone and reach the unintended listener.

“Sounds about right. I’ll call you after I get off work. I’m not sure if we can meet for a drink, but I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

When the phone disconnected, I wondered who Charlotte was—I mean, besides me.

Unlike with my wasted morning, at least with that brief conversation I’d learned something. The ME’s office had already received the call. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow for details. Maybe I’d get them this evening from Dr. Howell.

As I was about to give up on the abandoned building, a late-model black Suburban pulled up and around to the front. It stopped near the neighboring building, the one that looked like an old fire station. Though there were three large garage-type doors, the two men who got out of the SUV walked between the buildings.

I reached for my camera. While my phone took good pictures, my Nikon was capable of much more. With the two-hundred-millimeter-focal-length lens, the zooming abilities were superb. I pointed and snapped a rapid series of shots. The two men who walked between the buildings were white, average height, wearing dark jeans and white T-shirts. If I were to guess, I’d have put them roughly in their thirties. As I continued to take the photos, the word nondescript came to mind. The driver remained in the vehicle. Seeing him through the windshield, I couldn’t get a great picture, but I saw that he was African-American and wearing a similar white T-shirt. From my angle, I couldn’t make out much more.

Whatever the men did between the buildings didn’t take long. In less than five minutes, they were out, and the Suburban pulled away, past me and toward Woodward. Ignoring Dylan’s warning, I backed out of my space and pulled out of the parking lot, just in time to watch the Suburban turn right on Woodward. Justifying my decision—the SUV had turned in the direction in which I would need to go to get back to WCJB—I followed.

Since Woodward Avenue was a main thoroughfare, I wasn’t concerned about the occupants of the SUV questioning my presence. That was, until we turned right onto Glendale Avenue. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled in warning. For a warm late-summer morning, the streets were very quiet. While I waited at a light at Second Avenue, the Suburban turned right. Once the stoplight changed, I followed. I turned just in time to see the black SUV pull into a parking lot behind a white brick building.

I continued to drive and circled the block.

Thankfully, wherever Dylan and the rest of the police were wasn’t nearby. Approaching again from the front of the building, I slowed near the corner of Second and Glendale Avenues. During my circle I passed multiple buildings that weren’t only abandoned, but charred remains of what had once been homes. As a matter of fact, I was currently across the street from one. An overgrowth of shrubbery near the intersection hid my location as I pulled to the side of the road.

Peering about, I didn’t see a single person. Maybe it was the police presence somewhere in the vicinity, but for whatever reason, despite its being almost midday, the neighborhood was deadly still. I turned off the ignition, locked my car, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Weeds brushed my pant legs as I made my way through the debris littering the street and sidewalk.

Moving slowly around the overgrowth of bushes, I scanned the front of the building, the one where the SUV had parked. If I were to guess, it was or used to be an office building. Four stories tall, it had many windows in front, all covered interiorly by long white vertical blinds. This building’s surroundings looked different from those of most buildings in the area. Unlike where I stood, there weren’t any overgrown bushes or grass; even the sidewalk in front was clear of weeds and debris. A black chain-link fence surrounded the entire building, yet there didn’t appear to be a lock of any kind on the front gate. Above the front entrance was a blue awning with white letters that simply read “The Light.”

I snapped more pictures. Rotating from left to right I photographed the entire intersection. On the southwest corner, across Second Avenue from The Light, was a large limestone building surrounded by a rod iron fence. As I zoomed my camera, I made out the words Public Schools of Highland Heights etched in the stone. The trees and bushes as well as ground clutter indicated that, like many others, it was abandoned. Across from the old school was the skeleton of a house, decimated by fire, and on the corner where I stood was another building. The broken windows told me that it too was empty.

Getting back in my car, I watched the vertical blinds covering the windows on the front side of The Light. I didn’t notice any movement. If the building held people, they were hidden. As I slowly drove toward the intersection, a group of three women walked from the back of The Light, coming from near the parking lot. From that distance I couldn’t make out distinguishing characteristics, but I could tell that they were women.

What are they doing?

I watched as they crossed Second Avenue toward the old school and disappeared behind an overgrowth of trees. Reaching for my camera, I waited for more people. When no one else emerged, I laid my camera down and drove forward, crossing the intersection. Driving slowly, I peered in the direction in which they had gone. The iron gate on the far side of the trees was closed. Beyond it was a door, but it had a “Do Not Trespass” sign attached and a chain laced through the handle from the outside.