by Rick R. Reed
“If you do anything, it’ll be all over.” Dwight drove the cold steel of the gun hard into Jimmy’s temple. Dwight’s arm tightened around Jimmy’s chest, and Jimmy’s feet slid over the floor. “I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll kill all of you, you, the cops, fat boy here. What the hell? I wanted to help you—” Dwight stopped himself, shoved Jimmy away from him. “Let’s get out of here. I want you boys to walk ahead of me, quietly. If you see anybody at all, keep your eyes down and your mouths shut.”
The three started down the stairs.
Why didn’t someone come along? The fucking elevator was broken. Why wasn’t someone coming up the stairs?
And then, Jimmy saw her.
Carla.
She looked asleep lying on the stairs below him. He noticed the thin trickle of blood down the side of her neck. He turned to Morris. “What did you do to her, fucker?”
Dwight turned the gun around and with its butt slapped Jimmy across the face.
“She’ll be all right! Keep moving.”
Jimmy stumbled back, feeling absolutely no sensation. The pain would come later.
At last they reached the bottom of the stairs and the door leading to the back alley. When they got outside, Jimmy saw on the far side of the parking lot the blinking lights of a police car.
“We won’t be going near them, so don’t even think about them.” Dwight’s voice was tinged with panic.
Jimmy plodded on, down the dark alley, with Avery at his side.
*
Carla awakened to murky vision and a dull, throbbing pain in the back of her head. Above her, around her, she heard the lives of the other people in the apartment building being conducted: the bass of stereo speakers somewhere, an argument.
Outside: the sound of police sirens.
She sat up and the pain felt as if someone had bashed the back of her head in with a mallet…a mallet with a nail attached to the end of it.
Carla lifted her hand and gingerly touched the back of her head. The hair there was matted with clotted blood; it felt sticky and dense.
She sat for a moment, just trying to breathe deeply, to calm herself, to try to remember what had brought her here, to the fire exit staircase in her building.
How long had she lain on these steps? Who had passed her by? She felt as if everything in her brain had shut down, that nothing worked anymore.
Biting her lower lip against the pain, Carla made herself turn over, so she was on her hands and knees. For a moment the grey of the staircase beneath her wavered in and out: grey and black, grey and black, and the simple concrete stairs, covered with enamel grey paint, twisted and contorted themselves beneath her, so that tumbling down them almost seemed a natural movement. She breathed in, though, gasping lungfuls of the stale air until the stairs became solid once more and she could begin to crawl. Perhaps, when she got back to her apartment on the seventh floor, she’d have some clue as to what had happened to her.
And she could take a handful of aspirin.
And have a big glass of vodka.
Just to dull the pain, of course.
Once she reached her destination, the metal door marked with the big, black seven, Carla paused, trying to summon up any reserves of strength. She first got to a squatting position, then, using the wall for support, managed to pull herself upright. Everything was spinning around her. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, clinging to the wall now with both hands. She hoped someone didn’t barrel through the door right about now.
After a few minutes, the spinning slowed enough so that Carla could let go of the wall with her right hand and grip the metal pull handle of the door. She breathed in again, ignoring the pain in her head, pain that spread through her body with the slightest movement, and yanked the door open.
She noticed the splintered wood around the dead bolt of her own apartment door first. The Indian man next door to her was talking with two policemen. Their tones were hushed and Carla didn’t have much interest in what they were saying. Shit like this was always going on here.
Closing her eyes, Carla pressed a quivering hand to her forehead. The memories of what had happened were coming back, filing into her consciousness like determined soldiers. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to remember, and now, with the sick pain gaining strength, it was easy to shove them aside, easy to dwell on her aches.
Carla entered her apartment. It was dark inside (the last thing she remembered was afternoon sunlight: a winter sun). Light from a street lamp outside filtered in through the miniblinds on the living-room window. Carla switched on the light, almost expecting people, like cockroaches, to scatter when the light flooded the room.
But everything was still. The bottle of vodka that was almost always on the windowsill was gone. (Jimmy was coming, remember? But it wasn’t him.) Carla shuddered.
She decided she needed that vodka now, worse than she ever had. She crossed the scarred oak parquet floor and one of her heels slipped on something.
She looked down and saw a gold chain lying coiled at her feet. The chain sent a jolt through her.
It was Jimmy’s.
She had given it to him almost exactly a year ago: last Christmas. She had saved since August to buy him the chain. He’d even smiled when he opened the Service Merchandise box.
It was a rare good moment between them. She had clasped it around his neck that night and he had kissed her, saying he’d never take it off.
Carla stooped and picked up the chain. Her heart’s thudding joined the pounding pain in her head. She stared and stared at the chain, as if it would become animate....and tell her a different story from what she imagined…as if it would give her some explanation for why one of her son’s most treasured possessions was lying here on the living-room floor, the clasp broken as if it were discarded as a piece of trash.
All at once, the memory of the afternoon came back.
The gold chain clutched in her sweating palm, Carla collapsed onto the hardwood floor and wondered what she should do now.
She looked up as she heard a pounding on the door. “Ma’am? Police officers. Could you open the door?”
