Set the Night on Fire

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

“Hello, there. How may I help you?”

  Lila swallowed her surprise. “I … I’m sorry to disturb you. I was looking for James Redaker.”

  “I’m Mrs. Redaker. Was he expecting you?”

  “No.” Lila felt an attack of nerves. She was good with numbers, not people. Maybe she should go home. But if she did, she’d never learn anything. “My name is Lila Hilliard. It’s a personal matter … about my father.”

  Mrs. Redaker looked puzzled.

  Lila shifted. “He passed away recently. But he was at Michigan at the same time as Mr. Redaker, and I … well, I was hoping Mr. Redaker might have known him.”

  Mrs. Redaker gazed at her with the same puzzled look. Lila knew she was debating whether to let her in. She fought her desire to flee. Finally the woman nodded. “Come inside, dear. It’s cold. My name is Natsumi.”

  Lila nodded her thanks and stepped in. A gush of clean, comforting warmth blew over her. She could hear the dog snuffling behind the closed door.

  Natsumi led Lila into a sitting room. Then she shuffled down the hall, her sandals making a swishing noise. Lila sat in a straight-backed chair that was surprisingly comfortable. The room was full of bamboo: shades, lamps, a floor-length screen. The rest of the furniture was edged in black wood. The floor was white marble, and the faint scents of pine and jasmine hung in the air. In the corner under a spotlight was a yellow and red glass bowl shaped like a large flower. A Chihuly. These people had means. And yet, the clutter she often found in wealthy peoples’ homes was absent here, and Lila felt both soothed and energized. Maybe there was something to feng shui.

  The murmur of voices floated in from another room. First Natsumi, then a deep, male voice. A moment later, Natsumi reappeared, followed by a man.

  James Redaker didn’t so much occupy a room as dominate it. About five ten, he had receding blond hair and ice blue eyes. Like his wife, he wore a dark green kimono that almost reached his knees. Pants peeked out underneath. He was wearing sandals, too. But where his wife was small and wiry, he was as wide as he was tall. A jock gone to seed. Lila rose from her chair, trying not to stare at the Nordic-looking bull of a man in a ceremonial Japanese kimono. Beneath her docile Geisha manner, Natsumi must be formidable.

  “Natsumi says you have questions about your … late father,” Redaker said.

  “Yes. First, I want to apologize for intruding.”

  “You’ve clearly gone to some trouble to find me. The least I can do is hear you out.” He waved a hand and sat heavily in a matching chair. She was surprised it held his weight.

  Lila sat back down. “My father started at Michigan the same year as you.”

  He grinned. “Class of ’71? Did he tell you about homecoming freshman year? We played Penn State. I was defensive tackle. First freshman from Hartland to make varsity.”

  The combination of college football and Japanese culture was just this side of bizarre, but Lila kept her composure. “I doubt my father could have made third string.”

  Redaker folded his hands regally, as if accepting his due. “Yes. Well, you didn’t come here to hear stories about the Wolverines.”

  Lila rummaged in her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “My father and my brother died in a fire last month. I never knew my mother, … or her family. But I’d like to find them now. I have this picture of my parents.” She slid it out of the envelope. “There are some other people in the photo as well. I know the chances of you recognizing any of them are slim, but I was hoping you might have a yearbook I could check. Maybe I’d recognize someone who could help me track down my mother’s family.”

  “Enterprising of you.” Lila couldn’t tell if that was a compliment until she glanced at Natsumi, standing at the back of the room. When she nodded, Lila felt better.

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Casey Hilliard.”

  “Do you know what dorm he was in?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  Lila handed over the photo. Redaker stared at it, his eyes squinting into slits. Lila held her breath. Then he frowned.

  “These people … were all of them at Michigan?”

  “I’m … I’m not sure.” Lila motioned toward the picture. “But my father is the one in the vest. With the beads.”

  Redaker pursed his lips, making his disapproval clear. “He doesn’t look familiar.” He twisted around to his wife. “You were there too, Natsumi-anata. Have a look-see.” He held out the picture.

