Chapter One
I'm standing in the darkness of the mid-day sun. The fog of my future sits before me in the form of a 1972 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. Its engine is running, rumbling, gargling like a beast in a dentist's chair.
The car is mine; now. Given to me as a settlement of sorts. A reparation for what came before. The ironic familiarity of the exchange stings and reduces the intent of the gift. It feels disingenuous.
In the car are papers. They're loose, strewn across the passenger seat in messy piles. Certificates of ownership, identifications, a stack of cash wrapped in a paper band. It puts a brick in my stomach. I'm going to be sick.
A man stands next to the car, offering me the restitution. He's tall and good looking with striking features; chiseled and professional. He's clean shaven, dark manicured hair and glasses that give him a sense of importance. Myself. I still have blood on my sleeves.
"Time to get going..."
He pauses.
"Jim."
It's not my name, at least it wasn’t.
"Jim," he says again with ephasis.
I look at the black leather seats, the leather wrapped steering wheel, the chrome shaft of the gear shift.
I nod.
It's what's next, after everything that came before. Another choice I don’t get to make for myself.
The car is mine; now. Given to me as a settlement of sorts. A reparation for what came before. The ironic familiarity of the exchange stings and reduces the intent of the gift. It feels disingenuous.
In the car are papers. They're loose, strewn across the passenger seat in messy piles. Certificates of ownership, identifications, a stack of cash wrapped in a paper band. It puts a brick in my stomach. I'm going to be sick.
A man stands next to the car, offering me the restitution. He's tall and good looking with striking features; chiseled and professional. He's clean shaven, dark manicured hair and glasses that give him a sense of importance. Myself. I still have blood on my sleeves.
"Time to get going..."
He pauses.
"Jim."
It's not my name, at least it wasn’t.
"Jim," he says again with ephasis.
I look at the black leather seats, the leather wrapped steering wheel, the chrome shaft of the gear shift.
I nod.
It's what's next, after everything that came before. Another choice I don’t get to make for myself.
Chapter Two
Getting to there, that moment standing in front of the car, the moment of fracture where one life ended and another began, was complicated. It wasn’t the first time actually. My life had been taken from me and replaced with a new one twice before. Three times if you count my parent’s divorce when I was only seven years old.
I guess it happens to everyone. Times when a sudden change, a choice or a consequence upends your existence and it seems as though who you were; your very being ends and in your body stands a new person. A person almost wholly separate from the person you were before. I imagine that’s a hallmark of humanity. Death and rebirth. The stuff of religion.
I imagine it was hard for her.
I hasten to assume it was as hard on her as it was for me, but who am I to say. That’s the problem with stories, with life. I can only tell you how I felt. I can only know what I experienced, but as I am a man (as in mankind, although in terms of gender the statement is appropriate as well) I can empathicly presume other’s feelings, but in terms of pure narration I can’t for certain say what another experiences.
So let me just say that I expect it was hard on her. I expect that what happened to her, and to me, was a difficult thing for her to cope with. She, maybe, blamed herself, but it wasn’t her fault. It’s, as I said, just part of being human.
I guess it happens to everyone. Times when a sudden change, a choice or a consequence upends your existence and it seems as though who you were; your very being ends and in your body stands a new person. A person almost wholly separate from the person you were before. I imagine that’s a hallmark of humanity. Death and rebirth. The stuff of religion.
I imagine it was hard for her.
I hasten to assume it was as hard on her as it was for me, but who am I to say. That’s the problem with stories, with life. I can only tell you how I felt. I can only know what I experienced, but as I am a man (as in mankind, although in terms of gender the statement is appropriate as well) I can empathicly presume other’s feelings, but in terms of pure narration I can’t for certain say what another experiences.
So let me just say that I expect it was hard on her. I expect that what happened to her, and to me, was a difficult thing for her to cope with. She, maybe, blamed herself, but it wasn’t her fault. It’s, as I said, just part of being human.
I was sitting in the club when the news was delivered. I was always sitting in the club, mostly. I didn’t really have anywhere else to be. The world, my world at least, was a fishbowl. It was small and I was always being watched. Except for when my owners let me out to do what they needed doing. It’s not a stretch to call them that. In fact they had told me that very thing many times. Never forget Gavin, we own you.
So I was sitting at my table in the club. It was a dark place, old and smelling of must and decayed leather, like the basement of a library. It was underground, literally speaking. It sat under an abandoned storefront on the Southside of Chicago.
The inside was large. Larger than the building it sat under. There was a formal host stand that occupied a wide platform at the entrance. A step down was the dining room full of small two person tables that sat low to the ground with deep armchairs at opposing ends. Each table had a small oil and wick candle that provided just enough light to shadow the face of whomever was sitting across from you.
There was a bar, long and worn. The blonde boards on it’s surface were chipped and stained and the leather rail was oily and tearing in places exposing yellowing foam padding. The glassware was foggy and mismatched and the liquor was in unbranded bottles bought at a drugstore or supermarket.
My table was in the back. A booth built into the far corner and separated from the rest of the establishment in a manner that one would certainly not call subtle. From my seat I could see the whole place; the door, the several patrons talking in hushed tones across their glowing glasses of cheap booze. I could see the bar and the bartender, lazily polishing glasses like the brass rails of the Titanic. I could see the curvy redhead Amelia playing at the worn out upright piano next to the kitchen doors.
I sat and I smoked and I drank. It’s what I did almost every night. Almost. I was refilling my cigarette case when the door to the club swung open. The woman who stepped in wore a confidence that was foreign there. Most people who came to the club did so to avoid being seen. They would walk in hunched over, scarves and glasses and hats. Big coats wrapped around them in the sweltering summer months. They were closed and they were quiet.
She was not. She strode in with purpose, her back straight and her chin up. She was tall and fit. She wore a casual white cotton button down shirt and a narrow black skirt that ended just below her knees. She was in stockings, nude, and black paten leather heels which, actually, was important.
The woman was Detective Megan Hinde of the Chicago Police, and the heels were a message. Not to me mind you. They were a message to the others in the room. The were telling the patrons not to worry, she was off duty. She would never have been in heels is she was working.
Detective Hinde was, you might say, my handler. That’s probably not quite right, but it’s close enough. She delivered my instructions and sometimes my gratuity. She was the only person outside the club I was allowed to have any contact with, which probably requires some explanation, but that will come later.
She wasn’t my friend, that’s important to point out. Detective Hinde and I were not friendly. She was simply the one that couriered the messages between the other woman and myself. That said, she never visited me there. She never came to the club. We would meet in alleys or parking garages. She was a big fan of the loading docks at McCormick place, especially in the winter months. To come to the club, to where I lived, that would be too close. There would be a chance she could be seen, identified, connected to me. They were too careful for that. To come to the club to see me was unprecedented and it made me nervous.
She crossed the room in wide strides, heels clicking on the ancient walnut floors. She was making eye contact from the moment she occupied the room and her face wore a strange combination of anger and fear.
When she reached my booth she stopped and seemed to freeze. Not posing exactly, not for effect, but rather like she was trying to decide what to do next. She stood for a moment, the two of us eyeing each other in an uncomfortable silence. I nodded at the chair across from me and after the merest of hesitations she took a seat.
“Megan,” I said.
She gave a sad smile by way of response.
I let out a long sigh and took a sip of bourbon from a short glass on the table. It was good stuff, Redemption. Not the swill they pour the other guests. I have my own stash here, and Lauren, the bartender, always makes sure my glass is full.
“Well, you’re not dressed for business,” I say posed as a question.
She stared at me, scanning my features and expression. She was trying to read me. She was figuring out how to say what she needed to say. The action didn’t set me at ease.
“It’s-” she started, but cut herself off.
“It’s what?” I asked.
“Well Gavin,” she paused. “It’s Weather,” she spat out like the words were poison.
I didn’t say anything. I don’t think my expression changed. I knew the name of course. It crossed my mind a hundred times a day despite my best efforts. Hearing it though, hearing it come out of her mouth, it made my blood simmer. I felt my insides fill up like a pressure cooker and had to fight the urge to make a movement that would alarm the detective.
“It’s about Weather how?” I asked finally with slow and measured speech.
Detective Hinde broke eye contact and looked down at the table. She shifted in her seat and tried to look back at me, tried to regain the confidence and authority that she showed up with, but she couldn’t hold my gaze and ended up just staring at my hands.
“She’s been arrested,” she said.
“For what?” I said without breathing.
She looked me in the eyes.
“Murder.”
I exhaled, quietly, through my nose. I sat back in my seat then pulled back up to the table. I grabbed the flat silver cigarette case and pulled out a long black paper cigarette. I used to smoke Camels, cheap and easy to get, but I wasn’t allowed to go to the store anymore so I got what I was given. In this case it was Treasurer Aluminum Blacks. They’re one of the gratuities I am granted. Gifted from an unknown patron for a job I didn’t choose to do.
I screwed it between my lips and snapped opene a narrow gold Zippo lighter, another benefaction, and pulled the flame to my face. I puffed twice on the coffin nail then clicked the lighter shut and dragged hard on the smoke.
“Let her go,” I said finally, blowing smoke as I spoke.
“Gavin-” the detective started.
“No. Just tell the Lieutenant to let-”
“Gavin, he can’t.”
I stopped speaking. I was rigid and I felt my pale Irish face flushing red with anger.
“He can’t,” she said again. “Gavin, she killed a Fed. Some DOJ lawyer. We’ve got her now, but the FBI is on its way down there. They’re going to take her. We can’t do anything here.”
I shook my head trying hard not to shake my whole body.
“No. No she didn’t do that. Come on Megan,” I was shouting now, standing up and leaning across the table, my palms flat on the surface. “You fucking know she didn’t do that.”
Detective Hinde put on a wincing smile. She nodded understandingly.
“Maybe. Probably. You’re probably right, but it doesn’t matter. They found her at the scene Gavin. They found her there naked. There’s no way we can let her go. There’s nothing we can do.”
There was a moment of tense quiet. My breath was heavy and hot across the expanse between us. I felt myself loosing control, something that couldn’t happen. I sucked air between my teeth and tried to find the calm that I had spent the last thirteen years mastering. I sat back down and smoked my butt.
“And Gavin, you can’t-”
“What?”
She stopped.
“What Megan? I can’t what?”
She flinched slightly at my anger.
“I can do all the other shit you guys ask me to do!”
The detective shifted uncomfortably and straightened up into a professional posture.
“Gavin, we never-”
“Bullshit!” I screamed.
The restaurant went quiet. The music stopped and the various guests of the establishment started to silently get up from their seats and retreat out the front door one by one.
“Don’t tell me it’s not you,” I said. “Do you think I differentiate? Do you think I care whos fucking office those little packages come from. Ask yourself if you think I see any difference between you and her.”
I said the word with a venom that even scared myself.
“You go down there. You go down there and you let her go. You fucking do it. Fucking do it right now!”
Megan looked at the floor. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen and glossy. She stood up silently and, after a pitying sigh, walked towards the door. At the step to the main dining room she stopped. She paused while she gathered her confidence then she turned.
“I’m sorry Gavin. We can’t help her, and if you get into it with the feds, well, we won’t be able to help you either.”
That was it. I roared and lifted the table in front of me then smashed it back down to the ground. Debris crashed to the floor and a cloud of ash filled the space between us. Detective Hinde turned and walked across the room and out the door making it squeal and slam shut behind her.
So I was sitting at my table in the club. It was a dark place, old and smelling of must and decayed leather, like the basement of a library. It was underground, literally speaking. It sat under an abandoned storefront on the Southside of Chicago.
The inside was large. Larger than the building it sat under. There was a formal host stand that occupied a wide platform at the entrance. A step down was the dining room full of small two person tables that sat low to the ground with deep armchairs at opposing ends. Each table had a small oil and wick candle that provided just enough light to shadow the face of whomever was sitting across from you.
There was a bar, long and worn. The blonde boards on it’s surface were chipped and stained and the leather rail was oily and tearing in places exposing yellowing foam padding. The glassware was foggy and mismatched and the liquor was in unbranded bottles bought at a drugstore or supermarket.
My table was in the back. A booth built into the far corner and separated from the rest of the establishment in a manner that one would certainly not call subtle. From my seat I could see the whole place; the door, the several patrons talking in hushed tones across their glowing glasses of cheap booze. I could see the bar and the bartender, lazily polishing glasses like the brass rails of the Titanic. I could see the curvy redhead Amelia playing at the worn out upright piano next to the kitchen doors.
I sat and I smoked and I drank. It’s what I did almost every night. Almost. I was refilling my cigarette case when the door to the club swung open. The woman who stepped in wore a confidence that was foreign there. Most people who came to the club did so to avoid being seen. They would walk in hunched over, scarves and glasses and hats. Big coats wrapped around them in the sweltering summer months. They were closed and they were quiet.
She was not. She strode in with purpose, her back straight and her chin up. She was tall and fit. She wore a casual white cotton button down shirt and a narrow black skirt that ended just below her knees. She was in stockings, nude, and black paten leather heels which, actually, was important.
The woman was Detective Megan Hinde of the Chicago Police, and the heels were a message. Not to me mind you. They were a message to the others in the room. The were telling the patrons not to worry, she was off duty. She would never have been in heels is she was working.
Detective Hinde was, you might say, my handler. That’s probably not quite right, but it’s close enough. She delivered my instructions and sometimes my gratuity. She was the only person outside the club I was allowed to have any contact with, which probably requires some explanation, but that will come later.
She wasn’t my friend, that’s important to point out. Detective Hinde and I were not friendly. She was simply the one that couriered the messages between the other woman and myself. That said, she never visited me there. She never came to the club. We would meet in alleys or parking garages. She was a big fan of the loading docks at McCormick place, especially in the winter months. To come to the club, to where I lived, that would be too close. There would be a chance she could be seen, identified, connected to me. They were too careful for that. To come to the club to see me was unprecedented and it made me nervous.
She crossed the room in wide strides, heels clicking on the ancient walnut floors. She was making eye contact from the moment she occupied the room and her face wore a strange combination of anger and fear.
When she reached my booth she stopped and seemed to freeze. Not posing exactly, not for effect, but rather like she was trying to decide what to do next. She stood for a moment, the two of us eyeing each other in an uncomfortable silence. I nodded at the chair across from me and after the merest of hesitations she took a seat.
“Megan,” I said.
She gave a sad smile by way of response.
I let out a long sigh and took a sip of bourbon from a short glass on the table. It was good stuff, Redemption. Not the swill they pour the other guests. I have my own stash here, and Lauren, the bartender, always makes sure my glass is full.
“Well, you’re not dressed for business,” I say posed as a question.
She stared at me, scanning my features and expression. She was trying to read me. She was figuring out how to say what she needed to say. The action didn’t set me at ease.
“It’s-” she started, but cut herself off.
“It’s what?” I asked.
“Well Gavin,” she paused. “It’s Weather,” she spat out like the words were poison.
I didn’t say anything. I don’t think my expression changed. I knew the name of course. It crossed my mind a hundred times a day despite my best efforts. Hearing it though, hearing it come out of her mouth, it made my blood simmer. I felt my insides fill up like a pressure cooker and had to fight the urge to make a movement that would alarm the detective.
“It’s about Weather how?” I asked finally with slow and measured speech.
Detective Hinde broke eye contact and looked down at the table. She shifted in her seat and tried to look back at me, tried to regain the confidence and authority that she showed up with, but she couldn’t hold my gaze and ended up just staring at my hands.
“She’s been arrested,” she said.
“For what?” I said without breathing.
She looked me in the eyes.
“Murder.”
I exhaled, quietly, through my nose. I sat back in my seat then pulled back up to the table. I grabbed the flat silver cigarette case and pulled out a long black paper cigarette. I used to smoke Camels, cheap and easy to get, but I wasn’t allowed to go to the store anymore so I got what I was given. In this case it was Treasurer Aluminum Blacks. They’re one of the gratuities I am granted. Gifted from an unknown patron for a job I didn’t choose to do.
I screwed it between my lips and snapped opene a narrow gold Zippo lighter, another benefaction, and pulled the flame to my face. I puffed twice on the coffin nail then clicked the lighter shut and dragged hard on the smoke.
“Let her go,” I said finally, blowing smoke as I spoke.
“Gavin-” the detective started.
“No. Just tell the Lieutenant to let-”
“Gavin, he can’t.”
I stopped speaking. I was rigid and I felt my pale Irish face flushing red with anger.
“He can’t,” she said again. “Gavin, she killed a Fed. Some DOJ lawyer. We’ve got her now, but the FBI is on its way down there. They’re going to take her. We can’t do anything here.”
I shook my head trying hard not to shake my whole body.
“No. No she didn’t do that. Come on Megan,” I was shouting now, standing up and leaning across the table, my palms flat on the surface. “You fucking know she didn’t do that.”
Detective Hinde put on a wincing smile. She nodded understandingly.
“Maybe. Probably. You’re probably right, but it doesn’t matter. They found her at the scene Gavin. They found her there naked. There’s no way we can let her go. There’s nothing we can do.”
There was a moment of tense quiet. My breath was heavy and hot across the expanse between us. I felt myself loosing control, something that couldn’t happen. I sucked air between my teeth and tried to find the calm that I had spent the last thirteen years mastering. I sat back down and smoked my butt.
“And Gavin, you can’t-”
“What?”
She stopped.
“What Megan? I can’t what?”
She flinched slightly at my anger.
“I can do all the other shit you guys ask me to do!”
The detective shifted uncomfortably and straightened up into a professional posture.
“Gavin, we never-”
“Bullshit!” I screamed.
The restaurant went quiet. The music stopped and the various guests of the establishment started to silently get up from their seats and retreat out the front door one by one.
“Don’t tell me it’s not you,” I said. “Do you think I differentiate? Do you think I care whos fucking office those little packages come from. Ask yourself if you think I see any difference between you and her.”
I said the word with a venom that even scared myself.
“You go down there. You go down there and you let her go. You fucking do it. Fucking do it right now!”
Megan looked at the floor. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen and glossy. She stood up silently and, after a pitying sigh, walked towards the door. At the step to the main dining room she stopped. She paused while she gathered her confidence then she turned.
“I’m sorry Gavin. We can’t help her, and if you get into it with the feds, well, we won’t be able to help you either.”
That was it. I roared and lifted the table in front of me then smashed it back down to the ground. Debris crashed to the floor and a cloud of ash filled the space between us. Detective Hinde turned and walked across the room and out the door making it squeal and slam shut behind her.
For thirteen years I had worked on two things; staying calm and forgetting Weather Rose. The latter was a fools errand. I knew it. I could never forget a person who changed my life so completely. The goal was never supposed to be success oriented, not consciously anyway. It was about the effort. Trying to put her out of my mind was the important part. Loosening her grip on my heart, on my mind, on my actions.
The former though, staying calm, that was a real goal. That was important. I recognize that my anger played too big a role in my life. It was probably always there, but the point at which I know it came to control me was my parent’s divorce. Death number one.
My parents split up when I was seven years old and to call it traumatic would be like calling the ice caps melting away to nothing a bummer. It broke me. It broke me for trust and for faith and for love. It let the anger out, and when it got out it consumed me and I became its vessel. From that point on my anger was my compass and rage was my true north. Ironically it was Weather that helped me keep all that in check. She was my anchor that stopped the anger from capsizing me on the brutal sea.
Of course the double irony was that it was my anger, my rage, my unchecked furry that took her away from me and set me adrift. Lost at sea, drowning in my own failures, it became up to me to find a way to right the ship and calm the riptide of my emotions. It took me eighteen months in prison to find that calm and eleven and a half years to finally feel I had mastered it and tamed the monster inside myself.
Now it was loose again.
It was a dark and angry ride from the club to the nineteenth precinct where I assumed they were holding Weather. It wasn’t a completely random assumption. The nineteenth was Megan’s precinct, that’s where her desk was, and she had said we have her, not they have her. I could have been wrong, but in my experience when she said we, she wasn’t talking about the police.
It was around 9:00 PM when I made the hard right off of Marquette onto Lake Shore Drive. I’d been doing seventy on the side streets and out of concern for sheer physics let the mint condition 1974 Firebird that had been donated to me drop to fifty-five before making the turn. Once on the straight-away of LSD, however, I pressed my foot to the floor and was doing ninety miles an hour before I made it off the Jackson Park peninsula. My rage was running the show now and I knew that that was never good.
Part of me was still crying out to let it go, to calm down and regain control of myself, but my emotional core was impenetrable to logic now. It didn’t want to level out. It didn’t want to think critically. What it wanted was to kill every single person that had made my life into that nightmare that I lived in everyday.
That was a lie too though. If I listened to the reasonable voices in my head I knew that revenge wasn’t my goal. I wasn’t really mad at the people who held my greasy marionette strings, not anymore than I was yesterday at least, or even an hour ago. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I never wanted to hurt anyone. Not really. All I really wanted, all I had ever wanted was to save Weather.
That was what it all boiled down to. The only thing that had ever really mattered was her. She was my impetus, my reason for being. If I had it all to do over again, every moment of the last decade and a half; if I could take it all back and change that one night, I knew I wouldn’t. I knew that, no matter what, any time Weather was concerned, I would do whatever had to be done, and that would always lead back to where I was at that moment. Cresting a hundred miles an hour around deadman’s turn on Lake Shore Drive heading for what certainly was going to be the end of my life. Again.
The former though, staying calm, that was a real goal. That was important. I recognize that my anger played too big a role in my life. It was probably always there, but the point at which I know it came to control me was my parent’s divorce. Death number one.
My parents split up when I was seven years old and to call it traumatic would be like calling the ice caps melting away to nothing a bummer. It broke me. It broke me for trust and for faith and for love. It let the anger out, and when it got out it consumed me and I became its vessel. From that point on my anger was my compass and rage was my true north. Ironically it was Weather that helped me keep all that in check. She was my anchor that stopped the anger from capsizing me on the brutal sea.
Of course the double irony was that it was my anger, my rage, my unchecked furry that took her away from me and set me adrift. Lost at sea, drowning in my own failures, it became up to me to find a way to right the ship and calm the riptide of my emotions. It took me eighteen months in prison to find that calm and eleven and a half years to finally feel I had mastered it and tamed the monster inside myself.
Now it was loose again.
It was a dark and angry ride from the club to the nineteenth precinct where I assumed they were holding Weather. It wasn’t a completely random assumption. The nineteenth was Megan’s precinct, that’s where her desk was, and she had said we have her, not they have her. I could have been wrong, but in my experience when she said we, she wasn’t talking about the police.
It was around 9:00 PM when I made the hard right off of Marquette onto Lake Shore Drive. I’d been doing seventy on the side streets and out of concern for sheer physics let the mint condition 1974 Firebird that had been donated to me drop to fifty-five before making the turn. Once on the straight-away of LSD, however, I pressed my foot to the floor and was doing ninety miles an hour before I made it off the Jackson Park peninsula. My rage was running the show now and I knew that that was never good.
Part of me was still crying out to let it go, to calm down and regain control of myself, but my emotional core was impenetrable to logic now. It didn’t want to level out. It didn’t want to think critically. What it wanted was to kill every single person that had made my life into that nightmare that I lived in everyday.
That was a lie too though. If I listened to the reasonable voices in my head I knew that revenge wasn’t my goal. I wasn’t really mad at the people who held my greasy marionette strings, not anymore than I was yesterday at least, or even an hour ago. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I never wanted to hurt anyone. Not really. All I really wanted, all I had ever wanted was to save Weather.
That was what it all boiled down to. The only thing that had ever really mattered was her. She was my impetus, my reason for being. If I had it all to do over again, every moment of the last decade and a half; if I could take it all back and change that one night, I knew I wouldn’t. I knew that, no matter what, any time Weather was concerned, I would do whatever had to be done, and that would always lead back to where I was at that moment. Cresting a hundred miles an hour around deadman’s turn on Lake Shore Drive heading for what certainly was going to be the end of my life. Again.
Chapter Three
It was brisk I remember. Chicago has cold winters, but I don’t remember it being frigid, just brisk. We held hands and walked across the quad at the University of Chicago. It was chilly enough that we could see our breath in the dim yellow light of the street lamps. It hovered around us, whisping past our faces and trailing behind like the thin tail of a comet. Weather, as usual, was over dressed and under bundled for the winter climate of the city, but it was charming, and probably intentional. She was giving me the opportunity to be chivalrous. I took it and offered her my coat.
It was New Years Eve and we were on our way to a party at Snell-Hitchcock. It was the end of my first semester at college. Being away from home was a relief. Life after my parents split had been chaotic and emotionally exhausting. I was glad to be on my own, taking control of my life and leaving the baggage of my broken childhood behind.
It had been a smooth four and a half months. My grades were good. Not top of my class, but perfectly respectable. My professors, well mostly P.A.s really; at a big university you don’t get much real face time with the actual prof, seemed to like and respect me. I had friends. Not many, I wasn’t a very social person and more than one or two people in a room at a time made me anxious.
Weather was a year younger than me, but infinately smarter. She was the kind of person who could become an expert on any topic in about three hours. She was with me that night as my date, but also to celebrate her early admittance. She was top her her senior class. She’d actually had the credits to graduate at the end of her junior year, but she was a creative type and had stayed on to participate in her senior year musical. Now, having graduated Plainfield South high school a semester early was headed to U of C to start classes after the winter break.
It was a reunion of sorts. We had dated on and off, but mostly on, throughout high school, and if honesty is to be employed, we had actually been together since pre-school. Our Moms were friends so we had been forcibly attached at the hip since toddlerhood.
When I graduated the previous spring we knew that it was foolish to try and maintain a romantic relationship. Well, she knew it. I argued against the breakup. I felt that panic start to build up in my chest and the anger working it’s way through the back of my neck and into my shoulders. Weather was simply calm and rational. She pulled me back from the fulcrum of my emotional lever and made me see things her way. She always did.
We decided to break up amicably and, if we were both single in the winter when she finished up, we could get back together as adults. We could have a real relationship. I knew that wouldn’t be a problem for me, but even though I knew she wouldn’t come to school with a boyfriend for the same reasons that we were breaking up, it still made me nervous.
So there we were, two childhood sweethearts reconnecting in maturity and walking hand in hand to a party in a Gothic downtown building, unencumbered by curfews or parental supervision. We didn’t have to hide affection publicly or keep the door open when we were alone in a room. Finally, we were free to be ourselves and be together. It was the most romantic feeling I’d ever experienced.
The party was a huge affair, taking up the entire Snell Hall portion of the combined buildings and attracting attendees from all over campus even though it was officially a residents only event. We went in though a side door that had been propped open for the occasion by the some of the residents so that non house members could sneak in without going through the front door where IDs were checked.
The building was beautiful. It felt the way college is supposed to feel. The white limestone tiles that covered the outside peeked through dense vines of ivy. The window panes were green with oxidation and the windows fogged ever so slightly at the edges. Inside, the walls were paneled wood and intimidating stair cases that wound up the four floors of dorm rooms. The combined houses only held about a hundred and ten students, give or take, and of that Snell was somewhere in the area of fifty, but that night the place was packed. There had to be four hundred students shouting and dancing and drinking and playing. It was chaos riding the thin end of a wedge teetering toward bedlam.
Weather and I pushed our way slowly through the swarms of partiers, down the hall to the Tea Room where the heart of the party was located. I could feel my anxiety starting to build from the noise and the bodies pressing against me from every direction. Then I felt a squeeze. The gentle grip of Weather’s hand around mine, calming me and focusing my energy and attention on her.
In the Tea Room Weather let go of my hand and looked around.
“Introduce me,” she said eagerly. “I want to meet people.”
I darted my head around looking for anyone familiar. I didn’t go to parties much and the faces in the room may as well have been pictures on milk cartons. I knew nobody there.
“I don’t know any of these people,” I said leaning into her ear to be heard over the cacophony of the party.
Weather smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
“We should do something about that,” she said. “Come on, introduce me.”
She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me over to a corner where a small group of girls was chatting with light, but serious faces. Weather walked right up to them and cleared her throat for their attention. It worked and they all looked at us with curious expectation. There was a moment of silence, then Weather jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.
“Oh, um, ladies,” I said in an awkward attempt to be charming. “I’d like you to meet Ms. Weather Rose. She is my beautiful and brilliant girlfriend who will be joining us as an English major here at this prestigious institution of learning.”
The group of girls stared at me blankly with slack jaws and thousand yard stares. Weather grimaced.
“Sorry for my boyfriend,” she said meekly. “He’s an engineering student.”
There was a mild chuckle from the group and one of the girls put out her hand for Weather to shake.
“Welcome Weather,” she said, “to our prestigious institution.”
Weather smiled.
“We were just talking about our favorite instances of the Chekhov’s Gun principal.” Another of the girls said. “Any thoughts?”
“Oh, we’re not really gun people,” I said.
The group of girls burst out laughing. Weather was laughing too. I had no idea what the joke was, but I felt foolish and that magma of anger started churning in my stomach again.
Weather put her hand on my back and rubbed it in small slow circles. She stretched up on her tip toes and kissed me on the side of my forehead.
“Why don’t you go find us some drinks sweetheart,” she whispered.
I looked at her for a moment, unsure of what I should do.
“It’s okay Gavin, I’ll be fine and you look like you could use a beer.”
I shrugged.
“I guess. I guess I’ll be right back then.”
She smiled at me so sweetly then. She smiled at me and took my hands in hers and said, “Thanks hun, love you.”
It was the first time. The first time she said that. It was the first time anyone other than my parents had said that they loved me, and she said it so casually. Not a big thing. She just said it. She didn’t even wait for me to return it, she just turned back to the girls she’d just met and was giggling and talking and having a great time. She was at a party and she was at ease and fitting in. I had known it before, but at that moment it really hit me how much I loved her.
The bar wasn’t in the Tea Room. The party, while overflowing with uninvited guests that were being intentionally overlooked, was still a sanctioned University event for minors, and as such, did not have alcohol available officially. There were however, numerous collections of beer and liquor arranged in bar-like setups in the various dorm rooms throughout the building. I made my way out of the Tea Room and started strolling down the hall to find an open door with just such a setup, but without a long line.
I was approaching the end of the hall when I saw Stacy. Stacy DeBruin was my ex, sort of. She was a girl I had met the first week of school, during orientation. She was of average height, slim, fit, and well designed. She was a looker, but not overly impressive when compared to the copious number of other slim, fit, and well designed undergrads that roamed the campus. The one thing she did have that made her stand out from the crowd was a head of long glorious red hair. When you added that to the picture she became a vixen.
I had been smitten with her from the moment I’d met her, and much to my surprise, she had been smitten too. We had known each other exactly four hours when we fell into bed together. In retrospect, that should have been a warning sign, but I didn’t notice because, well, the sex. It was wild and unbridled sex. For the first time ever I didn’t have to be quiet or subtle. We had sex like I’d seen on the internet. It was hot and loud and rambunctious and long. When it was over I felt like overcooked pasta and fell sound asleep in her arms.
We did that a lot, had sex. It had to have been a dozen times or more, each one better than the last. We didn’t talk much, didn’t go into the stories of our lives or dreams for the future. We met up after classes, ate crappy delivery pizza, drank cheap beer and fucked like rabbits until we passed out. It was everything I had ever hoped for in a college girlfriend.
I did feel guilty though. I felt like I was cheating on Weather even though we had agreed it was okay to see other people. Still, this didn’t feel like seeing someone else. This was more. There was a craving that I had never experienced before. A need for her, for her body. It wasn’t the same as Weather, it wasn’t love. It was desire on a primal level.
She, however, saw it differently.
Two weeks into classes, when the workload had built up to the point that we hadn’t had time to hook up for several days, I took a friendly ribbing from a friend in my CAD class.
“So you’re giving up already,” he said.
I remember being confused.
“Giving up on what?”
“School. I hear you’re dropping out.”
I let out a burst of laughter.
“What? No way, it hasn’t even gotten hard yet.”
“Mmm hmm,” he mocked. “That’s not what she said.”
I stopped clicking at the computer and turned to face him.
“What are you talking about?” I asked feeling that uneasy lump starting to form in my throat.
My classmate glanced at me with a smirk, then, when he saw my expression let his own draw serious.
“Dude, Stacy is telling everyone that you’re dropping out.”
My throat closed up and there was ringing in my ears.
“What?” I nearly shouted, then caught myself. “What?” whispering now. “What the hell are you talking about?”
My friend, I can’t remember his name now to save my life, he straightened up in his chair and turned to face me directly.
“Dude, your girlfriend is under the impression that you are leaving school to go work for her dad.”
It felt like someone pumped a pitcher of ice water into my blood and the familiar sensation of a panic attack started to swell in me.
“Wha- Her what? Her dad? Why would- Dude, I don’t even know what her dad does. Why would I do that? Why would she say that?”
He shrugged.
“How the fuck would I know,” he said. “I’m just saying that she says you two are in love and that you are going to go sell cars or some shit so that you guys can get married.”
