Mourn The Living. Henry Perez
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responsible for the recent deaths.
But something else will be going on behind the scenes. The cop in the brown leather coat is going to kick up some dust. His partner will have to go along. There will be an investigation—quiet, but thorough. In time, they will connect the killings. And maybe they won’t stop there. They might start digging further back, expanding their scope.
That would be bad. And the thought of that possibility gives the man a bone-deep chill, makes his muscles tighten so much he worries someone will notice.
The man has been through this before. Three years earlier in Pittsburgh, and in Cleveland before, and in St. Louis before that. These people, like the ones in those other crime-infested places, fail to appreciate what he can do for their community. What he has been doing for them and their kids.
As far as the man is concerned, Orlo Corpas had sensed his own purpose and destiny. Orlo had helped the man, leading him to other area scum, helping him gain access to some of the worst this town had ever coughed up. Orlo had been paid for his services, and now he had paid for his crimes.
Maybe the man needs to teach Detective Conyers a few things about the value of appreciation. He’ll do that, and then leave Baltimore. Walk away from a successful business, and never look back.
The man will find a new place to live—again. Change his name and appearance—again.
Things will be different next time. He’ll find a town where the people appreciate his unique ability to eliminate the pimps, gangbangers, and junkies. The human trash that has polluted every place he’s ever lived. And he’s lived in a lot of different places, and been known by a lot of different names.
He has already chosen his next destination. A week ago the man saw a face staring back at him from pages of a trade magazine. A real success story, the guy in the photo. The self-made type. One of the Chicago area’s bright new stars.
The man in the crowd knows otherwise.
He pulls the photo out of his wallet. The uneven edges of the thin paper are frayed and slightly curled. Taking his eyes off the crime scene, the man examines the black-and-white photo, just like he did earlier that morning, and the night before as he waited for Orlo to show up.
The smiling face looks up at him. Mocks him. The name is different, the hair too, but the man knows that face.
The man slips the photo back into his wallet as a feeling of absolute purpose rolls over him.
Yes, there’s more work to do. Important work. Something he’s been building up to for thirty years.
Chapter 2
Oakton, Illinois, present day
The next newspaper story bearing Jim Chakowski’s byline would be the biggest of his long and successful career. All Chakowski had to do now was live long enough to write it.
Chakowski knew he could not let his guard down, not for an instant. Right now his life depended on his ability to stay cool, focused, and aware. He was good on two of those three—his cool had checked out a few days ago.
Navigating through the crowded downtown street festival, Chakowski did his best to avoid eye contact, while still remaining fully in touch with his surroundings. A thousand or more people had gathered along three city blocks to listen to the REO Speedwagon cover band, drink beer, and just hang out.
Though Chakowski had grown up in Oakton—one of Chicago’s largest suburbs—worked here his entire adult life, made the place his own, it all felt foreign to him now on an otherwise pleasant October evening. He’d spent more than two decades writing Oakton’s story, chronicling the lives of its people—the powerful and the not so. But now he felt like a virus the city was determined to purge.
Like a familiar stranger, he sensed the edgy glances and heard the whispers, real or imagined, as he weaved past people who were too tuned in to the music, or engaged in their own conversations to know what was going on. The size and density of the crowd was preventing Chakowski from doing what he desperately wanted to do—run to his car, lock the doors, and drive away as fast as he could.
The sound of drumbeats and electric chords bounced off Oakton’s century-old downtown buildings along Clinton Avenue and conspired with smoke from grills to make Chakowski’s head pound and his stomach churn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but this was no time for small concerns.
He glanced back after every few steps. Was that guy, the one in the St. Louis Cardinals cap, following him? What about that other one, over by the beer stand? Did Chakowski recognize him?
Once most of the crowd was behind him, Chakowski started walking faster, almost running, cutting down a side street, then another. The music and crowd noises fading away into the night, he rushed to his five-year-old metallic green Elantra, scanning the dark street from one end to the other before getting in.
As he emerged from his parking space, Chakowski noticed someone standing in the shadow of an alley. He thought about driving straight to the offices of the Chicago Record, his professional home for more than a quarter century, the only place he’d ever worked since graduating from journalism school. But he was much closer to his home, five minutes away or so, and the road didn’t feel safe right now.
Chakowski would write the story at home, give it a quick revision, and email it in. Then he would drive to his office at the Record, and guide it through the editorial and layout process.
He kept his eyes on the sideview mirror. As he watched the orange glow of downtown Oakton being swallowed up by darkness, Chakowski estimated it would take him no more than a couple of hours to bang out a story that would change his hometown forever.
The business district now in the far distance, Chakowski noticed a set of headlights some thirty yards back. Lots of people in Oakton, he thought. Even more on a night like this one, when the town throws a party. That’s probably a family of four back there. Kids already asleep in the backseat.
The headlights were still there four blocks later, then six. Right turn—still there. Chakowski’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest. Sweat, cold and thick, gathered along his brow and washed down the middle of his back.
Chakowski gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline. No longer worried about taking the shortest way home, he turned left, sped up, then left again a block later, and fixed his eyes on the mirror.
No lights, now. The road was his, and for a moment Chakowski remembered why he loved this town.
Over the years he had turned down offers to work at bigger papers in cities that made national news much more often. He had instead dedicated himself to becoming a big frog in a midsized pond. He’d gotten to know all of the players in the city’s government and business, and in the process became something of a player himself. But the ground had shifted under him over the past year, and now he finally understood why.
He leaned on the gas and kept the car moving just a bit over the speed limit. Driving down one of Oakton’s wide, quiet streets, his pulse retreating toward normal, Chakowski began to wonder how much of this fear was the product of his writer’s imagination.
Then Chakowski realized he had become disoriented, lost track of where he was. He turned north—no wait, west. Finally, he gave in just a little and pulled over. Peeling his hands off the wheel, Chakowski wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck, and leaned back in the driver’s seat until his breathing found its natural rhythm.
As he drove off a minute later, Chakowski spotted a mailbox at the next corner. That triggered something in his mind. He pulled up next to it, popped open the glove compartment, and withdrew an envelope.
He wondered whether there was any real reason to mail it, or if the information he’d hastily cobbled together and shoved into the envelope would make any sense to anyone else. This seemed so much more important an hour ago, when Chakowski’s thoughts were rabid with fear.
But Chakowski knew his concerns were real and well justified, and the reasons behind them had not changed.