High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  McGrew massaged his temples, feeling much older than his late twenties. Hard choices. They came with the job. Getting the job done. That’s the spirit. The rest be damned.

  Besides—McGrew stood and stretched—he didn’t have time to chastise himself. A call had come in less than an hour ago from a bartender named Marcia Wakeman. She had claimed to know the identity of the mysterious “Abbott” from Beth’s journal. Their conversation had been brief, but McGrew had talked long enough to know that the woman was most likely legitimate and not one of the nut cases that came out of the woodwork with every sensational crime.

  “Are you ready?”

  June Comstock stood in his office doorway, her auburn hair brushed back, wearing a black leather coat. The color in her cheeks was high, without the benefit of make-up, and her eyes shone. She had asked if she could get more involved in the case, unusual for her. But ever since the story broke, McGrew suspected that someone higher up was leaning on her for results. He wasn’t quite sure how coming with him on interviews was going to speed up the process, but she was in charge.

  * * * *

  Marcia lit another cigarette off the butt of the last. What was wrong with her? Why had she let herself get involved in something like this? She stared out the window, too nervous to watch TV or listen to music, things she had already tried without success. She simply couldn’t distract herself from the prospect of two detectives showing up in her apartment very soon to question her about a murder and a missing person.

  They could have gotten the information on their own. How many guys named Abbott were there out there anyway? There must have been other people who knew the connection? Why did she have to be Ms. Civic Duty and come forward?

  Now, she watched as a black Mustang slowed on the street below her, signaling to pull into a spot steps away from her apartment building.

  Turning away from her window, she stubbed out her cigarette and waved at the blue layer of smoke hanging over the living room. She waited for the buzzer to sound.

  * * * *

  A short time later, June Comstock put down the coffee Marcia Wakeman had given her and leaned forward. “So you and this Abbott Lowery worked together for how long?”

  McGrew settled back into his seat, a brown vinyl recliner. Marcia could see that June had usurped his position as interrogator.

  The woman toyed with a dried flower arrangement on her coffee table, until dried petals and eucalyptus leaves covered the surface. “I’ve been at Bennie’s for—let’s see—a couple of years now. Abbott started quite a while after I did, so he’d probably been there only a year, if that.”

  Comstock scribbled everything down. She stopped and met Marcia’s gaze. “Tell me how you place this Abbott with Beth Walsh.”

  McGrew leaned forward.

  Marcia smiled and lit a cigarette. “It wasn’t all that long ago, just a couple days before I read about it in the paper. When I saw her picture, I knew she looked familiar. And then I saw the name Abbott and it all came back to me.”

  Pete sat back as Marcia continued, spilling out the details of the night in question, repeating the words Abbott had used and how he had humiliated Beth Walsh in front of everyone.

  Chapter 21

  Bridgeport is a quintessential Chicago neighborhood. It had spawned the Dalys, city’s most influential and powerful political dynasty, and embodied the spirit of the Chicago—gritty and industrious. The neighborhood, nestled just south of the downtown area off the Dan Ryan Expressway, was made up of red and white brick buildings jostling one another for space, growing out of the concrete like weeds. There stood two- and three-flat apartment buildings, cars jacked up outside waiting for repair. Windows looked grimy, people scurried, and traffic jammed the streets.

  This is the environment that spawned Abbott Lowery.

  McGrew circled another block, searching for a place to park. Had Abbott played basketball on the playground to McGrew’s left? If McGrew had come down these streets ten years ago, would he have seen Abbott through the rusting chain link, shoulder down as he dribbled in to make a lay-up? Would he have seen Abbott as part of the group hanging outside the pool hall to his right, smoking cigarettes and drinking from brown-paper shrouded bottles?

  Pete didn’t know what he could expect from Abbott Lowery. But from the picture Marcia Wakeman had painted earlier that day, he doubted very much if Abbott had ever been involved in activities where he’d been a part of a group. He sounded like a loner.

  Was he alone now? Or was Beth Walsh with him?

