Calumet City (36 page)

We count three buildings and stop at a dark garage with a low gate to its right. The gate is chain-link and blocks a narrow concrete walk to the north side of John’s childhood home. I ease the gate open and it doesn’t squeak. The walk is an inch deep in water and roofed low by the neighbor’s trees. No candles burn in the windows of 2507
¹
/2. No lights in the yard. Thirty feet ahead of us on the walk the house’s side door is propped open.

The quiet’s so loud, it’s deafening. Be a cop. The door’s propped open. I pop the empty brass from my revolver and reload. Be a cop. Be a cop. Wind gusts through the treetops. Tracy startles; I sprint up the walk. The door’s propped with a broom, not a bucket. I listen plastered to the bricks, hear nothing, peek, and jump back. No shots or stabs. I peek again: short, wide entry hall—right leads down a dark set of basement stairs; I go low and left and into a small kitchen, fanning my Smith and the flashlight.

Moonlit windows on two sides, a porcelain sink facing the backyard we just crossed. No blood. And no sound. Nothing but the wind. Perfume. Tracy’s perfume, she’s behind me. The room bristles, hair tightens on my arms. I point the flashlight at another doorway, beyond it a dining room table, beyond the table a double window draped heavy and dark.

Go. I step in fast, duck, and fan right: open stairway, white metal railing; next to the first tread an archway. My beam dies before it reaches through. Sweat beads on my neck. Everything’s pitch-black where my light isn’t. Move. I bump a table’s corner. Me and the flashlight jerk left. I don’t shoot an arched-wood front door, duck, and twist back to the stairway opposite.

No one.

Tracy’s breathing at my right shoulder. I’m blocked; can’t shoot toward the dining room or kitchen. I ease into her, pushing her back behind me and both of us into the arched-wood front door. She shuffles until we reach the door. I cut the light. She gasps and we both duck.

This is a "no choice" tactic. Whoever’s in this house—in the dark, behind the furniture, in the closets—now can’t see any better than we can. My eyes adjust while my pulse worsens. Windows form beyond the archway to our left, dark gray rectangles backlit by the streetlights outside. The trees shimmy. Light squirrels across the panes. Furniture shadows.

Sweat. No sound of struggle. My rugby knee aches into my hip. Dim shadows flicker on our right five feet from the kitchen doorway we just walked through.
Shit
, the dining room opens even farther right and into another room. I missed it completely. The walls I can see are mostly glass…an enclosed porch maybe. I lack choices and decide to fear it the least.

Stairs.

Save John.

Wind and shadows flutter on the windows. Don’t shoot the wrong person. Be a cop, save John’s family. Be a cop.

Stairs.

The stairs are five feet wide and carpeted. Up eight treads is a landing dim lit from behind by a window where the treads change direction and climb through the ceiling. From the second floor the window would backlight anyone climbing the stairs. Any gauge shotgun would work.

John and his room are up there.

And so is the devil.

I swallow part of a shallow breath. "Stay put till I’m at the landing."

Tracy doesn’t answer but doesn’t move when I do. I lie on my back and use my heels to slither up the treads head first, arms and pistol extended at whatever weapon will be aiming back. My head won’t be visible until my pistol is, and none of me will be silhouetted by the window.

Roland Ganz will be firing from twenty feet. If he has the shotgun, I’m dead; if not, we’re 50–50.

The carpet smells deodorized-florid, probably a dog or cat. At tread four the bottoms of second-floor balusters materialize. Be a cop; eyes wide, Smith tight, hammer back. Tread five rubs my neck. The balusters top out at the railing. No shotgun aims; no hulking shadows jerking into…
There.
Fire.
No. Don’t kill John
. Don’t. The Smith’s stiff-armed at level railing—fast breath—and more rooms. Tops of doorways, four total—two left, one right, one facing the stairs and me. All open. Four more doors to go through. Not counting all the places I didn’t look on the first floor.

I want to use the flashlight but don’t. At the landing I flip to my stomach, wait a two-count, then rise to a crouch against the wall. No shotgun. I slide up the last five treads to door one at my left shoulder. Deep breath, stand, suck in one more and…lights pop on. I duck a shotgun blast that doesn’t happen, and charge the room: four walls, aim, two windows, pivot, furniture, door. Closed. Spin back to the entry door. Empty, lights on everywhere.

"Patti?"

