“Course, if that rock is in there with you and you’re hiding them, well, that’s another story entirely. You don’t really want to harbor criminals, do you? That’s what he is, you know. Anyone who steals from their place of business, even if it’s only information, that puts you clearly in the criminal camp in my book, right next to the rapists and murderers. His wife ain’t no better, either. She’s got a whole box of scruples stacked away in her closet.”
His voice was loud but steady. I got the impression he was standing right there on the porch, right on the other side of our door. If we had a gun, we could shoot him clean and true through the wood. A bullet at the center would probably do the trick. He probably thought we had a gun, a big one, otherwise he would have busted the door down by now. I know I would. Father didn’t believe in guns, though, and he would never let such a weapon into the house. “Accidents happen with guns,” he always said. “Knives, on the other hand—you don’t stab somebody by accident. There’s no accidental discharge on a knife.” I wondered if he was rethinking that whole stance. I couldn’t read his face. He had barely moved. It wasn’t the bullet wound holding him still—that was just a nick—he was concentrating. I imagined he was formulating a plan. Father didn’t panic. Nor did he overreact. He always seemed to know exactly what to do and when.
Mother crawled over to the window behind the couch, the one with a view of our side yard, and raised her head, peeking over the sill. When a face appeared, she jumped back and let out a shriek. The man with the long blond hair and thick glasses stood on the opposite side of the glass, a grin growing across his thin red lips. He mouthed the word hello and pressed his palm to the windowpane. I watched the moisture build around it, and when he pulled away, a perfect palm print was left behind. He then brought up the barrel of a rifle and tapped it against the glass. His grin widened even more as he ducked from sight. Mother and I looked at each other, then back to Father, searching for some kind of guidance.
Another pound at the front door. “You still in there?”
Father raised a finger to his lips.
Mr. Stranger continued. “I found the whole business with their car a little perplexing. I guess leaving it at the train station like that makes perfect sense—make things seem like they took off on a trip. But why leave their suitcases in the car? Who goes on a trip and forgets their bags? When we found the car, when I saw the bags, it was clear to me somebody had staged the scene. At first I thought the Carters were trying to create a little head fake, throw the foxes off their scent so they could zig while the rest of us zagged. Once I thought it through, though, I dismissed that idea. Simon isn’t all too bright. Sure, he’s a whiz with numbers, but like most book-smart people, he’s got no common sense, no street smarts. If he were to run, he’d run. That means if he had really abandoned the car at the train station, the bags would have boarded with him. Once I figured out that little ruse, it didn’t take long to piece together your involvement. You’ve got the only two houses down this godforsaken stretch of road. Where else would they go? Your kid about shat his britches when I stopped by the other day. He’s a bright one, I’ll give him that, but he needs some work in the lying department. Nothing a few more years under life’s big top won’t cure.”
Father pointed at Mother, then toward the kitchen, and made a stabbing motion in the air. Mother understood and crawled past me in search of knives.
“Anyway, my mouth is running off. It doesn’t matter how I ended up on your porch, only that I’m here and you’re there, and the things I need are somewhere in between. I imagine you’re not willing to risk your lives over a few papers, probably not even to harbor your criminal neighbors. I mean, why die for them, right? Why let your kid die over somebody else’s problem? That’s what’s going to happen if you don’t come out soon.”
Mother returned, holding two large chef’s knives from the wood block on the counter. She handed one to Father and kept the second for herself.
Mr. Stranger cleared his throat. “Like I said, I asked nicely. Now I’m going to ask not so nice. While you and I have been chatting, my friend Mr. Smith has been circling this beautiful house of yours with a couple cans of gasoline. It stinks to high heaven out here! He spread it nice and high on the walls, under the crawlspace, even got a couple of your trees so we can light this place up real good and bright.”
Something crashed on top of the roof, then rolled for a few seconds before coming to a stop.
“Whew! I wish you could see this! He tossed a full can up on your roof, and it’s pouring out all over the place. Hell, it’s coming out the rainspouts. He soaked this place from top to bottom with ninety-three octane.” Mr. Stranger was chuckling, his voice rising with excitement. “This is the part where I ask not so nice. You’ve got five minutes to come out with the Carters, or we start dropping matches and have ourselves a little bonfire. Of course, that means we lose the paperwork and your neighbors, but I’m okay with that. I’ll sleep like a baby knowing this ends right here. If you try to run, we’ll pick you off like pigeons at the range. Five minutes, people. Not a second more.”
74
Porter
Day 2 ? 5:12 p.m.
The cab squealed to a halt on West Belmont east of Lake Shore Drive, across from the Belmont Edge apartments. The cabdriver pointed a thumb toward the building at their right. “There it is. I believe that was record time.”
Porter slid over in the seat and peered out the window. The building was fairly typical for this area: brick, probably built around the turn of the twentieth century, with a glass storefront on the ground floor and what appeared to be residential space on the second floor. Many of the shop owners in this part of town lived on premises. For those who did not, the apartments rented for a small fortune. They were within a stone’s throw of Lake Michigan, and waterfront views were always at a premium. Walking distance didn’t hurt, either.
Porter reached for the door handle and started to climb out.
“Hey!” the driver shouted. “You owe me $26.22!”
“I don’t have any money,” Porter replied. “But Chicago Metro thanks you for your assistance.”
“The hell it does!” The driver unfastened his seat belt and opened his door.
Porter raised a hand. “Relax, I’m kidding. I’ll call my partner from inside and get some cash. Give me a minute.”
The driver prepared to argue, then shifted abruptly and said, “Your leg is bleeding.”
Porter looked down at his thigh, where a dark stain about two inches around had formed. “Crap, I think I pulled a stitch.”
“You really did get stabbed?”
Porter reached down his thigh and pressed at it tenderly with the tip of his finger. It came away damp with blood.
“I should take you back to the hospital.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
The man nodded reluctantly and leaned against the side of his car.
Porter turned back to the storefront.