SORROW’S ANTHEM
Also by Michael Koryta
SORROW’S
ANTHEM
MICHAEL KORYTA
Copyright © 2006 by Michael Koryta. All rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My editor, Peter Wolverton, deserves the foremost thanks, as he remained confident that there was a book somewhere in the initial mess, and gave me the time and guidance I needed to see it through. Working with Pete and my agent, the supportive and insightful David Hale Smith, is truly a pleasure. Thomas Dunne, John Cunningham, and the rest of the team at St. Martin’s Press are exceptional in every facet.
My early readers—Bob Hammel, Laura Lane, and Janice Rickert—were outstanding, and greatly appreciated.
My uncle, Kevin Marsh, of the Cleveland Metroparks Rangers, provided insight into his department and the Cleveland law enforcement community in general. He should not, however, be blamed for any errors made or liberties taken by this writer.
Thanks also to Don Johnson of Trace Investigations, and to Stewart Moon, Donita Hadley, and the rest of the
During the year surrounding publication of my first book, a number of writers whom I greatly admire went out of their way to offer advice, encouragement, and support. Such opportunities were without question the highlight of the first-book experience for me, and I am greatly indebted to all of you.
As always, my family is the most appreciated, and I need to offer a special note of thanks to my father, Jim Koryta, a Clark Avenue original who made the near west side of Cleveland a place of stories for me when I was young. It appears to have had a lasting effect.
PART ONE
MEMORY BLEEDING
CHAPTER 1
I heard the sirens, but paid them no mind. They were near, and they were loud, but this was the west side of Cleveland, and while there were many worse places in the world, it was also not the type of neighborhood where a police siren made you do a double take.
“You ready, West Tech?” Amy Ambrose asked, taking a shot from the free throw line that caught nothing but the old chain net as it fell. Out here the nets were chain, not cord, and while they could lacerate your hand on a rebound attempt, they sounded awfully satisfying when a shot fell through, a jingle of success like a winning pull on a slot machine.
“Of course I’m ready,” I answered, trying to match her shot but clanging it off the rim instead. This didn’t bode well. Amy had been challenging me to a game of horse all week, and I was distressed to find she could actually shoot. I’d played basketball for West Tech in the last years of the school, before the old building was shut down, but it had been several months since I’d even taken a shot. Amy had become a basketball fan in recent years, more inspired than ever since LeBron James had arrived in Cleveland, and I had a bad feeling that I was about to become the latest victim of her new hobby.
“I hope you’ve got a better touch than that when you actually need it,” Amy said of my errant effort.
“I was always more of a point guard in high school,” I said. “You know, a distributor.”
“So you couldn’t shoot,” Amy said, hitting another shot, this one from the baseline. She pointed at her feet. “You’ve got to make it from here.”
I missed. Amy grinned.
“You’ve got an ‘H’ already, stud. Looks like this will be a short one.” She was about to release her next shot when her cell phone rang with a shrill, hideous rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth. She missed the shot wide, then turned to me with a frown. “Doesn’t count. The cell phone distracted me.”
“It counts,” I answered. “You ask me, you should be penalized a letter just for having that ring on your phone.”
She let the phone go unanswered. I took a shot from the three-point line and made it. Amy missed, and we were tied at “H.” Her phone rang again, turning the heads of a few of the kids who were hanging out at the opposite end of the court. We were playing at an elementary school not far from my apartment.
