Trent glanced over and pulled onto the main drag. He headed toward the interstate.
“You have a lot of memories of the backseat?” he asked.
She smiled wistfully.
“Not like that,” she said. “I stole my mattress after my freshman year of college. Two guys from my dorm folded it in half and wedged it between the front and back seats when I went to visit my Dad for the summer. I remember there being more space.”
Trent glanced from her to the road and back.
“And why were you stealing a mattress?”
Renee stared out of the window.
“It was either that or sleep on the ground,” she said. “My dad wasn’t always very reliable.”
Trent took the main drag back to the interstate. They were likely to hit rush–hour traffic in Indianapolis, but that shouldn’t have been too much of a problem unless there was an accident.
“Don’t you need directions or something?” asked Renee.
“I saw a map earlier. We’ll be fine.”
“What are we going to do when we get there?”
“The police may be looking for us in Ohio, but I’ve still got a badge. We’ll figure something out.”
“But—” began Renee.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said, interrupting her, “but it’s going to be fine. We’ll be careful.”
Renee fidgeted on her seat and wrung her hands together. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes as he settled to a constant cruising speed on the interstate. The older Toyota was nothing like his Dodge Charger. It was smaller, the ride was rougher, and it accelerated poorly. Hopefully it at least got decent gas mileage because they didn’t have much money left.
“Can you do me a favor?” asked Trent. Renee nodded, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. “Dial 911 and tell them you saw a man with a gun walk into our motel room. Say he was about six feet tall, and how much do you think I weigh?”
She looked at him for a moment.
“I don’t know. Maybe two hundred?”
“Tell him them he looked about two hundred pounds.”
Renee took the phone but didn’t start dialing.
“If I call them, won’t they just knock on our door and see that we’re gone?”
“The responding officer will check the office first to see who registered the room. Once he gets my name, he’ll call the dispatcher to see if I have any outstanding warrants. Since we’re suspects in Sheriff Amerson’s murder, the local PD will likely watch the room until midnight and raid it when they think we’re asleep. It’s a standard tactic to minimize risk. It will get the police off us for a while.”
Renee nodded, but she didn’t look convinced
“Are you sure?”
“Reasonably.”
She leaned back and sank her head into the headrest.
“I hate this,” she said. “The uncertainty, I mean.” She paused. “If I call the police, won’t they just start tracking this phone?”
“They wouldn’t have any reason to track it unless they knew it was ours,” he said. He glanced at her. “As long as you don’t mention your name, we’ll be fine.”
Renee nodded and made the call. Her voice wavered, making her sound genuinely scared; it was probably an easy acting job. She hung up as soon as the call was done and leaned back. Neither of them spoke until they hit Indianapolis half an hour later, and even then it was only to inquire about gas. They had plenty, though; Trent had managed to boost a car with a nearly full tank. Renee seemed to drift off to sleep after that, but she may have just closed her eyes. Trent was fine with it, either way; he didn’t have a whole lot to say.
Traffic picked up when they hit Lafayette, Indiana and stayed relatively steady until they reached the outskirts of Chicago. By then, the sun had set, but there was so much light pollution, he couldn’t see stars. The moon was out, though; it was large and imposing in the night sky. Renee woke up as he pulled to a stop in a commuter train station in Gary, a working–class, industrial town southeast of the city.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Power lines stretched across the parking lot and nearby streets, and Trent could hear the clack of a train somewhere distant.
“Southeast of Chicago,” said Trent, twisting his pocket knife to turn off the car. He pulled it out. Chances were that he wouldn’t be able to start their car the same way, but he didn’t plan on coming back to it, either. “Did that security company tell us anything new about your laptop?”
Renee hit a few buttons on their phone, presumably checking the text messages.
“Nothing new. I’ve got an address, but the laptop stopped responding a few hours ago.”
“That’ll have to do,” said Trent, opening his door. “We’ve got a train to catch.”
Saturday, September 14. 8:12 p.m
Chicago, IL.
Vitali Kozlov was officially an Israeli expat living out his golden years in Chicago. Unofficially, he was an information broker who knew more about the city’s comings and goings than anyone alive. Anatoly had met him thirty–five years prior in Tel Aviv, Israel. At the time, they had both been young men, and both were new to the country after being released from a Soviet prison. Neither had finished his sentence. Their Soviet guards had kicked them out, handed them passports that labeled them Jewish, and sent them on a boat to the one country in the world that would take them without asking questions. It had probably saved the Soviet prison system millions.
Vitali’s office was behind a bakery in the Ukrainian Village, a once largely ethnic neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. It was well past closing time, but the lights were on, and the glass front door was held open by a brick. Anatoly could smell yeast and sourdough from the street. He ignored the closed sign on the door and pulled it open. A bell chimed, but no one came to greet him. That was expected, though. Vitali didn’t have a big operation, just enough employees to run the bakery and run errands for him when needed.
Anatoly walked past the now empty glass display cases in front of the store. The kitchen had stainless–steel countertops and glass–windowed ovens along the walls. There was a single door in the back with a nondescript sign on it that said office. Anatoly knocked, and Vitali’s voice boomed out for him to enter.
