The Nature of the Beast

by GM Ford

  “Good for ‘em,” the sergeant said. “Give ‘em a little field experience. Too much sitting around on your ass in squad cars these days anyway. In my old man’s day, you knew everybody on your beat, from the working girls to the store owners. All of ‘em. That’s what being on the job was about in those days.”

  The sound of a helicopter ricocheted through the buildings. Leonard shielded his eyes and looked skyward. “They’re checking the rooftops,” he said. “We’ve got officers doing a walk-through on every derelict building and basement in a four block area. Public Works is going to come down and open up the underground for us.”

  “What’s the underground?” Craig asked.

  Leonard pointed down at the pavement. “There’s a whole series of tunnels and drainage canals under this part of the city. It’s how the bootleggers used to smuggle booze into the city way back in the day. They’d run it across the lake then straight up the river and then into the canals. Been closed up for years. Only people allowed inside are Department of Public Works personnel.” He read the question in Craig’s eyes. “The city, in its infinite wisdom, had the underground declared a National Historic Site. That way they could get the feds to pay for preservation and maybe even restoration later on. If they’re going to keep the historic designation, they’ve got to keep everybody except Public Works out, so even if we want to go in there, we’ve got to get Public Works to let us in.”

  “He’s here,” Audrey said. “We just need to find him.”

  The cop nodded, gave Jackson Craig a fraternal pat on the shoulder and leaned in close. “I’m sure you guys are throwing every high tech angle you’ve got at this guy.” He paused. “Be sure to keep us in the loop will ya.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “There’s a vicious rumor going around that you guys hog all the credit when things go well and throw the locals under the bus when they don’t, so we’d appreciate being kept informed.”

  Craig assured him the CPD would be foremost in the communications loop.

  Leonard looked like he didn’t believe a word of it but was too polite to say so.

  “I better get out there,” he said.

  Craig watched as the detective crossed the street and slid into the warmth of his car. Craig turned around just in time to see Audrey step out of another unmarked police cruiser and start his way. Her expression said she had something.

  “The perforated strip they found in the sheriff’s car came from a Western Union money order. Believe it or not, they have numbers micro-embossed on them.” She checked her notebook. “Paid to one Angelo Stefani of…” She checked her notes. “…3456 Granite Hill Road, Chicago.”

  “Probably not the sheriff,” Craig said.

  “Probably not,” Audrey agreed.

  “What say we ask this Mr. Stefani about it,” he suggested.

  “Mr. Stefani doesn’t answer his phone. I left a message on his machine.”

  “Where’s Granite Hill Road?” Craig asked.

  “West side suburbs.”

  Craig took her by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

  45

  “This is where you stay while I’m out,” he said.

  Michael was too frightened to protest. Instead, he lowered his head and began to cry, big silent tears running over his cheeks as the man used his leg to force the boy forward through the doorway.

  The room was dank and small, outfitted with a double bed, a nightstand, a mini-refrigerator and a small plywood table. An arched doorway in the far corner of the room led to a small moldy bathroom at the extreme rear. The area nearest the door was piled high with crates and boxes. There was writing on the sides, but the printing was mostly numbers and made no sense to him.

  Along the top of the north wall, three narrow windows ran along the ceiling.

  “I don’t want to stay in here,” Michael blubbered.

  The man nudged him into the center of the room and then reached back and flipped on the overhead lights.

  “I want to go home,” the boy wailed.

  “I won’t be long,” the man assured him.

  “I want my…”

  The man grabbed Michael by the shoulder and shook him, hard enough to make the boy’s teeth chatter. “Stop sniveling,” he admonished before removing his hand. “It was good enough for me. It’s good enough for you.”

  Michael was blubbering again, his little red face awash with snot and tears.

  The man put his face right up to the boy. “You’re not special, you know. You’re no better than me, so stop pretending you are. You’ll do just what I did. After a while you’ll learn your duty. You’ll learn to please.” He was sneering now. “You’ll do what you have to do, just like I did.”

