The Nature of the Beast (31 page)
Craig slid to a stop, reached up and lifted the small body from the dumpster. He stood in the ankle-deep snow, staring down at the limp bundle in his arms. A howl of outrage rose in his chest.
Michael opened his eyes.
He pocketed her house keys and locked all three locks before swinging the dead-bolt into place.
At the back of the room, the refrigerator snapped on and began to hum.
He listened to the compressor labor for a moment and then carried the bag into the center of the room where he set it on the floor.
He went down on one knee, unzipped the bag and pulled out her wallet.
Threw the wallet and the keys up onto sofa-sleeper cushion, then fished around until he found the wig.
He held it in his hand as he made his way around the room, closing the window shades as he moved along.
He crossed to the far wall and snapped on the lights.
The walls were littered
with photographs of her, sometimes alone, sometimes with other people.
Old people, young people, kids, a woman who looked like her sister.
A really old man.
He took his time, systematically removing every snapshot from its frame and tearing it to pieces.
By the time he finished, it looked as if a ticker-tape parade had
marched through the room, but he felt slightly better.
He wandered into the bathroom.
The room smelled of dead skin cells and cheap cosmetics.
She was using the shower curtain rod as a clothes line.
Three substantial pairs of white underpants and a brassiere big enough for a cow hung over the tub.
He pulled them down and wadded them up in his hand.
He found a pair of clean bath towels on the shelf beneath the sink and carried everything into the living room, where he undressed.
He spread one towel on the rug, dropped the undies in a pile and lay down on the towel, using the unmentionables as a pillow as he then pulled the other towel over his head.
He raised his knees nearly to his chin and closed his eyes.
He began to hum.
Jackson Craig had seen where this was going from the moment they’d entered the Precinct House and had been escorted to Interview Room Three. Not a conference room mind you, but an Interview Room where everything was bolted to the floor and the air was permanently tinged with fear and desperation. Leonard kept listening, so Craig kept talking. “Claymore mines carry seven hundred steel ball bearings packed inside a plastic case. They’re directional. You aim them at something. Anything inside a fifty-meter arc is dead. And I mean dead.”
“But you have no idea what he plans on doing with these explosives.”
“No,” Craig admitted. “We don’t.”
“Something very theatrical,” Audrey threw in. “He’s got this drama-queen quality about him. He wants to make some sort of statement.”
“And you think he’s suicidal?”
“Yes,” Audrey said. “Almost certainly.”
“And some sort of cross-dresser to boot?”
“Not in the classic sense,” Audrey hedged. “But close enough. Yes.”
“Which explains why your trainee walked right up to him,” Craig added.
“Maybe he’s just going to blow himself up,” the sergeant suggested.
“He had easy access to other, more powerful, explosives. Fragmentation grenades. M761 land mines. If all he wanted to do was blow himself to bits, one of those would have been the obvious choice. The only reason for choosing Claymores is that you want to take lots of people with you when you go.”
“None of which gets us any closer to finding him.”
“The problem is…” Craig began.
“The problem Special Agent Craig is that you and your partner have stayed too long at the fair. This has already been decided.” He paused for long enough for his words to settle. “You two don’t seem to know when to quit.” He waved a disgusted hand. “I’ve spoken with Deputy Director Duggan. You two are supposed to be back in Los Angeles by now.” He leaned back against the wall, waiting for an explanation.
“We’ve got him on the run,” Craig said.
“Which makes him even more dangerous,” Audrey added.
Leonard took a deep breath, swallowed whatever he really wanted to say and remained professional. “It’s great that you found the kid alive,” he said.
“Any new word on his condition?” Audrey interrupted.
Leonard heaved a sigh.
“
Last I heard he had a broken right arm and a major concussion. Other than that, he seems to be okay.
”
Craig started to speak but Leonard waved him off.