I jumped out of his chair.
“The fuck!” I yelled.
“Mr. Gayle,” the instructor boomed. “Is there a problem?”
I looked up at him, my eyes wide and glossy.
“Well?” the prof said again.
I shook. I looked down at my friend who had turned back to his computer and was clicking away at his drawing of a rustic farmhouse being converted to a huge single family home. I looked back at the professor and then grabbed my backpack and stormed out of the classroom.
The ensuing fight had been long loud and very public. I screamed at her and called her awful names, something I regretted later. I didn’t like to be that guy, but I couldn’t believe what she had done. She cried and apologized, but ultimately stuck to her story. She said it was what was best for us. She said we were meant to be and that I just couldn’t see it yet.
I spent the rest of the semester avoiding her and dodging her phone calls. I talked to the administration, tried filing a sexual harassment case, but no one took an eighteen year old boy seriously when he said that the hot girl wouldn’t leave him alone, and unless I could show that I was concerned for my physical safety, there was nothing they could do.
I got creative at finding ways to stay away from her and avoiding interaction. My reputation had suffered a bit from the gossip about the fight, but I was able to set it strait with the people that mattered.
Now I was trapped shoulder to shoulder in a crowded hall, unable to make evasive maneuvers and closing in on her for the first time in months. I tried to start moving away, pretending I hadn’t seen her, but she was already calling my name.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I felt her hand grab me by his shirt.
I turned and looked her in the eyes.
“Gavin,” she said in a sweet sing song voice. “God, I’ve missed you. Glad you got my message.”
I frowned.
“Stacy,” I said as coldly as I could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t read your messages.”
She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“But you’re here,” she said. “You must have gotten my invitation.”
I had forgotten that Stacy lived in Snell. Her tiny twin bed on the third floor had been my introduction to the famous building. I winced and shook my head.
“No Stacy. Daren invited me. I’m here with my girlfriend. I did not come to see you. In fact, if I had known you were going to be here I probably wouldn’t have come.”
A big smile spread across her face.
“Oh you’re so cute,” she said. “Gavin, I live here, of course you knew I’d be here. I like the routine though. Playing hard to get? Very sexy. Girlfriend’s a nice touch too.”
She mocked looking around the crowd.
“I don’t see anyone, should we be naughty on the sly?”
She put her hand on my shoulder and I jerked away.
“Oh my fucking God, you’re a lunatic,” I shouted.
People turned and looked.
“Gavin, you’re making a scene,” she whispered.
I backed up and turned away. People watching the two of us spread apart giving me room to move. I walked back down the hall, almost running and the crowd seemed to give up on the show and went back to their previous revelries. Stacy disappeared into the mass of strangers.
Back in the Tea Room I maneuvered back to the corner where the group of girls had been, but now there was just a couple of guys sipping Miller Lite and talking about the Cub’s shitty season. I spun around, frantically looking for Weather. She was nowhere to be seen, but I did spy one of the girls that had been in the group and made my way over to where she was sitting.
It was the girl that had shook Weather’s hand. She was on a plush red sofa sipping a glass of some pink wine and laughing with a new group of girls, all dressed like they were going to be peeling their dresses off on stage later that night.
“Excuse me,” I blurted out half wheezing and interrupting the girl mid sentence.
She looked up annoyed then recognized me and smiled.
“Hey,” she said. “Engineering dude right?”
I frowned, rolled my eyes then nodded.
“Yeah, where’s-”
“Yeah,” she interupted. “Your girlfriend was looking for you.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Weather right? She was wondering what was taking you so long. She went off to find you, did she? Find you?”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said in an irritated voice. “No she didn’t. Do you know where she went?”
The girl shrugged.
“I dunno,” she said already turning back to her friends. “Some guy was taking her to find you.”
I straightened up. My antisocial personality was starting to fight back against my best efforts to be friendly. If Weather were here she would touch my neck or stroke my arm. She’d do what she does and I’d be able to turn the faucet of my frustration off, but she wasn’t here.
“Some guy? Who? Who was it?”
She looked back, now fully annoyed.
“If I knew who it was I wouldn’t have said some guy.”
I stared back at her, incredulous.
“Do you know which way they went?”
She looked back at him again, then just went on with her conversation.
I sighed. The last thing I wanted was to go back out into the hall and risk running into Stacy again, but I also wasn’t going to let my seventeen year old girlfriend wander around alone in a drunken college crowd, or worse yet, not alone with some drunken college guy. I pressed my way through the swelling crowd and made it out into the corridor.
I’m not an especially tall man. I come in at a totally respectable (in my opinion) five foot ten inches tall. Still, in a crowd, I’m looking at the backs of peoples’ heads. On my tip toes I could roughly see over the swarm of people packed wall to wall and to my best judgement I didn’t think Weather was one of them.
Around the corner from the Tea Room was the main stairway and I fought my way though the kids like a salmon until I made it there. The stairs were less congested and I was able to move up them without a hassle.
I continued his search up and down the hall of the second floor and then the third, growing more and more panicked with each room. The fourth floor was suites and the party hadn’t moved that far. There were a few people scattered about, but it was quiet and it was easy to see Weather wasn’t there. I retraced my steps back down the floors checking each room again and asking anyone I knew, which wasn’t that many, if they had seen Weather.
It was my fourth pass down the hallway of the second floor when he noticed a door was closed. Every other dorm room in the building had been open. Partiers moving in and out, bar service in some, movies or football games in others. Everything was open but this room.
I pushed through the people between myself and the door and pressed my ear against it. It was quiet. I listened hard, leaning into the door and holding my breath.
Nothing.
I started to move away and I heard… something. I couldn’t identify it exactly, but it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I leaned in again and listened and there it was again. Soft. Like a whimper.
I turned the door knob gently and cracked the door to peak in. Inside was a man, a kid really, shirtless, kneeling on the small bed facing away from me. He was big, athlete big, with defined muscles up and down his well tanned back. Between his legs were a girls legs, bare and squirming. It didn’t look right.
I swung the door open and nearly knocked over another boy. He was standing just inside the door pointing a DSLR with a red light blinking on the front at the two on the bed. He had on a greasy smile that sent a shiver down my spine. The door creaked as it met the end of it’s hinges and banged against the wall. Both men turned to look at me.
“Close the door asshole, the boy on the bed said, and as he moved I caught sight of whom he was kneeling over. It was Weather.
She was almost naked. Her legs bare, her shirt torn open and one breast hanging out of her bra. Her face was swollen and red and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She was gasping, trying to scream, trying to talk trying to get away.
The boy on top of her turned back to her and pressed his hand hard over her mouth.
“Shut up bitch!” he said, then added, “get the fuck out of here dickwad, we’re trying to make a movie.”
I didn’t even feel my rage take over. I didn’t notice the flush of heat as my face went red and I can’t pinpoint exactly when my vision got blurry. I did hear the blood rush over my ears silencing the sounds of the party behind me, but I didn’t feel anything, I just moved.
With one step I put my fist though the nose of the boy holding the camera. The cartilage crumbled under my knuckles like tissue paper and I felt the small top bone of my pinky finger snap. Blood sprayed across the wall and on my face and shirt. The camera crashed to the floor and the boy collapsed in a heap.
I stepped over him and wrapped both of my hands around the neck of the boy on the bed. I jerked hard and the kid tumbled off the mattress and onto the ground, his neck still between my fingers. Pain from my broken pinky was shooting up my hand and arm and causing brief flashes of clarity, but they were quickly extinguished by the fog of rage that had taken over my body.
I dragged the stunned student across the small room and slammed his head into the wall. He fell onto the tile floor and I dropped down over him in the same position he had just been over Weather.
Then the beating began.
I didn’t really see the boy’s face. To this day I couldn’t tell you what he looked like. I didn’t really see anything, I just started hitting him. Over and over I pushed my fists into that kid’s ever reddening face. I felt another finger break, then another, but I didn’t stop.
The boy didn’t move, he didn’t struggle, not once. He didn’t scream or cry for help. The truth is he was probably unconscious before he even knew what was going on. By the time I had him on the floor he just laid there as I made him into hamburger meat.
I don’t know how long I beat him. It could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, eventually I felt hands on my shoulders, then tugging and then pulling. Finally thick arms like tree trunks wrapped around my chest and pulled me off the boy. They dropped me on the floor on the other side of the room and I finally, uncontrollably, started to cry.
It was New Years Eve and we were on our way to a party at Snell-Hitchcock. It was the end of my first semester at college. Being away from home was a relief. Life after my parents split had been chaotic and emotionally exhausting. I was glad to be on my own, taking control of my life and leaving the baggage of my broken childhood behind.
It had been a smooth four and a half months. My grades were good. Not top of my class, but perfectly respectable. My professors, well mostly P.A.s really; at a big university you don’t get much real face time with the actual prof, seemed to like and respect me. I had friends. Not many, I wasn’t a very social person and more than one or two people in a room at a time made me anxious.
Weather was a year younger than me, but infinately smarter. She was the kind of person who could become an expert on any topic in about three hours. She was with me that night as my date, but also to celebrate her early admittance. She was top her her senior class. She’d actually had the credits to graduate at the end of her junior year, but she was a creative type and had stayed on to participate in her senior year musical. Now, having graduated Plainfield South high school a semester early was headed to U of C to start classes after the winter break.
It was a reunion of sorts. We had dated on and off, but mostly on, throughout high school, and if honesty is to be employed, we had actually been together since pre-school. Our Moms were friends so we had been forcibly attached at the hip since toddlerhood.
When I graduated the previous spring we knew that it was foolish to try and maintain a romantic relationship. Well, she knew it. I argued against the breakup. I felt that panic start to build up in my chest and the anger working it’s way through the back of my neck and into my shoulders. Weather was simply calm and rational. She pulled me back from the fulcrum of my emotional lever and made me see things her way. She always did.
We decided to break up amicably and, if we were both single in the winter when she finished up, we could get back together as adults. We could have a real relationship. I knew that wouldn’t be a problem for me, but even though I knew she wouldn’t come to school with a boyfriend for the same reasons that we were breaking up, it still made me nervous.
So there we were, two childhood sweethearts reconnecting in maturity and walking hand in hand to a party in a Gothic downtown building, unencumbered by curfews or parental supervision. We didn’t have to hide affection publicly or keep the door open when we were alone in a room. Finally, we were free to be ourselves and be together. It was the most romantic feeling I’d ever experienced.
The party was a huge affair, taking up the entire Snell Hall portion of the combined buildings and attracting attendees from all over campus even though it was officially a residents only event. We went in though a side door that had been propped open for the occasion by the some of the residents so that non house members could sneak in without going through the front door where IDs were checked.
The building was beautiful. It felt the way college is supposed to feel. The white limestone tiles that covered the outside peeked through dense vines of ivy. The window panes were green with oxidation and the windows fogged ever so slightly at the edges. Inside, the walls were paneled wood and intimidating stair cases that wound up the four floors of dorm rooms. The combined houses only held about a hundred and ten students, give or take, and of that Snell was somewhere in the area of fifty, but that night the place was packed. There had to be four hundred students shouting and dancing and drinking and playing. It was chaos riding the thin end of a wedge teetering toward bedlam.
Weather and I pushed our way slowly through the swarms of partiers, down the hall to the Tea Room where the heart of the party was located. I could feel my anxiety starting to build from the noise and the bodies pressing against me from every direction. Then I felt a squeeze. The gentle grip of Weather’s hand around mine, calming me and focusing my energy and attention on her.
In the Tea Room Weather let go of my hand and looked around.
“Introduce me,” she said eagerly. “I want to meet people.”
I darted my head around looking for anyone familiar. I didn’t go to parties much and the faces in the room may as well have been pictures on milk cartons. I knew nobody there.
“I don’t know any of these people,” I said leaning into her ear to be heard over the cacophony of the party.
Weather smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
“We should do something about that,” she said. “Come on, introduce me.”
She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me over to a corner where a small group of girls was chatting with light, but serious faces. Weather walked right up to them and cleared her throat for their attention. It worked and they all looked at us with curious expectation. There was a moment of silence, then Weather jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.
“Oh, um, ladies,” I said in an awkward attempt to be charming. “I’d like you to meet Ms. Weather Rose. She is my beautiful and brilliant girlfriend who will be joining us as an English major here at this prestigious institution of learning.”
The group of girls stared at me blankly with slack jaws and thousand yard stares. Weather grimaced.
“Sorry for my boyfriend,” she said meekly. “He’s an engineering student.”
There was a mild chuckle from the group and one of the girls put out her hand for Weather to shake.
“Welcome Weather,” she said, “to our prestigious institution.”
Weather smiled.
“We were just talking about our favorite instances of the Chekhov’s Gun principal.” Another of the girls said. “Any thoughts?”
“Oh, we’re not really gun people,” I said.
The group of girls burst out laughing. Weather was laughing too. I had no idea what the joke was, but I felt foolish and that magma of anger started churning in my stomach again.
Weather put her hand on my back and rubbed it in small slow circles. She stretched up on her tip toes and kissed me on the side of my forehead.
“Why don’t you go find us some drinks sweetheart,” she whispered.
I looked at her for a moment, unsure of what I should do.
“It’s okay Gavin, I’ll be fine and you look like you could use a beer.”
I shrugged.
“I guess. I guess I’ll be right back then.”
She smiled at me so sweetly then. She smiled at me and took my hands in hers and said, “Thanks hun, love you.”
It was the first time. The first time she said that. It was the first time anyone other than my parents had said that they loved me, and she said it so casually. Not a big thing. She just said it. She didn’t even wait for me to return it, she just turned back to the girls she’d just met and was giggling and talking and having a great time. She was at a party and she was at ease and fitting in. I had known it before, but at that moment it really hit me how much I loved her.
The bar wasn’t in the Tea Room. The party, while overflowing with uninvited guests that were being intentionally overlooked, was still a sanctioned University event for minors, and as such, did not have alcohol available officially. There were however, numerous collections of beer and liquor arranged in bar-like setups in the various dorm rooms throughout the building. I made my way out of the Tea Room and started strolling down the hall to find an open door with just such a setup, but without a long line.
I was approaching the end of the hall when I saw Stacy. Stacy DeBruin was my ex, sort of. She was a girl I had met the first week of school, during orientation. She was of average height, slim, fit, and well designed. She was a looker, but not overly impressive when compared to the copious number of other slim, fit, and well designed undergrads that roamed the campus. The one thing she did have that made her stand out from the crowd was a head of long glorious red hair. When you added that to the picture she became a vixen.
I had been smitten with her from the moment I’d met her, and much to my surprise, she had been smitten too. We had known each other exactly four hours when we fell into bed together. In retrospect, that should have been a warning sign, but I didn’t notice because, well, the sex. It was wild and unbridled sex. For the first time ever I didn’t have to be quiet or subtle. We had sex like I’d seen on the internet. It was hot and loud and rambunctious and long. When it was over I felt like overcooked pasta and fell sound asleep in her arms.
We did that a lot, had sex. It had to have been a dozen times or more, each one better than the last. We didn’t talk much, didn’t go into the stories of our lives or dreams for the future. We met up after classes, ate crappy delivery pizza, drank cheap beer and fucked like rabbits until we passed out. It was everything I had ever hoped for in a college girlfriend.
I did feel guilty though. I felt like I was cheating on Weather even though we had agreed it was okay to see other people. Still, this didn’t feel like seeing someone else. This was more. There was a craving that I had never experienced before. A need for her, for her body. It wasn’t the same as Weather, it wasn’t love. It was desire on a primal level.
She, however, saw it differently.
Two weeks into classes, when the workload had built up to the point that we hadn’t had time to hook up for several days, I took a friendly ribbing from a friend in my CAD class.
“So you’re giving up already,” he said.
I remember being confused.
“Giving up on what?”
“School. I hear you’re dropping out.”
I let out a burst of laughter.
“What? No way, it hasn’t even gotten hard yet.”
“Mmm hmm,” he mocked. “That’s not what she said.”
I stopped clicking at the computer and turned to face him.
“What are you talking about?” I asked feeling that uneasy lump starting to form in my throat.
My classmate glanced at me with a smirk, then, when he saw my expression let his own draw serious.
“Dude, Stacy is telling everyone that you’re dropping out.”
My throat closed up and there was ringing in my ears.
“What?” I nearly shouted, then caught myself. “What?” whispering now. “What the hell are you talking about?”
My friend, I can’t remember his name now to save my life, he straightened up in his chair and turned to face me directly.
“Dude, your girlfriend is under the impression that you are leaving school to go work for her dad.”
It felt like someone pumped a pitcher of ice water into my blood and the familiar sensation of a panic attack started to swell in me.
“Wha- Her what? Her dad? Why would- Dude, I don’t even know what her dad does. Why would I do that? Why would she say that?”
He shrugged.
“How the fuck would I know,” he said. “I’m just saying that she says you two are in love and that you are going to go sell cars or some shit so that you guys can get married.”
I jumped out of his chair.
“The fuck!” I yelled.
“Mr. Gayle,” the instructor boomed. “Is there a problem?”
I looked up at him, my eyes wide and glossy.
“Well?” the prof said again.
I shook. I looked down at my friend who had turned back to his computer and was clicking away at his drawing of a rustic farmhouse being converted to a huge single family home. I looked back at the professor and then grabbed my backpack and stormed out of the classroom.
The ensuing fight had been long loud and very public. I screamed at her and called her awful names, something I regretted later. I didn’t like to be that guy, but I couldn’t believe what she had done. She cried and apologized, but ultimately stuck to her story. She said it was what was best for us. She said we were meant to be and that I just couldn’t see it yet.
I spent the rest of the semester avoiding her and dodging her phone calls. I talked to the administration, tried filing a sexual harassment case, but no one took an eighteen year old boy seriously when he said that the hot girl wouldn’t leave him alone, and unless I could show that I was concerned for my physical safety, there was nothing they could do.
I got creative at finding ways to stay away from her and avoiding interaction. My reputation had suffered a bit from the gossip about the fight, but I was able to set it strait with the people that mattered.
Now I was trapped shoulder to shoulder in a crowded hall, unable to make evasive maneuvers and closing in on her for the first time in months. I tried to start moving away, pretending I hadn’t seen her, but she was already calling my name.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I felt her hand grab me by his shirt.
I turned and looked her in the eyes.
“Gavin,” she said in a sweet sing song voice. “God, I’ve missed you. Glad you got my message.”
I frowned.
“Stacy,” I said as coldly as I could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t read your messages.”
She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“But you’re here,” she said. “You must have gotten my invitation.”
I had forgotten that Stacy lived in Snell. Her tiny twin bed on the third floor had been my introduction to the famous building. I winced and shook my head.
“No Stacy. Daren invited me. I’m here with my girlfriend. I did not come to see you. In fact, if I had known you were going to be here I probably wouldn’t have come.”
A big smile spread across her face.
“Oh you’re so cute,” she said. “Gavin, I live here, of course you knew I’d be here. I like the routine though. Playing hard to get? Very sexy. Girlfriend’s a nice touch too.”
She mocked looking around the crowd.
“I don’t see anyone, should we be naughty on the sly?”
She put her hand on my shoulder and I jerked away.
“Oh my fucking God, you’re a lunatic,” I shouted.
People turned and looked.
“Gavin, you’re making a scene,” she whispered.
I backed up and turned away. People watching the two of us spread apart giving me room to move. I walked back down the hall, almost running and the crowd seemed to give up on the show and went back to their previous revelries. Stacy disappeared into the mass of strangers.
Back in the Tea Room I maneuvered back to the corner where the group of girls had been, but now there was just a couple of guys sipping Miller Lite and talking about the Cub’s shitty season. I spun around, frantically looking for Weather. She was nowhere to be seen, but I did spy one of the girls that had been in the group and made my way over to where she was sitting.
It was the girl that had shook Weather’s hand. She was on a plush red sofa sipping a glass of some pink wine and laughing with a new group of girls, all dressed like they were going to be peeling their dresses off on stage later that night.
“Excuse me,” I blurted out half wheezing and interrupting the girl mid sentence.
She looked up annoyed then recognized me and smiled.
“Hey,” she said. “Engineering dude right?”
I frowned, rolled my eyes then nodded.
“Yeah, where’s-”
“Yeah,” she interupted. “Your girlfriend was looking for you.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Weather right? She was wondering what was taking you so long. She went off to find you, did she? Find you?”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said in an irritated voice. “No she didn’t. Do you know where she went?”
The girl shrugged.
“I dunno,” she said already turning back to her friends. “Some guy was taking her to find you.”
I straightened up. My antisocial personality was starting to fight back against my best efforts to be friendly. If Weather were here she would touch my neck or stroke my arm. She’d do what she does and I’d be able to turn the faucet of my frustration off, but she wasn’t here.
“Some guy? Who? Who was it?”
She looked back, now fully annoyed.
“If I knew who it was I wouldn’t have said some guy.”
I stared back at her, incredulous.
“Do you know which way they went?”
She looked back at him again, then just went on with her conversation.
I sighed. The last thing I wanted was to go back out into the hall and risk running into Stacy again, but I also wasn’t going to let my seventeen year old girlfriend wander around alone in a drunken college crowd, or worse yet, not alone with some drunken college guy. I pressed my way through the swelling crowd and made it out into the corridor.
I’m not an especially tall man. I come in at a totally respectable (in my opinion) five foot ten inches tall. Still, in a crowd, I’m looking at the backs of peoples’ heads. On my tip toes I could roughly see over the swarm of people packed wall to wall and to my best judgement I didn’t think Weather was one of them.
Around the corner from the Tea Room was the main stairway and I fought my way though the kids like a salmon until I made it there. The stairs were less congested and I was able to move up them without a hassle.
I continued his search up and down the hall of the second floor and then the third, growing more and more panicked with each room. The fourth floor was suites and the party hadn’t moved that far. There were a few people scattered about, but it was quiet and it was easy to see Weather wasn’t there. I retraced my steps back down the floors checking each room again and asking anyone I knew, which wasn’t that many, if they had seen Weather.
It was my fourth pass down the hallway of the second floor when he noticed a door was closed. Every other dorm room in the building had been open. Partiers moving in and out, bar service in some, movies or football games in others. Everything was open but this room.
I pushed through the people between myself and the door and pressed my ear against it. It was quiet. I listened hard, leaning into the door and holding my breath.
Nothing.
I started to move away and I heard… something. I couldn’t identify it exactly, but it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I leaned in again and listened and there it was again. Soft. Like a whimper.
I turned the door knob gently and cracked the door to peak in. Inside was a man, a kid really, shirtless, kneeling on the small bed facing away from me. He was big, athlete big, with defined muscles up and down his well tanned back. Between his legs were a girls legs, bare and squirming. It didn’t look right.
I swung the door open and nearly knocked over another boy. He was standing just inside the door pointing a DSLR with a red light blinking on the front at the two on the bed. He had on a greasy smile that sent a shiver down my spine. The door creaked as it met the end of it’s hinges and banged against the wall. Both men turned to look at me.
“Close the door asshole, the boy on the bed said, and as he moved I caught sight of whom he was kneeling over. It was Weather.
She was almost naked. Her legs bare, her shirt torn open and one breast hanging out of her bra. Her face was swollen and red and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She was gasping, trying to scream, trying to talk trying to get away.
The boy on top of her turned back to her and pressed his hand hard over her mouth.
“Shut up bitch!” he said, then added, “get the fuck out of here dickwad, we’re trying to make a movie.”
I didn’t even feel my rage take over. I didn’t notice the flush of heat as my face went red and I can’t pinpoint exactly when my vision got blurry. I did hear the blood rush over my ears silencing the sounds of the party behind me, but I didn’t feel anything, I just moved.
With one step I put my fist though the nose of the boy holding the camera. The cartilage crumbled under my knuckles like tissue paper and I felt the small top bone of my pinky finger snap. Blood sprayed across the wall and on my face and shirt. The camera crashed to the floor and the boy collapsed in a heap.
I stepped over him and wrapped both of my hands around the neck of the boy on the bed. I jerked hard and the kid tumbled off the mattress and onto the ground, his neck still between my fingers. Pain from my broken pinky was shooting up my hand and arm and causing brief flashes of clarity, but they were quickly extinguished by the fog of rage that had taken over my body.
I dragged the stunned student across the small room and slammed his head into the wall. He fell onto the tile floor and I dropped down over him in the same position he had just been over Weather.
Then the beating began.
I didn’t really see the boy’s face. To this day I couldn’t tell you what he looked like. I didn’t really see anything, I just started hitting him. Over and over I pushed my fists into that kid’s ever reddening face. I felt another finger break, then another, but I didn’t stop.
The boy didn’t move, he didn’t struggle, not once. He didn’t scream or cry for help. The truth is he was probably unconscious before he even knew what was going on. By the time I had him on the floor he just laid there as I made him into hamburger meat.
I don’t know how long I beat him. It could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, eventually I felt hands on my shoulders, then tugging and then pulling. Finally thick arms like tree trunks wrapped around my chest and pulled me off the boy. They dropped me on the floor on the other side of the room and I finally, uncontrollably, started to cry.
Chapter Four
When I got to Townhall, which was what the neighborhood locals called the nineteenth precinct headquarters, I was in a bad place. I’d spent the drive going over every moment, every choice, every action I’d made since the night at the party thirteen years earlier. I’d been remembering and reliving all the pain, the fear, and the atrocities that had been forced upon me to the point that when I pulled the Firebird up to the curb at 851 W. Addison I was in a full on panic attack.
It’s a frightening feeling, losing control of control. I had a thin, almost electrostatic layer of sweat hovering above my skin across my whole body. My heart was pounding and my vision was blurry. I was breathing in short, shallow gasps and my body was shaking. I needed Weather. I needed her to bring me down from this, to calm me and reassure me and make me feel like myself again. Unfortunately Weather couldn’t help me, not now. Now, Weather needed my help and that’s why I was there.
My relationship with the police was… complicated. I stayed out of their way, and they, mostly, stayed out of mine. My car had special plates that let any officers that might want to top off their quota know that I was the wrong target. I could park anywhere I wanted and I didn’t really have to worry about speed limits. For the most part Chicago police were instructed, indirectly, to leave me alone; under any circumstances.
That said, I had a few restrictions of my own that prevented me from ending up in a situation where the police would have to implement that kind of self restraint. I generally wasn’t allowed out of the club. I mean, there wasn’t anyone stopping me, it was just, well; it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, I didn’t have anything to do outside anyway. I didn’t have any money, no credit cards, no identification. I couldn’t go outside city limits, I couldn’t get a job or join an organization. Hell, I couldn’t get so much as a library card inside the city.
It was a delicate balance that we had managed to maintain, for the most part, for the past eight years. Still, there I was, parked outside of a police station about to violate, in every way, the spirit of our unofficial understanding. Detective Hinde had told me to leave it. She had told me to stay away, but she had to know that was beyond my abilities as a man; as a person.
I killed the engine and popped the glove box. I removed the gun from my coat pocket, a beat up Ruger .357 Magnum that I had come by the hard way. I tossed it in the glove box and slammed the compartment shut. If I was going to try walking unannounced and escorted into a police station I certainly wasn’t going to do it armed.
I tossed my black overcoat and hat into the backseat and grabbed a tie, something with a little color but not ostentatious. I needed to blend. I kept a stash of various lanyards and conference ID cards in the trunk and I slipped one over my neck. Then I grabbed a metal clipboard, and some random papers. I mussed up my hair a bit and with eyes up and shoulders back I walked through the front doors of the 19th district of the Chicago PD.
A clipboard and a confident wave will get you into any room in the world. Maybe. I don’t know, maybe not. I imagine the White House is a little stricter than that, but back then in Chicago it always seemed to work. The Desk Sergeant glanced up at me, but didn’t even flinch when I waved at him and let myself through the double doors to the left of the main entrance.
It was a spur of the moment choice. The object is to look like you know where you’re going. There’s no time to look over your options and try and make the best decision. The two doors standing to my left when I walked in were the first I noticed. They also were the closest to me which meant less time under the scrutiny of the Gatekeeper.
Once inside I leaned back against the closed doors and nearly threw up. I gulped air and tried to regain my calm. I took a white linen handkerchief from my back pocket and patted my forehead and the corners of my mouth. I had gotten past the first hurdle, but the problem was, I had no idea what to do next.
I was in a short, brightly lit corridor. Plain cinder block walls painted an unsettling off white made more eerie by the pulsing florescent lights hanging from the low ceiling overhead. A dozen steel doors, half on one side, half on the other; painted the same seizure inducing cream color as the rest of the space, dotted the length of the hall way. The floor was a speckled tile like you might find in a middle school cafeteria. At the end of the passage was another set of double doors. The same puke white with the same spherical stainless steel doorknobs.
I took a deep breath, straightened myself up and began to move forward. Each door had a small twelve inch window set just above eye level. I peered in each as I moved my way down the aisle. They were all the same, fitted with a small table and two chairs. Hanging above each table was a small black microphone. Interrogation rooms, or Trick Rooms as the boys in blue used to call them. They were all empty, but it let me know I was headed in the right direction.
At the end of the hall I grabbed the knob of the right hand door and tried to turn it, it was locked. I tried the left hand door as well, but it was the same. I stood silently looking at the sturdy barricade. I gave a quick glance behind myself at the doors I had come through. I reached again for the door on the right, and as I grabbed the handle it pulled out of my hand and the door swung away from me.
Instinctively I dropped my eyes to the floor and stepped aside. A pair of women’s legs in stockings and black heels passed me and quickly I caught the door. I pivoted and started to step through it, but the sharp click of the footsteps stopped. I tried hard to fight the urge to turn, but my curiosity got the best of me and I turned and looked up. My eyes met the stare of Detective Megan Hinde.
I looked down at the door in my hand. The nausea was back and the sweats. I tried to slam the door between us, but the heavy slab slammed against her hand.
I let go of the door and stepped back. A quick spin on the balls of my feet and I was walking down the hall at a speed that bordered on running. I got about ten steps in, when I heard the detective shout in a raspy whisper.
"Gavin!"
I froze,
"Gavin!"
The voice was familiar.
"Oh my God, what the fuck are you doing here? Are you fucking crazy?"
Slowly I turned turned to face her.
"Look, when I came to see you I specifically told you to stay the fuck away. I mean, holy shit, how did you even get past the front desk? You can't be here. I mean, you know you can’t be here. They have Weather in interrogation. Fuck, Maureen is here and the feds are on their way! Seriously Gavin, you fucked up, you need to leave.”
My heart was pounding and there were boyant, perky beads of sweat hanging off my forehead and the end of my nose. My heart was beating like a late seventies drum solo, but I stared at her blankly, trying to decided between the dual urges of fight or flight. Hinde was panicking, breathing hard and glancing around her like a paranoid.
“Gavin, she killed Grayson. When they found her she was damn near naked, covered in his blood, and the gun was right next to her. I'm supposed to be on my way to the prints lab now to see if they got a match, but you know they will.”
I gave a shallow shake of my head.
“No,” I said.
Hinde rolled her eyes.
“Fuck,” she said. “I don't know if she killed him or not, but it looks that way and with it looking like it does, well, I don't have to tell you. This is Chicago Gavin, and with it looking like it does, they just aren't going to look much fucking further."
"I have to see her."
"Abso-fucking-lutely not. She isn't alone. No, no you have to leave. Seriously, fucking go!"
"I will, right after I see her."
"Fuck man! Fuck, aren't you listening to me? You can't walk around a police station. You can't do that ever, but seriously, no way you can be here while fucking Weather Rose is being questioned for the murder of member of the FBI!"
I turned and started walking down the hall.
"Okay, okay, okay! Fuck, just fucking stop for a second."
I stopped.
"Okay." she sighed. "Okay, come on, come with me. You can see her, but you can't talk to her. She's in the big interrogation room being questioned. If there’s no on in the witness room I'll let you see her through the glass."
"Thank you."
"Yeah, thank me. Fuck, if anyone sees us together, I don't fucking know you. You get sixty seconds and then I want you out of here. You got yourself in, so you can find your way out. I'll drop you off, then I'm heading to prints to get the report on the gun. When I get back you better be gone."
"I'll be gone."
"Yeah, you fucking better be."
It’s a frightening feeling, losing control of control. I had a thin, almost electrostatic layer of sweat hovering above my skin across my whole body. My heart was pounding and my vision was blurry. I was breathing in short, shallow gasps and my body was shaking. I needed Weather. I needed her to bring me down from this, to calm me and reassure me and make me feel like myself again. Unfortunately Weather couldn’t help me, not now. Now, Weather needed my help and that’s why I was there.
My relationship with the police was… complicated. I stayed out of their way, and they, mostly, stayed out of mine. My car had special plates that let any officers that might want to top off their quota know that I was the wrong target. I could park anywhere I wanted and I didn’t really have to worry about speed limits. For the most part Chicago police were instructed, indirectly, to leave me alone; under any circumstances.
