Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  As he emerged from his parking space, Chakowski noticed someone standing in the shadow of an alley. He thought about driving straight to the offices of the Chicago Record, his professional home for more than a quarter century, the only place he’d ever worked since graduating from journalism school. But he was much closer to his home, five minutes away or so, and the road didn’t feel safe right now.

  Chakowski would write the story at home, give it a quick revision, and email it in. Then he would drive to his office at the Record, and guide it through the editorial and layout process.

  He kept his eyes on the sideview mirror. As he watched the orange glow of downtown Oakton being swallowed up by darkness, Chakowski estimated it would take him no more than a couple of hours to bang out a story that would change his hometown forever.

  The business district now in the far distance, Chakowski noticed a set of headlights some thirty yards back. Lots of people in Oakton, he thought. Even more on a night like this one, when the town throws a party. That’s probably a family of four back there. Kids already asleep in the backseat.

  The headlights were still there four blocks later, then six. Right turn—still there. Chakowski’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest. Sweat, cold and thick, gathered along his brow and washed down the middle of his back.

  Chakowski gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline. No longer worried about taking the shortest way home, he turned left, sped up, then left again a block later, and fixed his eyes on the mirror.

  No lights, now. The road was his, and for a moment Chakowski remembered why he loved this town.

  Over the years he had turned down offers to work at bigger papers in cities that made national news much more often. He had instead dedicated himself to becoming a big frog in a midsized pond. He’d gotten to know all of the players in the city’s government and business, and in the process became something of a player himself. But the ground had shifted under him over the past year, and now he finally understood why.

  He leaned on the gas and kept the car moving just a bit over the speed limit. Driving down one of Oakton’s wide, quiet streets, his pulse retreating toward normal, Chakowski began to wonder how much of this fear was the product of his writer’s imagination.

  Then Chakowski realized he had become disoriented, lost track of where he was. He turned north—no wait, west. Finally, he gave in just a little and pulled over. Peeling his hands off the wheel, Chakowski wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck, and leaned back in the driver’s seat until his breathing found its natural rhythm.

  As he drove off a minute later, Chakowski spotted a mailbox at the next corner. That triggered something in his mind. He pulled up next to it, popped open the glove compartment, and withdrew an envelope.

  He wondered whether there was any real reason to mail it, or if the information he’d hastily cobbled together and shoved into the envelope would make any sense to anyone else. This seemed so much more important an hour ago, when Chakowski’s thoughts were rabid with fear.

  But Chakowski knew his concerns were real and well justified, and the reasons behind them had not changed. He stepped out of the car, peering in all four directions down the murky streets before dropping the letter into the box and hurrying back to his car.

  After finding his way to a major street, Chakowski had his bearings again. He decided it was time to go home.

  His house was in one of Oakton’s older neighborhoods. An area that had undergone a transformation over the past decade as young couples, many with small children, had replaced the older ones. Chakowski didn’t have children, and it had been some time since he’d been half of a couple. He’d lived alone all of his adult life, and now that he was in his mid-fifties, Chakowski understood it would be like that the rest of the way. He’d planned on marrying, once upon a time, starting a family, all of it, but the job always seemed to get in the way.

  No, it hadn’t gotten in the way. The job had been the way.

  “You’re either a good reporter or a good family man,” Chakowski had once explained to his father. “Being both would require two lifetimes.”

  His well-maintained two-story colonial near the end of a long street of nice homes with large yards had been there for more than sixty years. Chakowski slowed to a deliberate cruise as he turned onto Dwight Street. He stared into the vague shadows that gathered around large trees and near the far end of long driveways.

  Slowing down to just above a crawl, Chakowski drove past his house. Then he repeated the exercise, approaching from the opposite direction. He’d never before realized just how many hiding places his neighborhood could provide to anyone wanting to do some harm.

  After the third pass, Chakowski was as convinced as he could be that no one was waiting for him in the dark. He swung the Hyundai into his driveway, then sat for a moment, letting the headlights bathe the front of his garage. Everything appeared exactly as it should.

  But as he stepped out of his car Chakowski heard a jingling sound from somewhere nearby—right behind him. He ducked by the rear driver’s side door, then inched toward the back of the car to get a look. Peering around the trunk of his Elantra, Chakowski saw the next door neighbor’s teenaged son getting into a beater that was parked on the street. Chakowski felt foolish, and even more certain that he just needed to get this over with. Get the story written, buckle in for the fallout, then go on from there.

  The only other car parked on the street was a widow neighbor’s white Cadillac, right where the old woman began leaving it some years ago when backing out of her driveway started to become a challenge. The more Chakowski surveyed his surroundings, the more it looked like just another night in Oakton.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing out of place. Nothing to worry about.

  The house was dark, just as he’d left it. No reason to leave security lights on in this neighborhood. He wanted to approach his house as he would on any other night when he came home from work at 1 A.M., or later if he stopped to grab a drink with his colleagues. Instead, Chakowski walked to his front door the same way he’d approached his car—aware and alert, searching for any movement in the dark.

