The Last Night Out

by Catherine O'Connell

  FORTY-EIGHT

  O’Reilly had just unwrapped his Subway when the Seville rocketed past them. ‘Holy crap,’ he said, throwing the sandwich into the back seat. He started the Crown Victoria and pulled a U-turn. ‘Was that Kaufman in the passenger’s seat?’

  ‘Sure looked like him,’ said his big partner, taking a leisurely bite of his own sandwich. They’d been watching the Columbo house for hours, hoping to catch sight of the elusive carpenter. Well, they’d seen him now.

  ‘How the fuck did he get into that house without us seeing him?’ O’Reilly pushed the accelerator to the car floor, praying there were no children playing outdoors as he flew down the residential street. By the time they reached subdivision exit, the Seville was a dot of red heading east.

  ‘Man, he is moving,’ said Kozlowski, calmly eating his sandwich. He saw no reason not to eat. He wasn’t driving.

  O’Reilly pushed the Crown Victoria into service, the speedometer passing seventy within seconds. Luckily, his hangover was mild today since he’d only drunk five or six beers the night before. He knew he was breaking about every rule in the book driving at this speed, especially outside his jurisdiction, but he didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘Do you want to call for support?’ Kozlowski asked as the gap between them and the other car narrowed.

  ‘No. Let’s see where he’s going first.’

  The Seville pulled onto the Eisenhower and headed toward the city, moving so fast that O’Reilly had to put all his driving skills to the test. Columbo was a madman at the wheel, defying all speed limits, crossing four lanes at a time, once even driving up an exit ramp and back down on the other side to bypass slower traffic.

  ‘This is almost like the movies,’ said Kozlowski, finishing off his last bite. ‘Only in the movies there’d be a dozen cops on us by now.’

  ‘Yeah, that only happens in the movies,’ O’Reilly concurred. ‘This guy think he’s a Nascar racer?’

  ‘I dunno. But he sure is in some hurry.’

  They reached the city in record time. The Seville left the expressway and entered the subterranean maze of lower Wacker Drive. There was construction going on with orange cones and cans confusing the lanes. They spotted the Seville in front of them and were closing in on it when a car avoiding a misplaced cone pulled out in front of them. O’Reilly slammed on the brakes, the force nearly putting both himself and Kozlowski into the windshield despite their seat belts. He let off a stream of swear words as they watched the Seville disappear down the rows of orange neon.

  ‘What now?’ asked Koz.

  O’Reilly pondered the situation as the errant car moved out of the way. ‘Ten’ll get you twenty, they’re on their way to Belmont Harbor. And somewhere in this picture, I’m seeing Dr Niebaum.’ He put his foot back on the accelerator. Hard.

  Ten minutes later, they screeched to a halt at Belmont Harbor. The Seville sat abandoned in the middle of the lot with its engine still running and the driver’s and passenger’s doors left open. They approached the car cautiously with their service revolvers unloosed.

  ‘Sure were in a hurry,’ Kozlowski repeated.

  O’Reilly scanned the harbor. Lights burned in very few boats, but the Dermabrasion happened to be one of them. ‘I just knew there was some connection between Niebaum and—’ His words were cut short by the sound of pounding feet. But the pounding wasn’t coming from the direction of the Niebaum boat. It was coming from the pier at the far end of the harbor. In the eerie shadows of the yellow harbor lights, they could see the figures of two running men.

  It would be the far pier, O’Reilly thought. He hitched up his pants and gave Kozlowski a nod. They secured their weapons and took off after them.

  FORTY-NINE

  Vince’s hand was shaking so severely he could barely key in the security code. He could see lights glowing inside the Giovanna Anna and hear the smooth rumble of the cruiser’s engines. Vince had never killed a man, had never even dreamt of it, but if Sal had harmed his daughter in any way, there could be a first time. The gate clanged open just as the Giovanna Anna started backing from its slip.

  ‘Hurry!’ he shouted at Steven. Their footsteps echoed like drumbeats across the marina as they raced down the pier. They reached the boat just as it was clearing the slip. Vince leapt onto the bow first, followed by Steven who fell noisily onto the deck. The engines went idle, and Sal’s dark head appeared at the bridge.

