by Marcus Sakey
Jason laughed. "Listen, can you do me a favor?"
Ronald glanced over, face impassive.
"Cruz and I are going to leave. Those guys that killed my brother, I think we know how to get them."
" 'Aight."
"Thing is, I can't bring Billy along, but I'm worried about leaving him alone. I was hoping you could kind of, I don't know. Look in on him. Hang out with him a little. Let him know he's safe."
"I feel that." Ronald nodded. "Sure."
"He's scared."
"He don't need to be. Ain't nothing going to happen to Bills while I'm around."
Jason nodded, thanked him. Then he headed out of the front room toward the staircase. He stole a glance over his shoulder before he left; Ronald had turned back to the window and was staring out, shaking his head. Jason smiled.
He found Cruz in one of the upstairs bedrooms, the television on, the remote clutched in white knuckled fingers.
"… the ongoing corruption trial of former governor George Ryan…"
He stepped beside her, but she didn't react. "Hey," Jason said. "Listen-"
"Shh." She held up a hand.
"In other news, the troubling story of a police officer suspected of murder."
He'd been reaching for her shoulder, but froze at the announcer's words.
"The body of Dion Wallace, a member of the Gangster Disciples street gang, was discovered last night after neighbors reported hearing gunfire. Police found Wallace dead in his West Crenwood home, shot twice in the head." The house onscreen was cordoned off with yellow tape, and police cars were parked around it, angled random directions. A mugshot of C-Note Wallace glared off the side of the screen. "Sources within the Chicago Police Department told NBC 5 that preliminary investigations indicate the murder weapon belonged to an Area One Gang Intelligence officer involved in an ongoing investigation of Wallace."
The image cut to a podium with a middle-aged man in a French-cuff shirt and a striped tie. The caption read, CPD Deputy Chief James Donlan. Donlan held up his hands to quiet a roar of questions.
"At this time, the Chicago Police Department is not willing to make any final judgments regarding this case. While she has been designated a person of interest, Officer Cruz has not been charged with anything. However, I also want to assure the community that the CPD takes any accusation of police brutality very seriously, and that a thorough investigation is already underway."
The image cut to a picture of Cruz in uniform, younger and with different hair. The announcer continued. "Officer Elena Cruz, a ten-year veteran with a distinguished record, was the first woman to serve on the elite Gang Intelligence team. However, there have been numerous recent complaints against Officer Cruz, who has been largely restricted from working the street. A coworker, speaking on condition of anonymity, described her recent behavior as 'erratic and prone to violence.' The whereabouts of Officer Cruz are currently unknown. Back to you, Don."
An anchorman with precise hair and a perfectly symmetrical face said, "We'll have more on this disturbing story as it develops." He turned, and the camera angle changed. "More than ten people have come forward with allegations of child sexual abuse by Father-"
Jason stepped forward and turned off the television. He turned to look at her, found her staring, a statue with trembling hands. "I'm sorry, Elena." She shook her head, lips pulled into a thin, hard line. She looked like she'd been kicked in the gut. The silence seemed loud, and again he said, "I'm so sorry."
She turned and walked to the window. Stared out at nothing.
He rubbed at his eyes. "Washington told me that Dion Wallace had been killed last night. I just didn't put it together." Jason remembered the guy by the river, Scarface. He'd made her drop her gun. "That's why there are cops after us. One of them used your gun last night to shoot Dion." He paused. "But how would they put it together so fast?"
"Donlan." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Right. Her one-time lover, the cop with plenty of juice. So it wasn't one kick to the gut. It was two. "God." He sighed. "And that 'anonymous source.' That would have been Galway." Three.
She didn't respond, and he moved behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. For some reason that cut him.
"All my life," she said, "all I've wanted was to be a cop. I was good at it, too." She shook her head. "Damn it, I was a good cop."
"You still are."
"Don't." Her tone was pure contempt. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not. You're still a good cop."
