A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  Dwayne kept pace with the vehicle, silently praying they would pull off at the next exit. If they kept heading straight it might be a long pursuit, given the impossibility of shutting down the expressway at this time of day. Surely it would seem sensible to them to try and throw off their pursuers by changing direction? But, no, it looked like they were continuing straight ahead.

  ‘No-good, knuckle-headed gangbangers –’

  Suddenly the Lincoln lurched across a couple of lanes, careering off the road and away down the exit ramp.

  ‘That’s my boy!’ Dwayne roared, yanking the wheel round to follow in the Lincoln’s path.

  He knew the fight was over now and, sure enough, as they neared the bottom of the ramp, he saw that the Lincoln had come to an abrupt halt, its path blocked by two supporting patrol cars. Already the driver’s door was springing open and Dwayne didn’t hesitate, stepping on the gas before skidding to a halt just in front of the fleeing suspect.

  ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  Lesley was already out of the car, training her firearm on the suspect, who slid to a juddering halt. Dwayne followed suit, bursting from the car and training his weapon on the driver’s companion, who was also considering a bid for freedom. Both were young, Puerto Rican and highly agitated.

  ‘Easy now, Diego. Don’t be another statistic …’

  Seeing that it was hopeless, the suspects now relented and moments later their faces slammed the hood, as handcuffs were applied.

  ‘Good choice, boys. Now let’s see what you’ve got.’ Dwayne crowed as he began to pat them down. ‘Fifty bucks, some cigarettes … and one firearm.’

  ‘It’s not loaded, man.’

  ‘Not sure the judge will care about that,’ Dwayne replied, dropping the battered Smith and Wesson into Lesley’s evidence bag. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  The suspects both shook their heads and, after Dwayne had ascertained that they were telling the truth, he moved on to the interior of the car. Pulling open the glove compartment, he surveyed its contents.

  ‘One packet of Lifesavers, one map of Illinois and …’

  He pulled a book from the compartment.

  ‘… Fodor’s Guide to Romantic Hotels in Montana. Guys, are you sure this is your car?’

  ‘We’re borrowing it,’ the driver muttered darkly.

  ‘Sure you are,’ Dwayne chuckled, casting an eye over the footwell, before turning his attention to the rear of the car.

  And now he paused. The trunk remained closed, but there was a dark-brown stain on the handle that grabbed his attention. Lesley was looking at him, intrigued by his serious expression, so he didn’t delay.

  ‘Right then, boys, let’s see what you got in here …’

  Releasing the catch, he yanked the trunk open.

  For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He didn’t move, nor did he react at first, stunned by the sight in front of him.

  ‘What is it, Dwayne?’

  Concerned by the expression on his face, by his sudden silence, Lesley took a step in his direction, hoping to see what was bothering him. But before she could do so, Dwayne Reid turned abruptly away from the car and regurgitated his breakfast on to the cold tarmac.

  14

  The smell of decay was overpowering. Kassie tried to shut it out, to find a breath of fresh air from somewhere, but it was impossible. The atmosphere in the Lake View Care Home was stifling – overheated, stale, rich with the scent of urine. The many eyes that clung to her belonged to the helpless and the hopeless.

  Attempting to block out their scrutiny, Kassie kept up a constant chatter. She had hurried here straight from the Jones residence, too unnerved by her experiences to return to school. Now she needed to be with someone who loved her.

  ‘I’m trying harder at school,’ she said quietly. ‘You know, to get better grades. And my English teacher – Miss Wilson – says I have potential …’

  She looked up at her grandmother, hoping for some kind of reaction, hoping to see that familiar twinkle of affection in her eyes, but the old woman didn’t respond. Wieslawa had been in the home for nearly ten years now, written off as senile and delusional, and had little in the way of stimulation or visitors to engage her enfeebled brain. Kassie tried to come once a week, in part to make up for her mother’s refusal to visit, and occasionally she thought she could see the old woman responding. Then Kassie was transported back to happier days when Wieslawa, who had always been a woman of a certain frame, used to envelope the young Kassie in her generous embrace, whispering little confidences to her and plying her with chocolate mice and candy. Today, however, Kassie was getting nothing back.