  Without waiting for Steven, Vince made a beeline to the aft deck. He tore open the cabin door with such force it nearly came off its hinges. Standing in the middle of the salon, half naked in a man’s shirt, was his daughter. Upon seeing her father, she gasped and pulled the shirt closed.

  ‘Daddy,’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Has he hurt you?’ Vince demanded, drilling into her with black eyes. ‘Has he hurt you?’ he repeated.

  She gave him a pitiable look like that of a creature in pain. Flinging herself toward him, she grabbed him by the lapels and broke into tears on his tuxedoed chest. ‘Oh Daddy. Thank God you’re here,’ she cried in a tremulous voice. ‘He raped me.’

  The fury within Vince brought pinpricks of red into his vision, his blood pumping with such force it was a miracle an artery didn’t burst. That piece of living scum had raped his daughter. He was going to personally tear Sal to pieces with his bare hands. Embarrassed by his daughter’s near nakedness, he grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. A loud crash came from outside. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded.

  Vince stepped out onto the aft deck to find Steven and Sal locked in physical combat. The West Sider had the carpenter in a stranglehold and was trying to throw him over the edge. Steven turned the advantage and flipped Sal over his shoulders onto the deck. Then both men were on the ground wrestling like street fighters, crashing into deck chairs, each putting the other onto his back every few seconds.

  Steven had never fought anyone so strong. Sal’s strength was inhuman, and despite utilizing every bit of muscle he had, the other man was besting him. Sal fought without rules. He bit Steven’s neck, barely missing the jugular. Steven arched his back with adrenaline charged strength and managed to throw Sal off, but a moment later Sal was atop him again, smashing his face with his fists.

  Vince watched from the sidelines, trying to work out what to do. The positions of the two combatants changed so frequently that any attempt to intervene would be like putting a hand in a dogfight. At one point, he tried to pull Sal off Steven, but, like an enraged dog, Sal sank his teeth into the meaty part of Vince’s hand, taking out a piece of flesh. Vince backed off in pain, blood pouring from his injured hand while Sal continued to pummel Steven.

  Steven somehow pushed Sal off him and then the two were back in furious battle, the outline of their tensed muscles like sculpted marble as they fought hand to hand. Finally Sal got the best of the exhausted carpenter, pinning his shoulders to the deck with his knees. He wrapped his iron hands around Steven’s neck and began to squeeze. The carpenter’s mouth opened in mute entreaty, his hands flailing empty air as they reached for his opponent. There was no doubt in Vince’s mind that if he didn’t stop Sal, he would kill Steven. And perhaps Vince next. He didn’t want to think about what might happen to his daughter after that.

  Vince opened a storage bench and took out a wooden oar, felt its heft in his good hand. He turned back to the grappling men and drew the oar over his shoulder, readying himself to smash Sal’s skull open. But before he could strike, a gunshot rang out, reverberating like a timpani across the open water. Sal gasped and crumpled to the deck. Vince looked over to see his daughter standing beside him with a gun in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on Sal who was writhing on the deck with blood spurting fountain-like from a severed artery. Vince gaped in dumbstruck horror.

  ‘He raped me, Daddy, he raped me,’ Anna sobbed, falling against him with the gun still clasped in her hand. She was near hysteria, and he tried to console her as he stared with unbr
idled hatred at the man bleeding out on the deck. Steven got up slowly, coughing and rubbing his throat, and gently dislodged the gun from Anna’s hand. He climbed to the bridge and eased the drifting Giovanna Anna back into her slip. Then, he turned off the engines and returned to the deck.

  Then there was silence except for the sound of Anna’s crying, her dark head heaving upon her father’s shoulder.

  FIFTY

  O’Reilly and Kozlowski were stuck at the gate when the gunshot rang out, the sound magnified like thunder across the open water. A man in cargo shorts popped from the gangway of a dilapidated boat searching for the source of the noise. O’Reilly called to him and waved his star through the iron bars.

  ‘Hey you! Police. We need to get in here fast.’

