Breaker (20 page)

I'm not sure what day it is, or if it's morning, afternoon, or night. In the end it takes my father twelve hours to get me out, bail money paid, bond procured, the investigation still in process, several of the charges dropped, some still pending, the future quite uncertain.

Delmar and Williams walk me out, their faces grim.

“I swear, guys, I had nothing to do with any of this.”

They don't say anything, arms crossed, silent.

“I'm going to find Natalie, and I'm going to find my father and I'll bring you to him, I promise, if it's the last thing I do.”

Neither one speaks, eyes glassy, in shock, it seems, that I'm walking out of the precinct, certain they had me dead to rights, going away for a long time, exactly the beast that they always thought I was.

“You have my card, Ray,” Delmar finally says, both of them frowning, not believing a word I say.

But if I am telling the truth and it wasn't me, they must realize that they have nothing, right? They're back to square one. They may need my help. They have no line on any Gangster Disciples, because those hoods had nothing to do with it. No clues leading back to my boss at the fight club, the ring broken up, Eddy dead, the warehouse partially burned down, no paper trail leading to anyone. And they had so little on my father, he'd been able to walk into the police station, posing as my lawyer, and walk out unscathed, nobody the wiser.

It's a long, cold, sobering walk home in a drizzle, the sky spitting down on me like the Romanian gypsy in the apartment building, one curse issued after another, the world forking its tongue at me, hissing through spread fingers, the sky unloading on me, the rain pouring now, and I bathe in the cold—freezing, shivering, my skin turning numb to match the way I feel inside.

What next?

Cars slide by, headlights slicing the night, and all I can think of is Natalie, unable to defend herself no matter what we learned, what we talked about, how hard we tried to prepare her for the wolf that we both knew would come huffing and puffing at her door.

Did she see it coming?

If I'm going to continue this Grimm fairy tale, then perhaps she left behind breadcrumbs for me to follow, a path into the woods, not out of the forest, but instead right up to the cabin, the cottage, where the wolf lies in his human clothing, having devoured those around him.

I have an idea.

By the time I arrive home, it's dark out, I'm soaked, and the front of the apartment complex is deserted, the dirt turned to mud, garbage and yellow slices of tape, car treads running over the sidewalks, the entire corner a mess. Lights are on in a few of the apartments, but it's dark on our floor. I insert the key to the front door of the building and then turn around, looking north and south, across the street. The streetlamps glow dull yellow circles as a few cars and trucks pass by, along with a solitary police cruiser. The men inside it glance at me, and then move on.

I wipe my feet on the mat in the foyer, already covered in dirt and mud, and up the stairs I go, praying that nobody opens up their apartment doors, because I'm not feeling very strong at the moment, lurching toward my apartment, my insides filled with broken glass, yellow tape across Natalie's door, the lock fixed, the door closed. My own apartment door is also closed, but there is no yellow tape to bar my entrance.

Inside, it's like a tornado set down, paper and garbage everywhere, black fingerprint dust on everything, a broken lamp lying by the end table, boot prints in dirt and mud, the violation complete. In the bedrooms the mattresses are half off the beds, sheets in piles on the floor, drawers open, clothes flung all over the rooms, closets emptied. In the kitchen the cookie jar lies shattered on the floor. Drapes are torn down and trampled on. I feel numb.

Before I take a hot shower, before I make my bed with clean sheets and start to straighten up the apartment, before I can try to get my life back into any sense of order and calm, I open the back door and head down the stairs to the tiny backyard where Natalie and I trained. There are boot prints out here as well, but the beetle farm remains buried under a bush, the plastic container invisible in the dark, covered with soil, three inches down, so I kneel in the dirt and mud and push aside the leaves and garbage, digging down with my fingers until I find the plastic lid. I work my way around the edge, pulling up the plastic container, lifting it out with a sucking noise and setting it in my lap. I open it up and inside there are hundreds of dead beetles, their cold, black shells clicking together. I root around in the mess of insects and find something buried underneath their frozen carapaces.

It's a cellphone. I dry my hands off and press the power button, waiting for the Samsung logo to turn bright white, for the music to chime a few notes, and then the screen lights up. Floating in the middle of the tiny window is a single app, a turquoise letter “A,” with a white outline of a child in the center, its arms reaching up to the sky.