She laughed through her nose, a hollow and scornful sound. "No I'm not. I'm an assassin. I killed Dion Wallace. You know how I know?" She flung the remote to bounce off the hardwood floor. "I saw it on TV."
"Elena-"
"Stop, okay? Just…" She sighed. "Just stop."
He stood behind her, wanting desperately to say something that could make it better. Knowing exactly how she felt. He'd felt the same way walking out of the Administrative Discharge Board. Being a cop was as central to her as being a soldier had been to him, and now the bastards had taken that, too.
Without thinking, he spun her into a hug. She stood rigid as stone, and he just had time to wonder if he'd made a terrible mistake.
Then something in her snapped, and she buried her head in his shoulder, her hair in his face. Her hands wrapped around his back, squeezing at first and then turning to fists, beating against the muscles of his back, left then right then left. Jason took it without complaint. Just held her, felt her chest heave as she cried without a sound. He didn't murmur soft nothings, didn't try to tell her it would be all right. Just held her and let her spend her fury and frustration against him, let it break like waves on rock, until slowly the force diminished, and her fingers closed around his T-shirt, clutching at it as she shook in his arms. Just held her and stroked her hair and felt the warmth of her.
And when she was spent, he said, "I know how to beat them."
Cruz pulled back, looked up at him with wet eyes. "What?"
"Remember our mysterious caller?"
" 'The burned child fears flame.' " She sniffled, then took a step away, moving to hold his hands between them like they were dancing.
"We assumed that the evidence he gave to Michael was gone. That Galway and DiRisio had taken it." He paused. "But what if we were wrong? What if Michael hid the evidence somewhere safe, safe even from the fire?"
She stared at him for a moment. "You mean-"
"Yes."
"And you know-"
"Yes."
The beginnings of a smile graced her lips. "Where?"
"Michael's bar. In a place they wouldn't have known to look. We can go get it right now. End all this shit. Make sure Billy is safe. Get your job back."
Her eyes narrowed. "Burn Galway and Donlan to the ground."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Her hands squeezed his, her fingers not the baby-soft girlskin he was used to. Hands that worked, that knew how to hold a weapon and grip a chin-up bar. He liked touching them. "What do you say?"
She smiled at him, then stepped forward and grabbed his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. He stood frozen, still able to smell the tears on her cheeks, but then her tongue parted his lips, menthol and spice in a soft dance growing harder. His body reacted, pulling her closer, the ridge of her pelvic bone pressing his hips, her body warm against his chest, warm and right and close. His hands tangled in her hair, and she gave a soft moan, and then they were stumbling across the floor to the bed, not breaking the kiss, hands flying everywhere, her back, his shoulders, the curve of her hips. When they reached the bed she pushed him, and he fell backwards. She was on him even as he hit, crawling onto his body, her hands fumbling at his belt, the brush of her fingers sending electric shivers up his spine, his cock straining at his jeans, her smell sexy and strong, and he could barely wait to pull the sweater over her head and kiss the triangle of cinnamon skin in the hollow of her throat, to yank her jeans and panties to her knees and slide in
side her, feel her warm and sweet, a place to lose himself, to forget, to separate themselves from everything that was happening-
He reached for her hands and gripped them in his own, pulling them from the belt she'd managed to undo in no time at all. "Stop."
She froze, then leaned back, the crotch of her jeans rubbing his, a knowing look on her face, her voice whiskey and black coffee. "Stop, huh?"
He groaned involuntarily, bit his lip. Then shook her hands, pushed them away. "Stop. Seriously."
She cocked her head. "What's the matter with you?"
He was wondering that himself. "I just… this doesn't feel right."
"It doesn't feel right?" She raised her eyebrows. "You really know how to romance a girl."
"I don't mean that. It feels great. It's just…" He paused. "This doesn't seem like you."
She stared at him, something flashing in her eyes. "What the fuck do you know about me?"
"I'm just saying, I don't know, I don't want to end up with you thinking of me the way you think of him, of Donlan. Like a mistake, something you regret."
