The Fall

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m selling the farm. I found a man to buy it and I’m selling it.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t!”

  “I can and I am.”

  “Why not just rent it out?”

  “You gonna come back and run it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then…” She held a hand up, forestalling further argument. “It was different when your father was alive. It was lonely, but I had suppertime to look forward to, and someone to share a bed with afterwards. Now I’m alone. Now it’s just phone calls and holidays. And that’s not enough. I need a life.”

  “What will you do?” Joanne asked.

  “I don’t know. Travel, maybe. I always wanted to go to China. And when I get back, maybe I’ll get one of those Amtrak passes and see the country.”

  “By yourself?” Allen demanded.

  “If I have to. But maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe some gigolo will latch onto you,” Ken said.

  “Humph.”

  “What’s the time frame on this?” Allen asked.

  “We hope to close in February. But I won’t have to be out until after Easter.”

  There was a long silence that made Joanne think of the mood the day her father was buried, and the dinner they’d had following the funeral.

  Allen finally broke the spell. “It’s a good thing Jo brought her cameras. She can take pictures of everything for us. You can let us know what it costs, Jo.”

  She hadn’t said anything to Sean about the FBI’s threat to their future. It was magical thinking to imagine that it would all just go away, but since there was nothing to be done, there was no point in spoiling everyone’s holiday by mentioning it. Still, she felt as if she had some terminal illness. And because it might be the last holiday with all of them together, she listened more carefully. And snapped more rolls of film than any time since she’d gotten the camera.

  Sunday morning, sun turned the frozen landscape into glass. The cold pressed ice crystals from the air like a flurry of diamonds materializing from another dimension.

  Joanne had forgotten how, in the country, Sunday marked the passing of the week and enforced rest. In the city, Sunday was just the last chance to get ready for Monday. When all the others—even Sean—piled into the van and SUV to go to church, she opted to stay.

  The attic had been dusted and swept in the not-too-distant past, but there was a closeness to the air, and it was cold. Elizabeth obviously saw no reason to heat a room she never used. Joanne had to go back downstairs for her jacket. When she returned, she raised the shade on the dormer window to augment the single working light bulb. Dust motes materialized as the sun laid down a yellow rectangle on the scarred pine floor. Elizabeth had cleared a space next to the stairs and hung a large, hand-lettered cardboard sign over it: GARAGE SALE ITEMS. There was also a fiber barrel labeled TRASH. Clutter surrounded the cleared area. It was wedged under the rafters and piled, in places, to shoulder height. An orphan kitchen chair, a child’s sled with peeling paint and rusted runners, an old balloon-tire bike. And behind the backboard from Ken’s blue-ribbon science fair project was Joanne’s hope chest. It was solid black walnut, about four feet by two feet by two feet. Her father had built it for her one Christmas when he’d had more time than money.

  She’d left it when she moved to California. Some part of her had known already that there was nothing much to hope for with Howie. Someone—probably her mother—had buried the chest under a pile of things left over from Joanne’s childhood: her Nancy Drew series, roller skates, the collar from a dog flattened on County C by a truck, a mirror framed by a horse collar…

  Joanne moved the board and put all but the dog collar and books in the Garage Sale area. The collar went in the trash; the books she piled near the stairs. If Amy didn’t want them, maybe she could sell them to an out-of-print book dealer.

