The heat had officially become unbearable. One time many years ago, in an effort to bake away my clammy white pallor, I’d visited Oak Street beach in July and had forsaken the sunscreen in order to minimize my tan time. I’d fallen asleep, and wound up with a nice case of sun poisoning, my skin so red, it had blistered.
This hurt worse. Though I wasn’t actually on fire, it was so hot, I felt like I was on fire. The sweat poured out of me in rivulets, but evaporated almost as soon as my pores squeezed it out.
My knuckles hit something ahead of me. A scorched wall. I followed it, blind and hacking, and it fell away into an opening.
Stairs.
Going up is never a smart idea in an emergency situation, but I couldn’t stay where I was. I climbed the stairs on my hands and knees, my .38 still gripped in my fist. Soon it would be too hot to hold. I wondered how stable the rounds were—on top of everything, I didn’t need my bullets exploding in my gun.
The higher I climbed, the smokier it got, which made sense because smoke rises. When I reached the top of the stairs, I couldn’t see and I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt like two ashy lumps of charcoal, and I was light-headed and in surround-sound pain. I’d begun to cry between coughing fits.
The fire was right behind me.
Not knowing which way to go, I continued on my present course and felt tile under my hands. A bathroom. I got on my knees, felt up the wall, and hit the switch, hoping to turn on the fan to suck away some of the smoke.
No electricity.
Frantic and blind, I closed the door behind me and swung my hands wildly around, bumping the sink. I turned on the water, cupping some in my hands, splashing it onto my face to clear my eyes.
It helped a little, and I could make out the window opposite the sink. A ventilation window. Too small to crawl through, but I sure could use some ventilation right about now.
I fumbled with the latch, tugged it open, and took big, greedy gulps of cool night air.
Above the din of the flames, I heard sirens.
“Help!” I tried to yell. But it only came out as a croak.
I holstered my gun and felt around for a towel. Holding it tight, I stuck my arm out the window and wagged the towel frantically, like I was signaling to surrender. The window faced one of the narrow spaces between buildings, and all I could see was the side of the duplex next to me.
Then the heat suddenly kicked up, and I noted with displeasure that the bathroom door I closed moments ago was ablaze.
I hung the towel on the window latch and then backed away from the door, almost tripping against the bathtub.
Not a bad idea, a bath.
Climbing into the tub, I tugged on the faucet and yanked up the little handle to turn on the shower.
The water came out hot, but it felt wonderful on my face and hands. I stood in the spray, opening my mouth, letting it bathe my scratched throat. Then I bent down and pulled the lever to plug up the bathtub drain, letting the tub fill with water.
Though the window was open, the flaming door was creating smoke faster than it left the room. I sat down, hugging my knees, watching death descend from the ceiling, inch by inch.
The firefighters had to be hosing down the building, right?
It was a brick construction, and that helped, didn’t it?
Didn’t they see my towel hanging out the window and know I was in here?
Though it had to be over 110 in that bathroom, my whole body was shivering.
I was soaked, so I probably wouldn’t burn to death. The smoke would get me. Or maybe the water would heat up to the point that I’d boil. It felt like it was getting close. I had turned the handle to Cold, but there wasn’t any cold; the fire was heating the water as it came through the pipes.
It was just a matter of time until they figured out I was in here and rescued me. Two minutes, tops. I could last another two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. Then I’d be safe.
I began to count.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
I stopped counting at 160.
The flames leaped from the door to the ceiling, and bits of burning plaster flaked down and sizzled in my tub, a rain of fire. I picked up the bath mat, dunked it in the sooty water, and wound it around my head. The shower slowed to a trickle, and then stopped, with my tub only half filled.
A calm came over me, possibly induced by oxygen deprivation. I was going to die. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I knew that I should be fighting somehow, trying to prevent it. But there was nothing else I could do.
I’d been beaten.
A small part of me didn’t want to accept it and screamed for me to act. Maybe I could wrap myself in wet towels and charge down the stairs. Maybe I could bust the bathroom window and scream until I was noticed, even though that wall was on fire now too.
But the larger part of me recognized those options as futile. I’d live a little bit longer if I waited for death, rather than rushed to meet it.
Once I accepted my fate, I accepted everything that went with it.
I wouldn’t ever know if Herb had cancer or not.
I wouldn’t ever know if my mom came out of her coma.
I wouldn’t ever know if Latham would have called me back.
I wouldn’t ever know who it was that shot at me downstairs, which seemed like hours ago.
Lifetimes ago.
It made me sad.
The bathroom door burst inward, and the last thing I remembered was a large man in a firefighter uniform reaching out for me.
Chapter 12
SOME FIRST-DEGREE burns on your left hand, smoke inhalation, and you’ll need stitches in your ear.”
I took another hit from the oxygen mask, my lungs feeling like they’d been scoured with steel wool. I went on another coughing jag, and spit something black and gross into my tissue.
“Stitches?” My voice was low and raspy.
The doctor, whose name tag said Williams, prodded my ear with a wet cotton ball.
