Embers & Ash (18 page)

I'd been wrong in my meeting with Lucky—my tears hadn't dried up, not completely, not for the joy of seeing the little dog. “Oh my god,” I whispered, dropping to my knees, scooping him up, and burying my face in his fur. “Harry . . . you're here . . . you're
alive
!” If dogs can hug, Harry did, and when I nuzzled him, he nuzzled me back. It was like holding a dream.

“Dog smell like river,” the guy said, wrinkling his nose. He was right, Harry stunk, with crusty mud coating his body. I inspected his head and snout, seeing the deep cuts and scratches inflicted by Vlad, all of it matted with dried blood. “Also, hungry as bear. I wrap up sliced chicken to go.”

“Thank you . . . thank you so much,” I said, standing with Harry in my arms.

“It's just chicken.”

“Not for that. For him, for taking him in,” I said.

“No thank me, counselor.” He shrugged. “You do your job, I do mine.”

I hurried through the men's room and into the elevator, the ride seeming to take forever. When I looked at Harry, he was looking back. “You saved my life again,” I said. He breathed through his nose and seemed to smile as the elevator reached the penthouse.

The Bird Cage Club was dark.

I saw Doug bundled on the couch, heard him snoring. Gently, I placed Harry on the ground and whispered, “Go to him.” He did, his claws announcing his approach, making my friend sit upright. Doug rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinked at the little dog, and rubbed them again. First disbelief, and then slow joy spread over his face.

In the quietest of voices, he said, “Are you real?”

SUNDAY WAS A DAY OF CELEBRATION, OF
unrestrained joy, and the scrubbing of a small, gray, Italian hero with four legs who, like Lazarus, had risen from the dead. The idea of it made Doug consider going to church, briefly, but instead we gave thanks to Harry for being such a little badass. He'd fought for us, almost died for us, and best of all, found his way back to us.

Monday, by contrast, was a day of suffering.

Vlad had predicted it, and it was true—waiting another twenty-four hours to call Czar Bar to find out when I could pick up my mom and Lou was torture, as was the idea of leaving my dad behind. Each minute seemed like an hour, on and on it went, from the Bird Cage Club to Fep Prep and back again. The sun went down, I stared at the ceiling, and when the sun rose Tuesday morning, I dialed Czar Bar. It rang for six thousand years until a heavily accented voice said, “Czar Bar . . .”

“This is Sara Jane Rispoli, may I talk to—”

“. . . leave message.”

I hung up, paced, dressed, and tried again, allowing several jangling millennia and “leave message” to pass through my ear again before breaking the connection. I'd just hit Redial when Doug called out that we were going to be late for school.

As I entered the room, he said, “Hooray. Field-trip day.”

“Crap,” I said. “I forgot about it.”

“It's covered. I worked out the details with Thumbs-Up yesterday, even wrote our little speech,” he said. “The bus leaves Fep Prep at noon with him, us, and seventy-five pimply freshmen. Including Classic Movie Club during third period, it's a complete blow-off day.”

“What are we watching?”

“
A Fistful of Dollars.
It's about a violent loner out for justice. You can probably skip it,” he answered, “since you live it.”

I looked at my phone. “With everything that's happening, the past few days just seem so . . . absurd. Field trips, movies . . . all I care about is the safe return of my family.”

“One family member made it,” he said, leaning down and kissing Harry.

“How many times have you kissed him this morning?”

“Too many to count,” he said. “Can't get enough of that puppy love.”

• • •

I tried Czar Bar before homeroom and after, before Trigonometry and after, and was standing outside the Theater room, phone in hand, when Gina approached.

“Texting,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “or sexting?”

“Trying to call a friend,” I said, putting my phone away.

“You only have one, and I just saw him go into the Theater room.”

I stared at her for a moment. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Excuse me?” she said, taken aback. “You were mean first.
You
stopped hanging out with
me.
”

“Yeah. In seventh grade. When your social life started and mine stopped.”

“Not my fault. Your parents were so protective, they barely let you out of the house,” she said. “Are they still like that?”

“Yes and no. I mean, I'm not home much.”

“God, remember Mandi Fishbaum's birthday party in sixth grade? When Walter J. Thurber kissed you?”

“Mandi's still pissed off at me.”

“Can you believe what a pothead Walter's become?” she said. “I was sworn to secrecy, but his sister's hairstylist told me—”

I held up a hand. “Please. I don't care. It's none of my business.”

She nodded, smiling a little. “I'm sorry about the thing the other day, the Max thing. It was asshole-ish of me.”

“It's okay.”

“If I hear anything else about him from Mandi, should I tell you?”

I thought about it, feeling how useless it was. “No.”

“What if it's juicy?”

“Especially if it's juicy.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “So what are we watching?”

