by Steven James
Vincent took another sip from his drink. So did Lionel.
“I don’t live far from here,” Vincent offered, and then immediately realized that it was much too forward. On the other hand, if his suspicions were right, Lionel was working the place, looking for payment for his companionship, and wasting a lot of time on formalities wouldn’t serve either of their interests.
“Really? Where?”
“Not far.”
A wink. “Staying mysterious, are we?”
Vincent had no idea how to respond. “I really…I’m not sure how to say this. Um, are you, well, are you—”
Lionel laid his hand gently on Vincent’s forearm. “I can be whatever you want me to be, Vincent.”
It was a long moment before he removed his hand.
“Okay.” Vincent said.
Lionel smiled softly. “Okay.”
Another swig.
And another.
And although Vincent was anxious to get going, he realized he needed a little time for the drugs to work, so he answered Lionel’s questions about where he’d gone to college, UW–La Crosse, and what he did for a living, managed a PR firm. In response, Lionel mentioned that he had a theater degree from DePaul and was an actor “between jobs.”
As the minutes passed, the drugs and alcohol started to have the desired effect.
“Lionel?”
“Um-hmm.” His voice was wavering, unfocused.
“Do you want to leave?”
“Your place is close?” he mumbled.
“Yes. Let’s get you to the car.”
No response, just a bleary nod.
So Vincent helped Lionel to his feet and supported him on the way to the door.
2
Apparently, two men leaving this bar—with one of them evidently drunk—was not too out of the ordinary. Nobody paid much attention to them as they left the building.
Vincent could see his breath as he crossed the sidewalk, but the November night felt brisk rather than icy cold and that would be good for Lionel, for what Vincent had in mind for him.
Earlier, Vincent had taken the backseats out of his minivan and it wasn’t difficult to help Lionel into the vehicle. Once they were inside, he closed the door and retrieved the handcuffs.
He hoped Lionel wouldn’t struggle, but Vincent had been a linebacker in college, still worked out four or five days a week, and was willing to get physical, if that’s what it took.
Vincent began to unzip Lionel’s jacket.
“What are you…?” Lionel’s words were blurred, confused.
“We need to get you out of these clothes.”
“I thought we…were going…to your place.”
“Plans have changed.” He tugged off Lionel’s coat.
Lionel eyed the handcuffs. A look that went past confusion and dipped into fear crossed his face and he tried to wrestle free. He was squirrelly and hard to hold on to, and Vincent was forced to do something he hadn’t intended to do—punch him in the face. Lionel crumpled to the floor. “What the—?”
Vincent cuffed his left wrist and when Lionel tried to get up again, Vincent grabbed his head and smacked it hard against the floor of the van. “Don’t fight. It’ll make it worse.”
“No—”
This wasn’t going well, not well at all.
Vincent bent over him. “Be quiet, Lionel, or I’ll have to do that again. I don’t want to, but if I—”
“Help!” Lionel rolled to his side, tried to scramble toward the door, but Vincent snagged his left arm, twisted it behind his back, brought the right arm around as well and cuffed the wrists together. Once he was assured that Lionel wasn’t going anywhere, he stuffed a cloth into his mouth and wrapped a few rounds of duct tape around his head to hold it in place. Lionel tried to shake free, to cry out for help, but could hardly make any sound at all.
Vincent hurried to the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Get away from the bar. You need to get away from here. Right now.
Sweating, shaking, Vincent turned the key and the engine came to life. He scanned the street, the sidewalks. A couple of men had just left the bar but were headed in the opposite direction and weren’t looking at the van. Vincent heard the muffled sound of Lionel trying to call for help, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough for the men outside to hear.
The drugs, they should have knocked him out by now.
Vincent lurched the van onto the street too fast, his heart racing, his mouth dry.
Easy, don’t get pulled over. Do not get pulled over.
Eight blocks away he paused in a deserted parking lot, turned off the headlights, and let the engine idle; then he returned to the back of the minivan. The drugs were taking their toll on Lionel. He lay on the floor, barely conscious.
Quickly, Vincent removed Lionel’s shoes, then his socks, then his pants and underwear. The fight had gone out of him and he didn’t resist, just stared vacantly at the roof of the minivan.
Using fabric shears, Vincent cut a long slit up each sleeve of Lionel’s sweater. He removed it and then went to work on his undershirt.
A few moments later Lionel lay naked and cuffed in the van.
“I didn’t want things to go like this,” Vincent told him.
Lionel rolled weakly onto his side, curling himself into a fetal position.
Vincent returned to the driver’s seat and guided the van to North Twenty-fifth Street, to the alley that ran between a ramshackle two-story house and an empty lot that was surrounded by a rusted six-foot-high chain-link fence. Two stout, brick apartment buildings lay just to the left of the fenced-in lot. The alley was empty. No one on the sidewalk that led past it. No traffic.
However, half a dozen cars were parked along the alley’s side of the street, leaving room for snowplows to drive along the other side if the weather took a turn for the worse. Vincent realized it was good that there was a string of cars already there by the curb. It would make his van less conspicuous.
