Calumet City (39 page)

I aim at the room until I can safely belt the Smith and try my cell again—still won’t dial out, but Tracy’s fourth message blinks at me. It starts with: "The will, Patti. John gets it all; if he’s dead, then as his mother you’re next in line; if you’re both dead, Gwen inherits it all. It’s
her,
Patti! She’s a nutcase, was a psycho even before—"

My piece-of-shit phone goes dark. Wait!
What?
I fumble at it again. The screen lights, then quits. I hear scraping and duck.
It’s Gwen
—who the fuck are you kidding?
Gwen’s killing all these people, ripping them to pieces?
My left arm jerks out of my belt to help and the pain buckles my knees. The hand makes a reaction fist. I press the phone into it. Gwen, Roland, Idaho Joe—too much. Gotta find John. My heart keeps pace with: Gotta. Gotta. Gotta.

I hear Tracy talking to my jeans. The phone’s lit again. She’s in broken reporter mode saying, "…she’s Mary Kate’s daughter. Illegitimate. Born in ’76, the same year Roland bought Gilbert Court. Diagnosed as brain damaged. Never adopted. Institutionalized in ’82 for fires and juvenile assaults. It’s her; I just talked to my crew. The records were sealed, but my crew got ’em. Roland worked at that hospital; he’d been blackmailing Mary K—"

A
whoosh
sucks the oxygen out of the room.

Fire! I scramble into the open and an airborne Gwen screams into me. I land on the concrete with her nails clawing for my eyes and teeth at my throat. I swing with the Smith and lose it. Her weight’s on my stomach, both hands pounding. I swing into the screams and saliva and Tammy Faye makeup. Both her hands are beating the shit out of me. Her left misses and she slides off. I land a right on her temple, roll with it, and she falls to her back.

The Smith is next to her hand.

In one perfect fluid motion she grabs it.

   Gwen fumbles and fires. I duck, leap into pipes. Doorway. Locked.

The pipes are a maze. I spaghetti through and pop out in a hall. No idea where I am. Run.

Another door. Locked too. An animal is roaring behind me; a madwoman with my gun. Metal doorway. Open and wide. I leap through it, stumble, and pancake on the wall. Wrong side! My useless left arm is nearest the opening. My good hand grabs the metal door and slams it. The door wedges into the jamb, stuck midway. I stumble back, stop, and throw 130 pounds at it. The door screeches into the frame and I crank down a twelve-inch lever-latch.

No windows, no other doors. I’m safe—if the fire in the subbasement can’t reach here. She’s only got three bullets or maybe it’s four…if she doesn’t have another gun. But she probably does. There’s no way out of here. I’m trapped. In shadowy dark. John’s going to die and so am I.

Gwen screams outside my door. I flinch, stumble on debris, and see the light source. Above me, a ragged hole in the ceiling is filled with a four-foot-wide corrugated tube, a chute like the one outside. The tube’s bent at the end, making a lazy
L
. Inside, it has block and tackle. And light. And whatever the tube’s purpose, it has to go somewhere. But the chute’s too high to ever reach. Gwen hammers the door. "The trust fund’s mine! The ranch is mine.
He’s
mine. Not Annabelle’s. Not yours. MINE!"

The room is four concrete walls and construction trash. And no way to reach the tube—

Gwen stops yelling; her voice goes stern-placid. "Want your little bastard boy back? I’m almost done with him."

I stop scanning the room and stare at the door. Words form, but my mouth won’t let them out. I have to keep her here…away from John.

"Gwen, I’m sorry. I’ll come out, we’ll talk, okay?"

"Talk? About
my
husband and your Tammy-sex with him? The sloppy little-girl Tammy sucking and fucking you gave him?"

The picture stumbles me backwards.

"On your hands and knees? I watched you, WHORE. I—"

Gwen falters, fights through a series of coughs to a controlled silence, then continues. "You were so special, all made up. The big girl. The
special
one. You ran, and I stayed. You ran away, I stayed, and you got everything." Her voice ramps loud and wilder, "And I got nothing! You fucked him, cried for him, those
so sad
, itty-bitty Tammy tears."

The picture’s too vivid and I clamp my good hand to one ear.
It’s not true
. Not true. I survived—nothing more. I was fifteen years old.

"You’ll burn, Patti Black. You and your fucking spawn. You and Annabelle. She’s in hell waiting."

"Gwen, he hurt us…all of us." I try to say it loud, but can’t. "It wasn’t your fault. Or mine. It was Roland and Annabelle."

I smell smoke and get no answer.