  But the only moving shadow was his own, spreading across the front lawn, then climbing up the thick old ivy that clung to the façade of his house. He made a final, careful scan of his front yard and the street beyond, then keyed the lock, turned the knob, stepped inside, and quickly closed the door.

  Chakowski did not turn on the lights right away, choosing instead to wait for a moment in the dark, his back pressed against the front door. Gradually, Chakowski’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and all seemed right in what he could see of his living room.

  He listened for the sound of movement in his home’s creaky wood floor, but heard none. Then he recognized the low-pitched buzz of the humidifier coming from his bedroom upstairs. And the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He waited another minute, then two, but heard nothing else.

  I’m acting like a frightened fool, he thought.

  That was something Jim Chakowski had never been, and he decided right then, at that moment, that he’d filed too many hard-earned stories, tangled with far too many would-be tough guys, to start acting like a child now. Lose your nerve and it’s gone forever.

  This was his town, the one he’d written about and helped to define in the minds of his readers, for more than twenty-five years. And it was his life, the one he’d sacrificed to build, one byline at a time. He would not let fear enter into the equation.

  Chakowski pulled back the curtain, and took a defiant look through the window at the dark, empty street beyond. Then he dropped his keys on the side table by the door and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.

  He turned back toward his living room. The light from a lamppost across the street spilled in through the window, past the curtain that he’d drawn, and reached to the far end of the room, well beyond what he could’ve seen before in the dark. But Chakowski didn’t recognize what he saw. Th
ere were papers littered across the beige carpeting, a table was turned over, and his bookshelves had been emptied, their contents thrown to the floor.

  Chakowski didn’t know what to make of the sizzling sound that seemed to be moving through the walls. Then he heard a muted pop coming from somewhere in the basement.

  But only his neighbors heard the explosion, an instant later.

  Chapter 3

  Interstate 80 connects New York to San Francisco, waving hello and then goodbye to several Midwestern cities along the way. But this particular westbound stretch between Toledo, Ohio, and the Indiana-Illinois border offered little of interest.

  Alex Chapa watched the speedometer climb past seventy, then thought better of it, remembering that he was transporting precious cargo, and eased off the accelerator. He was about to sneak another glance at the backseat when his cell phone began playing “Daydream Believer.” Until recently its ringtone had been set to “Guantanamera,” the classic Cuban tune that his aunt Caridad once claimed was her signature song back when she performed at the Tropicana—before “The Beard” ruined paradise.

  Chapa checked to see who it was, and saw Chicago Record on the caller I.D. He had taken two weeks off from the paper, which meant he wasn’t required to give a damn about the call. It was the first time he’d been away from his job for that length of time since the birth of his daughter, more than ten years earlier.

  He chose to ignore it, wondering what could be so important that someone would bother him with it during a rare off-time. There were other writers at the paper. Few with more experience, perhaps none as accomplished, but so what? He was off the clock.

  Chapa let it go, and turned his attention back to the countryside racing past in dying shades of red and brown. His thoughts melting into the lonesome notes that were cascading out of a long lost saxophone and pouring in through his car speakers, Chapa focused on the road ahead, and the unique opportunities the next few days would offer.

  Again, the speedometer in his late 90s Corolla slipped into the red, a fact that Chapa was alerted to by the rattling of his driver’s side door handle. He eased off the gas, again. The car ran just fine at speeds beyond the legal limit, something Chapa tested on a regular basis. Despite its age, the Corolla didn’t have any rust on its aqua-green exterior, the air conditioning worked most of the time, and the heater always blew hot, especially in July when the car sometimes confused the two.

  But on this trip, Chapa had far more important concerns than the condition of his vehicle. For that matter, Chapa didn’t much care whether he pulled into his driveway an hour early or two hours late. His priorities had shifted in a different and welcome direction.

  Stan Getz was cruising through “Misty” when the phone interrupted again. Apparently, someone at the assignment desk hadn’t gotten the message that Alex Chapa was not available. But it was strange that they would call twice. One call could have been an oversight, but two suggested intent. He decided to check his messages, something he hadn’t done since stopping for breakfast that morning just outside of Erie, Pennsylvania.

  Chapa immediately recognized a harried voice belonging to Matt Sullivan, the news editor at the Record.

  Alex, I know you’re taking some vacation time, but I could really use you back at the paper. Something terrible happened last night to Jim Chakowski, and with everything that’s going on right now, I need you to step in for him as soon as you can.

  Chapa listened to the message twice. Matt Sullivan wasn’t prone to wild exaggeration or quick to panic. Chakowski had been the paper’s chief political reporter since before Chapa started there fifteen years earlier. The veteran newsman had taken Chapa under his wing and guided him through some difficult times.

  What could’ve happened? Chapa wondered. Something terrible? If it had been a heart attack or car accident Sullivan would’ve said so. Concerned for his friend, he tried to think of a way to find out without calling the paper. When he came up dry, Chapa let out a long breath, and phoned his editor.

