Missing: A Mason Gray Case
Page 7
“Hey, wait a minute,” he pleaded.
“Spill it, or I will.”
“Look, look,” he stammered. “I don't know much, but I've heard some rumors.”
I put the baggie back on the ground.
“I don't know nothin' about buying anybody, but word is if you need some quick cash, there's people offering a finder’s fee for homeless kids, people that fall through the cracks… you know, people no one will miss.”
“Now we're getting somewhere,” I told him. “How do you contact them?”
He looked sheepish, then said in a quiet voice, “Craigslist.”
I picked up the meth again.
“I'm being straight with you, man. They say you have to go on there and post something about dreadlocks in the beauty section. They'll contact you and ask if you can dye them red or something. Then you reply with the location of the homeless guy. That's all I know, I swear.”
“See now, that wasn't so hard, was it?” I pulled out my notepad and wrote down red dreadlocks, Craigslist, homeless people. Then I laid three twenty-dollar bills on the floor and said, “I'm going to free your hands now. Don't do anything stupid. Hopefully, we won't see each other again.” I stripped the duct tape off his wrists; he remained calm. After that, I saw myself out of the boiler room and into the courtyard while Jimmy was undoing his feet.
We had been inside longer than I thought; it had gotten dark. Autumn was in full swing, and the days kept getting shorter. I didn't relish the idea of hanging out in this neighborhood any longer than necessary, so I hustled toward a busier street to hail a cab.
I made it a block before all hell broke loose.
The side streets were deserted and I was heading for an alley I knew cut through to Clark Street rather than walk around the block. I must have felt a change in air pressure or heard a muted footfall, because I sensed someone behind me. I was stepping to the right, intending to pivot on my right foot to face the newcomer, when I took a hard hit on the left shoulder. Something popped.
If I hadn't taken that step, I would have been hit square in the back and knocked face first to the pavement. As it was, the force of the blow spun me around and knocked me off balance and onto my back.
Another body hit the ground beyond me. Apparently my attacker had gone for a full body tackle, and his momentum had toppled him over as well.
I rolled over and pushed myself to my knees, expecting to see Jimmy or one of his posse. Instead, a guy in a black leather biker jacket, purple hair, and several facial piercings was already back on his feet and coming at me fast. Too fast.
Before I could get to my feet, the guy picked me up by the front of my jacket and hurled me into the wall of the alley. I flew a good five feet through the air, then hit the bricks and lost my breath.
I couldn't believe this guy was that strong. He wasn't big, just wiry. I didn't have long to think about it, though, because he was on me in a heartbeat. He grabbed me by the shirt and slammed my back into the wall again. No one had ever gotten the drop on me like this.
He pinned me to the wall with his left hand and cocked his right arm back, aiming a punch at my face. I took the opportunity to grab the ring in his lower lip and jerked down as hard as I could, feeling it tear through flesh.
The punk screamed and grabbed his lip with both hands, giving me half a second’s reprieve. I kicked out as hard as I could at his left kneecap and felt a sickening crunch on impact. He howled in pain as his leg crumpled beneath his own weight. I moved away from the wall and tried to step around him.
The guy must have been high as a kite, because he jumped up, supporting himself on his good leg and letting the other hang limp. He grabbed my wrist and spun me face-first into the wall. My vision tunneled, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. A fist hammered into my side, and I swore I heard a rib crack. I sank to the ground.
The maniac handled me like a rag doll. He grabbed me under the armpits, lifting me back to my feet, and flipped me around so I could see his face. The next thing I knew, his fingers were wrapped around my throat, and his clawlike nails dug into my skin. I swear to God, this tweaker picked my two-hundred-twenty-pound frame a good six inches off the pavement.
I panicked.
My left arm still wasn't responding, so I tried to pry his fingers away with one hand, but his grip was like a vise clamped around my windpipe.
“Struggle all you want, kitten,” the psycho hissed. “You've used up all your lives, and curiosity is about to kill you.”
I couldn't speak, and darkness was crowding in around the edges of my vision. I knew I didn't have long, so I dropped my hand and reached into my open jacket, feeling for the grip of my pistol.
He opened his mouth, revealing a maw full of pointy teeth. Great. Not only was this guy hyped up on some crazy strength-boosting drug, but he was one of those vampire wannabes that filed his teeth. This just kept getting better.
He pulled me closer and sank his fangs into the side of my neck.
Just then my fingers closed around the textured grip of the .380. My thumb found the safety, and I clicked it off as I yanked it from the holster.
I pulled the trigger; a loud crack filled the air.
The pressure on my neck eased as the freak dropped me. He staggered back a couple of steps, clutching his stomach. He looked down at the wound, then back at me. His face twisted in rage, and he snarled something incoherent.
I pulled the trigger again, aiming for center mass.
Impossibly, he took a step forward. I fired two more rounds in rapid succession. This time, the force knocked him backward on his ass. He sat there for half a second, then toppled over in a heap.