  Marcia had said he was handsome, a big draw for the women who came into the bar where they both worked. Were he and Beth now on the lam, imagining themselves some romantic Bonnie and Clyde duo?

  Would McGrew ever find them?

  Up ahead, a rusting F-10 pickup pulled out of a space and McGrew accelerated to claim it. Lucky—Abbott’s building stood only a few steps away.

  * * * *

  “Odd. That’s the word that comes to mind when I think of that man.” The woman shivered, pulling the edges of a red cardigan sweater around her shoulders. “You want to come inside? Have some tea?”

  “Sure. Thank you.” McGrew followed Ila Perkins, Abbott’s landlady, into her ground-floor apartment. Her yellow-tinted hair was piled in an elaborate upsweep and the glasses she wore—with their oversized frame—looked comical on her small, wizened face. He followed her into a living room with a matching nylon aqua sofa and chair, both facing a maple-cased console TV. The volume was off, but it was easy to read the fury on Judge Judy’s face.

  “Sit down, Mr. McGrew. It ain’t often I get company.”

  He settled in the armchair and Ila handed him his tea in a chipped peach and white cup with matching saucer. He looked down to see pale brown water with a few grounds in the bottom.

  “Get you anything else? Cream? Sugar? I’d offer lemon, but all I got’s reconstituted and that stuff tastes like crap.” She smiled; he noticed her teeth were brown at the top.

  “This is fine.”

  She started to sit, then got back up. “I got cookies. Archway Icebox. Want some?”

  “Please, Mrs. Perkins, you’ve done more than enough. Sit down. Take a load off.”

  “My yes, I could stand that.” She collapsed into the couch, her red terrycloth-slippered feet swinging inches above the floor. Her eyes kept darting to the TV screen.”

  “You said something about Abbott being odd.”

  Ila snorted. “‘Odd’ ain’t the word for it, honey. What do you call a fella that’s drop-dead handsome but never has a woman over? Before you say, ‘fairy,’ let me tell you—this bird never has anyone over. Never goes out. Never says ‘boo’ to a soul.”

  “Pretty much keeps to himself?”

  “And then some.” She shook her head. “Guy gave me the willies. He in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m looking into a missing person case and he might know something, that’s all.” McGrew sipped his tea.

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Was there something he did specifically that gave you the, er, willies?”

  “Like I told you, he was too quiet. The only noise I ever heard come from his apartment was screams.” Ila grinned when McGrew looked up. “The screams from the movies, Mr. McGrew. That boy did go out for one thing besides work—movies. From what I hear from down here, they were all the same kind—blood and guts. What do they call ‘em? Slasher flicks?” Ila shook her head again. “Me, I like a good comedy. But, like I said, that one up there was too quiet for my tastes. Never even said ‘hello,’ not just to me, but to anyone. And aside from those movies, I never heard nothin’ else from up there. No phone, no music playin’, nothin’.”

  “Did he ever do anything, besides being standoffish, that made you think he was peculiar?”

  “I wish I could tell you somethin’.” Ila scratched her head and her wig moved a bit. “But the man just wasn’t there. Know what I mean?”

  “Okay. So, you never saw
him with anyone? Not even recently, maybe? Maybe a woman with red hair?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mr. McGrew, with all due respect, it seems like you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. If Abbott brought home a girl, don’t you think I would have noticed?” She snorted. “Nah. There wasn’t nothin’ like that.”

  He could see there was little else he would get out of this woman. He just hoped she’d let him in Abbott’s apartment, hoped she’d offer. “So, how long have you known Abbott? Just since he moved in?”

  She smiled. “Mr. McGrew, I’ve known that boy all his life. He’s lived in this neighborhood since he was born, with his mother, Candy.”

  “Was he always so quiet?”

  Her expression changed; her eyes grew darker. The constant half-smile she wore vanished. She stared at the floor. “No, not always.”

  McGrew waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “Well, do you know when he changed?”

  “I know exactly when.” Her voice had gone flat.

