by Kathy Reichs
Either way, points in my column. I knew what one of them looked like. Sort of. They knew nothing about me except I was tall. And that I was staying at the Ritz. Which I wasn’t.
I rode the Water Tower escalator down to Abercrombie & Fitch, bought a black puffer jacket and a green cap with a red moose above the bill. A stop at the Sunglass Hut for some blue Maui Jims. Another at the Finish Line for a pair of Adidas Ultra Boosts, chartreuse with black stripes on the sides. An hour after leaving, I was back in my room. Mall shopping, also the cat’s meow.
I booted the Mac and opened Google Maps. Perused street and satellite views. Then I spent some time on the CTA website, viewing options for public transit in Chicago. In minutes I had a peach of a plan.
I tucked my hair under the moose cap, which took some doing, then laced on the shoes. I attached my holster to my belt, this time at my hip, not the small of my back. I palmed in the magazine and put the gun in the holster. Finally, I put on the new jacket.
Heart hammering, I ran a quick check of the motion detector. Satisfied, I pressed the do-not-disturb button and left.
I walked south to Chicago, then west to State to a subway entrance opposite a McDonald’s. Vagrants filled the sidewalk, smoking, sleeping, panhandling, doing nothing. A bearded guy in a ratty army jacket separated from a group of three and approached me on wobbly legs. His teeth were gone, his eyes crusted, his outstretched hand unsteady. I gave him a five spot. Dozens of eyes watched. I hoped he could keep the money long enough to buy a Big Mac.
I rode the Red Line north to Bryn Mawr, walked east from the station, then took a tunnel under Lake Shore Drive to the Lakefront Trail. From there I turned right. I wanted to scope out the meet site before I showed up that night. If anyone was watching, I figured they’d expect me to come from the south.
To my left ran parkland dotted with the occasional tree, beyond it a breakwater, beyond the breakwater, the lake. The area was fairly active now. Runners, skaters, bikers, and dog walkers passed me going in both directions. Kids tossed balls and Frisbees. Couples pressed together on benches, enduring the cold for the freedom to neck.
The sun was still high, the office, condo, and apartment buildings to the west throwing long, rectangular shadows across the traffic, the trail, and the grass. I knew that, come dark, the area would be deserted. That the joggers and cyclists and lovers would have fled to the safety of their dead bolts and touch-pad security systems.
My eyes roved. My ears stayed on high alert. Challenging with waves crashing, gulls cawing, vehicles whooshing by on the Drive.
As I moved south, the shoreline gradually curved in, the green space narrowed, and the trees grew denser. On spotting the rendezvous point, I felt my scalp prickle. The setup was as bad as I’d feared.
The underpass was long and straight, maybe twenty feet in width. The walls had no recesses or alcoves. No place to hide. If I entered and they blocked the ends, I’d be trapped. Stay out of the underpass.
Across from the lakeside opening was a thick stand of hardwoods. If I came up the trail, or down it as I was doing now, they could conceal themselves and take me out from the safety of the trees. Not good, either.
Or, if they were smart, they could work a tunnel-tree strategy. Have people covering both. If they were smart. Capps thought they were sloppy. And he’d won a Kiwanis award.
I stared at the underpass. Even in midafternoon the interior was deep in shadow. A row of ceiling lights was trying but accomplishing little. Besides, if my pursuers were smart they’d smash the bulbs. If they were smart.
I walked the area, crossed the beach, stared at the lake, cold and frigid, running all the way up to join Huron at the Straits of Mackinac. I checked the parking lot, a basketball court, a small pavilion. I snapped pics with my phone.
It was after three when I got back to Bryn Mawr. Just beyond the metro station, I found a place called Hellas Gyros. Though my gut was in free fall, I knew I had to eat. While forcing down a souvlaki on pita and drinking a Beck’s, I scrolled through the shots I’d taken and thought about options. About what to do.
If caught, I was dead. If I escaped, Stella was dead?
I refused to consider either possibility.
“When you find your opponent’s weak spot, hammer it.”