  When the boy’s crying only grew louder and more insistent, he raised his hand as if to strike. Instead, he stood unmoving for a long moment, unexpectedly finding inner clarity within his rage. He stepped back from the boy.

  He could hear the boy’s sobs as he stalked down the corridor.

  __

  The quiver of drapes in a second floor window sent Jackson Craig’s finger to the door bell again, this time leaving it in place until the hum and clank of an ancient elevator provided reason to desist.

  Angelo Stefani was a sallow fifty-something and definitely not amused. Even for a guy in a wheelchair, Stefani didn’t look like he got out much. His wavy salt and pepper hair was in serious need of trimming. His Coke-bottle glasses were smeared and smudged to the point where his eyes were nearly invisible. The red and black Chicago Bulls blanket covering his withered legs was spotted with burn marks and bits of food.

  He blinked his eyes and looked up at Jackson Craig. “There some goddamn law says I gotta answer the bell?” he demanded.

  Craig snapped open his Secret Service ID and put it about an inch from the angry man’s glasses. “No, sir. To my knowledge there isn’t. There is however a law that forbids interfering with a federal officer in the performance of his duties.”

  “How’s sitting on my ass in my own living room interfering with anything?”

  “Exigent circumstances,” Audrey piped in.

  “Bullshit,” the man sneered.

  “We’re dealing with a kidnapped child,” Craig said. “As I’m sure you know sir, time is of the essence in cases like this.”

  The smudges blinked several times. “A kid? Kidnapped?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” Audrey repeated.

  He rolled the wheelchair backward into the foyer. “Why didn’t you say so,” he said. “Jesus…a kid.”

  Even with the front door flung wide open, the building smelled stale. Despite an overwhelming desire to air the place out, Audrey closed the door behind herself.

  “What can I do for you?” Stefani asked.

  Craig told him about the postal money order.

  “Just got it last week,” he said. “First of February, every year, regular as rain. Pays the whole damn year in advance.”

  “Pays for what?” Audrey asked.

  “Lease on the Raven Street garage.”

  “Do you know the tenant?”

  He shook his head. “Before my time,’ he said. “We…you know the family…we used to have rental properties all over the place.”

  “How long has this person been renting it?”

  Stefani thought it over. “Twenty-five years at least.” He held up a restraining hand. “You’re supposed to get somebody from the city to go down there with you ‘cause they’re the ones legally responsible for the property. They grandfathered in all the old time tenants. They could stay for the duration of their leases. After the lease ran out, the property immediately reverted to the city. Guy you’re asking about is the last of the Mohicans. He’s got till the first of June, then he’s out too.”

  “We’re going to need to get inside,” Craig said.

  “I got a key upstairs,” Stefani said. He made a face. “Fire code says I’m required to maintain 24-hour emergency access.
In case of a fire or somethin’.” He threw a disgusted hand in the air. “Like that friggin’ place is going to burn down,” he scoffed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tenant put twenty grand of his own cash into it. From what I’m told, the place is 100% fireproof. At least my insurance company thought so. Hell they cut my premiums by two thirds, if you can believe that shit.”

  “The key,” Craig prodded.

  They stood in the foyer and listened as the ancient elevator ascended.

  46

  As he had done many times, he took Meecham Street all the way to the bend in the river and then turned left onto Killkenny. Maxine’s Tip-Top Market was halfway down the block on the south side of the street. As also was his habit, the moment he rounded the corner onto Killkenny Street he side-stepped into the inky shadows of a turn-of-the-century loading dock and disappeared from view. To keep his breath from giving his position away, he pulled his nose and mouth down inside his collar and waited and then waited some more. Two minutes passed, and then five. He peeked out at the street, first one direction and then the other. The street was empty.

  Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he hunched his shoulders and continued on, crossing Killkenny at an angle, listening to the static click of his heels ricocheting from brick to brick to brick as he hurried up the street.

