Copyright © 2005, by Charles L. Collins

"There are no nations! There are no peoples! There are no Russians! There are no Arabs! There are no third worlds! There is no West! There is only one holistic system of systems; one vast, interwoven, interacting, multi-varied, multinational dominion of dollars!"

-Arthur Jensen
Paddy Chayefsky, Network, 1976

Prologue

Radio:

There’s a branch of science, if you want to call it that, based on a theory that cause and effect are opposite of what you and I think. The end does not justify the means, but the end actually caused - gave purpose to the means. I’ll give you an example. The rain falls in Cedar Rapids. The crops grow in the hundreds of thousands of acres around that great American farming community. Well what if the rain fell only because Cedar Rapids feeds millions in America and around the world? A man and a woman have sex. The woman gets pregnant. The only reason the sex happened was to produce a child. My sister kills three people and the last of her attempts is broadcast on this very station. Did those people die just to entertain you for the twelve minutes you listened in? Invited to the summit of her insanity? It’s called teleology, if anyone out there cares, and it implies a design, an intelligence that knows what has to happen for the next thing, in some cases the more important thing, to become true. I don’t know why the things that have happened in the last week have been so brutal, so bloody and so destructive. But I do know that you and I sat in on something we never in a thousand lifetimes would have witnessed - live, real and with all the vivid nuance only radio can provide. We sat in the room while three people struggled for survival and one didn’t make it. We tuned in last night to what I believe was the first Radio Murder. I hope to God it will be our last.

4:25am Beacon Hotel, Chicago

The shower would not get hot enough and the hotel soap smelled used. But these were the least of the problems swelling in the chemically enhanced paranoia of Doran Williams. She could not get the warning out of her head.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours had passed since she met the young man in the lobby of the downtown hotel. A day in The Life marked by countless blowjobs, anal encounters and semi-normal penetrations from paying regulars (Reggies) and strangers (Johns). A day that netted more than three thousand dollars in the pocket of Love Piedmont, her agent in the field and enough to keep her buzzed on the heroin-ecstasy cocktail that was required for the job. But no matter how high she got, or how demanding the acting job she performed, the young man’s words and sudden generosity would not escape the very front of her consciousness. It shared a special place with Trajan, her son back in Dayton, the place where she sent most of the money the stranger slipped in her purse that Tuesday morning. The words that accompanied the wad of cash were frightening, yet somehow comforting to the veteran of the streets, back lots and hotel rooms of Chicago. Doran was not proud of the work, but she was always one to make the most of whatever came her way. Good looks and untreated ADHD made it easy to leave school. The inability to achieve an orgasm except through gentle coaxing from her own fingers, even after hours of and probing, licking and thrusting by sexually accomplished boys and men, sent her on a quest to find the right partner; a journey that, somewhere along the trail, took a bad turn and ended up in the sex trade. Her baby was born before her seventeenth birthday, and was the result of one of the least memorable sexual contacts in a long line of similar events. It was her first, and performed with little objection from her – or fanfare from him - by a forty-year-old teacher. The baby was born with blond hair and blue eyes, even though Doran was a stunning dark beauty, already five foot ten by then, with perfect proportions and gentle African features that combined into a harmoniously symmetric face. The water from the showerhead mixed with her tears as she thought about the few choices that remained in her tiny corner of The Life.

John, her tenth that night who went by the unimaginative name, was finished in record time. He was racked with guilt and Doran doubted that the puss-like liquid that filled the condom in ninety seconds was accompanied by anything more than a sneeze of a climax. She was grateful for the short shift and the twenty-dollar tip, along with the price of the room and the two Ben Franklins that he hastily slid to the nightstand. By this time of the night even the heavily flavored condoms were disgusting and smell of men, all men, sent a plume of bile to the base of her throat. It was her fifth shower of the night, and her hair, kept short to fit neatly under the red wig, was brittle and dry. Running water and her own thoughts prevented her from hearing the hotel room door open. Even if she had, it would not have surprised her. Mr. Piedmont was known to appear and disappear with regularity, along with most of the cash in her small handbag. There was one thing Love would always respect, give openly to his staff of six mildly attractive professionals: their time in the bathroom. It was the one place he would allow the women dignity and privacy; perhaps the only place, but in the six years Doran had worked for him, she never knew him to interrupt her in the shower. So when the bathroom door opened slowly, she froze. Her fingers lifted slowly from the narrow patch of pubic hair and rubbed up her flat stomach, the other hand supporting her on the slick, wet wall of the shower stall.

