The guy didn’t go down but just staggered back a step and stood there, his face bleeding, his nose mashed even more than before, and Keith did what any brave man would do in such a situation.
He ran.
Ran up the sidewalk, with Bench Street beckoning. But footsteps on the pavement echoed from behind him, and somebody tackled him. Facedown on the sidewalk, Keith felt strong hands grip him, then flip him over. A new cast member glowered down, younger, with long dark hair and wide-set eyes in a round face that didn’t go with a trimly muscular fat-free build, in jeans and a CUBS sweatshirt. Just in case he hadn’t figured out from whence these two came.
Bruno, bloody but unbowed, came lumbering up toward them, footsteps slow and heavy on cement, telling Keith things had taken a very bad turn.
“I’m a cop, damnit!” he sputtered at them.
“Yeah, we know,” the new guy said.
And started kicking him.
Where Keith had fallen left room for the guy whose family jewels he’d briefly confiscated to start in kicking on the other side, getting it in the ribs from both men on both sides. For a guy still in pain, Bruno made a pretty good showing. His kicks damn near kept pace with the new guy’s.
In between kicks, they offered advice: “Stay out of Chicago, ya bastard!” was the general theme.
Keith was just wishing he could pass out when headlights washed over him again, this time from the top of Hill Street, coming around from Bench. A siren started and the kicking stopped. He heard but didn’t see his attackers scramble for their waiting Lexus, their heavy quick footsteps like scattered gunfire.
Then more footsteps and voices: “Police! Hold it right there! Get those hands up!”
Keith wondered if gunfire would follow, but it didn’t. He closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when Booker’s voice said, “We have your friends. This should be a pretty story. Meantime, an ambulance is comin’ for you. You need a checkup, son.”
“What... what are you doing in uniform?”
“My turn to ride patrol. We all got to take a turn, except for your child. She’s special.”
“I... I always thought so,” Keith said.
Another siren was screaming.
So were his sides.
Then everything went blessedly black.
Twenty-One
You are not anxious to do this.
Well, that’s not exactly right. You are anxious, in the sense that anxiety is a low fluctuating hum beneath your surface calm. You are prepared to do this only to protect yourself. You really have no wish to hurt her. The memories with this one are too fresh. Too sweet. Too vivid.
But you will probably have to do it.
And, you tell yourself, several other important functions may well be served. Confusing the issue is one. Throwing suspicion elsewhere is another. Sentiment cannot be allowed to defeat self-preservation.
First, you must check on the person to whom you hope attention will be drawn. Is he at home tonight? That could prove a deciding factor. If he is with her, or is planning to meet her when she gets off work, you would have two people with which to deal, simultaneously... and that would not do.
Your hope is that he will be at home, that is, the home of his parents, in the basement apartment they have provided him. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac on Bluffwood Drive, barn-shaped but with modern touches against a wooded backdrop. You park down the street, walk to where two houses have no lights on and then cut between them, to work your way through the trees and around to the barnlike structure’s nicely landscaped backyard.
Staying low, you are able to peek in a window into the finished basement. There’s a massive wall-screen TV, and a big open area with comfy chairs and a couch arranged for viewing. But against the far wall is a single bed and a dresser; also a desk with a computer on it. Seems to have been a family room until it was turned into this studio apartment.
Its inhabitant is sitting on the couch with his feet on an ottoman. He has a can of beer in hand, wears a T-shirt and jeans, no socks. Next to him is an open bag of Sterzing’s potato chips. He would appear to be in for the evening.
Good.
Even better is that the rest of the lights are off in the house and there’s no car in the drive or the garage. The parents and their Chrysler are nowhere to be seen.
Perfect.
You drive back to downtown Galena, park on Commerce, and walk up the slope of Washington Street to South Main. It’s after eight and, with the stores closed and few restaurants or bars at this end of Main, things are very quiet. Not many cars parked on the street; traffic’s light.
And it’s only going to get quieter.
You take the old concrete stairs by the narrow closed-off cobblestone street, to the right of which is a modest park-like area, and go up to the patio of Vinny Vanucchi’s. No one around, but lights are on in the restaurant. They don’t close till nine.
You go in. Take a left to go down the short hall to the restrooms. You duck into yours, relieve yourself, wash your hands. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s you. Normal. Nothing shows. You check your hair, brush it back in place, and smile at your reflection. Not pushing it. Just friendly.
Walking past the little unattended deli counter, you find the greeter, the thirtyish assistant manager who you know a little, leaning at the station where he seats guests. Another deli counter, also unattended, is at right, its low electrical hum a manifestation of your anxiety.
The restaurant is fairly empty. Dean Martin is singing “Sway.” Somebody in white is working in the kitchen. The sunken wine-cellar nook at left that you pass has both its tables empty. Up the stairs your host pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the main dining room, from which there is no noise at all. You are taken into the cozy dining area that you like best and are seated by the faux fireplace in the corner. By the window onto Main, a middle-aged couple are having a late dinner. They are the only other diners.
Jasmine appears to be the entire waitstaff at this hour, late in a slow day. She comes over, looking surprised to see you, her expression falling, but then picking itself up into something pleasant that could be called a smile.
“Alone tonight?” she asks.
She is pretty as ever, her medium-length brown hair framing her face beautifully. You feel a pang and it’s not hunger. Well, really, it kind of is. There are hungers and there are hungers.
“Everybody at home but me has the flu,” you say.
A real smile. “I sure hope you’re not contagious.”
“No, I’ve already had it. You’re perfectly safe.”
She has a menu for you, but you say you don’t need it.
“Rocky’s Ravioli,” you say.
“Your favorite.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re my favorite.”
Her smile is gone but a frown hasn’t replaced it. “Don’t say that. It’s cruel.”
Sammy Davis is singing “Something’s Gotta Give.”
“I don’t mean to be cruel,” you say. “It’s just that... I’ve missed you. I am not coming on to you! Just telling you. I’ve missed you.”
“Yes,” she said, cheerfully, “it’s nice seeing you, too. I’ll bring your bread and salad.”
She goes off to do that. The middle-aged couple are finishing up. After Jasmine returns with the bowl of salad and basket of bread, she goes over and gives them their check, then disappears.