Penance: A Chicago Thriller (17 page)

 

CHAPTER 28 – CHICAGO

 

As soon as Lynch walked into his mother’s hospital room, he knew death had spun out of the final turn and gone to the whip. Her complexion had gone from pale to waxen to almost corrupt. Her breathing was the sound of a rasp on cheap plywood. He pressed his lips to her cheek, and it felt like something from the deli counter.

“Johnny,” she said.

“It’s OK, ma.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her mouth.

“Hurts,” she said.

“I know,” he answered. “I know.”

He remembered the bungalow up on Neenah. Summers, his mom in the plaid Madras shorts she liked and the sleeveless blouses, the smoke from the grill, the neat row of rose bushes along the chain-link fence between their yard and the Garritys’s. Mom singing show tunes as she flipped the burgers. Dad in the dark chinos and the Dago T, the nylon web yard chair sagging beneath him, a gold Miller High Life can in his massive paw. Lynch’s sister, maybe three or four, climbing up the old man’s legs and into his lap. Mom still something of a looker, like Jackie O, the way she’d sit on the wood stairs in the back, legs crossed, one sandal just dangling off her toes. The sound of the neighborhood kids – the Garrity twins, Tony Campanaro, Sean Haggerty getting up a whiffle ball game in the ally. Wandering across the yard to the gate to join them, his ma’s voice strong and high and sweet behind. Knowing supper was coming and there was no better place in the world.

“You made us a good life, ma,” Lynch said. “Couldn’t have done any better. I love you. I’m going to miss you.”

Lynch watched one tear roll down his mother’s desiccated cheek, then saw her eyes roll up. It wasn’t sleep anymore. Lynch wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t sleep. The rasping went on and on.

After a while he couldn’t listen to it anymore, and he left.

 

Lynch went to his mom’s, cleaned out the fridge, collected the mail. Grass was starting to grow. He went out to the garage, but there wasn’t any gas for the mower. Might be a little much today anyway. Trying not to give in to the leg too much, but it was barking at him some. He looked up at the little attic his dad had made in the rafters, plywood nailed over the cross members. Knew there was some shit up there, old Christmas lights, scrap. Knew it was coming, the day he’d have to clean all that out. The house didn’t bother him – he had a whole history with his mom in the house after his dad. But the garage felt a little like a mausoleum.

On the way back to his place, Lynch drove past Sacred Heart and found Father Hughes sweating through a Notre Dame sweatshirt next to a pile of flagstones. Lynch could see where the priest had dug out the outline of a walk leading to the Marian grotto. He’d laid down a crushed limestone base and had just started laying in the fieldstones.

“Tell me this is some kind of new Lenten penance, Father, and I’m turning Baptist,” said Lynch, coming up the walk.

“I like the eyepatch. You OK?”

“Itches some. Otherwise I’m good.”

“I was just ready for a lunch break,” said the priest. “Care to join me?”

“What are you serving?” asked Lynch.

“Peanut butter and jelly and milk.”

Lynch laughed. “No cookies?”

“Can’t abide the store-bought ones and can’t bake to save my life,” answered the priest.

“Tell you what, Father, I had a burger up at that bar off of Belmont last week, and it didn’t kill me. Can a lapsed altar boy stand you to a beer and a bite?”

The priest smiled. “I’d never dream of depriving a man of the chance to perform a corporal work of mercy. Bless you, my son.”

 

They settled into a booth in the back. Lynch ordered a grilled ham and swiss. The priest went with the tuna melt. They each had a black and tan.

“Father,” said Lynch, “I want to ask a favor.”

“If you’re planning on laying a walk, I think I’m retiring after this one.”

Lynch smiled. “It’s my mom. She’s dying. Should be any day now. We’ll have the funeral up at St Lucia’s, but she’s been in and out of the hospital for over a year now, and the priest she knew up there died. Couple of young guys on the staff now. Nothing against them, but I don’t know them. Actually, you’re the only priest I do know now. I need to get the funeral together, and, I don’t know, I’d just like somebody familiar to see her off.”

The priest reached across the table and squeezed Lynch’s forearm. “Tough thing, detective, burying your mom. Dad gone?”

“Years ago,” said Lynch.