Gwen whispers, "He thought Annabelle ran away, like you. But she was mine. I went down to the basement every day and watched her mess herself. I made her cry."

God, Roland. What did you do to this child?

"You and Annabelle, the two unholy cunts.
I
preached His word, did you know that, Babylon Whore?
I
brought glory to Him and resurrected His ranch. Resurrected it!
My
hard work.
My
charisma."

I’m on my knees, looking for anything I can use. Gwen’s voice changes to singsong: "The ranch in Arizona had lots of little boys and girls for Roland." Now she snarls, "He had them. He had me. Oh, but he missed you." Fists pound the door. "Now there’s NOTHING for me. I kept pieces of the others for you, their watches and ribbons and bows. And their pretty hands. It was fine. Because he was mine. It was
all
mine, all of it."

Fingernails scrape down the door. "And then it wasn’t fine."

Roland’s dead; Gwen killed him. I’m dizzy, dealing with that and "the others." Oh, God, don’t say "others." I cover my ear again and chant, rocking until the visions stop. Slowly I uncup my ear. It’s quiet, soundless. I stare at the door—either she’s baiting me or—or…
she’s gone to get John
.

"Gwen?" I stagger up and to the door. "Gwen?" She doesn’t answer and I run at the chute, jump, and miss by a foot and jump again. "Gwen? Please. Say something." Gotta climb up the chute. I smell smoke—the fire in the subbasement—and look at the floor. Debris under my feet, not a lot, maybe stack all of it, pile it, ramp it. "Gwen, are you there?" I make my left arm help pile debris. The arm hurts so much it’s almost useless. "Gwen? Talk to me."

I hear rustling outside; could be her or rats running from the fire, or Idaho Joe wounded and crawling down the hallway.

Keep piling debris, make a ramp
.

"Gwen?" My pile rises twelve inches higher than I thought I could make it. Stretching one-handed I can almost touch the chute. More rustling outside the door, but heavier, then a low moan and the odor of gasoline. Liquid dribbles under the door.
Oh shit, no.
I stuff rags from my debris ramp under the door. The gasoline stops. The rustling and moans don’t.

Please, please, don’t let it be John. Please
.

"Gwen, I’m coming out." The gas soaks through the rags and begins to puddle. I stuff more debris but it only slows the gas.

Gwen’s voice becomes a preacher’s, but soft, like her lips are on the door: "Fear not the flames. There is salvation in the fire." She shifts back into singsong, now like a little girl: "Play with the boys; play with boys. Show them your pants." She pauses and defaults into what must be her "normal" Gwen voice: "I have John here,
Patricia
. Time to play."

"Don’t hurt him, Gwen. Don’t. He’s…John’s not part of this. He’s—"

"Oh, yes he is. Roland made him part. You got my ranch; he gets the building insurance. My trust fund at the bank. Everyone gets what’s mine."

"You can have it all, Gwen. I promise. I just want John. If you killed Roland, I’m happy. I don’t want any of his stuff. You can have it all."

"Does not work that way. There’s a will. You made a bastard. To steal from me." Gwen pounds on the door and shrieks something about being "the wife."

I lurch back, trip, and land butt-first in the gas puddle. The fuel wets my hands and soaks my pants to the belt. I jump up and spin for a fantasy way out.

"I’M THE MOTHER, I’M THE WIFE."

"Gwen, please—"

"Want your boy? I’ll skin the rest of him now, peel his face for you—"

"Don’t, Gwen.
Please
. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything." I jerk the latch up hard and yank. The door won’t open. I jerk again, and again. My left hand tries to help but just spins on the knob. "Don’t hurt him!"

"The whore wants her pretty boy?"

Another shriek. Not Gwen’s. I rip at the door. The scream becomes agony and feet kicking the metal, and finally a gurgle. I pound on the door, kick it, and fight the knob. It’s wedged too tight for me to one-arm it open or it’s now locked from the outside. The gas flow builds at my feet and rivers away one of the rags. The color’s changing, red streaks ribbon through the pale pink gas. A thin length of steel rebar pokes under the door, pushing away the bulk of my blockade. The rebar withdraws and in its place a bloody mass washes under the door. Thin and fleshy, a mask, except this one’s slaughterhouse real.

Gwen’s little-girl voice says, "
Ick,
boys are so messy."

The face has half its hairline and an ear.

"But, Mommy, Johnny’s teeth are still pretty. We’ll need them for i-den-ti-fi-ca-tion."

Oh, God…no.

An earring glints. The hair is bleached blond.

