Blacklist

by Sara Paretsky

  CHAPTER 30

  Warming Up

  I awoke from my most familiar nightmare. My mother had disappeared. I was looking for her, panic-stricken, because the only reason she would leave was that she didn’t love me any more. The search changes from dream to dream; this time I was in the dark culvert that connected New Solway with Anodyne Park. Behind me I could hear a hissing and knew, dreamwise, that it was the hissing of tires in the mud. I ran pell-mell until I crashed into the evergreen bush. The wheels came closer and I saw a giant golf cart about to run me over. I woke, my heart pounding, my arms and shoulders so stiff it was painful to move them.

  When I pushed myself up on the narrow bed, my stomach muscles trembled. I sat blear-eyed, wanting just to lie back down and sleep for a hundred years. Until I felt well. Until Morrell came home. Until these times of fear and brutality passed. I thought of the horrors wrought in the hundred years now ending and didn’t think waiting another century for peace would bring much solace.

  I maneuvered myself to the head of the bed and found my watch. One o’clock-in the afternoon, given that the gray March light still seeped in through the dirty window. The single bar of the space heater did no more than take an edge from the cold room. I lay back down, pulling the army blanket up to my nose.

  My mother died when I was in my teens. Like many people who lose a parent young, I believed it was my fault, some failing on my part, that had made her leave. All the times I’d upset her, racing into trouble with my cousin Boom-Boom… If I had come home on time, practiced my music as she so often begged me… and on mornings-afternoons-like this, awakening in pain brought on by one more headlong plunge into danger, my heart twisted again. My mind told me differently, told me of the cancer that went unchecked, untreated, for too many years-like many immigrant women, she would not let a doctor, especially a man, examine her in her private spaces; the bleeding that went on and on after a miscarriage couldn’t overcome her revulsion against exposure.

  I shut my eyes to keep from looking at the crucifix. It was two feet high, with thorns and blood no less vivid for being covered in dust. I should have put it in the linen closet with the one from Benjamin’s room.

  I knew I would feel better if I took a bath and started stretching my muscles, but the routine felt old and dreary to me-sore joints, stretch, recoverin order to overtax my body another time. It’d started as a teenager when I’d gone cold into a basketball game, suffered the next day, and followed Coach McFarlane’s advice on stretches and warm-ups. In the years since, I’d had too many job-related injuries, too many days when I’d woken up feeling as sore as though I really had been run over by a giant golf cart. The thought of beginning again with heat and exercise only annoyed me. What was I pushing myself for, anyway? So I could keep racing around town looking for crooks and murderers that no one wanted me to find?

  In the interview with Kylie Ballantine that I’d read at the library-was it only two days ago?-she’d said when she was twenty she could take a three-week vacation and be back in shape after one day’s hard work, but that she’d reached an age where missing a single day took three weeks of conditioning to recover. And so she worked out every day. My heroine.

  I pushed myself upright once more and stumbled into the bathroom. I began doing the things I knew I needed to do to recover-not easily, since the guest bathroom (to give the chipped, stained fittings and cracked walls a fancy name) had no heat. At least it made me move fast. I jogged back to the narrow bedroom, which felt downright cozy in contrast. I put the two

  army blankets on the floor and spent half an hour stretching out my legs and arms. I must have torn a muscle in my left trapezius, from the knife stabs it gave me when I extended my arms, but when I finished I thought my legs would carry me along.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of last night’s torn and filthy clothes, but my suit was in the trunk of my own car out in New Solway. I put on the stained, rank sweatshirt and tried not to think about it.

  On my way downstairs, I looked in on Benjamin. He was still asleep.

  I found Father Lou in his study, working on his Sunday homily. He grunted when he heard me come in, but kept typing until he finished a passage. He used an old Royal electric, banging away with two fingers. I did leg lifts while I waited to keep the circulation going.

  “Kid still sleeping?” Father Lou said, when he finally looked up. “Listened to the noon news. Guess he’s the Arab they lost out in DuPage. You think he’s a terrorist?”

