At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(4)

“I’m right here,” Evan said.

The man dropped his gaze and gaped at Evan.

“Professor Wilding, I presume,” he said.

“The same,” Evan said.

The officers closed the gap. Now Evan could see the names stenciled on their coats. Officers Blakesley and Osborn. His mind went automatically to the etymology of their names. Blakesley was the name of a village in Northern England. The name Osborn was also Anglo-Saxon and meant divine bear.

“Damn easy to miss,” said the man. Officer Blakesley. He was big, with neatly trimmed blond hair and a ruddy complexion that now deepened with a flush. “What I mean is, with the fog, you came out of nowhere.”

“I’m short is what you meant,” Evan said. “It’s all right to speak the truth.”

The second officer urged her horse closer. “Detective Bisset has asked for you, sir. Patrol tried calling.”

“I don’t check my phone when I’m hunting,” Evan said.

“Hunting?” She frowned.

“With Ginny.” Evan enjoyed a brief moment of being the one with the knowledge instead of standing on the other side. “And speaking of hunting, someone has been murdering pigeons.”

“We get that a lot,” Blakesley said.

“With knives?” Evan moved aside so they could see the pigeon’s tattered body.

Osborn leaned forward in her saddle. “Shit.”

Evan’s brain cataloged the word. Shit. From the Old English word scitte, meaning purging or diarrhea. Taboo after the sixteenth century and censored from the works of James Joyce and Hemingway. Modern derivations include shitload—a great many; shit-faced—drunk; and of course shitticism, from Robert Frost’s description of scatological writing.

Thus was the curse of being a semiotician. No word too common to avoid scrutiny.

“Did you see anyone?” Blakesley asked.

“Not a soul.” Evan glanced up, looking beyond their shoulders. “Ah, here she is.”

Both officers flinched as Ginny came in from the north, swooping low over their heads. Talons outstretched, she slammed onto her master’s gloved fist. Osborn’s horse skittered sideways. Blakesley kept his roan in firm check.

Ginny fluffed herself, then settled. Her lids lowered halfway, a sign of contentment. A few drops of blood marred the white feathers of her breast.

Blakesley smiled. “A goshawk, isn’t she? A friend of mine use to fly them. She’s a beauty.”

“She’s enormous.” Osborn’s voice sounded both admiring and annoyed. She coughed as if to cover up her annoyance. “I saw your talk a few months back on the origins of human sacrifice in Mesoamerica, sir. At Cobb Hall.”

“You’re a student?”

“Date night. His pick. He didn’t last for date number two, but your talk was fascinating.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Evan said.

“I’ve attended all your public lectures ever since.” Her eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Next month’s is about the petroglyphs of the Ancestral Puebloans, right?”

Evan nodded. The upside to being a semiotician was that you occasionally attracted enthusiasts.

But Blakesley laughed. “God, Sal, you’re such a nerd.”

“And you, Ed, are a bonehead,” she said, apparently unoffended.

Evan ran a hand along Ginny’s feathers. She ignored him and eyed the cops with a wild gleam in her golden eyes. “No eating public servants,” he whispered. More loudly he said, “So where is Addie—Detective Bisset?”

“She’s where the Calumet joins the Little Calumet.” Blakesley tipped his head south. “A mile or so from the recycling plant. There’s a patrol car waiting nearby to drive you there.”

Evan opened his mouth to protest. He had work to do. His ongoing attempt to decode the Minoan script of the Phaistos Disc. His semiotics class this afternoon at the University of Chicago, where he taught. A meeting with a classics professor to discuss early Cretan hieroglyphs and another with the head of the humanities department to review his planned sabbatical.

Appointments arranged for weeks. Everything planned to a T. Only a rigorous schedule gave Evan any hope of achieving his goals, which were many.

“Sir?” Osborn asked. “Are you coming?” It didn’t sound like a question.

Planned to a T. He leaned his head forward until it touched Ginny’s. “She said she needed me?”

“That’s right, sir. She said we weren’t to take no for an answer.”

“Well, then.” He let out a breath and simultaneously let go of his plans for the day, his hopes for progress on the endless stream of undeciphered mysteries. “I’ll follow patrol there. I doubt his car is equipped to carry a hawk.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officers turned their horses. He trudged after them, Ginny complacent on his glove. Post-hunt, she’d let the wildness go out of her.

He needed to do the same.





CHAPTER 3


Addie shoved her numb hands into the pockets of her parka.

Around her, radios hissed, a woman from Forensic Services took photos, and someone else worked on a series of sketches. Other techs walked up and down on the road above, searching for evidence. The crime scene had come alive. On her orders, everyone except the techs kept well clear of the corpse, waiting for the medical examiner and Evan. Her partner, Patrick McBrady, had arrived ten minutes ago and stood with his butcher’s arms folded over the broad expanse of his chest, chatting with another tech, Justin Wao, about the new pizzeria in Jefferson Park. How they diced anchovies straight into the cheese so that eating a slice was like sticking your head right down into the fishy netherworld of Lake Michigan.