by Thomas Laird
She should have left for her shift, by now. So I try to jerk myself up in the bed and instead I’m successful in making myself dizzy. I wait a few beats, and then I try to rise again, and this time I make it upright into a seated position. I wait yet another few moments, and then I seem clear-headed enough to throw my legs over the side of the bed. Something is very wrong.
It’s not that Lila left her weapon here because she never takes it when she runs—I’m the one who insists on toting a firearm on my waist as we trot the hood. I won’t go out on the street without an equalizer, not after hearing that Toliver got hold of a gun from his Aryan friends. But my stubborn fiancé doesn’t think Franklin’s really out there waiting for us.
I stumble to my feet, and then a wave of nausea hits me. But as soon as it arrives, it vanishes, so I begin to throw on my running gear to search the route for Lila. I finally get my shoes tied and my own pistol cinched onto my waistline, and then I wooze my way toward the front door. I hear the dogs barking in the backyard, so Lila must have let them out before she went running.
When I go out the front door, I feel the chilled drizzle that is misting and falling lightly. It’s a dark, rotten morning in late November. The leaves have long since fallen, so the trees are barren and the sky is a dull lead color. I want to turn and go back inside and call for some help, but I’m not sure what’s going on, yet, so I stubbornly try to begin jogging the path that we take every morning before we go on shift together.
I’m going to raise hell with her when I find her. Going out alone, without her gun. It’s beyond logic, beyond common sense, but it is.
I don’t think I can keep going after the first block is behind me, but sheer terror keeps my feet moving in a steady beat onto the sidewalk. No one is out on the concrete with me because of the shivering rain that comes down in fog-like sheets.
I can see the streetlights are lit because it’s still so dim out here.
I finally pass the halfway marker for our run, but there’s no sign of Lila and there are no passersby to ask if they’ve seen her. Everyone is either already gone to their jobs or they’re nine to fivers, still eating breakfast. The kids have all gone to school a half hour ago. It looks like a scene from some science fiction post-apocalyptic flick. Everyone seems gone.
I get to the halfway marker and it’s the same. Two more blocks, and no change. I wind up back at the front of our house, and now I’m frantic. I bolt up the stairs, but the effort makes me pause, just inside the door. I almost fall face forward, but I grab hold of the couch in front of me, and the lightheadedness passes.
I want to call for backup, but I don’t know where Lila is. If I bring them here, it’ll waste even more time. I try to get my head on straight, but I can feel the heat singeing my ears. I must be running a temperature in three digits, but I don’t have time to waste taking any Tylenol.
I grab my car keys off the hook in the kitchen, and then I head back out the front door. I have an idea where Lila might be.
I finally call for backup when I’m a half-mile from my destination. The frenzy of looking for Lila has been replaced by something cold and clean in my head. This is a mission, I begin to think. The same kind of mission I went on over and over when I was in the War. It’s clear who the enemy is, but I’m going strictly on my gut as to his whereabouts.
The picture of the oil puddle in Toliver’s garage appeared in my febrile head just before I grabbed the keys and took off. He’s at his mother’s home. What other safe house has Franklin got to return to? He has no money, unless the Aryans gave him some, but they’re not notorious as being moneylenders or banks. Weapons, they might give him. They’d probably enjoy my demise, and Lila’s too.
They don’t know about the third party involved with Lila and me, but we both know. Franklin is not aware of our unborn child unless he’s a psychic—and he’s not. The word for him is psychotic.
I pull over to the curb about a third of a block before I reach the Lieutenant Governor’s one-time residence. It’s almost pitch dark outside. There’s a pre-winter storm coming, but the temperatures are above freezing, so far, so it’s just rain and not ice or snow. I’m wearing a sweatshirt with a hood. It’s an old Army hoodie, and it has a few holes in the chest—but the holes came from wear, not bullets or frags. I never wore this heavy thing in the jungle.