  I made a face. “I don’t think so, but I can’t say I know what signs to look for.”

  The priest wheezed hoarsely-his idea of laughter. “Neither does the FBI. Don’t imagine a county sheriff is any smarter than the Bureau. What’s the boy’s story?”

  “I don’t know how or why, but Catherine Bayard-the young woman who got shot last night-scooped him up and took him out to this deserted mansion near her grandparents’ country estate.” I explained who the Bayards were, and how I’d come to be involved in the situation.

  “Romeo and Juliet,” Father Lou echoed my own image. “They in love? They making love?”

  I shrugged. “Benjamin has pretty strong feelings for her, but she-1 think with her it was quixotism-wanting to follow in her grandfather’s footsteps. Catherine lives in a larger milieu than Benjamin, with school and horses and an important family; he had only her to think about for three weeks or however long it’s been. But-she didn’t tell her grandmother what she was doing, and I’ve seen her with her granny-they’re pretty close. So I don’t know what she feels for him personally. Maybe he’s exotic, Egyptian, a bluecollar youth. For some rich kids, crossing so many boundaries of race and class can seem daring, even exalting.”

  “Teenagers. Everything too intense all the time. Probably gave her word not to tell a soul and felt that included the whole world. Girl’s at Northwestern Hospital-they medevacked her into the city. Know the chaplain there. He says a bullet nicked the humerus, cracked it, not life-threatening. You going to see her?”

  “Probably. But I don’t think I should tell her Benjamin’s here. When she was protecting him, she didn’t have all the law enforcement agencies in the country breathing down her neck. I’ll let her know he’s safe, but I don’t think she should have to worry about standing up to interrogation on his safety.” I picked at a hole in the chair I was sitting in. “I don’t know how serious the Feds and the rest of them are going to be about wanting to find Benjamin. They may talk to me and let me go after that, or they may try a trace on everything I do. To be on the safe side, I think I need to assume that all my phones-home, office, mobile-and possibly even my e-mail will be monitored.”

  “Think they’ll charge you under this Patriot bill, whatever it is?” the priest asked.

  I grimaced. “I hope not-the last few years I’ve already had more jail time than I can really use. Anyway, if the FBI gets involved, and if they really want Benjamin, they can put enough people on me that I may not be able to shake them. So once I show up at home, I won’t be able to get back in touch with you. Or vice versa. If you can’t keep Benjamin, let me know now so I can try to come up with some other safe house.”

  “Don’t seem to be able to keep track of their own weapons these days, the Feds. Shouldn’t think they’d have the manpower to follow one gal like you around town. Still, better safe than sorry. Baker Street Irregulars-I can send some of my toughs over to you on bikes-your office still over there near Milwaukee, right? Easy ride for these kids. If you want me-” He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “Say a prayer, God’ll let me know” Meaning, I could come to church.

  “As far as young Ben goes, I’ll sort him out,” Father Lou went on. “Think you’re right, think he’s a scared kid on the run. In which case, I’ll keep him until we figure out where else to send him. If he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, give him to Uncle Sam. Let you know, either way.”

  “There’s one other thing about him,” I said. “I think he saw some part

 
of what happened to Marcus Whitby Sunday night. He would stand at the attic window watching for Catherine, and you get a view from there of most of the pond. If he saw the person who put Whitby into the waterI want to know.”

  Father Lou thought it over, decided it wasn’t an unreasonable request, and nodded agreement. “See what I can get him to say. What’s happening with Morrell?”

  My stomach tightened. “He’s off on some hot lead that he didn’t want to reveal on-line.”

  “And you’re angry.”

  “I’m angry. I’m supposed to weave tapestries while he does God knows what, in God knows whose company.”

  The priest gave his wheezy laugh again. “You weave tapestries, my girl? You ain’t the passive waiting type, so don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Get off your tail and get to work. I have to finish my sermon.”

  I blushed in embarrassment and stood up. Father Lou saw the flash of pain across my face from my shoulder. I tried to make light of it, but he led me through the church to the school on the far side. Even on a Saturday afternoon, the gym was filled with kids, some shooting baskets, but most working out on boxing dummies. St. Remigio’s routinely won state boxing titles, and every boy in school dreamed of making the team.

