The Nature of the Beast (24 page)

The man was raving now.
Screaming about the lies.
Calling somebody a lying filthy bitch over and over and over as he stumbled around the room, destroying anything and everything in his path.
“
One,
”
the man screamed.
“
One…
”

The man stood in the center of the space and
chanted the word more times than Michael could count. The boy closed his eyes, put his hands over his ears and tried to push himself backwards
through the wall.

__

“I want that poster on every light pole. Every mailbox. Every business with a window. Talk to people. Nobody lives in a neighborhood for twenty-some years and doesn’t leave a footprint of some kind. There’s a link out there somewhere. Be the one to find it.”

Seventy-three frozen faces bobbed this way and that in order to get a better line of sight. Jackson Craig continued. “This is old-fashioned police work. The kind of thing a computer is never going to be able to do.” He looked them over. “No sequence of plusses and minuses is ever going to form a bond with people. That’s what the Chicago PD is training you to do. Go do it.” He paused.

“Any questions?” he asked.

This year’s training class of The Chicago Police Academy stood in loose ranks on the outdoor basketball court of the South Chicago Community School. Each trainee wore a day-glow green safety vest over his uniform. Some flapped their arms to keep warm; others hopped from foot to foot. Ten seconds passed. Apparently nobody had a question. “Muster back here at six p.m. ,” Craig yelled as they began to disperse.

Craig once again thanked Detective Sergeant Leonard for the use of the Police Academy recruits.

Detective Sergeant Barry Leonard looked the part. A solid six feet, hundred and eighty-five pounds of hair helmet, clad in an immaculate English suit.

“Good for ‘em,” the sergeant said. “Give ‘em a little field experience. Too much sitting around on your ass in squad cars these days anyway. In my old man’s day, you knew everybody on your beat, from the working girls to the store owners. All of ‘em. That’s what being on the job was about in those days.”

The sound of a helicopter ricocheted through the buildings. Leonard shielded his eyes and looked skyward. “They’re checking the rooftops,” he said. “We’ve got officers doing a walk-through on every derelict building and basement in a four block area. Public Works is going to come down and open up the underground for us.”

“What’s the underground?” Craig asked.

Leonard pointed down at the pavement. “There’s a whole series of tunnels and drainage canals under this part of the city. It’s how the bootleggers used to smuggle booze into the city way back in the day. They’d run it across the lake then straight up the river and then into the canals. Been closed up for years. Only people allowed inside are Department of Public Works personnel.” He read the question in Craig’s eyes. “The city, in its infinite wisdom, had the underground declared a National Historic Site. That way they could get the feds to pay for preservation and maybe even restoration later on. If they’re going to keep the historic designation, they’ve got to keep everybody except Public Works out, so even if
we
want to go in there, we’ve got to get Public Works to let us in.”

“He’s here,” Audrey said. “We just need to find him.”

The cop nodded, gave Jackson Craig a fraternal pat on the shoulder and leaned in close. “I’m sure you guys are throwing every high tech angle you’ve got at this guy.” He paused. “Be sure to keep us in the loop will ya.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “There’s a vicious rumor going around that you guys hog all the credit when things go well and throw the locals under the bus when they don’t, so we’d appreciate being kept informed.”

Craig assured him the CPD would be foremost in the communications loop.

Leonard looked like he didn’t believe a word of it but was too polite to say so.

“I better get out there,” he said.

Craig watched as the detective crossed the street and slid into the warmth of his car. Craig turned around just in time to see Audrey step out of another unmarked police cruiser and start his way. Her expression said she had something.

“The perforated strip they found in the sheriff’s car came from a Western Union money order. Believe it or not, they have numbers micro-embossed on them.” She checked her notebook. “Paid to one Angelo Stefani of…” She checked her notes. “…3456 Granite Hill Road, Chicago.”

“Probably not the sheriff,” Craig said.

“Probably not,” Audrey agreed.

“What say we ask this Mr. Stefani about it,” he suggested.

“Mr. Stefani doesn’t answer his phone. I left a message on his machine.”

“Where’s Granite Hill Road?” Craig asked.

“West side suburbs.”

Craig took her by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

45

“
This is where you stay while I
’
m out,
”
he said.

Michael was too frightened to protest.
Instead, he lowered his head and began to cry, big silent tears running over his cheeks as the man used his leg to force the boy forward through the doorway.

The room was dank and small, outfitted with a double bed, a nightstand, a mini-refrigerator and a small plywood table.
An arched doorway in the far corner of the room led to a small moldy bathroom at the extreme rear.
The area nearest the door was piled high with crates and boxes. There was writing on the sides, but the printing was mostly numbers and made no sense to him.

Along the top of the north wall, three narrow windows ran along the ceiling.

“
I don
’
t want to stay in here,
”
Michael blubbered.

The man nudged him into the center of the room and then reached back and flipped on the overhead lights.

“
I want to go home,
”
the boy wailed.

“
I won
’
t be long,
”
the man assured him.

“
I want my…
”

The man grabbed Michael by the shoulder and shook him, hard enough to make the boy
’
s teeth chatter.
“
Stop sniveling,
”
he admonished before removing his hand.
“
It was good enough for me.
It
’
s good enough for you.
”

Michael was blubbering again, his little red face awash with snot and tears.