  The cargo shorts scrambled down the dock to let them in. The two cops began running again, tightening their hold on their seldom drawn weapons, O’Reilly hoping he would make it to the end without collapsing or suffering a heart attack. When they neared the Giovanna Anna, they slowed and took shelter behind a nearby boat to better assess the scene on the deck. Steven Kaufman was holding a lowered gun while a girl wearing a man’s shirt sobbed onto the front of a tuxedoed Vince Columbo.

  ‘Don’t move, Kaufman. Police,’ O’Reilly called from the shadows. ‘Put the gun down on the deck and raise your hands. You too, Columbo. And the girl. Don’t anyone move.’

  Steven turned toward the two detectives and weighed his options. In the background, the wail of sirens could be heard. The water below looked dark and inviting. Maybe, just maybe, he could evade them.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Vince said, sensing the carpenter’s intention. ‘Don’t run. I will personally see to it that you’ll have the best of legal help. I owe you that much for saving my daughter.’

  Steven placed the gun on the deck and raised his hands over his head. Vince raised his hands too. The sobbing girl’s hands remained at her side, her face hidden in her father’s chest. O’Reilly and Kozlowski climbed on board.

  ‘What the fuck,’ said O’Reilly at the sight of the dark-haired figure on the deck, his life draining into an expanding pool of blood. O’Reilly picked up the gun Steven had put down and dropped it into his pocket.

  With his sobbing daughter still clinging to his shirt, Vince pointed at Sal and appealed to the detectives. ‘That man murdered Angie Wozniak. And he raped my daughter.’

  The girl raised her tearful head from Vince’s chest. ‘He raped me,’ she affirmed in a voice drawn from some dark place within. ‘He raped me and swore if I told anyone he would do the same thing to me he did to the woman in the galley.’

  ‘What woman in the galley?’ O’Reilly asked uneasily.

  Kozlowski was already on his way into the cabin. An anxious minute passed while O’Reilly kept watch over the other players on the boat. The cabin door opened and the big cop emerged carrying the limp body of a woman in his arms, a handful of duct tape in his fist. Slim lines of red glistened on her legs where he had used his pocketknife to cut her free from the chair.

  ‘She’s not breathing, but there’s a pulse.’ He laid the unconscious woman on the deck and got down on his knees to start CPR, pumping her chest and working feverishly to push air into her unresponsive lungs, his massive back blocking her from sight of the others. O’Reilly had already radioed for an ambulance for the man on the deck, but he radioed for another while his partner continued working on the woman. The first of the responding squad cars had pulled into the parking lot, and a couple of uniformed cops were already nearing the boat. O’Reilly stopped them and pointed to the Dermabrasion three docks down.

  ‘See that boat,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a doctor on board. Roust his ass and bring him here. We’ve got a dying woman.’ The cops sprinted away faster than O’Reilly ever could have.

  Still sheltering his weeping daughter under his arm, Vince thanked the powers that be that she was in one piece. He hoped the psychological damage wouldn’t be too great. But she was a fighter like him, and he was confident she would pull through unharmed. His eyes turned to the less fortunate figure on the deck. Her face was blocked from view by the enormous cop, but he could see a white arm with a Cartier watch adorning a slim wrist. A smooth manicured hand. His heart threatened to stop beating. He knew that arm, that hand, those fingers; he’d held them to his lips time and time again. He let go of his daughter.

  ‘Suzanne,’ he cried out, moving towards the prostrate body on the deck. Someone grabbed him by his tuxedo sleeve and held him back. Thinking it was O’Reilly, he turned, ready to plead his case. But it wasn’t O’Reilly holding him back. It was Anna.

  ‘Stop, Daddy. Stop,’ she shrieked, her face so malignant with hatred he barely recognized her as his daughter. Her nails clawed into his arm like a cat that had climbed too high. ‘Don’t go to her.’

