Trouble in Mind

by Michael Wiley

  ‘She missed,’ Kelson said. ‘Should we try Henrico?’

  ‘Nah, she’ll warn Toselli we know about him. Same as the lake house.’

  ‘You think it’s run and hide for him now?’

  ‘Where’s he going to run?’

  ‘He’s got to have somewhere.’

  ‘He seems more like the kind who fights if he gets a chance,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Does he go to Stevens’s office? Back to your apartment? Nancy’s house?’

  ‘Or anywhere he thinks he can sneak up behind you,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Let’s check Stevens.’

  But as they drove toward the real-estate office, Rodman’s phone rang again.

  Francisca was on the other end. ‘She’s got a fever,’ she said. ‘And she’s talking crazy about that boy Christian again. She thinks he’s here with her.’

  ‘What does Marty say?’

  ‘I woke him, but he says she isn’t his problem. If she tries to kill me, I should scream and he’ll help. If she’s just dying, I should let him sleep.’

  ‘Is she dying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said, and hung up. Then he told Kelson to turn around and go to Rush Medical. He dialed another number, and soon he was persuading Cindi to steal more cephalexin and meet them at the emergency entrance. When he hung up again, he said, ‘That girlfriend of yours is a problem.’

  ‘Don’t call her my girlfriend,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Sure as hell isn’t mine,’ Rodman said.

  Forty minutes later, Kelson dropped Rodman and Cindi at their Bronzeville apartment. Then he headed for the Stevens Group building alone. Along the way, he debated Toselli’s virtues and failings.

  ‘He put his lips on my bloody mouth to resuscitate me.’

  ‘He framed me and he’s trying to kill me.’

  ‘He’s a good family man. Of sorts.’

  ‘He’s a killer.’

  ‘He loved Inez.’

  ‘He pumps addicts full of stolen drugs.’

  ‘He rushes into a bust in front of everyone else. He jumps from a second-story window and rolls to his feet.’

  ‘He uses his strength to hurt people.’

  Kelson recalled the Frisbee and beer Toselli brought him at the rehab center. He recalled the grin on Toselli’s face when Sue Ellen first called him Uncle Greg. He recalled Toselli teasing her, saying, I shoot little girls. Pow! Pow! He recalled Sue Ellen screaming with laughter. He recalled Raima Minhas’s death grimace.

  As he pulled to the curb at the Stevens Group building and climbed out of his car, his debate got so heated that he didn’t see the man sitting in the silver SUV in front of him. He also didn’t see the big, black automatic on the man’s lap. But when the man raised the gun and aimed it through an open window, he saw it.

  Kelson’s brain cross-wired, and before he could shout Toselli’s name, Toselli touched the trigger and bullets burst from the muzzle.

  Kelson jerked away and dropped to the pavement. He rolled on the concrete and pulled his KelTec from his belt. As Toselli opened his door and climbed out – leading with the automatic – Kelson squeezed two shots.

  The rounds sank into the vinyl inside the door.

  Toselli dove back into the SUV. He started the engine and the SUV jumped from the curb. It went ten feet and stopped. He shifted into reverse and punched the gas.

  The SUV flew back toward Kelson.

  Kelson rolled – too slow, it seemed, for the spitting tires. He squeezed the trigger again and again, shooting high into the sky, then into the SUV undercarriage. The skidding tires, the shots from the KelTec, the surrounding traffic – everything went silent in his ears. He was all reflex, his senses as dead as they would be if the SUV had run over his neck.

  But he rolled clear. He aimed his pistol at the exterior rearview mirror, with Toselli’s face staring at him. He squeezed the trigger, and the mirror exploded.

  Then Toselli shifted again and the SUV shot away.

  ‘Huh,’ Kelson said.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran to his car.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Kelson chased Toselli west on Division, slid around a corner and then another and then veered across oncoming traffic to a boulevard, heading north. The street cut through a strip park a half mile long. Toselli charged toward Logan Square, a plot of dead grass and leafless trees dumped in the middle of the boulevard, requiring Kelson to hit the brakes and slide around corner after corner, sideswiping a white Miata, all to stay a block behind an SUV that shouldn’t have been able to outrace a Dodge Challenger under any conditions.

