by Erik Carter
He looked out over the pointed, sloping, orange-colored hood at the cityscape rushing by in a blur on either side of the street. Several blocks ahead of them was their prize, a Chevy Malibu, weaving through traffic.
Driving was Dale Conley, another federal agent and Nash’s temporary partner for this assignment. The car belonged to him. He was in his thirties, toned physique, shaggy brown hair. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
And a shit-eating grin.
Dale dropped the stick down another gear, and the Pantera’s engine bellowed behind Nash’s head. Both men’s heads snapped back into their headrests.
Dale let out a howl of sheer delight.
“Hahahaaaaaaa!!!”
A flashing emergency light hung from the rearview mirror, and a siren blared. Of course, sirens weren’t standard equipment in Italian supercars; Dale had told Nash that he installed it himself. Dale had a love affair with the car that was definitely eccentric, perhaps a bit creepy, and bordering on the insane. He’d named it Arancia, after the Italian word for orange. When Nash had told him that arancia was the Italian word for the fruit, not the color, Dale had said he rejected name Arancione—the word for the color—because he thought Arancia “had more zing” and that the feminine A at the end of the word made better sense. After all, Dale had contended, vessels had always been given female names, and Arancia was his ship. He even talked about Arancia with the appropriate pronouns—she, her, and hers.
Nash had known other men who referred to their cars and motorcycles as females, so that by itself didn’t convince him that Dale was idiosyncratic. But when Dale attended a thirty-minute seminar at the hotel in which they were staying—a brief session on the once-in-a-lifetime money-making opportunity of opening a septic service franchise—simply to get a chance at the cookie tray he’d spotted, Nash then knew…
Dale Conley was an odd duck.
Cars pulled over for them as they barreled down the crowded city street. They were closing on the Malibu, but it still had a good lead on them—about four blocks of separation. Further down the street was a crossroad lined with trees—the famous Lake Shore Drive—and beyond that was the endless expanse of Lake Michigan, deep blue, mirroring the sky above that was equally blue and filled with big, white clouds.
It was a spring day, and Dale had the windows down. Comfortable air whooshed through the cab. Nash was beginning to smell the lake water.
The Malibu’s brake lights came on for a moment, it slowed to a near stop, and then it turned right onto Lake Shore, disappearing from view
“We’re gonna lose him,” Nash said.
“No, we’re not.”
As they flew toward the lake, Dale didn’t show any sign that he was going to slow down. In fact, he pushed down harder on the gas pedal, Arancia’s engine wailing.
Nash looked at the lake. It was close enough now that he could see the crisp details of white light shimmering off the gentle waves. The lake smell was getting stronger.
And still Dale hadn’t braked.
“Dale…?”
Nash looked over at him.
Dale tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Didn’t touch the brake.
Nash looked at the lake. Closer yet. People walking along the shoreline pointed toward Arancia.
“Dale!”
Dale narrowed his eyes, lowered his head.
Smiled bigger.
The lake was right in front of them.
“Dale!!!”
Right as they hit Lake Shore Drive, Dale yanked the steering wheel to the right. The whole car roared, the tires squealed, and they thrashed viciously around the corner. Nash slid on the leather seat, slapping at the roof, trying to hold on. Arancia’s rear end fishtailed, and the view in front of Nash shifted rapidly: lake, people, cars, lake, trees, cars…
And just as the chaos reached its zenith, it came to a sudden stop.
Dale had steadied her. They were now barreling down Lake Shore Drive. Lake Michigan was to their left, and the towering buildings of Chicago’s downtown lay before them. The Hancock Tower was directly ahead, its famed silhouette and X-brace facade looming high into the sky.
Dale laughed again.
“Ha HA! Yes! Yes! Yessssss!”
He smacked the steering wheel appreciatively.
With the long, relatively straight and uninterrupted road ahead of them, Nash lessened his grip on the seat slightly. He took a couple deep breaths—reacclimating his mind to the fact that he was indeed still alive—and muttered with frustration as he adjusted his position in the seat.
