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  “You are not,” I heard Curry say.

  I wasn’t going to make it. They would find me at the bottom. Ship what was left of me home. My mother would be devastated. Jenn would cry her heart out. Hollinger would probably regret the way things had gone. My brother—what would he feel? I had no idea, and somehow that made me feel sadder than anything else.

  I felt tears in my eyes. From the wind, the pain, the rage throttling my heart.

  I started down again. Two more floors, I told myself. A dozen more cramps. A hundred more breaths. Breathe into your hands, Geller. Into your quads, your knee, your shoulder, your arm. Fill your chest, your head with air. Sharp, cold nighttime Chicago air. Air off the lake. Air whistling through these towers around you. Breathe it. Climb down through it.

  Two more bolts came down. Both missed, clanged off the girder. Maybe I was getting harder to see from up there.

  I reached another horizontal beam, changed my position so all that was exposed was my hands and feet.

  Another bolt hit my left hand. “Fuck!” I yelled. I felt blood spill through my straining fingers but didn’t let go. Wasn’t going to let go.

  What if I just stay here? I thought. What if they find me in the morning, clinging to this post, stuck to it with dried blood, a twisted figurehead on the good ship Millennium Skyline?

  Explain that, Mr. Birk.

  But my left hand was starting to give way. My right was barely holding on.

  What if I just let go? Would a good coroner be able to tell anything about ante-mortem injuries? “Hmm. These welts on his hand, his collarbone, his knee. Not consistent with a fall from a great height.”

  Would it matter? Birk could probably buy off a coroner. He had at least one cop in his pocket. Plenty of room for a coroner—or did Illinois have medical examiners? Didn’t matter. Birk could afford either one.

  Nearly a thousand feet to fall. A few seconds at most. My entire body was begging to let go. My hands wanted to. My feet did too. My mind, my heart, my will—the pain was sapping them all.

  And then I heard a hum—more than a hum, a mechanical whine—something moving off to my right, on the other side of the building.

  The hoist was coming back up.

  Why would Birk and Curry have summoned it? They weren’t through with me yet. The game wasn’t over. Unless it meant they couldn’t see me from above anymore and would come to the floor I was on and finish me; or go down to ground level and wait for me to fall.

  No more bolts were falling from above, which gave me a chance to climb freely. If I made it down one more floor, I’d be on concrete. But I’d also be right where they expected me to be. They’d be standing in the elevator or stairwell entrance and finish it. But there was another choice. Do the horizontal beam walk again. Come in on an unfinished floor above where they’d be waiting. If the wind didn’t blow me off, maybe I could find a weapon—the kind of bolts they had been throwing—or a section of rebar or chunk of concrete to drop on Curry’s head from above.

  My muscles were still cramping and both palms were bleeding. My feet felt frozen inside my shoes. But three floors down from the top, I inched out onto a beam and moved slowly along, summoning every ounce of my training in movement and fighting, staying steady and balanced, getting closer to the corrugated floor: fifteen feet, ten feet, five. When I was close enough I launched myself forward and landed on my side. Pain shot through my shoulder where the first bolt had hit. But I was back on firm ground of sorts, in a place with a fighting chance. I sprinted toward the elevator. It would have to pass me on the way up to fetch Birk and Curry then come back down. I hunted for a weapon, spied a wrench that had fallen between two sections of flooring, hefted it. It was the best chance I had to take Curry out. Break his gun arm, stave in his shiny skull.

  And then take Simon Birk apart.

  The elevator ground slowly up the side. I could see light inside it, a bare bulb that made the smears in its Plexiglas surface look ghostly, as if it had been wiped by a spectral hand. I’m left-handed but shifted the wrench to my right, which didn’t hurt as badly. I breathed in as deeply as I could without sending more spasms through my side. I had two, maybe three minutes to get ready. I looked for a shadowed place to hide, to make them come to me, to shift the game to my terms.

