The Third Rail

by Michael Harvey

  CHAPTER 25

  Rodriguez hit the intersection of Belmont and Racine at fifty miles an hour and climbing. He had his lights and siren on and was typing into a computer built into a console between us. I had just hung up with Rachel and was scribbling down everything she’d told me. Rodriguez finished with his notes and looked over.

  “What do you got?”

  “She said he was dressed in a dark-colored jacket and maybe jogging pants. Holed up on a little rise of grass, just west of the Drive.”

  Rodriguez was at sixty now, moving east on Belmont.

  “And she thinks he’s the guy?”

  “She says he was packing a black duffel and running.”

  “Hold on.”

  Rodriguez typed a few more lines into his computer. Then he came back to me.

  “You all right with this?” he said.

  Rachel told me she was okay. She sounded okay. And she let me talk to one of the people on the road with her who assured me she was more than okay. So I let her tell me about the man on the hill. Let her talk me into going after him.

  “I’m fine. What are we doing?”

  Rodriguez swung a hard right onto Inner Lake Shore Drive. Traffic was at a standstill. Rodriguez cut back west and picked his way south down Sheridan.

  “We’re setting up a perimeter from Halsted Street east, along the lake from Addison to North Avenue. We’re getting some choppers up, and I got the description out there. If he didn’t jump in a car, we got a chance.”

  “How many did he hit?”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “Don’t know. But it doesn’t sound good.”

  The detective smoked his tires taking a left off Sheridan and gunned it the wrong way down Diversey, to a dead end and a parking lot. It was less than five minutes since the last shot was fired. The lot had three cars in it. All of them empty. Rodriguez and I pulled our guns and moved to the soccer fields that lay just beyond.

  “The area she described is just over the hill,” Rodriguez said. “I’m gonna go straight up. You circle around to the south. If he’s still on foot, there’s a chance he headed that way.”

  Rodriguez was right. If our shooter had headed north or west, he’d have to navigate a half mile’s worth of open ground. To the south was the parking lot. Beyond it, cover in the form of winding paths, trees, and a series of underpasses.

  “Put me on your net so some cop doesn’t shoot me,” I said.

  Rodriguez nodded. “You’re on it. Just don’t change clothes on me. Here, take a radio.”

  The detective threw me a handheld and headed toward the hill. I checked the volume on the two-way to make sure it was squelched and started jogging south along a running path that skirted Diversey Harbor and Lincoln Park Lagoon. Two minutes and a hundred yards later, a dog stood at the top of a small rise, wagging his tail for no apparent reason. I knew a little about dogs. Very little. My pup, however, rarely wagged without a reason, usually because she saw something or someone. I pushed up the incline.

  “What do we got here, boy?” I scratched the dog behind the ears. He wagged his tail even harder. Ahead, the jogging path dipped to the left and ran underneath a bridge that spanned Fullerton Avenue. I crept toward the black hole under the bridge. The dog stayed where he was. Smart dog.

  CHAPTER 26

  Robles wore navy-blue running pants, a blue hooded sweatshirt, running gloves, and a hat. He kept a snub-nosed revolver tucked in one pocket of his sweatshirt and a set of keys in the other. Fullerton Avenue above him was quiet. A chopper beat somewhere in the distance. Robles was twenty yards beyond the bridge when he heard someone call out to the dog. Time was running thin. Nelson had stressed he’d have about ten minutes from his last shot to get to where he needed to be. That was seven minutes ago. Robles could have run for it, but he didn’t. Instead he veered off the path, into the scrub alongside the lagoon, and waited. He heard the crunch of gravel, the slosh of water, and the rumble of a garbage can as its cover was removed. A head peeked out from underneath the bridge. Then, a hand and a gun. Robles fired twice. A body fell back into the darkness. Robles looked around. There was a lot of swirl, but it was all still a mile or so north, focused on the tragedy and neglecting the periphery. Just as Nelson had predicted. Robles stood up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and began to jog again. Fifty yards later, he found the building he was looking for, fitted a key into a lock, and disappeared inside.

  • • •

  THE FIRST ROUND scored the pavement a foot or so to my left. The second knocked me to the ground. I knew I was hit and saw my gun lying in a puddle of water a few feet from my head. I struggled to my feet and wedged myself between a steel girder and a trash can. My right arm wouldn’t cooperate, so I reached for the gun with my left. Then I waited for the pain to settle. The air under the bridge was cold and damp. Water dripped down the walls and pooled in the broken cement at my feet. I slipped my hand under my vest. It came away red, but the wound didn’t seem too bad. I gave it another ten seconds and crept out again. The running path was empty. Whoever had shot me was gone.