“Love! That you honey? You know I don’t like being bothered in the shower.” Doran called. No answer. She quickly turned off the water and tried again. “John! Come back for more? That’s fine, but this is a whole ‘nother date, you big cocked stud, you.” No answer. “Just give me a couple minutes and I’ll rock your wo..” The word stuck in her throat, jammed by the smell. It was like nothing she had ever inhaled before, nor ever would again. It closed her throat and sent a pain into her chest that she could only imagine would result from a pinning under the tires of a fully loaded dump truck. Doran careened into the curtain, whipping it aside, and crashed to the floor. Her cheekbone crushed on impact, sending blood fanning across the small square tiles. A gloved hand removed the canister and closed the bathroom door. Doran felt her face go mercifully numb. The left side of her body contracted as though it wanted to trade places with its counterpart on the right. The pain was too intense to scream; even if she could, there was no mechanism in her broken face to manage the movement. Her left eye socket was cracked in half, rendering the eye useless, but her right, blurry and vibrating, spotted the thin, leather strap of her purse. She reached out with her right arm and pulled the bag to the floor. The room was spinning nearly upright from her prostrate place at the base of the toilet bowl. One more breath was forced into her collapsing lungs. The purse fell open, Eclipse breath strips, eighty-five cents in change, lipstick and eight condoms spilled to the floor, along with a small scrap of paper. The instructions were clear and among the last thoughts that ran through Doran blood starved brain. Do not write any of this down, meet the man at the Sheraton on Water Street and say these words. But Doran had trouble remembering and she did write the instructions and the opening – the odd greeting she was to say, had said to the stranger - on a small notepad. The paper was still in her purse and she found it with the last animation her mortally assaulted cardiovascular system would permit. Doran Williams clutched the paper as her heart stopped. One more thought sparked and popped behind her fading eye, an image of her son, Trajan, standing in a field of yellow flowers, waving and smiling. Then, The Life finally let her go.

Icarus Rising
The Scuttling

Elias Barbicas was happiest when he was sailing between islands in the southern cluster of Greece. It was his ritual to spend at least a month on his yacht, The Sea Arion, whenever an operation was successful. This was the exception. The operation from which he returned the day before was only a success because he returned alive, and managed to save the life of one of the principle Collectors.

The sun was warm on his naked body, and the protective sheen of coconut oil and lanolin served as covering enough for the calm, cloudless summer day. The foredeck of the custom sixty-foot motorsailer was smooth and polished, made of the finest Teak with Burr wood trim, and there were few things he loved more than the feel of her surface on his skin. At times like these, when the sun and the sea worked together for the pleasure of the yacht master, The Sea Arion was an extension of his body, like the hair on his chest or a clinched fist, each signaling something. Elias Barbicas was acutely tuned to his boat and to the breath of the sea. There was a symphony of movement that was as predictable as lovemaking. His vessel was anchored under furled sail with just the riding sail hoisted to maintain close-haul with the westerly wind, and he treasured every swell and dip she took from the caress of the southern Aegean. It was during the contemplative that the sudden extra drop in the bow and the quiet squeak on the rail of the pulpit reached his near-trace. He knew there would be more. It was not long before rapid drops of water re-entering the sea and coming from a foreign body – a fast moving human body - confirmed his fear.