“It’s great he’s not injured worse than he is. I’m sure the family’s relieved, but…
we
’
ll take it from here
,” he said in a low voice. “Believe me, a nut with a bomb walking around my city makes me every bit as uneasy as it makes you. I’ve got a unit over at Nassau Street, in case he comes back to the apartment. We’re putting together a composite of what he looks like dressed as a woman. Every patrolman in the city will have it by ten.” He checked his watch. “You seem to forget…” He glared at each of them. “…this skel took one of our own. A trainee. A kid who never hurt anybody. Here in Chicago we take that very seriously.” The gravity of his tone precluded comment.
Satisfied he was getting his point across, he dusted his palms together. Craig started to speak.
Leonard warned him off with a shake of the head. “As an aide to your safe return to Los Angeles…” He gestured gallantly toward Audrey. “In deference to injuries sustained in the line of duty…”
He pulled open the door. A vaguely familiar silhouette filled the doorway.
“Deputy Director Duggan most kindly has sent Special Agent Blackledge to assist you two on your journey back to Los Angeles.”
Blackledge stepped into the room. Same humorless visage. Same ill-fitting suit. When Blackledge folded his hands in front of his fly and rocked back on his heels, he looked, for all the world, as if he was holding himself up by the crotch.
“I believe you’re all acquainted,” Leonard said.
The snow had returned and CNN just wouldn’t give it a rest. Storm front. Bad weather blankets the mid-west. Two hour flight delays. Something about bad weather always seemed to light a fire under the news media. Give them a snowy day and they’d have an original logo and a fanfare worked up before the third flake hit the ground. As far as they were concerned: The more the mess, the better the television. This morning, they were positively drooling with excitement.
Audrey Williams sat on the edge of her chair looking unsettled. Not because she was anticipating a move but because her body cast would not permit her to slide all the way back into the seat. The second she took any weight off her feet, she began to slide toward the floor, so she sat leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees, holding herself in place, looking up at CNN news.
Jackson Craig prowled the solid wall of one-way windows. Watching intently as a seemingly unending line of commercial aircraft lined up for takeoff. Out in the middle of the runway complex, a DELTA jetliner rose majestically from the tarmac, slowly inching its nose upward through the frozen air. The windows vibrated slightly as the straining engines roared and rumbled.
Special Agent Blackledge was holding down the security door, reading USA TODAY between his knees, looking up sporadically, making sure Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams hadn’t extruded themselves through the glass and staged an escape.
Craig watched another plane stick its nose into the wind, listened as the pilot buried the throttles, and then felt the vibrations in his feet as the airplane clawed its way into the snowy sky.
As the takeoff queue inched forward one plane-length at a time, Craig wandered over and sat down next to Audrey.
“How ya doin’ ?” he asked.
“Middlin’,” she said.
Another jet rumbled down the runway.
“It’s probably for the best,” he tried. “We didn’t have enough time to get ourselves in any serious trouble.”
She nodded and looked away.
A sudden movement to their left diverted their attention. The jetway door opened. The deep-throated roar of aircraft engines quickly filled the room. A uniformed janitor pushed an aluminum cleaning cart into the area. He was small and bald and glacial in his movements. The red and white patch on his chest read: ERNESTO. His airport key-card hung a from his neck on a black lanyard. The door snapped shut. The din dissipated.
Blackledge went back to perusing the sports section.
Ernesto began to empty trash containers and polish tables with the controlled zeal of an hourly employee, pacing himself, cleaning ashtrays that hadn’t been used this century, buffing each black plastic tabletop to a diamond finish before moving on to the next immaculate seating area.
The half dozen TVs rolled in unison. “In local news…” the announcer intoned. And then right back to the damn snow storm. Craig got to his feet. He’d taken a step toward the windows when the TV announcer said, “Let’s join our own Jennifer Martinez...”
Happy to hear about anything other than the weather, Craig stopped and looked up at the box. Cut to a beautiful young woman with shoulder-length brown hair. Snow falling around her as she held the microphone and tried to look alert. Pink goose down jacket. Matching hat and scarf. Tres chic.