  Natsumi sidled up and took the photo. Then she looked over at Lila. “Wait here.” She shuffled out of the room. Lila could hear her rummaging around in another room. She came back in, holding a college yearbook that said Wolverines 1968. She gave it to her husband.

  Redaker opened the book and flipped through a few pages. “I remember those days. Hippies, protestors, SDS. Flower children. Most of them from good families, too.” His nostrils flared. “They tried to set fire to the research building. Almost tore down the student union, too.” He nodded absently. “Strange time to be in college.” He looked up at his wife. “You remember, don’t you, darling?”

  Natsumi nodded, but her eyes were calculating. She took the book from her husband, skimmed a few pages and then stopped. Smoothing the page with her palm, she brought it to Lila and thrust it into her hands.

  “Look at this.”

  A large black-and-white photo was splashed across two yearbook pages. It showed a crowd of students gathered outside. A banner in the background said Students Against the War. Some of the students sat on the grass; others stood in knots of three or four. Most of them wore black armbands, headbands, and angry expressions. In the center was a podium on a dais. A young man, tall, with dark hair, stood behind it. He wore a t-shirt and blue jeans, and his fist was raised high in the air.

  Lila froze. He was one of the men in her father’s photo. The one behind her mother. She compared the yearbook picture with the one she held in her hand. The same dark hair, rangy build, the same brooding expression. It was definitely him.

  The caption underneath the photo read: Student activist Dar Gantner leads a MOBE antiwar rally; Fall, 1967.

  FOURTEEN

  By the time Lila headed back to her car, the icy rain that wasn’t quite sleet had stopped. Even so, there were few cars on the road, and fewer pedestrians. Lila kept her eyes on the jumble of shoeprints on the snow-covered sidewalk. Usually the sight of random patterns was unsettling, and she’d mentally rearrange the imprints into neat lines and geometric shapes. Tonight, though, they didn’t bother her. In fact, she felt buoyant.

  It had worked. She had the name of someone who knew her mother. She couldn’t wait to get back to Danny’s to Google Dar Gantner. She’d track him down and pay him a visit, just like she’d done with the Redakers. He would know something about her mother. He had to.

  She hiked to the corner, trying to avoid any hidden black ice. James Redaker obviously didn’t approve of Dar Gantner, that was clear. Redaker had been a jock. Jocks and hippies didn’t mix.

  To be honest, Lila was surprised, too. She’d always believed her father was a practical businessman who, by spotting and growing new businesses, was nurturing capitalism. She’d gone into finance largely because of him. It was hard to imagine him with hippies and war protestors as friends. Then again, a lot of Baby Boomer businessmen claimed to be hippies during the Sixties. Maybe it was her mother’s influence. Maybe she’d drawn him into that culture.

  And what about Dar Gantner? Was he steeped in the politics of the past? When they met, would he lecture her about the evils of the establishment and the imperialist state? Lila drew herself up. If he had information about her mother, she’d have to deal with it.

  The darkness outside was relieved by a pool of light from a streetlamp a few feet away. She was just turning the corner, absorbed in her thoughts, when an engine exploded into life behind her. She spun around. A figure on a motorcycle rode slowly towards her. The bike seemed to have materia
lized from nowhere. It appeared to be more high-tech than most bikes, with lots of shiny blue metal and gray plastic extending from the front. The configuration almost looked like the beak of a bird of prey.

  A helmet covered the rider’s head, and the visor hid his features. He was wearing a heavy black leather jacket, leather pants, and black boots. But his hands gripping the handlebars were bare. It was bitter cold. He should be wearing gloves.

  Lila turned back and continued down the street. A tall man was walking toward her. He wore a pea coat and jeans. A muffler was tied around his neck, and his face was covered by a ski mask. His hands were in his pockets, and his head was slightly tilted, as though he was watching both her and the man on the motorcycle.

  It was then that the incongruity of someone gunning a motorcycle on an icy street hit her. Motorcycles were for warm weather. Summer rides. Fall outings. Why was someone cruising the Gold Coast in the middle of winter?

