After Clarke left, Hurley sat in the office with Riley.
“I’ve been thinking about who we want handling it with the cops,” said Riley. “You know that Declan Lynch guy?”
“Up on the northwest side? Does some precinct work and whatnot? Rusty Lynch’s brother?”
“Yeah. Rusty can help keep him in line. Also, once he reads the tea leaves, I think he’ll smell an opportunity in it.”
“Good. Call the commissioner.”
“Zeke Fisher called while you were talking to the kid. He’s done over there. Wants you to know he’s sorry, but it’s going to be ugly. What he had to work with, only way he could go. On the plus side, looks like a chance to clean up the rest of your nigger problem. He also wants to know does he need to do anything about Clarke.”
CHAPTER 5 — KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS
Present Day
Ishmael Leviticus Fisher lay awake in the anonymous hotel on the frontage road off I-57. He needed to sleep, but the moment kept coming back to him. His wife, the quick smile and short wave out the driver’s window of the Blazer as it crunched through the yellowed leaves, down past the short stone wall, past the chestnut tree, angling to the right as it backed into the street.
Andy’s face in the back window, the delicate skin around the blues eyes crinkled, that smile that seemed to split his head like a melon full of teeth. Amanda in the car seat past him, just a year old, just a hint of Amanda through the reflection of the white house and the black shutters and the fragile blue of the autumn sky.
Then the white-yellow flash of the Semtex, like diamond lava, and a sound like all the bones in the world snapping at once, the driver’s side of the Blazer pitching up, part of the bottom showing, and then the gas tank exploding, a richer, redder fire with a sound like a bass drum stretched with his own flesh and beaten with his own heart.
Picking himself up and running to the burning hulk, half, half, half his son strewn into the street, his head now truly split, brains, not teeth, smiling out. And his wife, thrown out onto the lawn, blood sheeting down her face and a flap of her scalp hanging across one eye, a ragged triangle of gray plastic jutting from her abdomen, her right leg gone almost to the hip, the scarlet, arterial blood arcing out in desperate spurts. Her clawing at the plastic as he reached her, clawing at the invasion into her already crowded womb. And her remaining eye meeting his eyes just once, and her saying “the baby,” and her hands falling away from her stomach as that one good eye rolled back and the blood from her leg slowed, no longer propelled by a beating heart.
Fisher closed his eyes, forced the memory away. He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and went out into the night to run.
CHAPTER 6 — CHICAGO
When John Lynch got to his desk, he had a message to call McCord at the ME’s office. Got what he usually got, McCord eating something while he talked.
“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, McCord.”
“Brunch, Lynch. Had breakfast couple hours ago. We can’t all keep your hours.”
“So what have you got for me?”
“You know about the cancer?”
“Priest told me. Bad?”
“Broad’s a walking tumor. Got it everywhere.”
“She in pain you think?”
“Must’ve been.”
“So I should put out an APB on that Kevorkian, huh?”
“Depends. Can he shoot?”
“So what else?”
“Definitely a descending line on the shot. Had to have some elevation. Like I was saying yesterday, bouncing off all those bones, maybe it just got kicked down, but I got a real clean entrance wound in the sternum, and the beveling on that tells me the round was headed down when it hit her. 7.62mm, so definitely a rifle round.”
“Fuck.” Lynch trying to picture the scene in his mind again. “You see anything when you were over there? Parking lot, right? Then the park. Bungalows behind that. Anything high enough?”
“Maybe the guy climbed a tree in that park, I dunno. Like I said, I just do the science. By the way, got her in the heart. Pretty much dead center. Guy’s either real lucky or real, real good.”
Lynch ran through the ME’s findings for Starshak.
“How far’s that park from the church?” Starshak asked.
“Got the street, parking lot, another street, the trees in off that a bit. Gotta be three hundred yards anyway, probably more.”
“Long way. Right in the heart, you said?”
“Yeah.” Lynch thinking a minute. “Hey, you used to be SWAT, right?”
“Yeah,” Starshak answered.
“What about one of the department sharpshooters? Think one of them might be able to break this down?”
“It’s an idea. Let me make a couple calls.”
Lynch went back out to his desk. Liz had left his place early that morning, wanting to get home, clean up, change. Lynch feeling funny standing naked in his kitchen, trading phone numbers. Lynch pulled out her card and called her office. Got her voice mail.
“Hey, Liz. It’s Lynch. Just thought I should call. Listen, I’m not that good at this stuff in person, so I’m not going to go on to some machine, but if you’d like to get together, get some dinner or something, call my cell. I’m, you know, glad you called last night.”
Starshak walked out, handed Lynch a piece of paper. “Guy named Darius Cunningham. He’s off today, but he’ll meet you over at Sacred Heart at 10.00.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
“So I hear from McGinty you were out late with some blonde looker,” Starshak said with a little dig in his voice.
“Fucking McGinty better learn to keep his mouth shut or he’s gonna lose his lease.”
Resurrection Hospital was on the way to Sacred Heart, and Lynch hadn’t been to see his mom in three days. He parked the Crown Vic outside the emergency entrance, badged the guard, and headed up.
Lynch took a minute to suck it up before he walked into his mom’s room on the sixth floor. When the doctors first diagnosed the cancer they gave her six months. That was four years ago. She was down two breasts from the cancer and a foot from the diabetes, weighed maybe eighty pounds. Better to go the way Dad went. Bullet through the head and you’re two hundred and thirty-five pounds of morgue fodder.
With his chipper face cemented in place, Lynch stepped in. The first bed was empty. The room was dark, washed with the blue flicker from the TV.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “Lookin’ hot. Docs still hittin’ on you?”
She still lit up when she saw him, but she was down to about a twenty-watt bulb.
“Johnny,” she said. She put up her left arm for a hug. The right one had too many tubes in it.
He bent down and kissed her parchment-like cheek. Her arm across his back felt like a piece of rebar in a paper bag. He sat in the chair by the bed.
“So how you doin’? Pain OK? These nurses won’t keep you in dope, I got some contacts, you know.”
“Oh, stop it. I’m fine.” She smiled. “It always does me good to see you, Johnny. You’re a good boy. You hear anything from your sister?”
He hadn’t, not in a couple weeks. “Yeah, mom, talked to her last night. She’d love to come down, but with the boys and the new job and all, well… Sends her love, though. She’s prayin’ for you.”
“She sent flowers,” his mother said, nodding toward the arrangement on the stand by the window.
“That’s nice,” he said. “She’s a good kid.”
“I got good kids. You both grew up good. That’s the biggest comfort I have. That and your father waiting for me.”
“Yeah, well good thing he’s such a patient guy, Ma, cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet. Boy needs his mother.” He squeezed her hand.
She smiled at him again, then he watched her eyes drift closed and her breathing settle into a sleeping rhythm.
Lynch would wait. She wouldn’t sleep long. Besides, WGN was just leading in to the morning news. The Marslovak killing was the lead story.