The first round scored the pavement a foot or so to my left. The second knocked me to the ground. I knew I was hit and saw my gun lying in a puddle of water a few feet from my head. I struggled to my feet and wedged myself between a steel girder and a trash can. My right arm wouldn’t cooperate, so I reached for the gun with my left. Then I waited for the pain to settle. The air under the bridge was cold and damp. Water dripped down the wal s and pooled in the broken cement at my feet. I slipped my hand under my vest. It came away red, but the wound didn’t seem too bad. I gave it another ten seconds and crept out again. The running path was empty. Whoever had shot me was gone. I moved down to the water’s edge, slumped into the weeds, and looked out over the lagoon. A couple of ducks looked back. Then they flapped their wings and lifted into the air. Far above them another bird hovered. This one was a police chopper, scouring the shoreline. I waved, but it moved off. The water below was quiet, chunks of ice floating here and there. Around a soft bend in the shoreline, a single boat suddenly appeared, a kayak paddling out from the Lincoln Park Boat House, heading toward the lake. The kayaker wore a hat, gloves, and a dark sweatshirt. It seemed like an odd outfit, but then again, I had never kayaked through a Chicago winter. Didn’t know anyone who had. I inched back a little deeper in the scrub and watched some more. The kayaker was struggling with his stroke, unable to coordinate the lift and fal of the double-bladed paddle. After twenty yards or so, he smoothed out and began to move a little better. I stretched out on my stomach and lay flat on the ground. The man might have caught my movement, because he stopped paddling and leaned forward. For a moment, I saw the short shape of a gun, outlined against the hard winter gray. Then it disappeared back in the bottom of the boat. I held my nine in front of me with two hands. The blood flowed a little more freely down my side, but the pain had subsided, and my head was clearing. The kayak was moving again, from right to left, maybe fifty yards away. I knew I was at maximum range for my gun and squeezed down over the sight. The boat drifted closer and the shot got easier. I moved the gun from temple to jaw and then down over the mass of the kayaker’s body. The mayor’s face slipped across the edge of my vision. As did a federal agent, with a badge and a knowing smile. I tightened up another notch on the trigger. Then I exhaled and pushed back into the weeds.
My words tasted like dust, but I radioed in anyway and told Rodriguez about the boat. I could hear the rotor chop above me fade for a moment, then grow louder. They had drifted a bit north, but would arrive in plenty of time to cut off whoever our kayaker was. He continued his slow crawl across the lagoon. I pul ed the gun up again and tracked him. Just for fun this time. The kayaker ducked and paddled, stil a rough but steady stroke. His face turned once, as if he sensed something, and his profile flashed in a column of light. I lowered my gun. Then I heard a crack, and the kayaker’s chest exploded in a cloud of tissue and red.
Robles heard a pop and felt a tug at his throat. Then he was at the bottom of the kayak, staring up at the sky and choking on his own blood. Robles thought about the girl from last night. He’d enjoyed kil ing her. This morning on the Drive, even more. He thought about al the others, women struggling against the darkness, children submitting, smal graves in the woods. Those were his private treasures. His secrets. Today had been his glory.
Robles’ mind emptied, and fil ed again with a summer day. He was a kid gone fishing. The sun gentled and the boat rocked as the man moved in the bow and then settled, cigarette in one hand, line in the other. Robles remembered the trout he’d caught that day, silver and pink against the roughed-out bottom of the boat. The man gripped the fish, bel y down, and hit it twice with the rounded butt of a knife. Then he threw the trout into a rusty hold fil ed with water. Robles remembered looking into the wel, seeing the black eyes peering out from under. Then the lid closed, and the eyes were gone. The man returned to his perch and fel asleep. The boy remained where he was, breathing softly and watching the water move around him. Such were Robles’ thoughts as he looked up at the sky, lungs swol en with blood, police chopper drifting, and then nothing.
CHAPTER 27
I’m fine,” I said, for the fourth time in the last minute and a half. The inside of my mouth tasted like dry wool. I reached for a paper cup and felt the pul of an IV in my arm. The water slipped down my throat, but seemed to have no discernible effect.
“You realize how close you came to dying?”
Rachel was standing beside the ambulance, head bandaged, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. She had been in the middle of Lake Shore Drive, talking to Rodriguez, when I cal ed over on the radio. Then came a report that I’d been hit. She hitched a ride in a squad car and bitched at the cops the whole way. At least, that’s what they told me later.
“The bul et caught my vest,” I said, showing her the four stitches in my side. “Nothing more than a scratch.”
“It’s a little more than that, Mr. Kel y.” That was the EMT, not making things any easier, so I ignored her.
“How’s your head?” I said.
Rachel touched the white bandage at her temple. “My head’s fine.”
She’d been in the wrong place on the Drive at the wrong time. Unlucky in some ways, incredibly fortunate in others. Either way, it wasn’t my fault, even if I felt like it was.
“Someone taking you down for X-rays?” I said.
She nodded. “Rodriguez said he’d drive me over.”
“You okay?”
A smile limped across her face and back into her pocket. “Just tired, Michael.”