I must have voiced the thought aloud, because a kid clearing the booth to my right said, “You need something, lady?”
“Tactics,” I said.
“What?” Wiping greasy hands on his apron. Which was once white.
“It’s a quote from a very wise man.”
“Yeah? Like Plato?”
“John Heisman.”
I bunched my wrapper, drained my beer, and headed for the train. As I clicked and swayed toward my stop, the same questions kept looping in my head. Were my pursuers the bombers? Were they planning to shoot me? Was Stella alive? Did the threat toward my “young friend” refer to her? If they had her, would my actions put her at risk?
By the time I got off at Chicago and State, I had the broad outline of my three-part strategy for the upcoming encounter. First, I wanted to scramble whatever they intended for me. Second, I wanted at least one of them to bolt. Third, I wanted to follow the bolter without his or her knowledge. And I wanted not to get killed. I guess that made four.
Take a Glock? Hell yeah. These guys had used explosives. Killed a kid. I didn’t plan to shoot anyone. And I wasn’t luring them into a trap. If there was a trap, they were luring me. Maybe the trees. Maybe the underpass. Maybe the trail south of the rendezvous point.
If I was dealing with the bombers, I had a rough idea what they looked like from the surveillance video images. Only the woman in the Sox cap knew what I looked like. Tall, nice shades. If I wasn’t dealing with the bombers, advantage to both sides.
Either way, the woman in the Sox cap would have to be there to ID me for the rest of the group. If there was a group. Any pics she might have snapped would be useless.
How large a group? If they planned to cap me in the underpass they’d need a tag team to work the ends, in addition to the woman in the Sox cap, who’d be standing lookout. Four were captured on the Bnos Aliza video, three men and a woman. Had others been hunkered down in the SUV? Waiting elsewhere? Manning an escape route? How many others?
They didn’t need four. But would a lone person agree to stay behind? Refuse to participate? Not likely. Too gutless. But a lot could have changed in the group over the course of a year. People dead. Couples split, maybe hostile. New recruits.
Still, I guessed I’d be facing four. If I was dealing with the bombers. And if so, they’d be as wary of deception as I was. They’d be watching for signs of a trap. A police setup. The trick with the note. The tail. They were being careful. Or thought they were.
Bombers? Con artists? What I didn’t know could have filled Soldier Field.
There was nothing to do but sally forth into the fray. I’d stay out of the underpass. Away from the trees. Carry the Glock on my hip.
What else did Heisman say?
When in doubt, punt.
Feeling too amped to sit still, I checked out of the Raffaello and into the Tremont on East Chestnut. A scan of my online posts reconfirmed that I was still the only being on the planet interested in them. Though @hurryhome407 had picked up seven followers on Twitter. Go figure.
After finding the address of a wig shop on State Street, I strapped on the Glock 23, donned the black puffer, and set off for the Loop.
The selection was superb. I bought a short blond bob and a long black number that made me want to sing “The Shoop Shoop Song.” I’d barely hit the sidewalk when my phone buzzed in my purse. I checked the screen. The motion detector at the Ritz had been tripped.
I raced to Water Tower Place. On twenty-four, I continued past my room and turned right at the end of the hall. Squatting low, breathing fast, I peeked around the corner.
There was no sign of a lookout. Odd. SOP for busting hotel rooms is one inside, one outside standing g
uard.
The privacy light was on, as I’d left it. I considered possibilities. A false alert? A cleaning or maintenance worker? A bomber wanting to blow me away?
I placed my purse, my backpack, and the wig bag on the floor and slid the Glock from its holster. Holding the gun behind my thigh for concealment, I checked the corridor I was in, then the intersecting and parallel corridors. Saw no one.
I dug my key card from my purse and clamped it between my front teeth. Clutching the gun two-handed and pointed down, senses hyperfocused, I started forward.
All sounds receded to deep background. I saw zip but the door. The numerals 2417.
At my suite, I stopped and listened hard. Heard only the hammering of my own heart. I stepped to the left of the door and, releasing one hand from the gun, swiped the key card across the lock. The little click sounded like a cannon in a cave.