No blood. I level on the closet door and flatten on the wall. The closet stays shut. The room shrinks. Tracy appears at my shoulder. I silently point at the closet doorknob. She hesitates, then steps to the knob from the far side and jerks the closet door open. The door covers her; I spin low and…just clothes. Girl’s clothes.

Three more rooms.

Everybody can see everybody coming. We do the same in room two—don’t die, then a bathroom, then another bedroom, closets in each. We finish max-jangled. But alone on the second floor. And no blood.

I think we’re alone. Tracy starts to speak and I wave her silent, listening to the first floor. Two minutes of no creaks or bumps and I return us to room two.

John’s room, heaven and hell in a package. Trophies, movie posters, a 2004 University of Chicago calendar, rock posters—Cowboy Mouth and Farm Aid, book stacks and a desk with a little metal Corvette under the lamp, a single bed with a Cubs poster above and signed by the ’95 team, a dresser with a framed 8 x 10. The photo’s John—has to be—dark-haired and handsome, and his mother with an aging German shepherd.

John’s boyish and…and…and, oh God there’s no trace of Roland Ganz in his features. John’s arm is comfortable around his mother, his hand messing her hair. She’s smiling, comfortable with John’s hand, and—And…this room is too neat.

John doesn’t live here anymore
.

I check fast…and sigh to my shoe tops. Tracy steps in from the doorway and grabs at my waist. "Patti, c’mon."

John isn’t dead here
. Just his past kept pretty by a mom. I sit on the bed.
John’s not dead here
. His picture blurs through tears I can’t stop. So do his posters…my heart and lungs actually ache. I want to curl up with his pillow. Tell him…It’s like having him again. It’s like—

Whisper, "Patti, c’mon. Patti—"

Hand on my shoulder. My name. John’s room. I wipe at the tears and stand off balance. A softball trophy by his picture. It’s inscribed "Special Olympics: J. C. Bergslund, 2004 Sports Person of the Year." I lurch back and into Tracy. She fumbles not to fall, then looks at the trophy too. The inscription doesn’t change. I scan the room again, this time looking for…Is John, did I…?
Oh no, God,
did I cripple him? Is he a…

Tracy’s eyeing the door to downstairs, but has the same "special" thoughts on her face. I search for crutches and make too much noise, then pull out his books, try to open his drawers, try to…
How the fuck can I ruin so many lives? I’m
the devil, not Roland Ganz. Red burns my face; my stomach’s expanding. No.
We
are the devil, Roland
and
I. Father and mother. Me.

The vomit stops me from screaming. I do it on my knees in the bathroom, head in the toilet, pistol in hand. Tracy has her back to me, eyes on the stairs. She’s whispering, but the words don’t matter. I’m the devil, the fucking devil. My pocket vibrates. I wipe at my mouth instead, not sure I can stand. Tracy eases back from the stair railing. "There’s something down…"

I snap fear-rigid and jump up—Roland’s on the stairs. My feet charge past Tracy at—The stairs are clear; landing’s clear.
The son of a bitch is here
. I leap to the first floor and aim at everything, don’t shoot a lamp now lit in the living room or a plant in its shadows. I fan toward the outside door where we entered. A light’s on in the kitchen. Wall phone, next to it a note, big—a full sheet of notebook paper. The handwriting’s childish. "YOUR FRIEND GWEN CALLED."

Tracy rushes up behind me. "Smell that?"

I’m locked on the note, but look at Tracy when she says it again. I smell her perfume and look back to the note.
Gwen called?
Tracy bumps into me with her back, shying again from something I haven’t seen. I look back at the note—pinned to it is a business card with John’s name and an address on South Michigan.

Tracy says, "The smell’s in the basement."

She tugs me toward the basement and won’t let go. I knock her hand away, but balance makes me stumble and follow. Just beyond her shoulder the basement stairs are lit dim. She points to the bottom. Now that the lights are on I can see the blood.

   The basement’s cold; four walls of concrete. The floor’s painted, as are the walls. An orderly room, utilitarian—a washer and dryer in the corner, shelves. Cast iron pipes run through the rafters; a metal pole supports a painted beam. Boxes. A thick throw rug. Animal toys. A food and water dish. And an old German shepherd ripped to pieces.

I jump away from the stairs and aim up at the top. Nothing. Tracy staggers to the pole and uses it to remain standing. The air is light copper and intestines. The shepherd’s blankets are soaked. His gray muzzle is beaten flat, the eyes frozen in his last minutes.

No creaks on the floor above us. No one on the stairs. Tracy is sheet white, but standing. She mutters, "Roland…these aren’t people."

