Cold Fury (12 page)

Or they were still in the house.

They were here, somewhere, unable to come to me.

All of the possibilities contained in that word,
unable
, flooded my brain and guts and got my feet moving.

I thought of the layout of our house—front door to hallway, living room on the right, twisting staircase on the left that climbed to a second and third floor. The oak-paneled dining room lay straight ahead, the white-tiled kitchen behind it, and a hundred-year-old basement beneath it all. I would go room to room if I had to, despite who or what could be waiting behind a door, and I remembered Lou’s baseball bat in the closet. The idea of a weapon was reassuring but it meant that I’d have to put down Frank Sinatra. For some reason I felt safer holding him than a club.

I entered the dark hallway, trying a light switch that responded with no light. Our house was built in 1911 and sat among others just as old or older, all guarded by ancient oaks and giant elms. It was a “stained-glass and turrets” neighborhood, as my dad said, which was beautiful with brick, copper, and slate, but which could also be really creepy. In the daytime, when the sun shone through thick green branches and lawn mowers snored reassuringly, it was as idyllic as a movie set. But late at night, when the train did not rumble as often and shadows fell oddly from oversized trees, it became very real that many lives had passed through those old homes. Standing in the hallway, I recalled times when I had been in the house alone, overcome by the feeling of being watched or that someone had passed close by. I longed for that feeling now, hoping that if I turned around my family would be standing there.

When I did, I saw blood.

It was smeared on the wall.

On the floor were fat spattered droplets the size of fifty-cent pieces.

I followed them through the swinging door of the kitchen, where the drawers had been tossed, cabinets cleared, cutlery scattered, dishes and glassware busted and crushed. The refrigerator was tipped on its side, open and leaking, the oven door yawned, and the pantry door was splintered off its hinges. Through the middle of it all, the white tile floor was fouled by a long scarlet line, as if someone had been dragged or had drug himself.

The blood stopped abruptly at the basement door.

Something far below the floorboards rustled and moaned.

Unbidden, one of Doug’s many “rules of the movies” came to mind—never, ever,
ever
go into the basement.

Another moan sounded that was an expression of pure suffering. I hesitated, and then pulled open the basement door and stepped into blackness, the old steps creaking below my feet. I called out to my parents and Lou as I descended, but all I could hear was someone breathing heavily, lungs in crisis, and a sort of scratch-shuffling as if pulling himself across the gritty floor.

“Dad?” I said. “Mom?”

“Rooooo . . .”

The nearness of it made me jump, and I squinted into a dark corner where Harry lay curled in a ball, the bloody trail ending beneath his panting mouth. There was something odd about his position; he seemed to be protecting his side and belly. I knelt down and lightly touched him.

“Roooo-ooo!”

It was a scream instead of a moan. He worked his jaws weakly at my hand, mustering up whatever energy he had to try and bite me, trying to protect himself. And then he saw it was me, and the old hatred in his eyes was replaced by something that was, if not happiness, at least relief. Lifting his head, I saw blood streaming from his nose and muzzle, covering his neck and darkening his normally white chest. I looked closely at shadows covering his side, thinking it was dirt until I realized it was boot prints.

Someone had tried to stomp Harry to death.

I felt his ribs and, thankfully, nothing was broken on the inside.

The blood was superficial, from kicks and cuts on his mouth and face, and maybe from whoever had tried to kill him, too.

I never petted Harry before, but now I gently stroked his neck until he lowered his head. When he did, his body shifted and I noticed that he was lying on Lou’s old Etch A Sketch. When my brother was seven, he taught himself to make wavy lines, then circles, and then, twisting the knobs in perfect harmony, tiny, gracefully crafted cursive letters. One afternoon he left it on the couch and I picked it up. Lou was obviously studying the Constitution in school at the time, because it read, “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense . . .” I hadn’t seen the toy in years; my mom must’ve stored it in the basement. Carefully, I eased it from under Harry and he nosed my hand, letting me take it. The basement was so dark that I had to hold it inches from my face. When I did, I saw Lou’s writing, which was not graceful or crafted but scrawled and mostly illegible. Trying to make it out, I realized that Lou had been here, in the basement, and that he had written it in a hurry.