  They went past tennis courts, an auto-glass store, a Mexican carniceria, beaten-down businesses, and beaten-down houses, then under the Kennedy Expressway and north and still north. Kelson shouted at Toselli through the windshield, ‘You got a plan? Why not pull over and shoot it out like any normal psychopath?’ Toselli drove to the far north of the city, past banks and drugstores, past Maria’s Bridal Boutique and A-Z Food Mart & Wireless. Then he cut east toward the Ravenswood neighborhood where Bicho once lived – Francisca Cabon too, until Toselli snuck into her apartment and tried to kill her and her baby.

  ‘Ahhh,’ Kelson shouted, as if that meant anything.

  But Toselli cut north again before Ravenswood, jumping a curb into Ronan Park, which was another strip of dead grass and leafless trees, gray and brown, hugging the banks of the Chicago River. Kelson followed his SUV on to a winding jogging trail. They flew past a bicyclist and an Asian woman with a cane and a German Shepherd. When the trail emerged at a street, Toselli hit the gas and blasted through cross traffic.

  ‘Goddamned squirrel,’ Kelson shouted, and hit the brakes – then he took his foot from the brakes and hit the gas too. He clipped the back of a van in the near lane and threaded between two cars in the far lane, then bounced back on to the park trail.

  He kept the gas hard to the floor. The ragged branches, the river water, the signs warning against loud music and alcohol consumption blended and blurred. Toselli came up fast on another bicycle, and a moment later Kelson flew past it, screaming. When the trail cut sharp, Toselli’s tires skidded from the concrete on to the grass, bounced across a baseball diamond, and found the trail again. Kelson followed. They bumped down the curb on to another street and jumped the curb on the other side.

  At Peterson Avenue – four lanes cutting from the Interstate toward Lake Michigan – the park trail forked. One path went through an underpass toward the northern city limit. The other went up to the street. Toselli took the path to the street, which was jammed with cars and trucks. He slammed on his brakes. Kelson hit his brakes too, but his car slid into the back of Toselli’s SUV, nudging it into the traffic.

  As cars and trucks stopped and horns blew, Toselli nosed across the eastbound lanes, and Kelson inched behind him. Then Toselli floored the gas again, fishtailed on the concrete, and headed west across the river.

  A van with ladders strapped to a roof rack was speeding westbound, and when the driver saw Toselli’s SUV lurch in front of him and Kelson’s car start to follow, he cut his wheel. The van slid sideways, its tires scraping pavement, then tipped over and spun on its door panels. It came to a rest in front of Kelson.

  Kelson shifted into reverse, but traffic filled the road behind him. The van driver climbed up through the passenger’s side door, looking ready to kill. Other drivers got out of cars and trucks.

  Kelson rolled down his window. A hundred words formed on his lips. A single sound combining all of them came from his window. Everyone paused. Kelson cut his steering wheel and hit the gas.

  His car shot into the eastbound lane. The other drivers leaped out of the way, and Kelson went a half block down and rounded a corner. He zigzagged through side streets, cut across parking lots, and came to a rest a mile away in an alley sided by detached garages, chain-link fences, and garbage bins.

  He cut the engine and listened to h
imself breathe – his throat ragged, his blood pumping hard, his skin slick with sweat. Then he swore and laughed at the top of his lungs.

  Toselli had escaped, it was true. Maybe he would run now and keep running. Maybe Kelson would never see him again. The thrill Kelson felt was more intense than any he’d ever felt, the adrenaline spike higher. For the first time since Bicho shot him, he felt fully alive. He laughed, and he said, ‘The goddamned man wants to kill me and he makes me live.’ For a moment, that thought sobered him. ‘I suppose I owe him.’ Then he laughed again.

  He sat still for five minutes.

  He heard no sirens.

  He saw no cruisers patrolling for a hit-and-run driver.

  Toselli didn’t come to the alley with an automatic blazing from an open window.

