Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  Ben slipped the phone into the pocket of his trench coat. “Looks like somebody walked up behind him and drilled him one. Likely happened early this morning. No one noticed till a couple hours ago. Bullet went straight through the Army jacket. We found him dead by a stack of sticks. If he’s not your guy, I’m guessing he was in your guy’s squat, and your guy decided to do something about it.”

  How’d you come up with that?”

  Ben shrugged. “He came after you, didn’t he? People have been killed for less.”

  I scanned the empty park. First, GI bolts from the rectory and outruns me, now I come this close to finding him and miss again. This was the place I knew to look for him, and he had slipped through my fingers. I was out of ideas.

  “Where could he be?” I asked.

  Ben unwrapped a stick of gum from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical.” He balled the wrapper up into a tight little sphere and rolled it in his fingers. “Just spit-balling here, but these attacks on the homeless started after the church, and they’ve been pretty steady since. Your guy could be my guy . . . and Farraday’s and Weber’s guy, too.... We’re all of us rolled up together in the same mess, which is going to get real tricky for you from this point on. You know that, right?”

  I frowned. “You’re a blast of pure sunshine, you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Come on, I’ll drive you to your car. And if I were you, I’d watch my back. Front, too.”

  “That’s twice today somebody’s given me that advice.”

  He grinned. “Then if I were you, I’d take it twice.”

  * * *

  I stared at my bedside clock. It was two AM, and I couldn’t turn off my brain enough to sleep. GI was out there somewhere, and someone else was dead. It was just too much of a coincidence to think that the dead man just happened to meet his end in GI’s makeshift tent the very day I got a bead on him. The attacks on the homeless started after Pop was killed and appeared random at first; now I wasn’t so sure. None of the other homeless men who’d been attacked had been shot in the back of the head, only rousted, as though whoever was doing it was looking for someone specific. The dead man at the beach house was different. He was in GI’s squat. It was dark. He was wearing an old Army jacket. Maybe the jacket, too, belonged to GI?

  He sent you. That’s what he’d said while his hands were clamped around my neck. He knows I saw. I was looking for a witness, not a killer. I was sure of it. And something else I was sure about now, I wasn’t the only one looking. GI knew who killed Pop and Cesar Luna. He saw and he ran, and the killer knows it. And I had to find him first, before GI ended up dead just like the others.

  I got up, got dressed, grabbed my stuff, and headed back to the park. Chester had said GI liked the sound of water. He felt safe around the old beach house and the trees. If he knew someone was after him, would he run or stay where he felt safe? I hoped it was the latter.

  It was raining again, and the park was closed, no one in it but me. Nothing like a dead body to keep everybody away. A steady rain pelted the hood of my rain slicker, the muffled sound competing with the splash of waves lapping against the rocks in the lagoon. In the dark, the street lamps looked like tall birthday candles, the flamelike bulbs glowing yellow, casting eerie shadows over the trees. I flicked on my flashlight and started walking toward where the body had been found, the sound of my footfalls on the slippery grass magnified by the silence of the night. The crime scene tape was still in place, but there was little left of GI’s squat, just a bare patch of trampled dirt and a few twigs the techs hadn’t thought significant enough to take away.

  The beach house, its granite bricks dulled by murky half-light, loomed imposingly just a few yards away. Its green-tiled roof, impressive in daylight, was now inky black, robbed of color by the waning moon. Facing me, the dark archways of the ground-level loggias and second-floor balconies looked as bottomless as a bogeyman’s eye sockets.

  The building had been a bathing pavilion back in the day when such things were the rage. Now it was owned by the Park District and rented out for the occasional charity soiree. I trained my flashlight on the gated entrance and walked over to check it out. Sweeping the small cone of light beyond the gates, I could just make out the stone steps leading up to the promenade.