“It's old, you've probably never heard of it.
A Fistful of Dollars.
”

“Nineteen sixty-four, directed by Sergio Leone, starring Clint Eastwood,” she said. “I'm more than just gossip, Sara Jane. I love movies.”

Apparently.

She and Doug sat next to each other during the movie, whispering about cinematography, spaghetti Westerns, and other things that I stopped listening to. It was impossible for me to concentrate on the screen, and I left the room several times, dialing Czar Bar to no avail. After the movie was over—after Doug and Gina continued arguing in the hallway about the meaning of the ending and after she departed, insisting we watch
Vertigo
next time—Doug said, “Who would've guessed?”

“What? That Gina was a such movie nerd?”

“Yeah, but something else. That she'd inspire me,” he said with wonder. “I was talking about Clint Eastwood's moral justification, and she says—this is a quote—‘Stuffins, you're a complete idiot if you don't become a film director someday.'”

“Wow,” I said, seeing the perfect logic of it, “she's right.”

“I know,” he said. “It's so weird. All the years I've spent watching movies. I mean, I considered it, of course, but never thought I could actually make them.”

“You know what I like most about it? You're thinking about the future. What you're going to do after, you know, this all ends.”

“This?” he asked with a little smile. “School today? The field trip?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Anyway, yeah, you'd be an awesome director, Doug. That's my opinion.”

“Yours means the most,” he said. “Now come on, let's go to the Willis Tower and look at the view from almost fifteen hundred feet in the sky.”

“School spirit. It's killing me.”

“True fact.
Rah-rah
is the last sound many nerds and geeks hear before dying,” he said, leading me out the main entrance and down the steps to where a bus idled.

I stared at the long yellow vehicle and said, “That thing makes me nervous.”

“Relax,” he said, “it's a goggle-free zone.”

A torrent of students rushed past and began piling on, jockeying for places to sit, which reminded me of something. “Seats,” I murmured.

“There's room for everyone,” Doug said, pulling a clipboard from his backpack.

“In the Ferrari, I mean. There are only two. We're going to have to take out the passenger seat so we can fit in my mom and Lou.”

“So now we have an after-school project,” he said, as we climbed onto the bus. He moved away, checking off kids' names as the driver revved the engine and Mr. Novak bounded aboard. Grinning like a chubby jack-o'-lantern, tufts of hair encircling his ears like fuzzy gray earmuffs, he clapped his hands vigorously, shushing students, and cried:

“It's on to Willis Tower

aboard this fine bus!

Let's make our school proud,

because . . . !”

He paused. No one said a word.

“Becau-u-u-se . . . !”
he repeated, louder and more forcefully.

“Fep Prep is us!”
the kids shouted.

“Exact-a-mundo!” he said with a thumbs-up as we chugged away. He sat on the seat across from me, gave my knee a friendly tap, and said, “Excited?”

“Absolutely,” I answered, pressing a smile onto my face.

“You should be.” He winked, straightening his tie, which was decorated with rubber duckies. “It's not every day you get to have an adventure in the city!”

I nodded, staring out the window, thinking,
If you only knew.

THERE'S A POINT, WHETHER YOU'RE ON A FERRIS
wheel or an airplane, or in my case, a superfast elevator climbing toward the sun, when you realize you're way, way higher in the air than a human being is ever supposed to be.

It's called the Willis Tower now, although it's still referred to as the Sears Tower, but whatever; it stretches 108 stories into the sky while most birds fly at one-third that altitude. My ears popped and my guts flipped during the ride, and when we climbed out on the 103rd-story Skydeck, with its floor to ceiling windows, the unnaturalness of riding so high in a metal box sunk in.

As students filed from the elevator, I stepped aside and broke one of my rules.

For the past six months, I'd rigorously avoided giving out any information that could be used to track or trap me, but now I dialed Czar Bar, waited for the tone, and left my number for a callback. I'd reached the point where there was nothing left to lose.

I hung up, walked into the Skydeck, and had a mini-freak-out, watching kids lean their foreheads against the windows and stare straight down.

That was nothing compared to the Ledge.

Years of head smudges had inspired Skydeck management to install four large, enclosed glass rectangles extending several feet out into nothingness; all that exists below a person standing inside a Ledge box—each strong enough to hold an elephant—is pure stratosphere, and farther down, people like ants, cabs like toys, and rock-hard concrete. Doug and I made our factoid presentation to the bored students gaping out of windows or taking pictures with their phones. Afterward, Mr. Novak told us we were fortunate to live in a city of such architectural splendor, and that no one, under any condition, was to leave the Skydeck. I moved among the throng of kids, asking questions, chatting with them—mingling, as Mr. Novak said—until Doug waved me over before ambling inside a glass box. The way he glanced casually between his shoes, clipboard at his side, made my knees sweat. He rocked on his heels, saying, “You ever see
The Towering Inferno
? Nineteen seventy-four, with Paul Newman and Steve McQueen.”

