by Tim Kehoe
Kidd walked down a short side street that butted up to Grant Park. There was a long grassy knoll that ran to the edge of the river. The park was dark. Kidd started across the grass toward the river when he felt something tugging at his shirt. Before he could react, light exploded in his brain and he fell forward. He was facedown in the grass. His hand subconsciously went for his SIG, but it was gone. Then his hand reached for the back of his head. His hair was damp with blood.
“Slowly.” A voice said in a heavy Italian accent. “Turn over slowly.”
Kidd didn’t recognize the voice. He had never heard the man speak, but he knew him the instant he laid eyes on him. It was the long-haired man from the pizzeria. It was the Sicilian.
“Well, well, well,” Kidd said. “If it isn’t the shadow himself.”
“The shadow?” the man questioned. “I like that nickname.”
Then the man repeated the name with his thick accent and lots of drama. “T-H-E S-H-A-D-O-W!”
“I like that!” He nodded his approval like a little boy. He was smiling now. “That is much better than the Sicilian.”
The smile fell from his face.
“That, I don’t like so much. It seems racist.”
How did he know we called him the Sicilian? Kidd wondered. Had the mole in the FBI told him?
Kidd looked at the Sicilian’s right hand. He was holding Kidd’s trusty SIG.
The Sicilian noticed the glance and looked down at the gun.
“Oh, this?” the Sicilian questioned. “Don’t worry about this.” And with one smooth, swooping motion, the Sicilian threw the gun into the river.
“I don’t care for guns. They’re much too loud,” the Sicilian said.
“Yeah,” Kidd replied. “I’ve heard that about you.”
The Sicilian watched Kidd stumble to his feet. Kidd was clearly still woozy from the blow to the back of the head.
“Now, this,” the Sicilian said, pulling a giant knife from a sheath tucked in his waist. “This is the old-fashioned Sicilian way.”
“I thought you preferred accidents,” Kidd said, trying to buy time to formulate a plan. But his head wasn’t working real well.
“Oh, I do, usually,” the Sicilian answered. “But tonight I might just carve you up and dump you in the river.”
“Aww,” Kidd said, sounding disappointed. “Where is the creativity in that? Where is the artistry?”
The Sicilian started to walk around Kidd, sizing him up. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Maybe I’ll dump a tackle box on you when I am done and make it look like you fell on your tackle box while fishing in the dark and you happened to get stabbed by your filleting knife.”
Kidd was now circling with the Sicilian.
“Pretty weak, don’t you think?” Kidd asked.
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should ask my new friend Anton for a better idea. I’ve been very impressed with his creativity.”
“What are you talking about?” Kidd tried his best to play dumb but disappointed even himself. “Who’s Anton?”
“Please,” the Sicilian dismissed. “I normally like to work alone, but I must admit to being impressed with your friend’s skills. He is very good. A good addition to the team.”
“Anton’s working with you? Working for the Salvatores?” Kidd said. “I don’t believe it.” But, secretly, it confirmed Kidd’s worst hunch. Kidd knew Anton was good. Too good to come to a small town like Galena with the list of people the Sicilian was sent to kill, and not be able to find the Sicilian. He never bought it. But he refused to believe his worst hunch.
“Fortunately, I don’t care what you believe. I get paid to kill you, not convince you.”
“Look, shadow,” Kidd said mockingly, “I’ll make you a deal.”
The Sicilian laughed. “And what deal is this?”
Kidd said, “You drop the knife and take me to Anton or—”
The Sicilian laughed louder. “Or what?”
“Or else the locals are going to be picking up pieces of you in this park for the next couple of years.”
“Anton told me about you,” the Sicilian said. “He warned me that you were the toughest guy he had ever met. But I told Anton that I had met some pretty tough guys before. And none of them are still walking on this earth.”
“Last chance, Sicilian. Take me to Anton,” Kidd demanded.
“I told you that I don’t like—”
Kidd spun around before the Sicilian could finish his sentence. They were nine feet apart. But Kidd moved fast. He closed the distance in an eighth of a second. The Sicilian had the knife in his left hand. And Kidd knew that many of the Salvatore assassins had been trained in several forms of martial arts and knife-fighting techniques. But so had Kidd. And Kidd knew that most martial arts training promoted balance and leverage. The Sicilian would go low. He was trained to go low. Another eighth of a second passed, and the Sicilian had already subconsciously started to widen his stance.
Kidd had been taught Krav Maga, a fighting technique, by an Israeli Special Forces trainer. Krav Maga was not about leverage and balance. It was about brutality and effectiveness.
Another eighth of a second passed. Kidd was now ten inches from the blade and closing fast. He made a motion as if he were about to tackle the Sicilian—a move the Sicilian would have expected. A move that Kidd knew would be suicide. No, Kidd decided, he would go high. He would just run up and over the Sicilian. He launched himself into the air and before the Sicilian could react, Kidd’s right leg was over the Sicilian’s left shoulder. And Kidd’s left knee was smashing into the Sicilian’s face.
