Rain Will Come

by Holgate, Thomas

  He and Jenny had discussed these kinds of sites before and agreed that they would be off limits, both for legal and ethical reasons.

  Judge Robertson didn’t wait for an explanation, as none would have been sufficient. He grabbed Jenny’s hair, just as a frightened “Dad!” escaped her lips, and jerked her to her feet. Her leg braces screeched against each other—metal kissing metal—an audible reminder of the multiple sclerosis that had plagued her since childhood.

  Judge Robertson pushed his daughter over her desk. Her head slammed into the side of her computer, upturning the machine. Her chest crushed the keyboard, sending line upon line of gibberish scrolling frantically across the screen. “Stay,” he commanded.

  Jenny didn’t dare defy him. Even if she had wanted to, she lacked the upper body strength necessary to raise her torso off the desk. She didn’t even turn around when she heard the familiar sound of her father removing his belt.

  Jenny took the first stroke in silence. Her father held nothing back, but she bit her lip and managed to muffle her cry. A small however futile act of defiance. The second blow practically lifted her off the floor. Again she managed to stifle a scream. The third stroke did the trick, and Jenny let out a long, pitiful wail.

  Judge Robertson was unmoved.

  He wrapped the belt around his knuckles, redoubling his grip. This lesson had to stick. He had warned her once. What kind of a man was he if he couldn’t control his own daughter? And under the very roof he provided.

  “Jenny,” he said with little emotion. “I want you to lower your jeans.”

  Jenny closed her eyes tightly and began to cry.

  “You have no one to blame but yourself,” Judge Robertson reminded her. Then he raised the belt and brought it down over and over again without mercy. Jenny fainted after the twentieth stroke. The beating continued for a good fifteen minutes more—all of it caught on his daughter’s webcam.

  When all was said and done, Judge Robertson should have considered himself lucky. He was forced to attend counseling—which of course he sailed through by telling the therapist exactly what she wanted to hear—and had to recuse himself from any child welfare cases for one year.

  On the home front, things were not so easy. Claire had taken the girls and left him. He blamed the lawyers, those fucking vultures who descended to pick through the carcass of his marriage just as soon as the story hit the wires. After all, Claire never would have had the will to leave him without outside encouragement.

  She and the girls had moved into a small apartment on the outskirts of town. Although he was legally barred from ever visiting, the judge considered the place just as much his, thanks to the $5,000 a month in child support he was required to pay.

  Still, the situation could have been a lot worse. Bachelorhood suited him better than he had expected, and he got to keep the house and cars.

  Judge Robertson was not a man prone to self-reflection. The first time he even considered the possibility that he was in any way responsible for his current predicament was when he came to with the worst headache of his life.

  A noise.

  That’s the last thing he remembered. Along with the unsettling feeling that someone was with him in the house. Then the pain. And then it all went black.

  He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Long enough for whoever had played whack-a-mole with his skull to tie his wrists and ankles to the kitchen chair. Long enough for his fingers and toes to have lost all feeling.

  Judge Robertson blinked a few times, clearing out the last of the cobwebs. In front of him, no more than ten feet away, sat a man whom the judge could only assume was his assailant. The man’s head was bowed, resting in the cradle between his thumb and forefinger, as if he, too, had suffered some devastating blow. He looked up when he heard the judge stirring.

  The two locked eyes, and the man waited until the judge was coherent.

  “What kind of a man resigns his family to the poorhouse while he himself lives in the lap of luxury?”

  Was this a rhetorical question? When the judge didn’t respond, the man answered. “I guess the same kind of man who has no compunction about torturing his disabled daughter.”

  Judge Robertson stiffened visibly at the word torturing. Over the past year, he had endured relentless criticism. Editorials called for his resignation. Talk show hosts questioned his competence. But even his most vociferous opponents had never referred to his well-meaning discipline as torture. As if reading his mind, the man continued. “Yes, I chose my words carefully.”

  The judge prided himself on his ability to size up a person at first glance. It was a skill he had honed from years on the bench, but one he was never supposed to utilize. After all, Lady Justice wore a blindfold for a reason.

