The Chicago Water Tower rested between the skyscrapers along Michigan Avenue like an old-world castle. It was constructed from white limestone blocks and dotted with neo-Gothic spires. Just north of the landmark sat Water Tower Place, an eight-story shopping mall occupying seven hundred and fifty-eight thousand square feet.
Andrew dropped Marcus off in front of the mall. There were glass entry doors between two massive swirling-gray marble pillars. Once inside, Marcus immediately bounded up an escalator that ascended toward the main area of the mall. Between each set of escalators and stairs, there was a multi-tiered black granite fountain that trickled water toward the street in a steady stream. At the top of the escalators, a replica of the Water Tower made entirely from Lego blocks marked the actual start of the shopping plaza. The aromas of the mall were all around him—perfumes, coffee shops, greasy fast food, cinnamon rolls.
His pace slowed, and his gaze darted around the large space. Ackerman could have been hiding anywhere, watching. It was only days before Christmas, and the mall was a mass of humanity. They shuffled and scuttled, their arms loaded with bags and boxes, across a tile floor that had been colored to resemble hardwood. But Marcus could see Maggie through the gaps in the stream of shoppers. She sat in the center of an atrium that rose the entire eight stories of the mall across from a giant bank of glass elevators.
Marcus’s phone rang, and he fumbled it from the pocket of his jeans. It was the Director. “Hello.”
The Director said, “Marcus, I’m almost there. Don’t do anything until I arrive. It’s a trap.”
“It always is,” Marcus replied as he hung up on his superior.
He pushed his way through the throng of consumers to reach Maggie. Her eyes were full of fear, and her body trembled beneath the red and orange afghan. “There’s a bomb,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
“He said there’s a cell phone under the blanket that you should use to call him.”
Marcus pulled up the covering and examined the device beneath. It was a sturdy metal box welded entirely shut and was about the size of a shoebox with a keyboard and LED display screen firmly fastened to its surface. There was also a blue and silver disposable cell phone resting beside Maggie’s legs. He retrieved the phone and pressed send. Ackerman answered after the first ring.
“Hello, Marcus. I’m sure Maggie has told you the dire nature of your situation. We’ll wait for the Director to arrive. He’ll have the code to disarm the device. Just tell him that you need to type the name of your real father onto the keyboard. He’ll have the answer for you.”
“I know that there’s really no bomb.”
The other end of the line went silent for a few seconds, but then Ackerman said, “Of course there is. You should know better than to question my resolve. I’m a monster. I’d kill every person in that mall without blinking an eye.”
“You’d even kill your own brother?”
Ackerman didn’t speak.
“You didn’t have to do any of this. I know you wanted to trick the Director into telling me the truth, but I already know.”
“How?”
“Allen told me at the hospital. He told me everything. But I guess I’ve always had my suspicions. When I first saw you, there was some familiarity that I couldn’t quite identify. Now I know what it was. You look like her, our mother. Same eyes, same smile, same facial structure.”
“The first time I saw you, I was afraid,” Ackerman said. “That’s rare for me. They say that there’s something wrong with my brain that makes it so I can’t feel fear. At least, not in the way that normal people do. But something about you made me afraid. Later, I realized that it was because of your resemblance to our father. It’s in your eyes.”
The words were like a dagger plunged into Marcus’s heart. Ackerman continued on about destiny and connection, but Marcus wasn’t listening. The world had melted away around him. He braced himself against a nearby railing.
It’s in your eyes.
He had always known that he was different. He had always felt a certain anger and hunger, but he had fought to keep it buried. Still, Ackerman had seen it raging just below the surface, the monster clawing its way to freedom.
The world spun. Tears fell. A tidal wave of fear and anger and doubt slammed against the foundations of his soul.
Francis Ackerman Sr., his real father, was a madman who’d tortured his own son and killed many others. And now Marcus knew that was his true legacy. He wasn’t a third-generation cop. He was a second-generation serial killer.