The Nature of the Beast (28 page)

Whatever Craig was about to say was swallowed by the scream. A single ear- splitting note, high enough to open garage doors.

51

Two things were immediately certain. One...the cry had emanated from the corridor along the north wall, directly opposite the area where the SWAT teams were searching for the suspect. Two…the shriek had neither been coached nor coerced. No… the sound had been a genuine expression of agony.

Craig pulled out his CPD hand radio and whispered into the mouthpiece. No response from the SWAT team. He tried again. And then again. Same result each time.

“Close quarters. No radios,” Audrey reminded him.

Craig nodded grimly. As to the question of what to do next, further discussion would have been superfluous. They both knew what they had to do.

Irrespective of service protocol, of tactical or safety considerations, Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams found the cries too much to ignore. They started moving down the corridor at a cautious lope, one of them moving along each side wall, peering around corners before moving on to the next work room.

In less than a minute, they emerged into another large open space. Once again, the north wall was capped with a line of narrow windows. Taking opposite sides of the hallway, Special Agents Craig and Williams pressed themselves into the deepest shadows; they made eye contact. Jackson Craig jabbed a thumb at his chest and nodded. Audrey understood.

Heads on a swivel, machine guns ready, they shuffled inside. The floor was crisscrossed with narrow-gauged railroad tracks. Overhead, a rusty, chain-powered conveyor belt encircled another canal. Here and there, the oxidized remains of blocks and tackles hung from the ceiling like Winter grapes.

Audrey could almost see them. Thick men in caps. Poles. Italians, Swedes. Grateful for the paycheck. Sleeves rolled up over hairy forearms, thick gloves pushing carts filled with whatever molten locomotive part they’d just pulled from the forge. They’d wheel whatever it was in here, dip it in the canal until it cooled and then…and then what? The sound of the voice scattered her thoughts like windblown leaves.

The voice was gruff. Barking barely intelligible reminders and recriminations.

“Do your duty,” the deep voice bellowed. The same phrase repeated itself a couple of dozen times. The echoes bounced from brick to brick. Another shout. She couldn’t make out the words. Craig shot her a look. Together, they inched forward.

He was waiting for them. All the way down at the far end. Maybe a hundred feet away, the narrow, overhead windows providing sufficient light to make out his black-on-black reflection wavering in the stagnant water. Holding Michael by the belt with one hand. Pointing a machine pistol with the other. Using the boy as a ballistic shield, the apparition stepped away from the huge stone pillar.

“Let the boy go,” Jackson Craig shouted.

“Uh-uh.”

Craig repeated his demand for the boy.

The voice laughed out loud.

“There’s no way you’re getting out of here,” Audrey shouted. “No need to hurt the boy. Let him go. He’s not part of this.”

The voice went sing-song. “Come and get him bitchy witchy.”

“Colin,” Audrey called. “Colin listen to me. This doesn’t have to…”

“Doooooon’t,” he bellowed. The voice was moving out of control.

The boy screamed again. If anything…louder than before.

Instinctively, Jackson Craig knew what his partner was thinking. He held up a restraining hand and prepared to shout, but already it was too late.

Special Agent Williams stepped out into center of the dimly lit corridor. She held her hands above her head in surrender. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t call you that name again.” She shuffled two steps closer, raising her hands even higher. “Please…don’t hurt him. He hasn’t done anything to you. Let the boy go. We’ll…”

A bright yellow burst of flame and the flat clap of the assault weapon raked the senses. Craig watched in horror as the force of the slug blew her backwards, somersaulting her across the floor, where she came to rest, loose-jointed and unmoving, half in, half out of the shadows.

Craig called her name several times. First name. Last name. Nothing. He gauged the distance. Maybe ten feet. Two giant steps across the stone floor, a second and a half in the light. He had no illusions. The chances of getting to her and then dragging her from the line of fire without being hit himself were slim to none. Didn’t matter.

