by Rick R. Reed
Randy started moving quickly after the footsteps. Soon he could make out the swinging motion of the man's raincoat. Randy cocked the revolver.
"MacAree?" Randy was startled at the force and confidence of his voice.
He watched as the man stopped and slowly turned. He was grinning at him. Before Randy had a chance to react, Joe had jumped on him. Randy felt himself going over backward, felt the sharp crack at the back of his head as it made impact with the concrete floor. And felt the worst feeling of all: the gun slipping from his fingers. He heard the scratch of metal as the gun slid across the floor, out of his reach.
MacAree was above him, laughing. Randy tried to shake his dizziness. He grabbed Joe's fist as it was about to slam into his face. He held fast to Joe's arm, veering it away.
Joe got to his feet. "Who the fuck are you?"
Randy climbed to his knees, then his feet, breathing heavily. "Randy Mazursky, though I don't suppose that name means anything to you, you bastard."
Joe laughed for a long time. Then he whispered, "She was the sweetest little cunt I've ever had."
Randy lunged at him, his hands poised to grab Joe's throat. The movement was just what Joe expected. His fingers were wrapped around the knife in his coat pocket. Just before Randy's body made impact with his, Joe removed the knife and held it erect in front of him.
Randy grunted as he felt the knife dig into his front, just above his stomach, like something hot. He looked at Joe in disbelief, then fell back. Joe looked blurry as he hurried away from him, snickering. Randy wasn't sure what he was saying, but it sounded like: "Hafta get ready for my date."
Randy lay back and tried to pull the knife from his stomach. The knife was slippery with blood.
30
Anne looked out the window, trying to force herself to think of something other than nine o'clock, when she and Nick would get in her car and, with Nick lying on the floor, proceed west on the Eisenhower Expressway to meet with Joe.
She heard the click of Nick's fork on his plate in the dining room. She had spent the day making spinach and prosciutto lasagna, homemade garlic bread, a Caesar salad. The work had taken her mind off the approaching evening. She tensed as she heard the chair sliding back from the table and the soft patter of his footsteps as his stockinged feet made their way across the hardwood floor.
Before she knew what happened, he was behind her and sliding his arms around her waist. She had no idea why his actions made her heart beat faster, made her throat constrict.
He whispered, "Scared?"
The question was so absurd it broke the tension. Anne threw back her head and laughed, struggled out of his grasp and laughed until the tears poured down her face, until her stomach felt tight and painful, until she was gasping. Halfheartedly, Nick laughed too.
"What?" he asked, a grin on his face. "What did I say?"
Anne at last reined in her laughter. "You asked if I was scared. Under the circumstances don't you think that's kind of a silly question?"
Nick laughed to show he got the joke. "I see."
"Of course I'm scared. I'm scared for both of us. I couldn't do this alone, but I'm scared of bringing you into it. We could both die."
Nick squeezed her tighter, burying his face in her hair and whispering, "That's just not gonna happen. We're the good guys. Remember?"
Anne thought about Joe, remembering him as he was when they met, as he was during the first years of their marriage. She tried to disassociate this man from the one they would be seeing tonight. She tried to think of the Joe she loved as dead . . . and felt a clutch in her throat as she realized she was already on a course that might see both Joes dead in truth before this evening was over.
She closed her eyes, trying to quell the nausea that rose within her when she thought about her husband. I've never felt this way, she thought, never, not about anyone. The hatred and anger was like a palpable thing within her, growing and filling her up. The fact that she did feel this way made her hate Joe all the more. How could she want someone dead? Especially someone she once loved? Someone she thought she'd be spending her life with, someone upon whom she had banked all her hopes. But how could he have done this to her?
Since her first look at her new face, she'd faced her reflection with only a hard anger. Nick had told her the bruises would fade and plastic surgery could remove the scar the razor had made, but she knew she would never be the same.
