Set the Night on Fire
Page 1
Praise for Set the Night on Fire
“Every so often a novel comes along that connects with the reader in such a visceral way that it is like a punch in the stomach. This is such a story… . What the author has done is produce a cracking good thriller that grips a reader by the throat and doesn’t let go until the final pages … It doesn’t matter your political beliefs, then, or now; the characters and their trials will reach off the pages of this fine novel and touch you in ways that are basic to our existence as human beings. This is a fine, fine novel that well deserves the accolades it will surely receive.”—Carl Brookins
“A brilliantly-paced historical thriller that spans a generation, transitioning seamlessly from modern-day Chicago to the ‘days of rage’ in the late 1960s and even farther back. The characterization is first rate … A bold, complicated tale in which surprises abound … This is one of those stories that is best to start early in the day, as it is easy to stay up all night reading it.” —Lawrence Kane, ForeWord Reviews
“**** 1/2 Top Pick! This electric novel captures [the late 1960s] and the effect they have on the present and one woman who is running for her life. A marvelous novel.” —Donna M. Brown, RT Book Reviews
“Libby Fischer Hellmann deftly weaves the past and the present in this page-turning, yet nuanced reflection on present-day Chicago as seen through the prism of the Sixties. Hellmann has a keen sense for character and a deft ear for dialogue. She also knows Chicago—both contemporary and in the Sixties—and she writes with the authority of a native. Hellmannn writes stories with style, wit and soul. Set the Night on Fire is a compelling story of love, truth and redemption. This will be a break-out novel for this talented writer. Highly recommended.” —Sheldon Siegel, New York Times bestselling author of Perfect Alibi
Praise for the earlier novels of Libby Fischer Hellmann:
“Hellmann has already joined an elite club: Chicago mystery writers who not only inhabit the environment but also give it a unique flavor.”—Chicago Tribune
“A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense…[with] sharp humor and vivid language.”—Publishers Weekly
“Libby Hellmann knows how to reel in a reader, and she does it expertly in Doubleback. One of the tensest opening scenes ever written is just the introduction to a true puzzler of a thriller.”—Tess Gerritsen, NYT bestselling author of Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel
“Libby Hellmann can get into the mind of a character, whether the character is a mentally ill man or a teenage girl. I kept reading after the first brutal and fascinating pages because I … wanted to know what would happen to the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly people … This is good stuff, very good stuff.”—Stuart M. Kaminsky, Grand Master, Mystery Writers of America
“Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic … [Georgia] Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.”—Sara Paretsky, author of the V.I. Warshawski series and Bleeding Kansas
“She’s indisputably crossed the line into the realm of great crime fiction writers. There’s no going back now.”—Jen Forbus, Crimespree
“A true page turner with suspense and a compelling need to forgo a good night’s sleep.”—Beyond Her Book blog, PublishersWeekly.com
“A story with enough twists and turns to keep you reading to the end. Highly recommended.”—Library Journal (starred review)
“Just what’s needed in a mystery … Depth of characterization sets this new entry apart from a crowded field.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Hellmann knows how to distill the essence of a character in a few unadorned but dead-right sentences.”—Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune
“Hellmann’s cool style and sleight-of-hand plotting draw you in deep before you know what’s happened. This one will keep you up at night.” —SJ Rozan, author of In This Rain
“Exciting plot development and a strong heroine … If you enjoy gritty noir mysteries, this one is highly recommended.”—Midwest Book Review
Also by Libby Fischer Hellmann
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
Doubleback
Easy Innocence
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
A Shot to Die For
An Image of Death
A Picture of Guilt
An Eye for Murder
Nice Girl Does Noir (short stories)
Chicago Blues (editor)
SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE
Libby Fischer Hellmann
E-Book Edition
© 2010 by Libby Fischer Hellmann
All rights reserved
Print version published by Allium Press of Chicago
www.alliumpress.com
ISBN: 978-0-9840676-5-7 (Trade paperback)
978-0-9840676-6-4 (Hardcover)
978-0-9840676-8-8 (ebook)
This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not intended to be real.
Book design by E. C. Victorson
Cover design by Miguel Ortuno
Front cover image courtesy of Chicago Park District
Light My Fire
Words and music by The Doors
Copyright © 1967 Doors Music Co.
Copyright Renewed
All Rights Reserved, Used by Permission
Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
To my ever-loving, Sixties-loving, hippie girl Robin
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many people helped “birth” this novel it’s difficult to know where to start to express my gratitude.
First, many thanks to Steve Bunting, Senior Forensic Consultant at Forward Discovery, Inc., for the tutorial on steganography. Thanks also to Austin Camacho for the referral.
Thanks go to Chicago attorneys Bob Egan and Christina Egan for the legal ramifications of a crime committed forty years ago. Likewise to Dr. William Ernoehazy, Dr. Arnold Tatar, and Dr. Doug Lyle, for their medical expertise about the symptoms and treatment of tuberculosis forty years ago. And a special shout-out to attorney and neighbor Dan Franks, who turned me onto the book Rads (see below).