“I’d be honored to do the service. Just call when it’s time. I’ll talk to the parish up there and set things up. Any other family?”

“Got a sister up in Milwaukee, nephew I don’t see enough. We, I don’t know, just kind of lost touch. Used to be close.”

“Have you called her? She’ll want to be down before your mom goes.”

“Yeah,” said Lynch. “I gotta do that. I gotta do that right now.” Lynch pulled out his cell phone, got his sister’s secretary. He had to lean on her a bit to put the call through.

“Colleen, it’s Johnny. It’s about mom. It’s any time now. You better come down.”

Lynch and his sister agreed to meet at the hospital at 7pm.

“It’ll be hard for her,” the priest said. “Not having been here. She’ll feel guilty.”

“Yeah,” Lynch said. “Hard thing to watch, hard thing to miss.”

 

Lynch stood in the cold, sucking on a Camel and watching the cars turn off into the hospital parking lot. When he saw the cream-colored Lexus with the Wisconsin plates swing in, he flicked the Camel into the street and started walking toward the car. Always touchy enough seeing his sister without catching shit about smoking right up front.

Colleen Lynch-Kettridge stepped out of the car in a Hillary Clinton-type pant suit, except Hillary didn’t have Collie’s ass.

“Hey, Collie,” Lynch said.

She stopped, looking at him, taking in the shaved head and the eyepatch. “What happened to you?”

“Occupational hazards. I’m OK. Any trouble getting down?”

“Christ, Johnny,” she said, “I’ve been down before. I know how to get here. Don’t fucking start, OK?”

Lynch put his hands out, palms forward. “Take it easy, will you, Collie? I didn’t mean anything. Just the traffic can be a bitch is all.”

She stepped forward and Lynch hugged her, but it was like squeezing a pile of lumber.

“I’m sorry, Johnny. It’s just I know you think I should get down more, and I think I should get down more. But I just flat can’t, you know? I mean, I just can’t.”

“It’s good to see you, Collie. Really it is.”

“Yeah, OK, Johnny. It’s good to see you, too. Guess we better go in, huh?”

“Yeah.” Lynch turned with her toward the door. She was just a shade shorter than he was. He’d have never figured she’d get so tall, not when she was a kid and he was running her down the alley on his shoulders. He’d been like a god to her then, her tagging along with him everywhere. And he didn’t mind. Liked it. Liked being the big brother, watching out for her, making sure she understood how everything went down. Not much he could tell her anymore.

“Just so you know,” he said as they stepped on the elevator. “It’s not pretty. She’s really gone downhill the last week.” His sister just nodded.

As they cleared the doorway to his mother’s room, Lynch heard that same rasping noise. Shorter strokes now, like a file working against the grain. A real hard pull to get the breath in, then it just kind of leaking out. For a flash, just a flash, Lynch wanted to pull that thing out of the bed, brace it up against the wall, and beat it till it was pulpy and ruined and couldn’t make that noise anymore.

Lynch stood back and let his sister take the lead. She went around to the far side of the bed and squatted down, getting her head level with her mother’s, her right hand coming up and stroking the sunken cheek.

“Ma, it’s Collie.”

No response, maybe a little catch in the breathing.

“We’re here, ma,” she said. “Johnny’s here too. You just rest. We’ll be right here.”

Rasp. Rasp. Rasp.

Collie looked up at him, and he saw the tears running down both sides of her face. It caught him off guard. He hadn’t heard the crying in her voice. It was his kid sister’s face again after all these years. She stood up and came to him, and he held her and heard her talking into his chest.

“God, Johnny, I don’t know if I can do this again. After Daddy.”

“It’s OK, Collie,” he said. “I’m here this time. I’m right here. I’m always going to be right here from now on, OK?”

He felt her nod, felt her shake against him, felt the tears soaking through his shirt. In the background that fucking rasp rasp rasp. Then rasp rasp no rasp. Something that had been beeping stopped and started to whine, and Collie spun away from him. She was at the bed, taking the corpse in her arms, pulling it up against her, saying not yet, not yet, not yet.

Lynch putting his hand on Collie’s shoulder, making some pointless shushing sound, her turning to him looking as hurt as anyone he’d ever seen, saying, “She didn’t even know I was here, Johnny. God, Johnny, what kind of bitch am I?”

