An oak door was the only exit besides that which I’d entered. I didn’t want to think of returning to my verminous friends.
I tried the door. In the first thing that had gone right since the last Ice Age, the knob turned. I flicked down the light switch next to the door, but nothing happened. The power must be controlled from someplace else. I pulled out my hankie and used it to cover my fingers as I unscrewed the bulb.
I edged the door open, listening for any possible sound from it, or of human habitation from the other side. The wood of the door was an inch thick. I extended more care than an archaeologist entering an ancient tomb for the first time. I pulled it open far enough so that a crack gave me the beginnings of a view of the room on the other side. No humans presented themselves to my immediate range of vision.
A humming roar suddenly built to a din that awakened echoes of Vietnam in my mind. A helicopter was landing nearby. The roar turned into the whomping sound of the propeller of a helicopter winding down.
I edged the door farther open. I looked into a room with a rusting refrigerator and a sink dangling from one pipe jutting from the wall. No tables or chairs, and no doors on gaping and empty cabinets. This house must be unoccupied: that and the noise of the El must have covered the sound of my entry.
Through a window, the gray of early dawn gave me a brief look at the prospect outside. In the empty lot on the other side of the El track, I could see the rear propeller and a few inches of flying machine and the slowly rotating main propeller of the helicopter.
I opened the door an eighth of an inch at a time, listening intently and barely breathing. Nothing moved near me. Then, through the window, I saw the top halves of three men, all wearing sports jackets and grim frowns. By now I had the door open a quarter of the way. I pulled it nearly closed, but left myself a view out the window. They walked toward the left, never looking in my direction.
As soon as they were out of sight, I swung open the door and hurried to the right. Each room presented the prospect of a heavy oak door like the first one I had passed through. Each necessitated the care with which I eased through the first one. With my fear for Scott churning my nerves on fast forward, I explored the house. I don’t know how I managed to keep my patience and care on slow motion. From looking out the front windows of the second room to the glow of the streetlights outside, I realized I was in the middle house. I’d either passed the entrances from below in the first house, or there weren’t any.
I wondered briefly when the help that Bill Proctor said he’d send would get here. I wasn’t about to wait for anyone to rescue Scott; but, at this point, a little cavalry arriving in the nick of time wouldn’t have bothered me.
I explored beyond the kitchen into a dining room which led directly into what I assumed might have been a parlor or living room. I got enough light from the street lamps and near-dawn to make my way carefully, although no obstructions presented themselves in any of the rooms. Only one room had a carpet, with faded roses twirling and entwining around each other. They might have been multicolored and cheerful when the carpet was first installed, but now their tired petals and worn briars barely showed through the years of gray dust, dirt, and neglect.
I crept across each floor keeping close to the walls, hoping to eliminate any squeaks and groans in the floorboards. The homes connected at the back along what might have been a servants’ entrance or corridor. I inched through this and began my exploration of the third house.
Suddenly I heard an agonized yowl. Its pure sound of animal pain and fear could not disguise that it was Scott. He was nearby and alive. This last thought kept me from racing headlong to a rescue. I wanted us to get away, not simply for me to join him in being tortured and killed.
The bellow ended in a gurgle and then a whisper of “Please stop.”
The scream had been horrific, but his desperate plea, spoken in a cracked whisper, drove my fury to an icy calm waiting to explode with volcanic anger. I knew immediately that whoever wreaked this agony would pay.
I arrived at a set of parlor doors that opened to each side, rather than in or out. The house was old, and the floors had begun to sag toward the middle, preventing these doors from closing perfectly. I put my eye to the opening.
