The Innocence Game Part 32

4/5/98 ... PONY LOUNGE MOTEL, LOMBARD ...

THREESOME.

There was a creak of wood and metal beside me. Havens had cracked open the second cabinet. It contained more tapes and a stack of brown files marked PHOTOS. On a back shelf, I found a file labeled ZOMBROWSKI, J. I stuffed it under my shirt and looked over at Havens. He had his head deep into the third cabinet.

"Anything?" I said.

"Could be." In the dim light, he held up a Moleskine notebook bound in black. A red label stuck to the front right corner of the notebook read: master. We went back into the main room and sat at the counter. Havens opened up to page 1. The first name I saw was a former Illinois governor and onetime candidate for president. He was listed as subject 1a. Underneath his name were twenty more. I recognized a sitting U.S. senator from Iowa, subject 9a, cross referenced under s.e.x/s.e.m.e.n; two Chicago aldermen, subject 14a and 19a respectively, under DEATH/DUI/BLOOD; and a philanthropist and CEO of a major corporation, subject 3c, tagged under KIDS/PEDOPHILE/VIDEO.

"You getting all this, memory man?" Havens moved his finger to turn the page. I grabbed the book and closed it.

"What are you doing?" Havens said.

"We can't go through everything here."

"We can take a peek."

"If we're gonna do it, let's do it right."

"What does that mean?"

"I think we need to bring in Rodriguez."

"You trust him?"

"He's about the only one I do trust."

"Hold on." Havens walked back into the other room.

I listened as he rustled around in one of the open cabinets and felt the weight of the leather notebook in my hand. A soft breeze crept up the back of my neck. I turned toward the shed's front door-just in time to catch the glancing blow of a rifle across the temple.

Cold tiles rubbed up against my cheek and a finger pulled back my eyelid. I looked up at the hem of a black dress, a hand holding a pistol, and, finally, a face.

"He's still conscious," Z said and stepped back.

Marty Coursey swam into view. "Remember me?" Coursey raised his rifle high and brought it down again, hard. The last thing I remembered was a gun going off.

44.

I woke up a second time on a floor of rough cement, hands and feet cuffed to an iron ring set into a wall. I was in a narrow, dimly lit room. A long window ran just under the rafters and I could hear wind and waves in the night. There was another sound, closer by. Shallow, wet breathing.

"Jake?"

"Over here."

They'd rolled him into the shadows.

"I can't see you," I said.

"You ain't missing much." He tried to laugh, but his voice was thready. For the first time I noticed a dark stain seeping toward a sunken drain in the middle of the floor. It was blood. Jake's blood.

"Did they shoot you?"

"Sort of. I made a run at Coursey when he hit you with the rifle. The old b.i.t.c.h had a gun."

"It was Z," I said.

"What?"

"Z was dressed in the hat and sungla.s.ses. I got a look at her before I went out. How bad is it?"

"She got me in the lower back. I'm bleeding and feel a little dizzy. Z?"

"She's been the brains behind this the whole time. She was the one who told me you were with Sarah that night. Probably hoped I'd do exactly what I did. She was the one who sent us out here. Set us up."

"Why?"

"Because you wouldn't let it be." Z stepped into the light. Her skin was scrubbed to the consistency of rubber and her hair was pulled back from her face. She wore a black rain slicker and green boots. When the slicker opened, I caught the flash of a knife in her belt.

"How bad is he?" she said and pointed in Jake's direction. Coursey was just behind her and moved forward to check.

"He's bleeding pretty good."

Z looked at the puddle on the floor. "Bandage him. And clean up the blood before it gets into the drain."

"You're worried," I said.

"You should have left things alone. I told you that from the beginning." She moved closer and checked my cuffs. Jake let out a small groan as Coursey tugged at him.

"I don't want him dying in here," Z said. Coursey just nodded and kept working.

"When did you start running the show?" I said.

"You mean when did I decide to stop being a victim? They blackmailed me for ten years. During that time, I learned all I could about the operation. Then I just worked my way up. Like any good organization, it takes time. Eventually, however, I got to the top of the food chain. Now, I control the information. People pay for us to stir the sewer. People pay to keep things quiet. Either way, business has never been better."

"We saw your files," I said.

"You'll be at the bottom of the lake within the hour, so it's not a big problem."

"Why did you wait until we were out here?"

She c.o.c.ked her head. "You should be a lot more scared than you are."

"I'm terrified."

"We'll see. I would have done the deed at my house. Had something nice and easy to slip into your drinks, but we didn't know where Rodriguez was. So I sent you out here. Let you run around until we'd made sure no one followed you out of the city. Then we put you down. For all the headaches you caused, it'll be pretty simple in the end. Tragic boating accident. Your friends might kick and scream, but they'll get over it."

Z took a syringe out of her pocket and unsheathed it. I couldn't take my eyes off the needle.

"Are you going to fight me?" she said.

I wanted to cry, beg, plead, but it wouldn't do any good. I understood now. Or maybe I knew just enough to realize I knew nothing at all.