Don Whiteman and Cathy Jaros were extremely helpful about venture capitalists. And Zoe Sharp and Andy Butler were indispensable for their wealth of information about motorcycles.
Northfield Fire Chief Mike Nystrand, Agent Rick Witt of State Farm, and Bill Riordan, of Riordan and Scully, all spent an untold amount of time explaining arson and insurance issues. And thanks to Marcus Wynne who introduced me to the HideAway knife.
Judy Bobalik, Sean Chercover, Michael Dymmoch, and David Walker have always supplied inspiration and support, and put up with my whining. Marianne Halbert, in Indianapolis, helped brainstorm the ending. And Alison Janssen had a terrific idea for a revision. Lee Child not only gave me a generous blurb, but corrected my misinformation about southpaws.
And a special thank you to Allium Press, and Emily Victorson, who saw the potential of Fire and helped bring it to life.
It goes without saying that any mistakes remaining are mine, not those of the good people cited above. To that end, I admit I took liberties with the Women’s Health Clinic described in the book. In reality, the Chicago Women’s Health Center opened in 1975, not 1970. Artistic license made me move it.
Several books and articles were very helpful. Among them is California Power and Light, by Don Winslow, whose description of an arson fire is unparalleled. Another helpful text was Rads: The 1970 Bombing of the Army Math Research Center at the University of Wisconsin and Its Aftermath, by Tom Bates.
Finally, a 2002 article in The Washington Post, titled: I Was a Terrorist. Where Did It Come From, the Hatred That Led Pampered Americans to Want to Bring Down the System in the 1960s?, by Jonathan Lerner, was fascinating.
Thank you, all.
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Light My Fire, The Doors, 1967
Part One
The Present
ONE
November
Dar Gantner was surprised when Rain showed up at the restaurant. He hadn’t counted on her to return his call. After a while he wondered why he’d even tried. His life had been a series of failures. Grandiose plans but flawed execution. No follow-through, no “closure,” as they called it now. It wasn’t for want of trying. God, or fate, or whatever you called the monkey upstairs, obviously had a plan for him. It just wasn’t the same plan he had.
She wasn’t the first person he called when he got out. That honor went to Teddy. He hadn’t gotten through, of course. He left a message and gave them the number of the cell he’d bought with his first paycheck. Good for a month, they said. Then you threw it away. He remembered exiting the big box store, appalled at how disposable capitalism had become. At the same time, he was fascinated by phones smaller than a pack of cigarettes. Dick Tracy’s wrist-phone come to life.
Rain hadn’t been hard to find, once he remembered her real name. She’d returned his call a day later and after a shocked silence asked where he was. He’d come first to Old Town, the only part of Chicago he knew well, but the prices were too steep so he ended up in Rogers Park. He heard the pity in her voice when he said he was washing dishes. But he might be promoted to waiter or even bartender, he said, hoping he sounded cheery. Then he asked for a favor.
“Can you track someone down for me?”
“Depends who it is,” she’d replied.
Four days later she appeared at the restaurant just before closing. He’d been scouring a large pot, thinking about the instantaneous global connections Thomas Friedman described in The World is Flat. He’d always been a voracious reader, and while reading was a poor man’s substitute for experience, he had a hole of four decades to fill. He glanced up as she pushed through the swinging door.
She immediately picked him out. “You look exactly the same, Dar.”
Dar had never been vain, but he knew she was flattering him. Tall but stooped from years of inactivity, he had a paunch, no matter how many sit-ups he did. His dark hair, now salted with gray, had thinned, and age spots freckled his skin. Only his eyes looked the same, he’d been told. Deep-set and so smoky you couldn’t tell where his iris ended and his pupil began. Eyes with such a piercing expression that people figured he was as crazy as a loon and crossed the street rather than walk past him. They had helped him inside, those eyes. People generally left him alone.
Now, he and Rain exchanged one of those half-hearted hugs you give when you don’t know what else to do. Rain was smaller than he remembered, but in blue jeans and a sweater she still cut a trim figure. Her ashy hair was still long and straight. But her face was lined, and her glasses, which she’d worn back then, too, seemed thicker.
She glanced around the kitchen. Disappointed, he figured. She had a point. Paint was peeling off the walls, the floors were chipped linoleum, and most of the equipment was circa 1950. “How ‘bout I wait for you in the Golden Nugget on Lawrence? It’s open twenty-four-hours.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m off in twenty minutes.”
“You won’t disappear again?”
He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Wild horses … ”
She smiled weakly and went back out.
Half an hour later, he passed underneath the yellow sign outside the Golden Nugget restaurant. A video camera tilted down toward the sidewalk. He’d noticed them in stores, office buildings, parking lots, street corners. Big Brother was now ubiquitous.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. Two waitresses chatted up the short order cook at the pass-through behind the counter. Rain, in a booth at the back, waved him over. As he sat down, one of the waitresses shuffled over and asked tiredly what he wanted.