I go around the back to check the garage first. No one is outside because the rain is falling harder. There are rumbles of thunder in the distance, and the wind is ripping out of the northeast. It’s the Hawk, the bringer of all mothers of bad weather to Chicago.
I know she could be anywhere. Perhaps he doesn’t have her at all. Maybe he’s not here, either. Toliver could be any number of places. He could have played it smart and stolen another vehicle and disguised himself and headed for Canada or Mexico. He could have funds we don’t know about stashed somewhere, and he could’ve made his way through security onto a plane headed for anywhere. It could be that the Aryans stole him a passport. They know people who’re fine forgers, I’m sure.
Anything’s possible, but this is what comes up in my head. Franklin won’t leave his comfort zone. When he was booted from college, he ran home to mommy. When he was killing the six women, I’m certain he bunked here, in DesPlaines, at least some of the time. He feels safe here. It’s his haven. I know the odds are that he wouldn’t come back here yet again, but I just have the sure notion that he’s taken Lila home to meet his mother.
I open the side door to the garage. It remains as it was, unlocked. The car is here. It’s green, it’s four door, and it’s a Chevy Impala—one of the four rides listed as boosted by the DesPlaines PD.
Franklin is here, so I assume Lila is with him.
I can’t expect the troops to arrive for at least ten to fifteen minutes. I called DesPlaines second, so they might arrive sooner, but he could have already slaughtered Lila and the baby by now, so I can’t wait. I have to go inside.
I walk out of the garage and head for the back door. This time, I won’t have to break in because the door is still wedged slightly open. Someone’s made entry, and I’m betting it was recently.
The house is even darker than the outside. The power is probably still on since the place is up for sale. I saw the lock box on the front door handle, and the realtor’s sign was planted in the lawn out front.
I don’t dare flip any switches. I have to take it as a given that Franklin knows I’m here. He wants me present. He wants to kill Lila in front of me, I’m thinking, and then he wants to finish me, too. So he’ll be waiting for me.
It’s not like I haven’t dealt with this scenario before. The VC and the NVA had excellent intelligence. They frequently knew when we were out looking to engage them in a firefight, and they knew who we’d targeted for assassination. It was their country, their turf, and they were very aware of what was going on in their jungle-hood.
I’m not going to be able to sneak up on Franklin—this is his patch, this is his real backyard. He knows every cranny in this house. I’ve only been here a few times, and I didn’t scope it out for any future encounters on scene. I thought Franklin might just stay a while in Elgin, that Dr. Talbot might be smart enough to never spring him. And if it hadn’t been for that whopper blackout storm, he’d probably still be in that electrified little security cubicle, thinking his fevery little thoughts about eliminating anybody he’d like to eliminate.
As I make my way toward the living room, I feel another quick wave of queasiness. I don’t think I’m going to puke. I think I just need to sit down. But I can’t, of course, so instead I grab hold of a chair in the living room, and I pause until this wave diminishes. It takes a bit, this time. The spells are getting more elongated, each time they occur.
I didn’t have time to bring anything other than my piece. I don’t have my penlight, and I don’t have my switchblade.
So I decide to head back to the kitchen. I stagger there slowly, but I’m still on my feet. I see that the pots and pans haven’t
been removed, and the knife holder is still in place over the sink, with all the cooking cutlery still intact. I reach for the biggest butcher knife I see. Then I look in several of the drawers until I find tape. They have scotch tape in the second drawer, and even as groggy as I am, I’m able to strap the kitchen knife to the small of my back, horizontally to the waistline of my jogging pants. I haul the waistband over the blade, to help keep it in place, and it feels secure enough. If Franklin is able to take my gun, at least I’ll have a little insurance.
But I’m not planning on giving up my weapon. That’s the cardinal rule in the cops: you never give up your gun. You do, the hostage gets it in the head and so do you and the bad guy boogies. You’re probably better off trying a headshot than you are letting him hide behind the innocent bystander.