That said, I had a few restrictions of my own that prevented me from ending up in a situation where the police would have to implement that kind of self restraint. I generally wasn’t allowed out of the club. I mean, there wasn’t anyone stopping me, it was just, well; it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, I didn’t have anything to do outside anyway. I didn’t have any money, no credit cards, no identification. I couldn’t go outside city limits, I couldn’t get a job or join an organization. Hell, I couldn’t get so much as a library card inside the city.
It was a delicate balance that we had managed to maintain, for the most part, for the past eight years. Still, there I was, parked outside of a police station about to violate, in every way, the spirit of our unofficial understanding. Detective Hinde had told me to leave it. She had told me to stay away, but she had to know that was beyond my abilities as a man; as a person.
I killed the engine and popped the glove box. I removed the gun from my coat pocket, a beat up Ruger .357 Magnum that I had come by the hard way. I tossed it in the glove box and slammed the compartment shut. If I was going to try walking unannounced and escorted into a police station I certainly wasn’t going to do it armed.
I tossed my black overcoat and hat into the backseat and grabbed a tie, something with a little color but not ostentatious. I needed to blend. I kept a stash of various lanyards and conference ID cards in the trunk and I slipped one over my neck. Then I grabbed a metal clipboard, and some random papers. I mussed up my hair a bit and with eyes up and shoulders back I walked through the front doors of the 19th district of the Chicago PD.
A clipboard and a confident wave will get you into any room in the world. Maybe. I don’t know, maybe not. I imagine the White House is a little stricter than that, but back then in Chicago it always seemed to work. The Desk Sergeant glanced up at me, but didn’t even flinch when I waved at him and let myself through the double doors to the left of the main entrance.
It was a spur of the moment choice. The object is to look like you know where you’re going. There’s no time to look over your options and try and make the best decision. The two doors standing to my left when I walked in were the first I noticed. They also were the closest to me which meant less time under the scrutiny of the Gatekeeper.
Once inside I leaned back against the closed doors and nearly threw up. I gulped air and tried to regain my calm. I took a white linen handkerchief from my back pocket and patted my forehead and the corners of my mouth. I had gotten past the first hurdle, but the problem was, I had no idea what to do next.
I was in a short, brightly lit corridor. Plain cinder block walls painted an unsettling off white made more eerie by the pulsing florescent lights hanging from the low ceiling overhead. A dozen steel doors, half on one side, half on the other; painted the same seizure inducing cream color as the rest of the space, dotted the length of the hall way. The floor was a speckled tile like you might find in a middle school cafeteria. At the end of the passage was another set of double doors. The same puke white with the same spherical stainless steel doorknobs.
I took a deep breath, straightened myself up and began to move forward. Each door had a small twelve inch window set just above eye level. I peered in each as I moved my way down the aisle. They were all the same, fitted with a small table and two chairs. Hanging above each table was a small black microphone. Interrogation rooms, or Trick Rooms as the boys in blue used to call them. They were all empty, but it let me know I was headed in the right direction.
At the end of the hall I grabbed the knob of the right hand door and tried to turn it, it was locked. I tried the left hand door as well, but it was the same. I stood silently looking at the sturdy barricade. I gave a quick glance behind myself at the doors I had come through. I reached again for the door on the right, and as I grabbed the handle it pulled out of my hand and the door swung away from me.
Instinctively I dropped my eyes to the floor and stepped aside. A pair of women’s legs in stockings and black heels passed me and quickly I caught the door. I pivoted and started to step through it, but the sharp click of the footsteps stopped. I tried hard to fight the urge to turn, but my curiosity got the best of me and I turned and looked up. My eyes met the stare of Detective Megan Hinde.
I looked down at the door in my hand. The nausea was back and the sweats. I tried to slam the door between us, but the heavy slab slammed against her hand.
I let go of the door and stepped back. A quick spin on the balls of my feet and I was walking down the hall at a speed that bordered on running. I got about ten steps in, when I heard the detective shout in a raspy whisper.
"Gavin!"
I froze,
"Gavin!"
The voice was familiar.
"Oh my God, what the fuck are you doing here? Are you fucking crazy?"
Slowly I turned turned to face her.
"Look, when I came to see you I specifically told you to stay the fuck away. I mean, holy shit, how did you even get past the front desk? You can't be here. I mean, you know you can’t be here. They have Weather in interrogation. Fuck, Maureen is here and the feds are on their way! Seriously Gavin, you fucked up, you need to leave.”
My heart was pounding and there were boyant, perky beads of sweat hanging off my forehead and the end of my nose. My heart was beating like a late seventies drum solo, but I stared at her blankly, trying to decided between the dual urges of fight or flight. Hinde was panicking, breathing hard and glancing around her like a paranoid.
“Gavin, she killed Grayson. When they found her she was damn near naked, covered in his blood, and the gun was right next to her. I'm supposed to be on my way to the prints lab now to see if they got a match, but you know they will.”
I gave a shallow shake of my head.
“No,” I said.
Hinde rolled her eyes.
“Fuck,” she said. “I don't know if she killed him or not, but it looks that way and with it looking like it does, well, I don't have to tell you. This is Chicago Gavin, and with it looking like it does, they just aren't going to look much fucking further."
"I have to see her."
"Abso-fucking-lutely not. She isn't alone. No, no you have to leave. Seriously, fucking go!"
"I will, right after I see her."
"Fuck man! Fuck, aren't you listening to me? You can't walk around a police station. You can't do that ever, but seriously, no way you can be here while fucking Weather Rose is being questioned for the murder of member of the FBI!"
I turned and started walking down the hall.
"Okay, okay, okay! Fuck, just fucking stop for a second."
I stopped.
"Okay." she sighed. "Okay, come on, come with me. You can see her, but you can't talk to her. She's in the big interrogation room being questioned. If there’s no on in the witness room I'll let you see her through the glass."
"Thank you."
"Yeah, thank me. Fuck, if anyone sees us together, I don't fucking know you. You get sixty seconds and then I want you out of here. You got yourself in, so you can find your way out. I'll drop you off, then I'm heading to prints to get the report on the gun. When I get back you better be gone."
"I'll be gone."
"Yeah, you fucking better be."
It wasn’t that different from what you’ve seen on TV. The room was narrow and dark. It had one solid pane of dark glass along one wall and nowhere to sit. On the other side of the glass was Weather. She looked bad. Across from her was State’s Attorney Maureen Reprobi, another woman I hadn’t seen in almost as long. I wasn’t sure which of these women made me more uneasy.
They sat across from one another at a small metal table in the center of another off putting gray room. They knew each other from the trial. SA Reprobi had been the prosecutor that drew my case after the incident at the party. She wasn’t the State’s Attorney at that time, but she was certainly an up-and-commer. It was my conviction that had made her career and given her the name recognition to run for the top chair.
She was quiet, mindful, watching Weather’s face, her eyes, the small lines just forming at the corners of her mouth. She was patient, precise and methodical. It’s what made her so good at her job. She didn’t rush into things. She always made sure that she was in control.
For her part Weather was unflinching. She sat peacefully in her orange jumpsuit, staring cockeyed at the mirror that covered the whole wall to her right. It was eerie having her stare at me. Seeing her eyes, pointing like daggers at me. Of course she couldn’t see me, but it felt like she could. It made my skin crawl. She, however, seemed a million miles away and Maureen looked as though she actually felt bad for her.
“How have you been Weather?” she said.
Weather turned her head and looked coldly at Maureen. She tried to lean back in her chair, but the chain between her wrists caught on the loop in the table and tugged on her shoulders, so she leaned forward and rested on her elbows. She gave a long questioning look at the State’s Attorney, then a brief judgmental glance at the detectives, let out an exasperated sigh and began picking at her fingernails silently.
Maureen grimaced. She was trying to be nice, one of her patented tactics. I remember her speaking to me so kindly when I sat in a room much like that one. Offering me small favors, asking if I needed anything. Taking her time, making me feel comfortable. Making me trust her. She didn’t have that kind of time now. There was no time to play games. The FBI would be there any minute and Maureen clearly needed answers before they took control of the situation.
"Okay then, down to business. Miss Rose, how did you know Mr. Grayson?"
Weather dug a small piece of dirt out from under one of her french manicured nails and wiped it on the table in front of her.
"Miss Rose, were you having a sexual relationship with Mr. Grayson?"
This seemed like an interesting question to Weather. She gave a slight head cock and then, after a moment of consideration she began working on the next nail.
"Weather, have you spoken to Gavin recently?"
This seemed to wake her up. Of course she hadn’t spoken to me lately, and Maureen knew that. Maureen made sure no one spoke to me. She kept me bottled up like a fish in an aquarium, but the mention of my name seemed to unnerve Weather. She stopped her nail cleaning and looked up at the State’s Attorney. She gave a startled frown. She sipped the air, paused and gave a long exhale before returning to grooming her nails. The detective with the notebook scribbled something in shorthand then put the pencil back in his mouth.
"Miss Rose," the other detective said, "did you kill Special Council Brandon Grayson?"
Weather wiped another piece of debris on the table.
Maureen sighed. She was getting agitated because every second that passed brought her control of the situation closer to its end. She rubbed her temples with her finger tips for a moment then folded her hands on the table.
"Maybe it would be easier if we start with what we already know. Ya know, get the ball rolling."
Weather stopped picking and looked up again. She shrugged and tried again to lean back in her chair but ultimately found herself mimicking Maureen’s position.
"It’s been almost thirteen years since I saw you last, right? It was during the trial, or I guess just before. You never testified. You never even showed up in court.”
Maureen opened a file folder and flipped through some pages that I have to assume were mostly blank. It was a prop. A tool to make Weather nervous.
“You’ve been pretty quiet since then,” she said. “You don't have an arrest record. No parking tickets. No speeding tickets. Your driver's license says you don't live in the city, and you don't appear to be married."
Weather gave a 'maybe, maybe not' shrug and tilted her head in a way that said 'anything else'. Maureen stared at her silently for a moment, clearly trying to assert some sort of authority. Weather gave her due attention, then shrugged again and went back to picking her nails. She was starting to get a small pile of nail gunk building up on the table in front of her. That was good news for her because the CPD should have had her nails cleaned out into a small plastic evidence bag during her fingerprinting. The fact that she had so much material still under there meant that either they had forgotten that part, or they did a piss poor job at it.
"The rest of what we know at the moment doesn't look good for you. You were found in the victim's apartment, half naked, covered in his blood. A gun, that we're pretty sure is going to end up being the murder weapon was laying right next to you with bloody fingerprints all over it. I have an officer heading over to the prints lab right now to confirm that those prints are yours, but that's pretty much a formality isn't it? They are your prints, aren't they Miss Rose?"
Weather must have been doing her best to hide any emotion, but when Maureen asked that, I could see the flush in her cheeks. I felt my face flush too. I knew two things for sure at that point. The first was that Weather didn’t kill that lawyer and the second was that it would indeed be her prints on the gun.
They would find her skin under the victims fingernails, and there would be gunpowder residue on her hands. Not because she was guilty, but because that was the only thing that could happen. Aristotle said that hubris must be punished. I had hubris. My life for the previous eight years had been the very definition of the word, but I couldn’t be punished. There was nothing left to take away from me. The only way for God to hurt me was to hurt her. This is what I deserved.
Maureen sat quietly for a moment. Her time was up and she knew it. At that point even if she did get Weather talking it would have be too late. I don’t think she was even sure whether or not she was guilty, but it didn’t matter. The FBI would be there, they would take her into custody.
Maureen had reason to be worried too. Weather didn’t know anything about me. She’d been told the same story as everyone else. As far as she was concerned I was dead, but there’s always the what if. Weather was important to me and Maureen knew that better than anyone else. What if I’d found a way. What if I had reached her over the past eight years. If Weather knew anything at all she would certainly tell the Feds. She was on the hook for murdering a DOJ lawyer and that was a death penalty case straight up. She’d go to the chair unless she made a deal and there was no deal juicer than to give them me.
They sat across from one another at a small metal table in the center of another off putting gray room. They knew each other from the trial. SA Reprobi had been the prosecutor that drew my case after the incident at the party. She wasn’t the State’s Attorney at that time, but she was certainly an up-and-commer. It was my conviction that had made her career and given her the name recognition to run for the top chair.
She was quiet, mindful, watching Weather’s face, her eyes, the small lines just forming at the corners of her mouth. She was patient, precise and methodical. It’s what made her so good at her job. She didn’t rush into things. She always made sure that she was in control.
For her part Weather was unflinching. She sat peacefully in her orange jumpsuit, staring cockeyed at the mirror that covered the whole wall to her right. It was eerie having her stare at me. Seeing her eyes, pointing like daggers at me. Of course she couldn’t see me, but it felt like she could. It made my skin crawl. She, however, seemed a million miles away and Maureen looked as though she actually felt bad for her.
“How have you been Weather?” she said.
Weather turned her head and looked coldly at Maureen. She tried to lean back in her chair, but the chain between her wrists caught on the loop in the table and tugged on her shoulders, so she leaned forward and rested on her elbows. She gave a long questioning look at the State’s Attorney, then a brief judgmental glance at the detectives, let out an exasperated sigh and began picking at her fingernails silently.
Maureen grimaced. She was trying to be nice, one of her patented tactics. I remember her speaking to me so kindly when I sat in a room much like that one. Offering me small favors, asking if I needed anything. Taking her time, making me feel comfortable. Making me trust her. She didn’t have that kind of time now. There was no time to play games. The FBI would be there any minute and Maureen clearly needed answers before they took control of the situation.
"Okay then, down to business. Miss Rose, how did you know Mr. Grayson?"
Weather dug a small piece of dirt out from under one of her french manicured nails and wiped it on the table in front of her.
"Miss Rose, were you having a sexual relationship with Mr. Grayson?"
This seemed like an interesting question to Weather. She gave a slight head cock and then, after a moment of consideration she began working on the next nail.
"Weather, have you spoken to Gavin recently?"
This seemed to wake her up. Of course she hadn’t spoken to me lately, and Maureen knew that. Maureen made sure no one spoke to me. She kept me bottled up like a fish in an aquarium, but the mention of my name seemed to unnerve Weather. She stopped her nail cleaning and looked up at the State’s Attorney. She gave a startled frown. She sipped the air, paused and gave a long exhale before returning to grooming her nails. The detective with the notebook scribbled something in shorthand then put the pencil back in his mouth.
"Miss Rose," the other detective said, "did you kill Special Council Brandon Grayson?"
Weather wiped another piece of debris on the table.
Maureen sighed. She was getting agitated because every second that passed brought her control of the situation closer to its end. She rubbed her temples with her finger tips for a moment then folded her hands on the table.
"Maybe it would be easier if we start with what we already know. Ya know, get the ball rolling."
Weather stopped picking and looked up again. She shrugged and tried again to lean back in her chair but ultimately found herself mimicking Maureen’s position.
"It’s been almost thirteen years since I saw you last, right? It was during the trial, or I guess just before. You never testified. You never even showed up in court.”
Maureen opened a file folder and flipped through some pages that I have to assume were mostly blank. It was a prop. A tool to make Weather nervous.
“You’ve been pretty quiet since then,” she said. “You don't have an arrest record. No parking tickets. No speeding tickets. Your driver's license says you don't live in the city, and you don't appear to be married."
Weather gave a 'maybe, maybe not' shrug and tilted her head in a way that said 'anything else'. Maureen stared at her silently for a moment, clearly trying to assert some sort of authority. Weather gave her due attention, then shrugged again and went back to picking her nails. She was starting to get a small pile of nail gunk building up on the table in front of her. That was good news for her because the CPD should have had her nails cleaned out into a small plastic evidence bag during her fingerprinting. The fact that she had so much material still under there meant that either they had forgotten that part, or they did a piss poor job at it.
"The rest of what we know at the moment doesn't look good for you. You were found in the victim's apartment, half naked, covered in his blood. A gun, that we're pretty sure is going to end up being the murder weapon was laying right next to you with bloody fingerprints all over it. I have an officer heading over to the prints lab right now to confirm that those prints are yours, but that's pretty much a formality isn't it? They are your prints, aren't they Miss Rose?"
Weather must have been doing her best to hide any emotion, but when Maureen asked that, I could see the flush in her cheeks. I felt my face flush too. I knew two things for sure at that point. The first was that Weather didn’t kill that lawyer and the second was that it would indeed be her prints on the gun.
They would find her skin under the victims fingernails, and there would be gunpowder residue on her hands. Not because she was guilty, but because that was the only thing that could happen. Aristotle said that hubris must be punished. I had hubris. My life for the previous eight years had been the very definition of the word, but I couldn’t be punished. There was nothing left to take away from me. The only way for God to hurt me was to hurt her. This is what I deserved.
Maureen sat quietly for a moment. Her time was up and she knew it. At that point even if she did get Weather talking it would have be too late. I don’t think she was even sure whether or not she was guilty, but it didn’t matter. The FBI would be there, they would take her into custody.
Maureen had reason to be worried too. Weather didn’t know anything about me. She’d been told the same story as everyone else. As far as she was concerned I was dead, but there’s always the what if. Weather was important to me and Maureen knew that better than anyone else. What if I’d found a way. What if I had reached her over the past eight years. If Weather knew anything at all she would certainly tell the Feds. She was on the hook for murdering a DOJ lawyer and that was a death penalty case straight up. She’d go to the chair unless she made a deal and there was no deal juicer than to give them me.
Chapter Five
I stood silently in the ornate room on South California Avenue. I couldn’t move. I felt like a block of cold stone. A statue being looked upon by twelve strangers as if I was some offensive piece of modern art. Every muscle in my body was locked in place, held rigid by fear and yet, still, I was transported. The journey out of one life and into the next was accomplished through eighteen simple words.
“We the jury, do hereby find the defendant, Gavin Gayle, guilty of the crime of second degree murder.”
Just under twenty words and I was transported to a world where I was a monster. I was a criminal, a killer. I was a murderer and there was nothing I could do to ever find my way back. That was death number two.
Weather was a wreck after the party. She was dealing with the trauma of watching me beat a man to death with my bear hands, but more importantly the trauma of being brutally assaulted, beaten, and violated. She was a shell of herself. Pale freckled skin stretched over an empty bubble of rotten air. She was empty.
She came to see me once, in county lockup, the day after the indecent. She looked okay, no bruises or scars, but she was broken. She didn’t say anything the whole time she sat across from me. She never even lifted the receiver off of the slab of four inch thick glass that separated us. She just cried. She just stared at her lap and cried and cried. That was the last time I saw her.
She never testified in court. She never even gave a statement to the police. They told me that when she tried to talk about it she just broke down. Eventually a state appointed psychologist exempted her from having to speak to anyone and that was the last of Weather’s involvement.
After that it was just the police, the prosecutor, and the history of my short temper versus my own word. They never found the boy who had been recording the attack and without any evidence backing up my side of the story the public defender that was representing me had nothing compelling to present during my defense.
The prosecutor, A.S.A. Maureen Reprobi, on the other hand had a very compelling story. A story about a beautiful young woman who had been abandoned by her on again off again boyfriend at a college party; had met another boy, gone off to make out in the privacy of his dorm room and been discovered. The boyfriend, with a history of rage issues had lost it, slapped the girl around and beaten the boy to death. The jury ate it up.
I was taken out of the courtroom in handcuffs, put in a school bus that had been painted white and labeled Cook County Department of Corrections, and driven thirty two miles south to Statesville Prison in Lockport IL. They locked me up less than ten miles from the house I grew up in and I never saw my family again.
My mother was humiliated. She wrote me one letter right after I was sentenced. She told me that my actions were an embarrasment to the family and that she had enough other people to worry about without a son in prison. I’m sure they weren’t her words. My stepfather had a way of making his feelings hers. Still, she never came to see me and never wrote again.
My father died. It literally killed him. He walked out of the courtroom, down the steps of the building, raised a hand to hail a cab and had a stroke. He was dead before I was on the bus. I don’t know if he even had a funeral, no one ever told me.
I was alone. I never minded being alone, being away from other people. I was naturally introverted and crowds made me anxious, but this was a different kind of alone. I was surrounded by people most of the time, but there was no one left in the world who cared who I was or if I was even alive. It’s a kind of loneliness that takes over, devours you, and becomes who you are. If no one knows you exist, do you?
Prison wasn’t so bad. That’s a lie. Prison was the worst place imaginable. That’s not hyperbole, I’ve had a lot of time to imagine things and nothing I’ve been able to come up with is worse than prison. The thing is, a person can get used to anything, and I got used to prison.
The structure helped, but that that didn’t come right away. First I had to find that structure. Of course prison is all about structure, but there was a surprising amount of variability in it. The first thing you have to do is find a job and my job for the first two weeks was getting my ass kicked on a regular basis. I was a regular in the infirmary.
It was an irony, I felt, that I was in that place to begin with for beating someone to death, and now I was getting beaten to near death, for no apparent reason, all the time. It was an irony, but a fair one. I deserved it I thought, and so I kept letting it happen.
The first time I got hit was for sitting at the wrong table. Prison is a terrible place, the worst place maybe, but the mess hall; that was the worst place inside the worst place. Nobody wanted to spend any time there. No one with two brain cells to rub together anyway. The mess was where the gangs made base. There were maybe half a dozen gangs at any one time operating inside the prison and they carved up the mess into their own little nation states.
The second day inside I grabbed my tray of food and found an empty spot at one of the tables. I took a seat and started forking food into my mouth. It wasn’t good, but it was edible. Less than a minute after sitting down there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see who it was and a fist the size of a softball collided with my right eye and split my eyebrow open.
I felt it again, rising up inside me. That anger. That rage. I felt myself swelling, filling up and ready to go. I jumped to my feet, puffed up my chest and leveled eyes with a gnarled looking man in his mid forties. I was heaving, breathing through my mouth and balling my hands into fists so tight my nails left marks in my palms.
The man looked at me with indignation.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
I stared at him, simmering. I could take him, he was old. He might have been stronger than me, maybe, but I was younger. I could move faster. I felt myself getting ready to take a swing, then I heard Weather’s voice. In my head I heard her clear as day, as if she was standing right next to me.
“Don’t.”
That’s all she seemed to say. Her soft comforting voice, almost musical.
“Don’t Gavin.”
My heart slowed down. I felt my fists uncleanch. My breathing got normal. I looked in the man’s eyes, squinted and turned away to sit back down.
The second shot hit my ear. The room rang and I went down on my knees. Then a foot in my gut and another shot in the eye and I was on the floor. More men gathered around me. They began kicking me in the face, the chest and the back. I coughed blood on the ground. Then I blacked out.
When I woke up I was in the infirmary. I had a broken rib and seventeen stitches in my face. I laid there staring at the speckled white ceiling tiles feeling lost and alone and wondering why I hadn’t fought back. But I knew why. I knew that Weather was with me, in my head telling me the kind of man I needed to be. Telling me to be better than them. She was gone from my life, but she remained in my heart and I was going to live up to her expectations. I was going to become the man I should have been before. A man in control of himself.
That’s how I lived. I never fought back. When I’d get out of the infirmary I’d go about my business and eventually, sometimes within mere hours, I’d set someone off and they would bang me up and back I’d go. I let it happen because I deserved it and because letting my rage win over my humanity was something I would never let happen again.
About a month later I got a job in the laundry facility. I had been an engineering student and they needed someone to fix the machines when they broke down as they invariably did. The Laundry didn’t just service the prison, it took care of the linen for all the local hospitals, colleges, and a few hotels. We processed over a million pounds of laundry a month and that meant lots of machines that needed to be working all the time.
The job meant that I was busy during the day and out of the way of the gangs and brutes. It also meant I had some money. I made about ninety-four cents an hour. Roughly one hundred and fifty dollars a month. In prison terms I was in the one percent. Money meant I could eat better, live more comfortably, and when necicarry, pay people not to break parts of me.
It also meant making friends. There was one guy inside that was as good with machines as me; Jeremy. We worked together rebuilding washers and dryers. We chatted about life and we watched each other’s backs. We found a safe place to eat, away from the mess, and we shared our secrets. I don’t know if you can really have friends in prison, but if you can he was mine.
Jeremy was in Statesville for DUI related vehicular manslaughter. One night his girlfriend left him, moving out of state with their four year old daughter. He got drunk on cheap beer and when he ran out he got in his car to drive to the liquor store. On the way he swerved to miss a dog that ran out into the street. His car hopped the curb and he hit a nineteen year old girl walking home from her job at a grocery store.
He never fought it. He plead guilty without a lawyer and never asked the judge for any kind of leniency. He was a good guy that made a bad choice and took the consequences without an ounce of bitterness. He knew what he did and he believed he belonged where he was. He certainly didn’t deserve what he got though.
Jeremy was murdered one year three months and eleven day into his sentence. It doesn’t matter why. In prison there really aren’t any reasons that things happen, they just happen. When he died I cried for the first time since the night of the party. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right and I just couldn’t take it anymore. The rage in me crackled like a wild fire and finally drown out Weather’s voice in my head.
I found the man who killed Jeremy in the dusty yard where we went to workout. There were free weights and welded bars for chin-ups. There was a path worn into the dry ground for running laps and a small patch of dry grass where groups sometimes gathered to play touch football. The man responsible was on his back bench pressing barbells.
He was big. Bigger than me, but that didn’t matter. He was essentially pinned down and again, I was free. I walked over to where he was pressing and picked up a twenty-five pound steel weight and with one swing smashed him in the side of the face. He dropped the bar he was holding and it fell on his throat. They didn’t even take him to the infirmary, just the morgue.
I got another twenty-five years added to my eighteen year sentence for that, but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned I was going to die in that hole. I wanted to die there. There was nothing for me on the outside and no one to miss me when I was gone.
“We the jury, do hereby find the defendant, Gavin Gayle, guilty of the crime of second degree murder.”
Just under twenty words and I was transported to a world where I was a monster. I was a criminal, a killer. I was a murderer and there was nothing I could do to ever find my way back. That was death number two.
Weather was a wreck after the party. She was dealing with the trauma of watching me beat a man to death with my bear hands, but more importantly the trauma of being brutally assaulted, beaten, and violated. She was a shell of herself. Pale freckled skin stretched over an empty bubble of rotten air. She was empty.
She came to see me once, in county lockup, the day after the indecent. She looked okay, no bruises or scars, but she was broken. She didn’t say anything the whole time she sat across from me. She never even lifted the receiver off of the slab of four inch thick glass that separated us. She just cried. She just stared at her lap and cried and cried. That was the last time I saw her.
She never testified in court. She never even gave a statement to the police. They told me that when she tried to talk about it she just broke down. Eventually a state appointed psychologist exempted her from having to speak to anyone and that was the last of Weather’s involvement.
After that it was just the police, the prosecutor, and the history of my short temper versus my own word. They never found the boy who had been recording the attack and without any evidence backing up my side of the story the public defender that was representing me had nothing compelling to present during my defense.
The prosecutor, A.S.A. Maureen Reprobi, on the other hand had a very compelling story. A story about a beautiful young woman who had been abandoned by her on again off again boyfriend at a college party; had met another boy, gone off to make out in the privacy of his dorm room and been discovered. The boyfriend, with a history of rage issues had lost it, slapped the girl around and beaten the boy to death. The jury ate it up.
I was taken out of the courtroom in handcuffs, put in a school bus that had been painted white and labeled Cook County Department of Corrections, and driven thirty two miles south to Statesville Prison in Lockport IL. They locked me up less than ten miles from the house I grew up in and I never saw my family again.
My mother was humiliated. She wrote me one letter right after I was sentenced. She told me that my actions were an embarrasment to the family and that she had enough other people to worry about without a son in prison. I’m sure they weren’t her words. My stepfather had a way of making his feelings hers. Still, she never came to see me and never wrote again.
My father died. It literally killed him. He walked out of the courtroom, down the steps of the building, raised a hand to hail a cab and had a stroke. He was dead before I was on the bus. I don’t know if he even had a funeral, no one ever told me.
I was alone. I never minded being alone, being away from other people. I was naturally introverted and crowds made me anxious, but this was a different kind of alone. I was surrounded by people most of the time, but there was no one left in the world who cared who I was or if I was even alive. It’s a kind of loneliness that takes over, devours you, and becomes who you are. If no one knows you exist, do you?
Prison wasn’t so bad. That’s a lie. Prison was the worst place imaginable. That’s not hyperbole, I’ve had a lot of time to imagine things and nothing I’ve been able to come up with is worse than prison. The thing is, a person can get used to anything, and I got used to prison.
The structure helped, but that that didn’t come right away. First I had to find that structure. Of course prison is all about structure, but there was a surprising amount of variability in it. The first thing you have to do is find a job and my job for the first two weeks was getting my ass kicked on a regular basis. I was a regular in the infirmary.
It was an irony, I felt, that I was in that place to begin with for beating someone to death, and now I was getting beaten to near death, for no apparent reason, all the time. It was an irony, but a fair one. I deserved it I thought, and so I kept letting it happen.
The first time I got hit was for sitting at the wrong table. Prison is a terrible place, the worst place maybe, but the mess hall; that was the worst place inside the worst place. Nobody wanted to spend any time there. No one with two brain cells to rub together anyway. The mess was where the gangs made base. There were maybe half a dozen gangs at any one time operating inside the prison and they carved up the mess into their own little nation states.
The second day inside I grabbed my tray of food and found an empty spot at one of the tables. I took a seat and started forking food into my mouth. It wasn’t good, but it was edible. Less than a minute after sitting down there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see who it was and a fist the size of a softball collided with my right eye and split my eyebrow open.
I felt it again, rising up inside me. That anger. That rage. I felt myself swelling, filling up and ready to go. I jumped to my feet, puffed up my chest and leveled eyes with a gnarled looking man in his mid forties. I was heaving, breathing through my mouth and balling my hands into fists so tight my nails left marks in my palms.
The man looked at me with indignation.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
I stared at him, simmering. I could take him, he was old. He might have been stronger than me, maybe, but I was younger. I could move faster. I felt myself getting ready to take a swing, then I heard Weather’s voice. In my head I heard her clear as day, as if she was standing right next to me.
“Don’t.”
That’s all she seemed to say. Her soft comforting voice, almost musical.
“Don’t Gavin.”
My heart slowed down. I felt my fists uncleanch. My breathing got normal. I looked in the man’s eyes, squinted and turned away to sit back down.
The second shot hit my ear. The room rang and I went down on my knees. Then a foot in my gut and another shot in the eye and I was on the floor. More men gathered around me. They began kicking me in the face, the chest and the back. I coughed blood on the ground. Then I blacked out.
When I woke up I was in the infirmary. I had a broken rib and seventeen stitches in my face. I laid there staring at the speckled white ceiling tiles feeling lost and alone and wondering why I hadn’t fought back. But I knew why. I knew that Weather was with me, in my head telling me the kind of man I needed to be. Telling me to be better than them. She was gone from my life, but she remained in my heart and I was going to live up to her expectations. I was going to become the man I should have been before. A man in control of himself.
That’s how I lived. I never fought back. When I’d get out of the infirmary I’d go about my business and eventually, sometimes within mere hours, I’d set someone off and they would bang me up and back I’d go. I let it happen because I deserved it and because letting my rage win over my humanity was something I would never let happen again.
About a month later I got a job in the laundry facility. I had been an engineering student and they needed someone to fix the machines when they broke down as they invariably did. The Laundry didn’t just service the prison, it took care of the linen for all the local hospitals, colleges, and a few hotels. We processed over a million pounds of laundry a month and that meant lots of machines that needed to be working all the time.
The job meant that I was busy during the day and out of the way of the gangs and brutes. It also meant I had some money. I made about ninety-four cents an hour. Roughly one hundred and fifty dollars a month. In prison terms I was in the one percent. Money meant I could eat better, live more comfortably, and when necicarry, pay people not to break parts of me.
It also meant making friends. There was one guy inside that was as good with machines as me; Jeremy. We worked together rebuilding washers and dryers. We chatted about life and we watched each other’s backs. We found a safe place to eat, away from the mess, and we shared our secrets. I don’t know if you can really have friends in prison, but if you can he was mine.
Jeremy was in Statesville for DUI related vehicular manslaughter. One night his girlfriend left him, moving out of state with their four year old daughter. He got drunk on cheap beer and when he ran out he got in his car to drive to the liquor store. On the way he swerved to miss a dog that ran out into the street. His car hopped the curb and he hit a nineteen year old girl walking home from her job at a grocery store.
He never fought it. He plead guilty without a lawyer and never asked the judge for any kind of leniency. He was a good guy that made a bad choice and took the consequences without an ounce of bitterness. He knew what he did and he believed he belonged where he was. He certainly didn’t deserve what he got though.
Jeremy was murdered one year three months and eleven day into his sentence. It doesn’t matter why. In prison there really aren’t any reasons that things happen, they just happen. When he died I cried for the first time since the night of the party. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right and I just couldn’t take it anymore. The rage in me crackled like a wild fire and finally drown out Weather’s voice in my head.