“You’re missing a tiny piece on the top. You probably nicked it on something.”
I stayed silent. I hadn’t nicked my ear on anything. That bastard in Diane Kork’s house had shot the top of my ear off.
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “It won’t even be noticeable after it heals. Well, maybe a bit noticeable. Are you good with makeup?”
While the doc stitched me up, I used his rubbing alcohol and some cotton pads to clean the soot off of my face. My clothes were a disaster, soaked and scorched and garbage. I currently wore a hospital gown, but one of the shift nurses promised she’d find me some pants and a top.
“Are you sure you don’t want a local?”
“I’m fine.”
The Darvocet I’d been given for the pain in my hand had kicked in, and all I felt in my ear was a slight tugging while he sutured.
He knotted it off, and I had to fill out some forms before being discharged— against the hospital’s recommendation. A cute male nurse came in and flushed my eyes with something that helped stop the itching, and while he held my head in his strong and capable hands the shift nurse returned with some clothes.
“Do you think you can squeeze into a size twelve?” she asked.
“Maybe if I suck in my stomach,” I told her.
The male nurse offered me a towel and left, and I dressed in a large pair of khakis and a Bulls sweatshirt. The khakis were so large, I had to keep one hand on the waist to hold them up.
Finally, when I was forcing on my wet shoes, the fireman who’d rescued me poked his head through the curtain.
“Just wanted to check how you’re doing, ma’am.”
He was probably half my age, and his boyish face made him look even younger.
“I’m fine. Thanks again, Peter. You saved my life.”
“Just doing my job. Smart thing you did, hanging the towel out the window.”
He looked pleased with himself, and had a right to be. Saving a person’s life is the best
natural high there is.
“Did you find anyone else in the house?”
“No. You were the only one in there.”
“No bodies?”
“Nothing.”
“You check the basement?”
“We checked everywhere. House was empty, thank God.” I thought about that. I would have bet good money that Diane Kork’s body was somewhere in the house.
“Did you see anyone running from the house before me? Someone in jeans and work boots?”
“I didn’t. But someone was in a hurry to get away from there. Tommy got clipped by a car in the alley out back.”
“Tommy?”
“Tommy Thurston, guy from my unit. He’s just a couple beds down. Broken leg. Want to meet him?”
“Yeah, I would.” I squeezed on my second shoe and stood, one hand holding my pants.
Peter led me down the hall. Tommy lay on his cot, his calf wrapped in a fiberglass cast. His eyes were closed. He looked too young to shave. Where were they getting firemen these days, out of grammar school?
“Mr. Thurston?”
“What? Oh, hey. You’re the one we pulled out.”
I offered a hand. “Lieutenant Jack Daniels. How’s the leg?”
“Tibia fracture. Not bad.”
“I heard you were hit by a car.”
“Damnedest thing. He came screeching out of the alley like Dale Earn-hardt. Clipped engine number twelve and the side of a building, and gave me a love tap like I wasn’t even there. Probably didn’t see me.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“No. Too dark. Happened too fast.”
“How about the car?”
“Dark color. Looked new. Could have been anything. Lots of cars look alike these days, don’t you think? Shouldn’t be hard to find, though.”
“Why is that?”
“Guy lost both his side mirrors driving through the gap.”
I nodded. “Any chance you noticed the license plate?”
“Actually, right before it hit me, I did notice the plate. Started with D one.”
“D one? You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. I remember because when it was coming right at me I thought, I’m the Dead One. D one. Get it?”
“I got it. You don’t remember any other numbers?”
“Nope. There were six or seven of them. Looked like an Illinois plate.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, your name is Jack Daniels?”
“That’s me. Lightly braised, but in the flesh.”
“I like that show on TV that you’re in, that Fatal Autonomy. You’re pretty funny. I loved the one where you were screaming and screaming and screaming for help and that private eye guy took off his dirty sock and crammed it in your mouth.”
I gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Good episode.”
Peter chimed in. “My favorite is the one where you tracked down that killer and went to shoot him but you forgot to load your gun.” He slapped his thigh, grinning. “Classic.”
“That didn’t really happen.”
“Sure was funny, though.” Peter eyed my outfit. “I think it’s great you’re losing weight. Made my job a lot easier, carrying you.”
I considered telling him that I wasn’t fat, that was only the actress who played me, but I let discretion be the better part of valor.
“Excuse me.” I slid past. “Gotta get home and drink my Slim-Fast shake. Thanks again, guys.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Daniels.”
Since the paramedics had taken me to the hospital, I had to take a cab to my car, still parked on Hamilton. A single fire engine remained on the scene, hosing down Diane Kork’s house. The flames had long since been extinguished, but the heat remained. When the water hit certain spots, it hissed and steamed fiercely.
I wanted to poke around inside, but now didn’t seem like a good time. Plus, I was exhausted. I did drive around to the back alley, and was rewarded with a nice surprise: two rearview mirrors, broken and lying on the asphalt.
Evidence. I hoped it would be enough.
