Set the Night on Fire (13 page)

She went to the kitchen in a daze and filled a glass with water. She was just taking a sip when the world exploded.

T
he waves gently rocked Lila. She was floating somewhere dark and warm. She was surprised at how content she felt—deep water usually frightened her. Far away, up on the surface, a bright watery light beckoned. She decided to swim towards it and started a slow breast stroke, the way her father had taught her. But as she drew closer, the light exploded into a shimmering mass of ripples. Too much. Too harsh. She sank back into the darkness. She’d try again later.

* *

This time she was near the surface, and the light was closer. But something was blocking it, protecting her from the worst of the glare. And there were sounds. A rustle here, a whisper there. The current was pushing her closer. But to what? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to leave the blackness.

“I think she’s coming to,” a woman’s voice said.

Lila crashed through the surface and instantly wanted to dive back down. Fiery pain stung her. Her skin felt like it was crawling with biting red ants. The pain demanded all her attention. She wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t obey. The noise came out as a moan.

The woman’s voice again. Calm but concerned. “Easy does it, baby. I know it hurts, but you’ll handle it. It won’t get any worse. Try to let it roll over you. Meanwhile, I’m going to spray your skin with something.”

A cool and soothing sensation misted her face. For a few seconds, the pain retreated, and she relinquished the tight grip on her consciousness. A minute passed. Or was it five? Her eyelids began to flutter. Slowly she opened her eyes. A woman’s face swam into view. Blurry, out of focus. A widow’s peak on her forehead. A kind expression.

“Hello, Lila.” The woman’s brow smoothed out. “I’m Cece, and we’ve been worried about you.” She lifted a hand, and for a moment Lila thought she was going to brush her fingers against her forehead. Don’t, she wanted to cry out. Hurts too much. The woman’s hand halted in midair, as if she’d heard her.

“I’m not going to touch you. You’ve got some mean abrasions on your face. But they’ll heal, and you’ll be just as pretty as ever,” the woman said. “You’re at my house, in Franklin Park, by the way, and I used to be a nurse.”

Lila made a croaking sound.

“Dar, bring her some water.”

For the first time Lila was aware of someone else in the room. She tried to turn her head to see, but the effort was too great. She fell back against the pillow.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart,” the woman said. “The best thing you can do is sleep. There will be plenty of time to talk.”

Lila closed her eyes. She heard an uneven tread of footsteps. Someone was dragging a foot. Limping. “How is she?” A man’s voice. Soft. Worried.

There was a beat of silence. “As well as can be expected,” the woman replied.

“Here. Open your mouth.” Lila felt a straw slide between her lips. “This is water. Take a sip.”

She did.

“Good girl. Now go back to sleep.”

She did.

* *

When the motorcycle pulled up to the curb, Dar was climbing out of Cece’s Honda. He’d taken to staking out the Evanston condo at night, convinced whoever had shot at Lila would be back. Cece wasn’t happy about it, but he always got the car back to her by dawn.

The night was sharp and clear; the moon looked glued onto the dark sky. Arctic air bit through his clothes. Dar stayed on the street until his fingers and toes went numb. Then he went back to the car and blasted the heater.

If her pursuers were whom he thought, they wouldn’t give up. They would be as relentless as they’d been with Casey, Payton, and Rain. But Lila was an innocent. She hadn’t even been alive when everything went down. Why target her?

Five minutes. That’s all the time he would give himself to thaw. He pulled his gloves back on and was back at the building when the motorcycle pulled up. A high-tech design, blue and gray plastic extending from the front. A BMW Enduro. His stomach pitched. He knew that bike.

Dar ducked into the gangway next door but kept the man in sight. The rider swung his leg off the bike and studied Lila’s building. Then he started around to the back. Dar crept out of the gangway, his gym shoes muffling his steps. Enduro Man mounted a set of stairs that led up to porches on the upper floors. Lila lived in the second-floor apartment on the left. Inside, a shadow passed across a window. She was up. Walking around the kitchen.

