As a doctor, I knew the progression only too well. Human beings are essentially tropical animals with few natural defenses against cold. When body temperature falls below normal, the nervous system, heart, and other organs react accordingly. Shivering is actually a good sign, because it means that the body is still trying to manufacture heat. But as core temperature continues to drop, the major blood vessels constrict, sending less and less oxygen to outer limbs and the brain. Lapses in judgment follow, along with a deterioration in motor skills and drowsiness. Eventually the victim loses consciousness, breathing ceases, and the heart stops.
When I was a Boy Scout, I’d also been drilled over and over about what to do if caught in a blizzard. Get out of the wind, remove wet clothing, cover yourself with blankets, leaves, or even snow. Don’t waste energy, and wait quietly for aid to arrive. Good advice that only went so far. Though the walls of our prison reduced the danger of frostbite, they were no barrier to the steadily falling temperature. The cold was almost a tangible thing, penetrating the hut in ever-intensifying waves. Even under the cover of the tarp, the gelid air tugged at our skin, bit into our nostrils, and made breathing a chore.
I put my arms around Hallie and hugged her tightly to me. Two-thirds my weight, she seemed to be having a much harder time of it. Her limbs were wracked with tremors. Huddled together this way, sharing each other’s warmth, we might survive for a few hours, but not indefinitely.
“How are you doing?” I asked her, through the staccato of my own teeth.
“All right. But the next time we go winter camping, remind me to bring some matches.”
“I could start a fire without them.”
“Hmmm. Smoke inhalation might be a problem.”
“As would being roasted alive.”
“Too bad we don’t have any marshmallows.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
That was another problem, along with dehydration, both of which would hasten our end.
As the first hour passed into the second, and the second into the third, I grew more and more pessimistic about our chances. Even if we were reported missing, no one knew where Hallie and I had gone or would think of looking for us in the yard behind the deserted Westlake mansion. If Crow had half a brain, he would destroy our cell phones and abandon the MG in some faraway place, in a body of water or across state lines. It would be a simple matter to tell Winona to follow him in his car—as simple as coming up with an explanation the confused girl wouldn’t question. If so, it might be months before our bodies were found, when the odor from our thawing corpses became too strong to miss. By that time, grass would have grown up over Brad Stephens’s grave. Rachel Lazarus would have spent her first months in prison. And with no one there to remind him, Louis would begin to forget he ever had a natural father.
“Are we going to die?” Hallie whispered to me. In the last half hour, her speech had slowed and she had stopped shaking, a bad sign since it meant her body was giving up the fight.
“No,” I said. “Though it might be time to say our prayers.”
“I don’t want to pray. I just want you to kiss me.”
I obliged her, feeling with a shudder another kind of kiss on her lips.
“Mark?” she said from far away.
“What?”
“If we don’t make it—”
I put a finger over her mouth. “Don’t talk. Just stay with me.”
Not long after, I stopped shivering too and my thought processes became muddled. Cold, I thought farcically. Why did cold have to feel so much like fire? Wasn’t that an oxymoron? Cold burning me up while I was freezing. Cold that wouldn’t go away. Cold that never relinquished its grip, that felt like a hot lick of flame on my cheek. Come to think of it, there was something on my cheek. I batted at it with numbed fingers, but it came back, sending a hot, foul smell into my nostrils. “Damn it!” I murmured, pushing it away again. “Why can’t you just let me die in peace?”
The cold returned, pushing at my face with a tiny palm. A soft palm with disconcertingly rough edges. Pushing ever so slightly and then more insistently. I heard a sound like a clock ticking next to my ear and felt the sensation of something moving restlessly above my chest. The cold come to taunt me in my final moments. It hovered there, circling around and around, before landing like a barbell on my throat.
I shot up in shock, clawing at the air.
And being clawed in return as the equally surprised animal leaped over my ear and into the dark.
“Meow,” it said.
“What the—?” I said, my brain fog lifting ever so slightly.
“Meow,” it complained again.
No, I thought. It couldn’t possibly be. “Whiskers?” I said experimentally.
He—or she—responded by returning and rubbing my leg.
The sudden rush of adrenaline had put a temporary halt on my mental decline. I lowered my ear to Hallie’s chest and felt for her wrist. She was still breathing, but her pulse was faint.
Curious about what I was up to, the cat drew nearer to where I could touch it. “Whiskers, or whatever you’re called,” I said. “How the hell did you get in here?”
The cat swished its tail in response.
“Come on, show me.”
The cat trotted away to the woodpile at the back of the shed to where I could hear it scratching around. The only place I hadn’t searched for an escape hatch was behind it.
Later, I would remember tearing at the logs with my almost comically useless hands, weeping real tears of relief when I’d pushed the last of them away and felt the current of fresh air on my face. It was only a hole near the ground, the size of a small animal, and the earth around it was too frozen to enlarge. But when I screwed my head into the dirt and pressed my ear to the opening, I heard footsteps crunching through the snow toward us and recognized the voice of Mrs. Esposito.