  The game. I had enough to hate Birk for already, but turning my life, my death into a game for his amusement, an entertainment of sorts? I wanted to entertain the living shit out of him. I had to focus my anger, not let it get the better of me, at least not until Curry was down.

  But the elevator never went up to their floor. It stopped at mine. And when the doors opened the only person in it was Gabriel Cross.

  I stumbled into it and fell onto the floor. I would have shaken his hand but I doubted he wanted any part of my blood-smeared lumps of meat.

  “You got my message,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I got Mr. Birk’s.” And he surprised me by doing a note-perfect impression of Birk. “‘Gabriel, I wonder if you’d do something for me. Walk back out to the end of that girder.’ Like he’s the organ grinder and I’m the monkey. I could tell they were up to no good with you. When I got to my truck, I took a look up through my binocs. And there you were, doing Spiderman. Figured you might need a lift.”

  He started the hoist back down. They could throw all the bolts they wanted. I was safe inside it.

  “You work for a man,” Cross said, “that’s all it means. Doesn’t mean he owns you. Used to, maybe. Not today. Not with all these buildings going up. Not when you’re a Mohawk who’s not afraid of heights.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Gabriel Cross drove me back to my hotel, by way of a Walgreens on North Clark Street. I stayed slumped in the car seat while he went in to pick up what I needed—extra-strength Tylenol; gauze and tape; peroxide; Polysporin; arnica gel.

  Sadly, they didn’t sell rocket-propelled grenade launchers.

  When he pulled up in front of the Hilton, he said, “My wife has a friend who’s a nurse. Lives in our building. I could see if she’s around.”

  “There’s nothing a nurse can do for me.”

  “How you going to wrap your hands? Neither one of them’s working.”

  He had a point.

  “Her name’s Nola,” Cross said. “If she’s home when I get back, I’ll send her over.”

  “What should I pay her?”

  “Whatever you can spare,” he said. “She’s a single mother.”

  “A hundred? Two hundred?”

  “Two’s all right.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You saved my fucking neck.”

  “You want to pay me?”

  “If you could use it.”

  “I can always use it. But I’m going to say no thanks.”

  “Sure?”

  “What I did, I did for me, not you. I told you, I didn’t like how Mr. Birk spoke to me.”

  I said, “I’m going to thank you anyway.”

  He said, “Okay.”

  I tried to open the car door but my hand wouldn’t grip the handle. He got out and opened the door from the outside. I got out slowly, feeling pain in more places than I could count. Cross walked behind me, a hand at the small of my back, as I shuffled into the lobby. He had to press the elevator buttons for me and work the key card into the lock on my door. Once I was flat on the bed, he left and I dozed for an hour until the knocking began.

  “My lord,” Nola Johnson said. “You look like you were beaten with tire irons.”

  I was stripped down to my underwear, covered in welts. My palms were burning where skin had been rubbed off. “Close enough,” I said.

  “Do I have to tell you this might sting a little?”

  “That would be a major improvement.”

  She used peroxide to clean my palms and the oozing cut between the first two knuckles of my left hand. I gritted my teeth and sucked in air. She covered the broken skin with a thin layer of Po
lysporin and wrapped my hands in gauze. She went out to the hall and filled a bucket with ice and had me sit in the tub while she rubbed ice cubes onto the welts on my arm, shoulder and thigh. Then I lay down on the bed and she rubbed arnica gently onto the bruises.

  “I don’t think anything is broken in your arm,” she said. “As to the rest, you should probably get X-rays. I wouldn’t be surprised if your second metacarpal showed a fracture. That bone isn’t that hard to break.”

  “I practise karate,” I told her. “I’ve broken it before.”

  “Your patella is awfully swollen,” she said. “Can you straighten your leg?”

  I tried. Couldn’t do it.

  “And there’s your clavicle. Again, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a break. How much Tylenol have you taken?”

  “Four extra-strength.”

  “Any alcohol?”