  She found a rag and dusted off the chest, then lifted the lid. The interior was faced with cedar and its fragrance wafted upward, bringing back the after-school sessions she’d shared with her close friends, daze-dreaming of Cinderella beaus disguised as doctors or lawyers or airline pilots. Twin trays of solid 5/8ths cedar board, six inches deep, were set into the top of the body, finger holes drilled through the sides so the trays could be removed if the wood swelled in humid weather. The trays were full of memories: all four high school yearbooks, blue ribbons from 4-H, family photos and the picture, with Dash, from her senior prom, the little trophy she’d won at a turkey shoot…The target she’d won it with was scrolled inside a toilet paper tube. She pulled it out and flattened it on the floor, fingered the small hole in the turkey’s paper breast. She let go of the edges and the target rolled itself back up. Might as well pitch it. She twisted and folded it and shoved it back in the t.p. roll, then tossed it in the trash. The rest of it could wait, she decided. She’d sort through it at home. She lifted the trays out, onto the floor. Underneath was a bundle wrapped in what looked like her father’s old hunting jacket, red plaid wool, covering everything beneath the trays. She didn’t remember putting whatever it was in there. When she pulled the cloth, something heavy that was wrapped in it fell against the inside of the chest. She tugged it free.

  Lying diagonally atop her own things was her father’s .3006. Blued barrel and black walnut stock gleamed in the poor light. In the corners of the chest not occupied by the gun were a paper grocery bag and the small fishing tackle box he’d kept his cleaning kit in. Joanne lifted them out before she dared touch the gun. The bag held her father’s galoshes that he’d worn on every hunt as long as she could remember. The case held extra ammunition and cleaning supplies and a letter addressed to her.

  Serendipity! She had something to defend herself against Dossi with.

  She laughed inwardly. Right! A thirty-ought-six was hardly a defensive weapon. A hunting gun, it was long range and deadly accurate. She caressed the silken stock her father had carved himself and sanded and polished, feeling the care he’d lavished on it.

  The gun brought back the memory of the last time she’d held it. September, the year before he died. He’d cleaned it and readied it for hunting season, practicing so he could make a clean kill. Killing was the only thing she’d disagreed with him about. For him, it was a way of keeping score as well as of keeping food in the freezer.

  He hadn’t lasted long enough to see her become her own sort of hunter.

  The letter began: Daughter, May be a mistake giving this to you, but I don’t want the boys fighting over it and you were always the best shot. Pity. Never mind…”

  Sometimes song birds chased the crows…

  Twenty-Seven

  Monday morning Minorini met Haskel in the elevator at 219 South Dearborn.

  Haskel looked as fresh and sharp as a new graduate. “You look like you had something to be thankful about,” he said. “Where were you? I tried to get you all weekend.”

  “None of your business,” Minorini told him.

  Haskel laughed. “FYI, the judge gave us another subpoena for Lessing. I got somebody serving it as we speak.”

  The air was crisp and cloudless when Joanne cracked open the front door to see what the day was like. The neighborhood was a snapshot taken with the focus set on infinity, lines drawn so precisely that even in the distance the tiniest detail could be seen, and nothing was at all ambiguous. Least of all the government issue car parked across the street.

  She closed the door and went to the window, peeking between the drapes to watch the car while she tried to think what it could mean. The driver must have seen her because he got out and crossed to ring the bell.

  What to do? Sean must’ve left for school already. Joanne confirmed that he was gone and found the note he’d left her in the kitchen: “Mom, Staying after to record a set with Brian. Have a great day! Love, Sean.”

  That took care of one worry. And just left her with the problem of evading the guy on the front porch who was now
leaning on the door bell.

  She grabbed her coat, keys and camera case. She made sure she had a hat and gloves, and plenty of change in her pockets. Then she went to the back door. She opened it, then slammed it shut. She ran back to the living room and looked out to see the FBI man disappear into the side yard, at the west end of the house. She was out the door and had it locked in a second. She sprinted east, the half block to the corner, and dodged around her neighbors’ six-foot hedge. Hidden from sight if her pursuer had figured out the ruse, she slowed and dug into her camera case for a bus schedule. The Pace 212 bus came through town at half hour intervals and, as luck would have it, the bus was due in five minutes. She started walking toward Waukegan Road.

  She got two blocks up Waukegan, almost to Dundee Road, before the bus came. She paid for her fare and a transfer and sat behind the driver, wondering, as the bus retraced her route, how long the Fed would wait before looking for her elsewhere. She got her answer as they passed the Metra station. The car was idling in the station fire lane as its driver scanned the crowded platform. He never noticed the bus stopping on Shermer to pick up passengers. Joanne watched him until the bus moved her out of view.