  Suddenly, McGrew realized he would need to prod Ila Perkins along. The talkative woman suddenly seemed unwilling to talk. “Well, when was it, Mrs. Perkins? Can you recall?”

  She looked toward the window, as if something had caught her eye outside. “It’s been a long time. The boy was very small—four years old.”

  “What happened?”

  “My nephew, Gene, knew his mother, Candy, you see.” Ila tugged at a rhinestone earring. She looked at everything in the room but McGrew.

  “And did your nephew know Abbott?”

  “Not really.”

  “How well did he know Abbott’s mother?”

  “Too well.” Ila met his gaze, and her eyes moistened. “I don’t think I got anymore to say, Mr. McGrew. I don’t think I can help you much.”

  “Did something happen between your nephew and Abbott’s mother? What was the connection?”

  The old woman barely shook her head. “No connection.”

  “But you said Abbott changed when he was about four. Does that have something to do with your nephew?”

  “Oh, it might,” she snapped. “But who the hell knows? That was years ago and this old mind don’t work the way it used to.” She stood suddenly and took his cup and saucer from him. “Mr. McGrew, I got lots to do this evening. Card club’s at my house and, as you can see, I have some serious cleaning ahead. Excuse me for being rude, but we’ll have to talk another time. Okay?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Perkins. Could I ask another favor of you?”

  “What?” Her eyes seemed full of suspicion.

  “I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind letting me in Abbott’s apartment to look around?”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I see.” He knew that, without a search warrant or Abbott’s permission, anything he might find could be ruled inadmissible down the road, if this ever went that far. Still, there might be something that could set him on his way. The image of Beth, more alive now in his mind than in her photograph, haunted his dreams and fantasies. And the real memory of her mother, so tortured, cried out to him for help.

  He had to find Beth.

  And the key to finding her just might lie in this “odd” man’s apartment.

  McGrew ventured, “It would be just between us, Mrs. Perkins. No one has to know.”

  “Why do you bother me? Why do I get dragged into this?” She threw up her hands. “I won’t be rid of you until I let you in, is that how it goes?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I’ll get the key. But listen, I don’t feel so good about this. I don’t want you stayin’ long. Understand? What if Abbott comes home while you’re in there? Then where will I be?”

  McGrew didn’t know, but he felt certain Abbott would not be coming home anytime soon.

  He expected Abbott Lowery’s apartment to be dark, and it was. The buildings across the street blocked out any sunlight that might have come in either of the two windows.

  What had happened to Lowery when he was four?

  McGrew looked around the tiny studio, and his gaze revealed very little of the man who lived there. A twin bed, unmade, occupied a corner of the room. The fitted sheet had come off one corner to expose a striped mattress beneath. A brown corduroy bedspread lay balled up at the foot of the bed. Nearby stood a cracked mirror with no frame. The walls held nothing: no pictures, no posters, not even a calendar. The furniture, couch, coffee table, rocking chair, and small yellow Formica dining set all looked secondhand. A portable TV sat on a tray, and below it rested an old VCR.

  McGrew knelt in front of the top-loading machine and whispered, “Haven’t seen one of these in years.” To the left of the machine stood a cardboard box full of videotapes. McGrew sorted through them and found all of the Halloween movies, all of the Friday the 13th movies, Freddie Krueger’s whole opus, along with I Spit on Your Grave, 2000 Maniacs, and I Dismember Mama.

  McGrew shook his head, a chill going though him. No dramas in the box, no comedies, hell, there wasn’t even a good horror movie. All slasher shit. Blood and more blood; dismemberment, and internal organs.

  Is that all this guy watched?

  McGrew scanned the room once more, opening cupboards and drawers, disappointed that he had found no clues other than a glimpse into a twisted, empty life.

  Then he spotted the cardboard box under the bed. He stooped and pulled it out, heart beating a little faster.

