“Okay...”
“Anyway, the email came from a location near Randolph and Halsted. I can’t get any more specific than that.”
The intersection of Randolph and Halsted is in West Town, a neighborhood close to downtown and within spitting distance of the Kennedy Expressway. I couldn’t say what was in the vicinity off the top of my head, but it was a place to start looking.
I thanked Mac for the coffee again and decided it was time to get up from this godforsaken adjustable bed. I pushed the button on the side rail and shifted myself so I could swing my legs over. Sharp barbs of pain lanced through my ribs as the muscles connected to them contracted. My breath caught, but the pain eased, and I was able to get to my feet.
Mac had draped my jeans over the chair. I shuffled over to them and got my wallet out of the back pocket.
“How much for a new phone?” I asked. “Nothing fancy, but I’ll need access to the Internet.”
“Fifty bucks will cover it,” he told me.
Crap. I handed him two twenties and told him I’d give him the rest as soon as I could get to an ATM.
The stupid blue hospital gown I was wearing came untied in the back; I could feel it wafting around, exposing my nether regions. Apparently, it was making Mac uncomfortable. He grabbed the cash and told me not to worry about it—he’d add it to my bill—then muttered something about those big bucks I promised before sidling out the door.
Refusing to be ignored any longer, my bladder screamed that it was going to pop the cork in about five seconds. I made it to the bathroom just in time.
***
A couple of hours later, I was released from the hospital. Apparently they’d figured out that my insurance sucks and they couldn’t milk any other charges out of the situation, so they cut me loose with a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers and strict instructions to not overexert myself.
Mac returned from his errand with my new phone and offered me a ride to wherever I needed to go.
My apartment was no longer being held as a crime scene, but if I was out to get me, that would be the first place I’d look. The office carried the same risk.
I wanted to get off the grid, so to speak. The motel I’d stayed at was a good option: no one knew I’d been there, and it wasn’t too expensive. Of course, I’d been wearing the same grungy clothes since this whole fiasco began five days ago. I needed to change.
Also, I no longer had a gun; it had been turned over to the cops by the hospital staff. I didn’t like being without a weapon, especially not now. I’d have to pick up my spare.
I asked Mac to stop at the Public Storage facility a couple of blocks from my apartment. I rented a tiny indoor unit there to keep the stuff that I didn’t have room for at home. Those cost a little more than the outdoor ones, but they kept things from rusting.
I made my way to my unit, then opened the circular lock that secured the corrugated metal door. The door swung out with a creak and banged against the facing wall, echoing down the hallway and making me flinch.
Inside the cramped space, I rearranged the boxes until I found what I was looking for: a beat-up, faded, olive drab foot locker that belonged to my grandfather during the second World War. I spun the face of the combination lock and popped it open. I’d used that same lock on my high school locker. I smiled, thinking how strange it was that I clung to something that brought back unpleasant memories every time I used it. Glutton for punishment, that’s me.
I shook my head and reached into the foot locker, withdrawing an item wrapped in oilcloth: my spare weapon, a black government-issue Colt .45 semi-auto. It was a heavy, older model, made entirely of steel. It felt solid and substantial, not like the newer models made of plastic and composite materials. Its only real enemy was rust, but I kept it clean and dry and oiled it every so often to prevent any from building up.
I’d inherited this gun from my old man. He was a hard ass—guess that’s where I get my attitude—and a gun collector. Actually, I’m not sure “collector” is the right term; he was more like a hoarder, with a stockpile of weapons for when “the world went to shit,” which, according to him, was always about to happen. Every time a Democrat was elected, he went out and bought another gun.
Once, a few years before he died, he’d taken me into the den and pulled out the Colt. He told me he’d picked it up from a man wearing a Santa suit on Christmas Eve in a Wal-Mart parking lot in New Jersey. He also said that if I ever needed to make somebody disappear, this was the gun I should use, because if I tossed it, it would never be traced back to me. Yep, that’s the kind of man my father was.
