I nodded, staring out the window, thinking, If you only knew.
22
THERE’S A POINT, WHETHER YOU’RE ON A FERRIS wheel or an airplane, or in my case, a superfast elevator climbing toward the sun, when you realize you’re way, way higher in the air than a human being is ever supposed to be.
It’s called the Willis Tower now, although it’s still referred to as the Sears Tower, but whatever; it stretches 108 stories into the sky while most birds fly at one-third that altitude. My ears popped and my guts flipped during the ride, and when we climbed out on the 103rd-story Skydeck, with its floor to ceiling windows, the unnaturalness of riding so high in a metal box sunk in.
As students filed from the elevator, I stepped aside and broke one of my rules.
For the past six months, I’d rigorously avoided giving out any information that could be used to track or trap me, but now I dialed Czar Bar, waited for the tone, and left my number for a callback. I’d reached the point where there was nothing left to lose.
I hung up, walked into the Skydeck, and had a mini-freak-out, watching kids lean their foreheads against the windows and stare straight down.
That was nothing compared to the Ledge.
Years of head smudges had inspired Skydeck management to install four large, enclosed glass rectangles extending several feet out into nothingness; all that exists below a person standing inside a Ledge box—each strong enough to hold an elephant—is pure stratosphere, and farther down, people like ants, cabs like toys, and rock-hard concrete. Doug and I made our factoid presentation to the bored students gaping out of windows or taking pictures with their phones. Afterward, Mr. Novak told us we were fortunate to live in a city of such architectural splendor, and that no one, under any condition, was to leave the Skydeck. I moved among the throng of kids, asking questions, chatting with them—mingling, as Mr. Novak said—until Doug waved me over before ambling inside a glass box. The way he glanced casually between his shoes, clipboard at his side, made my knees sweat. He rocked on his heels, saying, “You ever see The Towering Inferno? Nineteen seventy-four, with Paul Newman and Steve McQueen.”
“Don’t add a fire to this, please.”
“Come on, wuss. It’s weirdly cool and . . . ,” he said, looking up. “Holy shit!”
“What?” I asked, still hesitant to step into the box.
“Window washers! Above us! We’re on the hundred and third floor, so they’re—”
“Out of their minds,” I said with a shiver.
“The platform they’re standing on is basically a plank attached to ropes, swaying in the wind. It looks like it could snap at any moment.”
“Doug,” I said, feeling green. Since Uncle Buddy plummeted to his death from the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier, too-high locations made me depressingly nauseous.
“I’m not kidding, if that rope broke, he’d—oh, my bad,” he said, sealing his lips when he saw my distressed face.
“Please, will you—” I said, as my phone buzzed, the display showing Czar Bar. I answered, hearing Vlad’s voice cut by static, and then empty air. I redialed and heard garble until it died away. “I need reception,” I said, looking around desperately, “and privacy. This isn’t just any phone call.”
“You won’t get past Thumbs-Up. He’s everywhere.”
“There’s an emergency exit on the other side of the room,” I said.
“But it’s armed. There’s an alarm.”
“Do you have a small piece of metal?” I said. Doug patted his pockets, shifted the clipboard, and handed me a pen. I snapped off its pocket clip and bent it into an L shape. “Chapter six of the notebook, ‘Metodi—Methods.’ It has a section called ‘Picking Locks and Disabling Alarms.’” I held up the metal L. “This should deactivate it . . . hopefully.”
“Thumbs-Up has his back turned,” Doug said. “Now’s your chance.”
I was gone without a word, sneaking from one group of students to another as I made my way across the room. Mr. Novak turned abruptly and I crouched behind a kid the size of an upright buffalo. When he shuffled his feet, I moved with him like a shadow, and when Mr. Novak turned away, I spun for the exit. The keyhole thing that disabled the alarm was right where it was supposed to be; a quick turn of the clip and I slipped soundlessly through the door. The stairwell was vast and silent. I felt a cool breeze and peered up at a crack of natural light—something nearby was open to the outside.