Elias knew that he was in danger the minute he pleaded with the prostitute, the disposable human scrim for The Collectors’ global veil, to leave Chicago two days earlier. There was no hint that he would do such a foolish thing; the words simply slipped from his mouth on that Tuesday morning, like the cash that dropped into her night-worker’s purse. It was unthinkable and he was not certain of the consequences. There was some surprise that he managed to return home, pack his boat and castoff before his fate was revealed. Now he knew. The dip and splash from the port side of his boat was as the first. He listened for more; one more from the stern and another near midship. Four! It takes four to silence one man. Elias breathed the salt air and tried to smell the land. Tilos was the closest big island, but he knew there was an infinite number of smaller juts, small fingers of limestone mountain tops freed from the ocean that made up the Dodecanese and Cyclades chain. The Sea Arion shifted under the new weight and he could hear the hatch in the foredeck open and close. Three on deck, the other below. This is not good. Another deep breath, he knew they were likely armed with knives or harpoon rifles – firearms were unpredictable and unreliable after being submerged. Experienced as an assault team leader, Barbicas was also certain that the men pirating his boat would be confident in their mission. He hoped and prayed that they were over confident.

There are rules for the solitary mariner. Elias learned them at an early age. The most important is that when a man sets sail he goes into battle, if not with other men, then certainly with the sea. “Like the sky, Hades and Tartarus, a man walks with the gods when venturing upon the vast waters,” he remembered hearing from his father when they would cast small boats into the straits of Kasteli and make their way to the mainland from their home in Elafonissi. The stories of ancient pirates and sea disasters haunted and excited the boy. And they remained like whetstones, sharpening the man, even as he lived his adventures and pirated willingly for The Collectors. This event, unfolding on his craft and taking shape beyond his veneer of slumber, was as predictable as a storm in September. Elias Barbicas needed only to wait for the eye, and his opening.

The lead diver approached the coachroof starboard side and pulled his knife from the rubber sheath. The lone sailor was nude and sunning himself with one hand on the kicker and the other behind the small of his back. The second intruder, armed with a spear gun, approached from the deck portside. Elias knew he had the launcher because he heard the wetsuit stretch in the upper portion and could only assume he was aiming a weapon. Wait for it. The closest target was over him; a black hooded figure carefully gauging his victim’s relaxed body and paying special attention to the hidden hand. More rubbery squawks, this time from the man who was no more than half a meter from Barbicas, but not casting a shadow on the sunbather’s face; something that would surely give away his position. These men have been told about me, they are well trained.

Elias heard the second man move farther aft and he envisioned the signal from the assault team leader to mean, “search the rest of the boat, I have this.” Overconfidence. It was time. The distraction was a particular skill Elias had that was both shocking and useful, especially if he is lying on his back about to receive a knife in the throat. The black, glistening form moved slowly, knife raised - seconds from the strike - when his head almost involuntarily jerked to his would be victim’s lower torso. The movement was quick and impossible to ignore; Barbicas sprang to life, first his penis rising to full attention, as if awakened in the night, then slapping back and bouncing off his fatless stomach. The distraction was just enough. The attacker had to look; then a powerful foot crashed into his groin followed by the kicker and the boom. The wet suited knifeman was in exploding pain as the boom met his chest, forcing his arms around the heavy post and bunched sail and he began flying hard off the deck. But not before Barbicas jumped to his feet and snatched the combat knife from the man’s hand, slitting the femoral artery as the attacker’s legs flew from under him. The man weakened almost immediately as the boom moved clear of the deck over the starboard side, blood pulsing in torrents from the slackened leg, throwing a heavy red stream blossoming off his other thigh and chumming the water. He slid from the boom and into the drink. The second attacker was mesmerized by what he saw. No amount of training can prepare you for the impossible, Barbicas instantly threw the knife and it plunged it into spearman’s chest. The assailant fell back, releasing a sea arrow harmlessly into the reefed mainsail. Elias reached over his head, bent backwards and grabbed the rails of the coachdeck with both hands. His body pin-wheeled into the pilothouse, jabbing both feet firmly into the kidneys of the third pirate. As the victim fell forward, Elias got to his feet, pulled the knife from the sheath on the wetsuit and rammed it into the intruder’s back severing the pulmonary artery. The man writhed in pain and would have steeped his last seconds in a yell if not for Barbicas holding the regulator in his mouth and turning the airflow on his tank to full. The man had no choice but to silently drown in his own blood.

