Grant Park

by Leonard Pitts, Jr.

  “Bob?”

  “Bob, how…?”

  The second voice was Malcolm’s, but Bob barely heard it. Because the first voice that reached him from out of that darkness had been Janeka’s. He had been so frightened. He had been so terrified. “Janeka, are you in here?”

  “Yeah, she’s here,” growled McLarty. “Where else she going to be? Now all of you shut the fuck up.”

  “How’d they find us?”

  Bob’s eyes were adjusting themselves to the light and he could make out the shape of the mammoth man who asked the question. He was the same one who had read the manifesto on the video.

  “I don’t know,” answered McLarty in the same carefree voice. “Why don’t you ask ’em, real nice-like?”

  “How’d you find us?” demanded Pym.

  The big man stood above him. Lowering his hands, which had been lifted all this time, Bob fixed his gaze on Pym as best he could. “Your mother says hi,” he said.

  Pym’s eyes squeezed down to mere slits. There was, Bob noticed, a vivid, angry scar that had not been there on the video. “What do you know about my mother?” demanded Pym.

  “Irene Funicelli,” said Bob, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “We just left her. We showed her the video. She’s very concerned about you.”

  Panic lit Pym’s eyes. “You leave my mom out of this,” he said.

  “I’m just telling you what she said,” said Bob. “It broke her heart, that video.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to see that.”

  “How did you think she wouldn’t see it? The whole world has seen it.”

  Now Pym simply looked helpless, like a child. “She wasn’t supposed to see it,” he repeated. He looked at Bob. “How’d you even find my mother?”

  Bob thought of saying that he had gone to McLarty’s house first and found Pym’s number scrawled on a wall, but the jumpy little rat with the gun would know what else Bob had seen there. No telling how that might play out. So instead, he just shrugged. “We’re reporters. That’s what we do, we find stuff out.”

  McLarty was scratching his chin thoughtfully with the muzzle of the gun. “Seems to me there’s a bigger issue here, Sergeant,” he said. “Fuck how they found your mom. We need to know how they found us.”

  Again, Bob shrugged. “Irene Funicelli, Ben Funicelli, Funn Toys. It’s a simple connection. I’m sure the cops will make it soon enough themselves.”

  Pym’s frightened eyes shot McLarty a question. McLarty said, “Nah, don’t worry about it, Sergeant. They got lucky is all. One in a million shot. Hell, if it was that easy to make the connection, cops would be all over this place right now.” With a theatrical gesture, he cupped a hand to his ear. “I don’t hear no sirens.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Pym didn’t sound convinced.

  “Of course I’m right. Of course I’m right. Of course I’m right. The problem we have right now is this: We’ve got work to do and we have too many fucking hostages to keep an eye on while we do it. It’s time to cull the herd, Sergeant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But Bob already knew. Icebergs swam through his arteries. He could not feel his legs beneath him.

  “I mean, we got to kill them,” said McLarty, as if amazed by his friend’s obtuseness.

  “Kill them?”

  “Sure,” said McLarty. “Let’s see who’s first. Eenie meenie minie moe.” He bobbed the gun in time to the old children’s rhyme. With the last syllable, it fell on Janeka. She was still sitting on the floor with her back to them, craning her head, trying to get a view. Bob could only see one eye and it was round with terror.

  Now McLarty went to her, racked the slide and pointed the pistol at her forehead. “Sorry, babe. Any last words?”

  Bob roared. “No! Leave her alone, goddamn you! You fucking animal! You want to shoot somebody, you bastard? Shoot me! Shoot me!”

  McLarty grinned. “Okay,” he said.

  And he shot Bob.

  twenty-five

  Bob Carson seemed to fall in slow motion. He collapsed in sections, head dropping first, torso bending at the point of impact, arms coming up to protect what was already wounded, legs buckling, then giving way, the whole of him, falling. It seemed to take all day. Seemed something other than real. When, finally, Bob hit the floor, Malcolm stared at Amy, needing confirmation, he supposed, that this was actual, that it had just happened right in front of him. And of course, it had. He could tell with just a glance at her that she had seen what he had seen. Her eyes were pools of white in a face that hung slack on her skull like a bag on a hook.

