The Last Page

by David J. Walker

  She stood on the metal platform at the top of the stairs. “JJ?” she called softly.

  No answer…but she had an idea. William probably wouldn’t know where the light switch was. If he opened the door and found it pitch dark he might assume she wasn’t down there. Or if he did come down in the dark to look, she’d at least have the advantage of knowing where things were. She reached up over her head and flicked the switch.

  Damn! The main lights went off, but the light over the workbench stayed on. She hurried down the steep steps, lucky to make it to the bottom without falling. She had to turn that light off, too, and—

  “Julia, my dear.” It was William.

  She stood frozen, just a few feet from the steps. She hadn’t even heard the door open.

  “I’m afraid you ran the wrong way, Julia.”

  She spun around. “JJ!” she screamed. “Help! Help!”

  “Very clever,” he said. “But you tried that before. No one’s here but you…and me.” He closed the door behind him, as though to emphasize their aloneness. “Just the two of us.” Holding on to the railings he started down, slowly, aware that for a man his size the shallow metal steps were dangerous. Being cautious, but not thinking to look around for a light switch. After all, there was plenty of light.

  If I can lure him all the way down while the light’s on, and then… “So you did kill Barbara,” she said, backing away from the steps, toward the workbench. “It wasn’t an accident.” If she couldn’t get a recording, at least she’d be able to testify to his admissions…if she survived. “The police were wrong.”

  “Actually, the police were right. It was a heart attack. Or at least the equivalent. The right dose of potassium chloride will do that. And incidentally, not much pain, if you’re wondering.” He kept coming, his leather-soled shoes like wood striking the metal steps. “Although,” he said, “that tumble she took…she might have felt that, before she lost consciousness.”

  “She remembered, didn’t she? She remembered she’d helped you research poisons before your wife died. Was it cyanide you used that time? Like at Jonestown?”

  “Actually, I looked at lots of things. But cyanide raises questions that—” Halfway down he caught his heel and almost fell, but held himself up with the railing. He looked very pale, and she realized he was as afraid as she was. He was trying to keep her mind occupied with talk. “The poor thing took so many medications.” He started down again. “I used to set them out for her and…well…she was very trusting.”

  By the time he reached the bottom and stepped onto the concrete floor, Julia’s back was up against the workbench. To her right was the kid’s bicycle, upright and leaning on its kickstand now, with both wheels on. “And your latest research? What were you going to use for my moth—”

  He started toward her. “Your mother loves me, you know? And love really is—”

  “JJ!” she yelled, looking upstairs as though he were there. “Thank God!”

  Believing her or not, William just had to turn and look…and that’s when she reached behind her and pulled the light switch string.

  It was suddenly dark. Very dark.

  “Help! Help! Help!” Screaming that one word, over and over, she grabbed the small bicycle by its seat and handlebars, holding it out in front of her, horizontal to the floor…and ran it straight at William.

  She slammed the bike into him and he howled in pain, and maybe he fell backwards. But she couldn’t see, and she didn’t try to find out. She backed up toward the workbench.

  She’d have run for the stairs, but she’d have to get past William. Plus she’d have trouble finding them in the dark. And if she did, he’d hear her on the metal steps. He’d grab her and drag her down. By his cursing and yelling she knew he was hurt…but she hadn’t stopped him.

  She felt the bench behind her and hitched herself up so she was sitting on it, then slipped off her shoes and quietly stood up on the bench. She threw both shoes in William’s direction, over his head. One of them hit the metal steps, and whether that confused him or not she couldn’t tell. By then she was feeling around among the tools hanging on the wall above the bench.

  What she wanted was a big, heavy pipe wrench, but what she found in the brief seconds before she heard William moving again was the large wooden mallet. So be it. She waited, mallet held high. It was heavier than she’d imagined…like a five-pound bag of sugar.

  “Julia?” His tone was conciliatory. He was coming closer. She couldn’t see him, and knew he couldn’t see her. “Julia, listen to me.”

  Standing on the top of the workbench, mallet in hand, she didn’t move and didn’t answer. She tried not to breathe.

  “Do you really think I would hurt you?” he asked, as though the idea were ludicrous.

  She raised the mallet higher. His voice put him closer, but still beyond her reach.

  “We can work this out,” he said.

  Just a step closer, damn you. She bent at the waist, holding the mallet high, like someone waiting for a mouse to come out of a hole in the woodwork.

  He seemed to have stopped moving, and was perfectly silent, obviously trying to hear where she was.

  Bending even lower, her face as close to her knees as she could get it, she said, “Work what out?”

  She straightened up and his fist, probably aimed for her head, struck her shin. At the same time she swung the mallet down, hard. The first blow was a glancing one, but must have dazed him, because he kept grabbing for her feet, as though trying to keep his balance.

  The second blow was more from side-to-side, and struck home. She heard bones crack, probably in his cheek or the side of his head, and heard the breath rush out of his mouth. Then the thud of his body hitting the floor.

  She turned on the light.

  William Bryant lay face down on the concrete floor, not moving. She dropped the mallet and lowered herself to a sitting position, then eased herself off the bench until she was standing on the floor, staring down at him. She could tell now that he was still alive, but unconscious, his breathing barely visible.

