The Blade Itself

by Marcus Sakey

  Easy, he told himself. Stretch it out. They had forty minutes yet – no point arriving adrenaline-sick and shaky.

  The neighborhood streets were bright with the warm glow of porches and the sweeping arcs of flashlights. Children ran from house to house, their cotton capes and rubber monster masks providing a surreal background. Danny clenched and unclenched his fists, popping his knuckles.

  “You want to go over it again?”

  “I’ll drop you off a couple of blocks away.” Richard spoke mechanically. “Then find somewhere to park and wait. I show up at nine, and do everything Evan says. You sneak in and find Tommy and Karen.”

  Danny nodded. “When you’re talking to him, remember not to say anything about Karen. We don’t want him to have any idea I’m there.”

  “Right. You free them, tell them to get out. I try to stall Evan until you can jump him from behind.”

  “There you go.” It was so flimsy it could hardly be called a plan. There were a dozen things that could go wrong. But in a situation with no time, no advantages, and no foreknowledge of the setup, it offered a chance to get the innocents out. Catching Evan was secondary to that. Everything was secondary to that.

  Besides, Danny reasoned, Evan would be on unfamiliar ground. A construction site at night was a treacherous place. Danny had spent the last seven years on them. He could stride a twelve-inch beam without hesitation, could visualize the blueprints for each level, and knew every piece of cover. That might give them the edge they needed.

  “It’s funny.” Richard’s face glowed pale in oncoming headlights. “My son would never expect me to do this.”

  “What?”

  “Rescue him.” Richard sighed. “I’ve been a lousy father. When I grew up, my dad was always gone. Working, building this company for me to inherit. He was proud of that, that it would one day be for me. Only, in the process, he forgot to actually be a father. I swore that I’d be different, that I’d be there. But I’ve been as bad as he was.”

  The confession surprised Danny. Richard had always kept up a gruff front, never revealing this kind of emotion. Had he maintained the same face around his son? Debbie had said Tommy told her his father didn’t know he was alive.

  “My father worked hard, too,” Danny said, his voice quiet. “I used to hate him for it.”

  “He was gone a lot?”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t it.” He remembered the way Dad would leave the house in the morning, his posture upright, almost military despite his dusty clothes and lunch box. “I hated that we were poor. I hated eating potatoes and fried mush to stretch the grocery budget, hated that we had to listen to Sox games from the parking lot because we couldn’t afford tickets. I’d see these kids on the El, North Side kids, with trendy clothes and headphones, money to spare, and I’d hate that I didn’t have what they did.” He started cracking his knuckles one at a time. “One day I stole the Walkman out of a kid’s schoolbag. Suddenly I had something I wanted, just because I had the balls to take it. I was proud of that. Kept it under my pillow.”

  “Let me guess. Your father found it.”

  Danny nodded. “He was stern, strict, and I thought he’d beat me blue. Instead, he sat me down and tried to explain why it was wrong. Said that you had to earn things. That a man was measured by the way he acted, not what he had.” He shook his head. “As he’s talking, I’m thinking about how Joey Morgan’s older brother makes two grand a week stealing cars, and gets to spend most of his time in the bar. Compared to that, my Dad seemed like a fool, busting his hump every day and never having anything to show for it…” He trailed off. “It took fifteen years to begin to understand what the old man really meant. And by then, he was dead.”

  They rode in silence. The skyline loomed larger, a bright harvest moon hanging above it. They’d left Lakeshore for surface streets five minutes ago. Just a few more blocks. The roads here were quiet, with few cars and no pedestrians. The same things that had made the construction site a good place to keep Tommy made it a good place for Evan to plan the meet. A couple of gunshots would go unobserved.

  That brought back the sliver of fear, the old tingle in Danny’s fingers and wrists. No fighting it this time. He thought of Karen and Tommy, bound and scared. All of the last weeks came down to the next half hour.

  More than that. All of his life.

  “Over there. By that park.”

