Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
An Echo of Death (19 page)
At La Grange Road, I said, “Yes.”
“I've always been neutral during my parents' fights as best I could. For a kid, that's tough. They always want to get me on one or the other's side. I've got contacts in both organizations that I can go to for information.”
“Why didn't you just ask your mom or dad what's going on? Wouldn't whichever one knows the truth want to tell so they could get you on their side?”
“Maybe neither one knows the truth. Or wants to tell me the truth,” he said.
I pulled onto the ramp from the outbound Stevenson to the northbound Tri-State Tollway. I cruised through the eternally-under-reconstruction road.
“In the past couple of years, but especially with the new North American Free Trade Agreement, there's been a lot more activity on setting up more business in Mexico. Like jockeying for position trying to open more
maquiladoras.
maquiladoras.
“What's that?” I asked.
“Them.
Maquiladoras
are factories in Mexico where they assemble imported parts for reexport to this country without tariffs. They pay Mexican workers far below the minimum
wage in the United States to manufacture products way cheaper than they can in America.”
Maquiladoras
are factories in Mexico where they assemble imported parts for reexport to this country without tariffs. They pay Mexican workers far below the minimum
wage in the United States to manufacture products way cheaper than they can in America.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, my sources said Glen was supposed to be helping with some of the dealing and getting information for my mother on my dad's projects, but he was working for him at the same time.”
I told him I knew this.
“Well, what happened is that they found that out down there in Mexico, too. So my dad's security people and my mom's security people were after him. To find him and to figure out what he was doing. He was in big trouble. My mom and dad were supposed to go down there. They were supposed to have some big confrontation between them with Glen as the sort of go-between, or hostage, or sacrificial lamb, depending on who got to him first.”
“So what happened?”
“The big meeting never came off. Everybody flew down to Mexico, but Glen disappeared. My source says he thought Glen hooked up with some of his old drug buddies. Both of my parents had people searching for Glen, and they began to run across drug groups and relic groups hunting for him.”
“A couple of people and the Mexican authorities told us about some of the drug and relic business.” I explained what had happened at the Prudential Building.
“Damn!” he said. “They could all die,” he said very softly.
“I've got to find Scott,” I said.
“There's supposed to be a big meeting here between my mom and dad and their security people. Something strange is going on.”
“Somebody else knows for sure he's dead. Your mom seemed genuinely surprised when we told her.”
Glen's eyes misted over. “Could one of them have killed him?” he asked.
“I don't know.” I hoped not, for Bill Proctor's sake.
“I'd like to be there for the big meeting,” I said.
“I don't know where or when it is,” Bill said.
“Would your sources tell you?”
“Maybe. I can at least ask.”
“I wish we could find that stuff he was supposed to send north.”
“I don't know how,” Glen said.
I thought about it until we neared the Deerfield Toll Plaza. I had to go north to the next exit, turn around, enter the tollway going south, and take the extension toward the Edens Expressway.
“At your house you mentioned that Glen sent a drug shipment up here for his high-school buddies. How did he do that?”
“The best way to send drugs to this country is to ship them in with regular stuff that would normally be coming north. You just add it to the regular shipping invoice as whatever it's supposed to be. Tea sets, spoons, light bulbs, whatever. You mislabel the stuff. It gets past customs and comes up here. This smuggling-it-over-the-border shit is small time. The really big stuff comes in legitimately. There's too much for it to be smuggled piecemeal.”
“You sound like you know all about it,” I said.
“I have nothing to do with drugs or smuggling,” Bill said flatly. “You can believe that or not. I'm helping you because something happened to my brother. I want to know why he died and who is responsible. I loved him. I'm going to get to the bottom of it. If we can help each other, great. If not, that's fine, too.”
We drove in silence the entire length of the Edens to the junction with the Kennedy Expressway.
Bill said, “The information on the Torres people. Why did Glen want to send that north? So that he would have a copy to use as leverage to save his skin if he got caught?”
“If he thought that, it didn't work.”
“Or if he made the threat to them, maybe they figured
they could get the information some other way and didn't need him.”
they could get the information some other way and didn't need him.”