She pushed herself off him, shaking her head. Stalked over to the mirror and began to straighten her sweater, not looking at him, her voice venomous. "I don't need your protection."
"I know that." Things had gotten turned around. It had been clear in his mind, the idea that with her he didn't want to do the same old thing, just use sex as a conduit to forgetting, but now everything seemed jumbled. He sat up, sighed. Ran a hand through his bangs. "That's not what I meant."
"It doesn't matter." She turned her head back and forth, examining her profile in the mirror. She blew a breath, then patted her pockets, came up with a blister pack of gum. Popped one of the pieces in her mouth and chewed viciously. "We should go anyway."
"Listen-"
"I'll see you downstairs." Without a look back, she walked out the door. He could hear her walk down the stairs, the sound steadily growing fainter.
He sighed, flopped back on the bed, stared at the stucco shadows on the ceiling. "Shit."
CHAPTER 33
Shadows and Rain
It was only afternoon, but the light was fading against a sky bruised purple with the promise of storm, one of those summer squalls that settled in and turned day to night. Jason had the passenger's side window open, his elbow on the frame, arm out and planing. He'd tilt his hand down and his arm would dive, then point it up and his arm would rise. The hair on his forearm was struggling to stand, and he could smell ozone on the breeze.
"Worked out well," Jason said. "Washington's party being tonight, I mean. For him letting us use his car."
Cruz nodded, flipped the turn signal of the borrowed Honda.
"Of course, I wish we could go to the thing." Talking to fill the stony silence. Out his window the world moved past: A cell phone store, a closed hardware shop, a burnt-out two-flat plastered with posters. "Half a million dollars. Jesus, that's a lot of money. Wouldn't mind being able to write that check."
He glanced over at her, the way she drove staring straight ahead. Strong, independent, but something brittle in the pose as well. And why the hell not? One minute they're about to make love, the next he's pushing her away. "Look, Elena, I'm sorry-"
"Forget it." Her voice was calm.
"No, I mean it. That wasn't the way I planned – I mean, not planned, but you know, wanted, things to happen." He sighed. "It's just-"
"Forget it," she said. "It's not a big deal."
"Right," he said, feeling strangely sick. They rode in silence through electric air.
On the right they passed a school, brick, three stories, dark against dark skies. The bottom levels of the building showed clean spots where graffiti had been sandblasted. Opposite was a row of cracker-jack two-flats and a barren lot, fenced off and untended, the grass waist high.
"I wish we had a gun, at least."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
"You know the worst thing I learned," Cruz said, her voice abrupt in that change-the-subject way, "when I joined Gang Intel?"
He fought the urge to say, That your partner was selling arms to gangbangers?, afraid it would come off the wrong way. "What?"
"One of the best ways to gauge the power of a gang is to see how many schools fall on their territory."
"Seriously?"
"The Latin Saints, for example. Their area is pretty small compared to some of the others. And Hispanic gangs don't deal in narcotics as much, so they aren't as well funded. But you know what they have?"
"Schools?"
"Schools. Two high schools and a junior high. They recruit shorties right out of recess. Use the young ones to carry dope, money. Or to do shootings. They have a tattoo, a stick figure, and you gotta earn it. I stopped this kid one time, maybe sixteen, he had one the length of his forearm. I asked what he did for it, you know what he said?" She paused. "He said, 'A few things.' "
He didn't know what to say to that, let the moment stretch. Then, "This is Damen."
"I know." She braked at the stop sign. Looked at him, her eyes narrow. "You're sure it will be there?"
"I'm sure."
"Because this is an awfully big risk."
"I'm sure." I have to be.
She stared, the darkening skies hiding her features, all but a glint of lost light from her eyes. Finally she shrugged. Turned the corner.
Damen Avenue, just like three days ago. Had it been only three days? Three days since he'd turned onto the street with his nephew in his car, feeling smug and sure and looking forward to rubbing his brother's nose in his failings. Three days since he found the still-smoking horror that had been Michael's bar; three days since his brother's dream had turned into their nightmare.
