by Cade Brogan
If you’d just ask Claire the woman’s name, you’d know.
I already know.
So, you say. But for what it’s worth, you can trust her.
We’ve never trusted anyone, and we’re not going to start now.
Suit yourself, the Rational One responded, you’re the one in control.
Glad you finally noticed, Elizabeth answered, turning her head to watch the clock—2:27—2:28—2:29. I plan to kill this killer, you know.
No, the Rational One said, to kill one, even one who kills, is wrong.
Unless they’re of mixed heritage, Elizabeth countered.
Correct. But you don’t know that they are.
Well, how am I to know if I don’t hunt them down? And once I find them, the right thing to do is kill them. To rid the world of vermin is right, not wrong.
And HIS voice roared like the thunder of a furious storm. VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAITH THE LORD. HOW DARE YOU DISCUSS WHAT IS RIGHT AND WRONG AS IF THE DECISION WAS YOURS?
Elizabeth had the urge to flee, closing her eyes. Forgive me, Lord.
IT’S IMPORTANT TO YOU. THAT YOU BE ALLOWED TO AVENGE YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S DEATH. EXPLAIN YOURSELF.
Because she was the only one, Elizabeth answered, swallowing hard.
THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW YOU AS YOU ARE.
Yes, Lord.
AND YOU LOVED HER VERY MUCH.
I suppose I did, Elizabeth said, biting her lower lip, and drawing blood. She released a slow breath, knowing there was more, and watching the clock—2:30—2:31—2:32.
I WILL ALLOW IT.
Elizabeth’s stomach quivered. Thank you, Lord.
I’LL ALLOW IT WITH CONDITIONS.
Just tell me what they are, and they’ll be done.
HEAR THE DETAILS BEFORE YOU DECIDE, IMPULSIVE HUMAN.
I’m listening, Lord, listening for your Word.
THE FIRST IS THAT YOUR PENANCE MUST BE MORE SEVERE THAN EVER BEFORE, SO SEVERE THAT YOU BELIEVE YOU WON’T SURVIVE IT.
Just tell me when and how it should be done.
AND THE SECOND IS THAT YOU MUST DISPATCH THE ONE YOU FAILED TO DISPATCH—KENZIE BIGHAM—WITHIN TWO HOURS OF THE ONE WHO MURDERED YOUR GRANDMOTHER.
Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. But what if I have to travel to find this person? And, what if I have an unanticipated problem? How can I promise until I know who it is that I hunt and where they reside?
GOOD QUESTIONS, BUT NOT MY PROBLEM. AND THE LAST CONDITION IS ONE THAT YOU SHOULD CONSIDER CAREFULLY BEFORE GIVING YOUR WORD.
I’m listening, Lord.
THAT SHOULD YOU FAIL, DISPATCHING ONE BUT NOT THE OTHER, YOU’LL CEASE YOUR EFFORTS, AND OFFER YOURSELF AS A SACRIFICE, DYING BY YOUR OWN POISON WITHIN TWO-HOURS.
Elizabeth caught her breath, feeling Claire’s arm around her. I promise.
DO AS YOU MUST, REMEMBERING MY CONDITIONS.
Thank you, Lord. And with that, determined not to fail, Elizabeth lifted Claire’s hand from her breast, laying it gently onto the mattress. Then, satisfied that she hadn’t disturbed her slumber, she crept across the room to her dresser, sliding her fingertips along the edge, over her gun, and into her wallet. She knew exactly what she was looking for, having seen Claire update the tiny slip of paper, month after month. Take it or commit the last entry to memory? Commit it to memory, she decided, pressing the button on Claire’s watch to illuminate and memorize the series of letters, numbers, and symbols—her password. Then, she folded it, returning it to the place she’d found it, and made her way to the sofa. She sat down in front of the laptop, entered Claire’s password, and waited for the police department logo to be replaced by desktop icons.
OPEN CASES.
Click.
REPORTS IN PROGRESS.
Click.
Drag and drop.
SAVE.
Click.
Hmmm…interesting.
Drag and drop.
SAVE
“Elizabeth?”