“Natalie, you did good,” I mutter, pressing the button as the program springs to life. There is a single, solitary orb, floating and pulsing on the screen. I scroll through the options, locating different buttons, and I see a microphone, so I click it.

There is static, and it's hard to hear, but there are two voices. A man and a girl are talking about something, the rain still coming down, as I hunch over the phone to keep it dry. I can pick out a few words here and there, drifting to me as the cold night air wraps around me. I hear
soon
and I hear
pass the salt
and I hear my name,
Raymond,
and I hear
the police
and I hear her laughing, which throws me for a moment, and I hear
thank you
and then my father—I hear him say
monster
and then I hear him say
I am not.

I take a shower because I don't feel human. Then I lie on my bed for a second, trying to catch my breath, looking at the phone, listening in on their conversation, which fades in and out. I think of calling Delmar, and in fact have his card sitting on the nightstand, the corners of it bent and soiled.

I get dressed in dark, comfortable clothes, just blue jeans and a sweatshirt, a T-shirt underneath, no gun to bring with me, no knife—just my bare hands and the element of surprise. I hope it's enough, that he doesn't see me coming. I feel the time running out, I can't wait another day, knowing the chance of him snapping, and finally touching her, killing her. This has to happen tonight, right now.

I stare at the glowing dot in the center of the screen, zooming in for the first time, as the map expands, and the streets are revealed.

Motherfucker.

It makes sense of course, if he wanted to keep an eye on things, not just on me, but on the entire street—Natalie, as well as the police. He's only a few blocks away, just across the street really. I want to go to the window and look out, but he might be watching.

I pull on my boots, and a black leather jacket, a black knit hat, and gloves. It's finally stopped raining, the temperature dropping—a flurry of snow in the air. I can't wait any longer, so I leave the apartment lights on, in case he's still looking, and slip out the back door. I don't want him to see me coming, so I head south for four or five blocks and then cross at an alley, down where a streetlight is broken, across Kedzie heading east, and then up a few blocks until I cross Logan Boulevard, tracking the dot, as it gets closer and closer, looking at the apartment buildings, the mini mansions, Christmas lights dotting their exteriors, trying to figure out which one is him.

I want to listen in, to hear what they're doing, but I worry that the phone volume turned up could alert them to my approach. What if a random phone call came in at the worst possible time, a text from AT&T offering me bonus minutes or an upgrade to my services, the phone bleating and ringing in the cold night air? I leave it off.

The closer I get, the larger the pulsing, glowing icon becomes. I'm stepping into another alley, staying off Kedzie, and the way his windows most certainly must face—toward my apartment building. I slip behind the row of houses until I am standing behind a garage, 2207, the little circle filling the screen, the address finally showing up on the display. This is where she is.

The wrought-iron gate on the side of the garage is locked. I scan the alley and see a large green dumpster, and several sheets of plywood. The metal beast is heavy. Rolling it will make a lot of noise, so I push and pull it ever so slowly. The wheels turn until it's pushed up against the garage. I place the sheets of plywood on top of it so I don't crush the lid and fall inside it, and standing on a plastic milk crate, I step up onto the metal frame, then the plywood, and put my hands over the lip of the garage and pull myself up. I pray the old garage will hold me. As I stand on top of it, I can see there are no lights turned on for the first floor, but the second floor is lit up with soft light. A few glowing lamps send yellow seeping out the windows. It's a brick building, a large square, the second floor converted into one large, open space.

I lower myself down off the garage and approach the back door, knowing it's locked. And it is. I pull a roll of duct tape out of my pocket that I brought specifically for this task. I tape the lower right glass panel of the back door, one layer left to right and another top to bottom. When I'm done, I slip the duct tape back into my pocket and make a fist—and with one simple punch, the glass is knocked out, clattering to the ground but not shattering, the noise minimal, masked by the tape, the pieces staying together.

I reach in, flick the deadbolt, turn the knob, and slowly open the door, not a creak to be heard.

I dry my boots on the mat and close the door behind me, leaving it unlocked in case I need to make a hasty retreat. Down the hall I smell cookies. Entering a kitchen, a soft heat pushes off of the oven. There's a small light over the sink, a refrigerator gently humming. I carefully work my way through the kitchen into the living room. It's empty, except for a metal table running along one wall, where a police scanner sits, squawking out beeps and noises, static ruffling the air, voices drifting to me.