  ‘Maybe,’ Kelson said, though he didn’t know what about.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Kelson drove back to his apartment. He felt an overwhelming desire to see Sue Ellen. But if he rushed into her school and sucked her into his arms, he would scare everyone, especially her. If he called ahead and asked the front office to pull her from class, telling them it was an emergency … no, that would do her no good. So he went to see the kittens. To feed them. To pet them.

  He knew the danger of easing up after a chase like the one that had just ended, so he circled the block twice before parking. The blue Buick was back, parked up the street, now with just one of Nuñez’s men in it, sleeping behind the steering wheel. The second time Kelson passed, he tapped his horn and watched the man startle awake.

  He parked and kept his hand on his KelTec as he crossed from the lot to the building lobby. He checked the stairwell before touching the elevator call button. When the elevator doors opened at his floor, he slipped across the hall to the opposite wall.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  He went down the hall, felt his doorknob, and let himself in. Then another weird sound came from his chest.

  Toselli sat at the kitchen table, his hand on his automatic, a finger on the trigger.

  When Kelson started to draw back through the door, Toselli brought up the gun and aimed at Kelson’s chest. When Kelson reached for his KelTec, Toselli shook his head and tightened his finger over the trigger.

  So Kelson stepped into the apartment, leaving the door half open, and said, ‘You’re really bad about people’s private space, aren’t you?’

  ‘Close the door,’ Toselli said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Kelson went closer.

  ‘You want to drag your neighbors into this? You know what I’ll do to anyone who gets in the way. Close the goddamned door.’

  Instead, Kelson went to the table and sat across from him. ‘Bastard,’ he said.

  Toselli gave him a vicious smile. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’

  ‘Maggot-headed, shit-sniffing, backstabbing, lying bastard.’

  ‘You done?’

  Kelson said, ‘You could’ve been my brother. Even more than my brother, you two-faced, snake-in-the-grass bastard.’

  Toselli applauded. ‘You been studying up for this conversation? Reading a thesaurus?’

  ‘I died in that alley with Bicho,’ Kelson said.

  ‘No,’ Toselli said, ‘you should’ve but didn’t.’

  ‘I died. You pumped breath into my lungs.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘My blood on your lips. My brains and bone. My … dirt. You put your mouth in it. Dirty as licking my ass.’

  ‘Not the metaphor I would use. But you’re welcome. You got a couple of years out of the deal.’

  ‘You don’t get it. You should’ve let me die. Then I wouldn’t have to look at your backstabbing, ass-licking face.’

  ‘You’re a resentful little man, Kelson.’

  ‘You don’t get that either. I’ve got nothing but love. That’s what hurts so much. I even love a bastard like you. That’s why it’s so hard to have to kill you.’

  A laugh burst from Toselli’s chest. Something like joy. ‘You? Kill me?’

  ‘I hate to do it,’ Kelson said.

  Toselli held his gun as if he would shoot him. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, you were a bad uncle to Bicho. No better than a child rapist.’

  ‘You don’t know when to stop,’ Toselli said, and now he showed real anger.

  ‘I don’t even know how to stop,’ Kelson said, and with the passing of his impulsive outburst he felt fatigued. ‘You’ve had plenty of chances to kill me, but you’ve played this out slow. Tried to make it hurt. You know, I didn’t mean to kill Bicho.’

  ‘But he’s dead, isn’t he?’ Toselli said.

  ‘I don’t remember doing it. I’ve tried to put it together. It’s like that one memory is in the part of me that got shot away.’

  ‘I know what happened. You killed Alejandro.’

  ‘Who shot first?’

  Toselli tipped his head to the side. ‘If I said Alejandro, that would give you peace, wouldn’t it? But if I said you shot first – if I swore to it – what would it do to you?’

  ‘It would kill me again,’ Kelson said, ‘if it was true.’

  ‘That’s funny, isn’t it? I get to decide what’s true. I saw it happen. I saw you shoot each other. I could flip a coin and decide. Heads or tails – you want to choose?’

  ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘You’ve always been easily led. A good soldier but a bad captain.’

  Payday crawled out from under the bed, followed by Painter’s Lane. They seemed to sense that something was wrong, but Payday came to Kelson and rubbed against his ankle. When Kelson picked her up, Toselli snapped his gun toward him again as if he was pulling a trick. Kelson put the kitten on the table and petted her.