“In here,” Elizabeth answered, ejecting her flash drive. “On my way.” She closed the lid on the laptop and ran water in the sink. “Be there in a minute.”
Claire yawned as Elizabeth returned to their bed. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Just got up to get a drink,” Elizabeth answered, kissing her lips, and tugging the sheet over her breasts. “Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” Claire said sleepily. She fluffed her pillow and collected another kiss. “Night, baby.”
*
Abby tucked her knees under her chin, trying to keep warm as she’d done throughout the night. Cold and damp, the cement floor had left her chilled to the bone. She scrubbed her hands over her face as sunshine peeked through the window. Something happened. They got grounded, or they’re salty, thinking I told on them. “But I didn’t,” she squeaked, tears falling as pee trickled down the hole. Gotta get outta here. Can’t wait any longer. Gotta take care of my own self. She considered breaking jars to make noise. You can’t waste the only f-ing food you’ve got. What if you’re stuck down here for days? Tears resumed their downward tumble as she studied what was left of her food supply—beets, pickles, and grape jelly. She consumed a jar of beets, plucking out one at a time with her fingers, and deciding to save the jar of jelly for supper. As she tossed her empty container down the multi-purpose hole, she noticed the row of water heaters, touching one. Warm. People live here. And they’re getting ready for work right now. Dumb ass! You should’ve made more noise, got someone down here. “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” She kicked the ramshackle workbench, knocking loose a three-foot two-by-four, and slashing her ankle on a rusty nail. “Ouch! Mother f-ing, ouch.” Her lower lip quivered, paving the way for more tears. “Now I’m gonna get tetanus.” She removed her socks, tied them together, and wrapped them around, stopping the bleeding in short order. “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” She got up, hobbling to the window. Too small to crawl out of, but… She swung the two-by-four, shattering glass, and breathing fresh air for the first time in over twenty-four hours. “HELP! I’M TRAPPED! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” She gingerly collected the jagged edges, dropping them in the hole. Then, she settled on a tall stool by the window, watching for someone—anyone—to pass by. Where is everybody? If nothing else, Chicago had plenty of people. The inside of her belly twirled, catching sight of a black cap bobbing in the distance. As the tall man moved closer, she bellowed with gusto. “HELP ME! I’M TRAPPED! I NEED—” Oh shit, he’s wearing a mask. “THAT’S OKAY. YOU DON’T NEED TO COME ANY CLOSER. JUST CALL SOMEONE, ANYONE, TO HELP ME.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Awakened by the annoying beep of her phone alarm, Rylee dressed in the dark.
“I packed you a lunch,” Kenzie said, padding down the stairs behind her. “It’s on the bottom shelf.”
“Thanks,” Rylee responded, opening the refrigerator, collecting the brown bag, and removing a Pop Tart from the box. She patted Buckshot’s head and kissed Kenzie’s lips on her way out. “I’ll call you.”
Kenzie nodded, following her to the porch. “You be careful.”
“Always,” Rylee responded, pausing to hold her. “Don’t go anywhere you don’t have to go.”
“I won’t,” Kenzie said. “Don’t forget to call me.”
“The moment I know something,” Rylee promised, brushing her cheek softly. “Or at lunchtime, whichever comes first,” she added, getting into her truck.
“Find her.”
“Gonna give it my best shot.”
Kenzie wiped her eyes, waving goodbye.
*
Rylee’s radio crackled to life as she backed out of the driveway—an event number for a platform check—a call for an ambulance—a bottle gang in an alley—a floater in the river. With all that was going on, she wondered if fear had gotten the best of the floater, causing him to commit suicide. She called Frank, waiting at a stop light, pleased that he was in early and had her report waiting for her.
“10-42—check welfare of adolescent girl in the 4400 block of West Mon
roe.” It was the most perilous neighborhood in the city, one that cops hated to go into without backup.
Rylee turned the knob, increasing the volume.
“Caller guessed her to be thirteen-fourteen years old, yelling at people passing by saying she’s trapped and needs help. Priority one. All available units respond.”
“Have an address?”
“Negative. Caller looked but didn’t see one on the building—white block, two-story—possibly abandoned.”
