Shell Game

by Sara Paretsky

  No one bothered me as I retrieved my car and headed to Cap Sauers Holding. I parked as close as possible to the trailhead and hiked back to the crime scene. My heart was thick in my chest, but I had come better prepared this time than before: I’d stopped in my office for crime scene gear and had pulled overalls on over my jeans, along with waterproof boots, a slicker, hard hat, heavy gloves, and a miner’s headlamp.

  When I reached the tree trunk where Fausson’s body had lain, I blew a whistle into the narrow end of the log. I heard a rustling and a chattering inside, but the squirrels stayed put.

  “Sorry, Madam Squirrel,” I said. “You have something I want, but I hope this is the last time I disturb you.”

  I’d brought the tire iron from my trunk. When I lay flat to inch my way into the log, I extended my arm and used the iron to drag the nest toward me. Madam Squirrel attacked, gibbering: there were five naked bodies in the nest, squeaking in a heartrending way. I moved fast, as Madam bit my gloved hands. The blue strand was there; I pulled it free from the twigs and leaves and left behind a cotton hand towel I’d taken from the bathroom in my office building.

  “That will keep them warmer than the silk will, ma’am.” I pushed the nest back up into the log and scooted out.

  “She walks with the animals, talks to the animals,” I muttered. I sat on a neighboring log but heard an angry chatter overhead, and then a stream of urine hit my hard hat: Mr. Squirrel had taken my invasion as a sign of war.

  I tucked the strand into my glove and moved down the path, away from the squirrel family. I took off my hard hat and turned it upside down on the forest bed, then removed the strand and looked at it under my miner’s lamp. It was a kind of royal blue and very likely silk. Close enough in color to the photo Harmony had shown me.

  41

  The Bravest Girls in Chicago

  Mr. Wright, my first-year physics professor, used to heap scorn on theorists who picked and chose data to support their ideas. “Collect the data, see where the data take you,” he would say. “Don’t start with a preconception and look for facts to support it.”

  The fact: a blue silk scarf. The meaning: Reno and Lawrence Fausson had been in the same place. Why and when could wait.

  I returned to my car to shed my heavier gear and collect drinking water and specimen bags. I sealed up the blue strand, labeled it, and stuck it in my backpack. I had a handful of orange plastic pegs to mark spots where I found something.

  The sun had come out, brightening the air. The branches were showing buds, but were still bare, which made it easier for an unskilled tracker to look for clues. The advantage of the bare branches was more than offset by the thickness of the leaves on the ground. I walked the perimeter of the log in a series of widening circles, but my own footsteps didn’t leave a trace I could recognize.

  I marked each circuit with an orange peg so I wouldn’t repeat my steps. Even so, I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t missing something in the heavy ground cover.

  I’d been walking for over an hour and was sitting on a stump, drinking water and massaging my shoulders, when I finally saw a second piece of blue. This was a mere wisp, caught on a sucker about a yard from the ground. I photographed it, then put an orange peg next to the tree before adding it to a specimen bag.

  The find gave me new energy. I narrowed my search lane to a cone spreading from the tree and found another scrap about a hundred feet farther in. Two points mark a line; my line was heading northeast from the squirrels’ nest into the densest part of the woods.

  I’d found two additional bits of thread when I stopped cold: in front of me was a toe print made by something like a size twenty boot. It was pointing toward me; a big person had walked out the way I’d just come.

  I knelt next to it. Close up, under my miner’s headlamp, I could see that someone had been raking the leaves smooth behind them, but they’d missed this one print.

  It was impossible to know if the print had been made today or yesterday. My neck turned hot under my slicker.

  My slicker was yellow, to help me stand out on city streets in the rain. I took it off and bundled it into my backpack. Looked to see what I had besides water, orange pegs, specimen bags. Sunblock. A spare T-shirt. A few remaining wires from Fausson’s computer. My picklocks. I put those in my front pocket where I could grab them quickly—they’d do to gouge someone.

  I squatted and moved forward, duck-like, watching the dead leaves as if I were Jim Chee. Every few yards I found an indentation, showing where the size twenties had been.