  Father Lou stopped to correct one boy’s arm position, set another closer to the bag, and warned two others not to bring personal fights into his gym. They all nodded solemnly. Father Lou had the magic touch of believable authority in this world. He might chew out his kids, but he never let them down.

  He took me into a small infirmary built off the gym. He handed me a towel to use as an improvised robe and told me to take off my sweatshirt. I sat on a stool with my back to him, draped modestly in the towel, while he ran his hands along my shoulders and upper back. When he found the spot that made me squawk loudest, he rubbed something into it.

  “Used this on horses when I was a boy. Got them back between the traces in no time flat.” He gave another of his sudden barks of laughter. “Put some in ajar for you, get someone to rub it in if you can’t reach the spot. Best if you tape it up. Leave that stinking shirt here, take one of ours.”

  He handed me an orange and gray St. Remigio’s sweatshirt, faded from much washing, but mercifully clean. When I pulled it on, my trapezius already moved a bit more smoothly.

  He escorted me out the back door of the school to my borrowed wheels. “You get in trouble, girl, come back here. No one to look after you but those two dogs and an old man.” He laughed again. “Probably only got six to seven years on Contreras, but I fight regularly and he don’t: INS, city cops, they’re around here all the time. FBI wants to join in, won’t bother me.”

  When I put the Jaguar in gear and drove off, my shoulder moved only a little better, but my spirits were easier. The voice of believable authority – it worked on me, too.

  CHAPTER 31

  Superhero

  While I was still in the clear-I hoped-I went to a place called TechSurround to send Whitby’s pocket organizer to the forensic lab I use. You can do everything at TechSurround, from photocopying to sending mail; I used their computer to type up a letter to the lab, explaining where the wallet had been, said that I wanted to see any papers Whitby might have kept in it, told them to make it a top priority job, and put the whole thing in a bubble-pack envelope.

  I was about to stick the envelope into a FedEx packet, but today was Saturday; the lab wouldn’t get it until Monday. I didn’t want to use my cell phone, in case someone was actively tracing me, but the one thing TechSurround lacked was a pay phone. I risked turning on my mobile for a minute to phone the messenger service I use, arranging for a pickup at TechSurround-I planned to be here for a bit, checking messages.

  I logged onto one of their computers and looked at both my phone log and my e-mails, which depressed me, since there was nothing from Morrell and a slew of messages from Murray Ryerson. Catherine Bayard had been shot, this was big news in Chicago, he had scooped the city because of me, so I got dinner at the Filigree-especially since DuPage had first tried to pretend she’d been shot by a fleeing Arab-but why the hell hadn’t

  I mentioned terrorists? And did I know police from three jurisdictions wanted to talk to me? Make it four, if you counted New Solway’s finest! I sent him back a brief message saying it was nice to be wanted, I knew nothing about terrorists, I’d slept through the day in a motel, and I’d get back to him after all the fine men and women in blue had mauled me. I also typed a quick message to Morrell, shutting my eyes, trying to remember what he looked like, what he sounded like, but gray mist swirled behind my eyes when I said his name. “Morrell, where are you?” I whispered, but I exed that out. “I’ve had twenty-four unusual hours, upside down in a pond and squeezing out through mansion windows. Wherever you are, I hope you’re warm, safe and well fed. I love you.” Maybe.

  Before leaving the machine, I pulled up my phone log, which only confirmed what Murray had said: DuPage sheriff Rick Salvi wanted me ASAP, in which he was joined by the Chicago police-which I couldn’t figure out-and Derek Hatfield from the FBI, who would appreciate my calling at my earliest convenience. Behind the bureaucratic formula, I could hear Derek’s baritone rumble with menace.

