When he’d been trying to tell Jan about the glass he had taken from the janitors’ closet on the first floor, Jan had said something about the kitchen sink at home. He closed his eyes and imagined Jan with him in his room at Hell in the Woods. She sat close to him. She was warm and fragrant.
“Oh,” she’d said. “You mean the way we always keep a glass on the kitchen sink at home?”
After he opened his eyes and saw there was no glass at the back of the sink where it should have been, he began searching through cup boards. The lower cupboards were easy, but to get to the upper cup boards he had to grasp the edge of the counter to lift himself up from his chair and brace himself against the counter while opening each door.
There were no glasses in the cupboards. Not one. And imme diately next to the coffee cups in the cupboard to the left of the sink, there was an obvious empty space that took up an entire half shelf. And empty space where drinking glasses would be stored.
With Attila and the extra magazine in his sweatshirt pockets, and with the sack containing extra cartridges, scanner, and flashlight on his lap, he wheeled out of the apartment, and out of the building. Finally, back in the Lincoln, he turned on the scanner and adjusted the squelch control. He was not surprised at remembering how to do this. That was the way it was with his stroke. Physical things like eat ing and dressing and even driving and adjusting his scanner seemed automatic. Right, automatic like it would be if he had to shoot his semi-automatic.
He started the Lincoln, then sat there for some time, waiting for the seatbelt warning to stop, not quite sure where he should go next. He felt suddenly helpless and vulnerable like he was horizontal on a hospital bed with tubes running into him and not knowing why.
The terrifying feeling came over him that there was someone in the back seat. Someone from the past. A man. He thought again of who this man from the past could be. His father? Joe Friday? Jimmy Carter? Sandor Lakatos? Or perhaps the man was from the future. The man there to warn him about something.
But when he turned to look, the back seat was empty.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
SIX
What to do when your hands are behind your back and you can’t move. Where before the beast had called her sweetie as his stubble rasped her cheek, now he called her gook bitch as he pushed the wire brush of his face down across her neck and onto her breasts. He had grasped the seat back on either side of her and pulled himself onto her. Despite the absence of legs he was heavy, causing her feet to splay out on the floor of the van. When she tried to turn sideways to tip him off balance so he might roll off her, he growled at her. His lower torso was hard in two places, apparently what remained of leg bones. Or perhaps the protrusions were his lower hip sockets. If he had a penis, she was not aware of it.
Because of the tape on her mouth she was unable to scream when he slid his knobbed torso down the length of her legs and put his face at the coffee-soaked waistband of her slacks, pulling at her waistband with his teeth. Though she tried to remain in control, she choked sa liva up her nose when he did this, not because of where his face was, but because of his weight on her left leg. The leg had gotten wedged beneath part of the wheelchair lift and she felt the sharp stab of pain and heard the sound that traveled through her body, making her cer tain he had broken her ankle. When he bounced on her outstretched legs, apparently having some kind of unfulfilled orgasm that made him angrier and angrier, the pain shot through her left ankle again and again.
She tried to think of Steve while the beast was at her. But when her ankle broke, survival instincts took over and she was able to think only of her efforts to push the beast away. When the pain in her ankle became so severe she thought she would pass out, the beast must have sensed it, because he shifted his torso to the side, and finally she no longer bore his full weight. After this he turned her toward him and began cooing, his foul breath spreading over her skin, which crawled with the coolness of his saliva.
Now, all that was left was to try to think of Steve.
Steve! What about our life together! Answer me! What about us? Don’t you remember? We had a good life, something to be thankful for when we’re old and lying on our deathbeds. But not now, not here, not like this!
When he finished with her, the beast dropped down off the seat and pulled himself along the floor, across the wheelchair lift and back into the driver’s seat. Against the dull glow of the night sky through the windshield, she saw him pull his wheelchair back within reach be tween the seats where it had been.