“God damn, Dale. You sound like you’re having an orgasm.”
“I’m not entirely certain that I’m not,” Dale said through his big grin. “Isn’t this the greatest? Best job in the whole damn world.”
Ahead of them, the gap to the Malibu was closing. It was bright blue in color, driving erratically, and was sheltering only one person, the man they were after: Ike Gallo.
The Malibu traced the curve of Lake Shore to the left, where Oak Street Beach appeared. A paved path followed Lake Shore and led to the beach. People—both on the path and at the beach—were turned, staring at the car chase.
Nash saw Dale’s attention go to the path. An attractive woman in a bikini was climbing high up the fence, craning to look at the excitement. Dale gave her a smile and a little two-finger wave.
Nash also saw what Dale had not, where the Malibu was going.
“Dale! He’s exiting!”
The Malibu zipped to the right, past a divider, plunging into the skyscrapers.
Dale looked back to the road.
“Oh, shit!”
He yanked the steering wheel to the right. Arancia’s rear end fishtailed, tires twittering, and they swooshed over to the off-ramp, narrowly avoiding the cement divider.
Nash shot him a look.
“She was looking my way,” Dale said. “I swear.”
“You have your damn siren on. Everyone’s looking our way.”
They flew into the shadows of the tall buildings. Arancia’s siren wailed off the concrete-and-metal walls. They zoomed past the Hancock Tower.
The Malibu was a couple blocks ahead. It weaved through the traffic. But the much faster Arancia was rapidly closing in. They were right on Gallo’s tail.
“We got him now,” Dale said.
“Yeah? And how are we gonna get him to stop?”
They pushed out of the darkness of the buildings, into the bright sunshine for a moment where the city opened up for the Chicago River. Nash squinted, threw his hand over his eyes. They crossed a bridge over the river then slipped into the buildings’ shadows once more.
Suddenly Dale hit the brakes and pulled the wheel. Arancia’s tires squealed, and the car drifted to the side, slowing nearly to a stop before Dale dropped the stick into second and hammered the gas, bolting them forward again.
“What was it?” Nash said.
Dale pointed to the rearview, not taking his eyes off the Malibu.
Nash turned in his seat and looked out the rear window. Behind them, a squirrel scampered off the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk.
Nash gave Dale another look.
“You kiddin’ me, man?”
Ahead, the Malibu took a left.
“Dammit, Dale. You lost him.”
Dale shook his head and let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
He pulled Arancia to the left onto Monroe.
“No! Next street up!” Nash shouted. “He turned on Jackson.”
“Just wait,” Dale said.
At the first road that crossed Monroe, Dale yanked Arancia to the right, and as soon as he did, he dropped the stick into a lower gear and floored the gas, barreling past the traffic. Again, both men’s heads flew back into their seats.
Nash saw the street sign for the next cross street ahead of them: E JACKSON DR.
Dale quickly checked for traffic coming across Jackson, and right as Arancia flew
into the intersection, the Malibu zoomed in from the right.
And braked.
Hard.
The Malibu’s tires let out a roar. Smoked billowed from the wheelwells, quickly forming a cloud. And the car shuddered to the side.
For just a moment, the driver turned his head and looked right at them. Ike Gallo. A large man with working-class good looks. Light brown hair, fairly long. Sideburns. A gap between his front teeth, which were bared as he clung to his steering wheel, eyes wide, clearly wondering how the hell Dale and Nash had caught up with him.
He swung the Malibu to the side, nearly losing control, and instead continued onto the road his car had ended up facing. Columbus Drive.
And as Dale hammered the gas, Arancia was now right on the Malibu’s tail again.
Dale grinned.
“Told ya so,” he said.
Trees lined the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road, but there was a short treeless stretch ahead of the Malibu, and Ike Gallo took the opportunity. The Malibu suddenly swung to the left, up a curb cut, and across the sidewalk. It headed into a park and toward a massive fountain.
