“Like what?”
“Nothing special.”
“What do you have, Hubert?”
“Background stuff, mostly. Weird connections. For example, did you know there were two train crashes almost identical to yours? One in Des Moines in 1978. Another just outside St. Louis, three months before Chicago.”
“Commuter crashes?”
“No, these were freight trains. No one hurt, but similar sorts of accidents, one train hitting a second and then accelerating after the initial col ision.”
“That is pretty random.”
“There’s more. Both of the freight train crashes were investigated by the NTSB. They determined that an engine-override device made by an old company cal ed Transco malfunctioned, causing the first train to accelerate unexpectedly. In both cases the failure turned a minor incident into a major accident.”
“I stil don’t see much of a connection to Chicago.”
CHAPTER 32
The kettle began to hum, lightly at first, then a high-pitched, insistent whistle. Rachel Swenson walked into the kitchen, switching off the knob for the gas and running her hands across the counter toward the jar of tea bags. She didn’t want to take the pil s they’d given her unless she had to. A cup of tea and an early night in bed would do just fine. She reached for a mug in the cabinet and thought about Michael Kel y, unshaven, arms folded, gun on his hip, slouched in the doorway of the hospital’s examining room like he owned the place, which, in his mind, he probably did. Michael could be rough around the edges, but he was warm, and he was real. She loved feeling safe when he held her, and despised the danger that gave breath to that need for protection. Rachel sighed, grabbed a mug, and turned back toward the stove. A cool breeze plucked at the back of her neck. The image of an open window flashed through her mind; a premonition tiptoed up her spine. She turned again and he was there, inside her home, closing a hand over her mouth and slipping a needle under her skin.
Somewhere far off, her mug crashed from counter to floor. Then she was looking up and he was over her. She saw the edge of a knife and tried to speak, but the words tumbled away. Michael’s face flashed through her mind again and she felt indescribably sad at what felt like his passing. Then she fel, too, amazingly far, until, final y, she was alone, hiding in the blinding white.
CABRINI-GREEN
CHAPTER 33
Rachel Swenson woke up in the dark, sitting on a cold floor with one wrist handcuffed to what she guessed was a pipe. She held up a hand in front of her, but couldn’t see it. Then she listened. There was the sound of traffic, maybe a car horn, but it was distant, muffled. Closer, she could hear the drip of water. Final y, the scratch of a footstep. First one, fol owed by a second.
She felt along the ground for a weapon, but found nothing. So she bal ed her free hand into a fist and waited. The scratching stopped. She lifted her head. The breathing was quick and near. Something clicked, and light splashed onto her face. Then a hand covered her mouth. Another pinned her against the wal. She opened her eyes and saw a young black boy smiling back. Behind him, a second face surfaced. Not much older. He was smiling, too.
“You gonna scream, lady?” The first boy’s voice was soft, an edge glittering underneath.
“She’s al hooked up to the pipe.” The second wrenched Rachel’s shackled wrist. She winced, but didn’t cry. One of them slapped his hands against the wal s while the other hopped around in front of her. She could almost see the thoughts speeding between them, the frenzy building. Two kids, about to step into their adult lives.
The second came close again and crouched.
“Don’t,” she said. He tore her blouse to the waist and punched her hard on the jaw. She hit her head against the wal and slumped awkwardly to the floor.
The first was on top of her, tearing at the rest of her clothes. Then he was gone, thrown into a corner by his friend. The dominant one would go first. His pants were already half undone. He pul ed at his zipper and came closer. She was on her back, vision blurred in one eye and bleeding from the mouth.
“We gonna do what we do.” The kid pointed behind him. “Both of us gonna hit it. So just let it be.”
“No.” She didn’t know where that word came from or why. But she knew she was good with it. The boy cocked his head and wrinkled his nose. “That what you want?”
She shook her head and didn’t know what she meant. The boy disappeared for a moment. He returned holding a brick.
“You want to feel it or no?”
This time she opened her mouth to scream. The boy lifted his brick and the world went gray.
CHAPTER 34
Maybe you did shoot him and you just don’t know it.”
“Fuck you, Rodriguez.”
The detective grinned and kicked his feet up onto his desk. It was 6:30 in the morning and we were holed up inside Area 3 on Chicago’s North Side. A recap of Mayor Wilson’s press conference from the night before played on a TV in the corner. I looked idly for Katherine Lawson, but couldn’t find her in the cluster of suck-ups standing behind His Honor.
“What do you want from me?” Rodriguez said and clasped his hands behind his head. “I don’t know who kil ed the guy.”
“Question is: Do you care?”
“It’s the feds, Kel y. Besides, I got a stack of fresh murders piled up and getting colder by the minute.” Rodriguez gestured toward the tube. “If the mayor says one of the good guys took him out, who am I to argue?”
“What else did you work up?” I said.
“Case is closed. Bad guy shot in the head.”
“What did you find?”
Rodriguez sighed and pul ed his feet to the floor. Then he opened up a file and slipped on a pair of glasses.
“When did you start wearing glasses?”
“Fuck off.” He shoved a report under my nose. “Guy’s name was Robert Robles. Chicago native. Born in a toilet at the old Greyhound station. Mom left him there for the cleaning crew.”
“Not exactly the way you want to come into the world.”
“No. DCFS bounced him al over the place. A few juvie offenses, but nothing too bad. Kid turned eighteen and decided he wanted to see the world. Two years in Somalia with the Eighty-second.”
I flipped through his service record, lingering on Robles’ photo, dress greens with beret cocked to one side, lips parted, eyes trying hard to make a kil er into a soldier.
“Guy knew how to shoot,” I said and turned the picture over.
“Yeah. He did another two years in the military when he got stateside. Looked like a lifer. Then he receives a general discharge. Not real y sure why yet.”