  “You shot him.”

  Pym’s astonished whisper was unnaturally loud in the sudden, claustrophobic silence that filled the old warehouse.

  McLarty shrugged. “Of course I did. Said I was going to, didn’t I?”

  Then, as if she had been too stunned to process it until this very second, Janeka suddenly cried out Bob’s name and began crawling on her stomach—her ankles were still bound by duct tape—to where he had fallen, right near Malcolm’s feet. McLarty stepped over and stood straddling her. “Look at this,” he said idly. “Look at this, look at this. She had her fucking hands free and you didn’t even notice. Piss-poor job of checking on the captives, Sergeant.” He raised the gun.

  “That’s enough,” said Pym.

  “The fuck it is,” said McLarty, the barrel of the pistol two inches off the back of Janeka’s skull. “She goes next. Then that bitch over there who slugged me. We can keep this one if you want. He’s not going anywhere with those cuffs on him. We can chain him to the front of the van just like we planned.”

  Janeka, still inching her way forward, seemed not to notice any of this, seemed oblivious to everything except the need to reach Bob, who lay there still as death, the blood on his shirt front glistening in the pallid light. “Bob,” she whispered, “please, honey, please. Please don’t…please don’t…”

  “‘Please, honey, please…’” mimicked McLarty in a high, singsong voice. Then he laughed.

  “I said, ‘That’s enough,’” Pym told McLarty. His voice had taken on a knife’s edge of command.

  McLarty noticed. His eyes came up. “How many times do I have to keep reminding you: I’m your commanding officer, not the other way around. What the fuck did you join this man’s militia for, Sergeant, if you’re going to turn pussy over every little thing?”

  “I joined it to carry out a mission,” said Pym. “I didn’t join it to be a fucking animal. Now give me the gun, Captain. I’ll watch the prisoners.”

  Janeka had reached Bob and was cradling his head, still oblivious to this argument about her very life. She rocked back and forth with Bob in her lap, moaning through her tears.

  McLarty said, “What? The hell I will. Who the fuck is going to help me paint the armor and finish wiring the bomb if you’re in here babysitting?”

  “You can handle it. May take a little longer, but you can do it.”

  “Well, why should I trust you to watch the prisoners? You’re so soft, how do I know you won’t just turn ’em all loose soon as my back is turned?”

  “You know I won’t,” said Pym.

  “Oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah?” said McLarty. “Funny thing, now that I think about it, how you never noticed this bitch had got her hands loose. For all I know, you’re the one helped her do it.”

  Pym raised one of those big hands. “You know better. Now come on, Dwayne, give me the gun. I’ll keep an eye on them, you finish getting the van ready, and we can accomplish our mission like soldiers.”

  McLarty said, “You do know we got to kill them, don’t you?”

  Pym said, “Maybe. We don’t have to do it now, though, do we?”

  They stared at one another for a long time. Finally McLarty heaved a sigh. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Aw fuck, aw fuck.” There was something in his voice of the petulant child surrendering to his mother. He put the gun into Pym’s hand. “Just keep an eye on them, okay? Can you do that at least?�
��

  “Yeah,” said Pym. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  He watched as McLarty took one of the lanterns and went out to the van. McLarty opened the front door and removed cans of spray paint. In the dim glow of the cabin light, Malcolm was able to make out an evil sight: two assault rifles were propped against the passenger seat side by side, twin promises of carnage.

  “Jesus,” he breathed.

  Pym watched McLarty go with no apparent interest and then nudged Janeka with his foot. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

  “How do you think he’s doing?” she spat. Her eyes were glistening. “He needs a doctor. He needs a hospital.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Pym.

  He motioned to Amy with the pink pistol. “You get over here with these others, so I can see you,” he said. “Behave yourself and I won’t have to tie you up.” Amy did as she was told, taking a seat on the floor to Malcolm’s left, right at Bob’s feet. She did not speak. Terror had made her mute.

  “What kind of man are you?” demanded Janeka, tears in her voice.