I said, “Or he told them Scott and I had it, so they killed him and came after us? The bastard!”
“He might have been desperate. I don't know what I'd say in that situation. I'm not sure anybody would.”
I wanted to avoid fighting with Bill about his brother. I'd had one awful argument, and while I wasn't close to Bill Proctor, I didn't need more grief and guilt.
“Sending the information would probably require copies. He wouldn't want to keep something like that with him. He'd have backups. So where would they be?”
“No packages of any kind came to our house today. I saw the mail first.”
“Could have come to one of your parents.”
“Maybe, but these guys were after
you.
There's got to be a connection with you guys.”
you.
There's got to be a connection with you guys.”
“It could still be in the mail or in one of those delivery services.”
“Didn't you tell me Glen promised to tell you guys everything on Sunday?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that's what he was waiting for: the delivery.”
“Post office is closed on Sundays and today, for that matter. It's Columbus Day. Glen did seem awful nervous when we left for the fund-raiser the other night. Maybe it was because his package hadn't come.”
“So it had to be some company that delivers on weekends.”
“Who does that?”
“I don't know.”
I realized I was supposed to be in school within a few hours, teaching teenagers the mysteries of the writing process. If I didn't find Scott, I wouldn't be there.
I was near downtown Chicago, so I pulled off at the Ohio Street off ramp and drove to Scott's place. I walked up to the blue-and-white squad car outside and announced that
I was going in. I asked for an escort. The attractive dark-haired cop with a bushy mustache led us upstairs. He inspected the premises and declared them free of hostile people. He left.
I was going in. I asked for an escort. The attractive dark-haired cop with a bushy mustache led us upstairs. He inspected the premises and declared them free of hostile people. He left.
Bill and I looked in the phone book and called every delivery company available. From the post office's 800 number, we got the number and address for the overnight-express expediter in Chicago. No one answered the phone. It was just after two. We had numbers we could call back when they opened in the morning. I suggested try going over to the overnight-express office. Someone had to be there to be doing the overnight-express sorting didn't they? It seemed like quite a useless endeavor, but we had no other leads, and I was desperately frightened for Scott.
“You never know about the post office,” Bill said as we drove over. “They make all kinds of mistakes. If Glen sent it through them ⦠who knows? A couple of times when I was in college my parents sent me stuff overnight express. It never got there the next day. They always got their money back.”
The office was on the West Sideâin fact, only four blocks from Mrs. Proctor's warehouse. We drove through the deserted streets. The only ones out were the homeless, who didn't mind the chilly but reasonably warm weather for October.
The office was the bottom floor of another formerly decrepit warehouse. We found the doors in front locked, but around the back we found trucks being loaded and unloaded.
We were directed to an office in the center of the building. There we found a woman less than four feet high with two fingers on her left hand missing and a rash on her face that made her face look as if someone had dropped scalding water on it not five minutes ago. She smiled at us. Joanna Andrews was not only sympathetic, but incredibly helpful. She looked disappointed when we didn't have a receipt number from the packaging to give her, but she
simply called up the computer and said, “We've got a million of these to go through. I can help you look. It's going to take a while to find something. How much time you got?”
simply called up the computer and said, “We've got a million of these to go through. I can help you look. It's going to take a while to find something. How much time you got?”
“As much as it takes,” I said.
We scrolled through record after record for over two hours. I was exhausted. We took a break for a cup of coffee.
“Are you supposed to be showing us all this?” Proctor asked.
“No,” she said cheerfully, “but somebody who works for the post office has to be a nice person. I'm it, so don't get used to it.”
Twenty minutes after we started working again, we found it. Joanna tapped the screen. “Package from Glen Proctor to Scott Carpenter. Supposed to be delivered to an address on Lake Shore Drive. Says here it arrived and was delivered on Saturday. Signed for by Beatrice. According to this, it's there.”
“It's not,” I said. “We don't have anybody named Beatrice working in the building. I'm sure of it.”