I found the man who killed Jeremy in the dusty yard where we went to workout. There were free weights and welded bars for chin-ups. There was a path worn into the dry ground for running laps and a small patch of dry grass where groups sometimes gathered to play touch football. The man responsible was on his back bench pressing barbells.
He was big. Bigger than me, but that didn’t matter. He was essentially pinned down and again, I was free. I walked over to where he was pressing and picked up a twenty-five pound steel weight and with one swing smashed him in the side of the face. He dropped the bar he was holding and it fell on his throat. They didn’t even take him to the infirmary, just the morgue.
I got another twenty-five years added to my eighteen year sentence for that, but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned I was going to die in that hole. I wanted to die there. There was nothing for me on the outside and no one to miss me when I was gone.
Chapter Six
As it turns out I did die there. Death number three came five years, one month and one day into my, then, forty-three year sentence. As I said, it’s not always clear why people in prison do what they do, and sometimes there isn’t even a why at all. On that day I had no idea why a man I didn’t know and had never met walked up to me in the middle of the mess hall and put a thin metal shiv between my ribs and left me bleeding to death on the floor.
I remember wondering why. It seemed so important at the time. As I lay there spitting blood and watching it pour out of my side and spread across the floor like spilled paint all I could think was why did he do that. It hardly mattered, but it just kept running though my head over and over like a loop. Why? Why? Why?
I was brought to the infirmary and laid on a gurney. Blood was everywhere now. It was on my face and in my hair and all over my clothes. It ran between my fingers, oily and sticky. I felt cold and the room swam around me. I remember wondering how I was still alive. How much blood do you have to lose to die?
I saw the doctor, in a prison guard uniform with a white lab coat over it. He approached me and looked me up and down. He squatted and looked in my eyes. He whispered something to me, but I couldn’t understand it. Then he picked up a syringe off the steel tray next to the gurney and gave me a shot of something. Almost immediately the room went gray and foggy and suddenly black.
When I woke up the room was different. It was larger and brighter. The bed was wider and more comfortable with sheets on it and a dense heavy blanket over me. There was a sound, familiar but out of place. I looked around and found the source; a television. I wasn’t in the infirmary anymore, this was a hospital room. I was in a civilian hospital.
You would think that that would have made me elated, but it didn’t. It made me nervous. I was never one for change to begin with, and in prison you learn pretty quickly that change is almost never good. I wasn’t in prison anymore and that scared me because I didn’t know why.
The idea of running did cross my mind. Of course it did, but it didn’t stay there long. Inside you’re always being watched even if it doesn’t seem like you are. That’s a condition that gets inside you. It makes you paranoid and you don’t just wake up and let it go. I was out of prison for the moment, but I was still under guard. No doubt about it. If I tried to run I’d get a nightstick in the scull faster than I could check my watch.
My side ached a little and I moved the blankets to see the wound. It was small. Shockingly small. Four stitches holding it closed and a little redness around the edges. How had a cut that small made so much blood? Why would a cut that small justify bringing me to a real hospital? I was feeling the tension building in my chest and shoulders.
Knock knock.
It was two quick raps on the door, and they didn’t wait for a response. The wide door swung open and a old black woman in nursing scrubs walked into the room with a smile.
“Good to see you’re up young man,” she said sweetly.
I coughed and dry swallowed.
“Yeah? Where am I?”
She laughed cheerfully.
“Why can’t you tell? You’re in The Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock building. I’m Loretta, I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to start off with an appetizer perhaps. I have raspberry Jello in a plastic cup.”
I managed a weak smile.
“What hospital is this?” I said.
“Well now, we are back to reality aren’t we then. You’re in Stroger Hospital young man, and good for you too. We see a lotta stabbin’s so you were a piece of vanilla cake.”
Stroger? Stroger hospital was in the city. It was downtown. More than thirty miles from the prison. There had to have been four dozen other hospitals between Statesville and there. Why? Why would they take me all the way to the city? It was true that Stroger had a reputation for handling stabbings and shootings. If you got shot in the city, that’s where you wanted to go. They just had so much more experience with it there.
But if my wound was so bad that they needed to get me out and to an ER why would they waste the time going all the way to the city. And if it wasn’t so bad that time was of the essence why bring me to the experts here. It was paradoxical and it sent a chill down my spine.
“So, uh, where are-”
“The detective is right outside. She’s on the phone right now, but I’ll let her know you’re up and movin’. We’ll have you outa here in no time John.”
I frowned.
“Gavin.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“What’s that?”
“My name is Gavin,” I said.
She lifted a metal clipboard from a pocket at the end of my bed.
“Gavin? Not John?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Gavin Smith?”
“No,” I said. “Gavin Gayle”
She bit her lower lip slightly and took a pen out of her breast pocket. She started scribbling.
“G-A-I-L?”
“G-A-Y-L-E,” I said.
She nodded.
“All right Gavin, I’ll let the detective know you’re awake.”
Loretta left and I let out a long sigh. Who the fuck was John? Then it hit me and I felt a cold sweat break out across my body. Smith. She had John Smith down as my name. Not as bad as John Doe, but that’s for dead people. If you living and anonymous you use John Smith. Why was I a secret?
The door opened again and a young woman in a professional looking suit and sensible shoes walked in. She didn’t have a purse, but strapped to her waist was a holstered handgun and gold five point star with an inset circle and a coat of arms. She was Chicago PD, not State.
“How ya feeling there killer?” she said by way of introduction.
I tried to sit up a bit, straighten myself out. I was in a hospital gown, which always leave you feeling a little exposed and vulnerable, on top of which, I was actually and in fact exposed and vulnerable.
“Hi,” I said with the most confused voice I could muster. “What’s-”
“No no no. You’re not talking now, I am. Got it?”
Her abruptness was startling and stopped me in my tracks.
“Okay, good. Here’s how dis works. I got no answers for you. Don’t ask me things cuz I just don’t know. I have two jobs. Get you outada the ambulance and inta da ER, and then outa here and inta da car. Beyond dat, I don’t know and I don’t wanna know. Got it?”
My head spun. What was going on here?
“Got it‽”
I nodded.
She walked over to a flat door next to the entrance to the room and opened it. She pulled out a wad of clothes and walked back to the foot of my bed and threw them at me.
“Good, now get dressed. We got places to be.”
This woman scared me. The whole situation scared me. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole except that I didn’t even chase the rabbit. It was like going to bed at night and waking up in another world.
“Chop chop!” she said.
“Am I-” I started.
“I told you, I don’t have answers. Just get dressed and get moving. You aint gonna die, I promise.”
I climbed slowly out of the hospital bed and put on the clothes she had thrown me. Jeans that were too big with bright patterns on the seat and down one leg, a baggy plain white t-shirt and an oversized Chicago White Sox sweatshirt with a hood. There were High Top sneakers in the closet, but no socks. Once I was dressed I stood in front of the detective and put out my hands. She stared at me confused.
“What are you doin’?”
I looked at my hands stretched out to her, wrists a few inches apart.
“I, uh…”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m not cuffing you, you fuckin’ moron. How the fuck would that look. Just stay close to me. Don’t fuckin’ wander. Got it.?”
I nodded.
“Uh, yeah. Got it.”
“Okay then,” she said and we walked out the door.
It was strange walking through the hospital. I felt like everyone should be watching me. I felt out of place, criminal. I felt like everyone knew who I was and that I didn’t belong there. I kept waiting, subconsciously I think, for someone to stand up and point at me. To shout hey you, what are you doing here? I felt like a child trying to sneak into a strip club.
No one was watching though. No one stared. No one even looked. I walked with the detective down the long florescent hallway to a bank of old elevators. I stood rigidly as we waited for the elevator car to arrive and the doors to squeal open. I followed her onto the lift and stood silently as she pressed the button for P2. The doors squealed shut again I felt that forgotten sensation of movement without moving.
The doors opened again and we stepped out into an underground parking garage. It was dark and cold. The concrete ground was wet and the air had an acrid rusty taste to it. We moved silently down an aisle of cars that felt just slightly futuristic to me. I hadn’t seen a car in five years and the designs felt just a little curvier with colors just a little off from what I remembered.
At the end of the aisle we turned and headed down another aisle of cars. Halfway down was a police squad car with its engine running and headlights on. The detective walked me up to it and opened the rear driver’s side door.
“Get in,” she said curtly.
I did as I was told.
The inside was like the inside of a police car if you’ve ever had the pleasure. There was no legroom, the seats were a kind of plastic made to look like, but not feel like leather. There was a panel of thick bulletproof Plexiglas separating the front and back seats and a wire cage up against that. There was also another person.
Across from me in the back seat was another woman. This one was slightly older and significantly better dressed. She had on a black pencil skirt slit up past her knee, black stockings and red heels. Her blouse was red silk and covered by an expensive looking blazer. She had on gold jewelry around her neck and at her ears. She wore makeup, expertly applied and her long brunette hair was pulled up into an elaborately braided bun. I knew this woman.
“Gavin,” she said in an exceedingly professional tone.
The driver’s door opened and the detective climbed into the car. She buckled in, but didn’t put the car in gear. She just sat there, facing forward, silently like a limo driver minding their own business.
I looked at the woman and grimaced. I had a pain in my gut and the first low waves of an anxiety attack washing up into my lungs.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she said.
I gritted my teeth and fought against the panic that was trying so hard to take hold of me. I let out a long breath and closed my eyes. When I reopened them she was still there, staring at me with her hazel gaze.
“ASA Reprobi,” I said. “What is going on?”
She smiled shallowly, then the smile widened and soon she was laughing.
“What’s so funny,” I asked.
“Oh Gavin. It’s okay, you’ve been away.”
She said it like I’d been in the Bahamas for a week.
“It’s not ASA any more. I moved up. State’s Attorney Reprobi will be just fine.”
I felt the nausea hit me like a brick wall. I had to cover my mouth to keep from throwing up in the car. Maureen Reprobi was the State’s Attorney now. My shock must have been apparent because she reached out and put her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay Gavin. Actually I probably have you to thank for it. Trying your case made me a household name. The election was a landslide.”
I leaned back and put out my hands for support. I didn’t know what to say. I had learned no responses to this kind of sudden and terrifying information.
“Hey, be happy,” she said jovially. “You’re hear with me instead of getting raped in a cell down south. You’ve got me to thank for that and I’d never have been able to pull that off as and Assistant.”
“But why Maureen?” I said with hesitation. “Why am I here?”
She smiled.
“The why’s will come Gavin. They exist. Obviously there’s a reason I went through the substantial trouble and risk of getting you out of there, but let’s come back to that. For now, lets get you home.”
Home of course was a joke. I had no home. I had nowhere to go. No one that would take me in or want to see me. As it turns out, that hardly mattered. As we pulled out of the hospital’s parking garage and onto the crooked pavement of Ogden Avenue Maureen explained to me my situation.
“You’re not going back Gavin. It’s important that you understand that.”
I nodded the affirmative, but of course I didn’t really. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m serious,” she said. “Never going back. Not ever for any reason. Look at me when I talk to you Gavin. You literally can never go back to prison.”
“Maureen-”
“SA Reprobi will do fine thank you.”
I stared at her incredulously, but conceded to get to the important part.
“Fine, SA Reprobi, is this some kind of medical release? Is it because I was stabbed?”
She laughed, hard this time. Real laughter, she found me funny.
“Jesus fucking Christ Gavin. You’re dumber than I thought.”
I frowned, I didn’t like being called dumb.
“Gavin you were stabbed so I could get you out. It was an act. A con. Good god, I really would have thought you’d figure that part out on your own. You’re dead Gavin. You don’t exist anymore.”
I must have looked especially dumbfounded. Deer in the headlights kind of stare. I know I felt as though I’d been pulled out of my body and was being allowed to watch the whole thing from thirty feet in the air.
“I’m what?”
“You were shived Gavin. In plain sight of the whole cafeteria. Everyone saw it. You fell on the ground, bled all over the floor. They rushed you out of there and down to the medical office, but sadly, they were unsuccessful in saving your life. You passed away in prison. Your family, such as it is, has been notified of your death and a box of ashes is being delivered to their home.”
“I died.”
“That’s right. So you see why it’s so important that you not end up in a situation where you would potentially be dealing with the judicial system again. It would be difficult to explain how you’re out and about in the world when you’re finger prints are associated with a dead man.”
“But why,” I said again. “I don’t understand, why are you doing this for me? Did you find the video? Did you find out I’m innocent? Did you talk to Weather? Why not just let me go? Why is this happening?”
Reprobi looked impatient. She checked her watch and glanced out the window of the car. We were on Congress Parkway taking the exit onto the Eisenhower expressway east.
“Look Gavin, we don’t have a lot of time. In about fifteen minutes I’m dropping you off and then you’ll never see me again. You’ll get your answers, but that will have to be later. There’s a reason you’re out, but it’s not because I like you. I need you and it’s just that simple. You’re out to do something for me and when that thing is done, well, I don’t know what will happen next, but in the meantime there are rules.”
I choked on a piece of laughter.
“Rules? What kind of rules?”
Maureen took a deep breath and stared me in the eyes.
“One, you don’t leave the city. Consider it house arrest. You have the city limits of Chicago to move around in, but you never leave those confines. Ever. Two, you can’t contact anyone you knew before. No friends, no family, no old teachers or guys you played tiddlywink with. No one knows you’re alive, and that leads to rule three. You cant have a job. You died. Theirs a death cetificate and your social security number is defunct. You can’t fill out paperwork, take a loan, get a credit card, sign a contract or do anything that requires an identity. Lastly, you stay out of trouble. You don’t exist and if you’re found wandering around doing petty crimes or so much as, I don’t know, jaywalking; people are going to want answers. Your file says your dead. Don’t make me make it true.”
The car pulled off the expressway. We’d left 290 and taken the Dan Ryan south for most of the drive. Now we were at 103rd Street. The deep south side of the city. We sat in silence for the rest of the trip. A couple miles down the road we took a left on Torrence Ave and came to a stop.
Outside the car was a small red wall with a black door. It was wedged between two shops, but had no signage of it’s own. There was a red awning and a small window that was papered over from the inside, but nothing to suggest that it was inhabited in anyway.
“That’s it,” she said. “Detective Hinde up there will be in touch. She’ll let you know what’s next. Don’t try and reach me though. As far as you and I are concerned neither of us exists to the other.”
“Where do you want me to go?” I asked.
She gestured with her head at the black door outside.
“You’ll be safe in there. They’ll look out for you for now. Now go, out of my sight, and Gavin, don’t fuck this up.”
Detective Hinde opened my door and I stepped out. It was starting to rain and the pavement had a glassy shine. I walked around the squad car stepped up on the sidewalk and turned back in time to see them pull away and disappear down the street.
I took a deep breath, then I thought. I really could. I could just run. I could be out of here and never seen again. I could be free, but something in me, something broken wouldn’t let me. I stood in the rain, my sweatshirt and jeans getting soaked and looked at the black door on the red wall. Something inside me said this was bad, but I didn’t see any other options.
I knocked on the door.
I remember wondering why. It seemed so important at the time. As I lay there spitting blood and watching it pour out of my side and spread across the floor like spilled paint all I could think was why did he do that. It hardly mattered, but it just kept running though my head over and over like a loop. Why? Why? Why?
I was brought to the infirmary and laid on a gurney. Blood was everywhere now. It was on my face and in my hair and all over my clothes. It ran between my fingers, oily and sticky. I felt cold and the room swam around me. I remember wondering how I was still alive. How much blood do you have to lose to die?
I saw the doctor, in a prison guard uniform with a white lab coat over it. He approached me and looked me up and down. He squatted and looked in my eyes. He whispered something to me, but I couldn’t understand it. Then he picked up a syringe off the steel tray next to the gurney and gave me a shot of something. Almost immediately the room went gray and foggy and suddenly black.
When I woke up the room was different. It was larger and brighter. The bed was wider and more comfortable with sheets on it and a dense heavy blanket over me. There was a sound, familiar but out of place. I looked around and found the source; a television. I wasn’t in the infirmary anymore, this was a hospital room. I was in a civilian hospital.
You would think that that would have made me elated, but it didn’t. It made me nervous. I was never one for change to begin with, and in prison you learn pretty quickly that change is almost never good. I wasn’t in prison anymore and that scared me because I didn’t know why.
The idea of running did cross my mind. Of course it did, but it didn’t stay there long. Inside you’re always being watched even if it doesn’t seem like you are. That’s a condition that gets inside you. It makes you paranoid and you don’t just wake up and let it go. I was out of prison for the moment, but I was still under guard. No doubt about it. If I tried to run I’d get a nightstick in the scull faster than I could check my watch.
My side ached a little and I moved the blankets to see the wound. It was small. Shockingly small. Four stitches holding it closed and a little redness around the edges. How had a cut that small made so much blood? Why would a cut that small justify bringing me to a real hospital? I was feeling the tension building in my chest and shoulders.
Knock knock.
It was two quick raps on the door, and they didn’t wait for a response. The wide door swung open and a old black woman in nursing scrubs walked into the room with a smile.
“Good to see you’re up young man,” she said sweetly.
I coughed and dry swallowed.
“Yeah? Where am I?”
She laughed cheerfully.
“Why can’t you tell? You’re in The Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock building. I’m Loretta, I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to start off with an appetizer perhaps. I have raspberry Jello in a plastic cup.”
I managed a weak smile.
“What hospital is this?” I said.
“Well now, we are back to reality aren’t we then. You’re in Stroger Hospital young man, and good for you too. We see a lotta stabbin’s so you were a piece of vanilla cake.”
Stroger? Stroger hospital was in the city. It was downtown. More than thirty miles from the prison. There had to have been four dozen other hospitals between Statesville and there. Why? Why would they take me all the way to the city? It was true that Stroger had a reputation for handling stabbings and shootings. If you got shot in the city, that’s where you wanted to go. They just had so much more experience with it there.
But if my wound was so bad that they needed to get me out and to an ER why would they waste the time going all the way to the city. And if it wasn’t so bad that time was of the essence why bring me to the experts here. It was paradoxical and it sent a chill down my spine.
“So, uh, where are-”
“The detective is right outside. She’s on the phone right now, but I’ll let her know you’re up and movin’. We’ll have you outa here in no time John.”
I frowned.
“Gavin.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“What’s that?”
“My name is Gavin,” I said.
She lifted a metal clipboard from a pocket at the end of my bed.
“Gavin? Not John?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Gavin Smith?”
“No,” I said. “Gavin Gayle”
She bit her lower lip slightly and took a pen out of her breast pocket. She started scribbling.
“G-A-I-L?”
“G-A-Y-L-E,” I said.
She nodded.
“All right Gavin, I’ll let the detective know you’re awake.”
Loretta left and I let out a long sigh. Who the fuck was John? Then it hit me and I felt a cold sweat break out across my body. Smith. She had John Smith down as my name. Not as bad as John Doe, but that’s for dead people. If you living and anonymous you use John Smith. Why was I a secret?
The door opened again and a young woman in a professional looking suit and sensible shoes walked in. She didn’t have a purse, but strapped to her waist was a holstered handgun and gold five point star with an inset circle and a coat of arms. She was Chicago PD, not State.
“How ya feeling there killer?” she said by way of introduction.
I tried to sit up a bit, straighten myself out. I was in a hospital gown, which always leave you feeling a little exposed and vulnerable, on top of which, I was actually and in fact exposed and vulnerable.
“Hi,” I said with the most confused voice I could muster. “What’s-”
“No no no. You’re not talking now, I am. Got it?”
Her abruptness was startling and stopped me in my tracks.
“Okay, good. Here’s how dis works. I got no answers for you. Don’t ask me things cuz I just don’t know. I have two jobs. Get you outada the ambulance and inta da ER, and then outa here and inta da car. Beyond dat, I don’t know and I don’t wanna know. Got it?”
My head spun. What was going on here?
“Got it‽”
I nodded.
She walked over to a flat door next to the entrance to the room and opened it. She pulled out a wad of clothes and walked back to the foot of my bed and threw them at me.
“Good, now get dressed. We got places to be.”
This woman scared me. The whole situation scared me. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole except that I didn’t even chase the rabbit. It was like going to bed at night and waking up in another world.
“Chop chop!” she said.
“Am I-” I started.
“I told you, I don’t have answers. Just get dressed and get moving. You aint gonna die, I promise.”
I climbed slowly out of the hospital bed and put on the clothes she had thrown me. Jeans that were too big with bright patterns on the seat and down one leg, a baggy plain white t-shirt and an oversized Chicago White Sox sweatshirt with a hood. There were High Top sneakers in the closet, but no socks. Once I was dressed I stood in front of the detective and put out my hands. She stared at me confused.
“What are you doin’?”
I looked at my hands stretched out to her, wrists a few inches apart.
“I, uh…”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m not cuffing you, you fuckin’ moron. How the fuck would that look. Just stay close to me. Don’t fuckin’ wander. Got it.?”
I nodded.
“Uh, yeah. Got it.”
“Okay then,” she said and we walked out the door.
It was strange walking through the hospital. I felt like everyone should be watching me. I felt out of place, criminal. I felt like everyone knew who I was and that I didn’t belong there. I kept waiting, subconsciously I think, for someone to stand up and point at me. To shout hey you, what are you doing here? I felt like a child trying to sneak into a strip club.
No one was watching though. No one stared. No one even looked. I walked with the detective down the long florescent hallway to a bank of old elevators. I stood rigidly as we waited for the elevator car to arrive and the doors to squeal open. I followed her onto the lift and stood silently as she pressed the button for P2. The doors squealed shut again I felt that forgotten sensation of movement without moving.
The doors opened again and we stepped out into an underground parking garage. It was dark and cold. The concrete ground was wet and the air had an acrid rusty taste to it. We moved silently down an aisle of cars that felt just slightly futuristic to me. I hadn’t seen a car in five years and the designs felt just a little curvier with colors just a little off from what I remembered.
At the end of the aisle we turned and headed down another aisle of cars. Halfway down was a police squad car with its engine running and headlights on. The detective walked me up to it and opened the rear driver’s side door.
“Get in,” she said curtly.
I did as I was told.
The inside was like the inside of a police car if you’ve ever had the pleasure. There was no legroom, the seats were a kind of plastic made to look like, but not feel like leather. There was a panel of thick bulletproof Plexiglas separating the front and back seats and a wire cage up against that. There was also another person.
Across from me in the back seat was another woman. This one was slightly older and significantly better dressed. She had on a black pencil skirt slit up past her knee, black stockings and red heels. Her blouse was red silk and covered by an expensive looking blazer. She had on gold jewelry around her neck and at her ears. She wore makeup, expertly applied and her long brunette hair was pulled up into an elaborately braided bun. I knew this woman.
“Gavin,” she said in an exceedingly professional tone.
The driver’s door opened and the detective climbed into the car. She buckled in, but didn’t put the car in gear. She just sat there, facing forward, silently like a limo driver minding their own business.
I looked at the woman and grimaced. I had a pain in my gut and the first low waves of an anxiety attack washing up into my lungs.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she said.
I gritted my teeth and fought against the panic that was trying so hard to take hold of me. I let out a long breath and closed my eyes. When I reopened them she was still there, staring at me with her hazel gaze.
“ASA Reprobi,” I said. “What is going on?”
She smiled shallowly, then the smile widened and soon she was laughing.
“What’s so funny,” I asked.
“Oh Gavin. It’s okay, you’ve been away.”
She said it like I’d been in the Bahamas for a week.
“It’s not ASA any more. I moved up. State’s Attorney Reprobi will be just fine.”
I felt the nausea hit me like a brick wall. I had to cover my mouth to keep from throwing up in the car. Maureen Reprobi was the State’s Attorney now. My shock must have been apparent because she reached out and put her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay Gavin. Actually I probably have you to thank for it. Trying your case made me a household name. The election was a landslide.”
I leaned back and put out my hands for support. I didn’t know what to say. I had learned no responses to this kind of sudden and terrifying information.
“Hey, be happy,” she said jovially. “You’re hear with me instead of getting raped in a cell down south. You’ve got me to thank for that and I’d never have been able to pull that off as and Assistant.”
“But why Maureen?” I said with hesitation. “Why am I here?”
She smiled.
“The why’s will come Gavin. They exist. Obviously there’s a reason I went through the substantial trouble and risk of getting you out of there, but let’s come back to that. For now, lets get you home.”
Home of course was a joke. I had no home. I had nowhere to go. No one that would take me in or want to see me. As it turns out, that hardly mattered. As we pulled out of the hospital’s parking garage and onto the crooked pavement of Ogden Avenue Maureen explained to me my situation.
“You’re not going back Gavin. It’s important that you understand that.”
I nodded the affirmative, but of course I didn’t really. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m serious,” she said. “Never going back. Not ever for any reason. Look at me when I talk to you Gavin. You literally can never go back to prison.”
“Maureen-”
“SA Reprobi will do fine thank you.”
I stared at her incredulously, but conceded to get to the important part.
“Fine, SA Reprobi, is this some kind of medical release? Is it because I was stabbed?”
She laughed, hard this time. Real laughter, she found me funny.
“Jesus fucking Christ Gavin. You’re dumber than I thought.”
I frowned, I didn’t like being called dumb.
“Gavin you were stabbed so I could get you out. It was an act. A con. Good god, I really would have thought you’d figure that part out on your own. You’re dead Gavin. You don’t exist anymore.”
I must have looked especially dumbfounded. Deer in the headlights kind of stare. I know I felt as though I’d been pulled out of my body and was being allowed to watch the whole thing from thirty feet in the air.
“I’m what?”
“You were shived Gavin. In plain sight of the whole cafeteria. Everyone saw it. You fell on the ground, bled all over the floor. They rushed you out of there and down to the medical office, but sadly, they were unsuccessful in saving your life. You passed away in prison. Your family, such as it is, has been notified of your death and a box of ashes is being delivered to their home.”
“I died.”
“That’s right. So you see why it’s so important that you not end up in a situation where you would potentially be dealing with the judicial system again. It would be difficult to explain how you’re out and about in the world when you’re finger prints are associated with a dead man.”
“But why,” I said again. “I don’t understand, why are you doing this for me? Did you find the video? Did you find out I’m innocent? Did you talk to Weather? Why not just let me go? Why is this happening?”
Reprobi looked impatient. She checked her watch and glanced out the window of the car. We were on Congress Parkway taking the exit onto the Eisenhower expressway east.
“Look Gavin, we don’t have a lot of time. In about fifteen minutes I’m dropping you off and then you’ll never see me again. You’ll get your answers, but that will have to be later. There’s a reason you’re out, but it’s not because I like you. I need you and it’s just that simple. You’re out to do something for me and when that thing is done, well, I don’t know what will happen next, but in the meantime there are rules.”
I choked on a piece of laughter.
“Rules? What kind of rules?”
Maureen took a deep breath and stared me in the eyes.
“One, you don’t leave the city. Consider it house arrest. You have the city limits of Chicago to move around in, but you never leave those confines. Ever. Two, you can’t contact anyone you knew before. No friends, no family, no old teachers or guys you played tiddlywink with. No one knows you’re alive, and that leads to rule three. You cant have a job. You died. Theirs a death cetificate and your social security number is defunct. You can’t fill out paperwork, take a loan, get a credit card, sign a contract or do anything that requires an identity. Lastly, you stay out of trouble. You don’t exist and if you’re found wandering around doing petty crimes or so much as, I don’t know, jaywalking; people are going to want answers. Your file says your dead. Don’t make me make it true.”
The car pulled off the expressway. We’d left 290 and taken the Dan Ryan south for most of the drive. Now we were at 103rd Street. The deep south side of the city. We sat in silence for the rest of the trip. A couple miles down the road we took a left on Torrence Ave and came to a stop.
Outside the car was a small red wall with a black door. It was wedged between two shops, but had no signage of it’s own. There was a red awning and a small window that was papered over from the inside, but nothing to suggest that it was inhabited in anyway.
“That’s it,” she said. “Detective Hinde up there will be in touch. She’ll let you know what’s next. Don’t try and reach me though. As far as you and I are concerned neither of us exists to the other.”
“Where do you want me to go?” I asked.
She gestured with her head at the black door outside.
“You’ll be safe in there. They’ll look out for you for now. Now go, out of my sight, and Gavin, don’t fuck this up.”
Detective Hinde opened my door and I stepped out. It was starting to rain and the pavement had a glassy shine. I walked around the squad car stepped up on the sidewalk and turned back in time to see them pull away and disappear down the street.
I took a deep breath, then I thought. I really could. I could just run. I could be out of here and never seen again. I could be free, but something in me, something broken wouldn’t let me. I stood in the rain, my sweatshirt and jeans getting soaked and looked at the black door on the red wall. Something inside me said this was bad, but I didn’t see any other options.
I knocked on the door.
Chapter Seven
It was time to leave. I had promised Detective Hinde sixty seconds and I had gone well over that limit. I’d seen Weather, which is all I could really do. She was with Maureen, and Maureen was the one person I couldn’t outsmart or intimidate. As long as she had Weather there was nothing I could do.
I was turning to leave when the door to the interrogation room swung open and Detective Hinde walked in followed by a tall gentleman in a dark suit. Hinde was carrying a brown file folder that she handed to one of the other detectives. He opened it and skimmed through the contents, flipping pages quickly and nodding. The man in the suit stepped forward and held out a hand to S.A. Reprobi.
“Madame State’s Attorney,” he said formally. “Special Agent Kyle Flannery. I’m with the Justice Department.”
And there they were. The FBI had arrived. It was faster than I had expected and good news for Weather. In the city Maureen was in control. She could manipulate people and situations and make things happen the way she wanted them to. She was the big fish in that little pond. The FBI however, was out of her control. Having them swimming around in her waters was like having a Great White make it’s way into Lake Michigan. They had their own agenda and the Cook County State’s Attorney wasn’t even a blip on their radar.
Maureen bit her lower lip a little sideways and nodded at the agent.
“FBI?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he confirmed.
She took a deep breath, stood up and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you Agent.”
The agent gave a nod to each of the detectives in the room then turned his attention to Weather.
“Ms. Rose, how are you? Have you been treated well by the CPD?”
His tone was formal, not friendly, but it wasn’t aggressive either. He wasn’t speaking to her like a criminal, but rather like an object. He was neutral and unaffected. Weather just gazed back at him with an untrusting stare.
“Well, we’ll certainly have to get you cleaned up. I’ll make sure you get a shower and we’ll see if we can find you some more comfortable clothes.”
Weather tugged at the chain between her hands.
“Oh, of course. We can take those off I think.”
Flannery turned to one of the cops and gave a head gesture towards Weather.
“Detective, would you mind?”
The detective straightened up.
“As a matter of fact Agent, we have strict rules about suspects in custody. They must remai-”
“It’s fine detective,” a subtle change in tone. Subtle, but noticeable.
“Ms. Rose is no longer in your custody. As of now the FBI is taking jurisdiction on this event and Ms. Rose will be in my custody from this moment forward. Now, if you will kindly remove her handcuffs, and perhaps get her a cup of coffee I’d appreciate it immensely.”
The police looked astonished. They glanced at each other open mouthed. At first no one moved, then slowly as if he was unsure of himself, the man Agent Flannery was addressing moved to the table and released the clasp on the bracelets around Weather’s wrists.
“Thank you detective. Thank you all for your service tonight. You are now dismissed.”
Detective Hinde and the men in the room all looked at Maureen. She nodded and, begrudgingly, they made their way to the door and out of the room. Maureen sat back down, crossed her legs and stared at the Agent.
“I’m sorry Ms. Reprobi, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step out as well. This is a Federal issue and I’m going to need the room.”
Maureen’s face flashed red. She stood up with at agitated huff, gave a menacing glance at Weather and stormed out of the room. The agent watched the door swing shut then let out a relieved sigh. He turned back to Weather and smiled.
It was odd to see him smile. It seemed out of character. I’d only seen him for those few short minutes, but already I felt I had a sense of who he was, and he wasn’t a smiler. Cops will smile or act friendly with a suspect in order to develop a rapport with them. To make them feel comfortable and at ease. It encourages an atmosphere of sharing, but this wasn’t that kind of smile. This was more of a, you just found something you’ve been looking for for a really long time, smile. This was a gotcha smile.
“Well, that’s got to be a little better, no?”
Weather was still rubbing at her wrists where the cuffs had been digging in. She gave a little shrug.
“We’ll see,” she said.
The agent nodded. The smile on his face straightened out and he went back to his all business attitude.
“Well, let’s start with this Ms. Rose. I’m not sure yet if you killed my boss. Grayson, he was my boss. I’ve been working with him here in Chicago for almost three years on city corruption. He hand picked me out of a pool of hundreds of agents, so I appreciated him. He had become a friend too. We were close is what I’m trying to say, so you can understand that I’m pretty upset right now.”