  Studying the man in front of him, Judge Robertson had never been so sure of his instincts. And he didn’t like what he saw. The man had a refined, honest face. He wasn’t the kind who made a habit out of breaking and entering. He was here for a reason.

  “Please, I have a lot of money in the house safe. Take whatever you want.” Even before the words left his lips, the judge knew he had made a mistake.

  The man smiled, like a parent disappointed by a child. “We both know why I’m here.”

  Judge Robertson feigned ignorance, unwilling to give the man any possible psychological advantage. What was still a mystery, what Judge Robertson couldn’t possibly comprehend, was the specific chain of events that had led to this moment.

  Nearly a year had passed since the beating of Jenny Robertson had gone viral. Although it was the buzziest story for one twenty-four-hour news cycle, with the afternoon freak shows squeezing a little more mileage from it with panels of two-bit shrinks pontificating about the merits of corporal punishment, the rest of the world forgot about the scandal as soon as one of those Kardashian girls popped out another baby.

  Jenny still hated him of course. But how the hell would a sheltered sixteen-year-old have the means to enact a complicated revenge plot? This unwelcome visitor was no misguided teenager, the kind who could be enticed, maybe with sexual favors, to mete out some vigilante justice to dear old Dad.

  Then there was Claire. The incident had empowered her, no doubt. All her newfound friends and compatriots in that cottage industry of domestic-abuse survivors had enabled her to tap into a hereto unknown reservoir of strength. But she was a victim by nature. When the excitement had died down, all she wanted was to be left alone, to raise her two girls far from the prying eyes of the world. Even if part of her pined for vengeance, she would never have made the slightest move to make her plan operational.

  And Emily had just turned nine. Too ludicrous to fathom. The judge chalked that one up to his probable concussion.

  Again the man seemed to anticipate his thoughts. “I imagine you must be wondering how this all transpired.”

  This was bad, the judge thought, unease continuing to settle over him. Two-bit robbers didn’t use words like transpired.

  “That’s natural, I suppose,” the man conceded, running his fingers through his thick hair, pausing momentarily to massage his temples. The judge was sure he caught the man trying to suppress a grimace. “But you’re asking the wrong question.”

  Silence. Judge Robertson wasn’t going to play into his hands.

  The man continued, undeterred. “What you should be asking yourself is, ‘How much pain can I endure?’”

  For the first time since finding himself a prisoner in his own home, Judge Robertson was legitimately frightened. His captor wasn’t some hot-blooded degenerate being ushered out of his courtroom in shackles while screaming hollow threats. This was a man not of words but of deeds, who had already shown himself to be a very capable adversary.

  “There’s one thing I’ve wondered about,” the man said. “Did you ever regret it?”

  Judge Robertson swallowed hard. He tightened his jaw and tried to look earnest. “Yes, every day.”

  The lie was palpable. “I didn’t think
so,” the man said softly.

  Judge Robertson closed his eyes. When he opened them, the man was crying. For a split second, the judge felt a sliver of hope, until he realized the stranger wasn’t mourning for him.

  “I watched that video a hundred times,” the man said, as if recalling a painful memory. “Even when she cried, you continued to beat her. And when her fragile body could take no more . . . you continued.” Eyes glazed over, the man looked right through the judge. “Your . . . daughter,” he said with incomprehension, as if the word itself was inexplicable.

  The stranger remained seated but shuffled his chair across the floor until he was only inches from Judge Robertson. “I want you to do me a favor.” The judge was noncommittal, uncertain whether this was a last-minute reprieve or simply delaying the inevitable. “When you scream, I want you to think of her smiling face.”

  The man reached into the inside pocket of his light jacket.

  He withdrew a hunting knife, the kind with a crescent blade, perfect for skinning deer. He pressed it against Judge Robertson’s cheek.

  And then he began.

  THREE

  Czarcik was on his third Cutty Sark when he felt the familiar tingle on his thigh. He sighed, hoping it would go away.