Joanna scrolled a bit further. “Oh.” She pressed another button. “Somebody dropped it back in a mailbox.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Maybe Beatrice figured out it wasn't hers and was embarrassed to give it to anyone because they might say something like âLook, stupid, how could you sign for something that is so obviously not yours?'”
“So where is it?” Bill asked.
“Here somewhere. They tried to deliver it today, but no one named Carpenter was home at the address given.”
Minutes later she found it, and we were back in my truck ripping open the contents. The box was approximately two feet long, one foot wide, and one foot deep.
Bill Proctor ripped open the box. I turned on the dome light. He pulled out layers of wrapping paper.
“Aha!” he exclaimed.
I looked over. It was a five-inch-by-five-inch stone carving of an ugly head attached to a lumpy body.
“This is what people have been dying for?” I asked.
We found four more relics, all completely intact. No way did it look as if you could break them apart to reveal hidden jewels or wealth inside.
Carefully we unfolded each scrap of wrapping paper. Blank thin tissue and rough, coarse cardboard. Not a word written anywhere. I jumped down from the cab, hefted one of the relics, and prepared to dash it on the ground.
“Hold it!” Proctor commanded. He held the slightly shredded corner of the box. “There's paper with writing on it wedged in here!” He extricated it carefully.
It looked as if each flap of the box had been slit open and reglued. All of them contained information. The one I opened contained records of fake and real relics. Along with paper, Bill's had computer disks: one labeled Mom, the other Dad. On the paper were lists of names and dates and what looked to be notations in code.
Proctor held up the paper from the flap he'd been working on. He held it to the light. “These are addresses in
cities around the world. There are only five. One is in Chicago.”
cities around the world. There are only five. One is in Chicago.”
My heart began to hammer. I snatched the paper from his hand. “This is what we're looking for. These must be the safe houses.” I didn't recognize the address for the one in Chicago, but it had to be somewhere on the South Side.
“We've got to take all this to the police,” Proctor said. “We've got to sort all this out.”
I waved the paper with the addresses. “I'm going to take this and go get Scott. They must have taken him to this address.”
Proctor didn't try to discourage me with “Maybe they took him someplace else. Can we be sure it's this place? Won't it be dangerous?” I wouldn't have listened anyway.
I floored the truck and sped away.
“I don't understand the computer stuff,” Proctor said as we neared Lake Shore Drive.
“Got to be the work he was doing for your mom and dad down there.”
“That stuff in code too, probably,” he said.
I let Proctor out at the Chicago Hilton and Towers. He could grab a cab there and take everything to the police.
“You should wait for cops and backup on this,” he said.
“No way. I'm not waiting for explanations, warrants, and plans. He's there. I'm going to get him.”
He patted my shoulder. “I'll get this done quickly. Help is on the way.”
Dawn was just breaking as I drove east to State Street and then back south to 26th Street. I paused. The lights of the city were still on. Most of the motorists still had their headlights on. My quarry was one more block south. I turned east once more to the middle of the block. The alley was dirt encrusted and garbage strewn, with broken buildings and ominous shadows; just what I wanted for cover in approaching the address I had. I eased into the alley, pulled the truck into low, and inched forward.
This alley was a delight of urban blight topped off with the elevated tracks. I rocked over potholes and dodged the metal pilings to the far end. I stopped and let the engine idle while I took in the scene. Three-quarters of the way down, at the other end of the block I faced, was an El station.
Three immense row houses were all that were left on the block between 27th and 28th streets with State Street on the west and Wabash on the east. The abandoned buildings on this block had been ripped down. What was left were three grand old dames of a bygone era before the Near North Side became a haven of the rich, when the Near South Side of Chicago was the place were the wealthy lived and played.
They clustered tightly together in a row on the west side of the street, facing toward the not-too-distant Williams Park.
The first house was a picturesque pile of red brick that abutted right onto the sidewalk. It may have been one of the first homes built here, and the street may have reached up to it. A cast-iron fence of poles, spaced six inches apart, began at the back of the building and extended twenty feet to the crumbling remnants of a cobble-stoned alley. The fence turned and followed the property of all three houses and then turned back in at the far end.