Lynch holding her again. “She knew, Collie. It’s OK. She knew.”

Feeling his heart go out of him. Feeling something important slip away that he would never have back again. Feeling his sister against him like an extra lung, like it was the only way he could breathe just then. Like it was the only way either of them could breathe. And his own breath coming then in that same fucking rasp, hard to get it in all of a sudden, through the tears.

 

Lynch drove his sister to an all-night diner on Huron, down toward the Drive.

“I feel like shit, Johnny, dragging you out to eat, but I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“What, you think mom would want you to starve?” Their mother was always shoving food at them whenever they’d visit, always saying they looked too thin.

A little laugh out of Collie. “No, mom wouldn’t want that, now would she?”

She ordered a cobb salad. Lynch ordered a Reuben.

“So,” she said, “you gonna tell me what happened to your head?”

“Got shot a little.”

Collie bolted upright in her seat. “Jesus, Johnny, what do you mean a little?”

“Guy hit a wall near me, I caught a few fragments. Gonna be fine. Itches like hell, though.”

“And you were gonna tell me about this when?”

“Just happened, Collie.”

“I do worry about you, you know. Though I gotta say, the eyepatch kind of works for you.”

The waitress dropped off the food. Most of the salad looked like it had been shipped in from California by slow train.

“Nice place,” Collie said. “You still know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Speaking of showing girls a good time...”

Collie raised her eyebrows. “My god, John Lynch is seeing somebody?”

“Only been a couple of dates, but it feels right.”

“So spill.”

“Name’s Liz Johnson. She’s a reporter with the
Tribune
.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“She hot?”

“Smokin’ hot.”

“Well, she better treat you right or I’m coming down and kicking some ass.”

“Cool,” Lynch said. “Girl fight.” Collie threw a piece of wilted lettuce at him.

They worked on the food a bit, Lynch actually having to walk to the kitchen to get somebody to bring out more coffee.

“Guess we need to talk about the details,” said Collie.

“Yeah. Figure what, Thursday for the wake – have that at Fitzpatricks – Friday for the funeral?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Talked to a priest down here. He said he could do the service, handle that end of things.”

“I hate leaving it all on you, Johnny.”

“Jesus, Collie, you got a family. I just got me. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I know, just this last year, I know you had to take up a lot of slack with mom.”

“You did what you could, Collie.”

She looked out the window for a long moment, Lynch knowing she was fighting tears, not wanting to let him see just then. She’d grown up tough.

“We can talk about the house and whatever later,” Lynch said, “but I was thinking I could buy out your end if you want, rent it out. Finished with everything there is to do at my place a few years ago, and God knows mom’s place could stand some updating. Give me something to do.”

Little smile from Collie. “Maybe I could come down some day, help with the tile.”

Lynch smiled back. “That’s the extent of your training, as I recall, wiping up grout. Bring Tommy down with you. I could show him a few things. Really don’t see you guys enough.”

“Yeah. Let’s do that. Let’s make sure.”

“Anything out of the place you really want?”

“Her old sewing table. I’d like to get that.”

“Sure. We’ll go through the place, see what we want.”

They finished their meals, had some bad pie, talking easier than they had in years, Collie not heading home until after two.

 

Back at his condo, Lynch poured one stiff drink into a highball glass, then screwed the top on the bottle and put it back up in the cabinet over the stove. One stiff one was OK, but he wasn’t going to leave the bottle out and swim in it. Not tonight. There’d been a message from Liz on his machine, and he wanted to call, wanted her to come over, wanted her. But he didn’t feel like he should go from his mom to his sister to her like that, not that quick. Didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think period.

 

CHAPTER 29 – EFFINGHAM, ILLINOIS

 
 

Weaver had everybody muster in his room at 9am. He’d run out early, picked up a mess of Kripsy Kremes, little noblese oblige, prove he was one of the guys. Weaver wished there was a Dunkin’ Donuts in town. Krispy Kremes were good warm, but he’d take a Dunkin’ at room temperature any day. What he really wanted was a coffee, but the boys would be shooting today, so coffee was out for them, and he wasn’t going to drink it in front of them.