The man put his face right up to the boy.
“
You
’
re not special, you know. You
’
re no better than me, so stop pretending you are. You
’
ll do just what I did.
After a while you
’
ll learn your duty.
You
’
ll learn to please.
”
He was sneering now.
“
You
’
ll do what you have to do,
just like I did.
”

When the boy
’
s crying only grew louder and
more insistent, he raised his hand as if to strike.
Instead, he stood unmoving for a long moment, unexpectedly finding inner clarity within his rage.
He stepped back from the boy.

He could hear the boy
’
s sobs as he stalked down the corridor.

__

The quiver of drapes in a second floor window sent Jackson Craig’s finger to the door bell again, this time leaving it in place until the hum and clank of an ancient elevator provided reason to desist.

Angelo Stefani was a sallow fifty-something and definitely not amused. Even for a guy in a wheelchair, Stefani didn’t look like he got out much. His wavy salt and pepper hair was in serious need of trimming. His Coke-bottle glasses were smeared and smudged to the point where his eyes were nearly invisible. The red and black Chicago Bulls blanket covering his withered legs was spotted with burn marks and bits of food.

He blinked his eyes and looked up at Jackson Craig. “There some goddamn law says I gotta answer the bell?” he demanded.

Craig snapped open his Secret Service ID and put it about an inch from the angry man’s glasses. “No, sir. To my knowledge there isn’t. There is however a law that forbids interfering with a federal officer in the performance of his duties.”

“How’s sitting on my ass in my own living room interfering with anything?”

“Exigent circumstances,” Audrey piped in.

“Bullshit,” the man sneered.

“We’re dealing with a kidnapped child,” Craig said. “As I’m sure you know sir, time is of the essence in cases like this.”

The smudges blinked several times. “A kid? Kidnapped?”

“Yes sir.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Audrey repeated.

He rolled the wheelchair backward into the foyer. “Why didn’t you say so,” he said. “Jesus…a kid.”

Even with the front door flung wide open, the building smelled stale. Despite an overwhelming desire to air the place out, Audrey closed the door behind herself.

“What can I do for you?” Stefani asked.

Craig told him about the postal money order.

“Just got it last week,” he said. “First of February, every year, regular as rain. Pays the whole damn year in advance.”

“Pays for what?” Audrey asked.

“Lease on the Raven Street garage.”

“Do you know the tenant?”

He shook his head. “Before my time,’ he said. “We…you know the family…we used to have rental properties all over the place.”

“How long has this person been renting it?”

Stefani thought it over. “Twenty-five years at least.” He held up a restraining hand. “You’re supposed to get somebody from the city to go down there with you ‘cause they’re the ones legally responsible for the property. They grandfathered in all the old time tenants. They could stay for the duration of their leases. After the lease ran out, the property immediately reverted to the city. Guy you’re asking about is the last of the Mohicans. He’s got till the first of June, then he’s out too.”

“We’re going to need to get inside,” Craig said.

“I got a key upstairs,” Stefani said. He made a face. “Fire code says I’m required to maintain 24-hour emergency access. In case of a fire or somethin’.” He threw a disgusted hand in the air. “Like that friggin’ place is going to burn down,” he scoffed.

“What do you mean?”

“Tenant put twenty grand of his own cash into it. From what I’m told, the place is 100% fireproof. At least my insurance company thought so. Hell they cut my premiums by two thirds, if you can believe that shit.”

“The key,” Craig prodded.

They stood in the foyer and listened as the ancient elevator ascended.

46

As he had done many times, he took Meecham Street all the way to the bend in the river and then turned left onto Killkenny.
Maxine
’
s Tip-Top Market was halfway down the block on the south side of the street.
As also was his habit, the moment he rounded the corner onto Killkenny Street he side-stepped into the inky shadows of a turn-of-the-century loading dock and disappeared from view. To keep his breath from giving his position away, he pulled his nose and mouth down inside his collar and waited and then waited some more.
Two minutes passed, and then five.
He peeked out at the street, first one direction and then the other. The street was empty.

Satisfied he wasn
’
t being followed, he hunched his shoulders and continued on, crossing Killkenny at an angle, listening to the static click of his heels ricocheting from brick to brick to brick as he hurried up the street.

The market was hot and empty; only the buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the freezers broke the silence; the East Indian clerk smiled, said hello and then went back to perusing a bondage magazine.

He separated a cart from the herd and shopped quickly, buying what he estimated to be a week
’
s worth of food and drink.
Shouldn
’
t take longer than that.By then, their precious technology would have made the connection and, after all these years, he could complete his assignment.
All he had to do now was to wait for the movie to play out.
After that…after that…he didn
’
t have it planned that far out.

The clerk smiled and tried to make blah blah talk.
He showed his teeth and nodded in all the right places.
With a pair of plastic bags dangling from either hand, he shouldered his way out the door and turned left, again angling across Killkenny, this time in the opposite direction.
Don
’
t be an idiot.
Remember the cameras.

Three blocks down, he turned right onto Pulaski Avenue and began to walk west with the breeze pushing hard at his back.
Half way up the block, despite the tail wind, he began to slow and then finally scuffed to a stop.
He blinked as if doubting his senses, looked around and began to inch forward
in the manner of a tourist approaching the rim of the Grand Canyon.

As he neared the METRO bus kiosk his breath stuck in his throat like a fishbone.
A roar began to rise in his ears.
His stomach did several back-flips, leaving him weak and unsteady on his feet. He stared in disbelief as the corners of the poster flapped in the insistent breeze.
A drawing and a photograph.