Carla managed to right herself. Standing became an exercise in balance. The wood parquet of the floor seemed to slant, then right itself again. Carla grabbed on to the wall, trying to focus, trying to force down the nausea to a place deep inside where she could deal with it later.
She opened the door. Outside, a fat older policeman stood before her. His nose was big with a veiny network of broken red blood vessels. Beneath his hat, she saw close-cropped grey hair. His partner stood to his left and back a little. He was baby-faced, with a wisp of blond mustache hair above his upper lip. He tried to look dour and serious, but his expression only made him look younger. Where was the Chicago police force recruiting from these days? Elementary school?
The older officer’s dark eyes scanned hers. “Ma’am, we’re here because we got a call about ten minutes ago from this building. We’ve learned from your next-door neighbor, Mr. Singh, that a juvenile made the call from his apartment. The boy said he was going to be killed. He’s since disappeared from the building and what we—”
“He’s my son,” Carla blurted out, clutching Jimmy’s gold chain in her hand. It had to be Jimmy who made die call. She covered her hand with her mouth, everything inside her crying out for a drink. If only she could slide down to the floor, rest her throbbing head.
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“What did the boy look like?” It was difficult for Carla to form words; her mouth was dry.
“About twelve to fifteen years old, dark blond hair, green eyes. Maybe five seven, five eight.”
“It sounds like my son.” Carla thought of Avery and the man with the gun and everything went cold inside her. “We have to go after them. The man was here earlier, trying to get me to lead him to my son.”
“Ma’am, why—” The younger officer stepped forward.
Carla pointed to t
he young man. “Just shut up.”
The older officer glanced at his partner, then back to Carla. “Listen, ma’am. Why don’t you sit down for a minute here? Looks like you’ve been hurt.”
“There’s no time,” Carla said, slapping the older officer’s chest. “We have to get out and find them!” Carla felt an onslaught of panicky tears brimming. She pushed at her eyes with the palms of her hands, forcing the tears back in. No time now.
“We can take you down to the station, ma’am, and you can file a complaint. Do you know the man’s name?”
“No! I don’t know the man’s name!” Carla wanted so badly to grab the older man by his uniform, force him to understand what she found unable to articulate. “That’s why we have to get out there and find them. Now!” Carla’s last word came out as a shriek.
The older officer turned to his partner and the two exchanged glances. Carla had no idea what these men must think of her, with her filthy hair, sallow complexion, and the odor of alcohol she was certain surrounded her.
“I suppose we can take her around the neighborhood, see if there’s anything suspicious or if she can spot the guy,” the older man said.
“Thank God.” Carla rushed into the hallway.
“Don’t you want to get a coat, ma’am?” the young officer asked.
“No.” This time Carla did not restrain herself and pushed the officer. “Let’s go…please!”
As they headed out, Carla had a sinking feeling that it was too late. Too much time had already been wasted.
She slid Jimmy’s gold chain into the pocket of her dress.
Chapter 30
Richard turned his Celebrity once more to circle the block. He didn’t have time to be looking for a parking space! Jimmy could be up there with his mother right now, with Dwight Morris on his way.
The priest slammed on his brakes in the middle of the narrow, one-way street and retrieved the thought he’d just had: Dwight Morris.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head toward the steering wheel. He whispered, “Thank you,” and said the name aloud: “Dwight Morris.” It just came to him; he wasn’t even trying.
Perhaps God did intervene in our lives. And another voice, more cynical, answered: And perhaps you’ve been working on this problem subconsciously and just now everything clicked into place. The memory got dumped into your consciousness. It all seemed so clear now: the talk they’d had the night after the second SAA meeting that Morris attended, when Morris had caught up with the priest on the sidewalk after the meeting.
*
“So how do you meet your ‘friends,’ Father?” Dwight had this look in his eyes, almost a sparkle. Richard was taken aback; he groped for some other meaning the man could have had. Coming from a meeting where the talk was all about contrition, healing, letting go, and letting God in, the man’s question seemed obscene, incredible.
Richard shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the purpose of these meetings, Dwight. I don’t think I’d be helping you much if I told you that.”
Dwight stared down at the ground, like a scolded child, rubbing the toe of his tennis shoe into the dust. “Well, you can mouth the words, but where’s the conviction?” He winked at Richard and Richard recoiled, feeling like this man could see inside of him to his darkest places. He felt as if Dwight had lifted a stone inside him, shining light into the dark places where memories of aberrant desires and sex twisted and contorted themselves like creatures unused to light. A remembered image flashed unbidden before him. Richard, as a sixteen-year-old boy, baby-sitting the next-door neighbor’s eight-year-old son.
“Just put your mouth on it,” Richard said. “It won’t hurt you.”
Richard swallowed hard and turned his attention back to Dwight.
Dwight said, “My name’s Morris and I’m in the phone book. You ever want to share your happy hunting grounds with me, just call me up.”
Richard watched the man walk away, wondering how Dwight could seem so casual about things, when Richard himself could do nothing to end his own anguish.