“Whiskers? Is that you? Bad boy, making me come out looking for you on such a dreadful night. I don’t know what I’m going to do if you don’t stop running away.”
THIRTY-ONE
“You got custody?” Hallie said in disbelief.
“Amazing, isn’t it? I think what won them over was showing I could keep him at a healthy weight.”
It was the following Thursday and we were sitting down to dinner at a much-touted new restaurant in Bucktown specializing in all things brined, locally sourced, and hormone-free.
“Why? Feeding a cat isn’t rocket science.”
I took a sip of my handcrafted, small-batch bourbon. “The adoption specialist acted that way. And seemed amazed that I could actually open the can. I only have one more home visit to go before I can officially call him my own.”
“And they were OK with the name change?”
“Mrs. Esposito was disappointed but said she understood.”
Following forty-eight hours of intense scrutiny, which included proof of employment, an overnight trial, and my notarized promise to keep him indoors, Whiskers—whom I had rechristened Top Cat—had taken up residence in my home. When I left him that morning, he was sleeping contentedly in my bed, no doubt dreaming about his next jail break.
There were other things to celebrate, not the least of which was Hallie’s rapid recovery, leading to her discharge from the hospital with a clean bill of health two days before.
“How are the toes?”
“Still a becoming shade of purple. But it’s a small price to pay for still having all ten of them. How about you?”
After we were rescued, I experienced a brief scare about my fingers. But they emerged from our ordeal with only superficial frostbite, though the tips were still roughened and sore.
“OK, though I won’t be tackling War and Peace anytime soon. More importantly, how’s Rachel?”
“I had a long visit with her this morning. She’s . . . I don’t know. Overjoyed that it wasn’t Olivia, of course. But still feeling responsible for everything that happened. I told her she shouldn�
�t. Many young women in her position would have decided to keep the baby, and it wasn’t until after Olivia was born that she knew without a doubt the child was Crow’s.”
I fiddled with a piece of bread. “Westlake suspected it, too. I’m guessing that’s one of the reasons he abused her.”
“Who knows what goes on in the heads of men like that. What we do know is that she was being systematically terrorized for most of her adult life and too frightened about losing her daughter to leave him. The saddest thing is that she’ll always blame herself when it’s the system that failed them both.”
“When will they free her?”
Hallie was quiet.
I frowned. “You have something bad to tell me.”
“It should happen automatically, but I’ve been a lawyer too long to think that it will. The police and prosecutors don’t like to be proved wrong. I’ve seen them fight tooth and nail to hold on to a conviction even when DNA evidence leaves no doubt about a defendant’s innocence. They have Crow in custody, but that’s no guarantee they’ll reopen Rachel’s case.”
Acting on our report, the police had picked Crow up on I-80, just as he was crossing the Iowa border. With Olivia beside him in the passenger seat, Crow hadn’t resisted arrest on assault and attempted-murder charges.
“Wait. You’re saying they may not prosecute him for Westlake’s murder?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hallie said.
“But what about the fingerprints? And Mrs. Esposito?” I had naively assumed that the police would go hunting for remnants of the scotch bottle. And that the old woman’s story would now get the credit it deserved. As soon as the DMV’s computers were back up and running, Hallie’s friend was able to confirm that the car parked under Westlake’s porte cochere that night belonged to Crow. “And I’ve got to believe the police will find further evidence that Crow was in the house if they go looking for it.”
“That’s the big ‘if.’ I’m preparing a motion demanding that they conduct another, thorough search of the property. But even assuming Crow left behind some of his DNA, his defense lawyers will dispute when and how it got there. If the evidence isn’t airtight, O’Malley could easily decide she’s better off sticking with the attack on us.”
The meal was beginning to seem a lot less celebratory.
“What about O’Malley?” I said. “She’s always struck me as honest. Can we go to her with our suspicions about Di Marco?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Hallie said. “The problem is the same one we started out with: finding the original police notes and tying their disappearance to Tony. I’ve got to think he covered his tracks well. And O’Malley can’t very well launch an investigation into one of her senior ASAs without some serious cause.”
“So he gets away with it.” Not to mention the possible murder of my friend.
“I haven’t given up completely, but it looks that way.”
Our main courses had come and we picked at them in silence. I hated thinking we had come this far with so little to show for it. True, we had put Rachel Lazarus’s mind to rest about Olivia, and the girl was now under Alison’s care. Overcoming her trauma wouldn’t be easy, but I had every confidence in my colleague’s ability to start her down the path to recovery. And there was still hope that O’Malley would put aside petty concerns about her office’s track record and agree to vacate the conviction.
If only I could believe it.
When the waiter came to collect our plates, I held out my credit card and told him we wouldn’t be needing desert.
“Are you on some kind of diet?” he asked. “’Cause you didn’t eat anything the last time, either.”
“The last time?”
“At the Outpost. A couple of weeks ago. I was your bartender,” he said, as though this was something to be proud of.
I thought his voice sounded familiar. “So you’ve moved up in the world.”