  “No.”

  She reached into her pocket and took out a small vial. “These are Tylenol 3s. You can take one now and one in four hours.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you have to wait the four hours. Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “I work at Cook County Hospital,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with a phone number. “I start at eight in the morning. If you come in at seven forty-five, I can get you X-rayed.”

  “I’ll see how I feel in the morning.”

  “You worried about the cost?”

  “No.”

  “You should be,” she smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  I told her where my wallet was, and to help herself to her fee.

  “Don’t forget,” Nola said. “Four hours until the next pill.”

  “I won’t.”

  I didn’t wait the whole four hours. But I did wait until the door had closed behind her.

  Then I called Jenn at home.

  “Cancel your flight,” I said.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “But you said—”

  “I didn’t say not to come. I need you to come by car. Tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I need you to bring something you can’t take on a plane.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dante Ryan,” I said.

  CHAPTER 42

  I must have slept with my hands clenched into fists. I could barely get them open far enough to pry the top off the vial of Tylenol 3s Nola had left. I did, though, and took two. Struggled to make a pot of coffee without burning myself, then limped down the hall wrapped in a complimentary bathrobe and refilled the bucket with ice.

  The bruises were ugly. Like someone had rubbed my forearm and knee with blueberries. I couldn’t see the one on my shoulder without a mirror and didn’t see the point in trying. I lay naked in the tub with ice on my arm and my knee, waiting for the codeine to hit. Pondered the wisdom of taking two more.

  One codeine, two codeine, three codeine, four

  If that doesn’t do it, take a few more.

  I wondered if Jenn had been able to find Ryan and, if so, where they were. Still in Ontario? On I-94 by now?

  When the ice had melted, I got out of the bath and started filling it with hot water. Nola had said alternating between cold and hot would help reduce inflammation and relax “the insulted areas.” I towelled off and slipped back into the robe and managed to open the door locks and retrieve my courtesy copy of the Chicago Tribune. I sat on the bed while the bath filled. The news section had nothing about a man in a hockey mask being assaulted in Daley Plaza the previous night; nothing about a man being forced to walk the plank eighty-five storeys above the city; no mention of a corrupt cop throwing his weight around in Grant Park.

  I closed the paper and walked stiffly to the bathroom. Didn’t take much longer than a bear going over a mountain. I turned off the water, tested it, found it below scalding and steadied myself with my elbows as I lowered my sore self down. Waited for its relaxing properties to take hold.

  Yeah, that’s me—Jonah the waiter. Waiting for relief from heat and codeine. Waiting for Jenn and Ryan. Waiting for a bright idea that would take me off the hot seat and plant Simon Birk on it.

  I was lying flat in the tub in water up to my jaw, my hands up around my ears to keep the gauze wrappings dry, raising and lowering my knee, when I heard a click sound at the door. An entry card going in and out, the lock disengaging, the handle turning.

  I used my elbows to get into a sitting position. The bathroom door was halfway open. I must have forgotten to relock the door and set the chain. I could see a tall black woman in a wine-coloured uniform holding a stack of towels. Her skin was coffee-coloured and she was heavily freckled, especially around the eyes, and she was about to see more than she’d bargained for. I called out, “Hello.”

  “Oh, sorry. Housekeeping.”

  “I’m a little indisposed,” I called. “Can you leave those on the bed, please?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were out.”

  I was sinking back into the water when I realized I hadn’t heard a knock. Heard the card whisper into the lock. Heard the electronic click of the lock release. Heard the handle turn, the door brush open against the grain of the carpet.

  No knock.

  If she hadn’t knocked, or called out a greeting, why would she think I was out? I kept my eyes on the mirror as she passed out of view on the way to the bed. Waited. Saw her come back toward the bathroom, holding one towel flat in one hand, the other hand hidden within its fold.