Idaho Joe. He had an earring and stringy blond hair. Gwen just skinned her partner, boyfriend, acolyte. Gwen becomes the preacher again, stern and angry. "The price of the Pentecost is devotion. Purity from lust. Search out the fornicators making bastards who steal. Burn them as they—"

Burn.
My dead left hand brushes my belt; pain buckles my knee.
Belt
. I look at my belt then my shoes, pink and red in the bloody gas, then the door I can’t budge. Then at the chute.
Use the belt, Patti. Pull it down
. I strip my belt, and suddenly see Gwen’s plan in the gasoline and psycho sermonizing: Gwen
doesn’t
have John; she’s waiting here for him too. She doesn’t have him
yet
. JOHN IS NOT HERE. The thought’s like amphetamines. I jump the buckle bend of my belt at a bolt protruding from the chute. It misses.

"Gwen, sometimes you are the dumbest bitch, you know?"

No answer.

"Roland wanted Tammy Faye, not me." I jump again and miss.

Gwen’s grown-up voice says, "Tammy Faye is not in the will; she’s not stealing from the family. Tammy Faye did not make a bastard child. Tammy Faye did not sleep with my husband. Tammy Faye did not sleep with my father. Tammy Faye did not—"

"Hell she didn’t." I try again and my buckle clangs off the metal. "John’s not my son, he’s Tammy Faye’s."

"Liar!"

"Ask him." The impossible is happening; I’m saying this shit out loud and she’s listening. "Ask John."

"He’s your son, and you can’t do a thing to save him."

"I never had a son, you stupid bitch. Fucking your husband, or father, or whatever, was fun though." The words bile my throat, but the buckle hooks the bolt. I jerk as hard as I can. "We used to laugh about you, what an idiot, retarded shit you were. No wonder Mary Kate gave you up at the hospital."

She sings, "I know where Johnny is."

The block and tackle rattles, but the chute doesn’t budge. "She leave you in a trash can or the maternity ward?"

Gwen coughs again. Her voice levels to fake sanity. "You pretend we’re different, don’t you? That you’re not me, that you’re ’better’ now."

I jerk on the belt but the chute holds, rattling dirt in my face.

"Do you still hurt yourself? Whose razor do you use?"

The belt slips out of my hand; I grab and try not to hear that.

"Bedtime with your clothes on, still? Even in August, hoping not to fall asleep. Annabelle wanted to play at night. It’s so very dark at night, isn’t it?"

Shut the fuck up, Gwen
.

"And when you get mad, do you get
really, really
mad? How many men have you had—lots? None? You
can’t
have them, can you?"

I grab for the belt.

"And the hate. Oh, the hate, hot and sticky wet. It throbs between your legs doesn’t it? Where little bastard Johnny lived. He’s like his daddy, you know."

I scream at the door:
"No he’s not."

Gwen singsongs: "I know where Johnny is. I know where Johnny is."

I want to rip through the wall and kill her. "Sure you do, bitch. You’re fucking crazy. Shit, you just murdered your mother and your only assistant. How fucking stupid are you?"

Gwen goes stern, "I’m the mother. You’re the birth-whore."

"Upstairs you stuck a screwdriver in your meal ticket, Mommy."

"J…Johnny’s on his way. He’ll watch you burn. Then I’ll eat him…but not his teeth. We need his teeth…for the i-den-ti—"

The gas at the door ignites. The flash knocks the belt out of my hand but it stays hooked to the chute. I hear "Do the police bring fire hoses too?" and my shoes catch fire. I land on my pockets and beat my shoes to just smoke, smoke that’s filling the room. Smoke and fire adds painkillers to my left arm. I add my 130 pounds to the belt and the chute buckles, bending down. The tackle inside is a handhold; I grab, leap in, and try to claw up the thirty-degree angle. Flames and smoke chase me. Hand over hand, push with both feet. The tube’s hot, hotter, hard to breathe. Ten feet to the ceiling; crawl, fight, claw. My hands are scalding.

And I’m out. On the first floor. And then the tube is a chimney pouring smoke. I crawl to a wall and pant until I can stand. I’m soot-black everywhere, camouflaged so…but Gwen would’ve heard no screaming as I burned alive. She’ll know I’m out. She’ll be running up here anyway; she started both fires. She’ll—

A twenty-foot metal wall section screeches open on rollers at the far end of the building, the end that connects John’s lofts to this building. Smoke pours out of that opening too and from John’s side. A man sprints through it. On my side of the door smoke erupts through huge holes drilled into the floor. Flames crackle up under the smoke, spitting sparks into the ceiling. The ceiling ignites and flames race across the rafters in a rolling carpet.