2181 Troy, 10-4…VIN number is 5GZCZ43D13S812715…try logging on now…didn't know I was assigned…we're cleared from the assist, can you give us the address…1831, you copy…don't know if there's a back entrance…is there an alley…10-4, black hoodie, black jeans…where's your partner…please hold the air until this is resolved….

And on it goes.

I don't think they're talking about me.

If they are, I hope they show up soon.

I didn't call Delmar—I wanted to take care of this myself. I hope that's not a mistake.

Stairs lead up to the second floor. I ease my way up them one step at a time, trying to keep my feet to the outside of each stair to avoid any creaking. I slow down my breathing and try to calm my heartbeat, as I get to the top of the stairs and peek over the lip.

It's a wide-open loft space, exposed beams running across the top, floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side of the space, a desk a few steps from me, a bathroom off to one side, heavy drapes framing the windows, two large sectional couches in the middle of the room forming a square, with a round table in the center. On the far side, down in the corner, is a large brass bed with somebody lying on it.

No, tied to it—a young girl in a white T-shirt and white cotton panties.

It's Natalie.

My father stands at the window, staring out into the night, stars twinkling in the blue-black sky, a telescope next to him, which he looks into every now and then, scanning back and forth across Kedzie, north to south, and I can see my apartment from here. Next to the telescope is some other device, what looks like a tiny black satellite dish mounted to the top of a tripod, connected to a pair of headphones that my father has on his head, rotating the device back and forth, pointing it across the street. The whole thing is connected to a black box, some kind of recording device maybe, with a large equalizer running LED lights up and down, in purple, red, orange, yellow, green, and blue.

On the bed she moves, shaking her head from side to side, a ball-gag in her mouth, spread-eagle, each limb tied to a corner of the brass bed.

He takes off the headphones and turns to look at Natalie.

“You're only going to make the knots tighten,” he says. “Relax. I haven't hurt you yet. You want to be fresh and alert when Raymond arrives, don't you? Don't worry your pretty little head, Natalie. This will all be over soon.”

I step forward and kneel behind the desk. When I move, his head turns back to the window, arms now behind his back, the wolf in silhouette. Natalie turns her head and sees me move from the stairs to the desk, shaking her head back and forth, her eyes bulging. I place my finger to my lips, motioning for her to hush.

There are lamps scattered throughout the loft, on various tables, a large chandelier hanging down over the round table, the crystals sparkling in the light cast off by the electric candles.

“Do come in, Raymond. You're upsetting Natalie,” says my father, not turning around. “I wondered if you were going to make it over tonight; I was starting to get tired. Natalie and I had a little wager. I said you'd be here before midnight, and she said you'd run. Isn't that right, Natalie?” He looks at his watch, as she shakes her head back and forth. “Eleven thirty-two. Looks like I win.”

I stare at him, furious.

“I'm very proud of you, son. No police, and you found the phone that Natalie left for you. I had to destroy the one she left for her parents. I thought the police might find the cell in the beetle farm, but no, they didn't, thank God; I was counting on their ineptitude. But not you, my boy, not you.”

I stand up and step forward into the light.

“Okay, I'm here now. Can you let her go?”

“Well, I don't know about that, Raymond. I mean, I'm impressed, you did very well, but I'm not entirely sure where your loyalties lie. I need more proof, I think. One more test, and this will be a big one. It'll certainly call your bluff.”

He steps out of the shadows, but is still some thirty feet away from me. He's wearing a police uniform, full blues, including the hat and the bulletproof vest. He's holding something in his hands, two things actually. I can't see what they are from here.

“I just need to make a quick call—forgive me my rudeness,” he says.

Cellphone. But what's the other device?

He punches away at the phone, and I can hear it ringing.

“Chicago 911…what's your emergency?”

He pushes the button on the other device, a hand-held tape recorder, and out of the machine I hear Natalie's voice.

“Help me, oh my God, he's here….I need your help….”

“Who is there….What's your location?”

“…Ray's going to kill me, I'm at 2207 North Kedzie….Please hurry….”