“Don't add a fire to this, please.”

“Come on, wuss. It's weirdly cool and . . . ,” he said, looking up. “Holy shit!”

“What?” I asked, still hesitant to step into the box.

“Window washers!
Above
us!
We're on the hundred and third floor, so they're—”

“Out of their minds,” I said with a shiver.

“The platform they're standing on is basically a plank attached to ropes, swaying in the wind. It looks like it could snap at any moment.”

“Doug,” I said, feeling green. Since Uncle Buddy plummeted to his death from the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier, too-high locations made me depressingly nauseous.

“I'm not kidding, if that rope broke, he'd—oh, my bad,” he said, sealing his lips when he saw my distressed face.

“Please, will you—” I said, as my phone buzzed, the display showing
Czar Bar.
I answered, hearing Vlad's voice cut by static, and then empty air. I redialed and heard garble until it died away. “I need reception,” I said, looking around desperately, “and privacy. This isn't just any phone call.”

“You won't get past Thumbs-Up. He's everywhere.”

“There's an emergency exit on the other side of the room,” I said.

“But it's armed. There's an alarm.”

“Do you have a small piece of metal?” I said. Doug patted his pockets, shifted the clipboard, and handed me a pen. I snapped off its pocket clip and bent it into an L shape. “Chapter six of the notebook, ‘
Metodi
—Methods.' It has a section called ‘Picking Locks and Disabling Alarms.'” I held up the metal L. “This should deactivate it . . . hopefully.”

“Thumbs-Up has his back turned,” Doug said. “Now's your chance.”

I was gone without a word, sneaking from one group of students to another as I made my way across the room. Mr. Novak turned abruptly and I crouched behind a kid the size of an upright buffalo. When he shuffled his feet, I moved with him like a shadow, and when Mr. Novak turned away, I spun for the exit. The keyhole thing that disabled the alarm was right where it was supposed to be; a quick turn of the clip and I slipped soundlessly through the door. The stairwell was vast and silent. I felt a cool breeze and peered up at a crack of natural light—something nearby was open to the outside.

I ran up three flights to a metal door marked
106.

It was slightly ajar and as I pushed through, I gasped at being in open air with Chicago spread before me like an urban map in 3-D. The Willis Tower had multi-level roofs; the one I stood on was a flat, gravel-covered section with several huge, humming air vents and a few buckets scattered around. The space was obviously used for maintenance only. The window washers' platform now sat on the roof, but several ropes trailed over the knee-high ledge, bolted to heavy rungs set into steel girders. A pair of hard hats, gloves, and long poles with squeegees at the end lay nearby—maybe the window washers had gone on break and left the door open? A stinging wind lashed hair into my face as I peered up at the 108th floor. The tower's immense, dual antennae stretched into the sky, each tip blinking
red-red-red
behind a wall of dusty clouds.

It was now or never, and I quickly dialed Czar Bar.

I cursed each ring of the phone, myself for blowing the call, and Novak for making me be here. I waited for the
beep,
but then Vlad said, “Hello, baby.”

“When can I come for them?”

“Relax. Aren't you happy to hear my voice?”

“When?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“Where are you, anyway? It sounds like wind tunnel,” he said. When I didn't answer, he continued, “Okay. Big sit-down is Friday? You come Thursday, eleven thirty p.m.”

“No, no way. That's too long.”

“For you. Not us. Washing brains is all done, spick-and-span,” he said, “but we think it's good idea to give you little time as possible between getting mommy and brother, naming new Outfit boss. Too much time and maybe you think, forget papa, two out of three is okay, I take them and run for it.”

“I wouldn't do that. I'd never desert my dad.”

“See, that's what I told my boss! I say, girl is committed, she drive off bridge without blink of an eye,” he said. “Speaking of, ouch, you shocked shit out of me.”

“I wish I could've done more than that.”

“Doggy did enough. No nose puts real crimp in coke habit,” he said. “So Thursday, eleven thirty p.m. Don't make mistake of bringing weapon, and come alone or
no one
goes home. And remember, my boss goes with you to sit-down on Friday.”

“I know, I understand, but tell Elzy—”

“Who?”

“Your boss,” I said, “Elzy.”

Behind me, metal scraped gravel.

Vlad said, “I don't know no Elzy,” as I turned, watching the door open slowly.

I ducked behind an air vent. “You're lying! That little redheaded witch—”

“Baby, my boss is lot of things,” Vlad said, “but not little, and hair is farthest thing from red—”

Footsteps crunched toward me and I said, “I have to go!”