  She had a long time to think. In Glenview, she transferred to the 210 bus that zigzagged through the suburbs and the North Side to the Outer Drive. The Feds would probably meet that train and the next, thinking she’d given them the slip in the crowd. But they’d also send someone to Rage Photo to intercept her as Minorini had a week ago. He knew about the service elevator, so he’d probably watch that, too. Today. And tomorrow.

  She thought, briefly, of giving up—they’d get her in the end. There were too many of them. But why make it easy? Maybe the subpoena would expire—did they do that? Or maybe the judge would get tired of them coming back and back. Or maybe she’d get lucky and terrorists would blow something up and draw them all away. Not!

  By the time she got off on Michigan Avenue, she’d decided to approach slowly and watch for her chance to slip past them. Leaving to go home would be easy. They wouldn’t be watching for someone coming out.

  Four blocks from the Goss building, she spotted a window display that gave her an idea. “Hospital supplies—buy or rent.” Among other things, they had wheelchairs. And they took Visa. When she finally wheeled herself up to the Goss Building’s front door, the Special Agent on surveillance duty held it open for her. He didn’t give the fat, gray-haired woman in the chair a second glance, but kept scanning ambulatory females passing by. It was all Joanne could do to keep from looking back at him while she waited in the lobby for the elevator. When the door closed behind her, she felt as if she’d survived some great disaster. She pushed the button for the floor below Rage’s and held the door open for a while—long enough for a crippled woman to deplane—before she pushed it again for her real destination. When she wheeled herself into Rage Photo’s reception room, May said, “Can I help you?”

  Joanne wished she had her camera ready. May’s face took on an expression of confusion, then of amazement before she finally said, “Joanne? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “Process server.”

  “Ahh. What can I do?”

  “Nothing. You didn’t see Joanne today. She didn’t call in.”

  “Gotcha. Meantime, whoever you are, Rick’s got somethin’ he needs done.”

  “Thanks, May.” Just for the hell of it, Joanne wheeled herself into the back.

  Lessing surprised Minorini—not just that she’d evaded the three agents sent to serve her, but she’d demonstrated nerve as well as ingenuity. He wasn’t sure if he’d misjudged her or if she’d grown stronger under pressure—like the 110-pound woman who lifted the car off her husband when the jack failed.

  Once he’d gotten the report, it took him half the day to reconstruct what happened. Part of it was logic. He knew Lessing had been at home last night—he’d followed her and Sean back from the farm, saw them pull into the carport, and go inside. He’d seen the lights go on and, later, off. Bergman, the agent who’d been sent to serve the subpoena, had seen Sean leave for school and Joanne peer out the front door later. When he realized she’d given him the slip, Bergman had let the air out of Joanne’s tires. He’d checked after he saw the train off—the car was still disabled.

  The local cab companies confirmed that Lessing hadn’t called them. Which left the bus. The bus driver remembered her—not a regular. He’d thought she was a spotter—someone sent to pose as a passenger and report on his performance. Transferred to the 210 she had. The 212 driver had given his 210 counterpart a heads-up, so he was able to say where Lessing got off.

  When Minorini told him, Haskel started swearing. “We’re going over there and arrest the lot of them for obstruction!”

  Minorini went along to the extent of walking in the door and asking for Joanne.

  Joanne was in the darkroom when the Feds came in. She recognized Agent Haskel’s sneer, even through the door. The other man spoke more softly, his voice only a murmur.

  May told them she hadn’t seen Joanne, and when they asked to have a look around for themselves, she said, “Sure, go ahead—if you got a search warrant.”

  Haskel did a creditable Terminator imitation when he told May, “I’ll be back.”

  They were able to see for themselves that the receptionist was covering for her.