Lila is no innocent bystander. He must have had the pistol to get her into the car. I’m sure he used his standby duct tape to bind her hands and feet—otherwise, given the opportunity, Lila would’ve killed him. She’s very lethal, in hand to hand. As I said, I’ve seen her in action, and I’m never afraid to go into dark places with her.
He had to have tied her up, so I can’t rely on Lila for help. I’ll have to do this on my own. And it’ll have to be very soon because I’m sure he’ll shoot her if he hears backup crashing down any doors. I didn’t have time to tell them I was going in, here. Time is going to get both of us waxed if I don’t move it along right now.
My head seems clearer, now. Perhaps the adrenalin has kicked in, but I’m navigating toward the living room, once more. I search out the main floor, but I don’t hear anything and I don’t see anything in all this dimness.
I ascend the steps toward the bedrooms, but then I hear something that sounds as if it’s emanating from below, in the basement. I retreat toward the kitchen where the basement door is located. I open the door carefully, and it makes no noise.
I hear nothing from downstairs, but I have to check it out anyway. Those cops are likely almost upon us, by now, and if they try to bust in, the party’s over, and so is my life, one way or the other. As I walk slowly down the steps, I know I’m through in this life if I lose Lila. I deeply love my daughter, but she’s got her own way, now. She’s becoming more and more mature as the weeks recede behind us. Lila is my life, outside my daughter, and the baby is our future, and if I lose the baby and Lila….
When I reach the bottom, I stand and listen, with my gun hand stretched out in front of me. Nothing happens. There is no other audible disturbance. The clock is ticking, and if I don’t find Franklin and Lila, this house will turn into a fucking shooting gallery.
So I head back upstairs, and only the slight creaks of my footsteps crack the absolute dark and the absolute silence.
I’m back at the stairs heading toward the bedrooms. When I’m halfway up, I hear her.
“Danny!”
I begin to rush toward the sound, but when I hit the top step, I hear a thump.
I can’t tell which of the bedrooms the sound came from. The doors are all shut. So I’ll have to search them, one at a time.
The first bedroom is on the left. It was Franklin’s when he was living at home, the mother told me. I bolt inside and sweep the room with my gun, but there’s no one here. I wait and I listen, but there is no further voice to call my name.
And then I hear the squeal of rubber from outside. Someone’s here, and they’re likely to have a lot of company with them. They’ll be getting into position soon, and they’re likely to be accompanied by special tactical teams, probably SWAT from Chicago. I told them that I thought Franklin had snatched Lila, so they’ll be coming with sufficient firepower. All they had to hear was that a police officer had likely been taken hostage. They won’t be in a good mood, having heard all that.
I’m leaving Mrs. Toliver’s bedroom for last. I don’t know why, but it’s probably because that’s where I’m expecting the two of them to be. So I go to the third bedroom, beyond the master, and I quickly pop open the door and again sweep the room with my gun-holding hand, and I find what I expected, an empty room with sheets covering the bed and all the furniture.
Then I make my way to the only place that thump sound could’ve come from, Mrs. Raymond Toliver’s bed quarters.
My hand is on the knob, and as I turn it, I stop suddenly. I’m sniffing the air as if I’m a bloodhound, but I catch no scent. And I listen before I burst open the entry.
Now I hear more sounds of arriving vehicles outside.
It comes to me that Franklin is calling his own tune, creating his own final scenario. He wants to end it all. That’s why he’s come here, to such an obvious place to construct his own final death-scene. He expects to be shot. He knew I’d follow him here when he grabbed Lila off the street. I suppose he was hoping to snatch us both on our morning run. He must have been watching us for a long time to establish our routine. We couldn’t change the time frame because of the demands of our work, and our regularity and punctuality made it easy for him. Franklin must have delighted at the chance to catch Lila on her own out there and unarmed.
I have my hand still firm on the doorknob.
Then his voice breaks the pause and the silence.
“Come on in, Detective Mangan.”
48
I squeeze the doorknob when I hear that voice. I grip the handle of my .38 firmly, and then I fling the door wide open.