Richard preferred to think it was God’s doing that brought him to this knowledge…this memory.
Richard whipped the car into an apartment building loading zone. He activated his emergency flashers and opened the car door. The chiming, indicating he’d left his key in the ignition, began. He ignored it, thinking that he had to get to a phone…fast. Now the police could do something. Put an end to this mess.
Just as he was making his way to a building across from his car, he saw them emerging from an alley. Richard caught his breath when he recognized Jimmy and saw, once again, the man he remembered from his Sex Addicts Anonymous group, Dwight Morris. Jimmy walked in front of Dwight and there was a fat boy Richard didn’t know at Dwight’s side.
The three of them looked, at first glance, like some sort of family tableau: a father and his two sons out for a Sunday evening stroll. Perhaps Dad was keeping the boys out of Mom’s hair while she finished up making dinner. Richard moved back, into the shadows of an awning. The family tableau would convince only the most casual observer. Look carefully and you’d see the sick resignation on the fat boy’s face, the numbness in his stare as he propelled himself forward, lacking will or energy. Look closely and you’d see the terror on the other boy’s face, the way his eyes swept the sidewalk as if he might find a savior there.
Richard moved back farther, so that a Chinese yew obscured him from their sight. He watched as they moved north. Ahead of them just a few yards was a black Toyota pickup. Richard knew it belonged to Dwight. He remembered admiring the truck and thinking how much he’d like to have one like it.
The three reached the truck, and Dwight opened the passenger door and forced both boys to get into the front seat. He then crossed to his own side.
It was then Richard decided to make his move. There was no time to call the police. By the time he did that, and they tracked down Morris’s address, it would be too late. Morris had what he really wanted: Jimmy.
Besides, Richard acknowledged that he wanted to be the one to end things. He wanted, for once in his life, to be the hero. To prove to Jimmy that he was more than a creep who preyed on young boys, but someone who could help them.
He was glad he’d left the motor running. It was easy to wait for the pickup to pull out of the tight parking spot. Easy to let it get a little ways up Kenmore before putting the car in drive and begin to roll slowly behind it.
Cold tentacles of fear took hold of him. Perhaps he should just go back and call the police; perhaps he should rely on their expertise and their numbers.
But even as he thought these things, his foot was pressing down on the accelerator to make certain he kept pace with the pickup.
The police were not going to be called anytime soon.
He wanted to be responsible for the outcome of this scenario.
He hoped only that the outcome was positive.
*
Dwight realized, by the time he reached Harlem Avenue, that someone was following him. The two “things” on the seat beside him had been quiet, the only sound in the pickup the hum of the engine and the boys’ regular breathing. They had not said a word, not made a struggle of any kind. He noticed earlier that the things were holding hands, their fingers intertwined.
They’d had a scare earlier, as Dwight stopped at the traffic light at Sheridan and Winthrop. A Chicago police car had headed through the intersection and in the quick blur of motion, Dwight was almost sure he saw a woman in the backseat.
Could it have been the boy’s lush mother? Even though it might not have been, Dwight pressed the gun into the fat one’s flabby side as the car went by. “Quiet.”
Now, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that same set of headlights that had been behind him for at least the last several miles. “Someone’s behind us, I think.”
The boys said nothing. They didn’t even acknowledge the fact that he’d spoken.
Dwight shrugged, glancing at the rearview mirror once more, thinking maybe these two had finally resigned themselves to their fates. He grinned, knowing that the completion of that fate was only hours, maybe even minutes, away.
Unless whoever was behind planned on fouling things up. Dwight took a quick right down a side street about two blocks north of his own street, then a quick left.
The car was still behind him.
What the hell was going on? Suddenly he yanked the steering wheel to the right and pulled over in front of a house, practically screeching to a halt. He looked up quickly and saw the car pull over to the curb several house lengths behind him.
The certainty, now, that he’d been followed caused Dwight’s heart to beat harder, his breathing to come quicker. “Listen,” he said, “there’s someone coming after us.
Jimmy turned and looked behind him. Dwight whacked him in the back of the head with the flat of his palm. “Don’t look, idiot!”
Jimmy turned and stared straight ahead. He didn’t say anything. But Dwight noticed how he squeezed Avery’s hand.
“I just want to remind you both that I have a gun and it’s loaded. If whoever this is gets a chance to talk to us, I want you to tell ’em that you’re with me voluntarily, that I’m a family friend. Got that?” Dwight looked over at the two of them. “Well?”
“I understand, sir,” Avery whispered.
“Jimmy? Have you even heard me?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a hiss.
“And…”
“I’ll do whatever the fuck you want.”
Dwight shook his head. “Filth. Both of you…nothing but filth.” With a shaking hand, he put the truck in gear again and pulled out onto the street. Home wasn’t too far away.
He patted the gun at his side and knew that there were no obstacles that couldn’t be removed.
He’d come too far for anything, or anyone, to screw things up now.
*
Richard thought, as all his hopes and prayers sank, that it was all ruined. Dwight knew he was being followed. Why did I have to be so insecure? Why couldn’t I have just stayed back a couple of car lengths? I could have done it.