  Pym grunted as he sat down at the table. “Right now, I’m a man who could use a beer,” he said.

  “You know this is wrong,” said Malcolm. “Your friend out there might be crazy, but you’re not.”

  Pym ignored him. He turned his back and started tapping on the computer keyboard until he had brought up the live stream from the conservative cable news channel. The handcuff key, noted Malcolm, was still on the table at his elbow. “America’s news,” Pym intoned with rich satisfaction, “unbiased and unafraid.” This was the news channel’s much-parodied slogan. “Unhinged and untrustworthy” would have been more accurate, in Malcolm’s view.

  “Please,” said Janeka, her voice rough. “He’s going to die if he doesn’t get help soon. Please, sir. I don’t want him to die.”

  Pym picked up the roll of duct tape and tossed it back to Janeka without looking. “Tape that tight over the wound,” he said. “Keep the pressure on. Might stop the bleeding.” He rummaged on the table and found the gauze he had meant to use to dress the wound on his face earlier that day, and the antiseptic he had sprayed onto it. “Use these,” he said, tossing it all over his shoulder as well. “Best I can do.”

  Janeka picked these things up from the floor. “This is not good enough,” she said. “He didn’t cut his finger. He was shot.”

  “It’s all you got,” said Pym. “Besides, Dwayne’s probably right. Probably have to kill all of you anyway before it’s done. I’m just too soft-hearted.”

  “Your mother must be so proud,” said Malcolm.

  Pym looked around. “You leave her out of this,” he said.

  “Actually, she’s a nice lady.” Amy’s voice was soft. They looked toward her.

  “She’s right.” Bob said this.

  His voice was raspy and weak, but hearing it, Janeka laughed in happy surprise. “Bob?” she said. “Oh, thank God. Don’t try to talk.”

  Bob shook his head. “She’s right,” he repeated. “You look at her, you look at this guy, and you wonder what happened. How did she give birth to this?”

  “Bob, save your strength, honey.” Janeka was peeling tape off the roll with fresh energy. Unable to tear it with her hands, she used her teeth.

  “Janeka,” he said, “there’s so much I need to tell you.”

  She wouldn’t hear it. “Shush,” she said. “Tell me later. Tell me later.” Bob fell silent as Janeka opened his jacket and tore at his shirt to reach the wound in his side.

  Amy spoke on, spoke over them, still marveling at the mystery of Pym’s mother. “You want her to be a monster,” she said in a soft, wondering voice. “After you see her son on the video? You expect that. But she’s not a monster. She’s this nice lady in this nice house who’s had a real hard time of it in her life, including marrying a couple of really shitty men and raising a son with special needs. But she persevered, you know? You have to admire that. She did everything she could for her boy. I felt sorry for her.”

  Pym had been looking down at the live stream on the computer. Now he looked at Amy. She said, “When this comes out, it’s going to kill her. You realize that, don’t you? It’s just going to kill her.”

  “You shut up talking about her,” said Pym. “I swear, you shut up about her or I’ll make you sorry.”

  Amy fell quiet. There was silence then except for the tinny music from the laptop’s speakers. It was a fanfare of drums and horns and then, on the screen, the august, snowy-haired anchor, who had covered every presidential election since 1960, gave the latest results. As he intoned the name of each state, a white image of that state turned the appropriate color, pinwheeled three times, and then flew, trailing red, white, and blue stardust, to deposit itself in either of two columns: one on the left headed by a stern image of Barack Obama, the other on the right headed by a smiling John McCain. A counter directly beneath each man’s chin kept tally of his electoral total. Headlines of other news crept across the bottom of the screen just above a ticker that was at this moment announcing the Dow Jones industrial average had closed that day at 9,625.28. A station logo was in the bottom right corner.

  It was a busy screen.

  But when the states had finished their pinwheeling and flying to opposite corners trailing stardust the color of patriotism, it turned out that Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Massachusetts, Maryland, New Jersey, and New Hampshire had all turned blue and placed themselves in the column headed by Obama. Oklahoma, Tennessee, West Virginia, and South Carolina had gone for McCain.