Craig launched himself across the slimy stones. Bear-crawling on all fours, he covered the distance in two heartbeats before throwing himself to the floor at her side. He lifted his head and snuck a peek in the direction of the shooter but was unable to find the silhouette in the darkness. His breathing was ragged. His mouth tasted like it was full of pennies.

Without hesitation, he jumped to his feet, grabbed the adjustment strap on the back of Audrey’s Kevlar vest and began pulling her to the far side of the underground corridor, involuntarily holding his breath, waiting for the bullets to arrive in the second before the yellow muzzle flash lit the place up like the fourth of July. But nothing happened. Other than the sound of Audrey’s labored breathing the place was as silent as a tomb.

On the far side, he squatted in the shadows, breathing heavily as he slid her body tight against the wall, out of the line of fire. She didn’t appear to be breathing but Craig never got the chance to find out.

A hundred feet away, the figure moved to his right, blotting out the single shaft of light, throwing the cavern into nearly total darkness. Craig squinted into the gloom. A dull corona of light outlined the figure at the other end of the room.

“I know what I am,” he said.

Craig was stunned. Mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“What?” he asked, stupefied.

“I know what I am,” the voice repeated, matter-of-factly, like he was admitting to being a Lutheran. “There’s no place for me here. I know it now.”

“Don’t hurt the boy,” Craig pleaded.

“You came for him,” the dark figure said. “I wanted to see if you would.”

“Let the boy go.”

“Why did you come so far?”

“Please let the boy go. We’ll…”

“He’s nothing to you…nothing… but you came for him anyway,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice bounced from wall to wall.

Craig said nothing. Instead, he picked up the P90 from the floor and peered through the sight. He bobbed left and right, and up and down trying to find a safe shooting angle, but the figure at the far end of the canal was nothing but a blur.

Before Craig could decide what to do next, a cry ricocheted over the stones and then he heard the unmistakable sound of a splash. His mind’s eye saw Michael Browning pin-wheeling in slow motion, sinking to the bottom of the filthy canal as he screamed the last of his life out into the dank water.

Without thinking, Jackson Craig sprinted forward, firing wildly as he crossed the uneven floor. Bits of wood and brick broke loose from the target area and began to fill the air. At nine hundred rounds a minute the P90 went through its allotted hundred rounds before he was half way there. He pulled his Sig Sauer from the holster and held it in the combat position as he sprinted forward, the empty P90 banging against his chest with every bone jarring stride.

By the time he got there, the boy was nothing but a ripple on the surface. Fully expecting to be shot to pieces at any second, Craig shrugged his overcoat to the floor and jumped, feet first, into the inky water below.

The water was both colder and deeper than he’d imagined. He used his foot to probe for the bottom but was unable to find it. He gulped air and then upended himself, breast stroking, diving for the bottom, feeling with his hands as he forced himself down through the subterranean stew. Two frog kicks and his left hand hit the bottom. Maybe eight feet down. A century of slime and slag covered the stones. He held his breath and felt around the muck. The air in his lungs felt cold and dense. He scissor-kicked again and felt around in front of his face. His cheeks began to bulge. He continued to kick his feet and probe with his hands as the roar in his ears reached runway levels.

The air in his lungs escaped in a single straining burst. He flipped over, pushed off the bottom and followed the bubbles up. He sputtered, pawed the water from his eyes and looked around. Still no sign of Michael. He gulped air and dove again.

He probed desperately in the darkness, twisting his body in a full circle, feeling the floor and walls with his hands and finding nothing. He ducked his head and dove again. His head felt as if it would explode as he felt his way along the slimy, debris covered bottom. When the roaring in his ears reached supersonic levels, he allowed himself float to the surface where he threw his arms over the edge and sucked air. Above the dripping water and the sound of his own straining lungs, the sound of clanking metal caught his attention. He groaned and looked up.

Needless to say, the pair of CPD SWAT officers were a welcome sight. In the background he heard Officer Hollins calling for assistance and then the unmistakable wail of a siren. Maybe more than one. Sergeant Leonard’s scowling visage loomed into view. He wasn’t happy. Not at all.

“What the hell is it with you?” he demanded.