  The whine of the motor intensified. Lila spun around. The rider slowed to a crawl and came close enough for her to see his visor was tinted. He stopped and anchored the bike between his legs. Light spilled onto his visor and split into a shiny rainbow, like an oil slick. She couldn’t see his face. He kept one hand on the throttle and slipped the other inside his jacket, which was partially unzipped. When it reappeared, it was holding a gun.

  Lila froze. Time slowed, unfolding in a diffident, detached way. The rider aimed the gun. She took a breath, expecting it to be her last. A flash of light tore the night. A loud crack followed. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the pain to rip through her body. Confusion swept over her. She opened her eyes. She was still standing, very much alive. He’d missed. But he was so close. How had that happened?

  She ordered herself to move, but her feet were rooted to the pavement. Like a rabbit, if she kept absolutely still she would be invisible. Oddly enough, however, the gunman paused as well. For a split second, he and Lila were motionless, both of them limned in the light from the streetlamp. Then he raised the gun again.

  Just as he was taking aim, a presence flew at Lila, knocking her off her feet. A heavy weight pinned her to the sidewalk. She squirmed and wriggled, trying to free herself, but the weight bearing down on her made it impossible. As she gulped down air, another gunshot rang out.

  Then came an eerie moment of silence. Lila smelled wet wool. The pea coat. Had someone been hit? Nothing moved.

  A sudden growl from the motorcycle broke the silence. She might have heard someone grunt. Then the bike accelerated and sped off, its tires spraying wet snow and slush. As the roar of the bike faded, the man on top of her shifted. He was alive. She lay still. He was trying to get up, but his arms flailed, and his movements were awkward. Finally he pushed himself off and lurched to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Lila croaked. Then she caught herself. What if he was in league with the motorcycle man? Maybe he was there to finish the job his partner had started.

  The man hovered above her. The ski mask still covered his face, and the only thing she could see were his eyes. Dark, intense. And something else. Lila wasn’t great at decoding feelings, but she thought she saw a gleam of satisfaction. Then he tore his gaze from hers, and, without a word, jogged away.

  “Wait! Stop!” Lila yelled as she pushed herself up. “Who are you?”

  The man headed east towards Lake Michigan. Before the night swallowed him, she noticed he was wearing sneakers. Sneakers in winter?

  She stood up gingerly, stretching and flexing her limbs. Everything seemed to be working, physically, but her pulse was pounding, and she started to shake uncontrollably. She’d never felt so cold. She pulled her coat more tightly around her. She spotted her purse on the ground a few yards away. She was amazed it was still there. She grabbed it and fumbled inside for her cell.

  FIFTEEN

  “So you’re not sure if he was attacking or rescuing you?” the cop asked. His partner handed Lila some coffee. She was in the back seat of a patrol car a block away from the “incident,” as they called it, in front of a coffee house. Lila would rather be downing a belt of scotch from the bar next door, but she didn’t have the chance—or the nerve—to suggest it. She knew from the cops’ attitudes that they weren’t sure what they were dealing with and didn’t much care. Drive-bys were an unfortunate fact of life in Chicago. Even on the Gold Coast.

  The cop who’d bought the coffee slid back into the driver’s seat and twisted around. Although she’d already told them the basics, she started to explain again. The cop in the passenger seat cut her off with questions. No, she couldn’t identify the motorcycle. No, she couldn’t describe the rider. No, she couldn’t even describe the man who fell on top of her. She didn’t know where the bullets or shell casings might be.

  The cop in the passenger seat clicked his ballpoint pen. In, out. In, out. The sound of the clicks was mesmerizing. “So what happens next?” she asked. “Do you need me to come down to the station?”

  His voice was impassive. “That won’t be necessary. We have everything we need. We’ll file the report.”

  She eyed him. “And?”

  He shrugged. “You haven’t given us much to follow up on. A guy, on a bike you can’t describe, shoots at you. Another guy in gym shoes attacks you. A gun goes off that no one else seems to have heard.”

  She looked at the cop in the driver’s seat. “There’s got to be other people who heard the shots. I mean, they were loud. Maybe if you interviewed people nearby … ”

  The cop who was clicking the pen replied, “No one called in. We checked. And we don’t have the time or manpower to canvas the entire neighborhood. Especially when we don’t have a … well … ” His voice trailed off.