His tone was unshakeable. No pitch changes in the voice, no stammers or increases in speed. He was calmly talking to her like he was giving the weather in San Diego. “Seventy five and sunny today. Seventy five and sunny tomorrow. Seventy five and sunny for fucking ever.”
“Things don’t look to good for you,” he went on. “It would be easy to just let this all fall on you, extinguish my anger and send you to the chair.”
Weather didn’t flinch. She stared back at him matching his intensity. I knew I had to get out of there, but it was riveting to watch and I couldn’t make myself leave. The agent opened the file folder that Maureen had left on the table. He shuffled through it. Pulled a stack of blank pages out and spread them on the desk. He checked her eyes for a reaction. He didn’t get one. Finally he pulled out one sheet covered in type and writing, front and back.
“So, you were found at the scene, next to the body. You were, well basically naked. You had the victim’s blood on you and you were in proximity to a firearm that is believed to be the murder weapon.”
No reaction.
“That folder that the detective had when she walked in, that was the ballistics report on the gun. I haven’t seen it yet, but based on the reactions from the officers in the room I’m pretty sure it said that it was the murder weapon and I’m pretty sure it said you’re prints were on it.”
Weather flinched a little at this, just the slightest twitch then covered it quickly. She ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it back as if she were going to put it in a pony tail. Without a rubber band though, she just let it fall again.
“It may have also had findings of powder residue taken from your hands at the time of arrest. I’m guessing now, but it seems reasonable. All of that seems enough to put you on death row. It would be a slam dunk case, but here’s the thing Weather, for some reason I’m not convinced.”
This did get a reaction from Weather. She looked up. She looked the agent in the face and for just a moment there was a flash of something that looked like hope across her pale eyes.
“Not one hundred percent. We’ll call it ninety-nine, but that’s not even the worst of the evidence against you. There’s something that even the cops don’t have.”
I leaned in close to the glass, putting both of my palms on the window like I might be able to crawl through it.
The agent reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a flat rectangle all silver on one side and black glass on the other. He pressed a button on the edge and the screen of his phone lit up. A few more touches and swipes and he set the phone down, screen up, on the table. He touched a button and it began to speak.
“Kyle, Kyle it’s Jason. You, um, you need to get over here. Fuck. You need to get over here, I think I have something. I’m with, holy shit, Kyle I’m with you’re mystery man’s girlfriend. She’s going a little psy-”
There was a sound loud enough to fuzz out the speaker and then a clattering sound. Then there was silence for a few seconds, then a soft clicking. The sound of high heels on tile then silence. The recording stopped.
Weather was white. She wasn’t breathing. There was water gathering in the corners of her eyes and her hands were trembling.
The agent stepped closer to her and said softly, but in the same business like tone, “Weather, do you know who he’s talking about? Do you know who my mystery man is?”
Weather coughed. She was moving her mouth but no words were coming out. She just choked and coughed. Then she started to cry. She started to cry like she had the last time I saw her. It occurred to me that we were separated by glass again. Twice she broke down and twice I could do nothing for the barrier between us.
“It’s okay Weather. Take your time. Do you know who he means?”
Weather nodded.
“Who?”
“Gavin,” she whispered. “Gavin Gayle. But…”
Agent Flannery sat down across from her. He leaned in and firmly, but gently put his hand on hers.”
“But what Weather?”
She coughed and cleared her throat holding back the tears. She sat up straight and pulled her hands away from his. She wiped her face with her hands and straightened her shirt.
“But, Agent,” she said as dignified as she could. “I’m not his girlfriend. No one is. Agent Flannery, Gavin Gayle is dead.”
I was turning to leave when the door to the interrogation room swung open and Detective Hinde walked in followed by a tall gentleman in a dark suit. Hinde was carrying a brown file folder that she handed to one of the other detectives. He opened it and skimmed through the contents, flipping pages quickly and nodding. The man in the suit stepped forward and held out a hand to S.A. Reprobi.
“Madame State’s Attorney,” he said formally. “Special Agent Kyle Flannery. I’m with the Justice Department.”
And there they were. The FBI had arrived. It was faster than I had expected and good news for Weather. In the city Maureen was in control. She could manipulate people and situations and make things happen the way she wanted them to. She was the big fish in that little pond. The FBI however, was out of her control. Having them swimming around in her waters was like having a Great White make it’s way into Lake Michigan. They had their own agenda and the Cook County State’s Attorney wasn’t even a blip on their radar.
Maureen bit her lower lip a little sideways and nodded at the agent.
“FBI?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he confirmed.
She took a deep breath, stood up and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you Agent.”
The agent gave a nod to each of the detectives in the room then turned his attention to Weather.
“Ms. Rose, how are you? Have you been treated well by the CPD?”
His tone was formal, not friendly, but it wasn’t aggressive either. He wasn’t speaking to her like a criminal, but rather like an object. He was neutral and unaffected. Weather just gazed back at him with an untrusting stare.
“Well, we’ll certainly have to get you cleaned up. I’ll make sure you get a shower and we’ll see if we can find you some more comfortable clothes.”
Weather tugged at the chain between her hands.
“Oh, of course. We can take those off I think.”
Flannery turned to one of the cops and gave a head gesture towards Weather.
“Detective, would you mind?”
The detective straightened up.
“As a matter of fact Agent, we have strict rules about suspects in custody. They must remai-”
“It’s fine detective,” a subtle change in tone. Subtle, but noticeable.
“Ms. Rose is no longer in your custody. As of now the FBI is taking jurisdiction on this event and Ms. Rose will be in my custody from this moment forward. Now, if you will kindly remove her handcuffs, and perhaps get her a cup of coffee I’d appreciate it immensely.”
The police looked astonished. They glanced at each other open mouthed. At first no one moved, then slowly as if he was unsure of himself, the man Agent Flannery was addressing moved to the table and released the clasp on the bracelets around Weather’s wrists.
“Thank you detective. Thank you all for your service tonight. You are now dismissed.”
Detective Hinde and the men in the room all looked at Maureen. She nodded and, begrudgingly, they made their way to the door and out of the room. Maureen sat back down, crossed her legs and stared at the Agent.
“I’m sorry Ms. Reprobi, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step out as well. This is a Federal issue and I’m going to need the room.”
Maureen’s face flashed red. She stood up with at agitated huff, gave a menacing glance at Weather and stormed out of the room. The agent watched the door swing shut then let out a relieved sigh. He turned back to Weather and smiled.
It was odd to see him smile. It seemed out of character. I’d only seen him for those few short minutes, but already I felt I had a sense of who he was, and he wasn’t a smiler. Cops will smile or act friendly with a suspect in order to develop a rapport with them. To make them feel comfortable and at ease. It encourages an atmosphere of sharing, but this wasn’t that kind of smile. This was more of a, you just found something you’ve been looking for for a really long time, smile. This was a gotcha smile.
“Well, that’s got to be a little better, no?”
Weather was still rubbing at her wrists where the cuffs had been digging in. She gave a little shrug.
“We’ll see,” she said.
The agent nodded. The smile on his face straightened out and he went back to his all business attitude.
“Well, let’s start with this Ms. Rose. I’m not sure yet if you killed my boss. Grayson, he was my boss. I’ve been working with him here in Chicago for almost three years on city corruption. He hand picked me out of a pool of hundreds of agents, so I appreciated him. He had become a friend too. We were close is what I’m trying to say, so you can understand that I’m pretty upset right now.”
His tone was unshakeable. No pitch changes in the voice, no stammers or increases in speed. He was calmly talking to her like he was giving the weather in San Diego. “Seventy five and sunny today. Seventy five and sunny tomorrow. Seventy five and sunny for fucking ever.”
“Things don’t look to good for you,” he went on. “It would be easy to just let this all fall on you, extinguish my anger and send you to the chair.”
Weather didn’t flinch. She stared back at him matching his intensity. I knew I had to get out of there, but it was riveting to watch and I couldn’t make myself leave. The agent opened the file folder that Maureen had left on the table. He shuffled through it. Pulled a stack of blank pages out and spread them on the desk. He checked her eyes for a reaction. He didn’t get one. Finally he pulled out one sheet covered in type and writing, front and back.
“So, you were found at the scene, next to the body. You were, well basically naked. You had the victim’s blood on you and you were in proximity to a firearm that is believed to be the murder weapon.”
No reaction.
“That folder that the detective had when she walked in, that was the ballistics report on the gun. I haven’t seen it yet, but based on the reactions from the officers in the room I’m pretty sure it said that it was the murder weapon and I’m pretty sure it said you’re prints were on it.”
Weather flinched a little at this, just the slightest twitch then covered it quickly. She ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it back as if she were going to put it in a pony tail. Without a rubber band though, she just let it fall again.
“It may have also had findings of powder residue taken from your hands at the time of arrest. I’m guessing now, but it seems reasonable. All of that seems enough to put you on death row. It would be a slam dunk case, but here’s the thing Weather, for some reason I’m not convinced.”
This did get a reaction from Weather. She looked up. She looked the agent in the face and for just a moment there was a flash of something that looked like hope across her pale eyes.
“Not one hundred percent. We’ll call it ninety-nine, but that’s not even the worst of the evidence against you. There’s something that even the cops don’t have.”
I leaned in close to the glass, putting both of my palms on the window like I might be able to crawl through it.
The agent reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a flat rectangle all silver on one side and black glass on the other. He pressed a button on the edge and the screen of his phone lit up. A few more touches and swipes and he set the phone down, screen up, on the table. He touched a button and it began to speak.
“Kyle, Kyle it’s Jason. You, um, you need to get over here. Fuck. You need to get over here, I think I have something. I’m with, holy shit, Kyle I’m with you’re mystery man’s girlfriend. She’s going a little psy-”
There was a sound loud enough to fuzz out the speaker and then a clattering sound. Then there was silence for a few seconds, then a soft clicking. The sound of high heels on tile then silence. The recording stopped.
Weather was white. She wasn’t breathing. There was water gathering in the corners of her eyes and her hands were trembling.
The agent stepped closer to her and said softly, but in the same business like tone, “Weather, do you know who he’s talking about? Do you know who my mystery man is?”
Weather coughed. She was moving her mouth but no words were coming out. She just choked and coughed. Then she started to cry. She started to cry like she had the last time I saw her. It occurred to me that we were separated by glass again. Twice she broke down and twice I could do nothing for the barrier between us.
“It’s okay Weather. Take your time. Do you know who he means?”
Weather nodded.
“Who?”
“Gavin,” she whispered. “Gavin Gayle. But…”
Agent Flannery sat down across from her. He leaned in and firmly, but gently put his hand on hers.”
“But what Weather?”
She coughed and cleared her throat holding back the tears. She sat up straight and pulled her hands away from his. She wiped her face with her hands and straightened her shirt.
“But, Agent,” she said as dignified as she could. “I’m not his girlfriend. No one is. Agent Flannery, Gavin Gayle is dead.”
There was no more time. I had to pry myself off the glass wall that separated the agent and Weather from myself. I had to force my feet to lift and lay, one in front of the other. I had to compel my hands to open the door to the room and will my body through the frame. After that I ran.
I bolted down the hall, through the various doors I had gone through in the other direction and exploded out into the lobby of the station. The desk Sergeant looked up startled as I flung myself through the entryway and out into the cold predawn air. I was huffing, panting, nearly hyperventilating. I had to stop and catch my breath.
As I stood there on the beige concrete outside the precinct, my hands on my knees and head down, gasping for air I felt a tickle in the back of my brain. That feeling you get when you know someone is watching you. I tried to ignore it. Tried to put it out of my mind and concentrate on lowering my heart rate and controlling my breathing, but it nagged at me until I could no longer push it aside.
I straightened myself up and looked around. At first I didn’t see anything and my suspicion that it was all in my head seemed confirmed. Then, as my breath stedied and the cloud of panic around my mind cleared up, I found it. Across the street, in the shadows outside the light of the streetlamp was a figure standing perfectly still. I squinted and tried to make it out. Then my heart stopped.
It was State’s Attorney Reprobi. She was standing in the grass, in the dark, staring at me. I couldn’t make out the expression on her face, but the fact that she was there, standing sentinel like directly in front of me meant that it wasn’t a happy expression. I was never to see her again, and she me, so standing face to face less than sixty feet apart from one another was bad news.
Why was she standing there. Why was she-
I suddenly realized how foolish I’d been. Detective Hinde had told me that she would be here. I knew it before I came, and yet I’d parked my car directly in front of the station. I’d put my presence on display right in front of the doors that she walked out of. She was standing there, in the dark, waiting for me.
I straightened myself up and brushed at my clothes and straightened my tie. I looked at her with a cold and unapologetic gaze, then, I turned and walked to my car, opened the door and climbed in. I spun the key in the ignition and the engine roared. I pressed the gas hard, dropped the gears into second and let go the clutch.
The tires on the machine howled and black smoke poured out of the wheel wells, then the Firebird shot away like a rocket and Maureen disappeared behind me.
Creedence talked about a bad moon rising and I felt it. The pieces of my life had been torn apart and reshuffled and put back together in worse and worse ways so many times that I could sense when it was coming. That night I had the overwhelming sensation that everything was about to end again.
I had died, ostensibly, three times already and letting my life go again wasn’t even that troubling to me. At that point I could have died in the literal sense and I would have been fine with it. Grateful even. Maybe. What I couldn’t let happen was for Weather’s life to be taken away from her. I’d already given up too much for her. If it was all for naught, that would be intolerable.
The problem was, of course, there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could think of. The FBI had her and Maureen would never let her talk to them, even though she didn’t know anything. Maureen was methodical and didn’t take chances. She wouldn’t risk losing everything, not if she could help it.
I drove back the way I had come. Back down LSD and off into the neighborhoods on the Southside. It was dark and my eyes were on the road and my mind on Weather so it’s not surprising that I didn’t notice it at first. In fact, it wasn’t until I parked the car outside the club on Torrence Avenue that I saw it. It was a small white rectangle sitting under the drivers side windshield wiper.
I killed the engine and stepped out of the car. I retrieved my hat and jacket from the back seat and tossed the tie back on the floor. Then I moved to the front of the car and grabbed the card. It was a business card, hard cardboard stock with sharp edges and bold navy blue lettering that read: US Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kyle Flannery, Special Agent.
I felt my skin go cold and leathery. My forehead got damp and a lump formed in my throat. I flipped the card over. On the back there was a hand written note.
Revelation 2:8
I bolted down the hall, through the various doors I had gone through in the other direction and exploded out into the lobby of the station. The desk Sergeant looked up startled as I flung myself through the entryway and out into the cold predawn air. I was huffing, panting, nearly hyperventilating. I had to stop and catch my breath.
As I stood there on the beige concrete outside the precinct, my hands on my knees and head down, gasping for air I felt a tickle in the back of my brain. That feeling you get when you know someone is watching you. I tried to ignore it. Tried to put it out of my mind and concentrate on lowering my heart rate and controlling my breathing, but it nagged at me until I could no longer push it aside.
I straightened myself up and looked around. At first I didn’t see anything and my suspicion that it was all in my head seemed confirmed. Then, as my breath stedied and the cloud of panic around my mind cleared up, I found it. Across the street, in the shadows outside the light of the streetlamp was a figure standing perfectly still. I squinted and tried to make it out. Then my heart stopped.
It was State’s Attorney Reprobi. She was standing in the grass, in the dark, staring at me. I couldn’t make out the expression on her face, but the fact that she was there, standing sentinel like directly in front of me meant that it wasn’t a happy expression. I was never to see her again, and she me, so standing face to face less than sixty feet apart from one another was bad news.
Why was she standing there. Why was she-
I suddenly realized how foolish I’d been. Detective Hinde had told me that she would be here. I knew it before I came, and yet I’d parked my car directly in front of the station. I’d put my presence on display right in front of the doors that she walked out of. She was standing there, in the dark, waiting for me.
I straightened myself up and brushed at my clothes and straightened my tie. I looked at her with a cold and unapologetic gaze, then, I turned and walked to my car, opened the door and climbed in. I spun the key in the ignition and the engine roared. I pressed the gas hard, dropped the gears into second and let go the clutch.
The tires on the machine howled and black smoke poured out of the wheel wells, then the Firebird shot away like a rocket and Maureen disappeared behind me.
Creedence talked about a bad moon rising and I felt it. The pieces of my life had been torn apart and reshuffled and put back together in worse and worse ways so many times that I could sense when it was coming. That night I had the overwhelming sensation that everything was about to end again.
I had died, ostensibly, three times already and letting my life go again wasn’t even that troubling to me. At that point I could have died in the literal sense and I would have been fine with it. Grateful even. Maybe. What I couldn’t let happen was for Weather’s life to be taken away from her. I’d already given up too much for her. If it was all for naught, that would be intolerable.
The problem was, of course, there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could think of. The FBI had her and Maureen would never let her talk to them, even though she didn’t know anything. Maureen was methodical and didn’t take chances. She wouldn’t risk losing everything, not if she could help it.
I drove back the way I had come. Back down LSD and off into the neighborhoods on the Southside. It was dark and my eyes were on the road and my mind on Weather so it’s not surprising that I didn’t notice it at first. In fact, it wasn’t until I parked the car outside the club on Torrence Avenue that I saw it. It was a small white rectangle sitting under the drivers side windshield wiper.
I killed the engine and stepped out of the car. I retrieved my hat and jacket from the back seat and tossed the tie back on the floor. Then I moved to the front of the car and grabbed the card. It was a business card, hard cardboard stock with sharp edges and bold navy blue lettering that read: US Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kyle Flannery, Special Agent.
I felt my skin go cold and leathery. My forehead got damp and a lump formed in my throat. I flipped the card over. On the back there was a hand written note.
Revelation 2:8
Chapter Eight
Prison taught me never to judge a situation from its outward appearance. Events that seem positive on their face can turn out to be the very things that bring you to your knees, and likewise, those that seem hopeless can be the building blocks to redemption. Prison itself, on the surface, is a pretty terrible place, but it was probably the only place where I could have learned to control my feelings and accept consequences for my actions.
I had that in mind when the worn and chipping black door opened for the first time in front of me. The man standing there; enormous, with shoulders spanning one side of the opening to the other and the crown of his head obstructed by the top, did not look friendly. He was black, dark black with large bulging white eyes and hands that hung at his sides like meat hooks. The expression on his face was disapproving and he breathed audibly.
For my part, I was silent. I couldn’t find words. I just stared at him with my heart pounding and my head going all spiny on too many breaths.
“Who are you?” he said.
His voice seemed to come from the air, like thunder, undirectional. It boomed and reverberated all around me and made my skin crawl. I thought I was going to faint and I thought I was going to die.
“Well?” he rumbled again.
“I’m…”
I trailed off. I didn’t know what to say. Who was I? State’s Attorney Reprobi had made it clear I wasn’t me anymore. How was I supposed to answer that question. She hadn’t told me that. She had left me unprepared.
“You’re,” the man said.
I looked at the ground and shrugged. I felt my life drain out of me as if out of a drain and my body was left a million pounds lighter. I was whispy like I might just evaporate into the air.
“I guess I don’t know.” I said.
This seemed to amuse him. He smiled like one would at a joke that is almost funny, but not quite. Then it seemed to turn into genuine gladness. He crouched down bringing his face even with mine and leaned forward.
“Are you Gavin?” he asked in a whispered conspiratorial tone.
I glanced behind me to see if I was being watched, being tested.
“I guess,” I said unsure of what else to say. “I used to be.”
He laughed at this, real laughter from deep in his cavernous chest and it rolled over me like crashing waves. I stepped backwards and put my head down as if pushing through a heavy wind.
“I guess so,” he chuckled. “That’s a good one. Come on, Mickey’s waiting for you.”
He turned his body to step through the door, leading with one shoulder then letting the other through like you might try and fit a sofa or easy chair through a doorway. Outside he stepped to my right and reached back in to hold the door open for me.
“Go on in Gavin, watch your step though, it gets dark in there.
I could see through the door now. Inside the walls were smooth red brick set narrow, only just wider than the door frame itself. The small corridor was only a couple paces long, then appeared to abruptly end. Halfway down was a small metal folding chair pushed up against the right hand wall with a stack of old comic books frayed and dog eared on the floor next to it.
“Well, go on then,” the man insisted.
I took a hesitant step forward, then felt the huge heavy hand of my greeter on my back pushing me ahead. I walked through the doorway and immediately the light fell away. I turned back and saw the giant following me back in, blocking the entire entryway and the sunlight with it. Then the door swung shut with a thud and the space went completely black.
Anxiety shot up my back and gripped me tight around the chest. I felt the hair on my neck stand up and that old fight or flight response came creeping down my fingers and ringing in my ears. I swallowed and pushed back on it trying not to let it overtake me.
The man’s hand laid on my shoulder like a sandbag and his voice, soft now but still engulfing the space urged me forward. I took a step, small and careful. Another one, just as deliberate. Then a tug at my collar stopped me from moving further.
“Careful now,” he said. “Watch your step, we’re going down.”
My foot felt around in front of me and found the edge of the floor. I lowered it slowly and found the deck of a stair. My other foot followed and we descended a dozen or so stairs. At the bottom was a platform, cement by the feel of it, and a wall, coarse and uneven, that felt like wood.
“On your left,” his voice bellowed in the dark.
I felt around and found a thick, cold handle with a lever at my thumb. I pressed down and heard the click of a latch lifting. I pushed and the heavy door swung open with a whine flooding the tiny space in dim yellow light.
I had that in mind when the worn and chipping black door opened for the first time in front of me. The man standing there; enormous, with shoulders spanning one side of the opening to the other and the crown of his head obstructed by the top, did not look friendly. He was black, dark black with large bulging white eyes and hands that hung at his sides like meat hooks. The expression on his face was disapproving and he breathed audibly.
For my part, I was silent. I couldn’t find words. I just stared at him with my heart pounding and my head going all spiny on too many breaths.
“Who are you?” he said.
His voice seemed to come from the air, like thunder, undirectional. It boomed and reverberated all around me and made my skin crawl. I thought I was going to faint and I thought I was going to die.
“Well?” he rumbled again.
“I’m…”
I trailed off. I didn’t know what to say. Who was I? State’s Attorney Reprobi had made it clear I wasn’t me anymore. How was I supposed to answer that question. She hadn’t told me that. She had left me unprepared.
“You’re,” the man said.
I looked at the ground and shrugged. I felt my life drain out of me as if out of a drain and my body was left a million pounds lighter. I was whispy like I might just evaporate into the air.
“I guess I don’t know.” I said.
This seemed to amuse him. He smiled like one would at a joke that is almost funny, but not quite. Then it seemed to turn into genuine gladness. He crouched down bringing his face even with mine and leaned forward.
“Are you Gavin?” he asked in a whispered conspiratorial tone.
I glanced behind me to see if I was being watched, being tested.
“I guess,” I said unsure of what else to say. “I used to be.”
He laughed at this, real laughter from deep in his cavernous chest and it rolled over me like crashing waves. I stepped backwards and put my head down as if pushing through a heavy wind.
“I guess so,” he chuckled. “That’s a good one. Come on, Mickey’s waiting for you.”
He turned his body to step through the door, leading with one shoulder then letting the other through like you might try and fit a sofa or easy chair through a doorway. Outside he stepped to my right and reached back in to hold the door open for me.
“Go on in Gavin, watch your step though, it gets dark in there.
I could see through the door now. Inside the walls were smooth red brick set narrow, only just wider than the door frame itself. The small corridor was only a couple paces long, then appeared to abruptly end. Halfway down was a small metal folding chair pushed up against the right hand wall with a stack of old comic books frayed and dog eared on the floor next to it.
“Well, go on then,” the man insisted.
I took a hesitant step forward, then felt the huge heavy hand of my greeter on my back pushing me ahead. I walked through the doorway and immediately the light fell away. I turned back and saw the giant following me back in, blocking the entire entryway and the sunlight with it. Then the door swung shut with a thud and the space went completely black.
Anxiety shot up my back and gripped me tight around the chest. I felt the hair on my neck stand up and that old fight or flight response came creeping down my fingers and ringing in my ears. I swallowed and pushed back on it trying not to let it overtake me.
The man’s hand laid on my shoulder like a sandbag and his voice, soft now but still engulfing the space urged me forward. I took a step, small and careful. Another one, just as deliberate. Then a tug at my collar stopped me from moving further.
“Careful now,” he said. “Watch your step, we’re going down.”
My foot felt around in front of me and found the edge of the floor. I lowered it slowly and found the deck of a stair. My other foot followed and we descended a dozen or so stairs. At the bottom was a platform, cement by the feel of it, and a wall, coarse and uneven, that felt like wood.
“On your left,” his voice bellowed in the dark.
I felt around and found a thick, cold handle with a lever at my thumb. I pressed down and heard the click of a latch lifting. I pushed and the heavy door swung open with a whine flooding the tiny space in dim yellow light.
The bouncer left me standing in the doorway and lumbered across the grayish wood floor to an ornate standing desk. Behind it stood a skinny man in a suit that was supposed to look expensive. He was wiry with mismatched proportions that made him look like he was made of under cooked spaghetti. They had a hushed conversation that turned quickly into a barely whispered argument. Finally spaghetti man raised his voice.
“Jesus Nate, ain’t no one gonna try sneaking in dis place, especially in da middle of de afternoon. I got actual real things ta tend to datt’r more important dan dose stupid comic books you already read a million times. Go get Mickey ya damn self.”
The black man clenched his gigantic hands into tight balls of meat, then relaxed and let his shoulders drop. He looked over his shoulder at me and then back at the weezle behind the desk. Silently he turned and plodded off.
The coat hanger of a man looked at me suspiciously as if deciding if I was worth his attention. After a moment he stepped out from behind his station and approached me. He moved like a fish, swimming though the air with his hands on his hips making his arms look like wide pectoral fins. When he was just a few feet from me he stopped and looked me up and down.
“So, you’re da infamous Gavin Gayle den?”
I gave a hard stare back at him. I didn’t like this guy. I didn’t like the way he dressed, or talked. I didn’t like his attitude and I really didn’t like the way he had treated the doorman that had brought me down here. There was a disrespectfulness about him. A superiority that made him think he could treat others as less than himself.
“I guess I am,” I said.
“Hmm,” he sighed. “And what exactly is it dat makes you so special?”
I felt the familiar urge bubble up in me. I wanted to punch this guy, to break his nose and wipe the blood off my hands on my oversized jeans. I fought the urge.
“Well… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Ya call me Dutchie.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Right, well Dutchie, the way I see it there are two people in this place that matter. Nate decides who gets in and Mickey handles everything else. So what makes me special matters to Nate and it matters to Mickey and you don’t seem to matter at all, so if you don’t mind I’ll wait to answer questions until I’m talking to someone who’s important.”
Dutchie’s face flushed red. He opened his mouth to say something, but I put my finger to my mouth and mimed shushing him. He took the hint and retreated fishily back to his stand. A minute later Nate returned with an old and crotchity looking white man. He reminded me of Lou Grant from the Mary Tyler Moore show.
“Gavin?” he said with a questioning lilt to his voice.
I nodded.
He looked up at Nate who stood a good two feet taller than him, then back at me.
“You sure?” he asked.
I gave a weak smile.
“Yes sir, I’m pretty sure this time.”
“Alright then, we have some things to discuss.”
I nodded again.
“You all good here Mickey?” Nate asked in his previous baritone.
“Yah, yah Nate. We’re good. You get back to mindin’ dat door. I’ll take it from here.”
“K boss,” Nate said and disappeared back through the door and up the stairs.
“Follow me,” the old man said and started limping off in the direction they had come.
“Aye Mickey,” Dutchie called from behind his desk. “I don’t think we-”
“Like I give a fuck.” Mickey growled without looking back.
I gave a wink to the spaghetti man and followed after him.
“Jesus Nate, ain’t no one gonna try sneaking in dis place, especially in da middle of de afternoon. I got actual real things ta tend to datt’r more important dan dose stupid comic books you already read a million times. Go get Mickey ya damn self.”
The black man clenched his gigantic hands into tight balls of meat, then relaxed and let his shoulders drop. He looked over his shoulder at me and then back at the weezle behind the desk. Silently he turned and plodded off.
The coat hanger of a man looked at me suspiciously as if deciding if I was worth his attention. After a moment he stepped out from behind his station and approached me. He moved like a fish, swimming though the air with his hands on his hips making his arms look like wide pectoral fins. When he was just a few feet from me he stopped and looked me up and down.
“So, you’re da infamous Gavin Gayle den?”
I gave a hard stare back at him. I didn’t like this guy. I didn’t like the way he dressed, or talked. I didn’t like his attitude and I really didn’t like the way he had treated the doorman that had brought me down here. There was a disrespectfulness about him. A superiority that made him think he could treat others as less than himself.
“I guess I am,” I said.
“Hmm,” he sighed. “And what exactly is it dat makes you so special?”
I felt the familiar urge bubble up in me. I wanted to punch this guy, to break his nose and wipe the blood off my hands on my oversized jeans. I fought the urge.
“Well… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Ya call me Dutchie.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Right, well Dutchie, the way I see it there are two people in this place that matter. Nate decides who gets in and Mickey handles everything else. So what makes me special matters to Nate and it matters to Mickey and you don’t seem to matter at all, so if you don’t mind I’ll wait to answer questions until I’m talking to someone who’s important.”
Dutchie’s face flushed red. He opened his mouth to say something, but I put my finger to my mouth and mimed shushing him. He took the hint and retreated fishily back to his stand. A minute later Nate returned with an old and crotchity looking white man. He reminded me of Lou Grant from the Mary Tyler Moore show.
“Gavin?” he said with a questioning lilt to his voice.
I nodded.
He looked up at Nate who stood a good two feet taller than him, then back at me.
“You sure?” he asked.
I gave a weak smile.
“Yes sir, I’m pretty sure this time.”
“Alright then, we have some things to discuss.”
I nodded again.
“You all good here Mickey?” Nate asked in his previous baritone.
“Yah, yah Nate. We’re good. You get back to mindin’ dat door. I’ll take it from here.”
“K boss,” Nate said and disappeared back through the door and up the stairs.
“Follow me,” the old man said and started limping off in the direction they had come.
“Aye Mickey,” Dutchie called from behind his desk. “I don’t think we-”
“Like I give a fuck.” Mickey growled without looking back.
I gave a wink to the spaghetti man and followed after him.
We walked through a cavernous space set up, loosely, as a dining room. There were a bunch of low tables set for two people with scuffed surfaces rounded at the edges with wear. A long bar dominated the far wall with mismatched bar stools and a shelf of liquor bottles half full of brown and yellow and clear liquids, but no labels. In the back, where we were headed, was a set of stainless steel doors with a round window in each. An unmanned blond upright piano sat next to them covered in dust and loose papers.
Through the doors was a kitchen. Six burner stoves and food prep counters. Huge metal refrigerators and double ovens. There was a table with mixed fruit and vegetables on it and I eyed a bowl of bright red apples.
“So, Mr.-”
“Just call me Mickey,” the old man said. “Everyone else does.”
“Right, Mickey. Got it. So Mickey-”
“We’re going right down here,” he said leading me out of the kitchen and down a dark hallway.
The place was in shambles. Unpainted Sheetrock walls with fist sized holes here and there. There were three light fixtures in the ceiling, of which only one flickered hazy orangeish light occasionally. There were two doors on either side of the corridor and one at the end. All had latches and padlocks on them.
At the end of the hall Mickey stuck a key in the padlock and popped open the door. The room was essentially a broom closet with a desk. He squeezed in before me and sat down then motioned for me to follow suit. There were no other chairs in the space and, even standing, my knees were pressed against the front edge of the desk.
“So, welcome Mr. Gayle. I understand you’ll be staying with us for a while.”
I looked at him with a combination of confussion and annoyance.
“Well Mr… Mickey. Mickey, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know why I’m here. I was hoping you could shed some light. They just dropped me off and told me to come here. It seems like it’s all a big secret and I’m the only one who’s not in on it.”
He nodded and gave a few understanding grunts, but in truth, I don’t think he was even listening to me. He opened a drawer, pulled out a small yellow-brown envelope and tossed it on the desk in front of me.
“Dat’s two hundred bucks. You get one a dose a week. Don’t spend it all at once, dere’s no extra if you blow tru it. You don’t owe rent on your room and you can eat in da club for free, so you shouldn’t need much more den dat.”
I picked up the envelop and fingered the cash. The bills were old, frayed at the edges and smelling of grease and tobacco. I folded it and stuffed it in my pocket.
“This is from Maureen?” I asked.
He frowned.
“Who’s Maureen?”
“Uh, you know, Maureen Reprobi?”
“Is dat you’re wife?”
I shook my head.
“Girlfriend?”
“No she’s-”
“Look Gavin. The money’s from me. Ya can’t live on nottin’ and that’s what I got ta give right now. I don’t know no Maureen, but yur not s’posed to be comminglin’ wit da general public from what I hear, so maybe try forgettin’ bout your lady friend and focus on da task at hand.”