“It’s good to see you, Anatoly,” said Vitali, standing from his desk as soon as Anatoly opened the door. Vitali was a small man, a few years older than Anatoly, with stooped shoulders and white hair. Age weighed heavily on him. He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Please. We have much to discuss.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” said Anatoly, sitting down. He winced, his knees creaking and throbbing with arthritis. The weather patterns can change quickly in Chicago, and it felt like they were going to get rain. Anatoly hated that he could tell that from the way his knees creaked.
“Age is the worst indignity God could ever bestow upon us,” said Vitali, apparently seeing his pain. Anatoly nodded and stretched his legs forward.
“It makes death seem more appealing.”
Vitali nodded his agreement but otherwise didn’t say anything for a moment. Eventually he leaned forward.
“I always enjoy seeing you,” said Vitali. “But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
Anatoly swallowed and paused.
“What do you hear about Arman and Gregori Fortunatov lately?”
Vitali tilted his head to the side and rubbed his chin.
“Many things, little good,” he said. “I heard a rumor that you’re working for Gregori. I thought you had retired.”
“Annya’s still in college, Katja needs uniforms for school. I needed money, and Gregori had his hand out.”
“You could have come to me,” said Vitali. He rested his elbows on his desk and cracked his knuckles. “I could use someone who knows how things work in town.”
“I could have done a lot of things, but Gregori was there when I needed him.”<
br />
Vitali nodded.
“What do you want to know?”
“If Gregori had someone he needed to hide, where would he put her?”
Vitali scrunched his eyebrows together.
“Who did he take?”
“Katja and Annya.”
“Christ,” said Vitali, running his hand across his face. He sighed. “I don’t know many people in Gregori’s organization anymore. The world is changing, and people like us are being left behind.”
“Could you get Arman a message for me?”
Vitali grimaced and leaned back from the desk.
“Arman has been out of the scene for a while,” he said. “He has some kind of cancer. I don’t know where he is. Gregori has been taking over more and more of the business while his father is gone.”
“So you know nothing?”
“I wouldn’t say I know nothing,” said Vitali, leaning forward again. He put his hands up and dipped his head between his shoulders like a turtle trying to hide in his shell. “Just nothing certain. I hear rumors. Not everyone is pleased with the direction Gregori is taking the organization. I might be able to find someone on the inside.”
Anatoly looked away so he wouldn’t have to meet his old friend’s gaze.
“Please do,” he said. “Annya and Katja are all I have. I can’t lose them.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But there are no guarantees. This is a delicate situation that could become violent. You don’t want to get in the middle of a family squabble.”
“I’m already in the middle of it,” said Anatoly. “Gregori put me there.”
Vitali nodded.
“If they’re hurt, I’ll help you take care of Gregori,” said Vitali, looking around his office. “I’ll be dead soon enough anyway, so what do I care?”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Saturday, September 14. 8:23 p.m
Chicago, IL.
Trent spent almost everything they had on a pair of metro tickets that would only get them to Chicago’s outskirts. He seemed to think that they’d resolve everything that night, but Renee wasn’t optimistic. The tracking service on her laptop had given her a location, but no information beyond that. For all she knew, her laptop could have been sitting in a safe or surrounded by armed guards. If either were the case, they were wasting their time.
Even still, they were alive, which counted for a lot; had she been on her own, she was reasonably sure that she would have been dead. She reached behind her, smoothing back her hair and retying it so it’d stay out of her face. They were on a train platform near Gary, Indiana. At one time it had been a thriving steel town with a healthy middle–class and robust economy. Those days had long since left, though, leaving a shell of a town in its place. The buildings downtown had more plywood than glass in their window frames, and the air was so thick with soot and pollution that it almost burned to breathe.
She put her hands in her pockets and waited. The train was loud enough that she could hear it well before it arrived. It was a commuter train, so, by that time of night, it was almost empty. Aside from a wino gingerly sipping from something in a brown paper sack, they were the only people who climbed aboard. Once they were seated, Renee leaned into Trent and covered her mouth with the back of her hand as if she were going to cough.
“Are you sure our car is safe here?” she asked.
Trent nodded.
“It’ll be stolen before long,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She sat straighter and cocked her head to the side.
“So we’re not coming back here?”
Trent’s eyes shot around the train as if he were looking for something. Apparently satisfied that they were alone, he looked back at her.
“No point. The train will probably stop running in a couple of hours anyway. If we need to, we can get another car in Chicago.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” she asked. “Stealing more cars? I’d rather not end like Bonnie and Clyde.”
“As long as we’re careful, we ought to be fine,” said Trent, looking away from her. “Unless you want to start robbing banks or something.”
“We should probably avoid doing that.”