  I was so intent on the search that I hit my head on the shack. It was a ramshackle structure, jerry-built from weathered boards. They were gray brown with age and damp and blended almost seamlessly with the surrounding trees.

  It was a small structure, about six feet by ten, put up for some unfathomable purpose—perhaps long-forgotten maintenance equipment. I tiptoed around it, ear close to the wood, but couldn’t hear anything. There were no windows, just a door held shut by a very heavy chain with a very new padlock.

  American Master locks are not easy, especially when nervous sweat is greasing your palms and fingers. When the metal loop finally came free, my neck was sore from tension. I buried the padlock deep in leaves and pulled the door open.

  The smell inside was so rank it pushed me out the door again. The lion house at the zoo: blood, soiled clothes, shit, vomit. I swallowed a gag, turned my head for a deep breath, and switched on my headlamp.

  The small space was crammed with junk: shovels and rakes, most missing their handles; rusted pipes; pieces of bathroom fixtures. A stool held cartons of moldy carryout food. Cigarette butts, a box of matches, a heap of empty vodka bottles, another three full ones.

  The smell, the isolation, the massive feet, which could have smashed Fausson’s skull with one kick. I could believe he’d been murdered here, but what about Reno? Had she been a spectator at his death?

  I kept backing out, taking in air, looking again, but it wasn’t until my third foray that I saw the body. It was against a wall under a filthy tarp, one grimy bare foot sticking out from the end.

  When I pulled the tarp away, I saw she was manacled to a hasp in the wall, one cuff on her left ankle, the other on her left hand. She was naked from the waist down, with dried blood on her legs, burns on her abdomen. The blue scarf, in shreds and caked with dirt, was loosely looped around her neck. She wore a filthy knit top but it had lacy scallops around the buttonholes and wrists—she had dressed up for this abomination.

  I knelt next to her, fingers on her neck. The faint thread of a pulse. Bent close to her ear.

  “Reno. It’s your aunt Vic. Stay with me, girl. I’m going to get you out of here.” I massaged her arms, held the right one up, hoping for blood to get to her brain.

  I tried calling 911, tried calling Lieutenant McGivney, but I couldn’t get a signal. I tried sending a text to McGivney, tried Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star, but I wasn’t going to get help.

  On your own, Vic. Deal.

  I tried to wrench out the hasp, took one of the shovel heads to smash it out, but the rotting wood on the outside was a camouflage: they’d lined the interior with metal, and the hasp with its big steel hook was deeply embedded.

  She was emaciated. I rubbed sunblock onto her cold hand and wrist and managed to slide her hand from the cuff. The manacle on her leg didn’t move. I worked feverishly on the lock with my picks. Easy does it. Sweat ran down my neck. I had to keep fighting the bile rising in me.

  When I finally freed her leg, I took the T-shirt from my backpack to cover her legs, creating a makeshift set of shorts. I was scooping her inert body into my arms when I heard the footsteps in the leaves and the rumble of voices on the perimeter.

  I lay Reno back onto the soiled tarp, dumped the food containers from the stool and dragged it next to the door. The thugs were approaching from the back of the hut. I swung the door shut, grabbed a shovel, and clambered onto the stool.

  One of them bellowed someth
ing that sounded like “Shto za chort?” followed then by a rapid exchange. The door was yanked open. I brought the shovel down on the head of the man who entered. It was like pounding steel. The man winced and staggered, an arm against a wall to steady himself, but the recoil knocked me off the stool.

  The second man burst through the door, shouting at his partner. I had a one-second advantage before he saw me. I grabbed two of the vodka bottles and smashed them against the door.

  The second man roared and charged me. I lunged forward with the bottles, striking upward, cutting him from chin to eye. His partner had recovered, was trying to get behind me. The space was too small for his bulk. I kicked a rake into his path.

  Two against one; the one was exhausted. Dancing, kicking, hitting out with the broken bottles, but the man I’d cut rushed me, hit me on the chin, knocked me against the wall. And then blackness.

  I never completely lost consciousness. I heard a pounding, like an ax on logs, and slowly sat up. I was dizzy and wanted to throw up, but not in the dark, not when I might befoul myself or Reno. I had landed on something hard and knobby. I fumbled with my miner’s headlamp, but it had been smashed in the brawl.