I didn't wait to see what else would happen. I shoved the pistol back in its holster and dragged myself to my feet, then clamped a hand around my neck, applying pressure to staunch the flow of blood running over my shoulder.
The ground pitched beneath my feet as I staggered through the alley toward the main street. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the man begin to stir. How was he still alive?
I stumbled over a trash can and nearly fell to the asphalt. Pain had replaced the adrenaline that had coursed through my body: my nose throbbed, my ribs were screaming, and my neck was on fire. I knew it was only a matter of time before I passed out. Now I wished I had asked Mac to stick around.
I burst out of the alley. The sound of traffic assaulted my pulsating head. Headlights blinded me, and I tripped over the curb. Brakes squealed to a halt in front of me. To my utter relief, it was a cab. I vaguely remember pouring myself into the backseat and telling the cabbie to take me to a hospital over loud accusations of trying to get myself killed. Then I sank into blissful blackness.
12
The respite didn't last for long. Fractured images of fanged monsters lurking in the darkness swam through my dreams, shattering and reforming like a macabre stained-glass kaleidoscope.
Then I was gliding soundlessly above downtown Chicago like in the establishing shot of some summer blockbuster. I saw in an otherworldly spectrum, not the twinkling whites and yellows of artificial lighting that suffuse an urban landscape, but writhing ribbons and knots of blue and red energy. They seemed somehow significant, but their meaning eluded me.
The vision faded, and was replaced with my own grizzled image floating before me. I reached out and touched the smooth surface of a mirror. For a moment, all I could see in the reflection was my bruised and battered face, but soon ghostly impressions of buildings materialized behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw only darkness, but the silhouettes in the mirror remained. There was no color to them, just mottled shades of gray that shifted and shimmered. I reached out again, and this time the surface of the mirror gave way, rippling beneath my touch. The shadowy figures walking the streets behind my reflection paused and turned featureless faces toward me.
Something about this disturbed me, stirred my consciousness. I began to hear muffled voices. The darkness around me lightened, and the mirror shattered.
I opened my eyes a skosh, wincing as the harsh light bombarded my eyelids. Something tugged at my wrist, and I slid my gaze up the IV tubing to the stand where a heavyset nurse was adjusting the bag. She hadn’t noticed I was awake yet. I debated getting her attention. On one hand, she seemed preoccupied, and I didn’t feel like talking. On the other, I hurt like hell and thought I might score some painkillers.
“Ow,” I grunted hoarsely. It was all I could muster at the moment.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she said. Great. She was going to be all perky. “My name’s Enid. I’ll be your nurse today until six o’clock. If you need anything, just let me know. All right, sugar?”
“Ow,” I said again.
She told me she’d get me some Percocet to take the edge off my pain and indicated that I had a visitor. I flicked my eyes in the direction she gestured and saw Frank slumped in a chair in the corner, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest. Enid stepped over and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and then at me before righting himself. Then Enid hustled out of the room, hopefully to get some meds.
Frank yawned, rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, and shifted his weight forward, giving me the once-over.
“You look like hell,” he said.
The outpouring of affection nearly brought me to tears.
“You too,” I croaked.
He laughed at that, then turned serious.
“We’ve got some things to talk about, I think. But before we do, you’ll have to answer a few questions from someone else. There’s a detective just outside. He wanted to wake you as soon as he arrived, but I wouldn’t let him.”
As if on cue, Detective Rowe stepped through the door, saying something to somebody over his shoulder. He looked irritated as all get out. He shot daggers at Frank, who simply leaned back in the chair. His glare settled on me, taking in the extent of my injuries, I supposed, and he grunted.
“You’ve been busy,” he snapped. “What were you doing in Roger’s Park?”
“Working,” I told him.
“Care to expound on that?”
“I was following a lead on a missing person case.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened that led to this?” He waved a hand at my injuries.
“I finished my interview and was walking along the street to catch a cab, and some guy came at me from out of nowhere.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“No.”
“Is he connected to your case?”
“I dunno. He didn’t give me a chance to ask.” The detective’s tone rubbed me the wrong way; I couldn’t keep the snark at bay. His eye twitched, and his jaw clenched.
“What did you do then?”
I paused for a second before responding. “I defended myself.”
He snorted, “Defended yourself? You told the ER medics you shot someone, and there are four rounds missing from the clip of your sidearm. That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?”
I didn’t remember saying anything to the doctors or nurses, but then again, I didn’t remember anything after passing out in the cab.
“No,” I answered. “He tried to bash my skull in and rip my throat out with his teeth. The first shot didn’t stop him, so I put in three more rounds before he finally dropped.”
“He took three bullets at point blank range and didn’t go down?” Rowe’s voice brimmed with incredulity.
“No one’s more surprised than me. I think he was high or something.”
Rowe paused. I guess he was trying to figure out what concoction of pharmaceuticals could give someone that kind of resilience.
“I’ve read your file, Gray. You have a history of gratuitous violence. How do I know you didn’t pick this fight?”
