I met myself in Silverpine Forest. And I’ll never forget his grin.
There are certain places on this planet from which we flinch. That old house that sits alone on the street as if the others want no part of it. The shortcut home that’s forever dark and cold, regardless of the hour or season. The cupboard, basement or hut in which you do whatever you must at twice the speed before getting the hell out.
Even Chicago, that boisterous city where I spent the greater part of my adult life, has such places. Working homicide in a big city tends to take a man to some mighty dark places, but no murder scene ever gave me the chills like Ivy’s, the derelict printing shop on Denver Street with the shattered windows and invoices strewn across the floor, a crushed trilby and a young boy’s duffel coat h