  The market was hot and empty; only the buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the freezers broke the silence; the East Indian clerk smiled, said hello and then went back to perusing a bondage magazine.

  He separated a cart from the herd and shopped quickly, buying what he estimated to be a week’s worth of food and drink. Shouldn’t take longer than that.By then, their precious technology would have made the connection and, after all these years, he could complete his assignment. All he had to do now was to wait for the movie to play out. After that…after that…he didn’t have it planned that far out.

  The clerk smiled and tried to make blah blah talk. He showed his teeth and nodded in all the right places. With a pair of plastic bags dangling from either hand, he shouldered his way out the door and turned left, again angling across Killkenny, this time in the opposite direction. Don’t be an idiot. Remember the cameras.

  Three blocks down, he turned right onto Pulaski Avenue and began to walk west with the breeze pushing hard at his back. Half way up the block, despite the tail wind, he began to slow and then finally scuffed to a stop. He blinked as if doubting his senses, looked around and began to inch forward in the manner of a tourist approaching the rim of the Grand Canyon.

  As he neared the METRO bus kiosk his breath stuck in his throat like a fishbone. A roar began to rise in his ears. His stomach did several back-flips, leaving him weak and unsteady on his feet. He stared in disbelief as the corners of the poster flapped in the insistent breeze. A drawing and a photograph.

  He immediately recognized the drawing as his own face . A chill ran down his spine. He felt as if he was gazing at a long-lost brother.

  “How?” was the word that escaped his throat. “Her,” followed quickly on its heels. She was the only one who’d ever seen him. Had to be her. “That filthy bitch…that…” He tore the poster from the kiosk, crumpled it into a ball and dropped it onto the sidewalk.

  An unexpected voice nearly levitated him from the sidewalk.

  “There a problem here?”

  He turned toward the sound of the voice. Some kind of uniformed cop or security guard. Instinctively, he set the grocery bags on the sidewalk.

  “I asked you if there was a problem with the poster,” the uniform said stepping closer, staring at his face.

  His right hand slid into his coat pocket. The German steel felt warm and comforting to his hand. “I...I’m fine,” he stammered.

  “That’s more than we can say for that darn poster,” uniform said, pointing at the crumpled ball on the sidewalk . In the crook of his left arm he carried a stack of the same poster. The likenesses of Michael and himself side by side. ‘Have you seen?’ blaring across the top,”$10,000 Reward” in bold print across the bottom.

  And then, before he’d decided whether to act or not… just like that, once, twice, three times and suddenly it was over. As if an involuntary spasm had rolled through his central nervous system and taken action without his knowledge or approval.

  Uniform’s eyes tried to leap from the bridge of his nose. The bright green vest took a staggering step backwards. He looked down at his punctured chest in horror, hacked up a mouthful of thick blood and then dropped to his knees with the sickening crack. The stack of posters slid to the sidewalk as the cop gurgled once and keeled over onto his left side. His final shuddering breath was swallowed by a gust of the wind.

  He reached down and checked for a pulse. Finding none, he quickly checked the street in both directions before retrieving the grocery bags. A single rivulet of blood flowed from beneath the body, snaking over the cracked concrete on its way to the gutter.

  He gathered the posters and stuffed them into his pockets.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he chanted over and over as he hurried along.

  __

  Raven Street was a greasy cobblestone lane running behind what had, a century earlier, been a stove and furnace company. Like many of the buildings in the neighborhood, the garage’s windows and doors had long since been bricked over, in a futile attempt to discourage the destitute from joining the rodents in residence. A hundred years of industrial refuse littered the ground like shrapnel. Odious shards of rusted metal poked up here and there. Ancient bottles and cans lay shattered and scattered among the weeds. The air was heavy with the odor of new urine and old grease.

  “Maybe we should call for back-up,” Audrey suggested.