The front door opened and Dino returned, making his way back to sit beside her. Although she could not see his face, she recognized the outline of Dino’s head and assumed he would now expect her to talk. Surely he would rip the tape from her mouth and expect her to talk. But instead, the van started up and someone else was talking. It was an authoritative male voice, and for an instant she glanced toward the front of the van expecting to see her rescuer. But all she saw in the front of the van from the direction the voice had come were the red and green lights of the police scanner. And now the authoritative male voice was replaced by a female voice, then another male, then voice after voice as if in litany as the scanner scanned.
They were moving again, the van backing up, branches scraping its sides before they sped forward. As the van bounced on the rough road, Dino leaned toward her and pulled her blouse and raincoat closed, buttoning one button on the raincoat. She tried to cry out that her ankle was broken, but the tape would not allow it.
After several minutes, she could see they were heading into the city. The expressway was familiar. The white-on-green lettering of overhead signs telling her they must be inbound on the Stevenson Ex pressway. Then, just after the sign for Harlem Avenue, the van slowed and they exited.
They headed north for several minutes, then west away from the city. Soon she knew where they were going, and knowing this created a pain in her heart. When the van slowed she could see the sign for the entrance road and the bus stop kiosk. The van turned into the en trance road and drove the short winding road toward the lights of the building the way she had driven it so many times. So many times.
And so they were back where it began, back at Hell in the Woods where Steve first told her about his suspicions concerning Marjorie’s death, about Marjorie’s paranoia concerning the staff at Hell in the Woods, about Marjorie’s mysterious stories of a family and keys and her litany of U.S. Routes.
U.S. 6 and 45, U.S. 30 and 50, U.S. 20 and 41, U.S. 14 and 94,
U.S. 14 and 45, U.S. 20 and 83, U.S. 30 and 34, U.S. 7 and 30, U.S. 30 and 45 … U.S. 6 and 45, U.S. 30 and 50 …
Driving fast made him think of a speeding bullet, and this made him recall what he sometimes called his stroke. Brain bullet. He’d told Jan about it. He also told Marjorie about it and Marjorie responded by re citing Presidents’ names. JFK and Lyndon Johnson and Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan and George Bush. “Brain bullet” most likely trig gering a recall of the Kennedy assassination, and that recall bringing forth the names of other Presidents.
He sped southwest down the Stevenson Expressway—Stevenson who ran for President against Eisenhower but was defeated. He had passed Harlem a ways back and was already out of the city. Instead of the heavy rain of earlier, there was a light drizzle and the spray from other cars and trucks. To avoid being stopped for speeding, he tucked in behind a couple of speeders playing the lane change game. By doing this and letting them run interference for him, he was able to keep the Lincoln at seventy-five.
It seemed so stupidly simple when he finally remembered the plan. He had been sitting there beneath the overhead light in the apart ment parking lot staring at the broad expanse of the Lincoln’s hood and listening to the police scanner when it hit him. The rhythm of a back-and-forth dialogue on the scanner had resurrected the rhythm of Marjorie’s litany of U.S. Routes.
U.S. 6 and 45, U.S. 30 and 50, U.S. 20 and 41, U.S. 14 and 94,
U.S. 14 and 45, U.S. 20 and 83,
U.S. 30 and 34, U.S. 7 and 30, U.S. 30 and 45. And after that it repeated over and over starting with U.S. 6 and 45.
He had heard Marjorie recite it many times, both in rehab and outside rehab. He had memorized it. But then, sitting there in the parking lot, his brain betrayed him, tucking the litany away some where until the rhythm of police calls brought it out.
U.S. 6 and 45. The same area Antonio Gianetti Junior and his attorney had been killed in a supposed accident only hours earlier. It was too much to be a coincidence. Of course, with the vehicle registra tion information from Tamara, he could go to Max Lamberti’s home, or to the address of Lamberti Produce, or to Dino Justice’s address, but he had a feeling this would be like treading water. Men like Max Lam berti and Dino Justice made a career of denial, and he of all people would have a hell of a time trying to grill them with questions. Or he could go to one after another of the addresses for Tyrone Washington, but he had a feeling Tyrone had nothing at all to do with Jan being missing. There was something much bigger going on. Something having to do with the Chicago mob and corruption in high places.