Squinting, I made out, “. . . we are not . . . beware . . . the house . . .”

I read, “. . . ski mask . . . tried to kill . . . high-pitched . . .”

The air moved with a whiff of foul meat, followed by a noise so faint it could have been my own breath, like a mouse moving inside the wall, or a footstep trying not to be heard.

I glanced at the Etch A Sketch and my skin froze, seeing the words, “If you hear . . . then run, Sara Jane . . . Run!”

And then Harry was on his feet, growling low in his belly with blood dripping between his bared teeth, and lunged past me into the blackness. I heard a muffled curse, Harry’s jaw snapping at his target, and then something fell and a shelf went over, smashing to the ground. There was a violent, kicking struggle with Harry grunting and his opponent making no noise at all. I squeezed the bust under one arm like a football and was about to sprint up the stairs when everything stopped, all sound and motion sucked out of the basement as a pair of large, rough hands locked around my neck. Two powerful thumbs dug into my larynx—I could feel my throat being crushed—and all I could do was struggle like a rag doll. Within seconds, flashbulbs of orange and purple popped in the darkness as oxygen left my brain. And then there was a jarring impact, a split second where the hands loosened followed by a growling-ripping noise. I was free, on my knees, gasping and hacking up blood.

Harry had done something in the dark and was now being punished for it.

I got to my feet and swung Frank Sinatra’s head at the head of the person who was kicking Harry.

There was a crack of plaster against skull, the bust fell to pieces, and Harry’s attacker fell to the floor.

I scrambled for the mini camera, cutting my hands on sharp shards until I found it. Overhead, thunder boomed like a Fourth of July finale followed by a flash of lightning against glass-block windows. The unmoving lump of body lay between me and the stairs, and I turned from it, groping toward the cellar doors instead. They had been locked from the outside since forever, but I was running on adrenaline and threw a shoulder like a linebacker, cracking apart the old wood. Cold bursts of rain hit my face, taking my breath away, and I was about to run across the yard when I remembered Harry. He’d saved my life and had taken a deadly beating to protect the Etch A Sketch because Lou commanded him to—because he loved my brother as much as I did. I listened, hearing only my labored breath, and then heard it—a faint whimpering and scratching at the floor.

Out of nowhere, I remembered Max counting backward on the train.

Ten seconds to zero . . . nine, eight, seven . . .

I scrambled back into blackness.

Harry’s whimper was my guide and I felt through the air like I was blindfolded until my foot bumped a body. My hands were shaking as I touched tight smooth fur over bruised bones. I lifted the small dog and took a step toward the door when the impact of a fist on my face put me on my back, with Harry rolling like a bloody wheel right out the cellar door.

There’s nothing worse than a sucker punch—the gasping explosion of red pain that rearranges reality and your face.

You get lost in its violation of decent human behavior, and then, if you’re a boxer, you get pissed. One of Willy’s rules is that a fighter who’s knocked down should always get right up and right back into the fight—give the other pug what he just gave you, times two. Trying to stand, I was assaulted by a hammering of double fists on my shoulders. I hit the floor again, this time face-first, feeling like my back was broken, but I ignored the pain and rolled as a boot crushed the empty place where I had been. I hooked an arm around an ankle and yanked as hard as I could. There was a bleat of surprise, legs in the air, and I leaped to my feet as the body hit the floor.

Then it was time to give him back what he had given to Harry.

He was trying to lift himself on a shoulder when I teed off on his face.

I couldn’t see quite who I was aiming at, but it didn’t matter, I drop-kicked his chin like I was going for an extra point.