  I was on my way out of the tub when she burst through the door, slashing down at my torso with a long, thin blade. Nothing rubber about this one. It was a good old-fashioned knife meant for gutting. I landed on my back and used my legs to push left and away from the thrust. Her hand plunged into the hot water. I grabbed her wrist but couldn’t hold it in my injured hand. She pulled it away and slashed down again. I blocked it. She stuck her other hand in my face and tried to push me under water. I kicked out at her and caught her a glancing blow against the head, just enough to stun her a bit. I wrapped my arm around her knife hand and pinned it there and kicked again, this time catching her a good one, the ball of my foot against her chin. Her head snapped back against the tiled wall. As it bounced forward, I wrapped both ankles around her neck and twisted downward. She lost her footing and fell toward me. When she hit the water, a wave of bathwater coursed into my mouth. I coughed it up, planting my elbows on the bottom of the bath, squeezing my legs together until her face went below the surface. Her free hand clawed at my face. I bit her fingers. She tried to bring her knife hand up. I kept it pinned. The water bubbled furiously around her face, as if piranha were stripping an animal of its flesh. I kept squeezing. My quad muscles shuddered. She tried to gain purchase, to back away from the tub, but water had splashed onto the floor and her feet slipped sideways. One knee gave way beneath her with a sickening crack. Her hands stopped trying to attack and tried to push off against the sides of the bath. I kept the knife hand pinned where it was.

  Then the bubbles stopped.

  I kept the pressure on for another minute. And one more. When I knew she’d been under water too long to be faking it, I let go. She slumped into the tub, sloshing more water out onto the floor. I scrambled back, looked under me to locate the knife and plucked it gingerly out of the water. My bandaged hands were wet but I didn’t care. I dropped the knife on the floor. My chest was heaving, my head pounding from the effort. I wanted to stay in the bath but didn’t care for the company. I got out, almost wiping out on the slick floor, and stumbled to the bed and fell on it, wet as a seal. I reached for a towel and was drying off when I heard a loud knock on the door.

  “Yes?” I called out.

  A woman’s voice said, “Housekeeping!”

  Now that’s the way it’s done, I thought, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or limp back into the bathroom and get the knife off the floor.

  “I’m sick,�
�� I said. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need towels?”

  “I’ve got enough for today, thanks.”

  When she was gone I locked every lock there was—deadbolt, security bar, chain—and stuck a chair under the door handle.

  CHAPTER 43

  I was sick to fucking death of Simon Birk’s attempts on my life. Even sicker over what the latest one had made me do.

  When Stefano di Pietra had drowned, I’d had the luxury of telling myself I hadn’t actually killed him. Hadn’t physically laid a hand on him or held him under. Had merely eased out the rock on which his neck had been resting until the water rose over his face.

  There was no getting around it this time. I had drowned the woman in the tub, had held her under as she fought for her life. Stefano had been all but paralyzed by his fall onto the rocks in the Don River. She had bucked and slashed and clawed and thrashed until all the air went out of her.

  Try getting around that.

  I couldn’t. There was nowhere to go with it. So I decided I was through trying to gather evidence against Birk, through trying to prove my point. Everyone in any position of authority—Hollinger, my brother, Avi Stern, Birk himself—kept saying it couldn’t be done anyway. So enough already. Now it was time to do whatever had to be done to bring him down, make him pay for the corpses he had piled up. If anyone else was going to die on his account, it might as well be him. And Curry if he chose to ride along.

  I drained the bathtub and closed the curtain on the corpse inside, then mopped the floor using my feet to push towels around. The wet towels went into the tub as well. Then I called the Tribune newsroom.

  “Dude,” Jericho Hale said. “You stood me the fuck up. Had to buy my own damn Macallan at twelve bucks a shot.”

  “I ran into trouble,” I said.

  “What kind of trouble would keep you from me?”

  “Pirates.”

  “Right here in Chicago?”

  I told Hale what had happened, leaving out the part in Daley Plaza and any mention of Gabriel Cross.

  “Jesus,” he said.