  “Sleep outside under the murder tree in the rain, or inside under a roof with a view of the water? He’d choose the inside.” I shook the gates. Locked. But something about the way they rattled prompted me to try each iron bar individually, twisting each until I came across two loose ones. A quick glance behind me, a hasty sweep of the deserted lot, confirmed that I was still alone, so I set my flashlight down and fiddled with the loose bars until I was able to lift them up and out one by one, near elation overtaking me when their removal opened up a space just wide enough to slip through. Easing through to the other side, I heard a loud rip and felt a sudden rush of cold air on my left thigh. I looked down to see bare flesh beneath the six-inch tear in my jeans. “Great,” I muttered. “Just great.” I reached back through the bars and retrieved my light, then headed for the stairs, moving fast before a squad car swung by on patrol and ruined what was left of the night. Cold air swirled around the dank, hollow halls as I crept up the sandy steps, the darkness sending a shiver through me. All my senses stood at attention as I squinted into the dark, watching for movement, listening for quiet footsteps other than my own.

  “GI?” There was nothing but the sound of lapping waves, rain hitting the roof overhead, and my heart leaping out of my chest. “Old Sarge?” No movement. Which name should I call him? Did he answer to both? Would he answer to either? “GI!” I called out again, this time louder.

  I stopped at the top of the stairs and stood there staring at a dozen dimly lit votive candles set around the floor in a circle. GI’s candles. Inside the circle there was a dark mound that I couldn’t see clearly. Slowly, I swept the beam of the flashlight over the mound. Blankets. The light finally landed on the soles of a pair of boots.

  “GI?”

  Suddenly, the blankets moved, and a man leapt to his feet, reeled around, and landed squarely in my beam. It was him.

  Chapter 24

  I’d found GI. I felt like rushing forward and grabbing hold of him so he couldn’t run away again, but I didn’t. I didn’t dare move for fear he’d spook and strike out. Instead, I stood quietly watching. Behind GI was the beach below; behind me were the stairs I’d just climbed up. There was just one way in, one way out. If GI made a run for it, he’d have to go through me, and no way was I going to make that easy for him. He’d talk or he wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t get past me walking, not again. He stood poised for a fight, his face strained with fear and befuddlement, a pointed stick and a pocket knife gripped tightly in his bearlike hands.

  I backed away and thought carefully about what I’d say. “Is it GI or Old Sarge?”

  He said nothing. It looked as though he was barely breathing.

  “I may know some friends of yours. Cleopatra? Chester and Rashid?” Nothing. “Father Ray?”

  He blinked. There was a moment of recognition, I was sure of it. The knife and stick lowered just a little. My heart raced. Maybe he would be lucid enough to understand the questions I asked. Maybe he’d even answer them.

  But the moment quickly passed. The knife and stick rose again. He stared me down, his eyes intense. He still said nothing. He looked confused, as if he’d long ago lost the ability to understand the world around him. He slowly rolled the stick in his right hand, the knife in his left, playing with them, testing them. The stick had been sharpened to a lethal point. I watched the stick, the knife, and his eyes, which darted around the promenade as though he were searching for somewhere to hide.

  He ducked his chin. “Don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

  I took a step forward, stopped. “I’m Cass. Cass Raines. Father Ray was my friend.” Distrustful eyes searched mine. I c
hanced it and took another step, slipping my right hand into my pocket, palming the Glock. Last resort. “We’ve met.” I took a half step forward, the soles of my running shoes scratching across the concrete. “Remember? In the rectory.”

  He didn’t respond. He was wearing a dark parka instead of his Army jacket, the one that had somehow ended up on the dead guy under the tree. His hair was hidden under a black skull cap pulled down low on his forehead, as it had been the last time I’d encountered him. None of his clothes looked worn, even the soles of his boots, which I’d seen sticking out of his blankets, looked as if he’d barely broken them in. I flashed to the bags of clothes in Pop’s closet. They weren’t random donations. The clothes were specifically for GI. Why? What connected them? “Can we talk about Father Ray, about the church?”

  He shook his head violently. “No talking.”

  I swept the flashlight over the tangle of blankets again, spotting a well-thumbed copy of The Grapes of Wrath half hidden in the tangle. He saw me looking and braced himself to defend his property, as though I might try and poach something from the pile.

