The Third Rail Page 6

  Nelson turned his back to the wind and pulled out the keys he had made. The third one fit, and the door opened. He stepped out of the weather and into a greasy darkness. Nelson found a light switch and flipped it on. A stairwell uncoiled to his left, down and into the belly of Chicago’s subway system.

  Nelson walked back outside, popped the trunk on the Impala, and considered a local prostitute named Maria Jackson, smiling red at him through the thick plastic. Robles had done a good job wrapping her after he’d finished, and the blood did not seem to have leaked. Nelson took a last look around, lifted the body, and carried it inside. Then he drove his car two blocks and parked on a deserted section of street. From the backseat he pulled a duffel bag. Inside it was a rifle, his scopes, and the hard black case he’d taken from Robles. Nelson hiked back to the access door and opened it again. Maria hadn’t gone anywhere. He hefted her body across his shoulders, duffel in his right hand, and began to walk down the first staircase.

  NELSON TOOK HIS TIME, resting frequently. Two flights of stairs and a long sloping ramp threaded him back toward the Loop and deep into the lower levels of the subway. A second door opened out to the first run of tracks, an auxiliary spur reserved for trains in need of repair. Nelson walked another hundred paces before allowing the body to slip from his shoulders. Maria Jackson fell among the cinders with a graceless thump. Nelson kept moving.

  A quarter mile later, he stopped again. The auxiliary track split here. Nelson took the right fork and came to a second set of tracks. This was a primary set for the Blue Line’s run into the Loop.

  Nelson stepped gingerly across the rails and onto the main track. He would hear the train well before it came around the bend, roughly two hundred yards away. Besides, he didn’t figure the job to take long. The track Nelson was standing on was the oldest usable section in the entire CTA. It had been scheduled for renovation in 2004. The work had been delayed once, twice, and now, in 2010, still hadn’t been done. Which was why Nelson was here. Unlike the other three hundred miles of subway track, this portion had not been updated with sealed fluorescent lighting. Nelson looked up at the bare lightbulbs. Heavy-duty, yes, and partially shielded with steel covers. But lightbulbs all the same.

  Nelson found the ladder he knew they kept in a maintenance shed and positioned it under a bulb. Then he took Robles’ black case out of his duffel, climbed the ladder, and unscrewed the bulb from its porcelain fixture. He knew this fixture well. He’d bought a half dozen like it from a man who collected CTA odds and ends. Nelson knew it took six turns to secure the bulb in the fixture. Four turns and it would still be all right. Three turns and the vibrations from passing trains would begin to turn the bulb in its grooves and eventually loosen it. Fewer turns … or more vibrations … and the bulb got looser that much more quickly. An inexact science, with an inevitable result.

  Nelson opened the case and took out one of the two bulbs stored inside. Carefully he screwed it in. One and one-half turns. The bulb was now, essentially, a timing device. Depending on how many trains rattled by, the bulb would loosen itself in anywhere from seven days to a couple of weeks. Then it would fall and smash on the steel tracks below. Nelson held out his hand again, felt the oily breeze flowing across his fingertips, and looked up at the huge black vents connecting this section to the rest of the subway system. He climbed down the ladder and checked his watch. Robles was supposed to deliver the package at 2:00 a.m. Plenty of time. One more bulb down the line and Nelson would find a good place to hide, a good place from which to hunt.

  CHAPTER 17

  I opened my eyes and looked around my living room. The sound was small, but certain. I tapped a key on my sleeping computer. The screen pulsed in the dark: 2:06 a.m. I picked up my gun because it felt like the thing to do, walked to my front door, and considered the thin bar of light peeking out from underneath. Then I opened the door. Sitting in the hallway was a plain brown package, no name on it, wrapped in string. I padded down the hall to a small window looking out over Lakewood. The street was empty. I took the stairs softly, found nothing in the lobby, even less in the basement. I went back upstairs, checking each floor in turn. Whoever my messenger was, he was no longer in the building.

  I had left the front door ajar. Maggie was in the hall, sniffing at the package.

  “Something to eat, Mags?”

  She gave me a hopeful look and went back inside. I followed. The package felt like a book. I cut the string and found it to be exactly that. A copy of the Iliad. I opened it up and found the poem’s opening lines highlighted and circled:

  Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’s son Achilles and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaeans …

  I felt around inside the package and found two more items. The first was a cardboard cutout of a train on a black set of tracks, running across a background of yellow. The second was a small map of a subway system, with a key taped to it and an address attached. I took a long look at the map and then jumped on the computer. Twenty minutes later, I was driving through Chicago’s sleeping streets, brown package on the front seat beside me.

  I HELD A FLASHLIGHT in one hand and my gun in the other. The address attached to the key had taken me to the corner of Clinton and Congress. The key opened a CTA access door tucked under the Ike, near the Clinton L station. A couple sets of stairs and a long ramp brought me to a second door and a run of tracks somewhere in Chicago’s subway system. The room itself felt vast. Dull ribbons of steel ran off ahead of me. A string of lights kept the dark canopy above me nailed in place.