And something else, another reason for going to the accident scene. If Jan didn’t go to Wisconsin with Lydia, he was fairly certain she’d de cided to poke around using the information they’d gotten so far con cerning Marjorie’s death. If Jan were here in the car with him now, he’d really show how upset he was with her for doing this. But of course she wasn’t here. Next to him, resting on the floor and leaning against the seat was his folded wheelchair. As he glanced at it, he momentarily transformed the movement of the car to the movement of the chair with him on board and Jan behind, pushing him down the hall, maybe back from the television lounge to his room on one of those nights she propped a side chair against the door and they made love.
Yes, there was something else, another reason for going to the acci dent scene. He knew Jan. Despite his stroke, he knew Jan better than anyone in the world. She’d done all she could for him in her efforts to help him rediscover who he’d been. And because of this, he was con vinced Jan must have taken Marjorie’s death more seriously than he thought. Even keeping the incident in the janitors’ closet with Tyrone and his flat-nosed friend from her made no difference. She was a strong woman with a mind of her own and he should have known she would do something like this. He should have known, once he started the ball rolling by going to the funeral and examining everything he could remember Marjorie saying, that Jan would do something. It was his fault. Either he should have kept his mouth shut, or he should have gone to the police. And if the whole thing had gotten buried the way things sometimes do when the police come in and stir the pot, then so be it. Son of a bitch! It was his fault!
Another reason for driving to Orland Park was the alleged acci dent Tamara had mentioned. Because of who Jan was and what he knew she would do, he was certain that sometime today, Jan would have been there. She would have looked things up. Probably at the library where they used to spend time together. She’d find out about the Gianetti family. Maybe there had been a key tidbit of informa tion in a newspaper article. Maybe there was an event or something in Orland Park today and it had been clear to her that Antonio Gianetti Junior would go to this event. The Orland Park Shopping Center was there. Maybe something was going on there and Jan had somehow found out Antonio Junior would be there and …
Would she have approached Antonio Junior? Would she have sim ply walked up to him and told him there might be more to his mother’s death than an accidental slip in the hallway? And if she approached Gianetti and cousin Max had been around and had reason to want to leave well enough alone and not let some woman stir things up …
Of course Jan had gone to Orland. She was missing. Someone she would have wanted to question was dead, along with his attorney, in a questionable accident, and Jan had been seen at Marjorie’s funeral by the hoods. Max Lamberti, Dino Justice, and all the other hoods who might be in their Crown Vics right now. And why? What were they after? Marjorie had said it all. The keys. The family keys. The keys and the fly in the ointment. The fly in the ointment who could be none other than Max the Fly. And another thing he recalled Marjorie saying. The keys to the Presidential suite. Perhaps that was an indi cation of just how much someone had to gain or lose because of what Jan might be stirring up.
And so, he drove to Orland Park where he might or might not see Jan’s Audi or the vehicles on the list he got from Tamara. If he saw any of the vehicles out there, then he’d know for sure. And if he found that his suspicions were correct without finding Jan, he could always make his way back to the addresses in the dead of night and become death. Because if something happened to Jan, he wouldn’t care what happened to him as long as he got to the one responsible and put a bul let through a brain.
Although the vehicles involved in the so-called accident had been towed away, it was not hard to find the scene. A Chicago television crew had decided to do coverage for the morning news, and their van was in the left lane with its microwave dish aimed and its lights on the commentator. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but everyone slowed down to see what was going on. Some even parked on the right shoulder, including a man in a white Lincoln who watched from his car.
The commentator walked on the left shoulder of Route 45 as he spoke. The cameraman followed and so did the news van at walking speed with its high beams on and its emergency blinkers flashing. An Illinois State Police car moved slowly behind the van with its strobe lights going, and another was parked on the same shoulder a hundred yards back, just ahead of a bridge where there was a slight hill and the shoulders on both sides narrowed.