Enduro Man stopped at Lila’s landing. Unzipping his jacket, he slid his hand in and fished out a small object. Dar gasped. Dread shot through him. He sprinted across the yard.

Too late. Enduro Man pulled something from the object he was holding and tossed it onto Lila’s porch. A grenade! Then he wheeled around and raced down the steps. A thunderous bang split the night. Lila’s door blew in, glass shattered, flames erupted. At the base of the steps, the goon stopped and looked over his shoulder. To admire his handiwork, maybe? Twisting around, he caught sight of Dar. He froze.

Dar froze too. He knew he should make the first move. Tackle the guy, try one of those holds he’d learned in prison. But he couldn’t make himself initiate a fight. They faced off, staring at one another, each knowing the other was an enemy. Then Enduro Man bolted across the yard and disappeared around a corner. A moment later an engine roared to life. Tires screeched.

Dar charged up the steps, hoping they would support him. But when he reached Lila’s porch, most of the floor had collapsed. The blast had ripped away big chunks of floorboards, exposing the joists underneath. The back door had been blown apart: the top half hung at an angle from its hinge, while the lower half was in pieces. Flames licked the walls, and the smell of char and burnt plastic wafted out.

Dar strained to hear a sound, any sound that would indicate Lila was alive. Except for the crackle of flames, it was silent. But it would be a short-lived silence. Already lights were snapping on. Soon sirens, radios, and the jangle of emergency equipment would fill the air.

What would the police do when they found an ex-con on the site where a hand grenade had exploded? An ex-con who once killed several people with a bomb? Was that why the man on the motorcycle used a grenade?

Common sense said he should flee. Get out before he was discovered. Help would be arriving in less than a minute. She’d probably be okay. He should put a lot of space between himself and Evanston.

No. Not this time. If he let the paramedics take her, the killers might try again. If she was still alive.

He stepped carefully from the landing across what was left of the porch. His balance wasn’t what it used to be, and one foot landed in a large gap. He slipped and fell. He broke his fall with his hands, but sharp pain shot through his ankle. He waited for it to subside and tentatively circled his foot. The movement produced a fresh stab of pain, but the fact he could move it meant it wasn’t broken. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the door.

A sprinkler gushed water from the kitchen ceiling, and most of the flames had died. Still, a curtain of black smoke hung in the air. He stripped off his pea coat and threw it over his head. Lila had to be nearby —he’d seen her shadow moving before the grenade went off. His eyes raked the debris.

There! Near the sink, under a layer of rubble that might once have been a table, was a leg. An arm protruded nearby. He crawled to her. Her torso and face were partially covered by rubble, and she wasn’t moving. He sucked in a breath. But when he looked more closely he saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. He allowed himself to exhale.

A siren whined in the distance. Gently he wiped debris from her face. An ugly gash marked one cheek, and her forehead was bleeding. Lacerations scored her hands. He got to his feet, then bent down and scooped her up. His ankle screamed in pain. He struggled toward the front door of the apartment.

The impact of the blast diminished the further away he got from the kitchen, and by the time he reached the door, there was no damage and little smoke. He opened the front door. Thankfully, there was a small elevator in the hall. He punched the call button, and when the elevator came, he staggered inside and propped Lila against the wall.

By the time they descended to the lobby, his ankle was on fire. Sweat beaded his brow. The sirens sounded closer. Lights blazed up and down the block. He limped outside, with Lila in his arms. Cece’s car was under a streetlamp. Could someone identify the license plate? It didn’t matter. He had to get her in the car.

He lurched to the car and fumbled the door open. He laid her gently on the back seat. As he pulled away, a police cruiser and fire truck turned onto the block.

T
he next time Lila opened her eyes she felt logy, as if her brain was still underwater. She was on her side, the covers over her, a pillow under her head. A man sat in a chair beside her. He was wearing white gym shoes. An Ace bandage was wrapped around his left ankle. She blinked. White gym shoes in winter. Where had she seen those?