“Everybody get some grub here,” Weaver said. Ferguson and Chen grabbed the other two chairs at the small round table, Chen opening up the laptop that was practically part of her. Capelli and Richter took the two beds. Richter was wearing a black T-shirt with a smiling skull on the front. The caption under the skull read “You Can Run, but You’ll Just Die Tired.” A pile of Farm & Fleet bags were stacked between the beds.

“Chen’s got the uniform of the day for you. Commercial hunting cammies, standard woodland pattern. Not perfect, I know, but we can’t have anybody turning up in a ghillie if things go south.”

“Jesus, Colonel,” Richter said. “Gotta go out dressed like Jethro?”

Weaver just gave him a look. Chen’s laptop gave three quick beeps. She hit a few keys.

“Fisher has used the McBride ID again,” she said.

“Where?” asked Weaver.

“Comfort Inn, three blocks west of here. He used the automatic checkout at 6.17am, but the desk didn’t process it until seventeen minutes ago.”

“OK, good, so we know he’s on site. Anything, Fergie?”

“Just glad I didn’t know he was that close last night,” said Ferguson. “Don’t think I would’ve slept well. If he’s been outbound since 0617 hours, we should probably pack up and roll. Take a little more time on the set-up, give everybody a chance to recon the site. Get your cammies on. Check the batteries on your radios. We’ll do com checks en route.”

Weaver stood by the door, clapping everybody on the back as the team filed out, feeling old. He missed this shit. On the other hand, playing games in the woods with Ishmael Fisher was the type of thing that played hell with your life expectancy. Weaver even gave Chen a pat as she walked past. Closing the door, he felt as though he’d had an ice-water enema.

 

Chen dropped Ferguson and his team off one at a time at the trailheads along the road at the back of the ridge behind Holy Angels. By 11.30, Ferguson had scouted the funnel and placed his men. They did one more quick com check. Everybody’s radios were online. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

At 12.07, Ferguson heard Weaver through his ear piece.

“Yeah?” Ferguson answered.

“Change of plans, Fergie. Chen got another hit on the McBride ID. Fisher charged a couple energy bars and some water at Moriah Marathon just after 8am this morning. Chen’s scouted it out. Fisher’s car is still there. Guy says Fisher asked for a brake job, wanted the car ready by 3pm. Brakes are done, car’s still there. Get this. Fisher said he was going to go hiking until the car was done. I want you guys over at that station.”

“We’re set up here, boss. Sure we want to make the move? You know I don’t like the other team calling my plays.”

“It’s your op, Fergie, so it’s your call. Do me a favor, though, and check the site. Map handy?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. Look at the road Chen dropped you at. Now follow that about six clicks west. See the curve to the north?”

“Got it.”

“See that flat spot on the north side of the road just before the curve?”

“Sitting in the bottom of the bowl? Yeah.”

“That’s the spot. Tell me you don’t like that terrain better.”

Ferguson looked at the map. He remembered reading about the Union cavalry commander who’d been the first Union officer at Gettysburg. He’d taken one look at Cemetery Ridge, dismounted his troops, and dug in until Meade got there. Later, he’d said a cavalry commander’s job was to find some land worth dying for and that had been it. This gas station was perfect. Flanking overlooks on three sides. Let Fisher get into the bowl, they’d have him in a fucking Cuisinart. Get Lawrence up high on one side, get himself up on the other, take the Barretts, they’d have a clean shot down the road either way for at least a few hundred yards if Fisher somehow made it to the car. Nothing was perfect, but this was close.

“Time’s gonna be tight,” Ferguson said. “Get everybody back down to the road. Have Chen drop us at the trailhead three, four clicks north of that station, up around that curve. Get down to that bowl, scout out sites. Gotta switch weapons, too. Capelli and Richter are gonna have to trade the H&Ks in for the scoped 16s. Lawrence and I are gonna need the Barretts. Chen got them in the truck?”

“She’s got them,” Weaver answered. “You got to go or no-go this now, Fergie.”

Ferguson’d never really liked the idea of trying to take Fisher in open ground on the back of the ridge. It was the best option under the circumstances, but he felt it was about a sixty-forty play. This bowl, that was ninety-ten if they had time, probably still eighty-twenty rushing it.