Chapter 13
IMANAGED TO sleep for six whole hours, which was wonderful, but waking up was a Spanish Inquisition interrogation.
My eyes were glued shut with crust, my nose and throat were raw, my hand felt like I was holding it over a stove burner, and my ear throbbed with my heartbeat. A bad headache was the cherry on top of the pain sundae.
Good freaking morning.
I sat up and stared into the indifferent eyes of Mr. Friskers, who perched at the foot of my bed like a gargoyle.
“What do you want, cat? Food?”
He meowed.
I almost did a double take. Mr. Friskers never meowed. His normal method of communication was hissing or yowling.
“What, are you actually trying to be friendly?”
The cat meowed again.
Though my heart was carved from glacier ice, I felt it melt a bit.
“That’s sweet.” I reached out to pat him on the head, and he hissed and clawed my hand, drawing blood.
He ran off before I could find my gun and shoot him.
I glanced at the clock. A little after nine a.m. I had a lot to do, plus that handwriting expert was stopping by the office this afternoon, but I couldn’t comprehend going to work feeling as crummy as I did. The very thought of explaining to Captain Bains what happened last night made my head hurt worse than it already did.
Screw it. I needed a day off.
I peeled myself out of bed, found my way to the bathroom, coughed and hacked and spit black mucus into the toilet for ten minutes, changed into some old Lee jeans and the Bulls sweatshirt I inherited last night, and then lurched into the kitchen. Checked my answering machine. No calls. Plodded back into the bedroom and checked my cell phone. No calls. Found some aspirin, made quick work of three, then forced myself back into the kitchen, where I liberated a tray of ice from the freezer.
I chewed on the cubes, which helped my sore throat. Then I called the graphologist, Dr. Francis Mulrooney, to cancel our appointment. He wasn’t in. I left a message.
I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning and oiling my .38. I carry a Colt Detective Special, blue finish, black grips, with a two-inch barrel. It weighs twenty-one ounces, and is seven inches from butt to front sights. I preferred revolvers to semiautomatics for several reasons. They had fewer moving parts, which meant less could go wrong in terms of jamming and misfiring. At any time, I could visually check how many rounds were left. And they were easier to clean.
I threw away the two remaining bullets still in the cylinder, not knowing how the heat and the water from yesterday had affected them, and was loading six fresh rounds when I heard someone at my door.
It wasn’t a knock. It was someone trying to turn the knob.
I slapped the cylinder closed and walked silently up to my door, keeping to the right of the frame.
The knob continued to turn, and I heard the jangle of keys.
Latham? He had a key to my apartment. I disengaged the burglar alarm and almost turned the dead bolt and threw the door open, but thought better of it and checked the peephole first.
Good thing I did. The woman outside my door was someone I’d never seen before. She looked to be in her late thirties, short brown hair, with a jagged scar reaching from her left eye to the corner of her mouth.
I wondered how I should play it. Announce myself as a cop through the door? Ask who is it? Surprise her with a snub nose in her face?
“Who’s there?” I said.
My voice seemed to startle her. She backpedaled away from my door and walked quickly down the hall.
I flipped back the dead bolt and swung the door open, my .38 locking on her back.
“Stop! Police!”
She turned and froze, her face going from white to whiter.
“Hands in the air!”
Her hands shot up. “I just moved in! I thought that was my apartment!”
“Palms on the wall, feet apart.”
The w
oman hugged the plaster like she knew the drill. She wore some kind of work overalls, brown and grubby, and the odor she gave off wasn’t pleasant.
I did a quick but thorough pat down, and found a butterfly knife in her boot.
“That’s for work.”
“Where do you work?”
“Department of Sanitation. The sewers.”
“You need a martial arts weapon for sewer work?”
“It’s under four fingers. It’s legal.”
I opened the butterfly knife, and it had a short blade. Short but thick. Any blade longer than a handspan was against the law, and this one looked like it could go either way.
“Why were you trying to break into my apartment?”
“I told you, cop.” She said the word cop as if it hurt her. “I thought it was mine. It was an honest mistake. Quit hassling me.”
I fished out a wallet, which wasn’t the most pleasant thing to do because she had gunk—presumably sewer gunk—on her pockets. Her driver’s license told me she was Lucy Walnut. Address in Oak Park.
“Says here you’re in the suburbs.”
“I just moved in last week. Haven’t got the license changed.”
“Okay, Ms. Walnut. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. Which door is yours?”
“I’m in 304. The doors don’t have numbers on them.”
Three-oh-four was right next to mine.
“Keys. And stay put.”
She handed over the keys and I kept a bead on her while trying the lock. It turned.
“Told you so. Can I go now?”
“Where’d you do time, Ms. Walnut?”
She stayed quiet.
“I can find out easy enough.”
“Did a nickel at Joliet.”
“What for?”
Silence again.
“I asked, what for?”
“I don’t need to tell you nothing.”
“No, you don’t. But if you’re on parole, I can find out who your PO is and explain how you were trying to break into a cop’s apartment.”
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 53