She forced herself to roll onto her back. Arrows of pain shot through her, but she studied him. Dark hair salted with gray. Dark, smoky, worried eyes. A long, gaunt face. The lines on it told a story of a hard life. He looked familiar.

“I know you,” she croaked.

He nodded.

She willed the connection to come. When it did, an icy recognition flooded over her. “You’re the one who fell on me the night I was shot at!”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“To protect you.”

“Why? Who are you? How do you know me?”

The man cleared his throat. An odd look crept across his face. Sorrow, she thought. She squinted. He looked much too familiar. The night on the Gold Coast wasn’t the only time she’d seen this man. The connection fired. “Are you . . . oh my god! You’re one of the men in the picture with my mother. You’re Dar Gantner!”

He nodded again.

Recognition turned to panic, and Lila looked wildly around the room. She struggled with the bedcovers thinking she needed to escape. But all she managed to do was tangle the sheets. Her throat was raw and hoarse. “Who . . . what do you want?”

Cece came running. “It’s okay, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you. He saved you.”

Lila recognized the soothing voice, the widow’s peak. But her pulse was still racing, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. Nothing made sense. This woman was good. Dar was bad. And yet, he had “saved” her? “What the hell is going on?”

The man got up and started to pace. He was limping.

The woman sat on the edge of the bed. “Someone threw a grenade into your apartment. Dar was there when it happened. No . . . ” She held up her hand. “He didn’t do it. But he saw who did. You’re hurt, but nothing’s broken, and you’re going to be okay. Good thing you were wearing sweats. They helped protect you.”

Lila tried to process what she was hearing. The bandages tugged her forehead and made it hurt. “They’re Danny’s,” she said absently.

Dar stopped pacing. “Daniel,” he murmured

Cece went on. “Your face took the brunt of it. They’re superficial, but you won’t want to look in the mirror for a while. Your hands are torn up too, but the pain should lessen soon.”

Lila looked at her hands, which were wrapped in gauze. But Cece was right—the pain had dropped a few notches. Now she just felt achy and sore. She didn’t have the strength to flee. She turned to Dar. “You still haven’t told me why you saved me.”

He seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. He came back, sat down, and clasped his hands together. “You already know my name is Dar Gantner. What you don’t know is that I am your father.”

Part Two

1968–1970

* * * *

“
C
asey, you’re a Celtic knot.” Alix giggled as she passed Rain the joint. The smoke Casey had been holding in exploded out of his lungs. He coughed long and hard, drowning out the chorus of
People are Strange
by the Doors.

“Are you all right?” Rain squinted through her granny glasses.

Casey nodded, his throat so raspy he couldn’t speak.

Rain crossed her legs Indian-style and took a hit off the J. She held it in, exhaled quietly, then passed it to Dar.

“What do you mean, Alix?” Casey finally croaked.

Alix tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. The six of them were on the living room floor of the apartment, a shabby space with yellowed shades, torn linoleum, and cracks in the walls. “You’re always making connections,” she said. “With people, places, events. You twist things all together. Like a Celtic knot.”

“Aw, man, you’re just stoned.” Payton wiggled his fingers and sang along with the music.

“Cool it, Payton.” Dar raised a warning hand.

“It’s all right.” Alix gently stayed his hand and took the J from his fingers. She passed it to Payton. “Actually, a Celtic knot is a symbol for the complexity of the universe. No matter how our lives play out, we’re all intertwined. Twisting and weaving and overlapping. No beginning. No end. Here, I’ll draw it.”

“Alpha and omega,” Teddy said. He lay spread-eagled on the floor.

“Right.” Alix got up slowly.

“You all right?” Dar and Casey said it together.

She giggled again and grabbed the back of the couch. “Trippy. I guess I’m a little high.”

Dar’s eyes, always dark and brooding, were edged with concern. He looked liked he wanted to rescue her, Casey thought. He usually did.

“Just sit,” Casey said before Dar had the chance. “Don’t draw anything.”