I took her hand. “I’l cal you later.”
“Maybe make it tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“You’re going to have your hands ful here and I just need some sleep.”
I kissed her, then watched her walk away. Rodriguez was waiting by his car. He caught my eye and held it. Then he touched Rachel’s shoulder. She got in the passenger’s side and leaned back against the headrest. Rodriguez climbed in the other side, and they drove off. I unplugged myself from the IV and stood up. A couple of police choppers stil hovered over the lagoon, an effort to keep the flying media away. A police boat had tied up to the kayak. They were offloading the body in a bag. I began to walk toward the shoreline.
“Mr. Kel y, I can’t just let you go.” The EMT was fol owing me. “You could go into shock and there’s a risk of infection.”
“Is he giving you a hard time?”
Katherine Lawson trudged up the slope from the lake. Three more agents trailed behind her. Lawson pul ed off a set of latex gloves and threw them into a bag that had the word HAZARD stenciled on it.
“What did you find?” I said.
Lawson held up a finger and huddled with the EMT for a moment. Lawson came back alone. “Thank me, Kel y. I just got you a hal pass.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She held out a bottle of pil s. “Take four immediately and two a day after that until they’re gone. Prevents infection.”
“Four right now?”
“That’s what she said. How’s the side?”
“Your protective vests suck.”
Lawson looked over at the garment, folded and lying inside the ambulance.
“That’s Chicago PD issue.”
“And if I’d been wearing yours?”
“I’d probably be helping Rachel Swenson pick out a black dress. By the way, how is she?”
“She just left. Got banged up a little by the air bag, but otherwise, fine.”
“I like her.”
“So do I,” I said. “Let me ask you a question. Any reason to think she was the target here?”
“You mean was he targeting Rachel to get at you?”
“Something like that.”
Lawson shook her head. “Unlikely. If he was, why waste bul ets on anyone else? And she was the only one he missed. By the way, here’s your gun.”
The agent pul ed my nine-mil imeter from a bag by her feet.
“Thanks.” I tucked it into my belt.
“So you’re thinking Rachel was another coincidence?”
Lawson nodded. Usual y I hated to agree with the feds. This time, not so much. We walked a little more until we reached a line of police tape. A notso-smal crowd had gathered beyond.
“I’m guessing you’d like to get out of here?” Lawson said.
“You here to make that happen?”
“Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
CHAPTER 28
We drove five blocks to a bar cal ed Four Farthings. Twenty years ago, it was a big singles joint in Lincoln Park. Then the crowd got old, which was okay except they forgot to leave. Now the place was mostly fil ed up with dusty conversations about the good old days from a dried-up clientele who tended to fal asleep after three drinks.
At five in the afternoon there were six people at the bar, al crowded around a flat screen, watching the news and talking about Chicago’s shoot-out on the Drive. We found a table in a corner. Lawson told me I shouldn’t drink with the meds they gave me. I thanked her for the advice and got a Fat Tire on draft. Lawson shook her head and ordered an Absolut with a twist. I took a deep draw on my pint and sat for a moment in the happy state of being alive. Lawson took a smal sip and watched me.
“What did you find in the kayak?” I said.
“Short-barrel thirty-eight revolver. Recently fired.”
“How about the rifle?”
“Nothing yet, but we’l find it. He had a key to the boathouse along the lagoon. We figure he shot you, then let himself in and grabbed the boat.”
“And what? He was going to just paddle away.”
Lawson shrugged. “Maybe. Tel you the truth, we weren’t exactly looking for a guy in a kayak.”
“Any ID?”
“We’re running the prints now.”
“And you think that’s it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Who shot him, Lawson?”
She slipped her elbows onto the table and crowded forward in her seat. “I thought you might have an idea on that.”
“You think it was me? Jesus Christ.” My cel phone buzzed and I flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“Nice job, Kel y. Very nice job.”
I held up a finger to Lawson and walked out the back door onto Cleveland Street. A drunk was sleeping in the cold. I watched him scratch himself as the mayor congratulated me for having the bal s to play judge, jury, and executioner.
“You took care of things. Nice and simple. Took care of our city.”
“Mr. Mayor-”
“It’s something I don’t forget, Kel y. Make no mistake about that.”
“Mr. Mayor, I never fired my weapon.”
“I understand, son.”
“I drew down on him with my handgun, but I didn’t fire.”
“Say no more. We’re on an open line here. Not a problem. Whatever happens, don’t worry about it. No one’s throwing a rope around your neck. You understand me? Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“By yourself? You want me to send someone down there to drink with you?”
“No, I’m with Agent Lawson.”
“The FBI broad?”
I could sense the mayor’s sex drive pop up from whatever dark place it slept, head moving, tongue flicking. Not a pleasant image in an already unpleasant conversation. But there it was.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor.”
“Jesus, I’d like to throw a shot in her. You gonna throw a shot in her?”
I didn’t respond. The mayor, of course, took that as acquiescence.