  ‘But it’s hard, you know …’ Kassie continued, falteringly. ‘I can’t concentrate … there’s so much going on around me …’

  She looked into her grandmother’s deep-blue eyes.

  ‘I try to block it out, but I can’t. The things I see keep … keep spinning round and round in my head …’

  The old woman’s face crinkled a little, as if she were taking in Kassie’s words and formulating a response. Encouraged, Kassie continued:

  ‘What am I supposed to do, babcia? Tell me, please. Should I ignore it? Or face it? I don’t know what to do for the best.’

  Now the old woman’s mouth crept open. She ran her tongue over her lips slowly, moistening the cracks that pitted them. Kassie looked at her intently, hoping for some kind of guidance, but to her surprise her grandmother now started to sing.

  ‘Kosi kosi łapci, pojedziem do babci. Babcia da nam mleczka, a dziadzius pierniczka …’

  Tears filled Kassie’s eyes. She had heard the nursery rhyme many times as a child – her grandmother would sing it to her whenever she was allowed to visit – and previously it had comforted her. Now it underlined how far her beloved, witless grandmother had retreated from the world. This saddened and scared Kassie in equal measure, and after twenty minutes more of faltering, one-way chatter she rose and kissed Wieslawa goodbye. Her grandmother barely noticed, singing quietly to herself all the while.

  Picking her way past the lonely, upturned faces, Kassie slipped out of the French windows into the gardens. The care home was situated on the edge of Lake Michigan, commanding fantastic views of the water and beyond it the metropolis of Chicago. In summer, it was almost pleasant to be here, taking the sunshine while revelling in the view, but today the lake looked grey and lifeless, save for the visiting birds who circled above.

  The wind was picking up and suddenly Kassie felt cold and desolate. Pulling a half-smoked joint from her jacket pocket, she lit it and inhaled deeply, the powerful, aromatic skunk filling her mouth and nostrils. Her life had never been easy, never straightforward, but today she felt as if she were in a deep fog. She needed help, needed guidance, and had come here hoping that her babcia, the only person who had ever really understood her, would provide them. But her grandmother was lost to her now, driven mad by a lifetime of trauma.

  There were no answers here.

  15

  Gabrielle Grey pushed her way through the gathering crowds and ducked under the police incident tape. Flashing her ID at the nearest uniformed officer, she marched towards the black Lincoln, which was partially shielded by the CSI team. Detective Jane Miller hurried over, falling into step with her.

  Her deputy was a fast-tracker, still youthful and occasionally over-enthusiastic, but intelligent and industrious. She had turned down offers from other departments to work under Gabrielle and the latter was glad to have her – no one worked harder than Miller when a big investigation was in play. Slim, with neat, cropped brown hair, she would be a good catch, Gabrielle thought, for some lucky guy – or girl – but she appeared to be married to her job. She brought Gabrielle quickly up to speed now, in her usual efficient manner.

  ‘White male, thirties, possibly forties, discovered by officers in the trunk nearly an hour ago. Two men of Puerto Rican origin are in custody – Edmundo Ortiz and Pancho Martin. We think they run w
ith a crew from Humboldt Park, but we’re checking that out.’

  ‘They say anything?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘And do we have an ID for the victim?’

  ‘Not yet, though the car is registered to a Jacob Jones, an assistant state’s attorney. I already called his office – he was supposed to be early in today for a conference call, but never showed up.’

  Gabrielle felt a knot in her stomach. A state’s attorney murdered and dumped in a trunk? She hadn’t been expecting this when she got the call.

  ‘Do we have a photo? Something to give us a preliminary ID? Jones could be the perpetrator, not the victim.’

  ‘Well, we do, but … I think you’d better take a look.’

  Gabrielle now noticed how pale her deputy looked. The latter stepped aside, allowing Gabrielle to proceed. As she walked up to the car, the crowd of CSI operatives parted to allow her a clear run, having completed their initial forensics and photography.