The Sea Arion was quiet. Barbicas crouched down near the wheel and waited, listened; he knew there was still one other problem on board and he was not sure of the plan. The waters off the starboard side rustled and agitated. Elias knew it was a shiver of blue sharks taking their turns at the bloodied team leader. The boat’s master slipped into the cabin, pulled on a pair of shorts and grabbed his small Beretta .32. He clicked off the safety and pulled back the hammer. There were two possible reasons why the first man went below: to search the hold, or scuttle the craft, perhaps with an explosive. If it was the former, then Barbicas was in luck, he could easily surprise the man while he was busy going through the stores. If it was the latter, then the situation was completely fluid. Elias did not like the odds. He knew how The Collectors worked, and enforcement meant dissolving all evidence into the ether. Barbicas had become a liability, regardless of his legacy status. All but the purpose are expendable. The words of Sinn Rìoghalachd- the current First Collector, known simply as Sinn Re - echoed in his ears.

The thrashing of the sharks, now just off the starboard bow, made it difficult to hear any movement made by the intruder. Elias decided it would be easier to approach him from below, rather than try and come down through the same forward hatch. The slide hatch was just aft of the cockpit near the mainsheet halyard, it was access to the engine compartment, but there was a small crawl that led to the main hold. Elias was able to hug his back to the hull and quietly work his way forward until he could see the lower half of the diver. The back of the busy man was to the small opening that served as Elias’ vantage point. There was no doubt that the man was not searching, that must have been the mission of the other two, the ones not charged with slitting Barbicas’ throat. This man was the closer, the one who would make sure no one ever found The Sea Arion or its captain, and the strong smell of gasoline telegraphed the medium. Napalm! The man moved aside just enough for Elias to see the three liter container and the triggering device. He knew from his experience that the configuration was meant to spread quickly and burn at a very high temperature. Should this operative complete his task, there would be nothing left of The Sea Arion, and all hands, except for a bad smell.

The opening was too small for Barbicas to move through quickly enough to stop the bomb maker, and he was not sure he could get off a shot without detonating the charge. Time for another diversion, yet the biological master control he mustered at the start of the counter offensive would not apply here. He had the element of surprise, but not proximity. This last challenge was the toughest. This has to be clever.

Elias Barbicas edged his way through the crawl and back topside. He visually checked the men on deck; they appeared quite eliminated. The splashes were calming starboard, but the rubber was ripped from the dissected torso that floated facedown, clearly missing everything below the waist and most of the arms. One or two dorsal and caudal fins of the gorged blue sharks still cruised the general area. There was one chance. The Sea Arion was kept fairly stable by the jib hoisted above the bowsprit. The small canvass served to keep the craft from listing. Barbicas moved quickly to take in the jib and send the boat into a slow roll. He moved just as quickly to the forward hatch and waited.

The fourth – and last – diver felt the ship’s roll and stopped what he was doing. The timer was set for two minutes, but that was to begin after a search of the yacht to make sure Barbicas had not foolishly tried to keep The Collector’s precious package. Something was wrong. The man pulled his blade from the heavy nylon holder and moved toward the hatch. It was open and he was sure he had closed the hinged lid. Light beamed into the small hole and he began to feel uneasy. There was little doubt that his comrades had subdued and killed the sole occupant, but something was wrong!

Elias waited from behind the raised hatch door, Beretta in hand, ready to act. There was no movement from below. Where is he? The opening that led to the engine room and the cabin beyond was concealed, but not invisible. He wondered if this man discovered the crawl and was making his way off the boat. The groan of the hull and all the intricate riggings responded to the gentle pulse of the water, and it made the wait all the more anxious. The noise and the rubbery pressure on his throat came in an instant. Barbicas was not ready for the tacky-sleeved arm that pulled him from his perch. He tried to use the handgun to equally threaten the attacker, but it was knocked from his hand. “How did he get up here!”