  Richard nodded, steering the Range Rover to the playground. Shallow ruts marked where Danny had driven across it yesterday. The loft was two short blocks from here. On foot, he could wend through dark alleys and approach unseen. It would do.

  Danny reached for the door handle, then stopped and looked over at Richard. The glow from the dashboard carved his face from the darkness. He looked ready, resolute, but a deep sadness had inscribed itself on his features. Richard had discovered what really mattered to him just in time to lose it. Danny winced, fought the urge to look away as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Richard,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry to have dragged you and Tommy into this.”

  Richard glanced at him. “There’s no forgiving you.”

  Danny nodded. “I understand.”

  “But I know you had no choice.” Richard’s eyes were weary. “That helps.”

  But you did have a choice, the voice inside Danny whispered. In the beginning. You could have gone to the cops and taken your chances. Even if they’d tried to charge you for the pawnshop, at least you wouldn’t have fucked up any other lives. You had a choice and you made the wrong one.

  Never again. He gripped the handle, took a deep breath, exhaled loudly. Then he opened the door, slid to the ground, and closed it behind him. The city’s hum filled his ears. Not waiting for Richard to pull away, Danny sprinted for the shade of the alley, keeping low. He didn’t stop running until he had his back against the cold brick of a building. He glanced in both directions, then loped off to the west, dodging from shadow to shadow.

  It was time to clean up his mess. No matter the cost.

  43

  An Actual Situation

  Considering the thing cost twice a detective’s salary, the Range Rover seemed awfully impractical. A gas guzzler, a bitch to park, and, oh yes, incredibly easy to tail.

  Sean Nolan had hung back through most of the drive, staying football lengths behind Danny and Richard as they tooled down Lakeshore. The riskiest part had been in Evanston, at the man’s house. When Danny had started banging on the door, Nolan felt sure he’d turn around, spot him parked two doors down. But he didn’t, just kept pounding until the man let him in. While Danny was inside the house, Nolan had radioed in the address. Dispatch told him it belonged to a Richard O’Donnell. The same name was on the signs at the construction sites. Whatever was going on, Danny’s boss was involved.

  Nolan didn’t have it figured yet, not quite, but he could feel it coming together. Enough time as a detective, you started to tap into something. Like using the Force. A part of you just started to sense something about to go down.

  He thought about calling Matthews or Jackson, asking them to saddle up and join him. Detectives rolled solo all the time, but a smart man never walked into an actual situation without someone watching his back.

  Thing was, they’d be in Area One, probably Englewood, where the bangers ran. For some reason, the bad guys loved holidays; even around Christmas, there was always a huge spike in crime – domestic violence, armed robbery, suicide. And Halloween brought the crazies out in force. If he called for backup, he’d be pulling cops away from what was sure to be a bad scene.

  Not yet. He’d give it a little while, see what shaped up.

  Ahead of him, the Range Rover abruptly stopped beside a small park. There’d been no warning, and he swung over hastily, pulling the sedan into the empty parking lot of an ironworks. What were they doing? Some sort of a meet? If so, Danny was losing his touch. The Rover wasn’t what you’d call inconspicuous in this neighborhood.

  Then, as Nolan squinted at the truck, the pas
senger door opened and a figure in black jumped out. The man started sprinting the moment his feet hit the ground, cutting across the park and heading for an alley just beyond it. The Rover pulled away from the curb.

  Danny had been on the passenger side.

  Now Nolan had two targets. He could easily ride Danny down. But it would mean blowing his cover, and ending whatever was going on. The net result would be no different than it had been this afternoon. He needed to lie low until he figured out what was going on. With a soft curse, Nolan put the the car in drive and followed the Rover, keeping a hundred yards back. If he had to, he’d ride this tail all the way to hell.

  44

  Blacker Than Night

  Cold air sawed in and out of his lungs as Danny hauled himself up the electrical conduit behind the abandoned Quik-E-Mart. His sneakers clung to the brick, and once he had a good grip on the roof, it was just a matter of getting a knee up. He paused for breath, then crabbed his way to the edge of the building.