The commentator pointed out the skid marks coming across the road from the right lane on the downslope of the hill. He said that at this point the Prius driven by Antonio Gianetti Junior was apparently being dragged beneath the semi-trailer of the truck. The commenta tor pointed out where the skid marks stopped on the left shoulder. He said that at this point the rear wheels of the fully-loaded double-axle trailer apparently rolled over the Prius. The commentator pointed to the side to a deep rut lit by the van’s spotlight a hundred feet or so down in the median. He said when the Prius emerged from beneath the truck’s wheels it became airborne and hit where the first rut was visible. Farther down the road the commentator pointed out a series of water-filled ruts in the mud down in the center of the wide medium where he said the Prius flipped end over end until it came to rest.
Steve watched the commentator from the Lincoln. After the com mentator and cameraman went inside the van and the dish tilted back down to its closed position and the van moved ahead, he watched the State Police taking photographs and re-measuring the length of skid marks. Several officers searched the muddy area down in the median with flashlights, but other than that, there was nothing else to see. None of the vehicles on the list were there, and the only thing that had come in on the scanner relating to the accident was a call to State Police Headquarters that they’d soon be wrapped up at the scene and would have all the flashing lights out of the area in a couple minutes.
Because he had driven down Route 45 to the scene of the accident without stopping, Steve decided to go back north toward the shopping center and the intersection from Marjorie’s litany, U.S. 6 and 45. He drove through the parking lots of various businesses at and near the intersection. Most of the parking lots were nearly empty because it was late and the banks and stores were closed. A couple of eat-in res taurants and a few fast-food places near the intersection had crowded lots, but none of the vehicles on the list were there.
A mile north of the intersection, the Orland Park Shopping Cen ter parking lot was also almost empty, the stores having been closed for a while, and this frustrated him. If there had been a lot full of cars he could have driven up and down aisles and felt like he was doing something. But it didn’t take long in the shopping center. So he start ed going through the parking lots of restaurants and fast-food places along Route 45 in the vicinity of the center, working his way from north to south
until he was back at the intersection of U.S. 6 and 45.
While going through the parking lot of a fish and chips place, he saw the yellow flashing lights of a tow truck heading north on 45 and drove in behind it. It was a flatbed, and on it was a Mercedes with the Illinois license BBROWN. He followed the flatbed with the Mercedes on board because the plate BBROWN meant something. He could not think of what it was, but he was certain the plate meant something.
While he followed the flatbed, he tried to recall everything he learned before leaving Hell in the Woods. He remembered being in his room, getting ready to leave, putting on warm clothes, putting the pocket thesaurus in his pocket. He felt for the thesaurus, took it out and put it on the seat. Back at Hell in the Woods he sometimes used the thesaurus to recall a concept. But that was before he began using his computer. And what would he look up? The color brown?
Brown. It had to mean something. BBROWN. B. Brown. The boy. The shoe. The dog. Buster Brown! Tamara had said that An tonio Gianetti Junior had been killed with another man. With his attorney whose name was William Brown, but who was known as Buster Brown.
But what now? Of course Buster Brown’s car is being towed. He’s dead and can’t drive. He and Tony Junior probably met at one of these restaurants earlier and now his car’s been found. So what could he possibly gain by following the tow back to Chicago? Maybe he’d find out where Brown lived, or maybe he’d find out where Brown had his car serviced. And those things didn’t seem useful at all, not at all.
As he slowed the Lincoln and pulled into yet another parking lot to look for vehicles he might have reason to follow, Steve reached over and turned up the volume on the scanner resting on the seat beside him. It was already set up to stop at broadcasts on suburban and State Police and Sheriff’s Police and Chicago Police channels. While he slowly cruised through parking lots listening to the endless babble, he imagined God listening in, becoming angrier and angrier and tear ing the entire goddamn thing called civilization down because of this babble and because of all the lights of commercialism and because of global warming and because of war and terrorism and because of the absence of anything that would help find Jan. But then, as he turned south on 45 and headed back toward the scene of the accident to have another look, he picked up a call from Frankfort headquarters to one of its cars. It was a brief back-and-forth dialogue between a female base station operator and a male officer.
Final Stroke Page 32