Then he felt it, the knife protruding outward from the man’s chest and wedged between Barbicas’ upper arm and body. The spear gunner! The head of the fourth diver quickly appeared through the hatch and the situation became clear. Elias jammed his upper arm into the knife that was sticking out of the man behind him – the man with his arm around his throat - sending him back with a death moan. Then he kicked the hatch lid enough to crash down on the fourth diver before he could completely clear the hole, slamming his midsection and knocking the air from his lungs. The light, aluminum door did just enough to stun the man and gave Barbicas time to retrieve the Beretta. Elias put a round through the head of the man he thought he had dispatched minutes earlier, and then aimed the gun at the bomber, now half on deck and half below.

“What have you planted on my boat?” Elias shouted.

“It is too late.” The man slowly pulled himself completely on deck. “We have only seconds.” The Albanian accent could not disguise his fear.

“Get down there and disarm that device. Now!” Elias moved closer to the man, picking up the knife and pressed the gun squarely in the area of his occipital lobe. “Now!”

“Impossible. It cannot be done. We must get off this ship before we are burned alive.”

Barbicas pulled the man to his feet and placed the gun in the soft tissue beneath his jaw line. He aimed his head to the body of his friend and then toward the starboard range. “You see that? I am not fucking with you anymore! Out there is your poor excuse for a team leader, not a buffet for the blues, that’s what we’ll be if you don’t disarm that weapon. Elias did not wait for an answer. He threw the man down the hatch and followed, dragging him to the spot where the Napalm canister was cabled to the midship beam. Examining the rig made it clear that an additional triggering mechanism was incorporated in the lock and the heavy steel cord. The timer, a red LED display with four numbers, was armed and running backwards with every passing second.

“Unlock this or stop the timer!” Barbicas pulled the man close enough to smell the gasoline and polyurethane gel.

“I cannot! I have no ability to stop what has already begun!” Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked at the numbers, 60, 59, 58, 57. “If you cut the cable, the bomb goes off right now!”

Elias looked at the section of beam where the cable was placed. The oak four by four was critical for the stability of the boat, but he thought there might be a way. He quickly lashed the diver to the bottom of the mainmast and started to work.

“If you really wanted to scuttle The Arion you should have chained your toy to the mainmast. That I could not cut.”

“Please, we must leave this ghost ship! We are doomed!” 40, 39, 38, 37.

Barbicas pulled the circular saw from his tool chest and plugged it into the AC supply. The blade spun to life and bit into the beam, sending shards of wood dust throughout the hold. He cut through and started another section. 21, 20, 19, 18. The blade stopped, and the lights dimmed. “Fuck! The Batteries!” Barbicas shouted low into his arm as it wiped sweat from his face. The yacht had been on sail power for quite sometime, without the engines to charge the boat’s electrical supply. The drain from the saw was enough to bring the voltage to a critical threshold, unable to produce enough current to run the power tool. 15, 14, 13, Barbicas grabbed the fire axe and began pounding the cut he had started, all he needed was a small opening in the beam, just enough to slide the cable through. 11, 10, 9, 8. The prisoner started praying in Albanian, Elias was sure it was a Muslim prayer. The beam split and a slot opened! Elias gently, but quickly pulled the canister from the beam and headed for the hold, the beam collapsed but not before Elias cleared it and made it topside. 6, 5, 4, 3, Elias threw the canister as hard as he could with the wind and dove back into the hole on the foredeck, covering his head and hitting something soft upon landing.

The fuel-air explosion was not loud, but the flames filled the sky above the hatch and engulfed the bow. Barbicas could feel the breath of the dragon blowing hot chemical and burning plastic through the hatch and filling the hold, singeing his eyebrows and clawing at his nostrils and lungs. His boat was on fire and the danger was growing with each passing second. Pulling up, he saw that the body of the fourth diver cushioned his landing; the heavy beam a third of the way into his neatly dissected skull. Elias knew he had to secure the beam; otherwise the sea would tear The Arion in half. He also knew that a Napalm fire was nearly impossible to extinguish by traditional methods. Fire extinguishers were everywhere, and Elias got topside with two blowing white mist on the section of the bow now engulfed in flames. The large spinnaker was reefed to the yardarm, but the gelled petroleum still coated it and was burning out of control. Elias emptied the extinguishers on the canvass bunch, but it still burned. He had better luck with the bow and the deck, neutralizing most of the incendiary.