I hopped left and pressed my shoulders to the wall. Again grasped the gun two-handed, muzzle now up.
Nothing happened.
I waited a full ten seconds. Took a lot of deep breaths. Strained for any hint of a presence beyond the door.
Then I reswiped and kicked out at the same time. The door flew in, hit the wall, and ricocheted. I caught it on the rebound with one boot, then scurried back around the corner, out of sight.
More nothing happening. No one shouted. No one rushed forth.
Gun again by my thigh, I edged down the hall until I had an angled view of the room. The lights were out, the curtains drawn but seeping a fair dose of afternoon glow. I couldn’t remember if I’d left them open or closed.
I continued past 2417 and crossed to the opposite side. If someone came out blazing, they’d expect me in the same position as when I’d booted the door. Lowering the Glock, I waited. The partially open door waited.
Twenty minutes passed. The elevator hummed by several times. I hoped it would make no stops on twenty-four. Then it did.
The doors skimmed back and a waiter got off pushing a room service cart. Blond hair, ambitious cowlick, maybe eighteen. He didn’t notice me. Or pretended not to. But he paused at the open door, looked undecided, then disappeared around the corner at which I’d crouched earlier.
I checked my watch again and again. 5:30. 5:55. 6:10. I thought about strategies if I needed to pee.
Just past seven the elevator stopped again. A man and a kid got off. The man had razor-styled silver hair and looked like he’d just come from an Armani shoot. The kid was rougher—stubble, faded jeans, a grubby jacket over a T. The man glanced at me, quickly away, regretful of having allowed his eyes to make contact with mine. The kid gave me a slow once-over, cocky. They entered a room eight digits down from 2417.
More time passed. I pictured the living room of my suite. The furniture. The entrances to the baths and bedroom. Mapped escape routes. Attack routes.
I thought about how idiotic I’d feel if it turned out no one was in the suite and I was growing older in the hall, locked and loaded. I thought about how much more idiotic I’d feel if I walked right in and got capped. I decided to be patient and grow older.
But my opponent, or opponents, were patient, too. Easier with the comfort of sofas, chairs, and commodes. Still, I guessed they’d yield to nerves sooner than I would, fearful of discovery by hotel staff or security. A wide-open door is out of the norm.
My neck and back started to ache. My hand cramped from grasping the gun. With a round in the chamber I had to hold it carefully yet out of sight.
A couple exited the elevator. He was short, with a florid face and a gut that hung over his belt. She was short, too, but lean and gaunt. Both wore Steelers windbreakers and polyester pants. Both made a point of looking straight ahead as they hurried to the end of the hall and turned left.
Next it was a guy in a blue sweater and glasses with tortoiseshell frames. An academic, or trying to look like one. I played guess the nerd. Anthropology. Economics. Poetry. An unlikely accomplice. Still, I watched him until he was safely in his room.
The light slanting from my suite slowly faded. I kept my eyes on it, watching for any sign of movement. A shadow. A flicker. A hint that those inside were making their play.
I wondered how long he or she or they could hold out. If he or she or they needed to either kill me or be at Foster Beach at midnight. Fine. I had nowhere to go until then.
7:20. Elevator traffic was picking up. Not good.
A family of four came next. Mom, Pop, Junior, and Sis. Both kids were carrying bags from the Disney Store. The Griswolds hitting the big city for culture. Junior eyed me with undisguised curiosity.
“Dad!” Grabbing Pop’s arm. “That lady’s got a—”
Pop shushed him with a sharp expulsion of air.
“But, Dad—”
“Shut it until we’re in the room.”
Junior’s body language radiated what he thought of that. The bickering began as soon as they rounded the corner. Was truncated by the slam of a door.
The stress of maintaining vigilance was taking its toll. My neck was taut as the branch of an oak, my lower back on fire. My good eye throbbed. My bad eye throbbed harder. I was sweating inside the puffer.
I considered the door. It had stopped roughly two-thirds open. If a thug was waiting to blast through the gap, he’d have to come from the right, eyes and gun aimed toward the point where he’d seen me last. Or she had. Or they had.