  “It’s awful, Alex. They’re blaming it on a gas leak, maybe some bad electrical wiring, or a combination of the two.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Damned if I know. But it was an old house, and it had old wiring and probably even older pipes.” It sounded like Sullivan was making no effort to hide the tension in his voice. “You’re heading back, right? On your way home?”

  “That’s right. What was Jim working on?”

  Chapa felt himself slipping back into investigative reporter mode. His instincts muscling out everything else.

  “The usual, local business news, some politics. I’m sure there was a pet story or two that he was tracking. But Chakowski is like you.”

  Chapa noticed Sullivan’s use of present tense—Chakowski is like you. It would take a while for a lot of folks to get used to the idea that someone as vital as Jim Chakowski was gone, just like that.

  “I take that as a compliment, Matt. But like me, how?”

  “You both have a habit of telling me what you’re up to on a need-to-know basis. As a result, your editor sometimes doesn’t know much.”

  Chapa liked Sullivan. The guy didn’t always hold his own against the brass, but he was one of the good guys and very good at his job.

  “Look, Matt, I’d love to help out, I think you know how I feel about Jim, but I don’t know squat about his beat,” Sullivan was trying to sneak in a word or two, but Chapa didn’t let him. “And even if I did, I’ve got other plans for the next several days.”

  “I know you do, and I respect that, but it wouldn’t take much time, not really. Jim already had a couple of stories in the pipeline, and I could scale back the number of column inches you’d have to fill.”

  Chapa wanted to think about this situation, and told Sullivan that, then signed off before his editor could pitch it to him again. Part of him felt he owed it to Chakowski. Who else could take over? No one. Then there was the issue of job security, or rather the lack of it. Sullivan had been decent enough to avoid bringing that up. But Chapa, like most other newspaper reporters in the twenty-first century, had no guarantee of still having a job next month, or even next week.

  Those were the simple realities of working in an outdated industry, and several years of falling revenues and budget cuts had left him vulnerable to the next wave of layoffs. He was well paid and a columnist, both of which made him expendable. Taking over an existing beat could buy Chapa an extra week on the job, and maybe that could lead to an extra month, perhaps longer.

  He took his eyes off the road long enough to sneak a glance in the direction of the backseat, and reasoned that doing what his editor was asking would only take him away for three or four hours a day, tops. When Sullivan called back a short while later, Chapa didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll do it, Matt, but I get overtime for the next two weeks.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And none of this counts as vacation time.”

  “A little tougher to pull off, but consider it done.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “806 Dwight Street, it’s over by—”

  “I know where it is, I’ve lived in Oakton for a long time. I’ll be there in less than two hours.”

  As Chapa put the phone back into a cup holder that was still sticky from a minor coffee spill a week earlier, he heard his traveling companion stirring in the backseat. He took a look in his rearview and saw her eyes open.

  “Hi Daddy,” Nikki said in a voice that was still more asleep than awake. “Did I hear my favorite song playing on your cell phone?”

  Chapter 4

  Three days earlier

  Chapa stood in the middle of what he now understood to be the living room, though it was at least four times the size of an apartment he’d once rented. Unlike the other three large rooms he’d been led through on his way there, this one was two stories in height.

  Carla was looking down at him from a balcony on the second floor. She smiled,
nodded, turned then vanished, only to reappear across the room from him a minute later.

  “You look good, Alex.”

  Carla looked better. She always had. Chapa wondered if his ex-wife had some work done, but he knew she didn’t need any. Carla’s high cheekbones, like her light blue eyes and thick blond hair, all came naturally.

  She walked toward Chapa, then stopped just a couple of feet from him, like she wasn’t sure whether to hug him, offer a handshake, or do nothing at all. Chapa didn’t move, and he wasn’t interested in any niceties, let alone physical contact. The smell of her fragrance, deceptively gentle, encircled him like a coy predator.

  “You could’ve called, let us know you were coming, Alex.”

  Chapa shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. The court order says our time together begins today. Would you like to read it again?” he started to reach inside his jacket.

  Carla shook her head and turned away.

  This was Chapa’s first trip to Boston. The first time he’d been to the house his daughter had moved to with her mother and stepfather. Several years of court battles had seen his ability to have some say over his child’s life dwindle down to an afterthought.

  Chapa hadn’t spoken with Nikki for more than two weeks, and had not seen the ten-year-old in nearly six months. When Carla began making some noise about her husband Stephen adopting Nikki, Chapa fired his attorney and replaced him with a far more aggressive one. Though he was still trying to figure out how he would manage to afford the guy, his new lawyer wasted no time in shutting down any talk of an adoption and doing what he could to make certain Chapa’s rights as a father were protected.

  “Where’s Nikki?”

  “She’ll be home in a short while. We’re part of a carpool, and today it’s one of the other moms’ turn to bring her home.”