  Out of nowhere, Pym rose from his chair, looming over Amy as redwoods loom over shrubs, his fists clenched, roaring at her. “You don’t know anything about it, do you hear?” It took Malcolm a moment to process this, to realize Pym was returning to the subject he had ordered Amy to abandon several minutes before, as if unable or unwilling to leave it alone. “Just because you talked to her for a few minutes, you think you know something about her or me? You think you know anything? You got a lot of nerve, you know that? Fuck you, lady. Fuck you!”

  Amy cowered beneath the onslaught.

  “Hey, look,” said Malcolm, feeling not unlike a man trying to lure a bad dog with a juicy steak, “there’s M.J. There’s Jordan.”

  The election coverage had gone to a commercial break and on the screen Michael Jordan, tongue wagging behind him, was climbing through the air toward the basket in slow motion, bringing the ball down like a hammer on some backpedaling defender who looked as if he just wanted to get out of the way. Flashbulbs twinkled behind them like stars in the sky. In the voiceover, Jordan was saying something wise about the virtues of hard work and persistence. The logo of an athletic shoemaker came on the screen.

  “Best there ever was,” said Malcolm, “best there ever will be.”

  Pym’s glare was dull. “You’re just trying to change the subject,” he said. “You just want me to leave her alone.”

  “Of course I do,” said Malcolm. “She doesn’t deserve you yelling at her just because she thinks your mother is a nice lady. You ought to take that as a compliment. Most people would.”

  “I ain’t most people.”

  “No, what you are is embarrassed,” said Malcolm. “You don’t like anyone to mention her because it reminds you that what you’re doing is not something that nice lady would approve. I bet you it would horrify her, wouldn’t it? I bet you you’re not the man she hoped you would be, are you? She raised you to be better than this, didn’t she? What would she think of you right now, Clarence?”

  Pym shook his head. “You won’t let it go, will you? Always trying to get inside my head. Always trying to get a rise.”

  “I just think you’re not nearly as stupid as you pretend to be,” said Malcolm.

  “Not stupid at all.”

  “Oh yeah? I got news for you, Clarence. Thinking you and that jumpy little meth head out there are superior human beings because your skin is white? That’s stupid. Thinking
you’re going to get anywhere near that park? That’s stupid. Thinking you’re going to kill Obama? That’s really stupid. Thinking that two lone idiots constitute a militia? Stupid. Thinking you’re going to do anything except hurt a bunch of innocent people and then die for no reason? Supremely, incredibly stupid.”

  “Shut up.”

  “And the worst thing is, you know it. You know all of this without me even saying it. Because you’re right. You’re not really stupid at all. But you pretend to be. You let yourself be led by that loser out there even though you know it’s wrong, even though it’s useless, even though you know you’re smarter than he is. You’re better than he is.”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “You smarter and you’re better,” repeated Malcolm.

  “I said, ‘Shut up.’” Pym raised the gun.

  “Go ahead,” said Malcolm. He lifted his chin. “Shoot me because you don’t have the guts to face the truth. Go ahead and do it. I don’t care. I’m sick of you. You’re a coward and a hypocrite. Go on, Clarence. Pull the trigger. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Pym pursed his lips. He looked confused.

  Amy piped up in a trembling voice. “You know, your partner killed his family, probably with that gun. Bob climbed through the window. He saw their dead bodies.”

  “You’re lying.” Pym glanced over at Amy, kept the gun trained on Malcolm.

  “She’s…telling the…truth. I did climb in. I did…see.” Bob tried to say more. His face contorted in a spasm of pain and he fell silent.

  “She is telling the truth,” said Janeka. “I know because I was there when he did it. It was when he was on the way here. He stopped by a house and he took me in there and he shot some guy. Then he went down a hallway and I heard a woman’s voice and two more gunshots. The house was on Winnebago Street. Is that where his mother lives? How would I know that if I wasn’t there?”

  “You’re all lying. Just shut up! You hear me? Just shut up.”

  He looked from one of them to the other. The gun had gone limp in his fist. “I don’t want to hear anything else out of any of you,” he said. “You’re lying.”