“10-4—Might know the one you’re talking about. Not abandoned, but close. En route. ETA four minutes.”
Rylee switched on her lights and siren, accelerating into a U-turn, and advising that she’d also be responding. “ETA fifteen minutes.” She sucked in air, moving through a busy intersection west of Kostner Avenue. Dear God, please let it be her. Never in a million years would she have approved of Abby being here—the most dangerous residential block on the West Side, an area plagued by shootings, drug deals, and homicides. But at this moment, she wanted her to be here more than anywhere in the world. And God, if it’s her, please let us be able to get her out without exchanging gunfire. She slowed, cutting her lights and siren. At first glance, this street looked like so many others in the rundown parts of town—two-story buildings, overgrown grass, senior citizens, day care centers, and working-class poor. But on closer inspection, even an inexperienced officer could see that it was the graffiti and shell casings that told the story of this neighborhood: the sad story of residents, afraid to open their doors; of drug dealers, selling heroin on the corner as if lemonade from a stand in their front yard; of gangs waging war with one another, unconcerned that their bullets could easily penetrate walls.
She spotted two police vehicles—red, white, and blue, the department’s new colors—parked in front of a two-story building, matching the caller’s description. She observed four officers moving about the property, two on the front porch and one on each side. A fourth police SUV came around the corner as she cut her engine, parking behind her, the officer getting out as she got out. Their radios snapped to life in unison as they traversed the front walk.
“North side. Found her. Basement window too narrow to be useful. Checking outside entrance now. Locked.”
“10-4. Squad. Request additional backup.”
“10-4. All available units, please respond.”
“Victim is Abigail Bigham. Says she was locked in as a gang initiation twenty-six hours ago. Stand by. Asking for Hayes. Says she’s her step-daughter. Hayes, you on the radio?”
“10-4. Just pulled up,” Rylee responded, breaking into a jog. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
“10-4. Looks okay. Reports a minor injury to her ankle.”
“Squad. Need occupant information.”
“10-4. Checking now. Building has six apartments, five vacant. Apartment six is occupied. Last door on your right. Tenant is Mildred A. Jones, eighty-four. Utilities are in her name. History of domestic disturbance dating back two-years involving her granddaughter. Checking. Recently deceased. At the morgue.”
“10-4. Time to knock and announce. Signal when ready.”
“In position.”
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
“On my mark… Knock.”
“Police. Open the door.”
“All quiet.”
“On my mark… Knock.”
“Police. Open the door.”
“All quiet.”
“Time to use the big key.”
“Stand back,” Rylee said softly. “We’re gonna use the battering ram to break down the door.”
Abby moved to the far wall.
And on Rylee’s nod, the door swung off its hinges and dropped to the floor. “Thank God you’re alright,” she said, gathering her in, and holding her tightly. “Your mom and I—”
“Am I in trouble?” Abby asked. “Do you know if I’m gonna be grounded? How long I’m gonna be grounded for?”
Rylee’s eyes narrowed, thinking that the loss of Piper would be her worst consequence, and praying that the topic didn’t come up on their way home. “To be honest, we haven’t decided, and before we do, the three of us need to have a serious discussion about what happened, why it happened, and what we can do to prevent it from happening in the future.”
Abby’s gaze lowered, opening the passenger door.
“We need to call your mom before we go anywhere,” Rylee said, sliding under the wheel, “let her know you’re alright.”
“Do we have to?” Abby asked, her tone whiny. “She’s gonna kill me. I’m gonna be dead or grounded for the next two years.”
“Yes, Abigail, we have to,” Rylee responded firmly. “Because your mom’s been worried sick, terrified that you were dead in some alley, crying virtually nonstop for the last twenty-four hours, and we’re gonna put her out of her misery.”
“I know, but—”
“No, buts, Abigail,” Rylee said, locking gazes. “And no way could you possibly know. No way. Because if you did it would mean that you knowingly put your mother through all that heartache. You’re a good person,” she added, “and I can’t believe you’d do that. Not to your own mother.”
