At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)
Barbara Nickless
PREFACE: A LOVE LETTER TO CHICAGO
The city of Chicago sounded its siren call for me long ago. A too-short visit only cemented my love for this bustling, brazen, brilliant city built on a swamp. A place where the lake and the rivers keep trying to take back what was once theirs—and where the people of Chicago refuse to cede more than a few basements or an underpass or the occasional tunnel. Where corruption rubs up against idealism, where neighborhoods shift and gentrify and shift again.
My plan, when I began writing At First Light, was to return to Chicago and stay with family on an extended sabbatical. I wanted to begin like a tourist and then take a deeper dive into the city’s architecture, its culture, and especially its people.
Then came the 2020 pandemic. And everything changed. The citizens of Chicago—like so many Americans—suffered terribly. And I remained in Colorado.
I considered shifting Evan and Addie to another city. But nothing about that felt right. So I persisted. And as I struggled to get to know the city from a distance, what I learned is that Chicagoans are among the most generous people you’ll meet. From detectives to bookstore owners to attorneys and beyond—when I asked for help, people gave generously of their time and knowledge.
For a list of some of the people who helped, please read the acknowledgments in the back. And for the many, many other resources I used while writing this book—both for Chicago and for other aspects of the story—please visit my website at www.barbaranickless.com.
Finally, for everything about Chicago that I got wrong, I offer a heartfelt apology. I confess to altering certain locations such as Washington Park to suit the needs of this story. And to being deliberately vague about the location of Evan’s home. If you notice errors, I’d love to hear from you so that I get it right on Evan’s next adventure.
Barbara Nickless
March 2020
ONE
Excerpt from The Narratives of Serial Killers
Semiotician: Evan Wilding, PhD, SSA, IASS
Proceedings of the International Conference on Semiotics
Every murderer creates his own story.
This story may be simple or elaborate, coherent or deeply fragmented.
Serial murderers often leave signs and symbols at the crime scene—messages for the police to decipher. Notes, maps, images. The posing of the body, a unique modus operandi. The killer is the riddler extraordinaire, and his narrative—the story he wishes to tell—is the enigma he presents to the detective.
Someone—perhaps Nietzsche—once said that those seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music.
Our job is to find the killer’s music.
THE VIKING POET
Listen!
I am the wolf who walks your nights. The horror who haunts your days. Hear me—I am the soldier who slays the sinners.
Come, sinner, you who violate the Law. Walk with me.
Am I not fair company?
We will spend tonight together. And if you cannot answer my riddle, then I will—I must!—finish Odin’s work. When it is over, I’ll send birds to guide you from this world into another, as custom demands. Birds whose presence in Chicago defiles nature. Then I’ll scatter runes to tell the world of your sins.
Remember: fate goes ever as it must.
And I am your fate.
I speak my words aloud then, satisfied; cap my pen; and close the journal. It’s evening. The sun, Sunna, riding in her chariot, nears the far horizon. All around, shadows gather.
I look past the translations of Beowulf stacked on my desk. Past the knife. I pick up the framed photo of Alex and touch a finger to the glass.
A sound. Outside, a murmuration of starlings flurries past the windows. I stand and, still holding Alex’s photograph, I cross the room to stand in the dying light. I wonder what soul the birds accompany tonight.
Who came for you, Alex, when you lay broken deep in the earth? Who carried your soul to the underworld?
My fingers tremble on the picture frame.
The last rays disappear. Red still burns in the western sky, but overhead, a scattering of stars appears in the darkening vault, jewels on a diamond broker’s velvet cloth.
I replace Alex’s photo on the desk, then drop to the floor and knock out a series of push-ups, lunges, squats, and planks. I work until my breath comes hard and sweat sheets from my naked skin.
To calm my mind. To prepare for what is to come.
Then I shower and dress, draw on my coat, slip my cell phone and car keys into a pocket.
My work is nearly done. Not much longer now before the businessman’s soul journeys on and I turn my attention to the next sinner.
For there is always another sinner.
CHAPTER 1
A bitter mid-November night slouched off to make room for a grim day that no one considered an improvement.
The wind off Lake Michigan rattled awnings and swept rain and trash along the streets and pressed dank fingers against the exposed necks of the locals—paper delivery boys, taxi drivers, cops—who stomped their feet and adjusted their scarves and dreamed of tropical beaches and sun-warmed skin.
Near a forlorn section of the Calumet River, Detective Adrianne “Addie” Bisset stared at the body of a man murdered more than once. By her count, he’d received three fatal wounds, and although all were cruel, she couldn’t be sure which injury had served as the actual coup de grace. It was the detective’s macabre game—had it been the slashed throat, the tightened noose, or the bone-crushing blow to the head?