Jackson Craig’s left arm flopped and squirmed like a trout gasping on a riverbank. Craig tried to stop the twitching but found himself unable to regain command of his nerve impulses
.
He used his good hand to point down at the water.

“The boy,” Jackson Craig croaked.

52

The sound of the door shot Audrey straight up in the bed. Her eyes darted around the room before settling on Jackson Craig. “Michael?” she asked.

Craig shook his head. “He wasn’t in the canal. Only thing they found was a nice new MAC-10 lying on the bottom. Must have been what I heard hitting the water.”

The answer was written on his face, but she asked anyway. “No line on
him
?”

“No,” Craig said. “CPD’s all over it. They found a couple of places where somebody had broken through into the sewer system. Patrol found a manhole out of place about six blocks west of where we were located. They think he took the boy out that way.”

Failure and frustration settled around their shoulders like a wet blanket.

“How’s your hand?” she asked. “ I heard you got it wet.”

Craig lifted his left arm to eye level. “Yeah,” he said. “Reinnervation went haywire from the canal water. Took ‘em a couple hours to dry me off and get everything working again.” He twiddled his artificial fingers. “Good as new.”

He used the hand to hitch up his sagging scrubs. “What about you?” he asked.

“I feel like somebody hit me in the chest with a sledge hammer.”

“Somebody did.”

“So I’m told.”

“Cracked your sternum completely in half,” Craig said. “The ER physician said he imagined the force of the blow probably stopped your heart for a few seconds.”

“Didn’t somebody once say ‘either I’m dead or in Philadelphia’?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over to the window and stared across an interior courtyard at building next door. Twelve stories below, occasional figures hustled over the sidewalks, wrapped in overcoats and mufflers moving quickly in the cold.

“You know what he said to me?” Craig asked after an interval. Whatever it was had moved him. She could see it in his face.

“What?”

“He said: I know what I am.”

“Really?”

“Said it twice. I know what I am.”

“How sad,” Audrey said.

“Sad might not be the first word I would have chosen, but its certainly somewhere in the neighborhood,” Craig allowed. “He had this almost theatrical aura of melancholy about him. Like Hamlet at the end of the play. It’s hard to describe.”

“How could he
not
know what he is?” Audrey asked. “Comes a point where he’s got to know that what’s going on between him and Harry is just about the worst felony a body can commit. That even
convicts
hate baby rapers. I mean…”

Craig cut her off. “What you did was stupid,” he said.

“I thought if I used his real name…maybe he would…maybe knowing who he was…would trigger…you know…”

“Could have gotten all three of us killed.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were dead,” Craig said.

“Me too,” she said with a bent grin.

__

He circled the block three times.
Waiting until the girl in 1B
got home and pulled her shades for the night. Garrity. Louise Garrity was always the last one to arrive home on week nights. Got off the number forty-seven bus over on Harvard Street and then walked the four blocks home. Same thing. Every night.
Rain or shine.

The old biddies on the top floor hardly ever went out.
Had everything delivered.
Ditto the Italian guy in 3E.
Everybody else kept a regular schedule.
He knew.
In the months immediately after renting the apartment, he
’
d spent weeks following every one of them all over the Chicago metropolitan area.
Just for practice.
Just for peace of mind.

He grabbed the boy under the arms, hoisted him to his shoulder and trotted out into the street.
The boy was limp and loose as jelly. He
’
d bonked the kid
’
s head as he
’
d sprinted away from the cops.
A nasty purple bruise was beginning to form in the middle of the kid
’
s forehead.
He trotted faster.

A pachaydermal garbage truck swerved in the snow to avoid running him down. The air horns blared. He was running now.
Ducking in and out of traffic as he crossed Nassau Street and hopped up onto the front stoop of the building.

A minute later, he was leaning back against the inside of the apartment door.
Music filtered in from next door.
2B.
The young marrieds.
Always pawing one another in the hall, in the laundry room, everywhere you saw them.
Disgusting.
As if that weren
’
t enough, they were playing
Abba.
‘
Dancing Queen.
’