  Toselli looked disgusted. ‘What if I gave you a choice? I could let you kill me or I would tell you the truth about the shooting – who shot first, whose fault it was. Would you kill me without knowing?’

  ‘In an instant.’

  This time, Toselli didn’t laugh. ‘Put your gun on the table.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ll blow a hole in your chest if you don’t.’

  Kelson pulled the KelTec from his belt and laid it next to Payday.

  ‘How many rounds in it?’ Toselli said.

  ‘Six, I think.’

  ‘Take out five,’ Toselli said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just fucking do it.’

  Kelson did, standing the bullets on the table.

  ‘Chamber the last round.’

  Kelson did.

  ‘Now aim at me, but when you do, keep this in mind – if you shoot me, you’ll never know what happened between you and Alejandro. If you don’t shoot, I’ll tell you the truth. I swear.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ said Kelson.

  ‘Yeah, and you’re stupid. Do it.’

  So Kelson aimed his pistol at Toselli’s head. He held his finger on the trigger and tested its tension.

  Toselli stared him in the eyes. He laughed at him. ‘You don’t even know if I would tell the truth. Maybe I lied after Alejandro died when I told Dan Peters you shot first. Or maybe I described it exactly as it happened. All you know is I’m promising to tell you the truth if you put down the gun. Is a promise enough? The promise of a man who set you up and led you along? But the alternative is nothing. No promise. No chance of knowing. That’s what you get if you pull the trigger.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Kelson said. His brain cross-wired again, telling him to shoot, telling him never to shoot.

  Toselli said, ‘I’ll whisper it to you. After all this time – all this uncertainty – that seems right, doesn’t it? This is just between you and me. Our secret. I’ll whisper—’

  ‘I said, shut up.’ Kelson’s finger felt oily on the trigger.

  ‘But once I tell you, you don’t get another chance, you understand? That’s it. End of the game. You lose. I win.’

  The KelTec shook in Kelson’s hand. Pulling the trigger seemed impossible
. ‘You’re suicidal,’ Kelson said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Kelson squared the gun barrel on Toselli’s chest.

  For a moment, Toselli looked uncertain. Then he said, ‘All right.’ He grinned and stood up. ‘Put it down.’ When Kelson kept aiming the gun, he waited, as if he had the time.

  Kelson slammed the pistol on to the table.

  ‘Right,’ Toselli said. He came around to Kelson’s side and stood behind him. He touched the muzzle of his automatic to the back of Kelson’s head, leaned in so close he could bite him, and whispered, ‘My life’s over now too, isn’t it? Where do I go? What do I do?’

  ‘Tell me who shot first,’ Kelson said.

  ‘When I kill you, it’ll be like killing myself. In that way, you’re right – you’ll be killing me too. But it’s over for me either way. I’ve been a cop long enough to know there’s no place for me to go.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Kelson said. ‘Tell me.’

  Toselli twisted the gun barrel, as if he would screw it into Kelson’s scalp. ‘Or I could just shoot you now. Your last thought would be knowing that you didn’t know.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I could—’

  A voice came from the hallway outside the apartment. ‘Dad?’ Little knuckles knocked on the half-open door. Sue Ellen stepped inside.

  Toselli reflexively drew the automatic from Kelson’s head. He moved around the side of the table and sat, tucking the gun in his lap. Kelson snatched up the KelTec and held it under the table. Kelson’s five bullets still stood on end, side by side, an obscene little sculpture.

  Sue Ellen ignored it. She saw Toselli and grinned. ‘Uncle Greg.’ She ran for a hug.

  He gave her one, awkwardly. ‘Hey, kiddo.’

  ‘Stay away from Uncle Greg,’ Kelson said, and when she looked confused, ‘He’s a bastard and a—’

  ‘Dad …’ she said, but they’d kidded around with Toselli ever since she was a seven-year-old. She scooped the kitten off the tabletop. ‘Payday! Did you meet my kittens, Uncle Greg?’

  ‘Uncle Greg doesn’t like kittens,’ Kelson said. ‘He doesn’t like nice people. He doesn’t like nice things.’