He parked and crawled into the back. “Okay, I’m taking off the gag. But don’t cry out or I’ll have to hit you again, and I really don’t want to do that.”
Lionel, if he understood, did not respond. Just lay still and submissive.
Using the shears again, Vincent cut off the tape, tugged it free, and removed the gag. Then he opened the door to the van. “Go,” he commanded Lionel. “Get out.”
At last Lionel looked at him.
“Go on.” He swung Lionel’s feet around so they were sticking out the door. “Get out of the van.”
Lionel tried to leave on his own, but collapsed onto the sidewalk with a low moan.
Get away, Vincent. You have to get away. This is close enough.
But then the reality: No! They need to find him in the alley. Or else—
He hadn’t wanted to do this, but now he got out and, supporting Lionel, led him fifty feet into the alley, left him standing unsteadily, but on his own, then hustled back to the vehicle.
But he didn’t leave yet.
Once inside the van, he tried to calm himself. He looked around. Saw nothing suspicious. No pedestrians. No movement on the street. Because of the vacant lot beside the alley, Lionel was still clearly visible from the road.
Nervously gripping the keys that he’d left in the ignition, Vincent took a few seconds to catch his breath.
The brisk air seemed to be bringing Lionel out of the drug-induced stupor. He stumbled across the alley, eventually leaning for support against a telephone pole by the fence encircling the lot.
Vincent was about to pull into the street when he saw a police cruiser round the corner and come prowling toward him. Heart hammering, he glanced toward Lionel one last time and saw him drop heavily to the ground beside the telephone pole.
From there he would be visible to the cops if they looked down the alley.
Vincent ducked his head down and leaned across the front seat so he’d be out of sight. An anonymous, empty minivan on a quiet, anonymous stre
et. Well, maybe not an anonymous street, but—
He didn’t think the cops had seen him, but it was possible—
No, no, no. You cannot get caught!
The squad’s headlights swept across the road, through the windshield of Vincent’s van, then toward the alley, toward Lionel.
They see him. They have to see him by now!
The movement of the headlights stopped and Vincent heard one of the police car doors slam shut. Then the other.
Get out of here. If you’re caught, everything will fall apart. You can’t let that happen. There’s too much—
“Hey!” one of the cops yelled to Lionel. “Are you alright?”
Vincent’s heart slammed, hammered in his chest.
There was no indication yet that they’d taken note of his van.
They’re going to check on him. You can get out of here when they do. You need to go.
Drive.
No, they would follow him. He knew they would. At least one of them would.
Run. You need to run.
Maybe. Yes, leave the van here.
His head was still low, but he heard more shouting from the cops and pictured them hurrying toward Lionel. If they hadn’t already started to, in a few seconds they would scan the area. Then they would search the nearest vehicles one at a time. They would catch him if he stayed where he was and follow him if he tried to drive away.
Now. It has to be now. On foot.
Slowly, Vincent edged his head up, gazed toward the alley, and saw both cops leaning over Lionel.
This was it. In a moment they would start looking for anything suspicious. Vincent silently opened his door and slipped onto the street, keeping the minivan between him and the cops. Afraid the door might alert them, he didn’t click it shut all the way. No noise.
A dog barked in a yard a few houses away, on the other side of the alley. The cops turned their attention to the sound: “Check it out,” one of them said to his partner. While the officers were momentarily distracted, Vincent scurried fifteen feet farther down the road and crouched behind another car.
It would be easier from here. The angle was wrong for the cops to see him. The one who knelt beside Lionel was talking into his radio now, calling for backup.
Go.
Swiftly and without a sound, Vincent went for the next car.
Beyond that there weren’t any more vehicles close enough to hide behind, and just as he was wondering if he should try waiting it out here for a few minutes, he heard the sirens. More cops were already on the way.
No, if he stayed here, they’d find him. He either needed to get behind the nearest apartment, which was about twenty-five feet away—but that meant traversing the lawn in plain sight—or make it to the other side of the road and hope the parked cars would block the view as he crossed the street. Then he could disappear into the neighborhood on the next block over.
Which was better?
Hard to say.
Hard to say.
Maybe crossing the road. If he stayed low enough, the cars would at least partially block the view. Less chance of being seen.
Yes, that would work, he could make it. He had to.
The vague sound of distant traffic floated through the chilly night. Nearby, more dogs were joining in barking, but Vincent tried to block all that out.
He took a breath and went for it, dashing across the road as swiftly as he could, but just as he reached the far curb, he heard one of the cops yell, “Stop! Police!”
Go!
As fast as he could, Vincent sprinted into the dark channel between the two houses in front of him.
A quick glance back told him that the cop was in pursuit. Looking forward again, Vincent managed to duck just in time to avoid a clothesline strung up in someone’s backyard. He came to a waist-high wooden fence, scrambled over it, and bolted past a driveway and through the night, weaving between the houses to try to lose the cop.
“Stop right there!” the officer yelled. Amazingly, he sounded like he was gaining on him. He wasn’t out of breath and it was the voice of a guy who knew he was going to take you down.