I ran up three flights to a metal door marked 106.
It was slightly ajar and as I pushed through, I gasped at being in open air with Chicago spread before me like an urban map in 3-D. The Willis Tower had multi-level roofs; the one I stood on was a flat, gravel-covered section with several huge, humming air vents and a few buckets scattered around. The space was obviously used for maintenance only. The window washers’ platform now sat on the roof, but several ropes trailed over the knee-high ledge, bolted to heavy rungs set into steel girders. A pair of hard hats, gloves, and long poles with squeegees at the end lay nearby—maybe the window washers had gone on break and left the door open? A stinging wind lashed hair into my face as I peered up at the 108th floor. The tower’s immense, dual antennae stretched into the sky, each tip blinking red-red-red behind a wall of dusty clouds.
It was now or never, and I quickly dialed Czar Bar.
I cursed each ring of the phone, myself for blowing the call, and Novak for making me be here. I waited for the beep, but then Vlad said, “Hello, baby.”
“When can I come for them?”
“Relax. Aren’t you happy to hear my voice?”
“When?” I asked through clenched teeth.
“Where are you, anyway? It sounds like wind tunnel,” he said. When I didn’t answer, he continued, “Okay. Big sit-down is Friday? You come Thursday, eleven thirty p.m.”
“No, no way. That’s too long.”
“For you. Not us. Washing brains is all done, spick-and-span,” he said, “but we think it’s good idea to give you little time as possible between getting mommy and brother, naming new Outfit boss. Too much time and maybe you think, forget papa, two out of three is okay, I take them and run for it.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I’d never desert my dad.”
“See, that’s what I told my boss! I say, girl is committed, she drive off bridge without blink of an eye,” he said. “Speaking of, ouch, you shocked shit out of me.”
“I wish I could’ve done more than that.”
“Doggy did enough. No nose puts real crimp in coke habit,” he said. “So Thursday, eleven thirty p.m. Don’t make mistake of bringing weapon, and come alone or no one goes home. And remember, my boss goes with you to sit-down on Friday.”
“I know, I understand, but tell Elzy—”
“Who?”
“Your boss,” I said, “Elzy.”
Behind me, metal scraped gravel.
Vlad said, “I don’t know no Elzy,” as I turned, watching the door open slowly.
I ducked behind an air vent. “You’re lying! That little redheaded witch—”
“Baby, my boss is lot of things,” Vlad said, “but not little, and hair is farthest thing from red—”
Footsteps crunched toward me and I said, “I have to go!”
“Don’t tell me there’s other man.”
“I’m not kidding!”
“You break my heart,” he said, and hung up.
And then the other man spoke.
“Sally Jane!” Mr. Novak said. I stood slowly, seeing the dismay on his face as he hurried toward me. “Do you know how many rules you’ve broken by coming up here? Good heavens, my dear, this is not in the spirit of a Fep Prep student!”
I listened to his words, but my mind was far away.
Vlad’s lying. Of course Elzy is his boss.
“Your safety is my utmost concern,” he said, cheeks flushed, hi
s loud tie flapping in the breeze.
But the deal is done.
“And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you!” He stopped in front of me with his hands on his hips.
So why would he lie? I’m going to see her soon, face-to-face.
Mr. Novak’s eyes softened as he said, “I’m sorry to say, but we’re going to have to meet with your parents to discuss this.”
“If you can find them,” another voice said behind him.
It was a gargle-growl inflected with the nasal undertones of West Side Chicago—one that had sung Frank Sinatra tunes as lullabies to Lou and me long ago. Mr. Novak turned, I looked past him, and he spoke first.
“Bootsie?” he said, confused.
“Elzy,” I whispered.
“What in the world are you doing here, my sweet?” Mr. Novak asked.