  Despite the moon, the night was dark, the scattered pools of sodium light doing little to alleviate the gloom. Danny glanced at his watch. Quarter till nine. Call it seven or eight minutes of recon before he had to move. He unfastened the watch and slid it into his pocket, where it couldn’t reflect a stray beam of light and give him away. The roof gravel poked into his chest as he lay down to stare across the street.

  The Pike Street building rose five stories, each less finished than the last, until the top floor girders poked upward like broken bones. A streetlight on the opposite corner backlit the skeletal structure, marking the concrete shaft that enclosed the fire stairs. October wind made the sheeting on the face snap and pop. On one hand, that was a stroke of luck; it echoed loudly, and would cover his approach. But it also meant he couldn’t see inside at all. The only part he could make out was the top floor, which had no plastic to screen it. Danny started there, scanning carefully. His eyes probed shadows, traced girders. Any detail could be the difference between life and death – and not only his own. Mentally, he overlaid the blueprints. The struts, the framing, everything exactly as it should be.

  Wait.

  There, by the upper entrance to the stairwell. Something caught his eye, a dark shape not geometric enough to belong. Then it moved, and he saw that it was two somethings.

  Tommy and Karen.

  It made sense. Tie them up out of the way, somewhere they couldn’t escape. Steel bands tightened around Danny’s chest. He couldn’t see Evan on top of the building. He could have been hiding, lying flat, but Danny doubted it. More likely he was on a lower floor. After all, he only expected Richard, and wouldn’t be spooked.

  The door to the construction trailer was open, and the wind banged it against the siding in a lonely clatter. Could he be inside? It would have been Danny’s choice. The trailer offered privacy and an easy escape. But somehow he doubted Evan would use it. Not a bold enough gesture.

  Then he saw a flash of light on the third floor, a quick flare of yellow that lasted two or three seconds. A lighter. Evan had fired up a cigarette and given away his position.

  Danny could have laughed, except it was bad news. The plan had been to free Tommy and Karen while Richard distracted Evan. But to reach them, Danny would have to sneak up the stairs, right past Evan, who would be keyed up, at the top of his game. Plus there was Debbie to think of. He had no idea where she would fall in this equation, so he had to assume she was the enemy.

  Frustration surged through him. Couldn’t he catch one goddamn break? Was that so unreasonable? Just a little help? He rolled over, the stones sharp against his spine. The sky above was a wash of starless midnight blue, the moon heavy and ominous. They were screwed.

  Unless…

  He flipped back over to stare at the building. It was a long shot. He was thirty-two, not sixteen. And even at sixteen it would have been a ballsy move.

  Still.

  Whatever the cost.

  Danny wormed his way back to the alley side of the roof, swung his legs over, and dropped to the ground. With his back to the brick, he slid along the wall. From the mouth of the alley, he surveyed the building again, marking the place where Evan had stood – with any luck, he’d be watching the gate to the south, not the street to the east. Danny slid the watch from his pocket. Five till.

  What the hell.

  Staying low, he walked across the street, forcing himself not to run. Darting motion might catch Evan’s eyes, but a black shape stepping slowly between darknesses should be able to sneak past. The cracking of the plastic grew louder, but not loud enough to drown out the rushing blood in his ears. Thirty-nine steps took him to the edge of the fence, the old Hitchcock flick flashing in his mind. Fear sparked random thoughts. He pushed it away, pushed everything away, and eased himself along the fence, eyes on the jagged building with its gray skin. No sign of any motion. Reaching the far fence corner, he straightened, then bent to touch his toes, stretching his leg muscles. Tightening up could be fatal.

  As his fingers gripped the chain-link fence, he allowed himself one final memory. A golden afternoon last summer, not a cloud darkening the horizon. Karen laughing and shrieking as he dragged her into the cold water of Lake Michigan.

  I’m coming, baby. Whatever the cost.