But Vincent didn’t stop running, there was too much at stake. He rounded another house. If he could just stay out of sight, just—he dodged an abandoned tricycle and barely missed slamming into a jon boat stationed on its rusted trailer beside the home—just get to the next street—
Though he was already almost two blocks from the alley where he’d left Lionel, he could see the flicker dance of the blue-red-blue lights of more squads driving toward the scene.
Vincent angled left and flew past a tumbledown duplex. He didn’t see the cop anymore and figured he must have lost him somewhere between the last two houses. He kept running.
By now, some of the porch lights in the neighborhood were snapping on as more people woke up from the shouting, the yelping dogs, the police sirens.
Vincent whipped around the corner of a house.
And almost ran into the cop, a tall scruffy guy, who stood in front of him with his gun raised. “Do not move.”
How did he get—?
“Hands up!”
Vincent raised his hands. He needed to get away, there was no other option. “Officer, I’m not—”
“On your knees. Do it.”
The guy looked like an athlete. Vincent calculated whether or not he could take him. It might not be easy.
Go for the gun.
That would be tight too. But he couldn’t risk being taken in. “Please, Officer, I need to—”
“Now.” The cop leveled the gun at his chest.
Desperation swallowed everything. This was it. He had to go for it, had to risk it, had to act now, before more officers got here. He started to bend down as if he were obeying the officer, but then used his bent knee to propel himself forward and lunge for the gun.
Years of college football and weight lifting had made Vincent quick and tough and not afraid to mix things up. He went hard at the cop, snagging his hand and knocking the gun away. Then he balled up a fist and aimed a blow at the officer’s kidney, but the guy blocked it just in time.
He deftly grabbed Vincent’s wrist, twisting it to control him.
Countering, Vincent threw a hard hook with his other fist, connected solidly with the guy’s jaw, but that didn’t stop him—he drove his shoulder into Vincent’s chest and slammed him to the ground.
Vincent tried to wrestle free but the cop was wiry and strong, and as he rolled to get away, he felt his arm being wrenched behind him to subdue him. Vincent strained fiercely to get away, but the cop twisted his arm more, toward the breaking point.
“No!” Vincent couldn’t help but yell. If he didn’t get away—
But then he was cuffed and the officer was pinning him down with his knee, calling for backup. “Do not move,” he told Vincent.
“You don’t understand—”
“Quiet,” the officer said. “This is Detective Bowers.” He was talking into his radio. “I’m on the southeast corner of Twenty-sixth and Wells. I have the suspect.”
“Please,” Vincent gasped. “He has her. If you don’t let me go, he’s going to kill her. You can’t let that maniac kill my wife!”
3
I paused. “Who has her?”
“Some guy—I don’t know his name! He broke into our house, told me I had to take a black man to that alley. Please—he said if I got caught, it’d be too late for last rites, that he’d slit her throat. Slit her like a pig.” The guy’s voice cracked. “That’s what he said.”
I patted him down. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know. You have to believe me!”
No weapons. A wallet. Car keys. A portable phone in his pocket. Not just a pager, an actual portable phone. Though they were starting to become more popular, it spoke of wealth. I removed the items. “What’s your name?”
“Vincent Hayes.”
A few seconds ago he’d knocked my gun, a .357 SIG P229, away, and now I qui
ckly retrieved it and slipped it into my holster, then held Hayes down firmly.
Assess the threat. Clear the scene.
I scanned the shadows to make sure no accomplices were coming to assist the guy, but the view in all directions was restricted. After evaluating the sight lines, the distance to the nearest intersection, and the spacing between the streetlights, I realized I didn’t like our position here at all.
“You said he told you to do it. Did you meet with him?”
“On the phone!”
It was possible for someone to be making something like this up on the spot, but it seemed unlikely. The best way to ferret out a lie is with a follow-up question. “Who are you working with, Vincent?”
“No one.” A pause. “What do you mean?”
“Abducting the man in the alley. Who else was involved?”
“No one. It was just me.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“He made me do it! I swear. Stop wasting time. He’s going to kill her if—”
“Where do you live, Vincent?”
He rattled off an address and I radioed it in to get a car over there. I was still holding him down and he was a hefty man, so I was glad that, at least for the moment, he’d stopped trying to roll away.
“No, no no, they’re not there—” Then abruptly, he seemed to change his mind. “Wait. You can’t go in. If he sees you, he’ll kill her! He said no cops!”
There was no question that I needed to check out this guy’s story to see if his wife was safe. “Go in dark,” I told dispatch. “Possible hostage situation.”
Swift, light footsteps approached us. I whipped out my SIG, snapped around, ready, wired. But it was just Sergeant Brandon Walker, the guy we called Radar, entering the circle of light tossed down from one of the streetlights about thirty meters away.
At thirty-seven, Radar was twelve years older than me and was the one officer Lieutenant Thorne thought wouldn’t be threatened or insulted partnering with the youngest homicide detective on the force. He’d been right. Radar was a good cop. A good man. A great dad. Even though he wasn’t an imposing guy—slim, balding, stuck with a nose that was a little too big for his face—Radar was scrappy and smart, and I was glad he was my partner.