  “We have no probable cause,” Minorini told Haskel after the woman told them they’d need a warrant. “Let’s go.”

  Haskel hesitated; Minorini didn’t back down.

  Out in the hall, waiting for the elevator, Minorini said, “Leave it to me.”

  By quitting time, the surveillance operation seemed to have moved elsewhere. They’d probably watch her house and maybe the Metra station. If they hadn’t figured out about the bus yet, she could get home all right, and maybe cut through the neighbor’s yard to get in the back way. By the time she got home, Sean would be there with lights on. Maybe the Feds would think she was staying at a motel or somewhere.

  Maybe pigs would fly.

  Joanne was the last to leave. Before she let herself out the back door, she went out on the fire escape to look for government cars or agents parked nearby. The air was twenty degrees warmer than when she’d come to work, and the relative humidity was so high that the tallest buildings disappeared in the orange haze of fog-reflected sodium-vapor light. Traffic poured west on Ontario, honking and blinking. Further south, it streamed east at a more sluggish pace as people getting off work slogged into the city to shop. Beyond Ohio street, the Merchandise Mart shouldered above the intervening buildings decorated for Christmas with floods of red and green. Christmas. Would she and Sean spend it in some anonymous Federal hideout, phoning their holiday wishes to the family?

  She shivered and hurried back inside. Before putting on her coat, she put a note on the wheelchair asking Daniel to return it to the rental place.

  The hall was empty. The antique indicator above the service elevator pointed to the second floor. She pushed the “down” button and listened nervously for human sounds as the old contraption clanged and rattled its way upward. She was sighing with relief by the time it stopped and the service gate clattered up.

  Then Paul Minorini stepped out of the shadows and shoved a paper at her.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve been served.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Minorini stood in the lobby of the Dirksen building and watched Haskel studying his watch. From his vantage point, Minorini could see traffic on Jackson Boulevard and Dearborn Street, and Alexander Calder’s red “Flamingo” sculpture across Dearborn in the Kluczynski plaza. He also had an excellent view of three of the building’s entrances and the metal detectors.

  Haskel scowled and stalked over to say, “She’s not coming.”

  “Did Bergman report that?”

  “No. He hasn’t called in. That’s a crock too!”

  Minorini took out his cell phone and asked for Bergman’s number. He tapped it in as Haskel r
attled it off.

  “Bergman.” The agent’s voice sounded fuzzy.

  “Report,” Minorini ordered.

  “Lessing got on the 7:34 train. She ought to be there by now. But you wouldn’t be calling if she was. What’s with her?”

  “Why?”

  “I offered to drive her to the train and she told me to drive myself to Hell.”

  “Maybe she’s just pissed about her car.”

  “Yeah. She told me if it’s not fixed by the time she gets home she’s gonna call the local cops, then invite channels 2, 5, 7, 9 and 32 to come take pictures. Think she’s kidding?”

  “One way to find out.”

  About three minutes after nine, an eastbound CTA bus stopped on Jackson. Minorini noticed it because he was still watching for Lessing. When the bus pulled away, she was among the passengers at the stop. He watched her look both ways, then angle across the street. He could tell the moment she spotted him by the change to furious in her body language. He walked over to the revolving door to wait for her.

  She pushed through it without acknowledging his existence. She didn’t look at Haskel, either, as she blew past him. In fact, she didn’t slow down until she got to the end of the metal detector line.

  Haskel flashed his badge at the marshals and went around the queue. When Minorini got in line behind Lessing, he noticed she wasn’t carrying her camera case.

  She ignored him. When her turn came to step through the arch, she dropped a handful of keys and coins in the basket and charged through, holding her hands out for her property as soon as she cleared the detector. She headed for the elevators, ignored the car Haskel was holding for her, and stepped into the next one. Minorini followed, bypassing the detector.

  Lessing had moved to the back of the car facing the door, as etiquette required. He couldn’t bring himself to face her; in her place he’d be homicidal. So he turned his back and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor.