CHICAGO
August 1979
ANGELA MITCHELL STARED AT THE TELEVISION. SHE STOOD WITH HER friend Catherine Blackwell and watched the news report. On the screen, a reporter stood in front of a darkened alley as the sun set on the summer night. Trashcans rested against chain-link fences, and weeds pushed through the cracks of the uneven pavement.
“Another woman,” the reporter said, “has been confirmed missing. Samantha Rodgers, a twenty-two-year-old from Lincoln Park, was reported missing on Tuesday after she failed to show up for work. Authorities believe she is the fifth victim in a string of unexplained disappearances that started in the first week of May.”
The reporter walked along the boulevard. A few pedestrians passed behind her and stared into the camera with stupid grins, unaware of the tragedy being reported.
“The disappearances started May second with the abduction of Clarissa Manning. Since then, three other women have gone missing from the streets of Chicago. None have been found, and it is suspected that their disappearances are all related. Now, Samantha Rodgers is feared to be the latest victim of a predator the authorities are calling The Thief. The Chicago Police Department continues to warn young women not to walk the streets alone. The authorities are asking for any leads in the whereabouts of the missing women, and have set up a tip line.”
“Five women in three months,” Catherine said. “How have the police not been able to find this guy?”
“They have to know something,” Angela said in a quiet and reserved voice. “They’re probably keeping the details away from the public so as not to tip this guy off to what they know.”
Angela’s husband walked into the room and clicked off the television. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”
“It’s just terrible,” Angela said.
Angela’s husband ran his hand over her shoulder and pulled her close for a quick hug. He cocked his head toward the kitchen, making eye contact with Catherine as he left the room.
Angela continued to stare at the blank television screen. The reporter’s profile was burned into her mind, an afterimage that allowed Angela to recall every detail of the woman’s face, the alley, the green street signs in the background, and even the dumb looks on the faces of the passersby who had walked through the frame. It was a gift and a curse to remember everything she saw. She finally blinked the reporter’s image away, allowing it to fade from her visual cortex just as Catherine tugged lightly at Angela’s elbow, pulling her toward the dinner table.
CHICAGO
August 1979
FOUR OF THEM—ANGELA AND CATHERINE, ALONG WITH THEIR HUSBANDS—SAT around the dinner table. Thomas, Angela’s husband, had finished grilling chicken and vegetables, and they settled for the air-conditioned safety of their dining room rather than the original plan of eating on the back patio. The summer heat was stifling, the humidity thick, and the mosquitoes unrelenting.
“Sorry to spend another summer night inside,” Thomas said. “We wait all year for winter to leave, and still find ourselves stuck inside.”
“I’ve been spending all my days outside lately,” Bill Blackwell, Catherine’s husband, said. “One of our foremen quit a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been running his crews, so a break from the heat is fine with me.”
“We haven’t hired anyone to replace him yet?” Thomas asked. Thomas and Bill were partners in their concrete business, pouring foundations for new homes, paving industrial parking lots and indoor garages. Their business, started when they were both twenty years old, had grown to a midsized company with a unionized labor force.
“I’ve got a request in to Local 255. They’re working on it, but until we hire someone I’m running the crews, which means I’m outside all day. And with temperatures in the midnineties, I’m very happy to be sitting inside tonight.”
“If it helps,” Thomas said, “I had to work the Bobcat when one of our guys was sick this week.”
“That doesn’t help,” Bill said. “Driving a Cat is not the same as running the crews. If I get any more mosquito bites, I’ll contract malaria.”
“Should we be more sympathetic toward our hardworking men, Angela?” Catherine asked.
Angela stared at her plate, a detached look on her face.
“Angela,” Thomas said.
When she didn’t respond, he reached out and touched her shoulder, startling her. Angela looked up suddenly. The expression on her face made it seem like she was surprised to see others in the room.
“Bill was just saying how bad the mosquitoes are,” Thomas said in an encouraging voice. “And that he’s working harder than I am down at the shop. I need my wife to defend me here.”
Angela tried to smile, but ended up simply nodding at Thomas.
“Anyway,” Catherine said, pointing at her husband’s neck, “if you get any more bug bites, you’ll not have to worry about malaria as much as needing a blood transfusion. It looks like Dracula got to you.”
Bill put his hand to his neck. “I had an allergic reaction to the bug spray,” he said.
Thomas kept his hand on Angela’s shoulder, an attempt to coax her into the conversation. She put her hand on top of his, and offered another false smile.
“I’m not sure insect repellent works on vampires,” Angela said.
This brought chuckles from the group. Angela tried to engage in the dinner conversation, but all she could see was the afterimage of the television reporter still burned in her mind, and all she could concentrate on were the women who had gone missing this summer.
CHICAGO
August 1979
WHEN THEIR GUESTS WERE GONE, ANGELA CINCHED THE TOP OF THE garbage bag and tied it off. Her husband wiped his brow with his forearm as he stood in front of the sink and cleaned dishes. Entertaining was a new experience for her, and something to which Angela was still adapting. Before meeting Thomas, she had never enjoyed the experience of close friends, or any friends at all, for that matter. She had spent her life on the outskirts of societal norms. Vivid memories from Angela’s youth reminded her why traditional friendships were impossible.
When Angela was age five, a girl had approached her in the kindergarten classroom to offer a Betsy McCall doll and the invitation to play together. To this day, Angela could feel the overwhelming sense of discomfort from someone standing so close to her, and the revulsion that came at the thought of touching a doll so many other children had handled. Even before kindergarten, Angela had taken to carrying her possessions in plastic sandwich bags to keep them safe from germs and filth. Her parents had learned that Angela’s tantrums—complete sensory detachments—were quelled only when her belongings were safe inside the plastic bags. The habit continued through grade school, and kept her sealed off from friendships as tightly as her possessions were protected from the world.
So, hosting Catherine