“Let’s do it,” Ferguson said. “We don’t have time to disperse the pickup. Have Chen pull into the trailhead she dropped me at. We’ll all meet there. We’re out.”

 

By 2.40pm Ferguson had his team in place. Ferguson was at the top north end of the bowl where it jutted out into the road, just where the road curved around to the north. The station was a single cinderblock building set back from the road. There were two pump islands out front, four pumps. To the east of the station was a small paved lot. Fisher’s Tempo was parked at the east end of the lot, away from the building. Back of the bowl was the high ground, but it was no good. The station blocked too much of the view to the lot. Ferguson had Lawrence at the top of the east side of the bowl with the other Barrett. He had a clear shot at the car, at the lot, and down the road to the east. Capelli and Richter were spread out on a ledge on the east side of the bowl about one hundred and fifty yards up from the lot, maybe two hundred yards down from Lawrence.

The plan was simple. Let Fisher get in, pay, and head for the car. When he was in the open in the lot, Capelli and Richter would open up with the 16s. They should cut him down before he even heard a shot. Lawrence would start pumping .50s from the Barrett into the Tempo’s engine just to make sure that, if Fisher makes it to the car somehow, it ain’t going anywhere.

Ferguson had one hardball round and then five incendiary rounds on the top of his ten-round clip. Soon as he heard Capelli and Richter cut loose, he would put one round through the phone junction outside the shop, put the landline out. Guy inside could have a cell, but the reception was spotty in these ridges. Down in that bowl, a cell wasn’t calling anybody. Ferguson had even had trouble with the radio until he got on top of the bowl. Once the phone was down, Ferguson would put the incendiary rounds through the Tempo’s gas tank, set that off, and then take out Fisher if he wasn’t down yet. If Fisher made it back into the building somehow, Lawrence and Ferguson would slap in armor piercing clips and start pumping rounds through the building’s walls and roof while Capelli and Richter moved in. Ferguson knew better than to count his chickens, but this sure smelled like a bucket of extra crispy to him. Fisher was on a short clock.

Ferguson used a pile of dead brush facing the station as cover for him and the long barrel of the Barrett. There wasn’t much cover facing the road to his left or behind him, but if he had to take that shot, Fisher would already know it was coming. Ferguson pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the other side of the bowl. It took him a few minutes to find Lawrence. He could barely make out the end of the barrel poking out from behind a fallen tree. Ferguson keyed the throat mic on his tactical radio.

“Lawrence,” he said.

Ferguson heard a single click in response. Affirmative.

“Pull back about six inches. I can see your barrel.”

Another click.

“How am I looking?” Ferguson asked.

“Got your left foot,” Lawrence said. “Don’t think it’s visible from the ground.”

Ferguson gave the mic a click.

Ferguson scanned down to Capelli and Richter. They were on a larger, flatter ledge with heavy cover. It took a couple of minutes to pick them out.

“OK, everybody, let’s settle in,” Ferguson said.

 

Fisher had been prone in his ghillie suit since 9.45am. They had come in from the northwest, using the trail that ran by the back of the bowl. He heard three men walk past his position, could hear another one cut south. He gave them thirty minutes to settle in before he moved.

Slowly, Fisher raised the Dragunov. He’d be firing through a lot of cover, so he was careful picking his line. He’d take the three on the east side of the bowl first. He found Lawrence near the top of the ridgeline. He had good cover in front of him, but Fisher had a quartering shot at the base of the skull. Range was under four hundred meters. Fisher let out half a breath, let his mind clear, let the mil dots settle, slowly started squeezing the trigger. The Dragunov twitched with a low cough. Through the scope, Fisher saw a puff of red and gray as the top of Lawrence’s head disintegrated. Fisher slowly moved the Dragunov down and to the right.

The next target was easier. Less brush in the way. But he would have to work quickly. These two targets were only twenty meters apart. He didn’t know them. Younger guys. They were set up closest to the lot, both carrying M16s with scopes and extended magazines. If he didn’t get them clean, Fisher would have a mess of incoming fire. The first target was prone, closest to Fisher. The second had a good sitting perch between two trees. Farther guy was the tougher shot, and he could roll into cover easily. Take him first. Fisher didn’t see any bunching to indicate body armor but didn’t want to risk a chest shot. A branch hung down across the top of the target’s head. Fisher sighted in on his throat and fired and then quickly swung the rifle to the left. The prone target was rolling and bringing his M16 up toward the back of the ridge. Guy processed the shot quick, Fisher thought, figured the angle. Fisher took a snap shot at center mass and the target lost his weapon, curling into a fetal position. Still some movement, though. Fisher centered his sight picture on the side of the target’s head and fired.