He grabbed another fire ax and started cutting the smaller boom to free the burning sail and throw it overboard. The Sea Arion creaked and moaned under the pressure from the water and the lack of support from the midship beam. The deck started to separate from the rail and the main cabin. Barbicas knew he was in serious trouble. He did not know it at the time, but he was crying, morning the loss of The Sea Arion, at times his only friend. Making his way to the stores, he grabbed the emergency supply pack. The Mainmast started to twist and fall, he just made it under the crashing boom and roaring, burning canvass. Chutes of flaming weatherized cotton dotted his back and sent searing pain through his entire body. The bow and forward were completely engulfed in flames again, re-ignited by the sheet of burning gel on the surface of the water. Elias pulled the inflatable raft from its cockpit compartment and pulled the red cord.

The yellow raft filled to capacity in six seconds. Barbicas looked at his beloved craft, now sending bright yellow flames and heat rippling into the wind. Then he looked at his feet; there was the spear gun and a quiver of short spears that must have fallen off the twice-killed attacker. He looked to the water and saw that the blue sharks were still roaming the area. “Still hungry, my little friends?” The words had more consolation than breath behind them. “You’ll not feast on me. Not this day.”

Elias Barbicas was still breathing as the raft drifted into the blue Aegean, away from the black smoke and flames of the burning boat. But he felt a little less alive.

The Zoo

1:15pm Thursday, August 19. University of Chicago Hospital

Cindy Flowers was not sure how to broach the subject with her husband. She was certain he would not want any part of the conference or the idea that their marriage was in need of help. The pamphlet was in her purse on the floor, and she could almost see the smiling faces and cheerful design through the tanned leather as she leaned into her husband’s hospital bed. Here again. It was taking its toll. Detective Greg Flowers was admitted to University of Chicago Hospital after the incident Monday night that left him torn and bleeding in the left shoulder and damaged the repair job recently done to the wounded right side of his upper body. Her husband was still in a lot of pain, but glowed from the knowledge that a difficult case had ended and that he, Lieutenant Stacy Crenshaw and her father, professor Everett Crenshaw, were still alive to talk about it. But Cindy was not part of that elation, nor did she want any part of it. This last episode was the final straw on a back that had been burdened for years with the danger, odd hours and hopelessness of trying to keep the peace in an increasingly dangerous world. Even her suburban haven of Hyatt, Indiana was no longer safe for her policeman husband. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he spoke to the Chicago cops who came by to see him, to congratulate him on helping nail a very dangerous woman and putting a stop to one of the bloodiest weeks in Chicagoland since the days of gangland warfare. Hyatt was no longer exciting enough. Greg Flowers was seriously talking about moving to the city and joining the Chicago Police Bureau of Investigative Services. The chief of the unit, Deputy Superintendent Herman Jeffries had all but given him an open invitation to take the test and brandish a gold star. It was the last thing, the very last thing Cindy Flowers wanted to hear.

“What do you think, Cin? Can we make a go of it in the big city? Gerrod can go to private school with the money I make and what we can get for the house.”

“Greg, do we have to talk about this now? You can’t even feed yourself for God sake.”

“Sure I can, it just hurts a little.” Greg smiled widely, fueled by the heavy mix of painkillers and the excitement of the change. “It’s only a scratch.”

“This is no scratch, and no joke! You’ve been nearly killed twice. Twice! You call that nothing, and on top of it all you want to move me and your son and newborn to this…this urban jungle.” Cindy was sitting on her bent back leg to help her angle the spoon to her husband’s mouth. The splatter from the mashed potatoes dotted Greg’s face as his wife violently dropped the spoon.

“Cindy, I’m a cop. You knew that when you married me. You knew that’s what I wanted to be, that all I ever wanted to be.”

“What about being a father and a husband? What about being alive to see your kids one more day?” She picked up the spoon and shoved a load of undercooked peas in her husband’s mouth. “Greg, we need help with this.”

“What are you talking about, help?” The words muffled through wads of half chewed vegetables.