Nick thought about the plans they had made earlier in the day. He thought their plan was either beautifully simple or dangerously inept. Anne would drive to the warehouse where her meeting with Joe was to take place. Once they were on Roosevelt Road Nick would slide to the floor out of sight and would remain there until Anne had gone inside the warehouse. They both assumed that once Anne met with Joe he would no longer be watching the street and Nick could leave the car and follow her inside. But their assumptions were dangerous: They assumed Anne would be able to reason with Joe long enough for Nick to get inside the warehouse. Nick didn't know if he should depend on the reasonability of a psychotic killer.
"Take a shower with me."
"What?" Nick turned to look at Anne.
"I think a shower would make me feel better. Take one with me. Okay?"
"What? Now?"
Anne sighed. "Yes, now. I just think a really hot shower would make me feel better."
Nick realized how he could use the time alone. "No, I think it would make me feel worse. I've gotta get psyched up. Can you understand?"
"I suppose so. I won't be long."
Nick watched as Anne disappeared into the bedroom. He waited until he heard the rush of water before going into the kitchen. There he lifted the receiver from the phone and dialed the number Pete McGrew had given him in case anything significant came up. Nick prayed McGrew would be in his office.
The phone was picked up on the second ring. "McGrew."
"Pete," Nick breathed a sigh, "I'm glad I reached you. Something you should know about is going to go down tonight."
"Yeah?" McGrew sounded interested.
"Yeah. MacAree's wife is going to meet him tonight. She got contacted through a third party." Nick didn't think it would be wise to tell McGrew about his and Anne's plotting.
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me she's going to go through with this meeting?"
"Yeah. She thinks she might finally be able to put an end to this mess."
"Nick, buddy, you've got to stop her. This guy is very dangerous and I think he's completely, completely lost touch with reality. You have tried to stop her, haven't you?"
Nick was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I did at first. And then she convinced me this might be the only way to catch this lunatic before he kills someone else."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'm going with her. I can handle myself . . . and I can make sure nothing happens to her."
"I'm not sure of any of that."
Nick laughed. "Well, maybe you're right. That's why I'm calling. I thought if you could supply some backups, we could do everything nice and safe and take this guy down. Deal?"
McGrew laughed. "Sure, Nick. We'll let you play crime-stopper."
Suddenly Nick wondered why he'd ever liked McGrew. "Look, I'm telling you this is it. Tonight. It could be all over. Just come on out to the location and send some uniforms in unmarked cars. We'll have this asshole behind bars before morning. City council will be thanking you for making Chicago safe again."
"Nick, this is the craziest thing I've ever heard. We can't let you do this."
"Well, we're gonna do it. With or without you, buddy."
"Just in case we decide to show up, where's this woman supposed to meet her husband?"
"Uh-uh," Nick said. "You play fair. Promise me the reinforcements and the cooperation and I'll tell you the location. Not until. I'm not going to be tricked so you can go bust in there and scare the guy. He's too shrewd for that. Strong-arm tactics aren't going to bring him down. That much I know."
McGrew sounded tense, insistent when he said, "Give me the goddamn address. We have a hell of a lot better chance than you'll ever have. Don't be stupid, Nick. Somebody's gonna get their ass killed tonight and it might be you."
"Listen, McGrew: I'm not going to tell you the location. Just forget it."
As soon as Nick hung up the phone it started ringing. Nick ripped it out of the wall. Then he took a deep breath, looked down at the phone in his hands, and laughed.
He heard Anne in the bathroom. "Nick? What are you doing out there?"
"Nothing." Nick was silent as he listened to her blow dryer. Finally he went into the bathroom, where Anne was bent over the sink, drying her hair. She was wearing a navy bathrobe. Nick wanted to cry: The scene was domestic. If someone could have peeked in a window and seen them, would they have believed what awaited them in less than two hours?
"You better hurry; we only have about twenty minutes."
"Don't remind me," Anne snapped. "I'll be ready."
Nick left her to sit on her bed, comforted by the dimness of her bedroom.