“You fucking Mick bastard. That’s great. You deserve it. You real y do. I can’t say this publicly because of the tragedy on the Drive today, but you know what? It could have been worse. Much fucking worse. And I say that with al due respect and a heavy heart. You’re a hero, Kel y. Nothing less. I gotta run. We’re doing a press conference tonight. Listen, have a couple drinks on the city. Celebrate that piece of shit being dead. And, Kel y?”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor?”
“Stick it up her ass for me, wil ya?” The mayor’s voice cracked at the seams with sudden laughter, before bursting over into some sort of demented fucking chuckle. I cut the connection and headed back into the bar.
“The mayor sends his best.”
“Does he?” Lawson said.
“Yeah, he’s a real prince of a guy.”
“He’s disgusting.”
“Wel, there’s that, too.”
“He gave you the old pep talk, right? Make sure you nail the FBI broad, al that crap.”
“We real y need to talk about this?”
“You’re right. No sexist pig is going to ruin our celebration.” Lawson raised her glass. “Here’s to Kel y. Taking care of the bad guys.”
I shook my head. “My gun hasn’t been fired, Lawson. You know that. So, what exactly did I shoot him with?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. But if you didn’t shoot him, who did?”
“Exactly my point. If it wasn’t one of your agents, it had to be a third party.”
“And you’re thinking of the accomplice?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The accomplice no one believes exists.”
“Is that what they’re saying now?”
Lawson leaned forward and tapped the back of my hand. “That’s what they’ve always been saying. Listen, putting this guy down is no big deal. He kil ed four people and critical y injured another. And that was just on the Drive today. Between you and me, it’s a blessing.”
“I didn’t shoot him, Lawson.”
She leaned back and sighed. “Don’t fuck up my case. It’s al nice and neat. Wrapped up and put to bed.”
“Not if there’s an accomplice out there.”
“There isn’t.”
“Then how did this guy get his head blown off?”
“You want to hear a theory?” she said.
“Love to.”
“You shot him, then dumped the weapon in the lake. Why, I’m not sure. Wel, no, I am sure. He wasn’t an immediate threat to you and he was clearly going to be apprehended, so there was no way you could justify pul ing the trigger legal y.”
“So I used a second weapon and then got rid of it.”
“Gives you deniability when we have this conversation. Even a little insurance.”
“And kil s someone you and the mayor both wanted dead.”
“Myself, the mayor. Everyone from here to Washington. For Chrissakes, Kel y, we talked about this.”
“You talked about it, but it didn’t happen that way. The trajectory of the bul et and angle of the wound wil confirm it.”
“Assuming any of those tests are done.” Lawson nibbled at a pretzel and waited for me to see the light. Reality is relative, meaning it happened whatever way the Bureau says it happened.
“We’l be at the mayor’s press conference tonight,” she said, “then issue a statement tomorrow, confirming the dead guy was our shooter. He was kil ed by an unidentified law enforcement agent as he resisted arrest.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
“I believe someone wants this to end, and that’s fine with me. An accomplice turns up down the line, I’ve moved on and it’s some other guy’s problem.”
“Look out for number one. Right, Lawson?”
“You were a cop in this town. You know how it works.”
I lifted the pint to my lips and drained it. The cold beer felt good at the back of my throat and I rattled the empty glass on the table between us.
“You want another one?” I said.
She shook her head. “No. I had two last night.”
“And?”
“Three drinks a week. That’s the limit.” She tugged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one up.
“Bartender’s not gonna like that,” I said.
Lawson slipped her shield onto the table. “I’m not a drunk, Kel y.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
She blew smoke in a cool, blue stream
over my head. “I don’t even have a problem with it.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck you.”
The bartender got a nudge from a patron. I could see him starting over to us. Then he caught a glimpse of the badge and retreated back behind the taps.
“Why don’t you just tel me your story?” I said.
“What story?”
I spread my hands out, palms up.
Lawson let a smile slip. “Cops al have stories. Right?”
“I know I do,” I said. “Hold on while I get a beer.”
I went up to the front. The six people in the place now had an idea who we were and why we were in the area. I could feel their eyes on me as I waited for my pint. Final y, an old-timer at the elbow of the bar spoke up.
“You involved in that stuff down by the lake?”
His voice was ful of smoke and whiskey. A doctor might cal it a walking advertisement for emphysema. I found it comfortable.
“I was,” I said.
The old-timer coughed up some phlegm and rapped his knuckles on wood. Then he sank into his drink. I had the bartender back him with a second and carried my pint to the table.
“The locals love us,” I said.
Lawson glanced toward the taps. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I took a sip on my fresh pint. “Now you gonna tel me your story?”
“It’s nothing too spectacular.” Lawson stared at whatever was left in the bottom of her glass as she spoke. “Been an agent for almost fifteen years. Divorced the last five. It was mostly my fault. I let the job eat me up, and Kevin got sick of being in a relationship by himself. Packed up one day and left. Took our little girl with him.”
“He has custody?”
“The relationship was my fault, but the divorce was al him. At the time of the separation, Kevin knew I was heavy into one investigation and had two others in trial. I was putting in twelve-hour days and spending my nights working out the details for what we were going to do tomorrow.”
The Third Rail mk-3 Page 9