  She stumbled across the room to the steps, hardly able to stand upright, her own breath coming in great heaving gasps. She’d hit William as hard as she could, and now she was afraid he’d die before she could get help. JJ’s not being around meant he hadn’t heard them, which meant the sound system wasn’t working and the things William said weren’t recorded. Would people believe her when she told why she’d hit him…twice?

  She reached the foot of the stairs and grabbed onto the railing to steady herself. If she didn’t get going, up these stairs, she was going to collapse. She started up…and that’s when William grabbed her wrist from behind and spun her around.

  He shoved her down against the metal steps, then let go of her wrist and switched something from his left hand to his right. “I wouldn’t have chosen this again,” he said, “but it will have to do.” It was a syringe, a hypodermic needle.

  His lips flared, baring his teeth, and his eyes were wild. The madness buried deep inside him all these years had fought its way to the surface…to be seen by anyone.

  But there was no one but her.

  Lying back against the stairs, she brought her two knees to her chest and then straightened them as he leaned toward her, kicking out with all her might, hitting him in the chest with the bottoms of her stocking feet. Again she heard the crack of a bone breaking, and he stumbled backwards, fighting to keep his balance. She turned and scrambled up the steps, using the railing to pull herself up.

  She was halfway up when he grabbed her again. Her left ankle this time, pulling her back down the steps. She held on to the step above her head with both hands and kicked at him with her right foot. Her heel hit his nose and she felt something warm soaking through her sock. She kicked again, and he lost his grip on her ankle.

  She clawed her way to the top and looked down. His mouth and chin were running with blood, but he was crawling up after her. She went out the door and clos
ed it behind her. But she had no key and she knew William would—

  “Ms. Fairbanks? Are you okay?”

  She couldn’t place the voice, but turned and recognized the man hurrying down the hall toward her…and she collapsed against the wall.

  “He’s a monster and he’s coming,” she said. “Be careful.”

  But the door didn’t open. Detective Nystrand opened it. He stepped inside onto the steel platform, and when he didn’t say anything, Julia moved up beside him and looked down. William was lying on his back on the concrete at the bottom of the stairs. There was blood everywhere, and he was moaning softly.

  She heard sirens then, and wondered how the paramedics were going to get the monster up those steps.

  * * *

  Julia was resting her head on Barbara Adams’s desk, waiting for the police to come in. She’d already given a brief statement, but she was exhausted. She hoped they’d wait till morning to interview her again.

  The door opened. She raised her head. It was JJ. He set a gym bag on an empty chair. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Fairbanks,” he said. “Things just happened too fast. The damn P.A. system—”

  “It’s okay, JJ. Really. It can wait.”

  JJ, though, couldn’t wait. “The P.A. system was working fine, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to record, so I overrode the lock on one of the exits and ran out to my car. It took a while to find what I was looking for in my trunk, and then when I was coming back I seen a cop car.”

  “Can we talk about this tomor—”

  “I had this sorta bad feeling, so I waved the cop down and got him to come in with me. When we got inside, we could hear you and Mr. Bryant talking over the P.A. system, you know? But it took awhile to figure out where you were. ’Cause you were in the basement. The cop called it in, and—”

  “I got it. Please.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He stared down at his feet.

  She’d hurt his feelings. She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I guess

  there is one thing, though.”

  “Uh-huh?” He perked up. “What’s that?”

  “Did you and that police officer hear everything Mr. Bryant said down there in the boiler room?”

  “We sure did.”

  “Do you think you’re both going to be able to remember it? I mean…

  accurately?”

  “Well, we talked about it, and we only disagree on a few things.”

  Her heart sank. She’d been in court when the attorney she’d worked for had

  cross-examined witnesses. “A good defense attorney will tear you two apart.”

  “Maybe.” JJ reached into the gym bag he’d brought in. “But what I went

  out to my car for? It was this.” He held up an old portable cassette recorder. “It’s got a built-in mike. I turned it on soon as me and the cop got inside, and it picked up everything that came over the P.A. The cops have the tape already. Not good quality, but the words are clear. Nobody’s gonna tear that tape apart.” He grinned. “I made a copy, too. You wanna listen?”

  “All I want to do is go home.”

  “Okay. But…well…if you talk to any reporters tomorrow? Tell ’em my name’s JJ, okay? And—”

  I know,” she said. “And they should leave out the periods.”

  THE END

  STORIES FROM

  THE CHICAGO BLUES ANTHOLOGY

  In 2007, Libby had the privilege of editing an anthology of short stories, all loosely based on Chicago and the “Blues,” however the authors defined them. The result was 21 stories, some about the music, some about cops who wear the “blue,” some about depression, a Code Blue at the hospital, even the Blue Line El. The anthology was published by Bleak House books. Both Libby and David’s stories follow. We hope you enjoy them. For the complete anthology, go to Amazon or Barnes & Noble and look for Chicago Blues Anthology.