Kidd’s momentum knocked the Sicilian onto his back. Kidd landed three feet behind him in stride. He turned to see the Sicilian conscious but bloody. Kidd stepped on the Sicilian’s left hand and kicked the knife hard with his right foot. The knife flew several feet and landed in the river. Then Kidd kicked the Sicilian in the head, snapping his neck. End of fight. End of the Sicilian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
I looked around the park. I was sitting exactly where Carson Kidd would have killed the Sicilian in my dad’s story. Which meant, if all of Double Crossed was the true story of what happened to my mom here in Galena, I was standing exactly where my mom had killed the top Salvatore assassin.
I looked around the park. There were families playing, kids running, and couples holding hands. It all looked so normal. How many of these people were in the witness protection program? How many of them might be killers that had worked for the Salvatores before turning on them?
I was operating with the belief that my dad’s book was 100 percent true. Which meant that my mom had killed the Salvatore assassin who had been sent here to kill the witnesses. But, judging from the recent accidents, the killing of the Salvatore turncoats had continued. Which meant that Anton was alive and well and still killing witnesses in Galena.
But Anton was also a CIA agent. And I would need proof that Anton had crossed over to the dark side if anyone was going to believe me. It seems like my dad had found the proof, but he was a highly trained and talented journalist. I had no idea what journalists did. I had no idea how to investigate. But I knew someone who did.
I took a piece of paper out of my wallet and dialed. Emma answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Yes, miss, we have come into possession of a garment bag that you might have accidentally left behind on your recent Greyhound trip,” I said as seriously as I could.
“Ah, I don’t think so. I mean—I have my bags.”
“Well, this bag contained many strange articles.”
“Strange articles?” Emma asked.
“Yes. Very strange. Including a very deranged—one might even say downright disturbing—script for a musical featuring a psychotic, murderous little orphan girl.”
“Furious! I’m so glad you called!” Emma said.
“How is my favorite journalist?” I asked.
“Worried sick
about you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Your grandpa’s murder is national news, Furious. I mean front-page, on-the-television-twenty-four-hours-a-day news.”
“Have they mentioned me?”
“Oh, yeah. They mention you every time they mention your dad.”
“What are they saying?” I asked.
“They are saying you’re dead, Furious. They are saying you died in the fire at your grandpa’s house.”
“What?” Douglas knew I was alive. He saw me hours after the fire. And the firemen wouldn’t have found anyone in the house. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know,” Emma agreed. “Look, I’m no professional, but the journalist who broke that version of events must have been told in no uncertain terms that your body was in that fire. And it must have come from someone in authority, otherwise they would never report it.”
“Right,” I agreed. “You didn’t tell anyone that you met me, did you?”
“No. I haven’t told a soul that we met. But I think you need to call someone. You need to tell them you’re all right.”
Who would really care? I wondered. The only person that might possibly care was on the other end of the phone right now. And she knew I was okay. At least for now.
“I will. Soon,” I replied.
“What is going on? Are you in danger?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know. I’m hoping you can help me answer that.”
“Me?” Emma’s voice changed from concerned to scared. “How?”
“I need you to do a little research. I need you to look into a couple of people.”
“Ah, Mister ‘The Newspaper Is Gone. It’s Dead.’ now needs the skills of a trained journalist, huh?” Emma no longer sounded scared. Just overconfident.
“Yeah. Yeah. Help me out on this and I’ll admit that it’s a craft and that journalism will live forever. I’ll yell it from the bluffs of Galena.”
“Oh, how do you like Galena? Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It is,” I said.
“Did you find Betty’s?”
“I did. You neglected to mention Betty’s connection to the cosmos, though.”
“Hey, I love Betty,” Emma said. “Oh no, Furious, if Betty watches the news she’ll see your name. It’s not like you have a very common name.”
“We’re okay,” I said. “I told her my name was Finbar.”
“Finbar? Why Finbar?” Emma asked.
“Honestly, it was the first name that popped into my head. But what if they show pictures of me? She might recognize my face.”
“No, because you’re a minor, they couldn’t run photos of you without your . . .” Emma’s voice drifted.
“Parents’ consent. Right,” I said. “And I don’t have parents or guardians or anyone.”
“You have me,” Emma said.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. So, can you do a little research for me?” I asked.
“Sure. Anything to hear you sing my praises. What do you need?”
“I’m hoping you can find out the name of the guy who killed my dad. I’m assuming they have released his identity,” I said.
“He was killed at the scene, right?” Emma asked.
“Yeah,” I answered as images of his face flooded my mind. “I’m trying to see if there is a connection between him and the Salvatore crime syndicate.”
“The Salvatore crime syndicate? You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re not mixed up with the Mafia, Furious.” Emma sounded scared again.
“I’m hoping you can tell me if I am,” I said. “I’m also hoping you can look into a death that might have happened here in Galena before my mom was killed. It would have happened near Grant Park, and the dead guy would have been Italian. Well, Sicilian, actually.”
“Furious! Please! Just get on the bus and come back to Chicago. I’ll help you get out of whatever mess you’re in.”