  A body. That’s what he was going to say. She wanted to rip the pen out of his hand. “The problem is I’m still alive, isn’t it? If I were dead, you’d be all over this.”

  “Miss … what I’m trying to tell you is … ”

  “Listen.” The cop in the driver’s seat finally spoke up. “If you feel someone’s after you, get yourself some protection. A bodyguard, something like that … ”

  Lila gazed from one cop to the other. “So that’s it? As far as you’re concerned, it’s over?”

  The cop with the pen shook his head. “We’ll file a report. Beyond that … well … I’m sorry.” He didn’t look it.

  The cop who brought her coffee got out and opened the door. He walked her to the parking lot. They exchanged cool farewells.

  She got in her car, pulled out, and cut over to Lake Shore Drive. She was a financial manager. She’d never had a brush with the law; she’d never even been stopped for speeding. Yet, since she’d come back to Chicago, a fire had killed her family; a man followed her on State Street; she thought she’d been followed in Evanston; and now someone was shooting at her. And she had no one to turn to. Even Val was away. She was alone.

  Except for the man who’d fallen on top of her. She glanced out at Lake Michigan. Long fingers of ice extended from the shore, surrendering to the dark, turbulent water. He was somewhere out there, white gym shoes and all. He hadn’t hurt her, and she’d seen the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He probably wasn’t the motorcycle rider’s accomplice. But how was it he’d been walking down the street at the precise moment a gun was pointed at her? If he really was a good Samaritan, why didn’t he stick around and let her thank him?

  She gripped the wheel. The heater was blasting, but she shivered. Tonight wasn’t just a dog snuffling in the garbage. What if the man on the motorcycle knew where she lived? Could he be there, waiting for her? Maybe she shouldn’t go back to Danny’s. But where else could she go? She’d become a target. And she had no idea why.

  She remembered the movie Signs. She’d gone to see it right after she moved to New York. The first half of the film had fascinated her, and she’d concluded the most terrifying thing in the world was to be pursued by someone you couldn’t identify, for a reason you didn’t understand. In the movie, thou
gh, once they discovered the enemy was simply your run-of-the-mill aliens, the story became dull, even tedious.

  She wished she’d be that lucky.

  Lila did go back to Danny’s, but the first action she took when she got there was to take out all the knives and lay them on the counter. Just in case. She checked the phone to make sure it was working. Locked and unlocked the door several times.

  She wrapped herself in a dark blue terrycloth robe that belonged to Danny. It still carried the faint scent of Aramis. She grabbed a bottle of bourbon in the kitchen, poured a drink, and tossed it down. It burned her throat, but a few minutes later, a welcome sensation of warmth seeped through her, and she thought she might be able to focus on something else. She ought to try. Distraction would do her good.

  She sat down at Danny’s computer, turned it on, and entered the name “Dar Gantner” into Google. She blinked in surprise. The listing of websites and links stretched over ten pages. She started to read.

  Dar Gantner had grown up in Hamtramck, a working-class suburb of Detroit. His father was a shop steward at Ford, his mother a housewife until his father lost his job during a UAW strike. Then she went to work at a paint factory.

  Dar was a good student. He was a National Merit Scholar, and in the fall of 1967, he entered the University of Michigan on a full scholarship. The same year as her father, Lila realized. That must have been where they met.

  Dar majored in history but apparently spent most of his time protesting the Vietnam War. In the fall of his freshman year he went to Washington to demonstrate at the Pentagon. By spring, he’d become one of the campus leaders for the Mobilization to End the War, a national coalition of groups formed in 1967 to stage large demonstrations. A couple of photos showed Dar with Tom Hayden, another Michigan MOBE member, and founder of Students for a Democratic Society.

  In August of 1968, Dar helped organize busloads of students who drove from Ann Arbor to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. During the convention he was swept up in the riots and was beat up by the cops. He was arrested twice. Still, Dar and MOBE claimed they were committed to non-violence. In fact, Dar was quoted as saying he didn’t have much use for the Yippies—the Youth International Party headed by Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin—who endorsed more flamboyant, aggressive tactics.