I ran my finger over the slide, where the serial number had been filed off. Carrying this particular weapon was highly illegal. Hell, just owning it was probably a felony. I’d be in a whole lot of trouble if I was caught with it. Of course, with the way my week was going, I could be a whole lot of dead if I was caught without it.
I reached back into the foot locker and pulled out the holster that went with it. Originally, my dad had paired it with an old, worn leather belt holster. Once I’d inherited it, I bought a newer nylon shoulder holster. Because of its nature, I figured it would be best to keep the pistol hidden if I ever did need to carry it. I strapped everything on and pulled my windbreaker on top, then locked up and returned to the car.
Next, I had Mac park on the first residential street behind my apartment. I went up the back stairs, hoping to avoid detection. Once inside, I moved cautiously from room to room, hand resting on the butt of the pistol at my ribs. I paused in the front room, caught off-guard by the brownish stain staring at me from the middle of the area rug. I’d have to get rid of that; blood stains didn’t exactly say “Welcome to the love shack, ladies.” Damn, I really liked that rug too. Did I mention it was my grandma’s?
When I was sure the place was empty, I went back to the bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag from the top of my closet, and shoved clothes in. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone, so I grabbed two pairs of jeans, three or four T-shirts, a button-up, and as many clean pairs of socks and underwear as I could fit.
I was almost to the door when I made a U-turn and grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste. Then I hobbled back out to Mac’s car, and we took off again.
This time, I had him drive a circuitous route back to the motel. I didn’t think we were being followed, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try to shake a tail.
By this time, I was in a crap ton of pain again.
Mac let me off in front of the building. Motels in Chicago have more of a European feel to them than they do elsewhere in the States. Like everything else in the city, they’re narrow, multi-story structures. They don’t have expansive parking lots with a sheltered car port for checking in. There might be an awning, but that’s about all you get on the outside.
I went in and asked if they could move me to a ground floor room, explaining that I was recovering from an injury that made it difficult to climb stairs—which was true. They didn’t have any, so they stuck me one floor up. Getting up to the room was agonizing. Getting undressed was also painful and somewhat awkward. Getting my shirt off proved to be too problematic, so I left it on and gingerly slid between the sheets. Within minutes, I was sound asleep.
16
I was floating above the city again, staring down at the lights of traffic crawling through the streets below. Only it wasn’t the effusive glow of headlights and taillights, I realized. It was the same red and blue energy I’d dreamed of earlier.
Though I was hundreds of feet in the air, it looked as if I could reach out and touch the pulsing cords writhing along the earth’s surface. I put out a hand, noticing that it seemed translucent, ethereal. One of the blue ribbons, thicker than the others, drew me towards it. Hesitantly, I poked at it with a finger. To my surprise, the rope of light responded, curling lazily around my fingertip. Tiny chilly pinpricks dotted my flesh. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but enough to trigger a rush of endorphins. I left my finger there, curious to
see what would happen. The light completely surrounded my finger, then the brightness around it flared to a blinding intensity and just as quickly dissipated. When my sight returned, I could see the energy flowing through my finger instead of around it. Tendrils of light coursed up my arm; my veins glowed a ghostly blue.
Startled, I withdrew my finger. The glow within me subsided, cut off from its source.
Dreams are weird, I thought.
As soon as I acknowledged it was a dream, it changed. My vision now shifted to the spectral mirror from before. Again, the city was silhouetted behind me. I stood there, trying to discern some meaning from all of this. A face drifted into focus just above my right shoulder: the cold visage of Fletcher Harrison. Now all pretense was gone from his features; only the sharp, steely gaze of a hunter remained. He scared the bejeezus out of me. His cold hazel eyes, surprisingly devoid of malice, fixed on me.
Through the looking glass, his hoarse whisper echoed in my head, the Jabberwock is real.