  The detective drank alone at one of Alsace’s outdoor tables. Alsace was the hippest new restaurant in Logan Square, Chicago’s neighborhood du jour. What was once ground zero for Latino flea markets was now home to three microbreweries, a rye distillery, and a multimedia collective dedicated to preserving vinyl and VHS.

  Czarcik didn’t give a shit about what happened to Logan Square, or any other neighborhood for that matter. He had seen them rise and fall.

  Just ten years ago, the Near West Side had been a haven for wannabe gangbangers, until restaurants with names written in Cyrillic started muscling out the corner liquor stores and pool halls. A few miles north, Wicker Park, a bohemian mecca for as long as Czarcik could remember, was now home to six Starbucks, one of them in an L station that straddled another of the company’s freestanding cafés.

  If the city was a living organism—a favorite metaphor of politicians—then neighborhoods were its lymphatic system. Always there, always working. Responding to the influx of foreign interlopers with either hospitality or resistance.

  Czarcik understood that he was in the minority. Few people were dispassionate about gentrification. They were either rabidly opposed, convinced it was nothing more than a slow form of genocide against indigenous communities, or fanatically steadfast in their belief that it was integral to a healthy and diverse populace.

  This constant tension prompted Czarcik to seek out neighborhoods at the nexus of past and present. Because cops there were hated by both demographics, he was left alone to drink in peace.

  If it weren’t for that infernal tingling.

  When it finally became unbearable, Czarcik reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. It didn’t bother him that he was the last man on earth to use one. The rest of the Bureau of Judicial Enforcement had migrated to the iPhone platform years ago; the BJE had mandated it, though most officers were all too happy to oblige. Czarcik had refused, one of the conditions of his agreement not to retire. Although the BlackBerry operating system was supposedly more secure than iOS or Android, hackability was not one of Czarcik’s concerns. He liked, and needed, the physical keys. His fingers had been mangled on the high school gridiron and any touch screen, no matter how responsive, could never replace the tactile feel of hard plastic.

  He looked down at the number on the screen. Headquarters.

  The BJE had been Czarcik’s home for the better part of the last decade, since it was suggested he take early retirement from Chicago PD.

  On the books, the BJE was under the auspices of the Illinois attorney general and answered to Springfield. In reality, the organization answered to no one, but reported to and assisted the many cities, towns, and departments that called on its expertise, expertise that was becoming rarer and rarer now that things like diversity training were taking precedence over basic police work. Every once in a while, when an activist decided to delve into the state’s inscrutable budget, the bureau’s purpose would be questioned. What was wrong with the existing police departments and county sheriffs? Couldn’t the FBI be brought in for especially delicate or complicated cases? Sure, and if you suffered a massive coronary, why not just see a podiatrist instead of a cardiac surgeon? After all, they’re both doctors. So when push came to shove, there wasn’t much dissent. Almost everybody understood the value of an organization that, in layman’s terms, knew how to get shit done.

  The BJE employed around one hundred men and women at any given time, the kind of people who could no longer work in traditional channels but who had skills that proved eminently useful to the state government.

  People like Barry Esposito, a functional schizophrenic who was legitimately psychic. Unfortunately, his abilities could only be accessed while he was off his meds and in the throes of a self-induced hallucinogenic state. Still, he had pinpointed the exact location of three different kidnap victims, three victims who would have undoubtedly been murdered were it not for his visions.

  Corrine Fumagalli, a hacker gone straight who looked like a member of Bikini Kill and could have made a fortune in private industry. At nineteen she had been busted for stealing the social security numbers of the University of Chicago’s entire incoming freshman class. She cut a deal with the attorney general, who decided that locking her up and squandering her talent might not be in the best interest of the state.

  Mad Dog Marone, a former private detective from Philly who was—

  Bzz . . .

  It was like holding a rabid housefly.

  He took one last swig of Cutty and pressed the green phone icon on the device. “Czarcik.” The detective listened intently to the voice on the other end. His eyes showed no trace of the liquor he had savored only seconds before.