“Yeah. Gotta friend who works in the kitchen, and she put in a good word for me. Beats having to wait on drunks all the time. And the money is good enough that I could afford to go back to school part-time. I’m getting my degree in photojournalism from Columbia. The one here, I mean. Which reminds me. You know that chick you were with—the hot-looking one?”
I figured he meant Michelle. “What about her?”
“You know she wasn’t in love with you, right?”
My jaw must have dropped. “In love with me?”
“Yeah. I saw her at the Outpost with another dude, back in December. Middle-aged guy with a cane, just like you. That’s why I remember her so well. That and the big tip.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, with a sudden ill feeling.
“You sure you want to hear about it? I mean, it looks like you’ve found yourself another lady—and a much nicer one, too.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hallie said, making no effort to hide her amusement.
I put my hand on her forearm to alert her that this was no laughing matter. “I’m not worried about my feelings. Tell us about the other man she was with.”
“It’s like this. First the two of them come in and have this super intense conversation over beers. Kinda like the one she was having with you, though she didn’t cry half as much. About an hour into it, they leave. Then, about twenty minutes later, she comes back through the door, all nervous and looking over her shoulder. Throws herself on a stool and asks me to pour her a double vodka, which she downs in one swallow. Right away, she asks for another shot. So I ask her if something’s wrong.”
“Go on.”
“First, she tells me she’s OK, but then it’s like the whole story starts pouring out. So she’s been seeing this guy—the one she just left with—and she’s really in love with him and he loves her back but he’s married and his wife is a crazy bitch. And the guy’s got some kind of disease—I could see that—and can’t afford to pay alimony on top of all his medical bills. And now she thinks the wife has hired a private detective and she’s being followed all the time. And she thinks it was happening a few minutes ago, which is why she came running back to the bar. And if somebody ever asks would I please, please not tell them that she and her boyfriend were here.”
“And that was it?”
“No. Then she passes a fifty-dollar bill across the bar, winks at me like it’s our little secret, and walks out. So I’m like, this is a bit strange, but I’m not gonna pass up the spending money. Then, a few weeks later, she shows up again, this time with you. At first I thought you were the same dude, but then I realized you looked a little different and uh . . .”
I said, “I know. Just finish the story.”
“Well, that’s pretty much it. Except that this time I’m beginning wonder if she’s some kind of con artist. If she was so in love with the other dude, why was she back at the Outpost, putting on the same sad face with another handicapped guy? And so soon. Afterwards, I was sorry I didn’t say something to you. I hope she didn’t cheat you out of anything. ’Cause if she did, I’d be glad to tell my story to the cops.”
I did some rapid thinking. “Thanks,” I said. “I may have to take you up on that offer. What’s your name?”
“Wayne.”
“So Wayne, would you recognize this ‘other dude’ if I showed you a photo of him?”
“Yeah, but I could do even better than that.” He sounded nervous bringing it up. “I mean, it’s probably illegal, but maybe I could get some kind of immunity in exchange for helping you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like this. Most days when I was working the bar at the Outpost, the place was really slow, and I’m not that into watching TV, so I passed the time with a hobby of mine. Actually, more than a hobby since I’m hoping to get my own show one of these days. You’re not supposed to do it without permission, but I thought the patrons there wouldn’t mind. Most of them were passed out when I took the shots anyway. And I thought it could be really cool artistically—what people
do in bars when they think no one’s watching them . . .”
THIRTY-TWO
We drove to Sauganash on Chicago’s far northwest side. To steady my nerves, I checked the name online on the way up and discovered it meant “English-speaking.” It was named after a Native American leader of the Potawatami tribe, Billy Caldwell, also known as “Sauganash.” In exchange for negotiating a treaty between the United States and his people, the federal government granted him the hundred acres along the Chicago River that still bore his name. Thanks to the number of municipal employees and cops living there, it was considered one of the safest neighborhoods in the city.
Tony Di Marco was waiting with an unmarked cruiser when we arrived. “Why don’t you ride with us?” he said when Hallie rolled down the window of the rental car she’d been driving since her MG was discovered, stripped down to the chassis by opportunists, in a cornfield in Grundy County. “It’ll be more fun that way.”
After Hallie parked in his driveway, the three of us—Di Marco, Hallie, and I—piled into the backseat and Di Marco introduced us to the two detectives who would be accompanying us.
“Skip the red lights,” he told them. “But no lights or sirens. I want this to be a surprise.”
“Sure, boss,” the driver said.
We took off in a screech of burnt rubber that had me clinging to the armrest.
“OK, let’s see what you got on film,” Di Marco said to me as soon as we were on our way.
I showed him the photograph Wayne had sent to my phone in the restaurant, which bore a date and time stamp showing it had been snapped thirty minutes before Brad Stephens’s “accident.”
“Oh, yes,” Di Marco chuckled malevolently. “That’s our Michelle, all right. Who would’ve thought she could pull it off?”
“Do you think she acted alone?”
“No more than you do. I’m just saying it must have taken a lot of nerve. More than I would have given her credit for, even with my boss’s encouragement.”
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