He’s standing behind Lila. Her feet and her hands are bound together with his usual gray duct tape, and there’s a flap of the tape across her lips. Toliver tears the mouth tape away as I point the pistol toward his head.
“Danny!” she cries out.
“Let her loose, Toliver. There’s an army about ready to break in, here, and you’re going back to your fun palace in Elgin.”
His face is obscured from the shade that his hood creates. They are standing to the left of the bed, just in front of the wide walk-in closet where his mother strung herself up.
He’s got the Luger pressed against Lila’s temple.
“I’m sorry, Danny,” she says. Her voice is controlled, but tears stream down onto her cheeks.
“Not your fault. It’s his. All of this is his goddam fault.”
“Is it?” Franklin smiles. I can see his teeth beneath the shadow that covers the upper half of his face.
“Yes. You killed those girls. You escaped from the one place you had a chance to survive. And you don’t deserve to live another minute.”
I cock the piece and aim for the middle of his forehead.
“You know I’ll scatter her brains all over this bedroom.”
“Momma wouldn’t approve of messing up her room, would she, Franklin?”
“She’s dead and she doesn’t care anymore.”
There’s still a glint of white coming from the darkened visage.
“Why the hood all the time, Franklin? You afraid someone might really look at you and see what a fucking coward you really are?”
I tighten my finger on the trigger, just slightly.
“I’ll kill her if you shoot. And you don’t want to lose her, do you, Detective Mangan.”
“Why’d you let her call out to me?”
“I was getting tired of waiting out your thorough search. That’s why. And now she can talk all she wants because at least two of us are never getting out of this room.”
I have to keep him talking. I’m not a negotiator, but I know that much about hostage situations. One thing is not negotiable: I don’t give up my gun. Then he kills Lila and me for sure. He still won’t get out of this house alive, though, because SWAT’ll be planning a violent entry, about now.
“You want to do murder in your mother’s house, Franklin?”
“I would’ve strangled that bitch myself if she hadn’t hung herself for me. You have no idea what that woman was like. I should’ve killed her a long time ago.”
I strain to keep the .38 pointed at him. If I’m going to take my shot at him, it’ll have to be soon. I can’t keep
my arm elevated like this for too much longer, or I’ll start to wobble.
Then the nausea returns in a strong, elongated wave. My hand involuntarily begins to descend, and the barrel is now pointed at Lila, instead of Toliver. I release the tension on the trigger, and I have to allow my arm to fall to my side.
Falling is what’s going to happen to all of me if this surge doesn’t dissipate. I feel as though I’m going to plunge face first at Toliver’s feet, and then Lila and I are finished. I don’t hear any movement from within the house. They know I’m in here, and perhaps they’re waiting for some kind of signal from me to burst in. But they will only wait briefly because they know Franklin Toliver will kill us both, if he can.
“What’s the matter, Detective? You feeling poorly?” he says with a mock tone of concern.
“Danny—“
He presses the barrel of the Luger harder against her right temple.
“You shoot her, and I won’t kill you fast. I’ll bleed you. I’ll tell them to stay the hell out, and then I’ll skin you, Toliver. Inch by inch.”
“Those are big words from a man who’s about to topple onto the floor. Then you’ll take all the fun away.”
The sickly force is lessening, it seems. I’m able to stand straight up, again, and when I straighten, my hand holding the .38 rises, as well. I’ve got it aimed at the spot between his eyebrows. The only problem is that he might pull his own trigger from the reflex after I’ve blown his brains against the wall.
The queasiness returns, suddenly, and this time it comes on even stronger, and as it gains in intensity, the .38 drops from my grip, and now I find myself on my knees in front of Lila and Toliver.
The gun lies to my right, and my head is bowed. He’s going to kill us both, and I still hear no sound from beneath us that would signal a rescue attempt. They might come through the window after sending tear gas inside, but I don’t sense any activity at all, and I’m going to lose Lila and the baby.