She moved toward us from the open door, smiling, as petite as ever, red hair ablaze. The shock of seeing her was intense but muddled, she was out of context—why was she here if the pickup was on Thursday, at Czar Bar? All I could do was stare, forgetting even to blink, and I remembered too late as she hurried up to us, quickly lifted an aerosol can, and sprayed me in the eyes with a thin stream of liquid. One flashing realization—my eyes are on fire, oh my god, someone put out the fire!—as I screamed in agony and bent at the knees, palms pressed into my eyes, feeling a thousand angry bees invade my head. Tears popped and fell, and I wiped at them desperately, trying to clear away the awful searing pain and terrifying semi-blindness.
“What have you done?” Mr. Novak yelped.
“Pepper spray, a cop’s best friend,” Elzy said, yanking my arms behind my back, twisting on plastic cuffs, and throwing me to the ground. “I hoped it would be a defense against ghiaccio furioso. I also assume it’s temporary.”
I couldn’t see anything other than shadows, nullifying cold fury. With urgency in his voice, trying to help me up, Mr. Novak said, “Sally Jane—”
“It’s Sara Jane,” Elzy said. There was a sharp thump and the sound of a body falling. “The butt of a pistol. Cop’s second best friend.”
Mr. Novak groaned nearby, twisting in the gravel. “I don’t . . . understand.”
“I used you to get to her,” Elzy said vacantly. “That school is like Fort Knox. You were my inside man. So trusting. All I had to do was suggest Willis Tower for a field trip.”
“Oh, god,” he whispered, “after all these months together.”
“You didn’t even check the slips of paper I wrote out for you with the names of Ms. Stein’s students on them. Every one of them read ‘Sara Jane Rispoli.’”
Mr. Novak shifted around. I heard him trying to rise, and then silence. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I waited for Elzy’s reply but she said nothing.
“Bootsie! Please!”
The pistol’s silencer made a soft flitting noise, quiet and deadly. Squinting, I watched the blurry image of Mr. Novak dab his chest, look at blood-smeared fingers, open his mouth to say something, and collapse on his side.
“No . . . no,” I whispered. “Why?”
Elzy’s footsteps sounded on gravel, moving closer. “You and I have unfinished business.” Her tone was no longer vacant; it was smoldering rage kept in check only by the weight of misery. “My brother, Poor K-K-Kevin,” she said, choking on his name, “was the only person who ever loved me.”
“He attacked us. Lou and me, and—”
“I . . . want . . . him . . . back!” she shrieked, the outburst cutting the air like hundreds of screeching bats taking flight. My skin went cold, the chill crawling over my body. Elzy was breathing hard, maybe fighting tears, maybe preparing to scream once more, but no—it was all contained rage again, teeth grinding, when she said, “But I can’t have him. Can I? He’s gone. Forever,” and she kicked me deep in the stomach.
Pain rocketed up into my chest and throat and I rolled onto my side, groaning.
“I was lost after Buddy Rispoli killed him,” she said, circling me, kicking me again, her boot finding my face.
The sour taste of blood was on my tongue, leaking from my nose.
“Nothing matters anymore, not the Outfit or that damn notebook, if my brother isn’t here to share it with me.” The wind rose up around us and faded, and she halted in her tracks. “It’s your fault he’s not,” she said slowly, “as much as your uncle’s.”
“No—”
“And now you’re going to die in the same way Poor Kevin did,” she said, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my face to hers. “Only higher, and much, much worse.”
23
THEN I WAS PULLED TO MY FEET AND PUSHED across the roof. Even half blind, I knew the edge and empty sky loomed ahead. “Sometimes things come together,” Elzy said, shoving me forward, talking more to herself than to me. “That last detail . . . how would I get you up here? I was going to use the gun. Even better, you had to use your phone.”
“We had a deal!” I cried.
“What are you talking about? Move,” she said, as I dug my heels into the gravel, fighting every inch.
“The Russian mob! My family in exchange for ultimate power!”
“So that’s who has them. I wondered,” she grunted, fighting me back.
“Elzy, don’t do this! If I die, they’ll kill my parents!” I cried, my feet stuttering across the roof. “They’ll kill Lou!”