  There were also two messages from Geraldine Graham. I hadn’t expected to hear from her again after Darraugh’s furious phone call, but I should have realized that his mother would want the inside story on what happened last night at her beloved Larchmont. She’d probably watched the helicopters and emergency vehicles from her living room. Darraugh had also called. I would get to the Grahams in due course, but I couldn’t feel excited by yelps from the rich and powerful right now. The only message I was really glad to get was one from Lotty, asking if I was all right and to please call.

  As soon as the messenger service took my packet for Cheviot Labs, I got ten dollars in quarters from the cashier, and found a pay phone in a Laundromat up the street.

  I didn’t think Benjamin Sadawi merited massive surveillance. I didn’t think I did. But we were living in paranoid times. Everyone in law enforcement was on edge, not just the hormone-crazed youngsters who’d fired at Catherine Bayard last night, but everyone.

  My first call was to my lawyer. Just in case worst came to worst, I wanted Freeman Carter to know what was going on with me. To my amazement, I actually found him at home.

  “Freeman! I’m glad you’re in-I thought you’d be in Paris or Cancun or whatever your usual weekend spot is these days.”

  “Believe me, Vic, when I heard your name on the news, followed by the magic phrase `Arab terrorist,’ I tried to book a seat on the first flight out. Why can’t you get into trouble during normal business hours? And without pulling Homeland Security’s chains?”

  “Like a real criminal, you mean? I’m at a pay phone, but even so, I think I should keep this simple. I’ve been out of circulation all day, catching up on my sleep, so I don’t know what DuPage or thefederales will have in store for me when I go home. Under this Patriot Act, if they think I have something they want-whether it’s a runaway kid or a library book-do I have a right to phone counsel before they hustle me away?”

  “I’m not sure,” Freeman said, after a pause. “I’ll have to research that. But just in case, leave word with Lotty or your tiresome neighbor to call me if you don’t show up when you’re expected. And for once in your own tiresome, ornery life, Victoria, check in with someone once a day until this blows over. Otherwise, Contreras will be on the phone with me and I’ll be billing new hours to your outstanding balance. Which is not small as it is. Agreed?”

  “Copy that, Houston.” Nothing would bring Mr. Contreras more pleasure than to baby-sit me. Few things would bring me less, but Freeman was right. There are days when it’s better to be pliant.

  I tried Amy Blount next. When I got her voice mail, I phoned the client at the Drake. Harriet Whitby was in her room.

  “When I saw the report on TV this morning, I wondered, well, were you out at Larchmont because of Marc
or because of the terrorist?” she asked. Every time someone referred to Benjamin Sadawi as a terrorist, he changed from a scared kid hiding in an attic to a bearded monster in a Yasser Arafat scarf. But if I started saying, no, he’s not a terrorist, he’s just terrified, then I’d have to explain that I’d seen him, and I couldn’t do that. “Your brother’s affairs took me out to Larchmont; I was looking in the pond where he drowned to see if he might have dropped something. He did, in fact: his pocket organizer. I’ve sent it to a lab to dry it out and extract any documents.”

  A woman was waiting to use the phone, looking ostentiously at the clock above the dryers. I held up my thumb and forefinger to say, only a little longer.

  “While I was out at Larchmont, I found the kitchen door open, I went in to see whether anyone was inside, and the sheriff’s excitement kept me out there longer than I hoped. I think I know who your brother was visiting in New Solway, but it doesn’t bring me any closer to how he ended in that pond.”

  “Dr. Vishnikov called this morning,” Harriet said. “Your funeral director delivered Marc’s body to his-his place. But he wanted to warn me before he started what it would cost, and that I might find out, I don’t know, things I wouldn’t want to know. He terrified me, but, then, what could be more terrible than Marc’s death?” Her voice was raggedy, the voice of someone who’d had to talk to too many people about too many difficult things lately.

  “Dr. Vishnikov is just being cautious. I’ll call him, tell him if he feels like being responsible to the client, do it through me, not you. And to get started-we’ve already lost a week on this. I can think of a lot of things one wouldn’t want to know about a beloved family member, but, frankly, I can’t picture your brother doing any of them-you know, running a prostitution ring or dealing drugs, that kind of activity doesn’t fit with the man whose house I saw yesterday morning.”