  I smiled, hoping to make a connection. “Steinbeck. Heavy stuff.” Again, I got nothing back. “Hungry? Maybe after we talk, I can get you something to eat, maybe find you a warm bed, meds, if you need them?”

  “Took them.” He began to pace, keeping his back to the lake, the sticks pointed at me. “Said I would. I did. I am. I know the day, the place, the president.”

  “And Father Ray, too.”

  He squeezed both the stick and the knife tighter. I was upsetting him. And the fact that I was upsetting him, upset me as I stood yards from him, one sweaty hand on the grip of my gun, the other on the flashlight. He was a big man, solid, mid-fifties, maybe younger; it was hard to say for sure. The street aged people quickly. He was at least six two to my five seven, and strong, as the bruises around my neck could attest. I certainly didn’t want to tussle with him again.

  He began to fidget, his eyes wandering.

  “GI,” I barked, drawing his attention back to me. I let go of the gun, shoved the flashlight into my pocket, and held my hands down by my sides. “Let’s talk.”

  “No talking. I want you to go.”

  “I know.” I took another step forward. It was the opposite of going, but I was hoping he wouldn’t notice. “But I can’t go, not without talking.” I hesitated for a moment, glancing at the stick and knife, then took a tentative half-step forward. I was an idiot. I knew it, but I couldn’t stop now. He hauled off and kicked one of the candles over, sending sparks of white light rolling along the floor of the promenade. My hand went back into my pocket, back on the grip of the gun. “At least tell me your real name. I told you mine. It’s only fair.” He didn’t answer. “I’m Cass. I grew up not far from here. I used to go swimming right down there on that beach. You like the water, the ebb and flow of it. I’m not wild about the seaweed. You?” We stood silently. “Just your name.”

  He angled his head. “Father Ray’s friend?”

  I saw light at the end of a very long tunnel and ran for it. “Yes. A dear, close friend.”

  “I take the meds. I promised.”

  “Who did you promise?”

  He took so long to answer, I didn’t think he would. “Our friend.”

  “Let’s talk about him,” I said, “then I’ll go.” Slowly, he slipped the knife and stick into his pocket and moved to warm his hands under his armpits. It was a promising sign. I didn’t dare move, or breathe, or hope. I just held my place and waited, knowing everything hinged on what happened next and how wrong it could all still go. Our eyes held, his dark face mottled by the glow of small candles. Then I remembered what I’d brought with me, slipped my hand into an inside pocket, and retrieved two candles, much like the ones on the floor in front of me. The man’s face brightened when he saw them. “I thought maybe you might like these.”

  He reached out for the candles, moved toward me, offering up a thin smile. “You brought me light?” He cradled the candles in his hands almost reverently. “God’s in the light.”

  I didn’t dare speak, or even breathe. I stood stock-still on the verge of knowing, waiting for what came next.

  He backed away again. “Yancy,” he whispered finally, as though someone might overhear. “Yancy Gantt. That’s my name.”

  I grinned like an idiot, feeling as though I’d just won the lottery. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yancy.”

  * * *

  He lit the candles I’d given him, and we sat cross-legged on the blankets facing each other, the glow of a low light flickering between us. I still kept a good distance. Yancy seemed lucid enough now, but there was no guarantee he would stay that way. I huddled against the cold, wondering why he preferred this desolate spot to a warm shelter. As we talked, it became clear he didn’t remember me from the rectory. Maybe he hadn’t been on his meds then. He’d never been military, he said. He’d come across the jacket at a charity giveaway somewhere. He was simply another lost soul trying to find his way. Pop was helping, as he’d helped so many others. I wondered what would happen to Yancy now that Pop was gone. I wondered the same about me.

  “They found a body in the park today,” I began, mindful of the space separating us, more than ready to lengthen it quickly if he became combative.

  He paused. “Traded my squat for Ernie’s knife. Mine broke. Too many sticks. I told him it wasn’t safe, but still he wanted it.”

  “Why wasn’t it safe?”

  Yancy looked away, turned back. “The wolf.”

  Surely not a real wolf, I thought. Did he have the real and the imaginary mixed up in his head? “What wolf?”