  Gabrielle let out an involuntary gasp. Someone lay inside the trunk, enclosed in a plastic sheet, though it was hard to call the victim a ‘man’. Rather the victim was what remained of a man. All the relevant body parts were still there, though the arms and legs jutted out at such unnatural angles that there was no way they could be in their natural places. All the toes and fingers appeared to be missing, the victim’s torso was heavily bruised and most sickeningly of all, the man’s throat had been cut back almost to his spine. His head lolled back hideously at a right angle to his body, his lifeless eyes staring at the interior of the trunk. Gabrielle stood in silence for a moment, taking in what was unquestionably the worst thing she’d seen in her twenty years as a detective. This man had not been killed, he had been destroyed.

  Turning, she glimpsed the ashen faces of the CSI team and beyond them the growing crowd of bystanders, gathering at the police barriers, camera phones at the ready. Sickened, furious, Gabrielle turned back to the car and slammed the trunk shut.

  16

  Faith gently closed the door and stepped inside her studio. This was her space – quiet, ordered, soothing – and she needed it now. Putting the final touches to the nursery had been fun – no, it had been more than that, it had been significant, moving even, given her long battle to conceive – but several hours of her mother fussing and getting under her feet was more than enough. She needed some time alone, so predictably had retreated to her sanctuary.

  She had almost finished her self-portrait – an elegant, modern image in greys and blacks – and was keen to get it done before the baby arrived. It was already promised to the Fourwalls gallery, and as they had been so good to her, she didn’t want to let them down. If it wasn’t for them, she would never have broken through in Chicago, let alone nationwide.

  Many of her girlfriends who’d had kids had often talked about carrying on with their careers after the birth, but in reality few had found the time. She didn’t want to be one of those women who made promises they couldn’t keep, and, besides, that wasn’t how she wanted it to be. She wanted motherhood to be all-consuming, having waited so long to enjoy it. She loved being an artist, it gave her life meaning – had saved her from herself – and she loved the people she met through her work. But she was thirty-seven now, Adam nearly forty-two, and it had taken them three long, distressing years of IVF to get this far, so why wouldn’t she want to immerse herself fully in the experience?

  Right on cue, baby gave a small kick. Smiling to herself, Faith laid one hand on her bump, even as she raised her other hand to paint. Feeling the life inside her with one hand, she tried to bring the illusion of life to bear with the other, gently guiding the tip of the brush down the contours of her alter ego’s face. Painting this portrait had been the most significant artistic experience of her life, because the picture had changed so much during the process. She had set out to paint one thing – woman without child, the last vestige of herself before motherhood – yet somehow the baby had intruded. Not physically, or at least not obviously physically, as the portrait was only head and shoulders. Was it then the fullness of her face, the expression in her eyes, the serenity of her gaze, that gave the game away. Perhaps it was all three, she couldn’t say for sure, but the truth was that the painting had changed because she’d changed. Ten years ago she had been lost – bent on a path of self-destruction – but first Adam and now the baby had healed her wounds. Had helped her grow. How glad she was of their intervention now.

  Putting her brush back on the palette, Faith placed her other hand on her tummy, cradling her bump. There was no fighting it – the love she had for her baby, for her new life, was fierce, consumed her totally. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

  Such was the bond between a mother and her child.

  17

  ‘What the hell are you thinking? Do you want to get me fired?’

  Kassie stared at her mother, angry but also a little ashamed.

  ‘I had to leave work early. That’s the third time in two weeks. My boss won’t stand for it.’

  ‘I know, Mama. And I’m sorry –’

  ‘What happens if I lose my job?’ Natalia continued, ignoring her daughter’s apology. ‘What then? Will you put food on the table? Pay the bills? Buy new clothes?’

  ‘What new clothes?’

  Natalia’s hand shot out, connecting sharply with Kassie’s left cheek.

  ‘Don’t talk back to me. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be out on the streets.’