“Miss, please stay on the line….”

And then
click,
the phone goes silent, the tape recorder too. He places them both on a table that runs along the back of the couch.

“They'll be here soon,” he says, my father, the inspiration. “You have a choice to make, Raymond.”

“Why did you make her do that?”

“Ah, that. I spliced together a few of our conversations. Added your name in, right? Not bad for an amateur. She'd never turn on you.”

In the distance I hear sirens, they're getting closer, the radio downstairs filled with talk, chirping out codes and our address,
10-4
echoing out into the space below.

He walks closer to Natalie, and I take a step closer to him.

“Hey, leave her alone,” I say.

He pulls a handgun out from the holster he's just unsnapped at his hip, regulation issue no doubt, to match the uniform—and points it at me.

“You can stay right there for now, Raymond, but we have to hurry. They'll be here soon.”

He eases over to the bed and sits down next to Natalie, who thrashes about, her eyes wide. He picks up something from the nightstand and flicks it open.

It's a knife.

“No, no, no…” I say, stepping closer to him, and he fires a shot over my head. On the radio below I hear someone echo
shots fired,
and I stand still for a moment, figuring out my next move.

“Stay there, Raymond. And listen. There's a police jacket over there on a hook,” he says, nodding his head toward the bathroom. “And a second set of stairs that leads out a side door. We can leave together, you can join me, or you can stay and go to jail. You can stay and die,” he says, and he leans over Natalie, pressing the knife to the inside of her left thigh, slicing it open, her muffled scream lost behind the gag, bright red blood spurting into the air.

“That's her femoral artery, and she's going to bleed out. If you leave her behind, this sacrifice, we can be together, son. This is the final test.”

He holsters his gun and steps toward the bathroom and the second set of stairs leading outside.

“In the chaos, I'll disappear. We can disappear, Raymond. I have a car, supplies—become what you were always meant to be, Raymond, fully evolve, and embrace the darkness that lurks within you.”

I leap forward and run to Natalie, a wave of disappointment washing over my father, his face turning dark, as I press down on her thigh, trying to stop the flow of blood. Natalie is turning pale, the color washing out of her skin. I grab the sheets and bunch them up, pressing them to her thigh, to the wound, holding the blood flow back for a moment as the door downstairs comes crashing in, footsteps and voices, boots on the stairs, and I can hear them coming as my father slips into the shadows, in full uniform, over to the stairs, behind a heavy drape, waiting for the men to pour into the room.

“I'm very disappointed, Raymond,” he whispers, blending into the dark.

“Hold on, Natalie,” I whisper to her. “You're going to be okay.”

Her eyes shake and stutter and roll up into her head, her body trembling, the white sheets covered in blood, seeping into the mattress. The police flow over the stairs and into the room, also coming from the main stairs, the second set—his escape route. Guns drawn, the cops are yelling.

“Raymond, step away from the girl!” Delmar yells.

“I can't,” I say, “she's…”

“Get your hands up!” Delmar yells. “Get your hands in the fucking air….”

“I can't,” I yell, “she'll…”

“Raymond,” he yells, “I'm not going to tell you again! Step away from Natalie. Step away from the girl and put your hands in the air….”

I look down at Natalie as the life drains out of her. She needs help; there's no time left. This urchin, this sweet innocent, was pulled into my darkness. She'd have been better off not knowing me. I never should have spoken to her, my cancer spreading to this child and her family, my blood tainted as far back as it goes.

I hear the police calling for an ambulance, the dark silhouettes closing in on me, every gun centered on me, as I tower over the girl, my hands on her, them not knowing that I'm holding back the surge of blood, them thinking I'm still hurting her, doing something to her, but I can't move my hands or she'll be dead in seconds.

“I can't…” I say in a whisper, my eyes turned to Delmar, pleading, tears coursing down my face, and he pulls the trigger.

One shot in my neck, and my hands finally go up, to my throat, blood spraying over my fingertips, a gurgle in my throat, and now my words are useless, so I stand, finally, and then the bullets come, one after another, riddling my chest, filling me up with death, until finally one takes my left eye, and I spin and fall, the world exploding in a red crescendo, and then quickly fading to an icy black grave that swallows me whole, pulling me under—becoming one with the night.