One of the largest fountains in the world, as a matter of fact.
Buckingham Fountain.
The bottom pool was nearly three hundred feet across, and it housed a series of basins, the largest one hundred feet across and the “smallest” twenty-four feet across.
The thing was massive.
From working in the region for several years, Nash knew that the fountain held twenty-minute water shows every hour on the hour, in which hundreds of thousands of gallons of water were propelled through nearly 200 jets. It was a famous city landmark, considered “Chicago’s front door,” and the water shows delighted visitors every day.
And one of those shows was happening right now.
A 150-foot jet of water shot straight into the sky from the center of the fountain, smaller streams surrounding it. The people who had been enjoying this spectacle screamed and scattered as the Malibu rushed up onto the well-maintained pathway that encircled the entire fountain. This pathway was incredibly wide, capable of holding hundreds of people.
Dale pulled Arancia right up behind the Malibu. The earth was well packed and leveled to a perfectly flat surface, but Arancia’s power was overwhelming, the rear tires slipping in the top layer of fine, crushed stone. The Malibu began circling the fountain. Dale laid on the gas, the engine roaring as the tires continued to fight the surface. He twisted the steering wheel in the opposite direction, getting Arancia into a controlled drift. Crushed stone pinged against the underside of the car, and Nash could see Dale grimacing. He was always worried about paint scratches. A massive plume of dust started to follow them as they zipped around the fountain.
Dale made short, jerky movements of the steering wheel, maintaining the drift. Ahead of them, Ike Gallo, on the other hand, wasn't drifting the Malibu but was rather trying to make a smooth path around the fountain, swerving erratically in his attempt. Which only meant that Dale could completely close the gap.
He was right on the Malibu’s tail.
There was nowhere for Gallo to go.
Nash looked behind them. As the pedestrians continued to flee in all directions, Arancia’s tires were leaving big ruts in the previously smooth surface of the pathway—all that pretty, crushed stone that Nash had noted as being so well-maintained. They'd already circled the fountain three times, so Dale's marks were one continuous loop, lines crossing over themselves, like a gigantic doodle on a piece of paper.
Talk about leaving an impression…
When they were halfway through their fourth loop around the fountain, Gallo finally lost control. The Malibu began wobbling side to side. Dale swung Arancia over just as the Malibu went barreling to the right, smashing through a bench and into a lamppost.
The car’s hood crumpled with a loud bang. The windshield shattered. Steam billowed out.
Dale yanked hard on Arancia’s hand brake, and they came to a sudden stop. Nash flew forward in his seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest.
The driver’s side of the Malibu opened with a metallic screech, and Gallo stumbled out. He looked back at them and bolted away from his destroyed car.
Dale threw open his door.
"Come on!” he said. “And lock your door!”
They jumped out of Arancia and into the thundering noise and misty air of the water show. They sprinted after Ike Gallo.
Chapter Three
“You chased this guy all through downtown Chicago,” Ventress said, “endangering God knows how many people—but saving a squirrel, of course—and when you finally took chase on foot, Conley wanted to make sure you locked his damn car?”
“He loves that car,” Nash said. “He’s ... quirky.”
Ventress grumbled. She approached the projector.
As she drew nearer, Nash could feel the power of her presence. She had a cold strength about her that was both immediately apparent and undeniable. And in a room this size—only about twenty by twenty-five feet—her personality consumed the entire space.
It was a board room in the historic Arlington Hotel. Ventress had quickly secured it for the briefing, assembling everyone there less than half an hour prior. She had told the group that she wanted a neutral location, so she wasn’t going to use a space in an NPS or HSPD facility. There could be conflicting accounts of the events, she had said, and she wasn’t going to give anyone an advantage.