“Don't tell me there's other man.”

“I'm not kidding!”

“You break my heart,” he said, and hung up.

And then the other man spoke.

“Sally Jane!” Mr. Novak said. I stood slowly, seeing the dismay on his face as he hurried toward me. “Do you know how many rules you've broken by coming up here? Good heavens, my dear, this is
not
in the spirit of a Fep Prep student!”

I listened to his words, but my mind was far away.

Vlad's lying. Of course Elzy is his boss.

“Your safety is my utmost concern,” he said, cheeks flushed, his loud tie flapping in the breeze.

But the deal is done.

“And I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you!” He stopped in front of me with his hands on his hips.

So why would he lie? I'm going to see her soon, face-to-face.

Mr. Novak's eyes softened as he said, “I'm sorry to say, but we're going to have to meet with your parents to discuss this.”

“If you can find them,” another voice said behind him.

It was a gargle-growl inflected with the nasal undertones of West Side Chicago—one that had sung Frank Sinatra tunes as lullabies to Lou and me long ago. Mr. Novak turned, I looked past him, and he spoke first.

“Bootsie?” he said, confused.

“Elzy,” I whispered.

“What in the world are you doing here, my sweet?” Mr. Novak asked.

She moved toward us from the open door, smiling, as petite as ever, red hair ablaze. The shock of seeing her was intense but muddled, she was out of context—why
was
she here if the pickup was on Thursday, at Czar Bar? All I could do was stare, forgetting even to blink, and I remembered too late as she hurried up to us, quickly lifted an aerosol can, and sprayed me in the eyes with a thin stream of liquid. One flashing realization—
my eyes are on fire, oh my god, someone put out the fire!
—as I screamed in agony and bent at the knees, palms pressed into my eyes, feeling a thousand angry bees invade my head. Tears popped and fell, and I wiped at them desperately, trying to clear away the awful searing pain and terrifying semi-blindness.

“What have you
done
?” Mr. Novak yelped.

“Pepper spray, a cop's best friend,” Elzy said, yanking my arms behind my back, twisting on plastic cuffs, and throwing me to the ground. “I hoped it would be a defense against ghiaccio furioso. I also assume it's temporary.”

I couldn't see anything other than shadows, nullifying cold fury. With urgency in his voice, trying to help me up, Mr. Novak said, “Sally Jane—”

“It's Sara Jane,” Elzy said. There was a sharp thump and the sound of a body falling. “The butt of a pistol. Cop's second best friend.”

Mr. Novak groaned nearby, twisting in the gravel. “I don't . . . understand.”

“I used you to get to her,” Elzy said vacantly. “That school is like Fort Knox. You were my inside man. So trusting. All I had to do was suggest Willis Tower for a field trip.”

“Oh, god,” he whispered, “after all these months together.”

“You didn't even check the slips of paper I wrote out for you with the names of Ms. Stein's students on them. Every one of them read ‘Sara Jane Rispoli.'”

Mr. Novak shifted around. I heard him trying to rise, and then silence. “What are you doing?” he asked.

I waited for Elzy's reply but she said nothing.

“Bootsie!
Please!
”

The pistol's silencer made a soft flitting noise, quiet and deadly. Squinting, I watched the blurry image of Mr. Novak dab his chest, look at blood-smeared fingers, open his mouth to say something, and collapse on his side.

“No . . . no,” I whispered. “Why?”

Elzy's footsteps sounded on gravel, moving closer. “You and I have unfinished business.” Her tone was no longer vacant; it was smoldering rage kept in check only by the weight of misery. “My brother, Poor K-K-Kevin,” she said, choking on his name, “was the only person who
ever
loved me.”

“He attacked us. Lou and me, and—”

“I . . . want . . . him . . .
back
!” she shrieked, the outburst cutting the air like hundreds of screeching bats taking flight. My skin went cold, the chill crawling over my body. Elzy was breathing hard, maybe fighting tears, maybe preparing to scream once more, but no—it was all contained rage again, teeth grinding, when she said, “But I can't have him. Can I? He's gone. Forever,” and she kicked me deep in the stomach.

Pain rocketed up into my chest and throat and I rolled onto my side, groaning.

“I was lost after Buddy Rispoli killed him,” she said, circling me, kicking me again, her boot finding my face.

The sour taste of blood was on my tongue, leaking from my nose.

“Nothing matters anymore, not the Outfit or that damn notebook, if my brother isn't here to share it with me.” The wind rose up around us and faded, and she halted in her tracks. “It's your fault he's not,” she said slowly, “as much as your uncle's.”

“No—”

“And now you're going to die in the same way Poor Kevin did,” she said, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my face to hers. “Only higher, and much, much worse.”