"Now you get it." I remember the card upstairs by the note, say, "C’mon," and grab her off the pole. She doesn’t let go and I don’t blame her. "Tracy, I’m going upstairs; you need to come with me."

She’s staring at the shepherd.

"C’mon." I jerk her hands free. We mount the stairs into the kitchen. I read the phone number on John’s card and use the wall phone to call. His voice answers for the first time since he cried on my stomach. He sounds like music, young and smooth, but mature. His message log beeps out and disconnects. I forgot to speak, just held the phone to my face. I dial again, hear him again. It’s like…like he’s talking to me. Me and him.

Tracy coughs. The message log beeps out again. I dial again; this time I say, "Run. Now. Do not—" and the message log beeps out again. The son of a bitch is broken or full or—My cell vibrates my pocket again. I don’t answer this time either and use the wall phone to redial John’s number. My cell vibrates again and continues until I fumble it out.

"He’s got us allllllll."

I jerk the scream away from my ear. "What?" My cell doesn’t answer, it’s dead. Gwen? John’s recorded voice is telling my other ear to leave a message. I yell,
"Gwen!"
at my cell.

Tracy goes wide-eyed, looking in every direction at once. I slam the wall phone and punch Talk on my cell. It rings back at Gwen’s number while I try to follow Tracy’s eyes.

No answer.

Tracy’s eyes land on everything. Still no answer. Still no answer. I punch Redial.
He’s got us all
. Back trace the number. The operator says it’s in Chicago, and gives me an address on South Michigan—2301.

My eyes are two feet from John’s card; 2301 S. Michigan. It’s a different phone number but at the same address. Oh my God. Roland Ganz has John. Her. Them.

Call in HBT or a TAC crew. Now
. I thumb at the 9 of 911, miss, and the cell vibrates my hand. It’s Gwen, crying, hysterical:
"Help us, Patti, help us. He’s right here;
he’ll trade—you for John and us. He’ll do it. Just you. He wants you. Please. No police.
Please, Patti. Help us.
"

The phone quits again. I hit Redial. No answer. I grab the red marker by the wall phone, tear off the "Gwen called" note, and scrawl: "RUN. CALL THE POLICE." Then sprint out the door with a terrified Tracy on my heels.

   I’m driving way too fast for conditions when the remainder of Evanston’s houses all light up at once. Debris shadows go three-dimensional—trash cans, downed trees, people silhouettes who weren’t even ghosts a second ago. High-beam headlights glare out of nowhere; Tracy flashes rigid in the passenger seat.

Trade me for John? Roland and me—That
cannot
happen
. Ever.

Give up your son? Again?

I scream, "He can’t keep John!" at the windshield and Tracy flinches away.

How do I out fight the devil?

GOD DAMN IT, HOW?

Call Sonny—leave your phone on with his, connected like with the Gypsy Vikings; he calls in a TAC crew the second I see that I can’t trick Roland out on my own. My cell vibrates. I can’t get to it and steer too. It vibrates again and I fumble it out. Nobody there. I speed dial Sonny. His voice mail answers.

"Sonny, it’s me. I gotta have help. Sorry. Sorry. But I gotta. He’s got John. At 2301 South Michigan; you know what I’m gonna do. Roland wants to trade. Any cops and he kills John. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes; call me. Come over; stay outside like with the Vikings, unless…Unless it goes bad." I stutter; realizing this cell-phone tether won’t work if Sonny doesn’t call before I go in. "If we don’t talk before I go in, if it goes bad and I don’t kill this motherfucker, you can call in a 10-1."

I punch off without saying thanks and concentrate on not wrecking the car. I feel Tracy’s eyes on me and flash her a glance. She looks just as scared of me as she does of the road. "W-what’s a 10-1?"

"Officer down, needs assistance."

Her eyes are wide and white.

"Yeah. I’m gonna kill him. Already told you that. Murder One; dead forever. He isn’t coming back again."

Tracy leans forward against the seat belt, blinks in my face, and passes out.

   South Michigan Avenue is deserted, as is the neighborhood. The west side of the street is an empty half block fenced tall and topped with razor wire; 2301 is opposite and on the corner, a five-story warehouse painted white twenty years ago. It’s an old car dealership from when they still had indoor showrooms in the South Loop. A construction sign attached to the building reads: "Lofts. February." Hard to believe this neighborhood will be livable by then. John’s name and number is under the Contractor/Broker heading with six others. Under the numbers the sign reads "Office on site—2nd Floor" and lists the hours.