I brought my hand to my mouth. No scream could express my horror and fear. Five feet of floor separated the room I was in from the one across the hall. The doors of that room were flung wide open. Scott sat in a chair with one wrist handcuffed to a rung behind his back. His face was a bloody pulp. His sweatshirt hung in tatters down his chest. The left sleeve of Scott’s sweatshirt had been ripped up. The arm with tattered cloth remnants scattered around it lay on a small table, palm down. I watched as one of the men took hold of Scott’s hand and turned it over. From elbow to wrist I saw the results of cigarette burns. I smelled burnt flesh. Blood trickled down the back of his blond hair, turning it a crimson orange. Rope was looped around his chest and stomach. I could see welts on his wrists where the flesh had been bruised as he’d tried to struggle.
I saw only three guys. One turned Scott’s hand over. The foot of another had a gun barrel resting on it. A third stood against the far wall smoking a cigarette and looking bored. I didn’t know how many might be out of my line of sight.
The one smoking the cigarette said, “You should let me use the cattle prod on his nuts. I bet he’d jump. I like to watch them jump.”
A voice—not from the two guys I could see—said, “I still think we should cut his dick off and stuff it in his mouth. I’ve always wanted to be the one to do that.”
“Maybe later,” said the one who turned Scott’s hand over. He took a puff from a cigarette he’d been holding in his other hand. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. Without asking questions or demanding answers, he casually placed the lit tip close to Scott’s arm. The torturer examined the underside with care and precision. He seemed to be searching for a good spot to inflict the next jolt of pain.
He drew in his breath slightly, grunted, sighed, and brought the lit tip to the inside of Scott’s elbow. He paused an inch above the surface. He said, as if he were having a conversation with Scott, “You see, the trick is to do it long enough to inflict the most pain, but not so long that the cigarette goes out.”
He jammed the cigarette into Scott. Every muscle in my lover’s body tried to pull away from the pain. A scream that could have reached the Loop rent the air.
For the next several minutes, I don’t remember a conscious thought. No she-bear enraged by an attack on her cubs could have been more dangerous or deadly than I in those next few instants. I suppose it was surprise more than anything else that gave me what little advantage I had.
Probably I should have planned a diversion with more subtlety.
I took each of the doors I was behind and threw them open. Before they had a chance to look in my direction, I was in the room, with my hand on the barrel of the gun I’d seen, wrenching the weapon out of the startled creep’s hand, and toppling him over backward on his chair.
The one who’d been torturing Scott reached for a long-barreled gun. Before it even swung in my direction, I put a bullet between his eyes. I didn’t have time to enjoy the satisfaction of watching him collapse because the guy with the cigarette aimed his gun at me.
I leaped sideways, rammed into the table, and shoved it into his midsection. He doubled over silently. I reached across the table, grabbed his shirtfront, and bashed his head on the table. Unconscious, he slumped to the floor. The third guy jumped toward a couple of guns sitting on a table near the front window.
“Don’t move!” I bellowed. He whirled to face me with an awful grin and the maw of a gigantic weapon turned in my direction. I swung to the floor, rolled, and began firing.
Somewhere in there, I realized someone was screaming and shouting furious imprecations. It dawned on me that I was the one. I fired wildly at the gunman at the front. I couldn’t see where I hit him, but he collapsed to the ground, moaning.
; I heard pounding footsteps coming from deeper in the house. I snatched another gun from the front table, and with one in each hand, marched to the sliding doors. I stood at the entry and poured a rain of fire from both of the guns toward the door at the far end of the room. After the booming echoes faded, I listened. No footsteps sounded, but I could hear a distant babble of confusion. I caught only snatches of “Get back! What the hell’s going on! I think I’m hit!”
One gun clicked empty. I tossed it away and picked the third gun up from the table I rushed to Scott.
He was unconscious. I didn’t waste time trying to rouse him. I made sure he was breathing, then untied the ropes holding him. I had no idea where the keys to the handcuffs were. I smashed the rung of the chair with the bottom of my shoe. Scott began to slump to the floor.
I held him in my arms and tried to get him up. I still hadn’t heard any sounds approaching, but I knew the killers could be back anytime.
I didn’t want to try the hall and the door. I didn’t want to take a step closer to our pursuers. Even with two guns, I knew their firepower could easily outgun mine, and that very soon. An assault on the room had to be coming in seconds.