Back to the news desk. Stock Market report. Snap to Commercial. “Kidnapped,” an urgent voice said. “Hear the incredible story the government doesn’t want you to know.” Cut to Harvey Winter sitting in a red leather wing chair looking serious. “And what of Maryelizabeth Satterwaite, whose son Colin was abducted from her front yard nearly twenty years ago.” Picture of Colin Satterwaite. “Today on a special two-hour episode of the Harvey Winter Show…”
Craig found his mouth hanging open. He eased it closed and snuck a peek at Audrey. She was staring wide-eyed in his direction.
“He’s going to kill his mother on national TV,” Audrey said. “Sure as God made little green apples.”
Craig said nothing.
“It’s what all those severed nipples are about. He feels abandoned. Thinks she should have come for him like we came after Michael. That’s who’s to blame. His mother. She’s the one.”
Craig wanted to argue for restraint, for not jumping to conclusions but, despite his best efforts, couldn’t muster sufficient cynicism. The picture of Claymore mines detonated among a television audience terrified and sickened him. He visibly shuddered.
“It’s just the right kind of theatrical,” Audrey added. “He gets his revenge with God knows how many millions of people watching.”
The roar of a rising plane shook the room.
“We’ve got to call this in,” Audrey said.
“Call who?”
“Sergeant Leonard.”
“Unless I’m mistaken, we’re fresh out of credibility with the CPD,” Craig said.
“Then let’s call the office,” Audrey persisted.
Craig snuck another peek at Special Agent Blackledge who’d moved on to the entertainment section. “The office sent us him,” he said.
Audrey frowned and folded her arms over her acrylic chest.
“What would
he
do?” Craig asked.
Audrey frowned. “Jesus?”
Craig smiled and shook his head. “Colin Satterwaite.”
Audrey looked around. “He’d kill the janitor, grab the key card and get out through the door, “she said without hesitation.
“What say we leave out the killing part,” Craig suggested.
“Probably best,” she said.
Craig nodded toward the far side of the pod. “Why don’t you wander over there and read the security notices,” he said.
She struggled to her feet.
“Be ready,” he said as she started off.
He stood and watched as Audrey sashayed across the room with a bit more swing of the hip than she generally put into it. Blackledge caught the movement and followed her with radar eyes, before returning to the latest Hollywood gossip.
Craig watched as Ernesto stowed his cleaning rag and spray bottle and then took hold of the cart’s handle.
“Senor,” Craig said. “Tienne usted un trapo?”
Ernesto seemed surprised to hear Spanish. “Un trapo?” he said.
“Si,” Craig said.
“Si, senor.” Ernesto pulled a piece of white cloth from his cart and waved it like a surrender flag. Craig crossed the room at a leisurely pace. Audrey began to sidle toward the exit door. Craig reached out for the rag with one hand and pulled the lanyard over Ernesto’s head with the other. Ernesto reached for his card but Craig was too quick. Ernesto shouted, “No… senor, no,” as Craig skipped across the room, gathered Audrey around her waist and slid the card through the scanner in one continuous motion. The lock snapped open. Craig dragged her through the doorway.
Blackledge was closing fast, no more than ten feet away, coming low and hard like a linebacker, as Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams slipped through the opening.
“Damn you!” he yelled.
His shoulder hit the door a scant second after the latch clicked back into place. The whole side of the building rattled from the impact. They heard a groan from the other side of the door and then the muffled boom of another blow to the door. And then another.
An alarm began to sound. Yellow lights began to pulse. Instead of turning right into the maintenance corridor, they hurried down the metal stairs, toward the rising engine-roar and the swirling snow at the bottom of the gangway.
The snow floated down from the heavens
in paperweight puffs, cottony and thick, dissolving tops of the utility poles.
He
’
d made up his mind.
No matter what happened, this couldn
’
t go down as just another random act of violence. The kind of thing you read about in the paper every day, small print,
page forty.
Some nut with a gun.
No.
This was different. Even if it was only for a second, she had to know what she
’
d done to him.
No matter what it took, the cow had to know who he was and why this was about to happen.
Then he could rest.