Damen Avenue, just like before but nothing at all like before.
She stopped the car across from the burned hulk of the bar. The clouds had painted the streets twilight. The special in the window of the storefront diner was now a half-slab and greens, six bucks. He was rolling up his window as the first drops of rain plinked against the roof. They sat for a moment watching it begin. Heavy, pregnant drops that exploded on the hood of the car. Two, five, twenty, a hundred, and then hissing sheets that blurred the world. Lightning glowed behind them, followed by thunder like someone rolling heavy furniture across a wooden floor.
"Maybe," Jason said, "this is a good omen."
She looked at him sourly.
He opened the door and was soaked to the skin before he could close it. Mist rose from the blacktop, the day's heat steaming. Jason slicked his bangs out of his eyes, then popped the trunk, took out the old pry bar they'd borrowed from Washington's basement. Its heft was a comfort as they crossed the deserted street.
The police tape fluttered yellow, the only color he could see in this sudden purgatory. Beyond it lay the charred and bubbled ruins where his brother had died. The rain was already collecting in scorched hollows, sweeping loose ash into a black lake. Jason stared, feeling something like a head rush, his thighs weak and vision blurry.
His brother had died here. Right here, alone and scared.
Thunder cracked again, closer this time, and the rain lashed down harder.
"You want an engraved invitation?" Cruz stood with hip cocked.
"I was just…" He shook his head. "Michael was my older brother. He saved my butt so many times when we were kids." Rain beat goose-bumps into his skin. "I just wonder if at the last moment, Michael was praying I would come save his."
Cruz softened, left the tape and stepped in front of him, her features traced by the light from the diner windows. She opened her mouth, closed it, then said, "Are you all right?"
He nodded, slowly. Tightened his grip on the pry bar.
She put one hand up to cup his cheek. Her palm was warm, and the ridge of her thumb fell tingling across his lips. She nodded toward the wreckage. "Come on. Let's finish this. For him."
He figured the first step was the hardest, so he made himse
lf take it. Then he turned and held the tape up for Cruz. She started carefully through the debris. Her clothing was soaked, and ash clung to her pant legs as she wound her way into the center of the building. A few blackened steel girders supported a skeleton of the ceiling, and the darkness fell across her in patterns. She twisted the flashlight in her hand and a thin beam of wavering light fell on the ruined floor. "Where is it?"
Jason gestured with the crowbar, walked past her. "Back here." He climbed gingerly onto a pile of twisted lumber, testing to be sure it would hold his weight, then scrambled to where blackened bricks marked the entrance to the back room.
Rubble lay in scattered piles, chunks of brick and mortar. It took him a minute to get his bearings, and then he pointed. "There." A metal lip shone beneath a section of wall. He and Cruz each took an end and heaved, tipped the stone up and over to fall with a splash and a crack. The trap hatch was a scorched square of metal thirty inches to a side, with a ring in the center. The heat had warped the metal, and Jason didn't bother with the pull-ring. Instead he slid the crowbar into the crack and shoved. The metal shivered, but didn't give. He grabbed a chunk of brick and concrete, and pounded the bar in deeper. Then he took a breath and wrapped his hands on the cold iron bar.
Cruz squatted beside him, her hands above and below his, skin warm in the cold rain. He smiled, said, "Ready?", and then heaved back on the bar, his feet scrabbling at the rocky earth for purchase.
For a long moment nothing happened. Then with a pop like the top off a bottle of beer, the hatch gave, swinging back on bent hinges to crack on the stone, revealing a square hole silent as the grave. The first inches of steep metal Navy stairs faded swiftly into a play of shadows and rain.
Past that, nothing.
Jason set the crowbar on the stack of bricks. His bangs had fallen across his eyes again, and he slicked them back, hands trembling, though whether it was from effort or tension, he couldn't have said.
Down that hole was everything they needed.
Or nothing but ghosts.
He took the flashlight from his pocket, grabbed the lip of the trap hatch, and started down.