"Why the graveyard, Z? Why the black dress?"

"I grieved for Rosina Rolland. I still do. I'll grieve for you as well.

But what's to be done?"

"f.u.c.k you."

"Perfect." She sank the needle into my arm and watched my eyes.

"Where's the old lady?" I said.

"Finn?" She laughed, her donkey bray rattling around the room. Across the way, Coursey had Jake bandaged and laid up against the wall. His face looked like melted wax, and I wondered if they'd drugged him.

"Why do you care about her?" Z said.

I didn't really know why. Except that it was better than going to sleep.

"She's upstairs in the house," Z said. "Her brain is mush, and she's strapped to a bed. Any other questions?"

My head felt impossibly heavy. I grabbed at a thought, but missed. Another came at me out of the mist. I caught it and shaped it into words.

"Why did you help Rodriguez when I was arrested? Why did you tell him about the girl?"

"Trust." Z turned my hand over and felt for a pulse. I looked at her dumbly. "Give someone like Rodriguez a bone like that, and he trusts you forever. Then he's yours. We call it the Innocence Game. That's why I taught the seminar at Medill. I mean, what better place to be?" She let my arm drop. "Now go to sleep. When you wake up, you'll be on the bottom of Lake Michigan."

45.

To my great surprise, I woke up dry and still breathing air. They had me laid up in the bottom of the Whaler I'd seen tied off to the dock. Except now it was moving. My hands were cuffed in front of me. A length of heavy chain was wrapped around my legs and looped through a cleat near the engine. Jake was slumped a few feet away. His cuffs were off, and he was bleeding freely again. I wasn't sure if he was still alive. Not that it mattered much.

It was dark and covered running lights ran down both sides of the boat. A damp fog had crept over the lake, and the bow was shrouded in a yellow mist. Somewhere behind me the engine cut out, and we drifted. Coursey came through the curtain first. He had a rifle in his hands. Z was next. She had the knife out. Wicked and sharp. Coursey handed the rifle to Z and took the blade. Then he squatted over Jake. Like a jackal looking over the remains of someone else's dinner.

"Let him go," I said. "He didn't see anything."

"Shut up." Coursey looked back at Z. "I thought they were both supposed to be out?"

"We went a little farther offsh.o.r.e than I intended. Just stick to your business."

"Please." I reached out. Z held the rifle in front of her with both hands.

"Don't," she said. "Not now."

"I should put some more holes in him," Coursey said, pointing to Jake's side. "Make sure he goes right down."

"That's why we came out so far," Z said. "So we wouldn't have to worry about anything washing up."

Jake groaned. The bottom of the boat was slick with his blood.

"I like to be sure," Coursey said.

"Just put him over."

Coursey sized Z up but decided not to take her on. Not today, anyway. He ripped the last bits of tape off Jake's back. Then he dragged him over to the side of the boat. The wind blew Coursey's hair back, revealing a bald pate covered with black freckles. He scooted Jake up to the gunwale. I heard my voice scream No, but Jake went over with barely a splash. His head slipped under the water and never resurfaced. Coursey turned to me.

"You got the rifle on him?"

"Go ahead." Z spoke from behind the sight.

Coursey put his knife down and grabbed my shirt with both hands. "Come on, boy. Go easy now."

I felt myself being lifted. Coursey grunted with the effort. A deadweight of shackles and flesh. From my left I heard a dry spit in the night. Z stumbled sideways, then fell. Coursey glanced back at his boss. I wrapped my arms around his waist and took us both over the side.

I held Coursey close and kicked as hard as I could for the bottom. It took the cop a few seconds to realize my strategy. Then he began to thrash and claw, but my chains had become his own. Panic was eating away at his oxygen, and he knew it. We dropped into the darkness, faces inches apart. A single bubble escaped from his lips. Followed by a small stream. He made one last pull for the surface. I held fast. Then he coughed. And all the demons poured in.

I held his body until he stopped moving. Then I let go and watched him drift away. I was alone now. Still shackled, still dropping. Sarah flashed through my mind. Salt on her skin. Warm sunshine on her face. I opened my mouth a crack and took a final, watery breath.

46.

The throat is your last line of defense. The palace guard, if you will, when it comes to drowning. No matter how hard you want to die, the throat will seal itself off when it detects water. A desperate effort to protect the lungs. It's not a lot of time, maybe another ten, twenty seconds before you're fully unconscious and the throat relaxes. In my case, however, it was enough. The diver found me at a depth of fifty feet and shared air to the surface. Then I was back on the deck of the Whaler, retching black water and tasting the bile of Lake Michigan. Michael Kelly stood nearby, watching quietly, a rifle with a scope in gloved hands.

I coughed and spit for ten minutes. The diver found some keys and unshackled me. Then he injected me with something, wrapped me in a blanket, and gave me a cup of broth. I sat up against the same engine cowling I'd been chained to a half hour earlier. The weather was still pea soup. Kelly squatted down beside me.