A tear trickled down Abby’s cheek. “I wouldn’t…I’m sorry…I thought I’d be back before you guys got up…I didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,” Rylee said, her tone softening. “And it’s good that it turned out alright.” As she said the word, she felt a pinch in the pit of her stomach. “So, when we call,” she continued, “those are the kind of things you need to say to your mom.”
Abby nodded. “I will.”
Rylee smiled, gripping the back of her neck gently. “That’s good; you’re a good kid. But sometimes even good kids do things that are wrong.” Her brow furrowed, noticing Abby’s injury. “Lift your leg a minute; I want to see your ankle.”
“I did it on a rusty nail.”
“Ouch,” Rylee said, adjusting the makeshift bandage. “I think we’ll have Grams take a look at that this afternoon.” She’d retired long ago, but her grandmother’s nursing skills were as good as ever.
Abby drew her eyebrows together. “You think I’m gonna get tetanus?”
Rylee smiled. “No, you’re not gonna get tetanus. It’s a cut, not a puncture. And your shot should be good for a couple more years. Don’t worry; Grams will get you all fixed up.”
*
Kenzie inserted the last dress rehearsal invitation into its envelope, affixing a stamp. Stay busy. Your only hope is to stay busy. She picked up the wedding to-do list, deciding to use the time to reconfirm the florist, guitarist, photographer, and hair appointments. It was difficult to think about getting married with Abby missing, but it was work to be done, and doing it kept her sane for the moment. As she checked off the next item, her phone rang, stopping her heart. A call so soon could only mean something bad. She stared at the device, watching Rylee’s name flash on the screen, and working up the courage to answer. “Hello,” she peeped, praying that she wasn’t calling to tell her that Abby was dead.
“I have someone who wants to say hi.”
Kenzie began to cry, hearing the joy in her voice. “Abby, oh dear Lord, you’ve found Abby.”
“I’ve got her,” Rylee said, her tone lighter than it had been for quite some time. “I’ve got her, and she’s just fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Sorry you had to wait around for me,” Rylee said. “With everything that was going on I didn’t think to call.”
“That’s okay, I get it,” Claire responded, closing the notification that a flash drive had been improperly ejected from her computer, “you were busy with your family. Didn’t take long to figure out where you were anyway, not once I switched to the citywide channel.” She got up, getting both a cup of coffee and a donut, still pondering the odd warning about the flash drive. “That’s great news about your step-daughter,” she said, setting down Rylee’s beverage, and handing her three sugar packets.
“Yeah, prayers answered, that’s for sure,” Rylee responded, tearing one open, and emptying it. “I have to admit; I had myself prepared for the worst. I think Kenzie did too.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Claire said. “Not many happy endings in our business.”
“Nope, not at all,” Rylee responded. “Piper didn’t have one, that’s for sure. It broke our hearts to have to tell Abby what happened so soon after getting her home, but it didn’t seem right not to.” She smiled thinly. “That’s the main reason I stuck around, you know, to make sure she was dealing with it.”
“Be a bummer at any age,” Claire responded, “but at fourteen, man, that probably crashed in like the end of the world.”
“Oh, I assure you, it did,” Rylee responded. “Poor thing.”
“You could’ve taken the day,” Claire said. “You know you didn’t have to come in.”
“I know,” Rylee answered, “but by the time I left, between Kenzie and my grandparents, things seemed to be pretty much under control. Figured I might as well be here. It’s not like we don’t have plenty to get done.” She stirred, swallowed, and opened the lid of her laptop. “So, where are we?”
“Just got through the scientific traveler lists,” Claire responded, handing across a sheet of paper. “What you’re looking at now is the list that I compiled of frequent flyers, grouped by time period and hot zone.”
“Interesting,” Rylee said, studying the document. “I’m not surprised to see Addison and Gordon on it.”
“Me either,” Claire said. “But check this out.” She pointed to a line midway down. “Gordon’s going back-and-forth, same times as Addison, right up until four years ago when the trips stop.”
“Took a break when she got hurt.”
“Yeah, that’s my guess,” Claire responded. “And then while she’s in rehab, he starts back up, traveling to the same area that he went with her, but this time accompanied by a different woman.”