No barriers divided the backyards. One lone tree sat just outside the property at the southeast side.
I pulled out and drove to the left down 26th Street. A few feet later, I made a right and turned onto Wabash. I cruised down the block, trying simultaneously to keep my eyes on the houses, watch where I was driving, and look inconspicuous. Half of the houses on my left were boarded up, and the other half looked as they wished they'd been.
I turned right on 27th Street and right again on State Street. I was moving directly in front of all three of the old mansions. None of the windows was broken out. Through a picture window on the first floor of the one on the corner,
I saw a lamp glowing. I continued on up State Street back to 25th and drove back to the alley and came back to resume my perch in the shadows. I parked as close as I could to the burnt-out hulk of the former home at the end of the alley.
The broken and crumbling back porch of the corner house across the street seemed to offer a possible egress. The fence started at the end of the porch, but the slats connecting porch to ground looked jagged and rotting in the dim streetlight. I had seen no other possibility of entering unobserved in my circuit around the houses. I waited for an old Plymouth to clank past me and struggle through the light at the corner. I let myself out of the cab and flitted from shadow to shadow in the gloom cast by the tracks. One last glance revealed that no lights shone on this side of the house. I rushed to the porch bottom, yanked two boards out of the way so I could fit, then plunged through the opening. On hands and knees, I scurried forward. The ground was packed dirt and debris. In the middle of the porch, streetlights and the new dawn shown enough for me to see an opening to a crawl space. Under the house, my hands immediately began to sink a good inch into the damp ground. The crawl space was so small that I was forced to use my knees and elbows to pull myself along.
I crawled through the mud and slime inch by inch. The first rat scuttled away on my right. It had to be a close relative of the huge rodents in the tunnels under the Loop. The second rat paused for a few seconds before running off to the left. The coming dawn and the streetlights barely illuminated more than a yard or two on either side of me, but it was enough to show me more rats. Their eyes were yellow- and red-rimmed, and they were now giving more hesitation before turning to run.
I had no light and no weapon, but I knew that somewhere in the labyrinth above me was Scott: captured, tortured, maybe dead. I tried burying that last thought, but knew with more certainty than the sunrise that if my lover
was dead, everyone responsible would die. The slime and ooze had long since soaked through the front of my sweatshirt and pants. I rested my chin in the mud for a few seconds, lifting my eyes under my brows to see ahead.
was dead, everyone responsible would die. The slime and ooze had long since soaked through the front of my sweatshirt and pants. I rested my chin in the mud for a few seconds, lifting my eyes under my brows to see ahead.
One ratâperhaps bolder than the rest, or maybe crazed with rabiesâtook a step or two toward me. I knew I needed to keep moving. I plowed and elbowed through the muck. Rats now scampered a few feet, then stopped. I forced my knees and elbows and hands and torso, anything that could edge me forward, to move. I stopped every few feet for a quick examination of the floor inches from my head. I still hadn't found an opening into the houses. My assumption that there would be an openingâor that I would be able to see itâfaded as I moved farther toward deeper darkness.
The occasional sound of the El pounding along nearby and a few stray cars were the only other sounds besides that of the creepy critters close to me.
My eyes grasped at any protuberance that might indicate an opening upward. Finally I caught sight of a cylindrical device off to my left. I inched through the muck, ignored the filth, and thought only of saving Scott. Minutes later, I arrived at what I guessed to be a hot-water heater. The crawl space here was wide enough that I could move on my hands and knees. I knew there had to be an access door nearby. I propped myself on one elbow and gently prodded on the ceiling of the crawl space. My elbow sank three inches into the slime. I made my way around the object, pausing to reach up and examine a space of about three square feet at a time above me. I hunted more by feel than by sight. My neck began to ache from the unnatural position in which I had to hold my head. I made a complete circuit, but found nothing. I needed to expand my area of feel. I lowered my arm from the last touch and looked back.
Patches of light leaked through in a few places. I could have waited until full morning, but the already-slim
chances of finding Scott alive would have diminished even more. I also saw the movement of furry creatures. I wasn't planning on spending enough time down here to develop significant relationships with this branch of the vermin elite.
chances of finding Scott alive would have diminished even more. I also saw the movement of furry creatures. I wasn't planning on spending enough time down here to develop significant relationships with this branch of the vermin elite.