  The two uniforms came running back to the boat, followed by a shirtless Michael Niebaum carrying a first-aid kit. He climbed on board and froze upon seeing Sal lying in a puddle of blood. ‘Not him,’ O’Reilly shouted. ‘It’s too late for him.’ The big cop moved aside, and the plastic surgeon drew a loud breath at the sight of Suzanne on the deck. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse. Without hesitation, he dug in the kit and pulled out the EpiPen he kept on hand because of Cara’s peanut allergy. He plunged the syringe into Suzanne’s chest. Almost immediately, there was a sputter and a cough followed by a wet gasp. Suzanne’s body jerked as it fought to recapture life. Her breathing was erratic, a gasp and a breath, a gasp and a breath. Gradually, she began to inhale in a regular rhythm. Her eyelids fluttered open.

  She looked about in confusion, her eyes traveling from Michael Niebaum to Detective Kozlowski and Detective O’Reilly, wondering why they were there, her memory empty. Vince was there, too, with Anna at his side, staring at her like he’d seen a ghost.

  Then it came back in fragmented bits. Leaving her apartment with Anna. Being forced onto the boat. Being duct-taped to the chair by Sal. Anna striking her with the gun. The two of them having sex in front of her. The last thing she remembered was Anna pushing her down the galley steps. All memory stopped there.

  ‘Vince,’ she whispered, stretching out an arm. Vince pried his daughter’s fingers from his sleeve and knelt beside Suzanne. He took her hand in his and brushed it with his lips.

  ‘I’m here, Suzanne. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘Vince.’ Her eyes closed in exhaustion.

  ‘No, Suzanne. Don’t talk. You can tell me later.’

  ‘No, Vince. I have to tell you now.’ Summoning every bit of energy her depleted body could muster, she said, ‘Your daughter tried to kill me.’ Then she closed her eyes and went quiet.

  ‘That’s not true. It was Sal. It was all Sal,’ Anna pleaded, tugging at her father’s sleeve.

  The paramedics arrived, wheeling two gurneys. The police held Vince back as Suzanne was strapped to a gurney, a sheet pulled up to her shoulders. Sal was loaded on the second gurney. His sheet went over his head. Vince and Anna were escorted to two separate squad cars, Anna screaming for her father as she was loaded into the back seat, Vince’s emotions torn between his daughter and his lover.

  The press had arrived on scene and was there in time to film Steven Kaufman as he was loaded into a third squad car, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  FIFTY-ONE

  For the first time in days, I actually had an appetite. Over the past week, I hadn’t eaten more than a bite or two. I considered the seed growing in my womb and how it had been mistreated since its conception with too much booze and not enough food. I vowed to take better care of it from now on.

  I was approaching the Ohio border and signs began to spring up advertising a rest stop. Soon a glow of light beckoned from the boundless darkness. I pulled off the interstate and parked my lowly VW amid an arsenal of semis and pickup trucks. The adjacent diner was filled with truckers and hunters, most wearing hats bearing heavy equipment logos. A few heads turned to check me out, a woman traveling a
lone was always a source of interest, but for the most part the eyes of the customers were glued to silenced televisions mounted around the room.

  I took a table in the window and picked the menu out of a wire holder. A waitress came over and I ordered a chicken salad plate and a milkshake, leaning back in mindless exhaustion to watch the TV while I waited for my food. The television was tuned to WGN, and a replay of the Nine O’Clock News was on the screen. The mayor welcomed some dignitary followed by a series of commercials. The chicken salad arrived and I started eating like I had just been released from a prison camp. When I finally lifted my head for a breather, the news had come back on and a blonde reporter was standing in front of a dozen police cars with a subject line reading: BELMONT HARBOR. The screen flashed to a prerecorded tape. Steven Kaufman was being led to a police car in handcuffs. He turned his dark curly head and stared at me from the screen. His face was bruised and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Things become even more surreal when the camera panned around to show a shirtless Michael Niebaum standing in the background.

  I put my fork down and went in search of the pay phone. Carol Anne was at home, the sleepy sound of my best friend’s voice reassuring in the sea of uncertainty.

  ‘Guess who?’

  ‘Maggie, is that you?’ Her voice shifted to wide awake. ‘Are you all right? Everyone is worried about you. Where are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t hang myself. I’m somewhere near the Ohio border. Sorry to call so late, but I just had to know what happened.’