I shifted my weight. The room was musty and claustrophobic.
“Okay,” I said. “And what’s that?”
His mouth went up on one side and his forehead wrinkled.
“What’s what?”
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair.
“What is the task at hand? What am I doing here?”
He frowned deeply.
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“No, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know who you are, what this place is, or why I’m here. I’m looking for some answers here Mickey. What’s the fucking story.”
Mickey stood up. His face was bunched up and turning red. He leaned across the desk and put his eyeballs on mine.
“Listen ya little snot. You may not know who I am, but I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not da guy you talk to like dat. You hear me moderfucker‽ You’re here because Lenny vouched for you. He said to let you stay. He said to make sure you were taken care of and dat’s what I’m gonna do. But I don’t know his bidness and I don’t wanna. You’re here until Lenny say’s you’re not and dat’s de end of my two shits.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried hard to find my calm. Finally I looked back at him and leaned over the desk until our foreheads almost touched.
“Mickey,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Who the fuck is Lenny?”
Through the doors was a kitchen. Six burner stoves and food prep counters. Huge metal refrigerators and double ovens. There was a table with mixed fruit and vegetables on it and I eyed a bowl of bright red apples.
“So, Mr.-”
“Just call me Mickey,” the old man said. “Everyone else does.”
“Right, Mickey. Got it. So Mickey-”
“We’re going right down here,” he said leading me out of the kitchen and down a dark hallway.
The place was in shambles. Unpainted Sheetrock walls with fist sized holes here and there. There were three light fixtures in the ceiling, of which only one flickered hazy orangeish light occasionally. There were two doors on either side of the corridor and one at the end. All had latches and padlocks on them.
At the end of the hall Mickey stuck a key in the padlock and popped open the door. The room was essentially a broom closet with a desk. He squeezed in before me and sat down then motioned for me to follow suit. There were no other chairs in the space and, even standing, my knees were pressed against the front edge of the desk.
“So, welcome Mr. Gayle. I understand you’ll be staying with us for a while.”
I looked at him with a combination of confussion and annoyance.
“Well Mr… Mickey. Mickey, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know why I’m here. I was hoping you could shed some light. They just dropped me off and told me to come here. It seems like it’s all a big secret and I’m the only one who’s not in on it.”
He nodded and gave a few understanding grunts, but in truth, I don’t think he was even listening to me. He opened a drawer, pulled out a small yellow-brown envelope and tossed it on the desk in front of me.
“Dat’s two hundred bucks. You get one a dose a week. Don’t spend it all at once, dere’s no extra if you blow tru it. You don’t owe rent on your room and you can eat in da club for free, so you shouldn’t need much more den dat.”
I picked up the envelop and fingered the cash. The bills were old, frayed at the edges and smelling of grease and tobacco. I folded it and stuffed it in my pocket.
“This is from Maureen?” I asked.
He frowned.
“Who’s Maureen?”
“Uh, you know, Maureen Reprobi?”
“Is dat you’re wife?”
I shook my head.
“Girlfriend?”
“No she’s-”
“Look Gavin. The money’s from me. Ya can’t live on nottin’ and that’s what I got ta give right now. I don’t know no Maureen, but yur not s’posed to be comminglin’ wit da general public from what I hear, so maybe try forgettin’ bout your lady friend and focus on da task at hand.”
I shifted my weight. The room was musty and claustrophobic.
“Okay,” I said. “And what’s that?”
His mouth went up on one side and his forehead wrinkled.
“What’s what?”
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair.
“What is the task at hand? What am I doing here?”
He frowned deeply.
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“No, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know who you are, what this place is, or why I’m here. I’m looking for some answers here Mickey. What’s the fucking story.”
Mickey stood up. His face was bunched up and turning red. He leaned across the desk and put his eyeballs on mine.
“Listen ya little snot. You may not know who I am, but I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not da guy you talk to like dat. You hear me moderfucker‽ You’re here because Lenny vouched for you. He said to let you stay. He said to make sure you were taken care of and dat’s what I’m gonna do. But I don’t know his bidness and I don’t wanna. You’re here until Lenny say’s you’re not and dat’s de end of my two shits.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried hard to find my calm. Finally I looked back at him and leaned over the desk until our foreheads almost touched.
“Mickey,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Who the fuck is Lenny?”
Chapter Nine
I’m wasn’t what you might call a church goer. I was baptized in an inflatable kiddie pool when I was thirteen, but it was mostly for my mom, and my faith more or less evaporated shortly after that. I wasn’t a chapter and verse kind of guy, so the message on the back of the card meant almost nothing to me.
I sat at my table in the dark corner of the club and sipped on my bourbon tuning the card over and over in my hand. I had a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to me that I hadn’t touched in a while and it had grown a long tail of ash. When it finally put itself out it gave off that distinctive odder of dead tobacco and it reminded me to light another one. I dragged on the new butt and set it down in the ashtray next to the last three.
Revelation 2:8.
I recognized it as a bible verse obviously. Revelation was the last book of the new testament and as I recalled it was full of all kinds of trippy imagery and dire predictions about the end of the world. Is that what Agent Flannery was trying to tell me? That my world was about to end? Was it a warning? I set the card down and picked up the smoke.
I needed a bible, but the club wasn’t the kind of place that would have one lying around. A computer would do the trick, but Mickey didn’t allow them. No cell phones either. Nothing was allowed inside those walls that could be tracked or traced. The last thing he wanted was people nosing around down there. I figured I’d have to go find one or the other.
I crushed out my smoke, drained my glass and stood up. When I stepped out of the club it was raining again. I stood under the faded red awning and watched the drops falling though the cone shaped light of the streetlamps. It was cold and wet and I felt a sense of dispair wash over me.
I was standing in the rain at three o’clock in the morning looking for a bible because the FBI had Weather. The phrase ‘Eli’s Coming’ passed through my mind and I began to walk. A block north, past the tire shop and the bank was St. Kevin Catholic Church. It wasn’t even dawn yet, so I suspected that it would be locked up, but I climbed the steps anyway and tugged on the door. To my surprise it opened.
The inside was old. Small speckled tile that I expect had once been white but now appeared a dishwater gray covered the narthex. Past that and through a set of double doors that had clearly been painted and repainted many times over the years was the nave. It was small for a Catholic Church and the red carpet was thin and threadbare.
I slid into the back row of pews and lowered my head out of a practiced respect more that actual reverence. The place was silent and the quiet rushed in my ears like the static on a television mistuned. I looked around for a moment, making sure I was alone. I lit a cigarette, then took one of the bibles from the slot in the pew in front of me.
The hard faux leather cover had grown soft with age and the onion paper pages were yellowed and smudged. I flipped to the back and found the heading for The Revelation to John. I ran my finger down the columns of text counting out each tiny number denoting the beginning of a new verse. After a flip of the page my finger landed on chapter two verse eight.
And to the angel of the church in Smyrna write: ‘The words of the first and the last, who died and came to life.
I felt a chill.
‘Who died and came to life’
That was a little more direct than I had expected.
There was a creek in the floor behind me and I jumped. I dropped my cigarette on the hardwood floor and stepped on it, then turned in my seat and saw the agent standing just inside the aged double doors. He was dripping wet and had a tired expression on his face. I tried to dampen the expression of surprise on my face, but my skin felt like rubber and I knew I was white as a ghost.
“Did you figure it out?” he asked hoarsely.
I blinked. I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt trapped, caught with my hand in the cookie jar, but on the other hand, what could he really know?
I wiped rainwater from my face and pushed my hair out of my eyes. I coughed once and cleared my throat.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I asked.
The agent sighed and brushed water off his coat. He walked to the pew in front of me and took a seat, turning around to face me and resting his inside arm on the top of the bench.
“I thought it was clever,” he said. “The bible verse.”
He gestured at the card I was still holding in my hand.
“Don’t get me wrong, I had to look it up. I didn’t just have it off the top of my head or anything. Still, I thought it was very Day of the Jackal. Didn’t you?”
I took a breath to say something, but Flannery interrupted me.
“Look Gavin,”
I frowned.
“I’m trying to save us some time by dispensing with the pretenses. We can do the whole back and forth where you say you aren’t who you are and I counter with how it is I know that you are, but oh my God that would be tiresome.”
I leaned back in my seat. I reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out my sterling silver cigarette case and a thin gold Zippo lighter. I pulled another Treasurer Black from the case, screwed it between my lips and lit it. Agent Flannery didn’t look surprised.
“Maybe you could indulge me just a minute or two of the back and forth so that I can get caught up on who you are and exactly who it is you think I am.”
I was stalling. Flannery rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat.
“You smoke in church?”
I shrugged.
“No one else here, and I don’t think God really cares. Do you?”
“Do I care, or do I think God does?”
I gave a weak smile.
“Well, until I know who you are you’re opinion matters less to me than God’s.”
Flannery nodded.
“Right. Well, I suppose a formal introduction isn’t out of order. Like it says on the card, I’m Special Agent Kyle Flannery. I work for the FBI. I was just uptown talking with your girlfriend, but of course you already know that. Right? Because you were there.”
I put on a confused expression and took a drag off my cigarette.
“I was where? I, look, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
My instinct was to play dumb, but I was holding the card that he had left on my windshield. There wasn’t a lot of point in denying it. I looked at the square of cardboard in my hand. Flannery looked irritated. Clearly he expected the conversation to go differently.
“Yeah, I was uptown a bit ago. I had to pay a parking ticket, when I came back to my car this was on my wind shield, but I don’t know why.”
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
I took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it out on the floor next to the other one. I let out the smoke and shrugged.
“I’m what you would call an analyst. Three years ago I got picked to come here to Chicago,” he said. “To investigate corruption. This guy Grayson, he hears that I’m really good at research. Paperwork investigation. So he sends for me and I move from Arizona to The Windy City, which sucks because it’s like the middle of January and your city’s a piece of shit in the winter.
“Anyway, one of the first things I do is hook up with the Postal Inspector General here. I usually do that at the start of a case. It’s a federal job so it’s generally outside the influence of county corruption. Plus, any illegal transactions that go through the mail become a federal crime and it makes my job way easier.”
I nod.
“Okay,” I say. “And…”
“And,” Flannery says starting to get worked up. “Not two weeks after he and I meet for the first time he ends up dead.”
I swallowed.
“So he’s shot, bullet in the eye in an alley off Fulton Market.”
“Are you accusing me of-”
“No no. No he was killed by a mobbed up restaurant owner that he was going to testify against. But you see, that guy was dead too. Right there in the alley with him. He was armed and ballistics confirmed that the gun he had was the weapon that killed Postal Inspector Carrigan. The problem is, Carrigan wasn’t armed, and this guy that killed him, he’d been shot. He’d been shot a lot. Like nine times.”
I shifted in my seat.
“So we get the bullets out of this guy. We run them through NIBIN, that’s our ballistics database, and bam! There’s a hit. The gun that fired these shots is in our system. That’s amazing luck, but there’s a catch.”
I felt myself starting to sweat and that sickening fight or flight urge pushing it’s way up through my intestines and into my stomach.
“The problem is, the only other record we have on file is an unsolved. Some guy comes into Stroger with a gunshot wound to his shoulder. Doc’s dig it out and patch it up, but he’s some ghost. John Smith on the file. Bad luck, but there’s something weird.”
“Of course there is,” I said.
“It’s the guy’s insurance. It just doesn’t look right. I do some digging and it turns out it’s not insurance at all. It’s a slush fund.”
I blinked.
“No shit, it’s an actual city cash pool they use to pay bribes and keep certain transactions off the record. Except of course they record them, because criminals are stupid.”
I was starting to wish he’d shut up already.
“So this is great. I’m able to connect all these dots, lots of indictments going out, but I’m still bothered by the John Smith thing. So I go back to the slush fund records. There are tons of medical payments, but mostly they are for work related injuries or elective surgeries, which is another story altogether. There is one from five years earlier though. It’s a stab wound.”
I winced and immediately regretted it.
“I know, right?” he says. “Guy brought in by a CPD detective with a stab wound to his gut. It’s bad, but not really life threatening. It’s way clear of all the major organs, just really bloody. So they stitch this guy up too, and wouldn’t you know he’s also a John Smith.”
I stared at him coldly because I knew exactly what he was going to say next.
“But this time, someone had corrected the file. There’s a nurses note next to the name. It says, ‘patient goes by Gavin Gayle’.
He paused. I’m sure he was expecting me to say something, and part of me wanted to. I wanted to feign surprise or make some excuse, but my better sense told me to shut up. For once I listened.
“So, do you know what I found out about Gavin Gayle?” he asked mockingly.
“I expect you’re going to tell me,” I said.
“Gavin Gayle is dead.”
It was strange hearing that sentence again. Of course I already knew it. I’d been living as a dead man for eight years, but to hear it said aloud was chilling. I controlled my expression. I didn’t flinch, but I felt my body go cold and my hands unconsciously gripped the edge of my seat.
“Official records said that Gavin Gayle died in prison. He was arrested at age nineteen for the murder of a man he caught sleeping with his girlfriend. He went to prison at Statesville and was killed inside by another inmate.”
I was starting to get dizzy. I was hyperventilating, trying to control it, but failing. My heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to throw up. I needed to get out of there, needed to get back to the safety of The Club. I started trying to find an excuse to get up, to leave, to run away.
“Now the strangest thing. The way Gavin died. He was stabbed. He was stabbed in the gut by another prisoner on the same day as the patient that showed up at Stroger. That seems unbelievable doesn’t it? That’s why I left you that card”
“I have to go,” I spat.
“And I want to know what happened. I want to know how you got out of prison and what you’ve been doing for the past eight years.”
I stood up.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I said.
“Gavin, come on. The last time you found your girlfriend in bed with a guy you killed him. Now I have another dead man, and it appears he was sleeping with her too. We both know she didn’t kill him, but someone is going to pay for it and at the moment it’s looking like it’s going to be her. Is that what you want?”
I glared at him. He was playing with me.
“Ya know, maybe it is. Maybe it’s exactly what you want. Maybe you’re punishing her.”
I took a breath and pushed all my emotions down into my gut. I wrapped my lips around my teeth and balled my fists at my side. I stared hard at the agent feeling my ears grow hot and my hair stand up on my neck. I opened my mouth, then turned and walked out the ancient doors and into the cold morning air.
The sun was low in the east, not yet visible over the tops of the buildings. My breath hung in heavy clouds around my head and I felt the sweat on my forehead freezing. My skin stung, but my heart started to slow down and my mind started to clear.
I was in a jam. My whole life for the past eight years had been a twisting line of dominoes being placed one in front of the other. The only thing keeping them standing was that I wasn’t real. No one knew me and I didn’t know them back. Gavin wasn’t real, which meant nothing he did was real either. Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble had been my only instructions and I had followed them, but now, through no fault of my own, this agent had found one of the dominoes and he was trying to tip it over. If I let it fall everything would come crashing down.
They had Weather and they had a dead Fed and they were going to tie the two of them together unless I did something. She would go to prison and she would get the chair. The only way for me to stop it was to prove it wasn’t her and that meant coming out of hiding, which also meant I would have to face the consequences of that. One of us was going to die and I had to decide which one.
I walked back to the club in the pouring rain. I kept checking behind me to make sure the agent wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. He was letting me stew in it, letting me feel the weight of the choice.
When I walked back through the rotten red door on Torrence Nate was there.
“Hey Gavin, you’re wet,” he said with genuine sounding concern.
“Yeah, Nate. It’s raining out.”
“Oh, right. Hey, there’s someone here to see you.”
I stopped and turned in the dark to look at him, or at least in his direction.
“What‽” I said.
“Some lady. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“So you let her in? Jesus Nate, if Mickey finds out…”
“I’m not hittin’ no girl,” Nate said. “Mickey know that. I said from the beginning I’m not hittin’ no girls.”
I gave a weak smile of understanding.
“Yeah Nate, you’re right. We don’t hit girls.”
“That’s right. Not girls. Never girls.”
“Okay Nate, do you know who she is?”
I couldn’t see him to read his expression, but his voice sounded light and unconcerned.
“Nope, never seen ‘er before.”
“Okay Nate,” I said. “I’ll go see what she wants.”
I’m wasn’t what you might call a church goer. I was baptized in an inflatable kiddie pool when I was thirteen, but it was mostly for my mom, and my faith more or less evaporated shortly after that. I wasn’t a chapter and verse kind of guy, so the message on the back of the card meant almost nothing to me.
I sat at my table in the dark corner of the club and sipped on my bourbon tuning the card over and over in my hand. I had a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to me that I hadn’t touched in a while and it had grown a long tail of ash. When it finally put itself out it gave off that distinctive odder of dead tobacco and it reminded me to light another one. I dragged on the new butt and set it down in the ashtray next to the last three.
Revelation 2:8.
I recognized it as a bible verse obviously. Revelation was the last book of the new testament and as I recalled it was full of all kinds of trippy imagery and dire predictions about the end of the world. Is that what Agent Flannery was trying to tell me? That my world was about to end? Was it a warning? I set the card down and picked up the smoke.
I needed a bible, but the club wasn’t the kind of place that would have one lying around. A computer would do the trick, but Mickey didn’t allow them. No cell phones either. Nothing was allowed inside those walls that could be tracked or traced. The last thing he wanted was people nosing around down there. I figured I’d have to go find one or the other.
I crushed out my smoke, drained my glass and stood up. When I stepped out of the club it was raining again. I stood under the faded red awning and watched the drops falling though the cone shaped light of the streetlamps. It was cold and wet and I felt a sense of dispair wash over me.
I was standing in the rain at three o’clock in the morning looking for a bible because the FBI had Weather. The phrase ‘Eli’s Coming’ passed through my mind and I began to walk. A block north, past the tire shop and the bank was St. Kevin Catholic Church. It wasn’t even dawn yet, so I suspected that it would be locked up, but I climbed the steps anyway and tugged on the door. To my surprise it opened.
The inside was old. Small speckled tile that I expect had once been white but now appeared a dishwater gray covered the narthex. Past that and through a set of double doors that had clearly been painted and repainted many times over the years was the nave. It was small for a Catholic Church and the red carpet was thin and threadbare.
I slid into the back row of pews and lowered my head out of a practiced respect more that actual reverence. The place was silent and the quiet rushed in my ears like the static on a television mistuned. I looked around for a moment, making sure I was alone. I lit a cigarette, then took one of the bibles from the slot in the pew in front of me.
The hard faux leather cover had grown soft with age and the onion paper pages were yellowed and smudged. I flipped to the back and found the heading for The Revelation to John. I ran my finger down the columns of text counting out each tiny number denoting the beginning of a new verse. After a flip of the page my finger landed on chapter two verse eight.
And to the angel of the church in Smyrna write: ‘The words of the first and the last, who died and came to life.
I felt a chill.
‘Who died and came to life’
That was a little more direct than I had expected.
There was a creek in the floor behind me and I jumped. I dropped my cigarette on the hardwood floor and stepped on it, then turned in my seat and saw the agent standing just inside the aged double doors. He was dripping wet and had a tired expression on his face. I tried to dampen the expression of surprise on my face, but my skin felt like rubber and I knew I was white as a ghost.
“Did you figure it out?” he asked hoarsely.
I blinked. I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt trapped, caught with my hand in the cookie jar, but on the other hand, what could he really know?
I wiped rainwater from my face and pushed my hair out of my eyes. I coughed once and cleared my throat.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I asked.
The agent sighed and brushed water off his coat. He walked to the pew in front of me and took a seat, turning around to face me and resting his inside arm on the top of the bench.
“I thought it was clever,” he said. “The bible verse.”
He gestured at the card I was still holding in my hand.
“Don’t get me wrong, I had to look it up. I didn’t just have it off the top of my head or anything. Still, I thought it was very Day of the Jackal. Didn’t you?”
I took a breath to say something, but Flannery interrupted me.
“Look Gavin,”
I frowned.
“I’m trying to save us some time by dispensing with the pretenses. We can do the whole back and forth where you say you aren’t who you are and I counter with how it is I know that you are, but oh my God that would be tiresome.”
I leaned back in my seat. I reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out my sterling silver cigarette case and a thin gold Zippo lighter. I pulled another Treasurer Black from the case, screwed it between my lips and lit it. Agent Flannery didn’t look surprised.
“Maybe you could indulge me just a minute or two of the back and forth so that I can get caught up on who you are and exactly who it is you think I am.”
I was stalling. Flannery rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat.
“You smoke in church?”
I shrugged.
“No one else here, and I don’t think God really cares. Do you?”
“Do I care, or do I think God does?”
I gave a weak smile.
“Well, until I know who you are you’re opinion matters less to me than God’s.”
Flannery nodded.
“Right. Well, I suppose a formal introduction isn’t out of order. Like it says on the card, I’m Special Agent Kyle Flannery. I work for the FBI. I was just uptown talking with your girlfriend, but of course you already know that. Right? Because you were there.”
I put on a confused expression and took a drag off my cigarette.
“I was where? I, look, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
My instinct was to play dumb, but I was holding the card that he had left on my windshield. There wasn’t a lot of point in denying it. I looked at the square of cardboard in my hand. Flannery looked irritated. Clearly he expected the conversation to go differently.
“Yeah, I was uptown a bit ago. I had to pay a parking ticket, when I came back to my car this was on my wind shield, but I don’t know why.”
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
I took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it out on the floor next to the other one. I let out the smoke and shrugged.
“I’m what you would call an analyst. Three years ago I got picked to come here to Chicago,” he said. “To investigate corruption. This guy Grayson, he hears that I’m really good at research. Paperwork investigation. So he sends for me and I move from Arizona to The Windy City, which sucks because it’s like the middle of January and your city’s a piece of shit in the winter.
“Anyway, one of the first things I do is hook up with the Postal Inspector General here. I usually do that at the start of a case. It’s a federal job so it’s generally outside the influence of county corruption. Plus, any illegal transactions that go through the mail become a federal crime and it makes my job way easier.”
I nod.
“Okay,” I say. “And…”
“And,” Flannery says starting to get worked up. “Not two weeks after he and I meet for the first time he ends up dead.”
I swallowed.
“So he’s shot, bullet in the eye in an alley off Fulton Market.”
“Are you accusing me of-”
“No no. No he was killed by a mobbed up restaurant owner that he was going to testify against. But you see, that guy was dead too. Right there in the alley with him. He was armed and ballistics confirmed that the gun he had was the weapon that killed Postal Inspector Carrigan. The problem is, Carrigan wasn’t armed, and this guy that killed him, he’d been shot. He’d been shot a lot. Like nine times.”
I shifted in my seat.
“So we get the bullets out of this guy. We run them through NIBIN, that’s our ballistics database, and bam! There’s a hit. The gun that fired these shots is in our system. That’s amazing luck, but there’s a catch.”
I felt myself starting to sweat and that sickening fight or flight urge pushing it’s way up through my intestines and into my stomach.
“The problem is, the only other record we have on file is an unsolved. Some guy comes into Stroger with a gunshot wound to his shoulder. Doc’s dig it out and patch it up, but he’s some ghost. John Smith on the file. Bad luck, but there’s something weird.”
“Of course there is,” I said.
“It’s the guy’s insurance. It just doesn’t look right. I do some digging and it turns out it’s not insurance at all. It’s a slush fund.”
I blinked.
“No shit, it’s an actual city cash pool they use to pay bribes and keep certain transactions off the record. Except of course they record them, because criminals are stupid.”
I was starting to wish he’d shut up already.
“So this is great. I’m able to connect all these dots, lots of indictments going out, but I’m still bothered by the John Smith thing. So I go back to the slush fund records. There are tons of medical payments, but mostly they are for work related injuries or elective surgeries, which is another story altogether. There is one from five years earlier though. It’s a stab wound.”
I winced and immediately regretted it.
“I know, right?” he says. “Guy brought in by a CPD detective with a stab wound to his gut. It’s bad, but not really life threatening. It’s way clear of all the major organs, just really bloody. So they stitch this guy up too, and wouldn’t you know he’s also a John Smith.”
I stared at him coldly because I knew exactly what he was going to say next.
“But this time, someone had corrected the file. There’s a nurses note next to the name. It says, ‘patient goes by Gavin Gayle’.
He paused. I’m sure he was expecting me to say something, and part of me wanted to. I wanted to feign surprise or make some excuse, but my better sense told me to shut up. For once I listened.
“So, do you know what I found out about Gavin Gayle?” he asked mockingly.
“I expect you’re going to tell me,” I said.
“Gavin Gayle is dead.”
It was strange hearing that sentence again. Of course I already knew it. I’d been living as a dead man for eight years, but to hear it said aloud was chilling. I controlled my expression. I didn’t flinch, but I felt my body go cold and my hands unconsciously gripped the edge of my seat.
“Official records said that Gavin Gayle died in prison. He was arrested at age nineteen for the murder of a man he caught sleeping with his girlfriend. He went to prison at Statesville and was killed inside by another inmate.”
I was starting to get dizzy. I was hyperventilating, trying to control it, but failing. My heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to throw up. I needed to get out of there, needed to get back to the safety of The Club. I started trying to find an excuse to get up, to leave, to run away.
“Now the strangest thing. The way Gavin died. He was stabbed. He was stabbed in the gut by another prisoner on the same day as the patient that showed up at Stroger. That seems unbelievable doesn’t it? That’s why I left you that card”
“I have to go,” I spat.
“And I want to know what happened. I want to know how you got out of prison and what you’ve been doing for the past eight years.”
I stood up.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I said.
“Gavin, come on. The last time you found your girlfriend in bed with a guy you killed him. Now I have another dead man, and it appears he was sleeping with her too. We both know she didn’t kill him, but someone is going to pay for it and at the moment it’s looking like it’s going to be her. Is that what you want?”
I glared at him. He was playing with me.
“Ya know, maybe it is. Maybe it’s exactly what you want. Maybe you’re punishing her.”
I took a breath and pushed all my emotions down into my gut. I wrapped my lips around my teeth and balled my fists at my side. I stared hard at the agent feeling my ears grow hot and my hair stand up on my neck. I opened my mouth, then turned and walked out the ancient doors and into the cold morning air.
The sun was low in the east, not yet visible over the tops of the buildings. My breath hung in heavy clouds around my head and I felt the sweat on my forehead freezing. My skin stung, but my heart started to slow down and my mind started to clear.
I was in a jam. My whole life for the past eight years had been a twisting line of dominoes being placed one in front of the other. The only thing keeping them standing was that I wasn’t real. No one knew me and I didn’t know them back. Gavin wasn’t real, which meant nothing he did was real either. Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble had been my only instructions and I had followed them, but now, through no fault of my own, this agent had found one of the dominoes and he was trying to tip it over. If I let it fall everything would come crashing down.
They had Weather and they had a dead Fed and they were going to tie the two of them together unless I did something. She would go to prison and she would get the chair. The only way for me to stop it was to prove it wasn’t her and that meant coming out of hiding, which also meant I would have to face the consequences of that. One of us was going to die and I had to decide which one.
I walked back to the club in the pouring rain. I kept checking behind me to make sure the agent wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. He was letting me stew in it, letting me feel the weight of the choice.
When I walked back through the rotten red door on Torrence Nate was there.
“Hey Gavin, you’re wet,” he said with genuine sounding concern.
“Yeah, Nate. It’s raining out.”
“Oh, right. Hey, there’s someone here to see you.”
I stopped and turned in the dark to look at him, or at least in his direction.
“What‽” I said.
“Some lady. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“So you let her in? Jesus Nate, if Mickey finds out…”
“I’m not hittin’ no girl,” Nate said. “Mickey know that. I said from the beginning I’m not hittin’ no girls.”
I gave a weak smile of understanding.
“Yeah Nate, you’re right. We don’t hit girls.”
“That’s right. Not girls. Never girls.”
“Okay Nate, do you know who she is?”
I couldn’t see him to read his expression, but his voice sounded light and unconcerned.
“Nope, never seen ‘er before.”
“Okay Nate,” I said. “I’ll go see what she wants.”
Chapter Ten
Mickey led me back down the hallway to one of the unmarked doors. He stuck a key in the padlock and popped it open. He swung open the latch and hung the lock back on the steel loop. The door opened silently and he hit a switch on the wall to our right.
The room was spacious, compared to his office at least. It had four walls with chipped and peeling white paint on cement brick. The floor was untreated concrete but there were several small area rugs in strategic places. One spread out next to a twin sized bed made up with dusty looking sheets and an old comforter like something my grandmother would have had covering her sofa. Another lay underneath a small desk and a third under a dilapidated easy chair.
The switch had turned on a bare bulb screwed sideways into a fixture on the wall directly above it. Beyond that there was a small lamp on the nightstand next to the bed and a green glass shaded light on the desk. A skinny door stood open on the bare wall to the right. Inside I could see a toilet and a shower door.
“So, dis is it,” Mickey said twisting the key to the padlock off his key ring. “It’s not much, but it’s dry an warm an we don’t have bugs.”
He held the key out to me and I took it.
“It’s a lot better than where I’m coming from,” I said.
He nodded.
“Don’t know, don’t wanna.”
I returned the gesture and let out a long sigh.
“Well, make yaself at home. dere’s some betta clothes hangin’ in da batroom. Nottin’ fancy, but dey’ll fit ya betta dan whateva da hell dat gangster outfit you got on does.”
“Well, thank you,” I said and stepped further into the room.
“I’ll be in da kitchen for a bit,” he said. “I gotta see dat da cooks ‘av statted dinna.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Dinna’s at six”
“Thanks Mickey.”
“Okay den,” he said and left the room closing the door behind him.
I looked around the space. I hadn’t been lying. It was much nicer than the six by eight cell I had woken up in that morning. It felt surreal to think of the events of the day and I felt a duality of emotion. I was grateful to be out and happy to have a safe and comfortable if slightly stark place to sleep, but I was anxious. I still had no idea why I was here and what was expected of me.
Why was I out and why was it so important that my previous life be erased so completely? Why too, did everyone seem to know my name if my previous identity was so off limits?
I laid down in the bed and stared at the flaking stucco ceiling. It wasn’t long before I was asleep.
When I woke up there was the sound of distant music. The room was dark and I was disoriented. At first I thought it had all been a dream. I reached over and touched the cold hard wall next to the bed. It felt just like the wall of my cell and I breathed a sigh that may have been relief. Then I put my feet on the floor and felt the texture of the rug under my feet. My heart skipped.
I fumbled around and found the lamp next to the bed and turned it on. Everything looked the same as I left it, except… there was something on the desk. As far as I could remember it had been empty when Mickey let me in.
I stood and walked over to the small surface. It was cheap. Press board with a faux wood laminate on it. It’s chunky legs crossed at angles on the sides and it had a single shallow drawer along the front. On top was a large brown envelope with black handwriting on it that said GG.
I opened the flap and dumped the contents out onto the desk. There were newspaper and magazine clippings as well as what looked like police reports, a couple photographs and a hand written note. I pushed the materials around on the desk and pulled out the photos.
They were eight by ten color photographs of a girl. She was young, in her early teens and she was beaten badly. She had a huge purple swollen eye and brown dried blood around her nose and mouth. There was a cut in her forehead and the unbruised eye was bloodshot.
There were three photos of her. One of them was head on, the other two were from either profile. All showed the same damage. All were closeups of just her head.
The forth picture was of a boy. He was young as well, probably about the same age as the girl. He was good looking and clean cut with sculpted hair and clean straight teeth, but the photo was a mugshot. He was standing in front of a wall with horizontal lines indicating height in feet and inches and he was holding a small black felt board with white plastic letters and numbers.
Miles Dasherman
CPD - 562173489
I reached over, flipped on the desk lamp and sat down. There were at least a dozen newspaper articles clipped out in the pile. Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun Times, The Daily Hearold. I picked up the first one in the stack and began to read.
JUSTICE ELUDES TOP LEGAL EAGLE
Today a cook county judge dismissed charges against a local teen for the brutal rape and beating of Samantha Reprobi, the daughter of State’s Attorney for Cook County Maureen Reprobi. The Judge stated that evidence submitted by the State’s Attorney’s office had been obtained illegally and that all statements by the accused and his associates submitted after the acquisition of said illegal evidence was inadmissible.
With no further untainted corroborating evidence to submit at the time of the hearing, the judge declared the accused free to go and…
I stopped reading. The legal documents and other articles fleshed it out further. Maureen’s daughter had been at a party. There had been boys and girls, but the parents of Marci, the girl hosting the party, had been present and the whole thing had been fairly innocent. There was no drinking and no drugs and it ended early, around 10:00 pm.
After that Sam and Marci had gone outside to swing on the swing set with some boys. The parents admit that they didn’t supervise this activity as they had gone to bed when the majority of the kids left. According to Samantha at some point Marci left with one boy to go make out leaving Sam alone with Miles. Samantha claimed that Miles gave her a bottle of water, and that shortly afterwards she became dizzy and disoriented. She said that it was then that he started touching her.