“Thanks, Emma,” I said. “I really do appreciate your concern, but trust me, any information you can find will be a huge help to me.”
There was a long silence.
“Emma?”
“Okay,” she whispered into the phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“If anyone can do it—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, cutting me off. “Is this your phone number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you soon. Stay safe.”
I hung up and thought about Douglas. Why would the authorities say I was dead? They had no body to prove it. Plus, Douglas knew I was alive. Was he running the cover-up? My dad’s book said the Salvatores had penetrated every level of government. And my grandpa seemed to think Douglas was involved in my parents’ murders. If he convinced the world I was already dead, then he’d be free to hunt me down and kill me. No one would be looking for a dead guy.
I spent the rest of the morning hiking the bluffs of Galena, trying to stay out of sight. I didn’t need Anton spotting me. And who knew where Douglas was. I had ditched my phone in New York, but maybe the CIA could see my Web-browsing history. It would show my last search was looking for a bus to Galena.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
I got back to Betty’s a little after three. Betty was waiting for me in the living room.
“Well, Finbar, what do you think of our little town?” Betty asked as I closed the door behind me.
Why had I said my name was Finbar? Could I correct it now? Maybe I could say, “Finbar”? Oh no, you must have misunderstood me. My name is Dave.
“The town is good,” I lied. It was a town full of mobsters and killers. One of which probably killed my mom. I hated the town.
“Isn’t it? I just love this place. It’s the galena in the ground that gives it the special vibe,” Betty said.
That was an odd way to put it. “Yeah, the ground, or, ah, the bluffs are pretty cool,” I said.
“No, I mean the mineral. Galena the town was named after galena the mineral. It’s all around us here. And it gives off such a wonderful cleansing spirit.”
“Oh, right. Cool,” I said.
“Well, I’m all ready for you.” Betty motioned to the table. “I’ve prepared something very special just for you.”
The table was draped in bright neon-colored sheets. Just like the ones Betty was wearing.
“What’s all involved with this?” I asked nervously as I motioned to the table.
“I’ll align your spirits. Trust me, you’ll feel great,” Betty said.
I had to admit I had felt great when I woke up in the Second House. And it was hard not to trust Betty, so I sat down on the table. She had me take off my shoes and lay faceup on the table. She started clapping, rubbing, and waving her hands above me. She was repeating something. I wasn’t sure what I should look at, so I just closed my eyes.
“Sweetie, you are so out of balance. The galena will be good for you this week. But you are out of sync. Oh wait, just a minute,” Betty said as she walked into the other room and came back with a large pointed crystal on a leather rope. She hung the crystal directly over my forehead.
“Try not to move.”
I laid still while she spun the crystal above me. She repeated the process over various parts of my body. She seemed extremely disappointed with the results.
“Oh, hon,” she kept saying. “Oh, dear, dear, dear.”
Betty started placing crystals on me. She placed one in the middle of my forehead. Over what she called my “third eye.” And then she placed three crystals on my mouth.
“Do you know what a chakra is?” she asked.
“No,” I muttered beneath the crystals.
“ ‘Chakra’ is derived from the Sanskrit word meaning ‘round’ or ‘wheel.’ Your chakra should be spinning effortlessly. It should be bright and brilliant.”
“I take that to mean mine is dull and slow?” I asked.
“Oh, hon. You just need help. Someone to show you the way. Look at me.”
I tried to turn and look at her.
“See how my energy flows?” Betty asked.
I saw nothing.
“These crystals will help your chakra flow. They will help balance you. You have so much negativity and anger for someone so young.”
Right again, I thought.
Betty spent the next two hours piling rocks on me, lighting candles, burning herbs, and waving her hands. Call me crazy, but I actually felt better when it was over.
I sat up and Betty put a necklace around my neck. She made me promise I wouldn’t take it off. She said it was some sort of protective amulet. It looked like a giant blue eye. It actually reminded me of Lily Freiburger’s eye. But who was I to argue with Betty? Clearly I needed protection, and I decided I would take it in any form I could get it. But I did decide it was best to wear it under my shirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
When I got back to my room, I found that Betty had hung another giant eye above the futon in my room. It was painted on a sheet of plywood and hung from a rope. I grabbed the last of my Piggly Wiggly minidonuts and sat down on the futon. I pulled up my dad’s website and downloaded the next excerpt from Double Crossed.
Kidd loaded the Sicilian’s body into a canoe from a nearby dock and paddled downstream. He dragged the canoe ashore about five hundred yards downriver. He searched through the Sicilian’s clothing and found a wallet with over one thousand dollars in cash and an ID with a Galena PO box for an address. The picture on the ID looked like the Sicilian’s, but the name read James Dutton. Kidd stuck the cash and ID in his pocket and flipped the canoe over to conceal the Sicilian’s body.
The crowd had died down by the time Kidd got back to Cannova’s Pizzeria.
“Ah, Mr. Kenney,” the hostess greeted Kidd. “I was starting to wonder if we would see you tonight.”
“Yeah, I apologize for being late.” Kidd motioned across the street to the DeSoto House Hotel. “I had some fires to put out.”