McGrew hurried out of the little cubbyhole he called an office, putting on his tweed jacket and lighting a cigarette as he went. "Come on, Sam," he said to his partner, who was sitting outside the office sorting a large pile of phone tips on the slasher. Sam's eyes were bloodshot and his face looked puffy and raw. He brightened when McGrew said, "Everything just might be all over . . . tonight. I'll tell you all about it in the car."
Fifteen minutes later McGrew pulled the battered Ford Fairmont up in front of a fire hydrant across the street from Anne MacAree's apartment building. He threw the gear shift into park and leaned back in his seat with his hands behind his head. Looking over at his partner, he noticed Sam's taut posture, as if he were a hunting dog ready to pounce. "Relax, asshole, we may not have much time."
McGrew laughed and stared up at the building.
There was the bag. Pat looked at her suitcase, lying open on the floor at the foot of her bed. She remembered back to when she was mobile, and how the bag had accompanied her on trips to Niagara Falls, Ft. Lauderdale, Lake of the Ozarks, and Dallas. Since the accident she had taken no trips, had had no use for the nylon floral-print bag.
Now it was full. Pat had gone shopping yesterday and bought an entire new wardrobe. She wanted to look good for Joe when they ran away.
Tonight, oh, baby, tonight. She leaned back in her wheelchair, savoring the moment when that bitch of a wife would die. With her out of the way the two of them could go off together, start over. She's what caused all this craziness, Pat reasoned; she's what drove him to it.
Pat leaned down to look into the side panel of the suitcase. Crest, a toothbrush, a roll-on bottle of Secret, and a tube of K-Y Jelly. The fags use it, Pat thought, why can't we? Oh, Joe, baby, I want to make you happy. She picked up the K-Y, running her fingers over its smooth white surface, imagined applying it to Joe's hard cock, sliding her hand up and down.
Enough. She closed the suitcase, outlining its square shape with the zipper. She needed to get to the warehouse before tonight's little "date." She needed to be there, in the shadows, to make sure the job wasn't botched this time.
She would make certain of that. Pat Young patted the Saturday night special she had concealed in the waistband of her slacks.
It seemed like less than five minutes had passed when Nick came back into the bedroom. Anne was still sitting on the bed, in darkness.
"What are you doing? It's nine o'clock. We have to get a move on."
Amazed, Anne looked at the little blue digital numbers of the alarm clock on the nightstand: 9:01 p.m. Anne clutched her robe around her, feeling cold. "I'm not going."
Nick leaned against the door frame. He blew out a sigh, felt his stomach tighten.
"What?"
Anne stood and went to him. "I said I'm not going."
He looked down at her face in the darkness. "Anne, you have to. We've come this far. Hell, you convinced me." Suddenly Nick realized how important it was to him to make this meeting, to finally put an end to the insanity. And maybe, just maybe, begin a life with Anne. He placed his hands on her shoulders, the insides of his palms resting against the bare skin near her neck. Her skin was cold to his touch, damp. "Look," he whispered. "An end to this is out there. In two hours, maybe less, all of this will be over. Two hours, Anne. If we don't go tonight this could drag on and on and more people could be killed."
She looked up at him, her face masked by anguish, her eyes sullen, no longer able to cry. "Nick, don't do this to me. You can't hold me responsible."
He hugged her. "No one's holding you responsible. I just want to get this over with."
She stared into his eyes for a long time, tracing the small scar on his face with her finger. She kissed him. "I do too, but I'm not going."
Nick closed his eyes. If he didn't go through with this now he never would. "Then I'll go alone." He wrenched away from her and hurried back into the living room. He picked up his jacket and slid into it.
Anne smiled at him. Even with the bruises and broken nose, she knew a smile could get her "hero" to do just what she wanted.
The apartment was silent.
Anne lay back on the bed, letting go of a little of her tension. The door had just clicked closed, and she heard Nick's key in the lock.
When she closed her eyes, though, the tension rose back up, constricting her muscles. Joe's face appeared before her: his mouth ringed in blood, his eyes lit up with insane rage. A monster . . .
