Scooping Cutler up in her arms, Lois ran back into her apartment. After a few shots of Gray Goose, Lois called the police. It was an hour before the CPD had a unit respond. There were no footprints in the snow. Only a few drops of cat blood left behind. But the offfiicer was young and cute, he dutifully took down her story and her phone number.
Lois asked if he liked Chows. Due to the cold Spring, neighbors could not snoop on one another. They had their cell phones though and Facebook helped as well.
Mid April, temperatures began to rise. That brought strong hail storms. Snow packs continued to linger.
The rubble mound on the corner of Grace and Irving Park Road remained an open lot. Nothing of the structure that had been Race Mansion existed. It was like a hand had reached down and scooped it all up. Bulldozers and dirt trucks fiilled most of the hole in.
It was spring and rains drenched the lawns, submerging streets with puddles in pot holes, and drowning the curbs. A few neighbors had left the area, leaving new opportunities for nascent home owners. They’d had enough of City Life. Stories had gotten around of strange things on the night around Christmas. Bad recurring dreams efffected some others.
They thought Pingtree Grove or Fox River would be more pleasant Apartment buildings remained vacant. Some renters had just disappeared. Managers found it strange but after three months of no news, they decided to pack the occupants’ belongings, clean out the apartments and rent on.
Chicago moved on in the Gray Land. New people moved in. Even adverse to the cold and rain, they came. Most were from the Northern suburbs, young, afffluent and ready for ‘Chicago-Life’. Downtown was a good ten miles away.
But damn it, it was their time to be citizens of the big city! One of the new renters had just moved his family from Milwaukee. The Russo’s found a great deal on a three bedroom apartment offf of Keeler and Grace. The former tenant had just up and left, which was weird since he had been a local fiireman. Everything was going to be a new start for them. New job, new home, even a new puppy for Sammy.
It was a Scottish Terrier, cute as a button and hell on the furniture. The new owners Samuel and Amanda Russo bought it to train their youngest son, Sam Jr. the merits of responsibility. Come rain or shine, the lad had to walk the pup. In truth, getting the randy mutt had almost been too much for the Millennial couple, as the young animal had to release all that frenetic energy.
Their boy was learning that a creature smaller than himself had more energy too. So it was, in mid-April, Sam Jr. and the Terrier were freezing their behinds offf in thirty degree weather. There was a steady drizzle coming down.
Sam Jr. was fascinated with the construction site at the end of Grace Street determined to sneak a peek, even though his father had admonished him against doing so. But a seven year old and a Terrier puppy had agendas of their own.
Under a black umbrella, Sam Jr. strained at holding the Terrier. It snifffed wildly running ahead on his extension leash towards the open lot. Sam Jr. looked behind knowing that ignoring his Dad’s rule: ‘stay within sight of the house’ was a spanking offfense. Sam Jr had an excuse in mind. He would say the pup had run away. That chasing after him brought them to the site. Dad would buy that. Plus, it was his birthday week.
It was mostly safe, or so his parents had said.
Sam Jr. followed ‘Mr Boxy’ running through as many puddles as he could fiind. He stopped. The dog was pawing at a tree The trunk leaned at a crooked angle. Sammy’s Dad had told him that a gas accident had blown many of the trees back or even had broken them. This was the present shape. The tree was bereft of leaves. Some of its roots had been torn out of the ground. To the small boy, it appeared as if the tree were a gnarled hand. He’d heard the older kids of his old school talk about the Slender man. They whispered it, mostly. Probably trying to scare little kids like him, Sammy thought. He was too big to be scared from stories like that.
Mr Boxy was sitting alert, looking at something in the tree.
Sam Jr. eyed it.
A toy was jammed into the wood of the trunk. Sammy’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe his fiind. It was awesome! It was a carved wooden cube, a black box. Sammy reached for it. It was really dug in deep. He looked back up the block to see if any adult was watching. No one was around. He better get back fast in order not to get pop-pops on his bottom.
Tiny ngers grasped the ornate surface. It looked expensive. He almost had it. Sammy gasped. The webbing between fiingers was slit by an edge. Blood flowered from the wound, red blotches dotting the box. He refused to give up though. Sammy was rewarded for his effforts, as the new toy released itself from being embedded, tumbling into his hands.
Covered with blood and mud, the treasure sat in his palm. The toy felt warm. Sammy Jr. walked his dog back. It had to be his imagination but he heard music coming from the cube. It must be a music box. Maybe one of those old ones his grandmother had. She’d wind them with a key and cheerful tunes would spill out. Sammy thought he could hear piping sounds coming from this one. He could actually hear someone talking inside it. Maybe it was one of those iPod things his friends were talking about. That would be so cool! Maybe some older kid had tired of his iPod and thrown it out. What a cool gizmo!
Sammy Jr. would show his dad. They would look at it together. The boy took a few steps towards his house listening to the music and voices coming from the black box shining in his hands, as if newly minted fresh from the rain. His blood drips were gone too. He looked down at the Scottish Terrier pup. Then up at the inky vastness of the night. The voices seemed to be telling him something. It sounded important. They began telling Sammy Jr. details about his grandmother, his father and even his new stepmother. By the time Sammy got back to his apartment door, he had changed his mind.
Maybe, Sammy thought, it was better to keep the box to himself.
Chapter 50
One last wrapped gift was left under the tree, a present for a dear friend.
Late Christmas Day. Final minutes before it ended.
He had one more obligation to keep. Doug trudged up the basement steps three hours later. Cray was settled in. They’d reached an agreement. He’d stay out of sight and out of trouble until they could ship his ass somewhere he could do the most good with whatever time he had left. He tried to ignore the itching of his bandaged wrist.
Outside, the wind was diminishing.
The house was quiet yet it wasn’t eerie. The stillness comforted him. His wood creaked as he rose step by step. His thoughts mashed together in a mad kaleidoscope. He wished he had a way for his brain to dump stress or tension. People who had been lost.
How can so many people go missing without their loved ones looking for or caring for them? He leaned his body against the bedroom’s door frame. Joan clutched the pillow like a child holding it close to her mouth. She seemed small in his parents’ king bed. Doug felt himself getting aroused. But he knew they both were too tired to keep going. There was a beautiful synergy just being with Joan. He slid into bed next to her.
Doug curled up next to her lithe body. He snuggled. Joan sighed allowing herself to be gathered into his arms. He lingered at her neck, kissing it tenderly.
The bandage on Doug’s arm was wrapped tight. Blood lightly seeped thru it. He licked the wound. Cray had a point. Blood was sweet.
Outside the winds began to kick up a bit, as if frightened they’d be forgotten. Nature whipped pellets against the exterior walls. The young couple curled up, their bodies a bulwark against the maelstrom out beyond.
Doug listened for a moment. Then, he focused on his desire for Joan. His divine hunger. Some times that’s all one gets. A moment between raindrops, the sun shining before clouds obscure the eye of a hurricane, a person’s love before you grow apart or they’re taken from you.
Doug slept then. He had no dreams. The demons must have slaked their hunger on his painful memories. He was satisfiied to have what contentment there was in that moment.
One moment was enough. ‘He had a love t
hat moves the sun and other stars.’ —Dante. Daniel Freitag, my good friend, your ghost keeps me company every story I write. My tales continue to walk the earth, though you no longer do. Gone, but never forgotten.
Lynn, Jefff and Jim—my loyal Chicago contingent. Grateful as always.
For Jazz, who I fiind respect and Love for everyday. The one constant on this messed up mud-ball. Chicago is a part of me. There are many more tales to tell about my awesome city. Grateful to be a son of the Northwest Side.
Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series Page 22