  The chain link bowed inward as his black sneaker bit, hands reaching for the crossbar, the metal cold in the night air, and then he hauled one leg up and over, careful not to kick the fence, and dropped to the dark ground within. He landed soundlessly and jogged toward the northeast edge of the structure, eyes on the rough dirt.

  At each corner of the building, thick steel ran from buried concrete foundations all the way up to the top of the building. Up close, the H-shaped girder seemed blacker than night. He ran his hand over it, feeling the rough spots of welds, the bolt marks and torch holes. Crossbeams branched out at every floor, twelve feet between them. Sixty feet up, the metal ended in dim skies.

  This can be done. You’ve seen this done.

  Except that the guys he’d seen do it were twenty-year-old ironworkers with muscles like a romance novelist’s fantasy. And mostly they did it to get down.

  All of a sudden, he was twelve again, playing Pisser. The same palm sweat and stomach stitches, the same mad desire to back out. Like that moment before the first hill on a roller-coaster, when you wonder if you couldn’t just jump out and take the maintenance ladder.

  Grimacing, he planted his feet on the inside of the H-beam, his heel against the ground and toes to the steel. Then he grabbed the outside of the girder, arched his back to increase the tension, and started to climb.

  He made it head high. Then he leaned in too far and lost his balance. His feet flailed wildly, and he slid down the steel, fingers burning. He landed hard, shocks jolting through his knees, and fought the urge to curse.

  This is crazy.

  The building swayed when he looked up, and his stomach flipped. The top floor seemed an impossible dream.

  Whatever the cost.

  He took a deep breath, planted his feet, and started again. Push with the sole of the feet. Grip with the fingers. The posture is key – use your waist as a pivot, and only your waist. Don’t let any other part bend, or your feet will slip. The traction is good. The steel is rough as sandpaper. Don’t listen to your body’s fear. Let your mind drive the flesh. Move your hand.

  Pull.

  Now a foot. Push.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  The first floor fell away, but he didn’t notice. He forced everything else out of his mind, the world narrowing to his hands and feet and the steel. Slide. Pull. Again. In the darkness, he could see patterns in the metal, clown faces and leering spirits. The girder shielded him from a gust of wind that set the tarps snapping in a lunatic dance. Sweat ran slick from his armpit. The muscles of his stomach burned. Slide. Pull. Again.

  The second floor.

  The third. Don’t look down.

  At the fourth, he looked d
own. His throat shut, and his heart and stomach tugged in different directions. The world wavered, and for a terrible half second he was overwhelmed by an urge to let go. To jump, and fall spinning to the ground. The true meaning of vertigo – not the fear of falling, but the hunger for it. His muscles trembled. He could picture the ground rushing up, the comfort of oblivion. A warm and quiet place.

  He sucked in his lower lip and bit until he tasted blood.

  The pain clarified. Reestablished focus. He stared at the beam as though it held all the mysteries of life. Slowly, fingers tingling and arms shaking, he forced his right hand to move. Pushed with both feet. A tiny bit at a time. There is no up. There is no down. There is no Evan. There is no you. There is only this.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again. Whatever the cost.

  And then his hand bumped into something. A crossbeam. He’d reached the top floor. He edged his legs up twice more, until his arms were almost horizontal. Guts roiling, he slid his right hand off the girder and onto the beam. The instant the tension released, his legs swung free, kicking out over fifty feet of nothing. He felt a hot flush of panic in his bowels as he dangled by one hand. His shoulder screamed and his sweaty fingers slowly began to slip.

  He flung his other arm up, fumbling for the horizontal strut. His right hand began to lose its grip, the ragged steel cutting into his fingers. For a moment he hung there, left hand on the way up while right fought not to come down. Some removed part of himself wondered which would happen first. Then his left banged against the metal, fingers locking on. With a last surge of strength he hauled himself up onto his belly and rolled his legs off the edge. He lay panting on his side, fingers stiff and brittle, arms on fire, chest heaving.

  He’d made it.

  Then he heard Evan’s voice.