And so they found themselves in this small, lavish room. The carpeting was plush and patterned, and the space was alight from an electric chandelier hanging over the table and electric sconces on the walls. There was boxed-out wainscoting trim and corbels framing the entrance and the recessed area where the projector screen hung. Crown molding with a reverse-scalloped pattern lined the tops of the walls. Ornate headers rested above the windows and would have looked lovely on a normal, sunny day, but with the dark gray, muted light oozing in through the sheer curtains and the rain thrashing the glass, the headers’ patterns looked macabre, almost grotesque.
“You seem to really admire Conley,” Ventress said to Nash as she removed the transparency from the projector. “The same man who cost you your job as an FBI agent.”
She laid down a different sheet onto the projectors’ glass. A new image showed on the screen.
Nash snorted a reactionary laugh. He put a fist to his mouth, trying to cover it. Gave a little cough. Regained his composure.
Ventress scowled. “Do you find something amusing, Mr. Harbick?”
“Well ... yes,” he said and pointed at the screen. “Just look at him.”
A larger-than-life, head-and-shoulders image of Dale looked out into the room. There was a goofy expression on his face—one eyebrow arched, the other furled, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek, bulging it out.
Ventress, her arms crossed again, stared at the image.
“Oh, yes. The great Agent Conley of the Bureau of Esoteric Investigation.” She turned around and looked at Taft. “His official Bureau photo?”
Taft put his face in his hand and looked away from the photo. He didn’t respond, only nodded.
“And this is the guy you referred to as your ‘top man,’” Ventress said. “Unbelievable. What kind of rinky-dink, bullshit operation are you running, Taft?”
“A covert one. With seven eclectic geniuses in various fields. Dealing with things you couldn’t imagine.”
“Yes, that’s what I was told yesterday evening when I was introduced to your group, one so secretive that even a person like me knows nothing about it. That is, until someone like me has to come in and clean up your mess.”
Nash noticed that across the room in the chairs by the wall, two of the local cops were chatting as they looked at Dale’s image—one of the men and the attractive blonde female. They both grinned. Nash glanced at the blonde’s shiny metal name tag. It read, HENSLEY. The male whispered something into Hensley’s ear. She giggled and smacked th
e other cop playfully, flirtatiously. Her eyes lingered on the man.
This little exchange affected Nash.
He could imagine Hensley in the shadows. A sensuous, perhaps nude image. Her hair no longer pulled up into a professional tail but rather cascading over her smooth shoulders. She arched her neck back. And gasped. Fingers came toward her outstretched neck, a man’s hand...
Ventress’ voice brought him back to the present.
“As I understand it, this buffoon,” she said, gesturing to Dale’s image, “is an expert in history with additional specialization in puzzles. Fancies himself a bit of a ladies man. He’s a methodical, almost neurotic, crime-solver and prides himself on his tenacity.”
“That about sums him up, yes,” Taft said.
Ventress shook her head as she looked at the image, let out a little disgusted sigh. “Jesus … what a pretty boy-lookin’ blockhead.”
Taft gave a small, fond chuckle. “That’s what I call him.”
Ventress turned on him. “You call him a blockhead?”
“I call him ‘pretty boy.’”
Ventress stepped to the table and grabbed another one of her folders, looked inside. “Oh, I almost forgot one important thing,” she said. “Conley consistently goes rogue, ignoring the BEI’s mandates that don’t suit him, doing what he feels is necessary to get the job done.”
“Yes, he does,” Taft said with zero inflection.
Nash was impressed with how cool Taft was remaining, how impassive.
Ventress shrugged. “And why shouldn’t he? After all, your agency isn’t held accountable to anyone. If the entire BEI is above the law, Conley knows the only person who can reprimand him is you, and he further knows that you won’t reprimand him, rather you’ll just turn the other cheek with the belief that Conley always gets the job done, even if he breaks a few rules.”
Taft didn’t reply. It was clear that he knew she was right.
Ventress shook her head again.
“I’ve never seen such a bunch of back-slapping, good ol’ boy, men’s club bullshit in my entire life.”