  “I can’t talk about him.” A person, not an animal. Good to know. “You saw this wolf?”

  Yancy made a face, looked away, then back again. “Never said I did.”

  “But you did. That’s why you ran.” I scanned the promenade. “That’s why you’re here in the dark alone. Who is he? Can you tell me what happened?”

  He held his head in his hands. “Sometimes I mix things up.”

  “Then tell me what you think you saw.”

  He hesitated before answering, leaning over to slowly pass his hands over the candles, the light illuminating his misery. “I saw a wolf pretending to be a sheep. And he saw me.”

  Yancy stood to pace, agitated now at the recollection. I stood, too. I wasn’t sure what he’d do, and I needed to block the stairs. I couldn’t lose track of him again. Not when I was this close. Not after learning I’d been right. Pop and Cesar Luna were killed by the wolf. Farraday was an idiot. I hadn’t been wrong. I did know Pop as well as I thought I did.

  “What happened? Who is he?” Yancy paced quickly. His eyes were wild again, confused. I’d stirred up something I didn’t think I could rein in. I watched helplessly as Yancy quickly disappeared into a place I couldn’t reach. The stick came out, the knife. He began to nod at nothing, as though he were talking to someone who wasn’t there, pacing like a big cat, captured and caged. I was losing him.

  “Stop,” I said.

  Yancy stopped moving. He turned to me, stared right through me. After a time, he clicked back to lucid. I could almost see the shift take place in his eyes. I kept my voice low, steady, though every impulse in me wanted to scream out and shake him until whatever he knew tumbled out. For Pop. “I need to know. You have to tell me.”

  Yancy backpedaled, leaning against the stone balusters. I was afraid he might fall or, worse yet, jump. I drew closer in case I had to catch him. “He was helping. Father Ray. But the wolf didn’t want it. He came to make it stop. That’s what he said.”

  “Make what stop?”

  He shook his head again, shrugged hopelessly. “It’s gone.”

  “Close your eyes, Yancy. Think.”

  He stared at me strangely, his head angled.

  “I won’t move, I promise. Close your eyes, try to remember.”

  Moments passed, but he finally closed them. I stood wai
ting, hopeful, desperate for any scrap of recollection.

  “I came for my candles, the ones he saves for me. The angry voices woke me. I saw the wolf, and the one he brought with him, our friend, too, and the boy.” Yancy threw his arms up over his head, then covered his head in his hands. “Clean the slate. Move along. Next. That’s what he said. But he had to have the girl first.” He shook his head. “But our friend wouldn’t tell. He knew he didn’t want peace. He said so. ‘Much too late for that,’ he said, ‘much too late.’”

  I moved to step forward, then remembered my promise and held back. This was torture. “What happened, Yancy? Do you know his name?”

  He frowned, his eyes opened. “If I ever did, it’s lost now.” He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “Nothing stays. My squat’s not safe. I told Ernie.”

  I held out a hand, trying hard to hide my disappointment at not getting more. “Come with me. I can make sure you’re safe.” He opened his mouth as if to speak, and it looked as though he might agree to come, but then the curtains fell swiftly, and he was gone again. With a frenzied look in his eyes, he barreled past me and bolted for the stairs. “Wait!” I ran after him, yanking the flashlight from my pocket, flicking it on as I hit the stairs, just in time to see him take the last few steps two at a time, hit the ground floor, and head for the iron gate. My light bounced around like a drunken fairy as I chased after him. He slipped seamlessly between the bars. He’d obviously had a great deal of practice at it. I followed, squeezing through clumsily, tumbling out into the empty courtyard and into a hail of bullets.

  Chapter 25

  I felt a zip of air move past my left ear, a bullet barely missing me. I gasped and dropped to the asphalt, burying my head in trembling hands. Yancy lay a few yards away doing the same, both of us fastened down by a shooter we couldn’t see. I could feel the weight of the gun in my pocket, but couldn’t get my arms to move enough to reach for it. I was frozen to the spot, cringing each time a bullet flew past me and ricocheted off the beach house’s façade. Eventually one of the bullets would land and hit one of us.