I carried, pulled, dragged Scott to the picture window. The drop outside was about five feet. We’d have to do it.
I began to hear sounds approaching. I looked down at the creep lying near the window. I could see his shallow breathing. His gun was near my left foot. I eased Scott out of my arms, bent down, and picked up the gun by my foot. I held two guns awkwardly in my left hand as I aimed the one in my right toward the doorway, emptied it in their direction, and tossed it away. I kept one gun in my right hand and the other in my belt.
Then I turned and shot out the glass in the window. I didn’t have time for finesse. I propped Scott on the edge of the windowsill, dangling his feet in front of him. I tried to lower him, but I had no time to be careful. He slipped and tumbled to the ground. When I was halfway through the window, I looked back to see the head of a figure appear around the door. I fired a round and scrambled out the window. I just missed landing on Scott.
Not a car crept by on the deserted street. I didn’t want to be exposed on the pavement for even a few seconds. I didn’t know when enemies might rush out of the buildings. My truck was on the far side of the three houses. The stairs to the elevated station loomed a short half-block to my left. The only protection on the way was the pilings of the El, but I’d have to risk it. Staying here was pointless.
I picked Scott up in a fireman’s carry and hefted him to my shoulder. I kept my gun arm as free as possible.
He was heavy, and I staggered under his weight. The years of forcing myself to work out when I’d rather have taken another helping of chocolate paid off now. We worked out at least three nights a week during the off season, and I continue the regimen while Scott plays in the summer. If I wasn’t in good shape, this would have been hopeless. Still, if help didn’t come soon, we’d never make it.
I heard guns firing behind me. I risked a glance back. No one followed, but it sounded like a firefight going on inside the houses.
I made it to the bottom of the steps to the El without being fired upon. It was still too early for rush-hour crowds to stream to work. I didn’t dare rest.
Halfway up to the El platform, a train roared into the station. I surged upward and stumbled. I’d never make it before the train left. No one exited. The train started quickly, built speed, and left in a wild rush. When the noise stopped, I heard gunfire close by and the pings of shells hitting the metal of the stairs. I fired several rounds back and then forged ahead, hoping the cover of the metal pilings would be enough protection. Their battle or confusion was over, and they were after us. At least on the platform, I’d have the upper ground to withstand a siege and maybe find a way to escape. Puffing up the stairs with Scott was tough, but I had enough of a lead. I thought I’d make it before they caught up. I certainly hoped so.
I heard the helicopter start up. At the top of the stairs, the ticket taker took one look at my gun and backed away from the glass opening.
“Call the police!” I shouted.
He shook his head, held his hands up, and shooed them at me in a go-away motion. I heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs behind me. I propped Scott against a billboard advertising condoms. He still hadn’t regained consciousness.
I hid behind a metal pillar at the top of the stairs. I watched three of them creeping forward. I let them get halfway there before I took careful aim and fired three rounds. They darted backward. I could no longer afford to waste ammunition. I heard no police sirens.
I didn’t bother to stare to see whether I’d hit any of them. I heard the sound of a train. I scrambled to Scott, got his left arm around my shoulder, and put my right around his waist. I pulled and dragged him the few feet to the edge of the platform.
Moments later, the two-car train pulled in. I yanked us into the second car. As the doors closed, I looked back to see two guys with guns drawn running up the last few stairs.
The train pulled out. I eased Scott into a seat. A black woman in a bright yellow shawl and a teenager in an Oakland Raiders jacket stared at us. I stuck the gun in my belt, then sat down next to Scott.
I took out my hankie and dabbed at the places where blood still oozed from Scott’s head. I kept murmuring, “Wake up, Scott. Come on, lover, please.” But he didn’t revive, and nothing I tried brought him around. His breathing remained ragged and uneven. I felt two inches to the right of his Adam’s apple. His pulse was still strong.
The black woman stepped softly close to us. Her breasts were gigantic, and her butt completely filled the aisle. “You all right?” she whispered.