  My phone was in my hip pocket. I shifted enough to pry it out and turned on the flash. I was sitting on a pipe connected to a chunk of ceramic—part of an old sink dumped in here with the rest of the refuse.

  I was close enough to Reno to put my fingers on her ankle. Slowed my own anxious breath, waited, finally felt a tiny flutter.

  I’d have to get us out and the only way out was through the door, which the vermin had shut when they fled. I staggered over, pushed it. Put a shoulder into it. Couldn’t budge it. The pounding I’d heard had been the attackers nailing the door shut.

  I looked around wildly for an ax, anything to break down the door. I tried sticking the shovel into the hinged end but couldn’t get a purchase.

  My phone battery was down to 39 percent. The matchbook and cigarettes had disappeared when I tipped over the stool. I wasted precious battery time hunting on the floor, finally found the matches wedged between two of the decaying slats that made up the floor. Wrenched up the slats to stick in a vodka bottle for a makeshift torch. I took apart a couple of cigarette packs to use as fire starters and soon had enough light that I could put my phone away.

  I hunted in the tiny junk room for anything that would let me break down the door or saw through the metal walls. I pulled up more slats to keep my torches burning. I couldn’t keep going much longer, not at full strength. And Reno—that weak fluttering pulse could cease at any moment.

  As I searched, I sang to her, sang the Italian folk songs of my childhood. Listened to Gabriella’s voice in my head, sternly mindful of my breath, to keep the fingers of panic from strangling me.

  The door’s wooden frame had been covered with metal, but along the hinges and the top was a strip of exposed wood. I brought the stool over, stood on it, and emptied one of the bottles of vodka onto the top frame. I poured a second down along the hinges. Brought my torch over and held the burning end along the frame.

  The wood caught more quickly than I’d expected. The entire side was in flames before I was ready. I scrambled for my backpack, put on my slicker, knelt to gather Reno.

  When I picked her up, the fire glinted on gold. I blinked, looked at the door, looked back. A gold chain with a locket. Reno had dropped her locket through the floor slats that I’d pulled up for my torches.

  I stared a moment, slack-jawed. A loud crack at the door, a piece of flaming wood falling into the room, jerked me into motion.

  I couldn’t carry Reno and kick the door. I laid her as close to the fire as I dared, took the shovel, and smashed it into the hinges. Once, twice, fifth try, and the wood and metal gave way.

  I picked up my niece, tucked her under the slicker as best I could, lowered my head, and pushed through. Middle linebacker Warshawski, yes, she makes a hole, yes, the opposition is strong but she’s stronger, and in another instant I was on the ground outside, gulping in air.

  I didn’t know where we were. I still couldn’t get a signal on my phone, so I couldn’t summon a map to see if there was a closer road than the one I’d driven in on: I had no choice but to go back the way I’d come. The thugs had crashed through the woods, not trying to hide their steps, I didn’t want to follow them, but I had no choice.

  I drank the last of my water and slung Reno over my shoulder, wrapping my slicker around her. She was a featherweight, but she was a weight. I staggered from tree to tree, following the steps I’d made coming in, occasionally seeing one of my orange pegs. I shifted Reno from one shoulder to the other but couldn’t risk stopping to rest.

  “You’re doing great, you’re doing great,” I encouraged both of us out loud. “One step after the next, that’s how we get to Kraków.”

  My father’s patient voice, calming my frustrations over not being as fast, as smart, as rich as some neighbor or other. Life doesn’t have winners and losers. If you see it as a rat race, remember that the winner is never going to be more than a rat. Life is about savoring the good moments, learning from the bad ones.

  He’d taken Harmony and Reno into his loving heart that Christmas when they were five and six, seen how scared and hurting they were. We’d gone to his district station and he’d given them badges, the same kind he’d given me as a child. Who are the two bravest girls in Chicago? Officer Harmony and Officer Reno.

  “Remember: Grandpa Tony says you’re the bravest girl in Chicago. He’ll be proud of you: you’ve stood up to the biggest monsters under the bed, now we’re going to get you safe and warm. Yes, we are. You keep going, you’re doing great.”