It slowed her, but only a little. “When I was your nanny, I liked him so much better than you. A smart, sensitive boy,” she said, resuming her efforts. “But now, my brother dead—move, damn you!—and your brother dead! Justice, with you as a bonus.”
“You can have it! Ultimate power! It’s real, it’s what you wanted! Please!” I said, flooded with the type of despair that comes from begging an enemy.
“Killing you is the only ultimate power I need,” she answered, as a punishing wind whipped around us.
The cold blue flame flickered and burned, but the pepper spray kept it contained within me. I thought of chapter 6 of the notebook again, “Methods.” It contained a list entitled “Disabling Your Enemies”; I knew the only way to recover from the spray was to cry it out, and that it took at least fifteen minutes. My hands were bound. I was out of options, thinking, Use your head, Sara Jane! And I did, driving it backward, making hard contact with Elzy’s face. She shrieked, faltered, and I was free, scrambling away, trying to find the door to the 106th floor, but seeing only gauzy circles and foggy squares. I ran toward what appeared to be the exit and was hit linebacker style, low and behind the knees, going down face-first. Gravel bit into my chin and cheek as I was dragged back toward the edge and jerked to a standing position. I felt cold metal pressed to my neck. Elzy spit blood and I spoke first, gasping, “It’s so . . . much money. Ultimate . . . power . . .”
“Don’t insult me,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t let you go for any amount. I have one ambition left, to avenge Poor Kevin.”
“Sara Jane!”
Elzy and I both turned to see Doug standing near the open door, but before I could warn him she lifted the pistol and put a bullet in his chest, the quiet f-f-f-t! followed by a metallic ping. Doug let out a whimper of surprise and crumpled backward. I heard his body hit the roof and then nothing else. Elzy gathered up my hair and jerked me around, walking, now running.
She leaned in and whispered hoarsely, “Tell Buddy hello.”
In one shoving motion I was thrown into space.
Oh my god! No, no, no, this can’t be real!
I tried to scream but the oxygen was sucked from my lungs, my tongue fixed in my throat as I bicycled through the air, kicking at nothing. Reality and horror blended seamlessly—I am dying, I am dead—as I somersaulted toward earth and landed hard on my back. I squinted up at the blinking antennae and a blue sky pushing through clouds. Pain raged beneath me, my wrists cut and
bleeding but freed from the plastic cuffs on impact.
I pushed into a sitting position, squinting painfully around and under me, and saw that I was floating 103 stories in the sky.
I’d landed on top of an ultrathick glass Ledge.
No one was inside it. My vision was clearing; wiping away a face full of tears, I looked straight through to the ground far below and that one tiny peek yanked me back to the outsized danger of the moment. Terrified that the slightest shift, slide, or errant breeze would send me toppling to earth, I gripped the glass around me, hearing my hands squeak with terror-sweat. And then my head tingled, my skin crawled, and ever so slowly I looked up at the 106th floor where Elzy’s enraged face, as red as butchered beef, stared back. She opened her mouth and the words cut through the wind as she shrieked, “You goddamn Rispolis. You’re like Sicilian cockroaches! I should’ve done it this way to begin with!” The gun led her hand over the edge, pointed squarely at me, and all I could do was wait for the bullet, but then her arm was in the air and she disappeared from view. She screamed, loudly and plaintively, as the gun flew over the side of the building.
And then she did, too.
Elzy fell, clawing at the air, and grabbed the window washers’ dangling rope. With her feet pressed against the building like a mountain climber, she gripped the rope with one hand while using the other to frantically coil the remaining length beneath her arms, and then looked up to the roof.
Doug stared back, holding something high in a trembling hand. The sun reflected from it, blindingly silver.
“She shot me in the lighter!” he cried.
“Pull me up!” Elzy yelled, as she gaped beneath her and then back up at Doug.
“You threw my friend off the roof.”
“You threw me off the roof!”
“I hit you,” he said. “You fell.”
I looked into the Ledge below, at students pointing up at me, and heard screaming sirens. “Doug!” I croaked, bathed in cold sweat. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Embers & Ash Page 18