Rain peered at him over her glasses. “It’s on me.”
He nodded his thanks, not even bothering to muster a show of pride. He was short on cash, and she knew it. Then again, that was nothing new. He ordered a BLT with fries and coffee. Rain shook her head when the waitress turned to her, “Nothing.”
Rain waited till the waitress poured his coffee and went away. Then she announced, “Alix’s brother lives in Michigan. In their old summer home. A big ass house on the lake. Near Grand Haven.”
“Thank you.” He put down his cup. “I guess I’m not surprised.”
Rain shrugged. “The house is on a private road. There’s a gatehouse, and they won’t let you in unless you’ve been cleared in advance.”
Dar thought about it. Then, “How’d you find out?”
“It wasn’t hard. I Googled him.”
He sank back. He’d only just discovered Google, at the library, but he was fascinated by its reach. The waitress brought his sandwich.
“Why do you want to know about her brother?”
Dar explained.
“Have you called Casey?” she asked. Rain had always been blunt, he remembered.
Dar chewed his food. “I didn’t think he’d want to see me.”
“Casey isn’t a bitter man.”
“Have you been in touch with him?”
“Only once. When Payton … ” She cut herself off. “I hear about him, though. Casey, that is. He’s very successful.” She paused. “What about Teddy? I don’t expect you’d want to hear from him.”
“Actually, I put in a call to him the other day.”
Rain set down her cup so hard that it clattered on the saucer. “Why … I don’t … why did you do that?” she sputtered.
Dar speared his pickle with his fork. “Teddy and I have unfinished business.”
Rain had been a woman who’d shown no fear, even when she was arrested during the Convention in ’68. But now she looked small and vulnerable and scared. “Dar, does he know where you are?”
Dar thought back to the message he’d left. Did he mention he was in Chicago? He had. “Why?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“What’s the problem?”
She opened her eyes. “You need to watch your back, okay? You remember what we used to think about Teddy?”
“What you used to think.”
“Listen to me. About fifteen years ago I got a package in the mail.”
Dar looked over, interested.
“Small. Carefully wrapped. No return address. Just a note with it that said, ‘You were right.’” She paused. “Took me a while to figure out who sent it and what it meant.”
“And?”
“It was from Payton. And it contains something that … well, it has to do with Teddy.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Not here. Not now. But it’s important, and it’s in a safe place. If anything—ever—happens to me, you need to know that.”
“Still the theatrical one.” He smiled. “The Sixties are over, Rain.”
Her gaze hardened. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it over the years.”
“I’ve had forty years to think about everything.”
“Yeah, well, a month or so after I got the package, Payton had that fatal car ‘accident.’”
Dar laid his fork down.
“Like I said, watch your back.”
TWO
The next day Dar headed to the Army-Navy Surplus store and bought a pair of faded khakis, a blue shirt, and a pea coat. Then, wearing his new clothes, he boarded a bus for Grand Haven. The ride around the eastern shore of Lake Michigan took over six hours, with stops in Gary, St. Joseph, and Holland. He
’d grown up near Detroit, and although Grand Haven was on the other side of the state, he was familiar with the area. One of the most popular resorts in Michigan in summer, the town now looked November bleak. A gunmetal sky threatened snow, and an icy lake breeze penetrated his jacket.
He tried to hitch a ride to the estate—Rain said it was off the road to Ferrysburg. But traffic was thin, and no one picked him up. He ended up making the three-mile trip on foot. He kept the lake in his sights to guide him, its angry whitecaps a grim reminder of why he had come. He was rounding a bend when he had the sensation he was being watched. He spun around. Nothing—except the desolate landscape.
It had been a while since he’d hiked this far, and he had to stop to catch his breath. His eyes watered. He had no gloves, and he’d forgotten how bitter the wind off the lake could be. Part of him wanted to catch the bus back to Chicago. Despite the gassy smell and cramped seats, it would be blessedly warm.
It took over an hour to reach the estate. He halted in front of a double iron fence. On one side was a small wooden gatehouse. Rain had said there was a twenty-four hour security guard, but no one was there. He grasped one of the iron bars and pulled. Nothing. He blew on his hands and tried again. Still nothing.
He walked to the gatehouse. It was unlocked. Inside, the booth wasn’t heated, but there was some shelter from the elements. He stamped his feet, then slid onto a metal stool beneath a window. His nose had started to drip, and he rubbed his wind-burned skin, wondering if he would ever be warm again. All his energy had been devoted to getting this far; now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do. He looked around for a phone or intercom. There was nothing inside the gatehouse, but a small box was attached to the opposite side of the gate. He sighed. He wasn’t anxious to go back out.
He closed his eyes, willing his mantra into his thoughts. Forty years ago he’d taken up transcendental meditation, and he still used it occasionally. It relaxed him, and at the same time fueled him with energy. The inherent contradiction of the mind. He started to mentally chant the syllables. A moment later the crunch of wheels on gravel made his eyes fly open.