I swung quickly in the circle of his arm, bringing myself in and chopping hard, upward on his elbow. He was well padded with slicker and sweater, but I got enough on the bone that he grunted and loosed his grip. As his fingers slackened slightly I wrenched myself free and tore off across the park, yelling for help. None of the few people who’d ventured out in the mist were close enough to hear me over their earphones.
I usually just follow the seawall in and out. I didn’t know this stretch of the park, what hiding places it might hold, where it would take me. I hoped to land at Lake Shore Drive, but I might be dead-ending on a driving range.
My assailants were weighted down by their heavy clothes. Despite my fatigue, I put some distance between us. I could see one of them working his way across to my left. The other two were presumably coming around the top, trying to set up a pincer. It all depended on how fast I could reach the road.
I put out a burst of energy, cutting at an angle to the direction I’d been going. I’d surprised the man I could see—he gave a shout of warning to the two I couldn’t. It gave me confidence and I started running all out. I was going at top speed when I saw water in front of me.
The lake. It stuck a finger into the park here. The end of the inlet lay about thirty yards to my left. The man I’d hit had moved down there, blocking my exit. On my right I could see the other two slickers, moving behind me at a casual jog.
I waited until they were within fifteen yards, getting my breath, getting my courage. When they were close enough that they could start calling to me—“It’s no use running—Give it up, girlie—No point in fighting”—I jumped.
The water was nearly ice. I took in a frozen filthy mouthful and spat. My lungs and heart banged in protest. My bones and head began to ache. My ears rang and light spots danced in my eyes. Yards. It’s only yards. You can do it. One arm after the other. One foot up, one down, don’t worry about the weight of the shoes, you’re almost across, you’re almost out, there’s a boulder, slide across it, now you can walk, now you can climb up this bank.
The drawstring on my warm-up pants gave up completely. I wrestled myself free of them and lumbered toward the road. The wet cold was making me dizzy; inky shapes floated in front of me. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t see if the man at the bottom of the inlet had been able to move across the end before I’d swum over, couldn’t see the size or shape of my pursuit. In my wet shoes, with my teeth chattering, I could hardly move, but help lay ahead. I pushed myself doggedly.
I would have made it if it hadn’t been for the goddamn boulders. I was just too tired, too disoriented, to see. I tripped over a giant rock and fell heavily. I was taking great gasps of air, trying to get to my feet, and then I was writhing in black-slickered arms, kicking, flailing, even biting, when all the floating inky spots gathered into a giant ball and fire exploded in my brain.
After a time I knew I was very sick. I couldn’t breathe. Pneumonia. I’d waited outside in the rain for my daddy. He promised to pick me up during a break on his shift and the break didn’t come—he never thought I’d wait that long. Lie under this tent, breathe slowly, watch for Mama, she says everything will be all right and you know she never lies. I tried opening my eyes. The movement stabbed great fingers of pain into my brain, forcing me back into darkness.
I woke again, rocking helplessly back and forth, my arms tied, a boulder pushing into my side. I was wrapped in something heavy, something that pushed into my mouth. If I threw up, I’d suffocate myself Lie as still as possible. Not the time to struggle.
I knew who I was this time. V. I. Warshawski. Girl detective. Idiot extraordinaire. The heavy stuff was a blanket. I couldn’t see, but I imagined it—green, standard Sears issue. I was wedged against the backseat of a car. Not a boulder, but the drive shaft. When I got out of here I’d get City Council to make front-wheel drive mandatory for all Chicago criminals. Get stopped with a drive shaft in your car and you’d do time, like the IRS getting Al Capone. When I got out of here.
My slickered friends were talking but I couldn’t make out their words through the buzzing in my ears and the thickness of the blanket. I thought at first the buzzing was left over from my cold-water bath, but by and by my tired brain sorted it into the sound of wheels on the road coming through the floorboard. The rocking and the warmth of my cocoon sent me back to sleep.
I woke up to feel cold air on my head. My arms were numb where they’d been tied behind me, my tongue thick with suppressed nausea.
“Is she still out?”
I didn’t know the voice. Cold, indifferent. The voice of the man who’d called in the threat? Only two days ago? Was that all? I couldn’t tell, either of time or the voice.
“She isn’t moving. Want me to open her up and check?” A black man’s thicker tones.