  Kassie raised her hand to her cheek, regretting her sarcasm. She hated her mother when she was like this, but it was true – she had good cause to be angry. Kassie had been too distressed to return to school after her visit to her grandmother and, following a call from the school secretary, Natalia had eventually found her daughter at home, the scent of skunk still fresh on her breath.

  ‘You’re lucky you still have a place at school. I had to beg Principal Harrison to give you one last chance, said I would talk to you about your behaviour. But he’s a proud man, a smart man, he won’t be taken advantage of.’

  ‘I know, I’ll apologize to him in the morning –’

  ‘And your teacher. And the other students. For all the trouble you’ve caused.’

  ‘Ok, ok …’

  ‘It’s a good school. You’re lucky to be there, kochanie … Why can’t you just settle down? Study? You’re not a stupid girl, you could make something of yourself.’

  Her tone had softened now – regret and sadness undercutting her anger – which made Kassie feel even worse.

  ‘I’ll try …’

  Her mother’s expression told Kassie what she thought of that.

  ‘I mean, I will …’

  ‘Where were you anyway?’

  Kassie paused, unsure what to say.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I went to see Grandma.’

  ‘All morning?’ Natalia replied, scarcely containing her scepticism. ‘The old woman can’t string two words together.’

  Kassie wasn’t sure what to say. Was it better to lie or tell the truth? Her mother was staring intently at her, scenting – expecting? – deception, so eventually Kassie mumbled:

  ‘No, before that I went to West Town. I wanted to see that man …’

  ‘Who?’ Natalia demanded.

  Kassie took a deep breath, then continued:

  ‘The man I bumped into on North Michigan Avenue.’

  Her mother’s face drained of colour and she turned away from Kassie, shaking her head.

  ‘Mama …’

  ‘Why would you do such a thing?’ Natalia demanded, turning to face her daughter once more, disbelief written all over her face.

  ‘You know why.’

  Natalia’s hand shot out again, catching Kassie by surprise. The young girl stumbled slightly, tears pricking her eyes, but her mother looked unrepentant.

  ‘Enough, Kassie. I’ve warned you about this.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ />
  Natalia grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her in close.

  ‘You do it because you want to.’ She was in her daughter’s face now, whispering savagely. ‘Because you want to hurt me, to torture me.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want this to happen, it just does.’

  ‘You dream it up, just like your grandmother.’

  ‘It’s what I am –’

  ‘No, it’s what you choose to be,’ Natalia spat back, her voice loud and harsh. ‘And I will not stand it any longer.’

  ‘None of this is my fault, Mama –’

  ‘Oh, it’s all your fault, Kassandra. You have always been a deceitful, attention-seeking child, but it stops now. I will not be humiliated like this any longer, not after all I’ve done for you.’

  Natalia was glaring at her daughter, her eyes blazing.

  ‘So, get this into your thick head. No more cutting class, no more drugs …’ She pulled Kassie in close, as she concluded: ‘… and no more lies.’

  18

  ‘I din’ do nuttin.’

  Gabrielle Grey leaned back in her chair and shook her head sadly. Edmundo Ortiz was the same age as her eldest son, but the seventeen-year-old gang member couldn’t have taken a more different path in life. High school was already a distant memory; he’d been in and out of foster care for years. The only real ‘family’ he’d ever had was the hoods he ran with in the Spanish Cobras – a well-resourced, high-profile drugs gang, currently fighting the Latin Kings for power and influence on the West Side.

  To Gabrielle, he looked like so many of the angry young men she’d seen tearing up Humboldt Park. The sullen, hooded expression, the tattoos marking gang allegiance, the pants hanging halfway down his ass to denote that he’d done jail time – if he’d ever had a belt it was now the property of the CPD. He was still wearing the black and green T-shirt he’d been picked up in – another marker of his clan loyalty – a small detail which depressed Gabrielle further. During her early years as a communities liaison officer, she’d seen kids in kindergarten colouring pictures of Mickey Mouse in in gang colours – stark evidence of how early the gangs started to warp young minds.