And if it was a team effort? Maybe the lead thug would kick the door as I’d done, then both would blast forward, one cutting left, the other right. Or maybe they’d crouch and creep. Or dive and roll in separate directions.
Or maybe they were far more patient than I anticipated. Maybe they’d sit tight until I made a move.
What would I do? Probably opt for the dive and roll. Move fast. Hope I was more agile than the mope standing in the hall all day.
Or maybe the suite was empty.
7:40.
I could barely feel my right hand. Eyes glued to the gaping space between the door and the jamb, I released my grip on the Glock, rotated my wrist, and opened and closed my fingers. They tingled as though rebounding from frostbite. Circulation restored, I reestablished my hold, pointer flat beside the trigger guard.
8:08.
I thought about dialing security. Or the front desk. I could report that I’d found my room door open, say I feared an intrusion. But if an armed thug really was waiting for me, some hapless hotel employee might get killed. Maybe the kid with the cowlick. Or Noah. Better to wait. I’d give it at least until 10:30.
The guy came out upright but coiled, fired two shots down the corridor toward the wall opposite the one at which I was standing. He was big and wore a black tracksuit and knitted cap pulled low on his forehead.
He tensed when he realized I wasn’t where he’d expected. Whipped around, gun pointed at me.
Crack!
My left shoulder winged backward. Fire ripped down my arm.
I shot him.
The world ebbed as I squeezed off the round. I didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch at the recoil.
My bullet made the guy stumble but didn’t take him down. He leveled his muzzle at my chest. I saw the deadly little hole in the blue-black steel, his trigger finger tense. I shot him a second time. He fell to his knees, then crumpled facedown on the carpet. I held him in my sights. He didn’t move. A nine-millimeter Beretta lay by his hand.
A heartbeat, two, three.
I lunged across the hall, leaped over his body, and dove headfirst through the open door into the suite. My shoulder and rib cage hit the entry tile hard. Lungs in spasm, I rolled behind the sofa.
A few beats, then, fighting for air, I rose to my knees and peered over the sofa back. Saw a gray rectangle of sky and lake. Movement reflected in the colossal TV?
I fired again.
The bullet ricocheted and shattered the screen. The phone exploded into the window glass. The handset dropped and skittered across the floor.
A dial t
one droned in the sudden stillness.
My eyes swept the room. It was empty.
I slid down to my butt, drew my knees to my belly, and tried to breathe. It wasn’t working out. Maybe the bullet. Maybe the slam-dive onto the tile.
The dial tone cut off. A robotic voice said something I couldn’t catch. I didn’t care.
After finally managing to suck in some air, I crawled on all fours—three actually, my left shoulder was useless—toward the guy I’d shot. He lay still, the Beretta by his side.
Gun ready in my right hand, I probed the man’s throat with my left. Felt no pulse. A stain was blossoming on his tracksuit and the carpet around him.
I holstered the Glock. Crawled back and snatched the handset from the rug. Heard nothing but dead air. I pressed the button, waited, tried again.
I was dragging toward the bedroom when agitated voices sounded in the corridor. I reversed toward the living room.
“Hotel security! Come out! Now!”
“It’s okay,” I said. “There’s a dead man in the hall.” As if they couldn’t spot him. “I’ve been hit. I’ll step to where you can see me.” Right hand high, I walked to the door.
There were two of them, one black, one white, both short and skinny, both wearing dark suits and red ties. Black looked like he’d just graduated high school. White looked like he’d qualify for Social Security.
Both probably made fifteen bucks an hour. I stepped back. Very. Slowly.
White and Black moved into the suite. White wore a tag that said S. HARVEY. Black’s said J. FIX.
“Hands clasped on top of your head!” Harvey’s face was a bag of wrinkles, his jaw saggy, his eyes green half-moons under low-hanging lids.
“I’ve been shot,” I said. “My left shoulder is whacked.”
Harvey looked undecided what to do about that. Fix circled me toward the phone.
“I have a firearm in a holster on my right hip,” I said.