  I moved down to the water’s edge, slumped into the weeds, and looked out over the lagoon. A couple of ducks looked back. Then they flapped their wings and lifted into the air. Far above them another bird hovered. This one was a police chopper, scouring the shoreline. I waved, but it moved off. The water below was quiet, chunks of ice floating here and there. Around a soft bend in the shoreline, a single boat suddenly appeared, a kayak paddling out from the Lincoln Park Boat House, heading toward the lake. The kayaker wore a hat, gloves, and a dark sweatshirt. It seemed like an odd outfit, but then again, I had never kayaked through a Chicago winter. Didn’t know anyone who had.

  I inched back a little deeper in the scrub and watched some more. The kayaker was struggling with his stroke, unable to coordinate the lift and fall of the double-bladed paddle. After twenty yards or so, he smoothed out and began to move a little better. I stretched out on my stomach and lay flat on the ground. The man might have caught my movement, because he stopped paddling and leaned forward. For a moment, I saw the short shape of a gun, outlined against the hard winter gray. Then it disappeared back in the bottom of the boat.

  I held my nine in front of me with two hands. The blood flowed a little more freely down my side, but the pain had subsided, and my head was clearing. The kayak was moving again, from right to left, maybe fifty yards away. I knew I was at maximum range for my gun and squeezed down over the sight. The boat drifted closer and the shot got easier. I moved the gun from temple to jaw and then down over the mass of the kayaker’s body. The mayor’s face slipped across the edge of my vision. As did a federal agent, with a badge and a knowing smile. I tightened up another notch on the trigger. Then I exhaled and pushed back into the weeds.

  My words tasted like dust, but I radioed in anyway and told Rodriguez about the boat. I could hear the rotor chop above me fade for a moment, then grow louder. They had drifted a bit north, but would arrive in plenty of time to cut off whoever our kayaker was. He continued his slow crawl across the lagoon. I pulled the gun up again and tracked him. Just for fun this time. The kayaker ducked and paddled, still a rough but steady stroke. His face turned once, as if he sensed something, and his profile flashed in a column of light. I lowered my gun. Then I heard a crack, and the kayaker’s chest exploded in a cloud of tissue and red.

  ROBLES HEARD A POP and felt a tug at his throat. Then he was at the bottom of the kayak, staring up at the sky and choking on his own blood. Robles thought about the girl from last night. He’d enjoyed killing her. This morning on the Drive, even more. He thought about all the others, women struggling against the darkness, children submitting, small graves in the woods. Those were his private treasures. His secrets. Today had been his glory.

  Robles’ mind emptied, and filled again with a summer day. He was a kid gone fishing. The sun gentled and the boat rocked as the man moved in the bow and then settled, cigarette in one hand, line in the other. Robles remembered th
e trout he’d caught that day, silver and pink against the roughed-out bottom of the boat. The man gripped the fish, belly down, and hit it twice with the rounded butt of a knife. Then he threw the trout into a rusty hold filled with water. Robles remembered looking into the well, seeing the black eyes peering out from under. Then the lid closed, and the eyes were gone. The man returned to his perch and fell asleep. The boy remained where he was, breathing softly and watching the water move around him.

  Such were Robles’ thoughts as he looked up at the sky, lungs swollen with blood, police chopper drifting, and then nothing.

  CHAPTER 27

  I’m fine,” I said, for the fourth time in the last minute and a half. The inside of my mouth tasted like dry wool. I reached for a paper cup and felt the pull of an IV in my arm. The water slipped down my throat, but seemed to have no discernible effect.

  “You realize how close you came to dying?”

  Rachel was standing beside the ambulance, head bandaged, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. She had been in the middle of Lake Shore Drive, talking to Rodriguez, when I called over on the radio. Then came a report that I’d been hit. She hitched a ride in a squad car and bitched at the cops the whole way. At least, that’s what they told me later.

  “The bullet caught my vest,” I said, showing her the four stitches in my side. “Nothing more than a scratch.”

  “It’s a little more than that, Mr. Kelly.” That was the EMT, not making things any easier, so I ignored her.

  “How’s your head?” I said.

  Rachel touched the white bandage at her temple. “My head’s fine.”

  She’d been in the wrong place on the Drive at the wrong time. Unlucky in some ways, incredibly fortunate in others. Either way, it wasn’t my fault, even if I felt like it was.

  “Someone taking you down for X-rays?” I said.

  She nodded. “Rodriguez said he’d drive me over.”

  “You okay?”

  A smile limped across her face and back into her pocket. “Just tired, Michael.”

  I took her hand. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Maybe make it tomorrow.”

  “You sure?”

  “You’re going to have your hands full here and I just need some sleep.”

  I kissed her, then watched her walk away. Rodriguez was waiting by his car. He caught my eye and held it. Then he touched Rachel’s shoulder. She got in the passenger’s side and leaned back against the headrest. Rodriguez climbed in the other side, and they drove off.

  I unplugged myself from the IV and stood up. A couple of police choppers still hovered over the lagoon, an effort to keep the flying media away. A police boat had tied up to the kayak. They were offloading the body in a bag. I began to walk toward the shoreline.