The disembodied head shrank, retreating into the background. I glanced over my shoulder, but saw only blackness behind me. In the mirror, I could just barely make out a tiny figure, Harrison disappearing into the shadowy cityscape.
Taking a deep breath, I plunged forward, arms outstretched, remembering how the glass had rippled like water in my last dream. I hit the surface, and it gave, flexed, but resisted my movement. I lowered my head and pushed harder. The silvery material enveloped me. With a final heave, I forced myself through the mirror. The mirror shattered behind me with a loud crack, sending thousands of tiny glass shards hurtling through the air toward my back.
My eyes snapped open in the motel room. It was still completely dark. My chest heaved as I caught my breath.
Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. I didn’t like the picture it was showing, but I couldn’t ignore it.
I slowly sat up, expecting to feel the now-familiar burn in my ribs. Surprisingly, all I felt was a tight soreness. I swung my feet around to the floor, carefully stood up, walked into the closet-sized bathroom, and peeled my T-shirt over my head. In the mirror over the sink, I could see the jaundice-yellow hue of old bruises peeking around where they’d taped my ribs.
I returned to the bedroom and retrieved the bandages the nurse had given me before I checked out of the hospital, with instructions to change the dressing on my neck twice a day for a week.
Back at the sink I used a warm washcloth to loosen the industrial-strength tape adhered to my skin. I’m pretty sure duct tape would have been easier to remove. The bottom layers of gauze were stained a dark brown with blood and other fluids that had leaked from the stitches, but the wound itself looked pretty good. Bright pink flesh puckered around the sutures. It wasn’t swollen and showed no sign of infection. I was kind of surprised it was healing so quickly, but I’m no doctor, so what do I know?
I washed the wound as best I could with the washcloth and the little bar of complementary soap on the counter. Cucumber melon. Fancy.
Then I went and sat at the sole desk chair occupying the main room. I didn’t bother putting clothes on yet—it was still dark out—so I just sat there thinking, naked as a jaybird. I had a lot to think about.
By the time the sun came up, I had a plan. Sort of. Okay, at least the outline of a plan. It was better than nothing.
Using my new phone, I called in and checked my voicemail. No new messages. That was good.
Sometimes we take all the technology surrounding us for granted. Voicemail has been around so long it’s almost prehistoric, but the fact that you can call your own number from anywhere in the world, punch a few buttons, and listen to your messages in complete anonymity is pretty awesome. Especially when you’re on the lam and can’t answer your phone in the first place. Next, I called Frank, who was glad to hear I was up and about. I repeated my desire to keep him as uninvolved in this mess as possible, and then apologized, because I did need his help in one small matter.
I told him what I was thinking—the Spark notes version, anyway—and asked if he knew anybody who could help. Frank has way more contacts in the city than I do, since he’s been doing this private eye thing a lot longer, and those contacts give him access to a lot of information. Quickly. In the detective business, it’s not about how much you know, but about knowing the people who do know that gives you an edge. Sure enough, Frank did know somebody, but it would take him a few minutes to find the number. He’d call me back when he found it. I gave him my temporary number and asked him not to share it with anyone; I could still check my messages, but I was taking certain precautions. He understood, and we hung up.
I put on a fresh change of clothes and immediately felt re-energized. Clean clothes can do wonders for the soul, especially when you’ve been wearing the same thing for a week. I strapped on the Colt and slipped my jacket on top, making sure the pistol was well covered. I would have preferred the concealing folds of my trench coat, but I didn’t have the time or inclination to pick it up from the office. Right now, I had more pressing matters.
By the time I finished dressing, the cell phone was buzzing on the desk where I’d left it. It was Frank. I jotted down the name and number he gave me. He also suggested I come by for dinner that night; apparently Nancy had been chomping at the bit to get a good home-cooked meal in me since the attack. She wasn’t the kind of woman to take no for an answer when it came to feeding people. I told him I’d think about it.