The sight of me as a mud-encrusted, blood-spattered human didn’t seem to faze her.
“It’s my lover,” I said, not caring what she thought of gay people.
The woman sat on the other side of Scott. She said, “Can I help?”
I cradled Scott’s head in my arms. I didn’t remember when I started to cry.
She said, “It’s going to be all right.” She stood up, patted me on the shoulder, marched to the front of the car, and disappeared through the connecting door to the one in front. Briefly I heard the click of the tracks louder, then softer with the door closed, then again louder moments later when she returned.
She came back and sat next to me. She said, “The motorman’s called the police. They’ll meet you at the next station.” She put her hand on my shoulder. At the moment, that human warmth from a stranger was all the world to me.
At the next stop, she helped me maneuver Scott off the train. I’d hoped to see a swarm of uniformed cops converging on the area. I didn’t want to leave the protection of the moving train with no one here to meet us. What if the drug criminals decided to pursue us from station to station? It wouldn’t take them that long to hop in cars and scramble after us, but I noted that the train didn’t move. Perhaps the motorman was waiting, as we were, to see what the moment held.
We struggled forward a few steps toward the stairs leading down. I loosened the gun in my belt in case it was needed. Finally I saw the top of a Chicago beat cop’s hat begin to emerge from the steps. I’d never been more glad to see members of the local constabulary.
Within seconds, the glow from rotating Mars lights heralded what I chose to view as the tardy-but-welcome cavalry. In minutes, an ambulance arrived and paramedics rushed up.
They worked magnificently. The woman in charge barked a steady stream of sensible commands as the three blue-clad paramedics hunted through their oversized toolbox for medicines and cures. The rapidity and precision with which they worked gave me confidence.
The woman spoke into her hand radio: “Estimated time of arrival at your location eleven minutes.” She requested a number of medical items to be available when they arrived.
Getting the stretcher down the stairs was far easier than I expected. If I’d had time for any thought besides that for Scott’s h
ealth, I’d have realized that working in Chicago, it would be common for them to have to bring people down flights of stairs from two- and three-story homes and apartments.
The African-American woman held my hand for a few moments as they loaded Scott’s unconscious form into the ambulance. At least no one had slipped a sheet or blanket over his face. The woman patted me several times and said, “He’s going to be all right, honey.” And then she was gone in the gathering crowd. I was too distracted to stop her. I never got a chance to thank her.
10
At the ambulance doors, I said, “I’m riding with him.” No one objected. The trip to the hospital was silent except for moments when we passed over a railroad crossing. Then the person riding shotgun would say, “Tracks,” and the people in back would hold Scott more steadily and hang onto an IV bottle which was already dripping into his arm.
At the hospital, they made me wait in the hall. I nearly went berserk at that rule, but the hospital personnel were firm, and the police insisted I tell them what had happened. Even that wouldn’t have kept me from my lover, but one of the doctors, a man in his early thirties, said to me, “We’re going to do everything we can. You can’t help by getting in our way. You’ll be able to see him as soon as we can allow it.”
I didn’t ask whether Scott would be okay. I didn’t want to hear an answer I couldn’t live with. The doctor’s voice was low and calm and soothing, and he had piercing violet eyes that met mine unflinchingly. He disappeared through the swinging doors of the emergency room.
I got a cursory check from the emergency-room personnel. They cleaned the back of my head where I banged it getting out of the crawl space. They slapped a Band-Aid on it and gave me a tetanus shot.
Cops surrounded me, and one of them began asking questions. What I’d said at the El station had been more than enough to set them in motion to the three row houses and to guarantee a cop stayed close to me throughout the proceedings. They couldn’t know for certain whether I was a suspect or good guy at the moment, and I didn’t care. Nothing mattered except Scott. He had to be all right. Every time the doors back to where he was swung open, I began to rise to my feet. I wanted to see the young doctor emerge.
An Echo of Death Page 17