She said she resisted, verbally told him to stop, and tried to fight back at which point he slapped her. She told police that he beat her, raped her, then left her laying in the dirt under the swing in Marci’s backyard. At some point she stumbled out to the street and began walking towards home. That was all she remembered.
Her statements, however, were not corroborated by the others. Marci said that Samantha left in good health at the same time she went off with her boyfriend and that Miles had left a half an hour before that. Three boys from his LaCrosse team confirmed that they picked him up well before the party started to die down.
Two articles said that the S.A.’s office had jaw dropping evidence that would turn the course of the case around, but that evidence was never revealed to the press and the court quickly suppressed it and issued a gag order against anyone connected to it. Ultimately no one was ever brought to trial for the attack and Samantha was forced to change schools due to harassment and threats from other students.
I closed my eyes. I could picture the whole thing and it set my soul on fire. The story was familiar and it gave me a familiar feeling. So that’s why I was out. It wasn’t that she found new evidence in my case, it was simply that something had happened to her, to her family that made her understand. It also explained why she couldn’t just let me go, have my sentence commuted. There was nothing suggesting my innocence, just her emotional understanding of the circumstances. This was her way of apologizing. A nod to the injustice of the justice system.
There was a knock on my door and it opened before I could respond. Mickey stuck his head in and looked around for a moment before finding me at the desk.
“Oh hey,” he said with a slight tone of apology. “Uh, dinna’s startin’ to come out if yer interested.”
I smiled and gave a nod.
“Thanks Mickey, I’ll be out in a minute,” I said.
He waved and backed out of the room closing the door behind him.
I shuffled all the papers together and slid them back in the envelope. I felt a deep sense of anger towards the situation and pity for Maureen and her daughter. I should have felt some vindication and maybe a tad bit of resentment, but I didn’t. All I could thing about was how we let these things happen over and over again and the men, the boys who were responsible never seemed to have to face any consequences.
As I was putting the papers away I noticed something I hadn’t before. Taped to the top of the hand written note was a tiny piece of black plastic. It was rectangular with a small notch in one corner. It couldn’t have been any bigger than the finger nail on my pinky. I pulled out the sheet of paper and read it.
There was no message on the note, just a name and address. It was for Miles Dasherman. I frowned to myself and peeled the tape off the corner of the page. I looked at the piece of plastic. On the back it had four or five small metal strips at one end, but no markings at all. I had no idea what it was or what I was supposed to do with it, but I set it down on the desk with the note and sealed the envelope back up.
I went into the cramped bathroom and stripped down. I still had blood on my stomach and my stitches were starting to itch. I turned on the water in the shower and stepped in. I hadn’t taken a hot shower in five years and it felt amazing. The water pressure was strong and it felt like hot needles on my back. I relished the sensation and stood for a long time just letting it rush over me. Finally I soaped up and cleaned myself off.
I stepped out and dried myself with a soft towel, another experience I had missed for the past half decade. I brushed my teeth over the sink and took the new clothes off the hook on the wall.
They were nice all things considered. Clean dark jeans, a white button down shirt, a plain black leather belt and white socks and low cut black gym shoes. They fit well and made me feel like a new man. I slid the note and the plastic chip into my pocket and left my room locking the padlock on the way out.
I made my way down the hall and through the kitchen that was now bustling with activity. There were three cooks behind the line stirring and spicing pans full of simmering dishes on the stoves. A young Hispanic man was at a deep sink scrubbing pans and sending long white plates through a huge commercial dish washer.
There were a couple of young ladies in white button downs with loose black neck ties and short black skirts. They were attractive and giggled as they loaded plates of food onto round server trays. Mickey was in front of the line barking orders at the staff and garnishing plates with sides and silverware. He didn’t even look at me as I walked through.
In the dining room things were very subdued. The dusty blonde piano was now occupied by a curvaceous red head with a long braid down her back. She was playing some jazz piece and singing along, more to herself than for the benefit of the room. There were half a dozen occupied tables, all pairs of men eating and speaking in conspicuously low voices.
At the bar was a young man in black jeans and a black button down. He filled it out well. His face was hard and his jaw was chiseled. He had short buzzed hair and eyes that seemed gentle, but intense. I sat down and gave an apologetic smile.
“What can I get for you?” he asked.
“Sorry to trouble you,” I said. “Um, well, what kind of bourbon do you have?”
He squinted at me, suspicious. Clearly they didn’t have a lot of newcomers here and a question about their inventory was something to be wary of.
“The brown kind,” he said like I was stupid.
I felt myself blush with embarrassment which caused a swell of anger. I caught myself and stamped it down.
“Right,” I said. “Yeah, that’ll do. On the rocks please and thank you.”
He glared at me for a moment, then turned and pulled and unmarked bottle from the shelf behind him. He set a foggy, chipped rocks glass in front of me and filled it up with ice, then poured it half full of a pungent brown liquid.
“Thanks,” I said. “What do I owe you?”
He looked at me like I was stupid, then rolled his eyes and walked away disappearing through the kitchen doors. I sipped the drink. It was harsh and strong and burned my mouth and throat when I swallowed. I wasn’t sure if that was because it was bad, or just that I hadn’t had a drink since I’d been sent away.
I surveyed the room. It was like something out of a movie. Tables of well dressed men leaning forward over their food, whispering to each other and trying hard not to look at the other tables around them.
I still wasn’t sure what the place was, but I was growing more and more certain that it wasn’t public and it probably wasn’t legal. It made me uneasy as to why I was there. The top legal authority in the city had broken me out of prison and deposited me in a seedy underground speakeasy where what appeared to be bad men were whispering about what could only be bad things. The altruistic nature of my release was beginning to come into question in my mind.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and I jumped, nearly tipping over my bar stool in the process.
“Sorry,” a soft voice said.
I turned and saw one of the young ladies from the kitchen. She was petite with a soft face and pleasantly tan skin.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “You’re Gavin right?”
I gave a shrug.
“People keep asking me that and I, honestly, don’t know the right answer.”
She laughed. It was a cheerful enthusiastic laugh and it made me feel better immediately. I relaxed a little and let a smile cross my face.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I said.
“Nice to meet you Gavin. I’m Katie. Mickey sent me out to get you. He’s got a booth set up for you just over there.”
She gave a small gesture with her head without ever breaking eye contact with me.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind the bar. Thank you though.”
Her grin faltered momentarily then shallowed into a polite smile.
“Mickey has a table for you. I’ll take you there now.”
I got the hint. I nodded and stood up. She led me through the room to a dark corner in the back. There was a single step up to a wide platform that was sectioned off from the rest of the space by a low rail. On the platform was a highboy with a couple of stools and a wide corner booth that sat just out of the dim pool of light cast by the candles on the tables in the room.
“If you’d like to have a seat here,” she held her hand out towards the booth, “I’ll be back with your dinner shortly.”
“I, uh, haven’t seen a menu yet,” I said.
She gave a condescending server’s smile and clasped her hands together at her waist.
“There are no menus in the club Mr. Gayle. Dinner is decided upon by the chef each day and provided at no cost to the members. Tonight we are serving a flash seared buffalo carpaccio with garlic toast points and oven baked brie followed by apricot glazed duck breast, roasted asparagus and baby red potatoes. Have a seat and I’ll bring out your food, and another…”
“Bourbon,” I said sheepishly.
“Bourbon it is,” she said and walked away.
I was very embarrassed at that point and it made my anger simmer under my skin. I couldn’t figure out what this place was. Club? That’s what she had called it. The Club. But what kind of club? I sat down in the booth and laid my hands on the table. I was starting to get irritated by the vagueness and ambiguity of the whole situation. It was like I had been handed a jigsaw puzzle without a picture of what it was supposed to look like when it was put together.
I went over it all in my head. I had been stabbed. This morning I had been stabbed. It was hard to believe that had been the same day. I was taken from prison to a hospital thirty miles away. I had been stitched up and released to a Chicago police detective. I was given directions by the same woman who had put me in prison in the first place, then dropped off at an underground club where they were expecting me, but didn’t know why or who brought me. I’m given a package with pictures and information about a rape case that has nothing to do with me and; and what? The chip, and a plastic chip I can’t identify.
“All right, Mr. Gayle,” Katie said stepping back up into my section.
She set a wide rectangular white china plate in front of me. On it were four paper thin strips of raw red meat, an equal portion of small oval pieces of toast and a wedge of gooey beige cheese melting out of a white waxy rhine. She set down another opaque glass with ice and bourbon and a white linen napkin with silverware rolled inside it.
“I’ll have you’re entree out shortly, is there anything else I can do for you right now?”
“I don’t think so,” I said quietly. “Thank you so much.”
She nodded and turned to walk away.
“Oh, Katie,” I spurted out just having had an idea.
She stopped and turned back to face me.
“Yes Mr. Gayle?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t really part of your job, I’m sure, but you wouldn’t happen to know what this is?”
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the small black chip of plastic. I set it on the table and slid it towards her. She stepped up and leaned over examining it without touching it.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s an SD card.”
She sounded like a person answering an imbecile.
“I’m sorry, a what?”
Her shoulders fell as if in disappointment.
“An SD card. A memory card. Like for a phone, or a camera. It’s actually a micro SD. Nothing really uses the big ones anymore.”
I frowned.
“What’s on it?” she said starting to sound interested.
I shrugged.
“I have no idea Katie. I have no idea.”
Chapter Eleven
I was cold and wet and still in a foul mood from my conversation with Agent Flannery when I stepped into the the dining room of the club. It was empty at that time of day and the candles on the tables had all burnt themselves out hours ago.
The woman was standing behind the bar inspecting the bottles and running her fingers over the dusty shelves. She was exactly as I remembered her; tall, slender but not skinny, blonde hair in a bob that ended just above her shoulders. She was dressed formally and held herself with an air of confidence. I crossed the floor, the heels of my boots making and authoritative clicking sound on the scuffed up hardwood floor. She turned towards me deliberately and leaned against the bar.
“Maureen,” I said sounding tired and annoyed.
“Gavin,” she said matching my tone. “It’s been a while.”
I pulled out a bar stool and took a seat, slumping myself on one elbow.
“A while,” I agreed. “But far short of forever. I thought that was the arrangement. I thought we were strangers. I thought you said we’d never see each other again.”
She let out a long sigh and nodded.
“Yes, yes that was the plan, but you kind of blew that tonight. Didn’t you?”
I rubbed my eyes in exhaustion then looked at her blankly.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t arrest Weather or invite in the FBI. I was just drinking here, minding my own business. I was staying out of trouble.”
“You sure?” she asked. “You sure you weren’t uptown putting a bullet in the guy that was sleeping with your ex?”
My neck prickled at the accusation.
“What‽” I said indignantly. “You think that was me‽”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know what to think Gavin. It is interesting that every time Weather is with a guy that’s not you he ends up dead.”
I felt cold furry starting to set in.
“First of all, I don’t know that that’s even true. I imagine she’s had other men in her life over the last thirteen years. They can’t all be dead.”
She gave me a condescending glare.
“Bullshit Gavin. You know damn well she’s had exactly zero involvement with other men. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what’s going on with her all the time. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
It was true of course. I had kept tabs, quietly, on Weather since I had been sent away. I told myself it was out of love. Out of concern for her safety, but I had quiet moments; moments when I’d had one martini too many, when I knew. I knew it was out of some strange possessiveness. A sense that my time in prison was payment for my ownership of Weather rather than for what I had done to that boy. It was those moments that I realized what a truly bad person I was.
“Whatever Maureen. I was here all night and you know that. You have all your little spies watching over me all the time. You know exactly where I am at any given moment and you know damn well I wasn’t uptown killing that Fed.”
She looked down at the bar and gave a slight nod, then she looked at me again.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you know Weather didn’t kill him either. I doubt very strongly she was even sleeping with him for that matter. I don’t know why she was there, but it wasn’t to go to bed with him and it wasn’t to kill him. There’s just no reason.”
“You’re probably right,” she agreed. “But as I’m sure Detective Hinde told you, that hardly matters. What matters is that you stay the fuck away from it all. That’s been the deal since the beginning. You stay out of the spotlight. You stay quiet and invisible or else I have to make you disappear for real, and you fucked that up.”
I took a breath to interrupt, but she shut me down with a finger in my face.
“Hinde told you to stay out of it. She told you to stay away. Let the pieces fall and pretend you didn’t know, but no, you show up at the fucking police station. You have a sit down with the FBI‽ The fucking FBI‽ Jesus Gavin! What the fuck were you thinking?”
I was mad now. The whole evening had been building and building the agitation, the resentment, the simmering rage and it was that moment that it all came bursting out at the seams. I sat up, rigid and alert and slammed my fists on the bar.
“I’ll tell you what I was thinking you murderous psychotic bitch. I was thinking that I spent five years in a shit hole prison and another eight doing your evil fucking clean up jobs because I wanted to protect Weather, and now, now it looks like that was all for shit. All for nothing. She’s going to get a fucking needle in her arm for something she didn’t do and I’m supposed to sit back and let that happen? I’m supposed to live with everything I’ve done, everything you’ve made me do and have it all be fucking meaningless? Fuck you!”
I was screaming at her. Shaking my fists and getting red in the face. My anger was blowing itself out and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“I’m not doing it Maureen. I’m not letting her go down for this. You want to kill me? If that’s what you think you have to do, you do it. You go ahead and try. But who are you going to get to do that? Huh? Who do you have that’s going to kill me, because I fucking know you won’t do it yourself.”
She was red too at this point. Her hands were flat on the bar and she was shooting daggers with her eyes. Rage was oozing from her pores and she looked like she wanted to slap me.
“I din’t tell the FBI anything,” I said trying to slow my breathing and recapture my composure. “I told them they’ve got the wrong guy, but it doesn’t matter. They already know Maureen. He knew my name. He knew my car and he knew where to find me. They’ve already got all the pieces and they aren’t stupid either. They don’t know it’s you pulling the strings, but that’s what they’re looking for and you know they’ll get there eventually. How long did you think this was going to be able to go on for? What was your exit strategy for this whole fucking mess?”
She stared back at me with blank furry.
“God Maureen, I sure hope you have one, because now, now is the time to use it.”
She took a deep breath. She ran her fingers through her hair and put her hands in her pockets.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re right, it’s time.”
She pulled out her phone and laid it on the bar. She tapped the clock on the face of it and a timer app opened up. She tapped a few buttons and hit the big green start button. A countdown of five hours started runing.
“You have five hours to be gone,” she said coldly.
“What?”
“In five hours there’s shift change for the CPD. I’m sending your photo and licence plates to all the precincts. You are an unknown potential terrorist and should be arrested on site. You are considered armed and dangerous and deadly force is authorized in your apprehension.”
“You can’t-”
Her eyebrows went up and her pupils blazed.
“I can’t what? I want you to think about that statement. Think about what I did for you? You think about what I can and cant do. At roll call in five hours you are Chicago’s most wanted fugitive. You want my exit strategy. Here it is motherfucker. I’m not playing games. You disappear, you leave Weather to the Feds and you fucking vanish. Forever, or the next time a cop sees you you’ll be slid into a freezer with a blank tag on your toe and no one will ever think of you again.”
I looked into her eyes trying to determine if she was bluffing, but I knew. SA Reprobi didn’t bluff. She didn’t make empty threats and she never ever lost. Not anymore. Not in the past eight years.
Chapter Twelve
I ate my meal, which was excellent. The duck, especially, had a crisp skin and tangy apricot flavor. It was the best food I’d eaten in five years, and probably longer than that. The bourbon was cheap and light in color and character, but it did the trick and after a third I was feeling loose and relaxed.
Katie managed to score me a pack of Camel Wides from someone in the kitchen and to my surprise delivered them with a crystal ash tray and the permission of Mickey to smoke them at my table.
“It’s a private club,” she explained. “We can do whatever we want, the smoking ban doesn’t apply here.”
I thanked her and dug the petite Zippo from my pants pocket and lit one immediately. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d had a smoke and I hadn’t realized how much tension it had built up inside me. The thick smoke felt soothing as it penetrated my lungs and refilled the nicotine levels in my blood. I let out a long blue cloud and slumped back in my chair.
I picked up the small black chip from the table and turned it over and over in my fingers. I couldn’t believe that this tiny fleck of plastic was a computer disk. I had been away for five years, but had technology really advanced that quickly while I was gone? I stuck it in the breast pocket of my shirt and finished my drink and cigarette. I figured I would have to go out the next day and find a way to see what was on it.
By about eleven I was feeling the weight of the day and I headed back to my room. I was just collapsing into the Lazyboy when the knock came. I looked up expecting to see Mickey stick his head inside, but nothing happened. A moment later there was another knock.
I stood up, walked to the door and swung it open. Katie stood in the frame lit gently by the soft glow of the desk lamp. She was smiling nervously leaning on one leg and her hands clasped behind her back. When I smiled at her she bit her lower lip and glanced at the ground.
“Are you supposed to be back here?” I said.
“I dunno,” she said. “Probably not.”
There was a silence and then suddenly she blushed.
“Oh my God,” she spurted apologetically. “I’m not here to- I mean, I didn’t come back here to-”
I laughed.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t assume anything.”
“I just- I thought you might want to use this.”
She brought her hands from behind her back and produced a small shiny black piece of glass.
“It’s my phone. I thought you might want to see what was on that card.”
My eyes lit up.
“Wow, yes. Thanks,” I said and started digging in my shirt pocket for the chip.
“Um, can I,” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can I come inside. We’re not supposed to have phones here. I don’t want to get caught with it.”
I flushed thinking it had been rude not to invite her in in the first place.
“Oh, of course,” I said.
I stepped aside and she walked in. I shut the door and walked over to the desk and sat down. The card was difficult to fish out of my pocket because it was so small. It kept getting caught in the corners of the fabric, but eventually I got a grip on it and set it on the desk.
She slid her fingernail along the edge of her phone and pulled out a small wire tray. Expertly she dropped the tiny card into the tray and pushed it back into her device. a few moments of fiddling around and she showed me the screen. It was a file directory just like I remembered from the PCs we used in school. The header read: External Memory followed by a single file name.
Miles.vid
“It’s a video,” she said.
“Can we watch it?” I asked.
She laughed at that, clearly I was way out of touch.
“Of course,” she said and tapped on the file name on the screen.
Her phone went black, then an image popped up. There were two people in the frame. A boy and a girl. The boy was pushing the girl gently on a swing set behind a small brick house. The video appeared to be shot from behind some bushes. It was dark and shaky and there was the sound of breathing and hushed laughter.
The girl was sipping from a clear plastic water bottle and the boy’s hands were starting to move lower and lower on her back as he pushed her. Then the girl dropped the bottle and put her feet down on the ground. She said something, but it was inaudible on the recording.
The boy moved around in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. She swayed back and forth and sideways in the swing trying to steady herself. He moved his hands to her waist and leaned his head in towards her’s. She winced and turned away.
He followed her and kept moving in and she pushed him away gently. He came back in again and she wiggled off the swing and fell onto the dirt. He got on his knees and held her wrists over her head. He tried to kiss her again and she head butted him in the nose.
The boy backed off and held his face and there was the sound of laughter on the recording. Then the boy in the video leaned forward and slapped the girl hard in the face. He grabbed her shirt and tore it open exposing her bra. He reached down and grabbed her between the legs and said something that I couldn’t make out.
At this point the camera moved out of the bushes and towards the two kids on the ground. There was shouting and arguing and the boy looked back directly at the camera. He waved at it indicating that he wanted it off, then turned back to the girl. I saw his hands tear at the button and fly of her jeans and then the screen went blank.
I stared at the black screen of the phone and felt… nothing. I’d had a few drinks, half a pack of cigarettes and my fill of fear, anger, and rage for the day. The video was horrendous. It was appalling and disgusting, but somehow, not surprising. I had read the police reports and the news articles. I knew what had happened to the girl, Samantha Reprobi, the video was just too much. It was gilding the lilly and it just made me tired.
I’d seen it all before. With Weather. The injustice of the privileged and the disregard for women. The way we let boys behave and swept away girls like garbage. I knew that there was no justice for girls like her. She would be scarred forever. There would be something broken in her for the rest of her life and the boy would get to go on and do it again. More girls broken, more women learning never to trust a man. I felt helpless in the most profound way.
“Oh God,” the voice next to me said.
I looked up. I had forgotten that Katie was there.
“I’m sorry you had to see that I said,” putting a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away from me, then looked me in the eye with regret.
“Sorry, just a reflex,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
She gave a short sarcastic grunt.
“I doubt it.”
I felt a kind of shame.
“You’re right. Of course I don’t.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
I looked at her puzzled.
“Do?”
“Yeah, what are you going to do about this?”
I gave a vacant shrug.
“Nothing. What am I supposed to do?”
She laughed angrily.
“Well, is he in prison?”
“No,” I said. “They couldn’t convict.”
“Right,” she said sardonically. “Of course they couldn’t. Or they didn’t want to. Same shit different day.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they tried. The girl is the daughter of the State’s Attorney.”
Katie looked at me horrified.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
I looked at her phone and pulled the envelope from my back pocket and set it on the table.
“It was just here when I woke up this afternoon. I don’t know exactly where it came from.”
She opened the envelope and flipped through the contents.
“You have to do something,” she said. “Someone gave this to you so you could do something. You have to do something.”
“What though? What do you want me to do.”
She looked at me with frozen eyes.
“Gavin right? Gavin, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, but this place, this club; it’s not for the good guys. Good guys don’t come here.”
“What are you trying to say?” I whispered.
Her expression went flat.
“Jesus Gavin. Kill him. You have to kill him.”
I ate my meal, which was excellent. The duck, especially, had a crisp skin and tangy apricot flavor. It was the best food I’d eaten in five years, and probably longer than that. The bourbon was cheap and light in color and character, but it did the trick and after a third I was feeling loose and relaxed.
Katie managed to score me a pack of Camel Wides from someone in the kitchen and to my surprise delivered them with a crystal ash tray and the permission of Mickey to smoke them at my table.
“It’s a private club,” she explained. “We can do whatever we want, the smoking ban doesn’t apply here.”
I thanked her and dug the petite Zippo from my pants pocket and lit one immediately. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d had a smoke and I hadn’t realized how much tension it had built up inside me. The thick smoke felt soothing as it penetrated my lungs and refilled the nicotine levels in my blood. I let out a long blue cloud and slumped back in my chair.
I picked up the small black chip from the table and turned it over and over in my fingers. I couldn’t believe that this tiny fleck of plastic was a computer disk. I had been away for five years, but had technology really advanced that quickly while I was gone? I stuck it in the breast pocket of my shirt and finished my drink and cigarette. I figured I would have to go out the next day and find a way to see what was on it.
By about eleven I was feeling the weight of the day and I headed back to my room. I was just collapsing into the Lazyboy when the knock came. I looked up expecting to see Mickey stick his head inside, but nothing happened. A moment later there was another knock.
I stood up, walked to the door and swung it open. Katie stood in the frame lit gently by the soft glow of the desk lamp. She was smiling nervously leaning on one leg and her hands clasped behind her back. When I smiled at her she bit her lower lip and glanced at the ground.
“Are you supposed to be back here?” I said.
“I dunno,” she said. “Probably not.”
There was a silence and then suddenly she blushed.
“Oh my God,” she spurted apologetically. “I’m not here to- I mean, I didn’t come back here to-”
I laughed.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t assume anything.”
“I just- I thought you might want to use this.”
She brought her hands from behind her back and produced a small shiny black piece of glass.
“It’s my phone. I thought you might want to see what was on that card.”
My eyes lit up.
“Wow, yes. Thanks,” I said and started digging in my shirt pocket for the chip.
“Um, can I,” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can I come inside. We’re not supposed to have phones here. I don’t want to get caught with it.”
I flushed thinking it had been rude not to invite her in in the first place.
“Oh, of course,” I said.
I stepped aside and she walked in. I shut the door and walked over to the desk and sat down. The card was difficult to fish out of my pocket because it was so small. It kept getting caught in the corners of the fabric, but eventually I got a grip on it and set it on the desk.
She slid her fingernail along the edge of her phone and pulled out a small wire tray. Expertly she dropped the tiny card into the tray and pushed it back into her device. a few moments of fiddling around and she showed me the screen. It was a file directory just like I remembered from the PCs we used in school. The header read: External Memory followed by a single file name.
Miles.vid
“It’s a video,” she said.
“Can we watch it?” I asked.
She laughed at that, clearly I was way out of touch.
“Of course,” she said and tapped on the file name on the screen.
Her phone went black, then an image popped up. There were two people in the frame. A boy and a girl. The boy was pushing the girl gently on a swing set behind a small brick house. The video appeared to be shot from behind some bushes. It was dark and shaky and there was the sound of breathing and hushed laughter.
The girl was sipping from a clear plastic water bottle and the boy’s hands were starting to move lower and lower on her back as he pushed her. Then the girl dropped the bottle and put her feet down on the ground. She said something, but it was inaudible on the recording.
The boy moved around in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. She swayed back and forth and sideways in the swing trying to steady herself. He moved his hands to her waist and leaned his head in towards her’s. She winced and turned away.
He followed her and kept moving in and she pushed him away gently. He came back in again and she wiggled off the swing and fell onto the dirt. He got on his knees and held her wrists over her head. He tried to kiss her again and she head butted him in the nose.
The boy backed off and held his face and there was the sound of laughter on the recording. Then the boy in the video leaned forward and slapped the girl hard in the face. He grabbed her shirt and tore it open exposing her bra. He reached down and grabbed her between the legs and said something that I couldn’t make out.
At this point the camera moved out of the bushes and towards the two kids on the ground. There was shouting and arguing and the boy looked back directly at the camera. He waved at it indicating that he wanted it off, then turned back to the girl. I saw his hands tear at the button and fly of her jeans and then the screen went blank.
I stared at the black screen of the phone and felt… nothing. I’d had a few drinks, half a pack of cigarettes and my fill of fear, anger, and rage for the day. The video was horrendous. It was appalling and disgusting, but somehow, not surprising. I had read the police reports and the news articles. I knew what had happened to the girl, Samantha Reprobi, the video was just too much. It was gilding the lilly and it just made me tired.
I’d seen it all before. With Weather. The injustice of the privileged and the disregard for women. The way we let boys behave and swept away girls like garbage. I knew that there was no justice for girls like her. She would be scarred forever. There would be something broken in her for the rest of her life and the boy would get to go on and do it again. More girls broken, more women learning never to trust a man. I felt helpless in the most profound way.
“Oh God,” the voice next to me said.
I looked up. I had forgotten that Katie was there.
“I’m sorry you had to see that I said,” putting a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away from me, then looked me in the eye with regret.
“Sorry, just a reflex,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
She gave a short sarcastic grunt.
“I doubt it.”
I felt a kind of shame.
“You’re right. Of course I don’t.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
I looked at her puzzled.
“Do?”
“Yeah, what are you going to do about this?”
I gave a vacant shrug.
“Nothing. What am I supposed to do?”
She laughed angrily.
“Well, is he in prison?”
“No,” I said. “They couldn’t convict.”
“Right,” she said sardonically. “Of course they couldn’t. Or they didn’t want to. Same shit different day.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they tried. The girl is the daughter of the State’s Attorney.”
Katie looked at me horrified.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
I looked at her phone and pulled the envelope from my back pocket and set it on the table.
“It was just here when I woke up this afternoon. I don’t know exactly where it came from.”
She opened the envelope and flipped through the contents.
“You have to do something,” she said. “Someone gave this to you so you could do something. You have to do something.”
“What though? What do you want me to do.”
She looked at me with frozen eyes.
“Gavin right? Gavin, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, but this place, this club; it’s not for the good guys. Good guys don’t come here.”
“What are you trying to say?” I whispered.
Her expression went flat.
“Jesus Gavin. Kill him. You have to kill him.”
Miles’ address was on the North side of the city. Katie dropped me a few blocks away and I hiked the rest. It was a long walk, but it was a nice night and nobody worries about walking around the north side after dark. Besides, I needed time to think.
What Katie was asking me to do, what the package was asking, was outside of my moral comfort zone. It’s true, I had killed before, but somehow this was different. When I killed the kid attacking Weather it was in a haze of fear and anger. I wasn’t thinking and barely had any idea what I was doing.
The guy in prison, he had already killed someone else and would likely do it again if it benefited him. His death was a kind of revenge, but also a kind of preemptive self defense. Not only for myself, but for everyone inside and I still got an extended sentence and a month in the hole for it.
This kid. This Miles, he hadn’t killed anyone. Not yet at least. Sure, the personality type, the kind of person that could rape a teenage girl and leave her in the dirt, killing wouldn’t be a huge escalation for him. Still, it felt wrong. A premeditated, cold blooded murder because the justice system had failed. It was a lot to consider.
When I got to his building I grabbed a spot across the street with a clear view of the front door. I leaned against the building’s facade and pulled out a smoke. It was the last one in the pack Katie had given me. I spun it between my thumb and index finger deciding if I should burn it then or save it for later. I flipped the gold lighter open and spun the wheel. Sparks flew, but no flame.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and drew out the yellow bottle. I pulled the lighter out of its thin gold housing. flipped it over, lifted the dense wool bottom and squeezed the contents of the bottle into the loose cotton inside the Zippo. I closed it all back up, put the bottle back in my pocket and spun the wheel again.
This time a long orange and yellow flame danced around the cotton wick. I put it to my face and dragged on the cigarette. I closed the lighter with a satisfying click and stood there, looking at the building and smoking.
The envelope was back in my jeans. I pulled it out and read through the pages again . I was starting to feel something again. My heart was pumping again and adrenaline was starting to work its way through my system. My muscles were tense and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. I looked at the file again and back at the building, then I gave a quick glance down the street and another in the other direction.
There, a block away and on the other side of the street was a payphone. I stuffed my hand in pants pocket and fished out a handful of loose change Katie had given me.
“Call me when you need a ride back,” she had said. “You may have to search a bit for a payphone, but they’re still around.”
I crossed the street and stepped up on the curb just as the door to the building opened and Miles stepped out. I nearly ran into him. I lowered my head, muttered an apology and turned in the opposite direction of the kid. After a couple steps I spun on the balls of my feet and started casually following him.
Miles was a lowlife. A rich kid, popular, lots of money, but no empathy for anyone. That much was clear from the documents in the envelope. He was one of those kids who only kept friends that could do something for him. Anyone else was cast off as a worthless reject. He bullied and dismissed anyone with less money, status, or power than he had. Girls were objects to be used and then when they could no longer elevate his status, dismissed as sluts and whores.
He walked with the strut of someone who was never questioned. He had the air of someone who always got his way. I hated this kid already, but that wasn’t good enough. Not good enough by far for what they were asking me to do.
The kid took a sudden right down an ally and I paused. I stared ahead at the empty sidewalk and thought. It was getting late and the foot traffic in this neighborhood was light. I didn’t know what was down the alley, but if it wasn’t at least more crowded than the street it would be pretty obvious that I was following the kid. I decided the best decision was to walk past the alley at a casual speed. If it was clear I would double back and investigate it. If I saw the kid I’d just keep walking, cross the street and grab a dark corner to watch the opening from.
I started moving again. As I passed the alley I gave a quick glance that revealed an empty inlet dead ending into a low loading dock. I stopped and waited a moment then backed up and slowly started down the alley.
It was narrow, only about twelve feet wide at the opening then it seemed to widen out a bit before the dock doors. My feet were crunching on the loose gravel and broken glass that was strewn across the rough asphalt ground. I tried to stay quiet, but the sound seemed to echo off the narrow brick boundaries of the space. As I past the end of the path the alley opened up at the left. I turned to check my blind spot and caught a fist, hard, in the side of my face.
Real life fights don’t look like they do in the movies. No one gets thrown across rooms, or make melodramatic grunts. Punches don’t sound like a bat hitting a cantelope. In real life they’re almost silent except for the faint snap as the small bones in your hand break against the other guys skull. I heard that sound as I collapsed on the ground.
I felt the tiny rocks and debris tear the fabric of my pants and push up into the tissue around my knees. There was searing pain in my cheek and eye and I could tell there was blood soaking into my jeans.
I laid a hand on the ground and staggered backwards a couple steps as I tried to stand up. I was in a daze and shook my head trying to come back. I looked up just in time to see Miles pouncing forward. I took another blow to the face, this one just above my left eye. The skin opened up and blood ran down my face and into my mouth.
Another swing came in fast, but I managed to duck under it and I shot a straight punch hard into the kid’s lower ribs. I heard a slight crack that could have been his bones or mine and the kid staggered back gasping for breath. He tried to straighten up but couldn’t lift his torso. I pulled myself up straight and cracked my neck; first to one side then the other. I wiped the blood from my eyes and looked at it on my fingers. I wiped it on my pants.
“Miles, right?” I said in a breathy wheeze.
The kid stared at me with hate masking the pain that must have been shooting through his chest. He coughed and stood as straight as he could.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“Me?” I chuckled and shook my head slightly. “Kid, I’m no one.”
