“This way!” Clifford shouted as he pointed east, to Pembroke Street. He was breathing hard. “She knows we have to split up. Better chance for us that way.”
It was getting hard to suck in oxygen. Matt urged his out-of-shape body to follow. They raced across Gerrard Street, and had almost made it to the darkness of Pembroke Street when the first shots were fired.
Hearing the shots, Matt felt a sudden warmth down the front of his pants as his bladder released. He knew he had to keep running, but he was afraid for Mattie. Shouting for Clifford to stop, he turned to face her direction—and then wished he hadn’t.
Gunshots ripped through the dark—evil streams of tracers, flaming shots seeking their targets. Like bumblebees, the tracer lights of the bullets were stretching out deadly stingers, reaching out to Mattie as she ran. When the fiery malignancy caught up with her, she began to tumble. Matt desperately hoped she had only tripped. But he knew better.
It was worse than anything he’d ever imagined, the fusillade of bullets spraying her body, those awful projectiles jarring her body over and over. An arm separated from her body, showering her blood through the air like a garden sprinkler.
“No time to stop and stare.” Clifford grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him into the shadows. “Your tears are no use to her anymore.”
Matt bid a silent good-bye to the Dancing Lady and her grotesque ballet finale.
CHAPTER 30
Dark Alleys
“Will I have to slap you to keep you wide awake?”
Clifford pulled Matt back into the shadows, turned him around, and pushed him into a hard run. Matt wanted to close his eyes to the image of bullets hammering Mattie’s body, causing that obscene ballet. He felt blind as he started to run, rushing without regard, holding his hands out in front. It didn’t help. He collided with a Dumpster, and his head slammed against the hard steel. It hurt like hell, and he felt blood when he touched his chin.
“That’s just a scratch—no time to stop!” a hard-breathing Clifford yelled. “Keep moving. Damn it, pay attention. They’re close. I hope they didn’t see us come down this street. We need deep cover. They’ll be coming at us, hard!”
Matt held a sleeve against his chin to stanch the trickle of blood and, with his now wide-open eyes, focused on Clifford. He was moving fast, and Matt raced to catch up with him. When he was driven by terror, Matt discovered a newfound ability to run.
Clifford’s prediction came true. Bullets suddenly ricocheted from the brickwork around them, and Matt saw a flash to his left as a slug scraped and caromed off the side of a building, sparks tracing a lethal trail into the darkness. More shots could be heard, and he knew some of the guns were set to automatic, rapid fire.
Clifford stopped short, and Matt almost ran into him as his momentum carried him forward.
Clifford turned sharply down a side alley to the right until they came to a narrow lane, a gap between two buildings. Matt guessed it wasn’t any more than two feet wide. A piece of sheet metal served as a flap that concealed access. It was hardly noticeable from the alley, especially in the dark. Clifford seemed to be familiar with it; he reached out and pulled the sheet metal back. The shrieking sound of the twisting metal was masked by the sounds of the gunfire behind.
“This way—hurry!”
They had to turn sideways, and Clifford pushed Matt in first. He pulled the flap closed behind them, and they sidled, crablike, between the buildings, the laneway too narrow to walk straight ahead until they came to an alcove where it opened into a space wide enough for both of them.
“This was designed as an access for utilities,” Clifford said, breathing hard. Matt heard the lingering distress in his voice. “I was a building inspector—”
He stopped talking as footsteps pounded past the sheet metal that served as their makeshift door. The steps faded in the distance without anyone stopping. They heard running again, and then stopping. Uncertainty. Someone shouted in a voice that was clearly in charge.
“I know they came down this alley. You two, run to the far end and check out the street. The rest of you, start checking any place they could have hidden. Get on the radio and get some searchlights set up here. It’s black as ink, and these flashlights are doing sweet fanny all.”
Clifford urged Matt to keep moving. They came to a door on their right.
“Damn, it won’t open!”
Matt watched Clifford look around and guessed it was for something to use as a pry bar.
“Help,” Clifford said.
The two of them put their shoulders to the door and tried to push it open again. It inched open slightly and finally gave way when Clifford shoved his left shoulder doubly hard against it.
In the predawn hours approaching daylight, it was pitch black inside. On faith, Matt followed Clifford and stepped through. He could barely see Clifford’s hand motioning the way.
“Careful,” Clifford warned over his shoulder. “Two steps down”—he gestured—“and then we will be on a platform. These buildings are death traps since the riots. Hell, they weren’t much better before. This isn’t the fancy Distillery District, after all.”
Matt followed, easing himself down the steps until he was standing chest-to-chest with Clifford on the platform and could smell their combined fear. They were radiating a rancid perfume of terror. To his great surprise, Clifford reached out and embraced Matt, as if to reassure him.
“We have to make it,” he whispered. “You have to tell her story.”
Matt felt tears on his cheeks—Clifford’s.
If his intent was to calm Matt, it worked.
Clifford turned away. “Maybe we gained some time. Do you have a cell phone with you?”