But Alix shook her head and went to a large leather satchel in the corner. She fished out a pad and ink pen and started sketching. A minute later she brought it back and handed it to Payton. “See? It folds back on itself. Nothing lost. Very economical.”

Payton stared without comment, took another hit, and passed the J to Teddy.

Casey peered at the sketch over Payton’s shoulder. He saw a circle with lots of overlapping lines and squiggles. “Far out,” he said appreciatively.

“That’s you. Symbolically speaking.” Alix plopped back down beside Dar.

“Hey. This is good shit.” Teddy exhaled and passed the joint back to Casey. “Where’d you get it, Payton?”

Payton scratched his forehead underneath his rolled up red bandana. “Uh . . . some guy.”

“Casey scored it,” Rain said. “Not Payton.”

Payton shot her a dark look.

“Well, he did. We were in Old Town, looking for copies of
The Seed
—you know, the special one with the psychedelic ‘Yippie’ on the cover—and we met this guy. Casey started rapping with him, and a few minutes later, we walked out with an oz.”

Alix splayed her hands. “Connections. See what I mean?”

Dar took Alix’s outstretched hand. She snuggled closer to him.

Casey tried not to notice. “Where’s the hemostat?”

Teddy sat up, found it, and handed it to Casey. Casey clipped it to the roach, took one last hit and passed it back to Teddy, who took another toke, then dumped the hemostat and roach into a large ashtray.

Payton sighed. “So what’s the program, group?”

 “
I Love Lucy
,” Teddy said.

“
Star Trek
.” Casey blew out the last of the smoke.

“
The Flying Nun
,” Alix said.

“Fuck it.” Payton shook his head. “And you call yourselves activists?”

“We boldly went where no man has gone before,” Teddy said in a stagey, TV voice.

“And met some very spacy creatures,” Casey added with a laugh.

“We’ve done our part,” Alix said.

“Wrong. ‘There can be no peace until every soldier is out of Vietnam and the imperialistic system is destroyed.’” Payton scowled. “Quick. Who said that?”

Casey rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, Payton.”

Payton persisted. “Who?”

“Rennie Davis,” Dar cut in.

“Give the man a medal,” Payton said.

Alix and Dar exchanged looks. “Alix has a point,” Dar said. “We brought thousands of people to Chicago. Discredited the government . . . and the party that got us into this mess.”

“So we brought the war home for a few days.” Payton shrugged. “The war didn’t take a few days off. And the pigs are still in control.”

“You can’t run the world according to Mao’s little red book, Payton,” Rain sniffed. When Payton arched his eyebrows, she added, “I saw you leafing through it the other day. That’s dangerous.”

“Shit, Rain.” Payton ran a hand through his long blond hair. “We invade a country, dump bombs on the people, and risk the lives of millions. All in the name of ‘Peace with honor.’ Now
that’s
dangerous.”

“Hey man, Payton’s right,” Teddy said, coming to his defense. “Look what happened last week. Troops in the street. Fucking bayonets and tear gas. Mass arrests. This isn’t America. It’s Nazi Germany.” He pulled out a cigarette from a crumpled pack, struck a match to it, and took a long drag.

Alix frowned. “I thought we all agreed it was time for a break. And you shouldn’t put that poison into your lungs.”

Teddy took another deep drag. For spite, Casey figured.

He went to the window, only half-listening to the bickering. Below was the intersection of Sedgwick and Willow, a few blocks north and west of the heart of Old Town. The neighborhood was in transition from an artists’ community to a home for hippies, and some of the buildings were abandoned factories that had been divided up into apartments. Theirs wasn’t much more than a few rooms with bare bulbs and the occasional cockroach, but the rent was reasonable, and at night you could imagine you were on the Left Bank of Paris or Greenwich Village.

Casey had never thought of himself as a connector. Then again, over the past week they’d formed their own personal collective, Payton called it—and it had been Casey’s doing. His and Alix’s.