  “This classy anthology of mostly original short stories from 21 renowned Windy City authors blends the blues, crime and Chicago, quite surpassing Akashic’s recent Chicago Noir... This impressive volume has soul, grit and plenty of high notes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Twenty-one excellent reasons stay out of the Windy City...”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An impressive group of stories... an amazing group of authors...”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  “Chicago—its neighborhoods, its history and atmosphere, are all wonderfully captured… terrific... a gem-filled anthology.”

  —Oline Cogdill, Mystery Scene

  YOUR SWEET MAN

  “Who’s Gonna Be Your Sweet Man When I’m gone?

  Who you gonna have to love you?”

  —Muddy Waters

  1982: Chicago

  Calvin waited for the man who’d been convicted of killing his mother. Outside Joliet prison the July heat seared his spirit, leaving it as bare and desiccated as a sun-bleached bone. Sweat ringed his armpits, grit coated the back of his neck. Almost noon, and no shadows on anything.

  He extracted a Lucky from the crumpled pack on the dash and leaned forward to light it. The ‘74 Chevy Caprice never failed to start up. As long as he kept enough fluid in the radiator, the engine ate up the highway without complaint. Even the lighter worked.

  He took a nervous drag. He hadn’t seen his father in fifteen years. His granny had made him come when he graduated high school to show him that Calvin had amounted to something, after all. Calvin remembered clutching his diploma in the visitors’ room, sliding it out of the manila envelope, edging nervously up to the glass window that separated them. He held it up against the glass, hating the sour smell of the place, the chipped paint on the walls, the fact that he had to be there at all. He remembered how his father nodded. No smile. No “atta boy—you done good.” Just a lukewarm nod. Calvin imagined a yawning hole opening up on the floor, right then and there; a hole he could sink into and disappear.

  Now, the black metal gates swung open, and a withered man emerged. Calvin was still wiping sweat off his face, but his father was wearing a long sleeved shirt and beige canvas pants. Even from a distance, his father looked smaller than he remembered. Frailer. The cancer that was consuming him, that had triggered his early release, was working its way through his body. He walked slowly, stooped over. His skin, a few shades lighter than the rich chocolate it once was, looked paper-thin, and he blinked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Maybe he hadn’t. His father looked around, spotted Calvin in the Caprice. He nodded, took his time coming over.

  Calvin slid out of the car, tossed his cigarette on the dirt, ground it out with his foot.

  “Hello, Calvin...”

  Calvin returned his greeting with a nod of his own. Cautious. Polite.

  “Appreciate you coming to get me, son.”

  A muscle in Calvin’s gut twitched. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him “son.” “Son” was a word that belonged in the movies or TV, not in real life. Calvin gestured to the gym bag his father was carrying. “Let me take that.”

  His father held it out. Calvin threw it in the back seat. His father stood at the passenger door but made no effort to open it. Calvin frowned, then realized his father was waiting for permission. Twenty-five years in prison did that to a man. “Just open the door and get in.”

  His father shot him a look, half-embarrassed, half-grateful, and slid into the car. Calvin waited until his father was settled, then started the engine. As they pulled away from Joliet, he said, “Thought we’d go back to my place.”

  “You still in Englewood?”

  “Hyde Park now. Got ourselves a house near 47th and Cottage Grove.”

  His father’s eyebrows arched. “Well, that’s mighty fine.”

  “Jeanine fixed it up nice. Even got a little garden out back. She’s a good girl.”

  His father didn’t seem to notice. He should have. It was Jeanine who shamed Calvin into coming in the first place.

&n
bsp; “He’s dying, Calvin” she’d said. “And he’s paid his dues. Twenty-five years of ‘em.”

  Now his father turned to him. “How’s that job coming?”

  “What job?” Calvin made his way back to the highway.

  “The one you was talking about when you come to see me. Janitorial supplies.”

  “I opened my own company six years ago. I got five people working for me now.”

  “Well that’s mighty fine, son. Mighty fine.”

  But it didn’t feel fine. It felt false. Calvin imagined that black hole opening up even wider. That was why he never wrote or visited his father, except for the Christmas card Jeanine made him sign every year. Any time he thought about him, even a stray fragment, the night his mother was murdered flooded back into his mind. He couldn’t help it. Better not to think about it at all, his granny would say. “Just go on and live your own life.”

  But Granny was dead, and the people at Joliet called him when they found the cancer. Calvin stole a glance at his father. He was quiet. Just staring out at the road, a dreamy look on his face. Calvin remembered that look. His father’s body might be in the front seat, but his mind was miles away. Calvin knew he was thinking about his mother.

  He tightened his grip on the wheel. How dare he? “So... You feelin’ okay?”

  His father pulled his gaze in and looked at Calvin. “For the days I got left, I’m doing jes’ fine.”

  Calvin turned onto the interstate. “You sure? Jeanine talked to our doctor. He can see you tomorrow if you want.”

  His father gave him a sad little smile. “Appreciate it son, but don’t go to no trouble.” His father went back to looking out the window. Calvin turned on the radio. The all news station was blaring out something about Israeli troops in Lebanon. His father didn’t react, just kept gazing out. He seemed somehow smaller, less distinct than he’d been just ten minutes ago. Like his shadow was slowly fading from black to gray. At this rate he might disappear altogether.