  “Mr. Kelly, I can’t just let you go.” The EMT was following me. “You could go into shock and there’s a risk of infection.”

  “Is he giving you a hard time?”

  Katherine Lawson trudged up the slope from the lake. Three more agents trailed behind her. Lawson pulled off a set of latex gloves and threw them into a bag that had the word HAZARD stenciled on it.

  “What did you find?” I said.

  Lawson held up a finger and huddled with the EMT for a moment. Lawson came back alone. “Thank me, Kelly. I just got you a hall pass.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She held out a bottle of pills. “Take four immediately and two a day after that until they’re gone. Prevents infection.”

  “Four right now?”

  “That’s what she said. How’s the side?”

  “Your protective vests suck.”

  Lawson looked over at the garment, folded and lying inside the ambulance.

  “That’s Chicago PD issue.”

  “And if I’d been wearing yours?”

  “I’d probably be helping Rachel Swenson pick out a black dress. By the way, how is she?”

  “She just left. Got banged up a little by the air bag, but otherwise, fine.”

  “I like her.”

  “So do I,” I said. “Let me ask you a question. Any reason to think she was the target here?”

  “You mean was he targeting Rachel to get at you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Lawson shook her head. “Unlikely. If he was, why waste bullets on anyone else? And she was the only one he missed. By the way, here’s your gun.”

  The agent pulled my nine-millimeter from a bag by her feet.

  “Thanks.” I tucked it into my belt. “So you’re thinking Rachel was another coincidence?”

  Lawson nodded. Usually I hated to agree with the feds. This time, not so much. We walked a little more until we reached a line of police tape. A not-so-small crowd had gathered beyond.

  “I’m guessing you’d like to get out of here?” Lawson said.

  “You here to make that happen?”

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

  CHAPTER 28

  We drove five blocks to a bar called Four Farthings. Twenty years ago, it was a big singles joint in Lincoln Park. Then the crowd got old, which was okay except they forgot to leave. Now the place was mostly filled up with dusty conversations about the good old days from a dried-up clientele who tended to fall asleep after three drinks.

  At five in the afternoon there were six people at the bar, all crowded around a flat screen, watching the news and talking about Chicago’s shoot-out on the Drive. We found a table in a corner. Lawson told me I shouldn’t drink with the meds they gave me. I thanked her for the advice and got a Fat Tire on draft. Lawson shook her head and ordered an Absolut with a twist. I took a deep draw on my pint and sat for a moment in the happy state of being alive. Lawson took a small sip and watched me.

  “What did you find in the kayak?” I said.

  “Short-barrel thirty-eight revolver. Recently fired.”

  “How about the rifle?”

  “Nothing yet, but we’ll find it. He had a key to the boathouse along the lagoon. We figure he shot you, then let himself in and grabbed the boat.”

  “And what? He was going to just paddle away.”

  Lawson shrugged. “Maybe. Tell you the truth, we weren’t exactly looking for a guy in a kayak.”

  “Any ID?”

  “We’re running the prints now.”

  “And you think that’s it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Who shot him, Lawson?”

  She slipped her elbows onto the table and crowded forward in her seat. “I thought you might have an idea on that.”

  “You think it was me? Jesus Christ.” My cell phone buzzed and I flipped it open. “Yeah?”

  “Nice job, Kelly. Very nice job.”

  I held up a finger to Lawson and walked out the back door onto Cleveland Street. A drunk was sleeping in the cold. I watched him scratch himself as the mayor congratulated me for having the balls to play judge, jury, and executioner.

  “You took care of things. Nice and simple. Took care of our city.”

  “Mr. Mayor—”

  “It’s something I don’t forget, Kelly. Make no mistake about that.”

  “Mr. Mayor, I never fired my weapon.”

  “I understand, son.”

  “I drew down on him with my handgun, but I didn’t fire.”

  “Say no more. We’re on an open line here. Not a problem. Whatever happens, don’t worry about it. No one’s throwing a rope around your neck. You understand me? Where are you?”

  “In a bar.”

  “By yourself? You want me to send someone down there to drink with you?”

  “No, I’m with Agent Lawson.”

  “The FBI broad?”

  I could sense the mayor’s sex drive pop up from whatever dark place it slept, head moving, tongue flicking. Not a pleasant image in an already unpleasant conversation. But there it was.

  “Yes, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Jesus, I’d like to throw a shot in her. You gonna throw a shot in her?”


  I didn’t respond. The mayor, of course, took that as acquiescence.

  “You fucking Mick bastard. That’s great. You deserve it. You really do. I can’t say this publicly because of the tragedy on the Drive today, but you know what? It could have been worse. Much fucking worse. And I say that with all due respect and a heavy heart. You’re a hero, Kelly. Nothing less. I gotta run. We’re doing a press conference tonight. Listen, have a couple drinks on the city. Celebrate that piece of shit being dead. And, Kelly?”