  It was his boss—at least in name—and the head of the BJE, Eldon Parseghian. Few people had the constitution to run the BJE, and Parseghian was one of them. The product of, as he liked to say, a hillbilly father and an Armenian beauty, who took his mother’s name for some mysterious reason. Parseghian was brilliant, dashing, and more than a little crazy. Although he worked the street admirably (and had even lost hearing in his left ear during a shoot-out when he was with the gang unit of Chicago PD), Parseghian had easily segued into his new role as a political animal par excellence. His was an appointed position, and he kept the governor protected from the kinds of things that governors should but really didn’t need to know about. More importantly, he kept his team protected from unnecessary oversight and bureaucracy. Because if there was one thing that Parseghian had recognized from the very moment he took the job, it was that the best thing he could do to support the men and women under his command was to leave them the fuck alone.

  “I’m leaving now,” Czarcik said, and he pressed the red phone icon and stuffed the BlackBerry back into his pocket.

  His tattooed waiter was at an adjacent table, educating a group of young mothers about the particulars of France’s cheese-making regions and hoping their schoolgirl giggles translated into a larger tip.

  Czarcik couldn’t wait for the check. Although he knew what a glass of Cutty should cost, he didn’t know the markup at this place. Just to be safe, he threw an extra twenty on the table, a small price to pay to avoid unnecessary human contact.

  Rogers Park was one of Chicago’s most storied neighborhoods. Pushed up against the suburb of Evanston and bordered on the east by Lake Michigan, the area had been home to upwardly mobile Jewish immigrants. Its main thoroughfare, Devon Avenue, had been a menagerie of small, family-owned shops, delicatessens, and art galleries specializing in representations of the Wailing Wall. Now, except for a handful of Hasidim, the old inhabitants were long gone. Cheap electronics distributors alternated with ethnic markets whose windows assured customers the food was halal. One of t
he city’s last great strip clubs, the Quilted Panther, was now bordered by a Syrian grocery on one side and, on the other, a clothing store that sold only traditional Middle Eastern garb.

  Czarcik piloted his unmarked Crown Victoria past the boarded-up storefronts and newsprint-covered windows.

  As he drove, he listened to Camille Saint-Saëns’s “Aquarium.” The incongruity between the pastoral music and urban strife outside his window wasn’t lost on him. His musical tastes used to be eclectic, but now really only occupied opposite ends of the spectrum: classical and death metal (although Celtic Frost and Holst’s The Planets had more in common than one might think).

  From Devon, Czarcik turned onto North Magnolia. There was no need to check the address. Out front were half-a-dozen cruisers, their lights throwing primary colors all over the facades of the greystones. The area around the property had already been cordoned off with police tape, holding back the curious throngs with their iPhones above their heads, trying to get a photo of god knows what.

  Magnolia was zoned for permit parking, and Czarcik found a spot easily. He parked the Crown Vic and hurried up the front steps of the building, flashing his ID at a young officer guarding the main door whom he recognized from one of the nearby districts.

  The smell hit him as soon as he entered the apartment.

  His stomach rolled over, and he wished he hadn’t polished off that final Cutty. When he’d been a child, his grandfather, who had then recently immigrated to America, had bought a dairy farm out near Madison, Wisconsin. By all accounts, Papa Czarcik was a wonderful man, but all his grandson could remember of him was the stench of sour milk.

  Only one other time had Czarcik smelled anything this revolting. It was his first year as a beat cop, and he had been called out to investigate a domestic disturbance in Back of the Yards, a neighborhood so named because of its proximity to the Union Stock Yards, Chicago’s turn-of-the-century meatpacking district that was responsible for one of the city’s early nicknames, “hog butcher to the world.” By the time he had arrived at the scene, a sanitation worker named Lincoln Dupree had turned his shotgun on his wife and two children before placing the barrel between his own teeth. It proved nearly impossible to remove the remains of Lincoln from the shag carpet, and the hot blood had stunk to high hell on that midsummer morning.