“Good. See you at seven.”
He hung up before I could respond. It was only eight o’clock, still too early to call Frank’s contact, so I jammed the paper into my pocket and went downstairs to the itty-bitty lobby.
I love a good hotel breakfast with waffles, eggs, sausage, and all the coffee you can drink. This wasn’t a good hotel breakfast, just a few Pop-Tarts and individually wrapped cheese danishes laid out on a counter next to a toaster. I found a couple of blueberry muffins mixed in with the danishes, so I took two: one for now and one to store in my jacket pocket for later. Just in case.
At least there was coffee, although the cups were midget-sized. There wasn’t any place to sit, so I ate my muffin standing at the counter while the coffee cooled. I drank the first cup in three swallows. While I was getting a refill, the desk clerk pointed out a minifridge under the counter and said there was milk and some fruit in it. So much for my incredible detective skills and powers of observation. I added a banana to the smorgasbord. After a third cup of coffee, I went outside and caught a bus headed downtown.
While I was on the bus, I called the number Frank had given me and made an appointment for later that day.
***
The Chicago Public Library is an impressive display of postmodern architecture. Encompassing an entire city block, it is the largest library building in the Unites States. Outside, it looks almost fortresslike, with giant granite blocks protruding from the street giving way to ten floors of red brick. Perched atop the roof are gargantuan metal owls which look like gargoyles from afar. Inside is a soaring grand lobby with marble floors that echo every booted footfall. And on top of its elegant grandeur, it’s the best place to get free access to a computer. I could access the Internet on my new phone, but I wanted complete anonymity for what I was going to do, and the only place where I could get that was the library.
I had to wait around for a while before they let me on a PC. Once I was situated at the little cubicle, I signed up for a Gmail account with a banal username, chisoxfan1077, and made up all the personal information required. Then I navigated over to Craigslist and posted in the beauty section, advertising dreadlock services. I tried to make it read as illiterately as I could, something like “Yo, need dread locks? I da man. Holla back.” I hoped it didn’t need much substance. I wanted the right people to respond.
If and when they did, I already had a location in mind to give the kidnappers: a spot in Logan Square, a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood on the Blue Line. I had spent a lot of time there in my early twenties.
There was a little Mexican place, El Cid #2, that had the best burritos in the city, oozing with queso fresco, and amazing salsa cruda. They also had margaritas the size of your face, which is the main reason I had gone there. Everything else was incidental.
The address I had in mind was laid out perfectly for an ambush, and that’s exactly what I planned on doing. I needed to know more about this human trafficking organization, and the best way to get it was to question someone involved. I wasn’t sure what the time frame on this little project would be, but I had other leads to track down in the meantime.
17
The nameplate beside the door read Prof. William P. McManus, PhD. The door stood open, so I knocked twice before sticking my head in.
I had expected a lavish space with plush carpet, a mahogany desk, and dark wood paneling on the walls. That stereotypical mental image couldn’t have been further from the truth. Instead, Dr. McManus sat behind a beige metal desk littered with stacks of paper that threatened to topple over at the slightest disturbance. Austere wooden shelves lined the painted cinderblock walls and were crammed with numerous texts. The periwinkle Berber covering the floor was anything but plush.
The professor looked up from a paper he was reading and gave a toothy grin.
“Ah, you must be Mr. Gray. Please, come in.”
He, too, wasn’t what I had expected of someone with his reputation. Rather than the tall, lean Sherlockian demeanor I had imagined an expert in Religion and Mythology would exude, McManus was a round man of average height. A well-trimmed beard peppered with gray adorned his chin and jowls. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. As I stepped into the room, all I could think of was Santa Claus.
“Sit down, sit down,” he beamed.
“I’m glad you could meet on such short notice,” I said as I settled into a wooden chair across from him. “Frank said you were the expert I needed.”
Missing: A Mason Gray Case Page 9