Anne sat up, feeling cold. What if Nick didn't succeed in killing Joe? What if Joe killed Nick? He would come then for her. He would slash her; he would make her his own.
* * *
Nick forced himself to shove the fear down deep inside, to not feel anything at all. Then he opened the door. He avoided the elevator and took the stairs, taking them so quickly that by the time he reached the bottom he was panting, thinking of little more than the sheen of sweat on his brow and the fire in his lungs.
Outside, the air was chill and Nick felt as if he were dreaming as he made his way to the car. There was a complete sense of the unreal in doing these things: placing his key in the car door, sliding into the car, starting it up.
He sat for a while in the car, staring at the concrete wall in front of him.
Anne pounded on the passenger-door window.
Nick looked over, surprised to see her. She seemed so certain upstairs that she couldn't go through with it that he hadn't even entertained the possibility she might change her mind. He reached over and lifted the lock.
She opened the door and slid in beside him. She squeezed his knee and he noticed her hand was trembling.
"You haven't changed your mind or anything?" he asked.
"I couldn't let you go by yourself." She paused for a moment, her breath quivering. "He'll kill you." The last part she said simply, with no emotion.
"Right." Nick put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking garage. Once they were on the inner drive he said, "Now, how do you think we should approach this. We—"
Anne cut him off. "Let's not talk. I can't. We've already been over everything. Please . . . just drive."
Nick didn't say anything. He watched the car's headlights consume the road in front of it. He didn't notice the headlights of the Ford Fairmont behind him.
Pat's wheelchair whirred through the darkness. She moved slowly in the warehouse, careful not to bump into industrial shelving or worse. She paused and listened to the squeaks and shuffling noises the rats made. This place must be full of them, she thought.
She whispered intb the darkness, "Joe? Joe, you hear me?"
The darkness, heavy and palpable, gave no reply-
Pat found a spot where there was a gap in the shelving. The spot was near the door where Joe came in and out. She knew this was where Anne MacAree would come in.
"And never go out," Pat whispered, and patted the Saturday night special she had with her.
Pet
e McGrew looked over at his partner, Sam, who had once again assumed his bird-dog pose, and laughed. "We couldn't have timed it better if we tried, Sammy."
"It won't be long now," Sam said, not taking his eyes from the road.
Nick put the car in park and listened to the engine wind down. He was afraid to look over at
Anne. Afraid and ashamed, because his stomach was knotted with terror and his palms were all but dripping sweat. Finally he felt her touch on his arm.
"Look at me," she whispered. He looked over at her. Her face was pale, even in the darkness, and shiny with sweat. She could see the recognition in his face and managed to smile. "Yes, Nick. I'm scared too. Put your arms around me."
He hugged her quickly, too nervous for any touch at all to be comforting. "Look," he said. "He might be watching us. I've got to get down on the floor." He slid down and got over to the passenger side. "Slide over to my side," he said. "It's not going to look right if you get out the other side."
Anne did as she was told and looked down at Nick. She stroked his hair. "Thank you," she whispered into the darkness. "Thank you."
Nick felt he needed to say it . . . now. "I love you, Anne. And I hope that after all of this is over, we can start building something. Something that isn't based on fear—" His voice broke. "Ah shit." Nick put his hand over his eyes.
Anne pulled her hand away from him. "Please. I've got to do this . . . now."
She was out of the car before he had a chance to respond. He listened to the click of her boots on the pavement as she crossed the road. He climbed up on the seat, lifting himself just enough to watch her. He noticed how the streetlight caught the shine of her hair. He never felt lower: He was letting this woman he loved go where she should never have to. He prayed he would have the chance to make this up to her.
McGrew was two car lengths behind them on Roosevelt Road and watching when Nick pulled into a parking space.
"Let's just circle around the block so they don't get suspicious," Sam said.
"Good idea." McGrew put on his turn signal and started down a side street. Up ahead, an old Pontiac with one taillight moved slowly. Pete moved up on the car quickly, finally tailgating. The car didn't move any faster.