  Craig pointed at the thick steel padlock on the garage door. “It’s locked from the outside,” he said. “Besides, I think we’re already getting about as much CPD help as we’re going to get. Probably best we don’t wear out our welcome.”

  Audrey liberated the big rubber flashlight from its dashboard mount and exited the cruiser. Craig gave a mock bow and gestured chivalrously with his hand, offering Audrey the option of leading the way.

  Audrey shook her head. “Go right ahead.”

  Craig managed an ironic smile. “Watch your step,” he said as he started forward. “This place is blood-poisoning waiting to happen.”

  They picked their way through the minefield of rubble. As they neared the garage door, Craig fished Stefani’s key from his pants pocket and slipped it into the lock.

  “Somebody’s been here lately,” he announced. Craig rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Somebody lubricated the lock, “ he said.

  A gentle twist of the wrist and the lock snicked open. Craig removed it from the hasp and put it in his coat pocket. He lifted the lid to reveal a pair of buttons, one red one green. He pushed the green button; the heavy steel door began to rise.

  The space was considerably larger than Audrey had imagined, extending well past the reach of the dull light pouring inside. Jackson Craig felt around and found a light switch to the right of the door. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened.

  Audrey snapped on the flashlight. The beam of light revealed a collection of crates and barrels and boxes neatly stacked around the perimeter of the room. Audrey swung the flashlight. The light blinked several times and then went out.

  Audrey shook the flashlight like a maraca. The beam blinked on and off, creating an almost strobe-like effect. She reached out and put a hand on Jackson Craig’s arm. Together they moved forward. With her free hand, Audrey kept at it, thumbing the flashlight button on and off, shaking it up and down in vain.

  The intermittent yellow beam flickered just often enough to prod them onward. Audrey kept looking back over her shoulder, as if to remind herself of the light at the front of the garage. Thus marginally assured, she was able to put one foot in front of the other, moving ever deeper into the gloom.

  In the wavering glow of the flas
hlight, military insignia and stenciling became visible on the dusty wooden crates.

  “Military ordinance,” Craig said. “Harry’s munitions stash.”

  “He’s got mines for God’s sake,” Audrey said, pointing at the box at her feet.

  Craig reached out toward the nearest crate. Stenciled on the side: Fifty Cal. Barrett Model 82A1/M107. Craig pushed the lid aside and peered inside. Empty...as he knew it would be. Craig scrutinized the interiors of several crates, finding some of them empty and others crammed with guns and munitions.

  On the far side of the room, Audrey was bent at the waist, pawing through a pile of cardboard boxes. “Looky here?” she said.

  Craig squinted myopically in her direction.

  “School books,” she said pulling one and then another from the battered box. “Harry must have home-schooled him.” From yet another box she pulled a pair of jeans. Boys size, maybe twelve years old. Then a green sweater. “Boxes and boxes of old clothes,” she said as she pawed through the collection of garments.

  “Just one big happy family,” Craig muttered.

  A bump on the rear wall caught Audrey’s eye. She moved as close as space would allow then turned sideways and sidled closer, finally stepping over an open crate whose stenciling identified the contents as Claymore mines of the M18A1 variety. She peered inside. Nearly two dozen of the rectangular little anti-personnel mines peered back, each encased in a white cardboard box, stamped with yet another set of Army Ordinance numbers. Two of the slots were empty.

  Audrey pushed her nose no more than a foot from the wall. A light switch. Halleluiah. She reached out and flicked the switch, hoping to shed a little light on the subject. Instead of providing illumination, however, the building seemed to gather itself beneath them, as if waking from hibernation. Somewhere out of sight, a motor coughed once, twice and then switched itself on. A squeak from the ceiling lifted their eyes. Above them, what appeared to be fire sprinklers began to descend.

  Craig shook his head in disgust. “I hope you brought a change of clothes.” He held out a paternal hand. “Come on. Hurry,” he said.