  I found a wall and moved along its edge until I came to a small alcove formed by two concrete pillars. I stepped just inside and crouched, spreading my map on the ground. Best I could tell, the door I had passed through was marked with a star. Due east was a second spot, marked on the map with a black X and the word BODY in blue Magic Marker.

  I put the map away, took out my gun again, and nudged forward. I’d expected the L’s thunder, imagined maybe even having to duck a couple of trains, but the place was quiet. As if to underscore the point, a low rumble drifted in and away. I stayed close to the wall, my light playing on the steel to my right. Chicago’s trains were powered by an electrified third rail, six hundred volts of direct current. I’d try to keep a healthy distance.

  Thirty yards farther, I saw the body. It had been dumped in the middle of a rail bed. I stepped carefully across the tracks and squatted close. The woman was wrapped in plastic, dressed in jeans and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt. Her hands were taped behind her back, and it looked like her throat had been cut. There wasn’t much I could do without touching things, so I took a step back, careful to avoid the blood that had pooled underneath. I ran my light up and down the tunnel and wondered why I’d been summoned. Then I stepped off the tracks and found out.

  The red dot flicked ahead a few feet, then skipped behind me. I dove for a crevice in the subway wall just as a round clipped the concrete somewhere above my head. I hugged the ground hard and lifted my face an inch or so. The red dot danced in the air, inviting me to come out and play. Then it moved up and over my body. Seconds hung, stretched, and fell. Each breath, an exercise in eternity. The shooter was using some sort of low-light targeting scope and a laser, knew exactly where I was, and could take me out at his leisure. I told myself to stay down, crouch deeper into whatever cover I could find, even as I felt myself lift. Whoever he was, he could kill me whether I stood or hid behind my hands. The last part of that equation, however, I could control. So I stood. Then I took a step. I felt the shake in my boots, and took a second step.

  Another round kicked up maybe a foot to my left. I flinched back into the wall, into cover that was not. Fear churned up and I used it to create resolve. I pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the door from which I’d entered. This time there was a whine and a ribbon of white sparks. A round had caught some steel and ricocheted away.

  Unbidden, the face of an eleven-year-old girl jumped up in my mind. She’d
been skipping rope outside a high-rise in the Robert Taylor Homes when a stray round off the pavement caught her in the head. I was a rookie cop and the first unit to respond. Her mom beat on my arms, my face, my badge, my chest. The blood of her daughter covered us both. The girl, however, was past caring.

  I pushed the image away and kept walking alongside the track, edging down the long curved tunnel. I figured maybe he wasn’t going to kill me, unless he just wanted to play a little first. So I kept walking, concentrating on each breath, the rise and spread of my ribs, the feel of the air on my skin, and the grit under my shoes. Then I was at the door, opened and closed behind me. Breath came in a cold rush, flooding my lungs, causing my heart to freeze and thump in my chest. I sat back against a wall and listened. Somewhere above me I heard the echo of a second door opening and closing. The access door at street level. My shooter had just left the building, his point made and received.

  LAKE SHORE DRIVE

  CHAPTER 18

  Robles was up with the sun, drinking coffee and checking his gear. He’d only gotten two hours of sleep, but it would do. Thirty minutes later, he was walking across a soccer field, stiff with morning frost. Robles hefted the bag slung across his shoulders and grunted. The sky was just starting to lighten over the lake, and he could see the cold billow as he breathed. A woman and her dog materialized, maybe twenty yards away, jogging slowly down one side of the field. Robles kept his head down as their paths crossed. The jogger moved off the field and disappeared beneath an overpass. Robles waited five minutes. The jogger didn’t return and the field was empty. He moved up a small incline and down the other side, to a sheltered stretch of ground. Spread out before him were eight lanes of highway, flowing north and south. Lake Shore Drive, dark and quiet, maybe forty-five minutes from rush hour.

  Robles zipped open his duffel and pulled out a tripod. A couple of cars cruised by, headlights still on, heading toward the Loop. Robles took out a Nikon D300 SLR camera, fitted it to the tripod, and screwed on a zoom lens. Then he zipped up the bag and stashed it behind a stand of trees to his left. Robles looked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus. A woman and a small child popped into view. Robles glanced up. They were coming straight at him, driving an SUV down a nice, long stretch of road. Robles looked back through the viewfinder and counted off the seconds in his head. One, two, three … The woman was smiling and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Four, five, six … Robles could just make out the top of the kid’s head above the dashboard. Seven, eight … He looked up again. The SUV blew past in a puff of morning mist. Robles smiled. Perfect. He lensed a few more cars. Got timings for all eight lanes, but focused mostly on the traffic coming toward him. When he was done, Robles snapped a few general photos, wide-angle stuff, just in case anyone happened by and wondered why he was there. A photo documentary project. Then Robles crouched back among the trees and waited. For the traffic to build. And his cell phone to buzz.

  CHAPTER 19

  I woke up and smelled the coffee. Literally. There was someone in my house, and they were making a pot of joe. Whoever it was, at least they had the good sense to use my stash of El Diablo beans. Now if they’d only bring me a cup.