I stopped and thought about the unintended irony of that statement.
“Yeah,” I whispered to myself. “I’m no one and chances are if you hadn’t come at me like that I would have stayed no one.”
The kid stared at me. He leaned back against the brick wall behind him and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Why don’t you tell me about Samantha.” I said dabbing the cut above my eye with my sleeve.
The boy squinted at me and leaned forward a little.
“What?”
I sighed.
“Samantha Hoff,” I said starting to feel better and simultaneously starting to get annoyed. “Tell me about her. What’s the deal there?”
The kid leaned back again and closed his eyes. He let out a breathy sigh and lifted his head again.
“Shit. That’s what this is about? The lawyer’s slut daughter? Really? Fuck man, that’s old news. What’d she send you out here?”
I just stared at him and bled on my shirt.
“Look, she was all there. She was totally into me, she just wouldn’t pull the trigger. I mean seriously, a total cock tease. What was I supposed to do? Girl like that? Indecisive! What? I’m just supposed to let her keep leading me on? Get me all the way to the edge and then just change her mind? Fuck that man.”
I felt that pounding feeling in my chest again. This douche bag was not helping his own cause.
“So.” I said.
“So what? So I helped her decide. Girls needs to learn you can’t just keep leading a guy on like that. I didn’t want to be the one to teach her, but someone had to.”
I nodded. It was a sad gesture filled with regret.
“Look, I get it. Mom’s upset, but I guarantee you, at some point she got the same lesson.”
He coughed and started straightening up. His rib was broken, but it was a small fracture and hadn’t done any internal damage. He was getting his wind back and his confidence.
“It’s a part of growing up. Girls all have to learn at some point. They have to deliver on what they advertise.”
I tilted my head and took a step forward. The kid pulled his feet in closer to the wall he was propped up against and stood himself up a little straighter. I took one more step and the kid sprung. He shot up straight with a wince and pulled a heavy looking snub nosed pistol from his jacket pocket and aimed it at my chest.
I didn’t know much about guns. Not back then. I’d fired a shotgun a couple times at my grandparent’s Wisconsin cabin. It was a terrifying experience and had declined to make it a ritual. I’d also seen a couple basic revolvers come and go through my Mom’s house as a kid, but I had never held, let alone fired, an actual handgun and I certainly couldn’t tell one kind from another. That being said, this gun had what seemed to be an unusually short looking barrel and an unusually large looking hole at the end of it. All of this made me unusually scared. Scared shitless.
I took a half step backwards and turned sideways with one arm extended towards Miles, palm flat out.
“Okay kiddo. We don’t have to go this route. Like I said, I’m nobody.”
Pleading for your life is something you get used to in prison. It not working is another thing you get used to.
“If you hadn’t jumped me tonight you probably would never have even known I existed. I was just checking you out. As a favor. Just seeing who you were. This doesn’t have to end with someone shot.”
Miles smiled a little.
“I’ve got a cracked rib that I’m going to have to account for somehow. This ain't nothin’ now, and you ain't nobody.”
He turned the gun sideways in an attempt to be threatening and winched as the action torqued the muscles in his chest.
“And why is it,” he coughed, “the person at the wrong end of the gun is always saying nobody has to get shot? The only person looking to get shot tonight is you.”
I inched forward a bit holding his same position. He was weak and hurt and I suspected playing at being stronger than he was. I also figured there was a sixty-forty chance the gun wasn’t even loaded. Of course it could just have easily been forty-sixty. Kevin put his thumb on the hammer of the pistol and pulled it back. The click as it locked in place seemed so loud in the cold night air. I stopped moving.
“We’re really in a spot here now,” Miles said. “See, you may be telling the truth, but you know what they say about ifs and buts.”
I nodded cautiously.
“Candy and nuts,” I said.
“That’s right, and I don’t see any reason to believe that if I let you go, you won’t just turn up again, ya know?”
I nodded once.
“I am a bit like a bad penny.”
“So here we are.”
“Yup,” I said.
“Well then.”
I watched his eyes. He was definitely hurt worse than he was letting on. His pupils were opening and closing trying to hold focus. I made a quick judgement and dropped like a stone. My side hit the concrete with a thud and I swept my right leg in an arc in front of me. It caught his ankle and snapped it in two. He fell hard on his cracked rib and the gun went off like a firecracker.
I felt my left shoulder tear open and blood sprayed across my face and down my chest. My arm was on fire and everything went black for a few seconds. Pain spread up my neck and through my brain. It felt like someone was sticking ice picks in my eyes.
Slowly it shallowed out and my vision came back. I could move my hands, then my legs and finally my head and body. The city swam back into focus and I saw Miles.
He was gasping on the ground. He was alternately trying to breathe and cry at the same time. His eyes were clamped shut and tears were streaming out of them. I stood up, wincing and holding back tears myself. I stepped over the kid and reached down to the ground up pavement and grabbed the gun from his hand. The kid didn’t fight, he just let it go.
I stood over him looking down at his broken body.
“I told you it didn’t have to go this way.”
Miles pried his eyes open and looked up at me. He gasped a couple short breaths and held the last one in.
“And I told you that it is what it is.”
He took a deep breath and rolled under my legs onto his back and reached his hand into his other coat pocket. I just pointed the gun and clicked the trigger.
The round in the chamber exploded and fire flashed out the barrel. The kid’s head flattened out like a pizza and sprayed the gravely asphalt beneath it.
The kid was dead.
I dropped the gun on top of the kid and staggered out of the alley. I was limping and blood ran down my face and shoulder, soaking my clothes and leaving a nice scarlet on the ground behind me. I made it the two blocks back the way I had come and pulled that handful of quarters out of my pocket. I fed the payphone pulled the envelope out of my pocket. On the front was the number Katie had written down to reach her at. I stared at it for a long time, then pulled out the police report and dialed the number at the top of the page. The phone rang four times then beeped.
“I uh, I think I need help.” I slurred.
I dropped the handset without putting it back on the hook and started to walk. I was getting dizzy and as the night got darker everything began to swim. I ducked behind a building and found an empty dumpster. I sprayed down the file folder with the lighter fluid, lit it up, and dropped the blazing folder into the dumpster. I watched it burn until it was just ash then took a stick from nearby and scattered the ashes inside the bin and closed the lid. I sat on the ground and leaned against the dumpster and closed my eyes.
Sleep came fast and when it did I dreamt of Weather.
Miles’ address was on the North side of the city. Katie dropped me a few blocks away and I hiked the rest. It was a long walk, but it was a nice night and nobody worries about walking around the north side after dark. Besides, I needed time to think.
What Katie was asking me to do, what the package was asking, was outside of my moral comfort zone. It’s true, I had killed before, but somehow this was different. When I killed the kid attacking Weather it was in a haze of fear and anger. I wasn’t thinking and barely had any idea what I was doing.
The guy in prison, he had already killed someone else and would likely do it again if it benefited him. His death was a kind of revenge, but also a kind of preemptive self defense. Not only for myself, but for everyone inside and I still got an extended sentence and a month in the hole for it.
This kid. This Miles, he hadn’t killed anyone. Not yet at least. Sure, the personality type, the kind of person that could rape a teenage girl and leave her in the dirt, killing wouldn’t be a huge escalation for him. Still, it felt wrong. A premeditated, cold blooded murder because the justice system had failed. It was a lot to consider.
When I got to his building I grabbed a spot across the street with a clear view of the front door. I leaned against the building’s facade and pulled out a smoke. It was the last one in the pack Katie had given me. I spun it between my thumb and index finger deciding if I should burn it then or save it for later. I flipped the gold lighter open and spun the wheel. Sparks flew, but no flame.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and drew out the yellow bottle. I pulled the lighter out of its thin gold housing. flipped it over, lifted the dense wool bottom and squeezed the contents of the bottle into the loose cotton inside the Zippo. I closed it all back up, put the bottle back in my pocket and spun the wheel again.
This time a long orange and yellow flame danced around the cotton wick. I put it to my face and dragged on the cigarette. I closed the lighter with a satisfying click and stood there, looking at the building and smoking.
The envelope was back in my jeans. I pulled it out and read through the pages again . I was starting to feel something again. My heart was pumping again and adrenaline was starting to work its way through my system. My muscles were tense and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. I looked at the file again and back at the building, then I gave a quick glance down the street and another in the other direction.
There, a block away and on the other side of the street was a payphone. I stuffed my hand in pants pocket and fished out a handful of loose change Katie had given me.
“Call me when you need a ride back,” she had said. “You may have to search a bit for a payphone, but they’re still around.”
I crossed the street and stepped up on the curb just as the door to the building opened and Miles stepped out. I nearly ran into him. I lowered my head, muttered an apology and turned in the opposite direction of the kid. After a couple steps I spun on the balls of my feet and started casually following him.
Miles was a lowlife. A rich kid, popular, lots of money, but no empathy for anyone. That much was clear from the documents in the envelope. He was one of those kids who only kept friends that could do something for him. Anyone else was cast off as a worthless reject. He bullied and dismissed anyone with less money, status, or power than he had. Girls were objects to be used and then when they could no longer elevate his status, dismissed as sluts and whores.
He walked with the strut of someone who was never questioned. He had the air of someone who always got his way. I hated this kid already, but that wasn’t good enough. Not good enough by far for what they were asking me to do.
The kid took a sudden right down an ally and I paused. I stared ahead at the empty sidewalk and thought. It was getting late and the foot traffic in this neighborhood was light. I didn’t know what was down the alley, but if it wasn’t at least more crowded than the street it would be pretty obvious that I was following the kid. I decided the best decision was to walk past the alley at a casual speed. If it was clear I would double back and investigate it. If I saw the kid I’d just keep walking, cross the street and grab a dark corner to watch the opening from.
I started moving again. As I passed the alley I gave a quick glance that revealed an empty inlet dead ending into a low loading dock. I stopped and waited a moment then backed up and slowly started down the alley.
It was narrow, only about twelve feet wide at the opening then it seemed to widen out a bit before the dock doors. My feet were crunching on the loose gravel and broken glass that was strewn across the rough asphalt ground. I tried to stay quiet, but the sound seemed to echo off the narrow brick boundaries of the space. As I past the end of the path the alley opened up at the left. I turned to check my blind spot and caught a fist, hard, in the side of my face.
Real life fights don’t look like they do in the movies. No one gets thrown across rooms, or make melodramatic grunts. Punches don’t sound like a bat hitting a cantelope. In real life they’re almost silent except for the faint snap as the small bones in your hand break against the other guys skull. I heard that sound as I collapsed on the ground.
I felt the tiny rocks and debris tear the fabric of my pants and push up into the tissue around my knees. There was searing pain in my cheek and eye and I could tell there was blood soaking into my jeans.
I laid a hand on the ground and staggered backwards a couple steps as I tried to stand up. I was in a daze and shook my head trying to come back. I looked up just in time to see Miles pouncing forward. I took another blow to the face, this one just above my left eye. The skin opened up and blood ran down my face and into my mouth.
Another swing came in fast, but I managed to duck under it and I shot a straight punch hard into the kid’s lower ribs. I heard a slight crack that could have been his bones or mine and the kid staggered back gasping for breath. He tried to straighten up but couldn’t lift his torso. I pulled myself up straight and cracked my neck; first to one side then the other. I wiped the blood from my eyes and looked at it on my fingers. I wiped it on my pants.
“Miles, right?” I said in a breathy wheeze.
The kid stared at me with hate masking the pain that must have been shooting through his chest. He coughed and stood as straight as he could.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“Me?” I chuckled and shook my head slightly. “Kid, I’m no one.”
I stopped and thought about the unintended irony of that statement.
“Yeah,” I whispered to myself. “I’m no one and chances are if you hadn’t come at me like that I would have stayed no one.”
The kid stared at me. He leaned back against the brick wall behind him and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Why don’t you tell me about Samantha.” I said dabbing the cut above my eye with my sleeve.
The boy squinted at me and leaned forward a little.
“What?”
I sighed.
“Samantha Hoff,” I said starting to feel better and simultaneously starting to get annoyed. “Tell me about her. What’s the deal there?”
The kid leaned back again and closed his eyes. He let out a breathy sigh and lifted his head again.
“Shit. That’s what this is about? The lawyer’s slut daughter? Really? Fuck man, that’s old news. What’d she send you out here?”
I just stared at him and bled on my shirt.
“Look, she was all there. She was totally into me, she just wouldn’t pull the trigger. I mean seriously, a total cock tease. What was I supposed to do? Girl like that? Indecisive! What? I’m just supposed to let her keep leading me on? Get me all the way to the edge and then just change her mind? Fuck that man.”
I felt that pounding feeling in my chest again. This douche bag was not helping his own cause.
“So.” I said.
“So what? So I helped her decide. Girls needs to learn you can’t just keep leading a guy on like that. I didn’t want to be the one to teach her, but someone had to.”
I nodded. It was a sad gesture filled with regret.
“Look, I get it. Mom’s upset, but I guarantee you, at some point she got the same lesson.”
He coughed and started straightening up. His rib was broken, but it was a small fracture and hadn’t done any internal damage. He was getting his wind back and his confidence.
“It’s a part of growing up. Girls all have to learn at some point. They have to deliver on what they advertise.”
I tilted my head and took a step forward. The kid pulled his feet in closer to the wall he was propped up against and stood himself up a little straighter. I took one more step and the kid sprung. He shot up straight with a wince and pulled a heavy looking snub nosed pistol from his jacket pocket and aimed it at my chest.
I didn’t know much about guns. Not back then. I’d fired a shotgun a couple times at my grandparent’s Wisconsin cabin. It was a terrifying experience and had declined to make it a ritual. I’d also seen a couple basic revolvers come and go through my Mom’s house as a kid, but I had never held, let alone fired, an actual handgun and I certainly couldn’t tell one kind from another. That being said, this gun had what seemed to be an unusually short looking barrel and an unusually large looking hole at the end of it. All of this made me unusually scared. Scared shitless.
I took a half step backwards and turned sideways with one arm extended towards Miles, palm flat out.
“Okay kiddo. We don’t have to go this route. Like I said, I’m nobody.”
Pleading for your life is something you get used to in prison. It not working is another thing you get used to.
“If you hadn’t jumped me tonight you probably would never have even known I existed. I was just checking you out. As a favor. Just seeing who you were. This doesn’t have to end with someone shot.”
Miles smiled a little.
“I’ve got a cracked rib that I’m going to have to account for somehow. This ain't nothin’ now, and you ain't nobody.”
He turned the gun sideways in an attempt to be threatening and winched as the action torqued the muscles in his chest.
“And why is it,” he coughed, “the person at the wrong end of the gun is always saying nobody has to get shot? The only person looking to get shot tonight is you.”
I inched forward a bit holding his same position. He was weak and hurt and I suspected playing at being stronger than he was. I also figured there was a sixty-forty chance the gun wasn’t even loaded. Of course it could just have easily been forty-sixty. Kevin put his thumb on the hammer of the pistol and pulled it back. The click as it locked in place seemed so loud in the cold night air. I stopped moving.
“We’re really in a spot here now,” Miles said. “See, you may be telling the truth, but you know what they say about ifs and buts.”
I nodded cautiously.
“Candy and nuts,” I said.
“That’s right, and I don’t see any reason to believe that if I let you go, you won’t just turn up again, ya know?”
I nodded once.
“I am a bit like a bad penny.”
“So here we are.”
“Yup,” I said.
“Well then.”
I watched his eyes. He was definitely hurt worse than he was letting on. His pupils were opening and closing trying to hold focus. I made a quick judgement and dropped like a stone. My side hit the concrete with a thud and I swept my right leg in an arc in front of me. It caught his ankle and snapped it in two. He fell hard on his cracked rib and the gun went off like a firecracker.
I felt my left shoulder tear open and blood sprayed across my face and down my chest. My arm was on fire and everything went black for a few seconds. Pain spread up my neck and through my brain. It felt like someone was sticking ice picks in my eyes.
Slowly it shallowed out and my vision came back. I could move my hands, then my legs and finally my head and body. The city swam back into focus and I saw Miles.
He was gasping on the ground. He was alternately trying to breathe and cry at the same time. His eyes were clamped shut and tears were streaming out of them. I stood up, wincing and holding back tears myself. I stepped over the kid and reached down to the ground up pavement and grabbed the gun from his hand. The kid didn’t fight, he just let it go.
I stood over him looking down at his broken body.
“I told you it didn’t have to go this way.”
Miles pried his eyes open and looked up at me. He gasped a couple short breaths and held the last one in.
“And I told you that it is what it is.”
He took a deep breath and rolled under my legs onto his back and reached his hand into his other coat pocket. I just pointed the gun and clicked the trigger.
The round in the chamber exploded and fire flashed out the barrel. The kid’s head flattened out like a pizza and sprayed the gravely asphalt beneath it.
The kid was dead.
I dropped the gun on top of the kid and staggered out of the alley. I was limping and blood ran down my face and shoulder, soaking my clothes and leaving a nice scarlet on the ground behind me. I made it the two blocks back the way I had come and pulled that handful of quarters out of my pocket. I fed the payphone pulled the envelope out of my pocket. On the front was the number Katie had written down to reach her at. I stared at it for a long time, then pulled out the police report and dialed the number at the top of the page. The phone rang four times then beeped.
“I uh, I think I need help.” I slurred.
I dropped the handset without putting it back on the hook and started to walk. I was getting dizzy and as the night got darker everything began to swim. I ducked behind a building and found an empty dumpster. I sprayed down the file folder with the lighter fluid, lit it up, and dropped the blazing folder into the dumpster. I watched it burn until it was just ash then took a stick from nearby and scattered the ashes inside the bin and closed the lid. I sat on the ground and leaned against the dumpster and closed my eyes.
Sleep came fast and when it did I dreamt of Weather.
Chapter Thirteen
The five hours was a gift, and I knew she knew it. I didn’t have anything. Nothing to pack, no one to contact and tie up loose ends with. If I had wanted to I could have just got in my car and driven out of the city, or out of the state. Leaving the country would have been more difficult. I didn’t have a passport, and with no identity getting one that would work at the border would be tough.
I had some savings. Money set aside from my weekly allowance that I stuffed in a safe I had acquired. To my mind I had about ten grand stacked in there. That would get me pretty far living off the grid, but it would be a drop in the bucket if I wanted a real identity.
I’m not going to lie, I considered it. Had I been given the option the previous day I’d have already been halfway to New Orleans, but things were different now. Weather was in trouble and no one except for me was even interested in helping her. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t just let her die, which is exactly what would happen if she went down for the murder. It wasn’t even a legitimate choice. Maureen knew that part too. She knew I wouldn’t walk away. She had given me just enough rope to hang myself with.
It was four a.m. and I had five hours before I would be the target of every law enforcement officer in Chicago. Five early morning hours to come up with a plan and start making it happen, but not the whole five hours because there was something I had to do first. First, I had to clear out of the club.
When you live somewhere, you accumulate things. Eight years living in that brick box twenty feet underground should have been enough to require a moving truck or two, but it hadn’t been. I had almost no physical possessions and those I did have mostly were things I carried on my body.
I went back to my room and threw a black canvas duffel bag on my bed. I tossed in a few shirts and an extra pair of slacks. Socks and underwear, and my toothbrush. I threw my soap in the sink and ran hot water over it to melt it down. Anything else that might have my DNA on it went in a plastic trash bag and I poured bleach down the toilet and all the drains.
I had a small file cabinet next to the desk that contained letters I had been delivered over the years. They were from anonymous senders and addressed to no one in particular, but all expressed gratitude for the wrongs that they felt had been righted. They made me feel ambivalent. I didn’t see any right in what I had been doing the past eight years, not anymore, but they reminded me that there was a reason for it and made me feel less like the monster I really was.
I took the stack of papers out of the metal drawer and laid them flat on top of my clothes in the bag. Then I opened the safe at the foot of the bed. Inside the small black box was the money, neatly stacked and bound in rubber bands; two cartons of my Treasurer Black cigarettes, and my gun and ammunition.
The money and smokes went in the bag, then I loaded the weapon and filled two spare clips. I put the extra clips in the bag and stuffed the gun in my coat pocket. I filled my lighter from the bottle on my desk, then took to wiping down all the surfaces with a clean undershirt. When all was said and done, I zipped up the bag, left the key on the desk and walked out of the room that had been my home for the past eight years for the last time.
By that time it was five a.m. I was down to four hours and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do. One thing I knew was I needed to find out exactly what Weather was doing with Grayson in the first place. The easiest solution was to ask Weather herself, but that wasn’t going to be possible. The FBI had already scooped her up and she was almost certainly being held in federal lockup by now.
The first and second rule of my life for nearly a decade had been, don’t leave the city and don’t contact anyone from my past. I had stuck to those conditions and followed the letter of the law, at least as far as it applied to me. Things were different now though. I was out. Out of a home, out of a job, and out of protection. Every benefit that came with my conditions had been taken away, so it seemed to me, the rules were moot. Reprobi had said as much when she told me to disappear. If she was telling me to leave then my tacit understanding was I could do whatever I wanted.
I needed information about Weather so I needed to see someone who would have some. I didn’t know her friends or her co-workers, but I did know someone. I knew her mom, and she would know Weather. The only problems were she lived an hour and a half away in McHenry, hadn’t heard from me in thirteen years, and of course, thought that I was dead.
It was a plan with flaws, but at this point, a flawed plan was better than no plan, so I threw my duffel in the back seat of my car, revved up the engine and headed out of the confines of the city towards the rural hills of the northern suburbs. It had been almost fifteen years since I’d been to Weather’s mom’s house and I just hoped I could remember how to get there, and that she still lived there if I could.
Chapter Fourteen
“We’re going to need to stop meeting like this Mr. Smith.”
It may well have been the same room, I’m not for certain either way, but the woman standing over me when I woke was most surely the same nurse. She had her hand wrapped around my wrist and she was staring at the clock on the wall, watching the red second hand sweep past the eight o’clock. When it reached nine she let go and smiled at me with the look of a parent bandaging a child after the umpteenth skateboarding accident.
“You seem to be prone to bad luck Mr. Smith. Perhaps you should consider a slightly less dangerous hobby. Skydiving comes to mind.”
“What am I-”
“You had a run in with old number two,” she said interupting me.
I frowned.
“We dug a piece of lead out of your shoulder.”
I stared at her, then it came to me. A piece of lead. A bullet. I’d been shot.
I moved in the bed and a searing pain shot though my left shoulder, down my arm and also up my neck and though my scull. It was terrible. Like being stabbed with a white hot knitting needle, or so I’d imagine. It took a moment but the memory came back, re-emerging in chunks as if over a slow internet connection.
“How’d I get here?” I said in a groggy voice.
“Your detective friend brought you in about an hour ago. She’s really looking out for you, you’re a lucky man.”
I gave a sardonic chuckle under my breath.
“Yeah, that’s me. I should buy a lotto ticket.”
Less than twenty four hours before I had been in prison, but I had been safe. I had a cell to myself and even though I was looking down the barrel of another thirty-five years, I was taken care of. Despite the legal ramifications of my actions inside, the guards appreciated my removal of what they considered a person of extreme professional annoyance. From the moment I swung that free weight into the side of Benson’s face I was given carte blanche by the guards who felt I had done them a massive favor.
Now, for the second time in less than a day I was being stitched up after someone had tried to kill me. Lucky was not the way I was feeling. Truth be told, the only thing I was feeling was tired.
“Well, you’re looking okay. The pencil seems to have missed any bone or major arteries. Honestly, whit a pencil that size I would have expected it to blow right through you. You’ve got some tough muscle tissue. It’ll heal up eventually, but you’ll probably always have some soreness there. Weather will make it worse.”
I looked up, startled.
“I’m sorry, what?” I said feeling a chill run down my neck.
“When it rains son. The humidity, pressure, they make aggravate the injury. It’ll hurt more in bad weather.”
I let out a long relieved sigh and slumped back into the bed.
“Right,” I said. “Got it.”
“Advil will help.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She smiled and scribbled something on the pad and dropped it in the slot at the end of the bed.
“I’ll go let your police officer friend know you’re awake.”
“Oh- you don’t have to…”
But she walked out the door and it swung closed and clicked into place.
Things had not gone as I had planned that evening. I had no intention of hurting, or even meeting, the boy that night. I just wanted to observe him. Get a feeling for what I was dealing with, what my job was supposed to be. Now that it had happened though, that my hand had been forced and I had committed yet another sin against society and mankind; now that I had to live with what had actually happened, I didn’t feel bad at all. Not a bit. He had been a blight on humanity and we were all better off without him.
The door opened.
Detective Hinde, the same cop that had brought be in before, stepped into the room and she did not look happy. She shut the door delicately and strode over to the side of my bed on silent feet, then, quietly extended a single finger and drove it into the bandaged up wound in my left shoulder.
I tried to howl in pain, but she quickly pressed both hands across my mouth, stopping me from screaming, or even breathing for that matter. She gazed at me, directly into my eyes with a terrifying expression, and I believed in that moment that she was truly trying to kill me.
I choked and tears ran down my cheeks. Slowly she took her hands away, opening up my airways and letting my eyes pull back into focus. She was mad, murderously so and I felt a sense of confused rage rush over me like a cold bucket of water.
“How the hell did you manage to fuck up on day one?” she shouted at me in a gravely whisper.
My mouth hung open, but I couldn’t make any words come out.
“Do you know what you did asshole? Do you know how hard this is going to be to clean up?”
“I- I don’t understand,” I said sounding like I was going to cry at any moment. “I thought this is what you wanted.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot.
“What‽” she said sounding genuinely surprised. “How in fuck would you think we wanted this?”
“You- I- I mean- You left that envelope. All the pictures and articles and- I- well, what did you want me to do?”
Her shoulders dropped and she rolled her eyes. She let out a long sigh and glanced back at the door, then looked back at me.
“We wanted you to not get shot you dumb motherfucker.”
I grimaced and tried to sit up. Pain fired through my chest and abdomen and I collapsed back against the pillows.
“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to bury these hospital records. This is going to be my week now. Like I don’t have better things to be doing than cleaning up after you.”
She paused. She was thinking, tilting her head as she looked at me as if deciding something.
“Ass hole,” she said with a slightly warmer tone.
She walked over to a small backpack that was sitting on an uncomfortable looking stuffed chair in the corner of the room. She lifted it and carried it over to the bed, dropped it on my legs and unzipped the top. After rooting around in it for a moment she pulled out an ugly piece of black metal. A gun. The gun. The gun I had been shot with and subsequently had murdered Miles Dasherman with.
She tossed it in my lap.
“It’s yours now fucker,” she said. “Certainly can’t go into the system. Besides, from the look of how things went tonight, you’re going to need it.”
I choked, holding my hands up above my head, squirming like I was trying to get away from a snake.
“Fuck, no. No thank you,” I shouted. “Get that thing away from me.”
The detective burst out laughing.
“Seriously,” she said. “It’s a little late now to be getting squeamish don’t you think?”
I froze, still posed like a pitcher about to be clobbered by a line drive up the middle.
“I don’t like guns,” I said.
Megan let her laughter slow to a chuckle, then regained her calm.
“No? Hm. No, I don’t either kid, but I’m here to tell ya, you better get used to ‘em. You better get used to ‘em pretty damn quick.”
“We’re going to need to stop meeting like this Mr. Smith.”
It may well have been the same room, I’m not for certain either way, but the woman standing over me when I woke was most surely the same nurse. She had her hand wrapped around my wrist and she was staring at the clock on the wall, watching the red second hand sweep past the eight o’clock. When it reached nine she let go and smiled at me with the look of a parent bandaging a child after the umpteenth skateboarding accident.
“You seem to be prone to bad luck Mr. Smith. Perhaps you should consider a slightly less dangerous hobby. Skydiving comes to mind.”
“What am I-”
“You had a run in with old number two,” she said interupting me.
I frowned.
“We dug a piece of lead out of your shoulder.”
I stared at her, then it came to me. A piece of lead. A bullet. I’d been shot.
I moved in the bed and a searing pain shot though my left shoulder, down my arm and also up my neck and though my scull. It was terrible. Like being stabbed with a white hot knitting needle, or so I’d imagine. It took a moment but the memory came back, re-emerging in chunks as if over a slow internet connection.
“How’d I get here?” I said in a groggy voice.
“Your detective friend brought you in about an hour ago. She’s really looking out for you, you’re a lucky man.”
I gave a sardonic chuckle under my breath.
“Yeah, that’s me. I should buy a lotto ticket.”
Less than twenty four hours before I had been in prison, but I had been safe. I had a cell to myself and even though I was looking down the barrel of another thirty-five years, I was taken care of. Despite the legal ramifications of my actions inside, the guards appreciated my removal of what they considered a person of extreme professional annoyance. From the moment I swung that free weight into the side of Benson’s face I was given carte blanche by the guards who felt I had done them a massive favor.
Now, for the second time in less than a day I was being stitched up after someone had tried to kill me. Lucky was not the way I was feeling. Truth be told, the only thing I was feeling was tired.
“Well, you’re looking okay. The pencil seems to have missed any bone or major arteries. Honestly, whit a pencil that size I would have expected it to blow right through you. You’ve got some tough muscle tissue. It’ll heal up eventually, but you’ll probably always have some soreness there. Weather will make it worse.”
I looked up, startled.
“I’m sorry, what?” I said feeling a chill run down my neck.
“When it rains son. The humidity, pressure, they make aggravate the injury. It’ll hurt more in bad weather.”
I let out a long relieved sigh and slumped back into the bed.
“Right,” I said. “Got it.”
“Advil will help.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She smiled and scribbled something on the pad and dropped it in the slot at the end of the bed.
“I’ll go let your police officer friend know you’re awake.”
“Oh- you don’t have to…”
But she walked out the door and it swung closed and clicked into place.
Things had not gone as I had planned that evening. I had no intention of hurting, or even meeting, the boy that night. I just wanted to observe him. Get a feeling for what I was dealing with, what my job was supposed to be. Now that it had happened though, that my hand had been forced and I had committed yet another sin against society and mankind; now that I had to live with what had actually happened, I didn’t feel bad at all. Not a bit. He had been a blight on humanity and we were all better off without him.
The door opened.
Detective Hinde, the same cop that had brought be in before, stepped into the room and she did not look happy. She shut the door delicately and strode over to the side of my bed on silent feet, then, quietly extended a single finger and drove it into the bandaged up wound in my left shoulder.
I tried to howl in pain, but she quickly pressed both hands across my mouth, stopping me from screaming, or even breathing for that matter. She gazed at me, directly into my eyes with a terrifying expression, and I believed in that moment that she was truly trying to kill me.
I choked and tears ran down my cheeks. Slowly she took her hands away, opening up my airways and letting my eyes pull back into focus. She was mad, murderously so and I felt a sense of confused rage rush over me like a cold bucket of water.
“How the hell did you manage to fuck up on day one?” she shouted at me in a gravely whisper.
My mouth hung open, but I couldn’t make any words come out.
“Do you know what you did asshole? Do you know how hard this is going to be to clean up?”
“I- I don’t understand,” I said sounding like I was going to cry at any moment. “I thought this is what you wanted.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot.
“What‽” she said sounding genuinely surprised. “How in fuck would you think we wanted this?”
“You- I- I mean- You left that envelope. All the pictures and articles and- I- well, what did you want me to do?”
Her shoulders dropped and she rolled her eyes. She let out a long sigh and glanced back at the door, then looked back at me.
“We wanted you to not get shot you dumb motherfucker.”
I grimaced and tried to sit up. Pain fired through my chest and abdomen and I collapsed back against the pillows.
“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to bury these hospital records. This is going to be my week now. Like I don’t have better things to be doing than cleaning up after you.”
She paused. She was thinking, tilting her head as she looked at me as if deciding something.
“Ass hole,” she said with a slightly warmer tone.
She walked over to a small backpack that was sitting on an uncomfortable looking stuffed chair in the corner of the room. She lifted it and carried it over to the bed, dropped it on my legs and unzipped the top. After rooting around in it for a moment she pulled out an ugly piece of black metal. A gun. The gun. The gun I had been shot with and subsequently had murdered Miles Dasherman with.
She tossed it in my lap.
“It’s yours now fucker,” she said. “Certainly can’t go into the system. Besides, from the look of how things went tonight, you’re going to need it.”
I choked, holding my hands up above my head, squirming like I was trying to get away from a snake.
“Fuck, no. No thank you,” I shouted. “Get that thing away from me.”
The detective burst out laughing.
“Seriously,” she said. “It’s a little late now to be getting squeamish don’t you think?”
I froze, still posed like a pitcher about to be clobbered by a line drive up the middle.
“I don’t like guns,” I said.
Megan let her laughter slow to a chuckle, then regained her calm.
“No? Hm. No, I don’t either kid, but I’m here to tell ya, you better get used to ‘em. You better get used to ‘em pretty damn quick.”