 

Ferguson watched the station and waited, trying to gauge the odds of somebody driving by or stopping for gas at a bad time. Traffic was sparse. One couple arrived in separate cars, left one for service and drove off together. Only one other car on the road in the fifteen minutes he’d been watching. Guy must do service business mostly, Ferguson thought. Maybe more traffic in the fall, once hunting season opened. Lots of deer signs in the woods.

Ferguson was trying to stay focused. The terrain was perfect, but he didn’t like throwing an op together this fast. Something was eating at him. Ferguson tried to think what was missing. But, shit, the terrain was perfect. Suddenly, Ferguson keyed his mic.

“Chen, you on line?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the next closest service station?”

“One moment,” she answered. “It’s on the east side of town, at the end of the ramp off the Interstate. From your position, 6.1 kilometers.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Ferguson. That’s what was wrong. Why would Fisher put himself in this bag if he didn’t have to? Just for a brake job? With another station six clicks away in a public space with good sight lines? “Tell Weaver we are bugging out. Meet us back at the trailhead. Out.”

Ferguson thought he saw something and knew he heard something. He thought he saw lateral movement at the top of the ridge directly behind the station. Peripheral vision. When he looked directly, nothing. But he knew he heard a click, like someone activating a throat mic. Ferguson clicked his. No response. “Lawrence,” he whispered. Nothing. Movement again, turning his way this time. Ghillie. A gun in a ghillie. He could see the suppressor. Ferguson tried to swing the Barrett, but he had only cleared a field of fire for the station and the road. The Barrett hung up in the brush. Fuck this, he thought, and rolled off the ledge down the loose rock scree toward the road.

 

Fisher’s sight picture settled on Ferguson just as he tried to turn the Barrett. Fisher knew Ferguson. He had worked with him, had eaten at his house, knew his children. Fisher paused. Just a fraction of a pause. As Ferguson rolled toward the edge, Fisher fired. Ferguson disappeared, his Barrett hung up in the brush at the top of the ledge, and then slid butt-first over the edge. Fisher wasn’t sure on Ferguson, but he had done what he had set out to do. He had warned the Philistines.

Fisher pulled the green duffle holding the rifle case out from under the brush and looped it over his shoulder

Fisher made his way east along the edge of the ridge. He stopped as he passed Lawrence’s position. Fisher took the Barrett and slipped the bandolier of spare magazines off the corpse and into the duffle. The Barrett’s barrel stuck out a long way. Half a mile east of the station, he cut across the road and south, uphill toward the ridge overlooking the church.

In the woods along the ridge behind the church, Fisher stripped off the Ghillie and left it on the ground. He wouldn’t need it anymore. He pulled the duffle off his shoulder and set the Dragunov inside. He took the stock off the Barrett and separated the barrel assembly. Now it fit in the duffle.

The red pickup was parked in the far corner of the parking lot close to the ridge. Confessions had started, but Fisher was not doing God’s work today. He was in the City of Man. He opened the truck cap, set the duffle in the back, and then drove across the lot, down Hill Street, down Main Street, and back to I-57. The sign at the exit read North Chicago.

Back to the City of God.

 

Ferguson rested for a minute on the shoulder of the road at the base of the rocky incline he had just tumbled down, letting the trivial pains – the cuts, scrapes, and bruises – settle out so he could focus on any major damage. Nasty cut on the back of his head. He could feel blood running down inside his collar. Right shoulder hurt like hell. Looking at it, he could see a furrow through the jacket, the shirt, and the flesh on the top of the shoulder. Fisher had come pretty close. Ferguson tested the range of motion. Not separated. Nothing felt broken. Maybe a rib. Might be a cracked rib. Right hip was stiffening up in a big hurry where his radio had been smashed into uselessness. Other than that, just garden-variety pain, a feeling like he had been put in a dryer with a laundry basket full of rocks.