I peered into the darkness farther ahead. Was that another cylinder off to my right? Maybe. Did I stay around this one and search for the crawl-space entrance that had to be there, or try my luck with the next object? I decided to try the space in direct line between the two cylinders. I took two steps with each limb, looked and touched, and crawled on. On my fifth try, the ceiling gave slightly on my first push.
Now came the next problems. Would the opening be unlocked? If I pushed it open, would I find a roomful of bad guys staring at me amusedly with machine guns ready to blaze away, or would I have another chance of finding my lover?
Of course, I didn't have much choice. I flipped onto my back to get more leverage and pushed upward again. The ooze immediately sank into every part of my clothing that touched the ghastly goo under me.
The square of board gave a fraction more, and I saw lines of light appear around the edges. Was this good or bad? Did it mean that someone was in the room above with the light on, or was I seeing the glow from the first light of day shining through a window in the room? I was well under the middle of the three buildings. It hardly seemed that it could be an outside room. I pushed again. The door stuck. I swore. The squeak of verminous beasts sounded from about ten feet away from my head. I pushed again. Nothing.
I flipped onto my stomach. Yellow eyes edged away, but not far. I positioned my back against the only possible exit above me. I squatted down, resting the palms of my hands in the mire. I waited for the rumble of a passing El. It might have been five minutesâmaybe at least tenâbefore I
heard that glorious rumble. I tried to stand. The wood of the hatch ground into the bottom of my spine. I drove upward with all the strength of my legs, balancing myself on my fingertips.
heard that glorious rumble. I tried to stand. The wood of the hatch ground into the bottom of my spine. I drove upward with all the strength of my legs, balancing myself on my fingertips.
Suddenly there was a horrendous squeal, that which a rusty hinge gives when being moved for the first time in years. I could tell that any critters nearby scattered, because their squeaks disappeared. I dropped to my knees and twisted around. The sound of the El faded. I hoped it had been enough to cover the noise. I listened carefully for any steps on the floor above. I hadn't heard any so far. I waited as long as I could bear in stillness. I wouldn't need to issue an invitation to attack to the denizens of the underworld above.
I pushed at the square of ceiling. I could move it maybe an inch and a half. I thought of pounding at it. I waited for another El to pass, then I tried shoving at it with all my might. I got another horrendous sound of complaining rust and metal, but it refused to open. I let the doorway back down and drew a deep breath. This would have to be my last try. Even with the El, the noise I was making couldn't be ignored or missed much longer
Once more I waited for the noise of the El, one of the few times I wished rush hour would hurry up and arrive. The roar began and, once more, my back to the floor, I tried to stand. Every instant of running and working out got put into this push, along with my love for Scott. I heard a squeal, but kept pushingâand then a sudden snap, a clatter and the door burst upward, and my head bashed into a two-by-four on the underside of the floor.
For a second, I felt dizzy then touched the back of my head. My hand came away feeling wet. I didn't need to look to tell it was blood, nor would the creatures in the crawl space need to see it, either. Blood would make them even bolder. I scrambled around, stuck my head through the portal, got my shoulders through, and rested my elbows on either side for a second. I glanced around the room.
I no longer had to wonder abut what happened to Brad Stawalski. His pale and inert body lay a foot away from my left elbow. I crushed the thought out of my head of what this meant about the possibility of finding Scott alive, but tried to take reassurance that I was on the right track and this building was where Scott would be found.
I was in a laundry room with a washer and dryer that couldn't have been used since the end of the first Mayor Daley's administration. A bare bulb above a warped and peeling door emitted a feeble light. After a moment of listening, I hoisted myself up and replaced the square of floor. Once on my feet, I listened intently again. Nothing. The room required only a cursory examination. It was about ten feet square, with bare shelves on the walls. My clothes were a filth-encrusted mess. Brushing them off was useless: my hands were just as slime covered, and there wasn't time.
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