They lapsed into silence. Renee didn’t know the city well, but she had a soft spot for Chicago. Her father had played poker there when she was a little girl and did well enough one year that they checked into a decent hotel for two weeks. It was a block from Michigan Avenue. She had cherry cheesecake for the first time in the hotel’s restaurant; it was still her favorite dessert. Her dad eventually lost everything he had won and then some, but, for a brief while, she had a normal childhood. It was like a vacation from her life. It had been nice.
She looked through the swiftly moving train’s window. The entire ride took little more than half an hour. It was largely uneventful except for a visit by a homeless man who wanted to tell them about Jesus. His pupils were dilated and his speech was slurred. He was obviously high on something other than Jesus, and she hoped he would go away before doing anything to bring attention to them. Trent stared through him as if he weren’t even there. She couldn’t force herself to do that, which was probably why he stayed.
They got off at an open–air station on Chicago’s south side. The buildings around them were brick low–rises amidst occasional single–family homes. Weeds sprouted out of broken sidewalks, and gang graffiti adorned nearly every flat surface. Renee instantly felt the hackles on the back of her neck rise.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked.
Trent nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of blocks.”
Renee took another look around, the unease building in her stomach. Few of the streetlights around the station worked, leaving shadows under nearby bridges, in doorways, and beneath eaves. People could be watching them at that moment, and they wouldn’t even know. Muggers, gang members, and worse. A couple of blocks in that neighborhood after dark might as well have been a jaunt through a war zone. Unfortunately, they didn’t have much choice but to go on.
“If you’re sure about this,” she said.
“I’m sure,” said Trent. “It’ll be fine. I used to work in a neighborhood worse than this.”
In hell?
Renee left the question unvoiced and followed Trent down a nearby staircase and out of the station. The neighborhood looked just as bad from the ground, although no one seemed to be watching them save a homeless man drinking himself into a stupor in front of a boarded–up tenement building. That should have made her feel better, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that people were hiding somewhere. When the wind ceased blowing, she thought she could even hear people speaking and laughing.
They walked for about a block and a half before coming to an open courtyard between two low–rise buildings. She slowed for a moment when she saw ten or twelve people huddled around an old, ratty couch and a fire in a fifty–five gallon drum. It was hard to tell in the firelight, but they looked the same age as her students at Bluffdale. Like a lot of college–age kids on a Saturday night, many held oversized beer bottles. She locked eyes with one of them, a young guy with dreadlocks and a black hoodie sweatshirt. He tapped the arm of the guy beside him and nodded in her direction.
“Just keep walking,” said Trent, softly. “They’re like wasps. They won’t bother us unless we bother them.”
She did as Trent suggested, but the guy she had seen earlier peeled away from his group and swaggered across the lot toward them. Three other guys followed; they looked a little younger, maybe sixteen. She thought Trent could handle himself against one of them, possibly even two, but four boys were too many. She swallowed.
“You folks are in the wrong neighborhood,” he said. “Now you gotta pay the tax.”
Trent stopped and looked at the speaker from head to toe. He put his arm on Renee’s shoulder and pulled her behind him.
“
We’re exempt,” he said, turning and continuing down the sidewalk. Renee’s heart beat fast. She followed at Trent’s side, keeping him between herself and anyone else.
“Ain’t nobody exempt. You gotta pay the tax, and that bitch of yours is looking fine.”
Renee felt her legs start to shake. They were in gang territory on a Saturday night, and there wasn’t a cop around. Trent might have seemed in charge, but he wasn’t. Her breath was short and fast, and she started looking for open restaurants or bars. She saw nothing, though. It was a residential neighborhood, and she doubted many of its residents would be interested in helping out a pair of strangers. Trent stopped again and took out his wallet.
“You ain’t got enough—”
Trent flipped open his wallet, exposing his badge.
“You sure you want to piss me off?” he asked, holding it up so all four of their followers could see it. “Because I guarantee you, my friends can dish it out twice as hard as yours can.”
Three of the boys immediately turned and went back to the group. Trent stared unblinking at the lone figure remaining in front of them, the one who had instigated the conversation. He formed his hand into a gun and cocked his finger at Trent.
“We’ll be seeing you later, five–oh,” he said before turning to Renee. He pursed his lips and winked. “And I know I be seein’ you later.”
He snickered before turning and walking away. By that point, Renee was shaking.
“I want to get out of here,” she said. “Now.”
Trent’s eyes followed their stalker back to his courtyard. Once they were alone again, he put his hand on her upper arm and squeezed. She would have thought the gesture presumptuous a few hours earlier, but now it was oddly comforting.
“I know you do, but we need to get this. We’ve only got another block.”
Renee’s mouth opened and closed without saying a word. She wanted to start running toward the train, but Trent was right. Rather than say anything, she swallowed and nodded.
They walked another block before hanging a right at a traffic light. The neighborhood didn’t really gentrify, but it did get better. There were fewer broken windows in the buildings, the sidewalk had fewer cracks, she saw fewer bottles and cans on the street. It wasn’t a pleasant place to be, but Renee didn’t feel like she’d be shot, either. Trent stopped in front of an old three–story brownstone that had been converted into apartments. It was a big building on the corner of two busy streets.
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