Frank shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“That was different,” I muttered. I couldn’t blame Rowe for going down this road—I’d be thinking the same thing myself if I was in his position—but I had to derail it.
“How so?”
“Look at me. I didn’t do this to myself. I was blindsided. The guy was trying to kill me, and he almost succeeded. Look at the body if you don’t believe me. I never touched him... until, you know, I shot him.” Ack. Eloquence was eluding me. “But that was a last resort.”
“Perhaps. There’s one problem with that—we can’t find the body.”
I shot a look at Frank, who shrugged.
“What do you mean?”
“After the call came in from the hospital, we searched a four block radius around where the cab picked you up. We found some blood stains on the sidewalk, but no body, not even a blood trail leading away from the scene.”
“I... huh... that’s weird.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Detective Rowe sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Look, Gray, I want to believe you. I really do.” What was it with this guy? He had to know I didn't believe his nice guy act. “But I know you’re not telling me everything. I don’t know what, exactly, but this entire business is riddled with holes. Between the dead guy in your apartment, an apparent shooting at your place of business, and now this... it’s no coincidence. And when I connect the dots, which I will, if you’re behind any of it, it won’t go well for you.
“I wish I could be of more help.” It was only a little lie.
“Right,” he sniffed. “Fortunately for you, without more evidence to corroborate or refute your story, and without an actual body, I can’t arrest you. Rest assured, however, that I will be watching you very closely. If you do happen to remember anything else, your cooperation will be noted.”
He shot another look at Frank, then walked out of the room.
Frank got up and followed him to the door. When he was satisfied that the detective wasn’t lingering outside to eavesdrop, he returned to his chair and said, “All right, Gray, tell me what’s going on.”
I told him everything: the discovery of Victor Sanz’ corpse, his connection with the alderman, my suspicions that the attempts on my life were, in fact, related, and that it was all somehow connected to Ellie McCarthy. I knew I could trust Frank. I also knew that, besides withholding evidence from the police, I was guilty of nothing. Frank remained quiet while I spoke, though his eyebrows rose on several occasions, and when I told him about the possibility of human traffickers and the info I’d gotten from Jimmy, they just about crawled off his face.
When I finished spilling the beans, we both sat in silence for a few moments, and then he let out a low whistle.
“Damn, Gray, what have you gotten yourself into? This is dangerous territory. I think you might be in over your head. Let me make some phone calls and see what I can dig up.”
“No,” I said. “Whoever’s behind Ellie’s kidnapping is dangerous. I’ve already got a target on my back, and I don’t want you getting involved. You’ve got family to worry about. I don’t. Stay out of it.”
Frank looked as if he was about to argue but thought better of it. I certainly hoped he’d listen. He had a wife and two kids. Back when he first hired me, they would invite me over for dinner. I know I wasn’t good company at the time, but his wife, Nancy, took my intrusion on their private life in stride and always welcomed me with a hug and a home-cooked meal. I don’t think I’d have gotten back on my feet like I did without her motherly influence. I wanted them as far away from this situation as possible.
Frank told me that Mac had left a message at the office—he had some information for me, but my cell kept going straight to voice-mail. It was probably dead again, since I’d barely charged it before leaving the motel. I asked Frank to give Mac a call and let him know where I was and that he could swing by the hospital if he had time. It didn’t look like I’d be going anywhere for a while.
***
The rest of
the day passed uneventfully. Frank left before lunch, and I napped off and on once the meds had eased the pain into a dull ache.
At the shift change, the new nurse introduced herself, a short blonde girl named Tiffany with a cute little snub nose. She pretty much left me alone after that. I turned on the TV and surfed around until I found reruns of “I Love Lucy.” I’ve never been a big fan of the show, but I found myself mildly entertained. I made it through three or four episodes before I fell asleep.
The next time I woke up, everything was dark except for what soft light spilled through the doorway from the hall. I was immediately aware of another presence in the room. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim ambient light, but once they did, I spotted the figure seated in the same chair Frank had been in earlier, a shadow among shadows.
I tensed, expecting another attack, and my muscles screamed in protest. I was in no condition to fight, and lying in bed was a terrible position from which to mount a defense. I was completely vulnerable, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“Relax, Mr. Gray,” came a silky voice from the corner. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Who are you?” I asked, not relaxing in the slightest.
The figure leaned forward in the chair so that what little light came through the door fell on his face. He was a handsome man with high cheekbones and a square jaw that bore a heavy five o’clock shadow. Strands of tousled brown hair fell over a pronounced forehead, giving him an unkempt and disarming appearance. Most people, I imagine, never looked beyond that initial impression. If they did, they would see what I saw: that it was a carefully crafted façade. His eyes told the true story. A sharp hazel flecked with gold, they focused intensely on me, watching every movement, every breath. Measuring. Assessing. They were the eyes of a hunter, one that carefully stalks his prey, hidden in plain sight, seeks out every strength and weakness, calculates the perfect method of attack, strikes with absolute precision, and almost never fails. This was a very dangerous man.
“My name,” he said, “is Fletcher A. Harrison, the third.”