He grunted and rolled over, and I saw the ski mask clinging to his lumpish head—nightmarish black with red eyeholes—which gave me a chilly pause before I went to work on him, using my foot like a jackhammer. I was bristling with the same sensation that I’d felt when I saw Max dancing with Mandi, a cold, calm fury that burned deep in my gut. Each blow was accounted for—that one for Harry, that for Lou, for my mom, my dad—and it seemed righteous, like a debt being paid. The best way to define it is that, as I kicked Ski Mask Guy into unconsciousness, I felt more like myself than I ever had in my life. Even as I came back to the moment—panting and sweating, my leg aching and the body not moving—it wasn’t fear that spiked my gut but caution. My chances of escape were lessening by the second, I knew instinctively, and I sprinted into the rain, scooped up Harry, and ran for the garage. My dad kept an extra set of keys to the Lincoln in an old coffee can. I fished them out and gingerly laid Harry on the backseat. He blinked up at me with something like gratitude, even comradeship—two furious souls who had saved each other’s lives, bound by love for my brother. He licked my hand, and it was covered in his own blood.

I jumped inside, clicked the seat belt, and pushed the remote control.

The garage door lifted slowly to rapids rushing down the brick alley.

The back tires spit smoke as I flew out of the garage.

And then I was speeding away without knowing where I was going, desperate to get away. My neck was raw and bruised, my forehead bore knuckle prints, and Harry was making a noise that sounded like his lungs were full of motor oil. The mini camera was on the seat next to me, sliding on leather, while my mind raced with the realization that
someone-tried-to-kill-me-someone-tried-to-kill-me-someone-tried-to-kill-me!
I flew through stop signs and bumped over curbs, my body racked with involuntary shivers. I needed to locate the odd inner calmness that had cooled my skin while I was kicking the crap out of the lunatic in my house or I was going to wreck the car. I pulled to the curb and rested my head in my hands, breathing slowly as the windshield wipers clicked at raindrops. All I had was the small purse that had been strapped across me all night holding a CTA card and my phone. When it rang I jumped out of my skin. I scrambled for it, pressed the green button, and said, “Mom?”

There was a pause and then a woman said, “Sara Jane Rispoli.” Not a query, but stating my name as a fact.

“Who is this?”

“Detective Dorothy Smelt,” she said. “Chicago Police Department. Are you all right, Miss Rispoli?” Her words were muffled and hard to understand, riddled with the static of a bad connection, which only added to the creepiness of the call.

“How did you know?” I asked cautiously.

“Someone called in a disturbance. Where are you?”

I was quiet because I was rattled and because the phone call confused me—how had she gotten my number? But then relief overcame suspicion since it was the police, an entire force dedicated to helping people, and no one needed help like I did. I was about to tell her when an El train rumbled past. It was too loud to answer the question, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, bad connection or not, I could hear the same train on her end of the phone. I swallowed hard and asked, “Where are
you?
”

Pause.

Silence.

She cleared her throat, and said, “In my office. At the sixty-third precinct.”

An ambulance ripped past with its siren screaming, and I heard that on her phone, too. I looked up at an unmarked car creeping down the street toward me while an anonymous van pulled to a halt around the corner. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw a dark police car inching up behind me. I turned the key, popped the headlights, and Detective Smelt said, “Why did you start the car, Miss Rispoli?”

The jittery shakes I’d had minutes ago dissipated.

I was calm again, and also pissed.

I said, “You heard that, huh? Or did you see me do it?”

“I only want to help you, Miss Rispoli. Remain where you are.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, dropping the car into drive. “I’ll wait right here for you to either kick my ass or kill me.” I leaned heavily on the gas as I fishtailed from the curb.

“She’s moving!” Detective Smelt shouted, and I realized other ears had been listening, too.

None of that mattered now.

All that mattered was speed and escape.

I flew past the unmarked car and van, both coming to life and going into squealing U-turns. The cop car lit up like a slot machine, its sirens beaming and blaring, and blasted after me. Streets in my neighborhood are thick with stop signs and speed bumps, and I ignored them all, Harry whimpering at each violent jolt while the Lincoln bounced and sparked. The other three vehicles were right behind me with the police car in the lead, so aggressively close to my rear bumper that I was sure he’d hit me at any moment. This was nothing like the countless car chases I’d seen in movies, those slick, choreographed scenes of airborne Chevrolets and slo-mo spinning tires; this was too fast and close and dangerous, the narrow Chicago streets lined with parked cars, the threat of collateral damage happening at any second.