  42

  Rough Rider

  It took the better part of an hour to return to Fausson’s log. As I staggered the final two hundred yards to my car, I heard sirens. I laid Reno carefully in the passenger seat, buckled her in, stretched the seat out as flat as it would lie. I took off my boots and put my socks on over Reno’s icy feet. I’d just buckled myself into my seat when two fire engines turned into the clearing.

  A voice on a loudspeaker told me to stop. I made a U-turn on a dime and floored the accelerator before they thought to block the road. Maybe they would have gotten an EMT unit faster than I could make it to Lotty, but maybe they would hold me up with pointless questions while Reno’s body gave up the fight.

  I called Lotty from the car. Lotty was in surgery, but Jewel Kim told me to get Reno to Beth Israel; she would have a team waiting at the ambulance entrance.

  “She’s alive, barely,” I said. I hoped. “Probably dehydrated. Don’t know about internal injuries. Shock, trauma, imagine the worst and you’ll be close.”

  I had the heater on full blast and had pulled over long enough to cover Reno with the towels I kept in the back for the dogs. They were full of dirt and hair but would keep her warmer than the slicker. I couldn’t see any motion in her chest, but I didn’t want to feel for a pulse. Facts are good in their place, but sometimes you just can’t handle them.

  Once I turned onto I-55, I put my foot down, going over ninety, whipping around cars and semis, driving with a recklessness that took all my concentration. When the traffic gelled at Cicero Avenue my stomach clenched.

  Think, don’t react. One step after the next. I took advantage of my near crawl to call the Shakespeare station. I couldn’t reach Terry Finchley, but Sergeant Abreu answered on the second ring. I gave her the details: finding Reno near death, en route to Beth Israel.

  “We’re stalled on the Stevenson just north of Cicero. I’m going to ride on the shoulder. If I give you my license plate, can you clear me with your patrol cars?”

  “Give me your license plate; we’ll get the nearest patrol to bring you in. The closest hospital is Stroger, you know.”

  “They’re set up to take care of her at once at Beth Israel. Thanks, Sergeant. My plate is SP82VIW.”

  I hung up before she tried arguing or ordering me to the county hospital.
They’d do a good job, probably. Possibly. But they weren’t Lotty, they couldn’t revive the dead.

  A couple of squad cars picked me up on the shoulder at Pulaski and cleared a path across the expressways to the Wilson Avenue exit from the Edens. The cops stayed with me while a triage team lifted Reno from my car to a cart. They tried to start questioning me as I followed the gurney into the building, but I ignored them, watching a crew give her oxygen, insert catheters, start a saline drip, antibiotics, glucose. This must mean Reno was alive. They wouldn’t do that to a corpse.

  Relief undid me. Tension and fear were all that had kept me upright. There were no chairs in the hall. I collapsed onto the floor, head on my knees. The patrol team stood over me, not sure what to do.

  An ebony hand appeared, grabbed my arm, hoisted me to my feet. “What is this? Hard-as-nails PI V.I. crying like a blonde in a six-hankie movie? I could post this on Instagram and ruin you for life.”

  Terry Finchley. Sergeant Abreu was standing next to him.

  “He was in a meeting with the captain at Thirty-Fifth Street,” Abreu said. “I figured he’d rather be here.”

  “Of course,” I said hoarsely. “Wouldn’t we all.”

  Reno had disappeared into the hospital bowels, but the ER charge nurse told Abreu that she’d been taken to the ICU in dangerous condition; they’d know more in an hour.

  The patrol teams evaporated. Finchley looked me over critically. “If you step outside the hospital looking like this, people are going to toss quarters your way. You need a bed yourself and fluids and all those things. But PIs who spend their lives going head-to-head with the CPD don’t need coddling, do they, Warshawski? Abreu, get her a Coke. Spike her blood sugar so she can answer some questions.”

  I didn’t know if Finchley was trying to buck up my spirits or hoping to bring them down, but either way, my fatigue was a handicap. When people are at low ebb, they are easy marks for police questioning, too tired to monitor their words. Finchley and Abreu escorted me into a small room set aside for cops to interrogate suspects who come into the ER carrying the near-dead on their backs.