  There wasn’t much inside, but what was there let McGrew at least know a real person lived in the apartment. On top lay a sock monkey, old and moth-eaten. He set it aside. Next came a photograph in a bronze frame. The glass was cracked, but McGrew could still see the portrait of a dark-haired little boy sitting on a woman’s lap. The woman, McGrew thought, looked like a tramp—bleached blonde hair, heavy blue eye shadow, black false eyelashes, white lipstick, too much rouge. She wore a tight red sweater that showed way too much cleavage for a mother/child portrait. This must be Candy.

  Fitting name.

  The little boy in her arms was not smiling. Cold, blue eyes stared out at the photographer. How old was Abbott in the picture? Had he turned four? Had whatever Mrs. Perkins alluded to occurred yet?

  He found other snapshots. Abbott on a fishing pier, holding a pole and squinting as he looked toward the camera. Another of him sitting in front of a birthday cake with six candles, looking somber. He never looked happy—not in any of the photos. There was something dead in his expression. His eyes, even in snapshots, looked flat. What kind of little boy looked so solemn when he was fishing in the summer or before his birthday cake?

  Beneath the snapshots lay some sheets of paper. Nothing very interesting. Car repair receipts, pay stubs.

  And then McGrew unfolded a piece of green steno paper.

  It had three words scrawled on it: Beth Walsh Fullerton.

  It was a connection. But why wasn’t there more? Why wasn’t there a clue to where Abbott was right now? Or maybe there was and he just wasn’t seeing it.

  McGrew stood in the dingy underwater light of the apartment and felt chilled. People could disappear so easily, so much more easily than most people realized.

  Where had Abbott gone? What had happened to him? How had he been damaged?

  McGrew grabbed the photos, stuffed them in his pocket with the sheet of steno paper, and left the apartment.

  Chapter 22

  Was she supposed to look at her new freedom as some kind of gift? Abbott had repaired the door and put a new lock outside after he had burned her—but she didn’t want to think about that. She was free now, inside the room. With no ropes to bind her, she was free to roam this little box from hell.

  Gratitude?

  Beth huddled further into a corner of the storage room, wishing she could go back to sleep, wishing it was as simple as willing that warm oblivion to surround her once more. She wished she could sleep forever.

  But the cold burn on her inner thigh sent pinpricks of pain through her, ting
ling and insistent. She tried not to imagine the dead skin under the bandage, the white blood cells beneath battling infection.

  She put a hand to her head, wanting to rip these thoughts—of rot and decomposition—out of her brain. She rubbed her scalp, feeling the itchy stubble. She was past tears, past screaming and flailing herself at the door to her prison. In a corner of the room, she sat, knees drawn up to chest.

  She had no defense against the cold! It seeped in, smelling of mildew blended with pine. Abbott had given her an old blanket, but the scent and dampness proved worse than nothing at all.

  She kept seeing him, Mark. Over and over in her mind, the same movie replayed…

  * * * *

  A white brick hospital. There’s a broad expanse of three concrete steps up to the main entrance, a ramp for the handicapped to one side. People hurry in and out of the revolving door. Beth hugs herself, protection against the cold, gray skies promising nothing but sleet and snow.

  And then he’s there—Mark. His blond hair has thinned a little during his stay. The wind lifts it effortlessly, exposing his forehead and the pale blue eyes, searching the faces outside the hospital. Little of his face is exposed; much of it is covered with bandages. The exposed skin is mottled, gray, yellow, purple. There are stitches in a line across his forehead, making him Frankenstein’s monster.

  She moves forward a little. Tentative and afraid to smile. Her walk is halting, and even from her vantage, she sees how it pains him to move, how his breathing is labored.

  Oh God, but at least he’s survived.

  She steps forward, forcing herself to smile, emerging from the masses of people at the front door of the hospital. And he sees her. His brows furrow and she knows that just the sight of her causes him anguish.

  She inches closer.

  He meets her gaze for a moment, pulling a bandage from his face.

  The world tilts up as she sees not a cut beneath the bandage, but a lesion, purple and raised. The world tilts more as her heart begins to pound. The lesion looks like a bruise, save for the way it’s crowned with whitish and drying skin.