“It won’t do us any good to try a call from here. They must be monitoring signals.”
“Techies like you never think past high-tech solutions,” he said with a laugh. “Just give me the damn phone.”
Clifford turned it on, but only to use the light it emitted in the gloom as a flashlight. There were two stairways: one to the right, another straight ahead. He pointed to the one on the right, which led up.
“There,” he said, holding up the phone to light the way. “This building was slated to be rehabbed but has been deserted since the economy tanked…and now with the riots…Just keep an eye out for rotting flooring when we get to the upper floors.”
They tiptoed through the basement, and Clifford led the way up another set of stairs to the ground floor. He paused at the top, listening at the door to make sure the building was unoccupied and that no CleanSweep agents were waiting for them. He waved to Matt to follow and held a finger to his lips as they crept along the main-floor hallway.
Matt whispered, “We sound like a herd of elephants.”
“Especially if you keep yakking,” Clifford retorted.
Near the front of the building, they heard loud shouts and the urgent voices of CleanSweep agents on the street.
Someone yelled in a commanding voice, “I need a report, dammit! Where are they?”
Another voice began relaying commands and directing the agents in their search.
Clifford turned the cell phone off and spoke in a muffled voice. “I’m sure they can’t see us, but I’m not taking any chances.” He held his hand to cover his mouth, the way people do when they whisper. “We’re going up top now. They probably can’t hear us with all the noise they’re making, but be careful. Watch your step; the flooring probably can’t be trusted.”
Probably? Matt thought.
The building had three floors. Clifford seemed to know exactly where he was going. He used the phone as a flashlight again once they got to the top level, and walked toward the back of the building. The glass panes of the rear windows were broken away, with a few pieces hanging tenaciously to the frames. He turned the phone off again and signaled as they went to the window at their far
left, both taking care when they peered down and out.
“Look at that. There must be more than a dozen agents looking around,” Clifford said in a low voice.
They ducked back when a beam of light swept past the window.
“This is no time to be foolish,” Clifford said with a chuckle. But there was a different tone to his words now. He didn’t sound fearful anymore, but more like someone in charge. “See that door?” Clifford walked over and pulled it open. The doorway opened onto a skywalk that led over the alley and to the next building. “We might make some noise, but we don’t have a choice. We have to be careful and walk softly.”
Taking off their shoes, they walked across in stocking feet. Once they reached the other side, they quickly put their shoes on again, both grunting as they leaned down to tie the laces.
“There is one more floor in this building,” Clifford said. “Follow me up those stairs. We have more light here. It must be getting close to daylight.”
When they got to the top floor, they walked through a fire door in the far corner.
“From here, there’s a short flight of steps leading to the roof.” Once they were at the top, he opened the doorway and peered out until he was satisfied it was safe. “C’mon,” he said in a low voice. The roofing gravel crunched underfoot. “That can’t be helped. We need to hurry.”
Matt scurried behind Clifford until they came to the edge of the roof and a low wall. The rooftop to the adjacent building was divided from theirs by a two-foot-high brick wall. They stepped over it and continued running. Then they jumped over several more similar divider walls. When they reached the final roof in the block, they were ten buildings from where they had started. Clifford stopped suddenly and looked up.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked, his fear returning.
“Helicopter. We have to get off the roof.” As soon as Clifford spoke, a searchlight began shining a bright beam down, sweeping across the tops of buildings and streets below.
Matt was gripped by fear again. “How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just sensed it somehow. They use sound-suppressing helicopters. You don’t hear those devils until they’re right overhead.”
The two ran across the last roof until they reached the building’s stair access to the floor below. They made it just in time. Clifford closed the door behind them just as the searchlight swept over the roof behind them.
“They didn’t see us this time, but they will be searching every building as soon as it gets light. We want to be gone by then.”
“How is it that you know your way around like this?”
“I told you, I used to be a building inspector. I know these buildings like the back of my hand, even better than the architects who drew the plans. This building’s basement has a passage under the next street.”
Matt must have looked doubtful.
“Don’t worry,” Clifford laughed. “We’re far enough from them for now. Once we get out of this building, we only have to walk out and get on the Dundas streetcar—just like a couple of guys looking for work.”
Matt’s shirt was clammy under his jacket. He could smell the stench from when he’d pissed himself. He realized he was still carrying his backpack and dropped it to the ground when they stopped. He took out his notebook.
“I wanted to check and make sure I still had this.”
The first morning light began slinking past the slats of the boarded-up window beside them.
The distorted image of the Dancing Lady’s horrible dance of death came uninvited, and he wanted to write a note while the memory was still fresh, something to honor her.
“Hold it.” Clifford held up his hand as Matt finished writing. “OK, I think we can go now. The light makes it easier to see.” They were standing next to another boarded-up window, peering through a crack in the slats. “But we have to stay on our toes. You do stink, by the way,” Clifford said, holding his nose.
Matt was too nervous to be embarrassed and thought of Stinky, the guide.