  The second time I woke, the smell was stronger and the intruder closer, as in over my bed, cup in hand, smiling. Simply dream and ye shall receive.

  “You’re here,” I said.

  “I let myself in.” Rachel Swenson put my coffee on the night table, leaned in, and kissed me. I’d gotten home at a little after four. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It read 6:50.

  “You staying or going?” I said.

  “Going. I’ve got an early meeting.”

  “I’m thinking they can get along without you.”

  Rachel’s smile was fragrant, even as she shook her head no. I ran my hand down her hip and imagined the slightest bit of maybe. That, of course, was the time Rodriguez picked to call.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “You sound like hell.”

  “Fuck you. I just woke up.”

  The detective chuckled. “You ready to go?”

  “Go where?”

  “Lawson wants to meet us this morning at the Southport L. They finished processing the scene, but she’s going up for another look.”

  “I told Hubert Russell I’d meet him for coffee.”

  “You bringing him in on this?”

  “Could be. Why don’t you tag along? Save me the trouble of explaining things twice.”

  “Explaining what?”

  “Filter on Milwaukee. You know where it is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Eight a.m. We can talk then.”

  I hung up. Rachel sat down beside me and I held her for a good thirty seconds. If I were smart, we never would have moved.

  “Sounds like we both have full days,” she said, leaning back and studying my face.

  I hadn’t had time yesterday for anything except a quick phone call, telling her I was involved in the thing at Southport and would explain later. Later, apparently, was now.

  “What do you know?” I said, dropping my head back to the pillow.

  “Well, I’m guessing you were the eyewitness the police are talking about in the Southport shooting.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “Fill me in.”

  “I can tell you I’m now attached to the task force working the case.”

  A frown. “Both shootings?”

  I propped myself up on one elbow. “Yeah, they’re connected. Hey, you know Katherine Lawson?”

  Rachel Swenson was probably the smartest person I knew. Certainly the best looking. She was also a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois, which meant she knew the feds. Lots of them.

  “Sure. Katherine’s a bit of a star with the Bureau. You working this with her?”

  “I get the feeling I am. Myself and Rodriguez.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  I wanted to pursue how and why Rachel found Agent Lawson so interesting. I also wanted to seriously get Her Honor into bed. Unfortunately, it was getting late for both of us.

  “Let’s make a date,” I said.

  “Dinner?”

  “Tonight. No matter what.”

  “You cooking?”

  “You feeling brave?”

  “Seven o’clock, Kelly.”

  “Bring your appetite, woman.”

  I finished my coffee and swung my feet to the floor. Rachel touched me on the shoulder. “How deep are you in this thing?”

  I heard the twinge in her voice and thought about the night before—my starring role as the duck in a shooting gallery.

  “It’s a task force, Rach. Probably just sit around a small office drinking bad coffee.”

  I hustled into the bathroom. Rachel followed.

  “You don’t need to lie, Michael.”

  She was leaning against the edge of the door frame. Some part of my brain registered her legs, which were great. The rest of me was in full avoidance mode.

  “What do you want to hear?” I began to run water in the sink.

  “Really?”

  “Go ahead.” I bent down and splashed some water around.

  “Law school, Michael? Northwestern, Chicago? You’d love it, you’d be done before you know it, and you’d be a hell of a trial attorney.”

  It was Rachel Swenson’s pet project. Trade my gun for a briefcase. Turn Michael Kelly into Clarence Darrow. I toweled my face dry and escaped back into the bedroom.

  “I like what I do, Rach.” I threw on some jeans and laced up a pair of New Balance 827s. “Even if I’m not any good at it.”

  “You’re very good at it. And that’s not the point.”

  I reached for my gun on the dresser. She caught my empty hand in hers.

  “What is the point?” I said, forcing the question through my teeth.

  “It’s about g
rowing up.”

  I pulled my hand away and found the gun. “What I do is pretty grown up.” I clipped the nine to my belt.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I sat down on the bed. She didn’t join me this time. “What I do is different.”

  “What you do is dangerous.” Rachel loved to make lists. Now she ticked off my deadly sins on her fingers as she talked. “You work alone. No, you don’t work. You hunt. That’s what you do. You hunt human beings. Human beings who often hunt human beings themselves. You carry a gun and routinely use it. You have no backup, no safety net. I don’t even know if you have health insurance. Worst of all, you like it.”

  “And?” When overwhelmed by opposing forces, I liked to reach for the reliable conjunction.

  “And where does it end? What’s the career path here?”

  “You mean do I end up getting a bullet in the neck for my trouble?”

  “Yes, Michael. That would be nice to know. And it’s not just you anymore. You understand that?”

  The pup trotted into the room on cue, jumped up into Rachel’s lap, and stared at me.

  “Nothing I do is going to hurt you.” I gestured around the room. “Hurt us.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How can you make that promise? How can you say that and not know it’s a lie?”

  I turned my eyes down again, found my watch. “Listen, Rach, I gotta run. Hubert Russell is waiting and Vince might just start shooting things.”

  I winced at the choice of words, but Rachel didn’t seem to notice. I kissed her on the top of the head, packed up Jim Doherty’s files, and left.