Was it only a few hours ago I met the man, or a full day?
“What’s your size? Let’s see what we can find for you.” Clifford nodded in the direction of a door and waved for Matt to follow.
“I’m well past being surprised at anything anymore,” Matt said as he looked around the room at shelves of parcels that were wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with cording. He watched Clifford sort through parcels on one shelf, looking at the labels until he found one and tossed it to Matt. “Here,” he said, handing over a small pocketknife.
“What is this place?” Matt looked around the room.
“This was a warehouse for some nonprofit organization. They distributed all this clothing,” he waved his arm around the room, “to homeless shelters, or to anyone needing clothing. Mattie got her dress…” Clifford couldn’t continue. After he had composed himself, he went on. “They closed down when the funding ran out. The government said churches and charities would take up the slack and help the poor. Like that happened, eh?
“The foundation couldn’t pay the rent and never reopened. That was over two years ago. They’re out of business now, bankrupt. There must be hundreds of similar stories. All the stuff had to be abandoned. People are afraid to come here, even looters—except for them,” he said, referring to a rat that suddenly scurried past them, running from one hiding place to another.
“Now with the riots—” Clifford paused. “That size might work,” he said.
Matt had cut through the string and opened the paper to find underwear, jeans, and a shirt. He looked at the size and shrugged. He stripped down, pulled on the new underwear and jeans. They were inches too big around the waist, and the legs were longer than he needed.
“This might help.” Clifford picked up the cord that had been used to wrap the parcel and handed it to Matt.
“Doubled up, you can thread it through the belt loops. Pull tight and tie it off. People used to call that a hobo’s belt.”
It wasn’t going to start a new fashion trend, but it did hold the pants up. Matt rolled the leg bottoms up enough to avoid tripping. The shirt was too large, but at least the tail concealed the rope belt. He put his socks and shoes back on and turned in a circle to model his new wardrobe.
“At least you don’t stink as much,” Clifford said, having a good laugh at Matt’s expense. “All you have to do is look like someone going to work. Between the economy and the riots, there are lots of people dressed like us.”
Clifford walked over to the corner. “You might use this, too,” he said and picked up a black workman’s cap. It has the right look, and it might help to conceal your face, a little.”
There was an opening where the flooring had rotted away. Clifford pulled the boards apart just enough to throw in the old clothes and watched them tumble toward the basement. “A lot of people aren’t bathing and don’t smell too good these days. It won’t be noticeable until we get to the part of town that’s still undamaged. It’s time to go. Just do what I do.” He seemed to consider something. “Besides, what choice do you have?”
Matt conceded the point, fully intending to do whatever Clifford did. He was going to follow every move as if they were joined at the hip.
The previous night’s rain was a faint memory by then.
Or had it rained two nights ago? Matt tried to think back. The cold front had swept past, departing without notice—now history. The brilliant morning sky was Hollywood perfect, a breathtaking cerulean, cloudless blue.
“Walk, don’t hurry. They look for anyone in a hurry. Odd thing—they don’t have checkpoints to stop people and ask for identification. They just trust their facial recognition technology for surveillance.”
People who live in a city with streetcars know they make a unique sound, a reverberating metal-on-metal cadence, a sound Matt always associated with a children’s book
that was a gift from his nana. He had grown up reading and rereading his cherished Barbapapa, and the characters’ shape-shifting was accompanied by their chant, “Clickety-click—barba-trick…clickety-click—barba-trick…clickety-click—barba-trick.” “Clickety-click—barba-trick.”
That was what he thought back to now as the streetcar approached from the east, with a reassuring sound of a clanging bell to warn jaywalkers. The car rumbled to the stop where Clifford and Matt stood waiting, and the doors whooshed open. An old woman glared as she stepped down, shouldering between the two of them as they stepped hastily up to board. The streetcar was already filled with riders, and there was little room. The two men edged back as far as they could, each grabbing for an overhead handhold as the driver lurched the car forward.
In five stops their streetcar passed through a newly erected fence and left the burned-out district behind. The transformation was magical. This part of the city was still in pristine condition. People walked the streets as if the destructive riots had never taken place.
Once it reached the part of the city untouched by riots, the streetcar spat out most of its riders. When there was a vacancy, Clifford joined Matt on a seat.
After looking around, he whispered, “Don’t stare up or let those cameras get a look at your face.” He looked over his shoulder, observing an office building they were passing. “We should be safe along this part of the route, but once we pass Spadina, we will be back in another riot area, the one to the west. They will be looking for anyone who stands out until then.”
They rode in silence. Most of the riders got off at stops in the city’s center. Soon there were only a few riders left.
“You can call me Cliff now.”
Matt reddened, feeling as though he had passed an exam in school. To deflect his embarrassment, he waved his arm and picked up a different topic. “If you squint, it all looks normal,” he said, watching the car gradually empty of more commuters on their way to some appointed place. Each stop was the same—until they reached Spadina Avenue.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 24