“I’ve been going over some things, and I can’t do this. Not anymore, not without help.” Cindy looked into his eyes, trying to decide whether or not he was thinking clearly enough to grasp the concept she was about to introduce. “You remember when Amy and Dan went to the Christian Family Guidance sessions out in Sacramento?”

“The ‘Put Jesus in Your Bedroom’ convention? Yeah, I remember. They were brainwashed for months. I couldn’t talk to that guy unless it was about giving to Amy this and sacrificing for his family that. And the Jesus shit, oh my God!”

“Well if you’re going to be an asshole about it.”

“No, I’m not. Cindy, I’m sorry. What about it?”

She pulled her leg free and sat up straight. “I think we should consider how much it helped them, after his injury and everything.” They looked at each other for twenty seconds. It seemed much longer to her, not nearly as long to him.

“You want me to go to Jesus school to learn how to be a good provider?”

“Stop calling it that. It helped them. Amy was about ready to divorce him.” Before the words left her mouth, she regretted the implication.

“Is that what this is about? Are you honestly considering…”

“Greg, no, never. It’s just that when Dan was hurt in that fire, it was like the whole family was suffering third degree burns. Amy didn’t know if she wanted to stay married to a firefighter, it got so bad.”

“So you don’t know if you want to be married to a cop, is that it?”

“No, that’s not it. You aren’t listening to me. Maybe it’s the painkillers. Maybe we should wait before we talk about this.”

“Come here.” Greg moved his right arm no more than a couple of inches; it was all that was possible with the bandages and restraints. Cindy moved closer to her husband and stared into his eyes. “I love you, and I certainly love Gerrod and the little Cindy you have growing in there. But I love my job, too. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize any of this. It’s all my life and one would be nothing without the other.”

“It’s not you I’m afraid of. It’s the other Lanis of the world who suddenly go crazy and take shots at my husband…and other good cops.”

“All right, listen. When I get out of here we can look into your Jesus school for wayward husbands, if that’s what you want.”

“What I want is to stop seeing you in hospitals. What I want is a normal life.” She dropped her head on her crossed wrists and pouted her bottom lip. “As normal as a cop’s family can be.”

“That’s my Dee-bear. Now can I please have my Jell-O?” Greg painfully moved his head in range and kissed his wife on the nose. She moved in and returned with a tender, open mouth caress on his lips.

“You taste like hospital food.” She smiled and propped back into the chair to continue the feeding. Her eyes glanced, only for an instant, toward the purse and the corner of the brochure that peeked from the opened zipper. We aren’t finished with this, Mister.

KCI Studios, N, Franklin Street, Chicago

Dani Drabek picked at her salad and nearly fell asleep, her hand on her neck, careful not to touch her short, dark hair while eating. She had been up all night, spending much of the time in the hospital room of her friend and lover. Stacy Crenshaw was immobilized from the waist down. The extensive surgery to her re-injured leg involved her hip and lower spine and doctors were guarded with her prognosis. There was as much fear that she would never walk again as there was concern for complications that could cause greater damage, even death. Dani knew the Chicago police lieutenant was in bad shape, physically and mentally, and it effected the programmer’s concentration. This was not the time for Drabek to be anything but focused, energetic and positive.

The conference room in the Crash Kradich section of the facility was quiet, unusual for a Thursday early afternoon. Her associate producers, Andy “Creepy” Clark and Dave “Big Dave” Brannigan were in their respective recording studios readying different elements for upcoming shows and weekend Best Of shows. Normally they would all be seated and working out show-prep for this night’s three hours on the air. Lately the sessions had involved just Dani and Bill “Crash” Kradich talking over the boundaries of his rants. Since his sister was killed, and clearly implicated in several other murders, it was all they could do to insulate the star from the story. The Crash Kradich shows have been in constant Red Rant mode since Tuesday; the day after Lani Janich was shot through the heart while attempting to murder Professor Everett Crenshaw and his daughter. It was this event that sent detective Greg Flowers back to the hospital, having arrived at the scene while the crime was in progress. These types of shows, where Crash would talk through fourteen-minute segments and four and a half-minute back-blocks on one basic topic, required a fraction of the prep time a normal show would. But they were also intense and potentially dangerous for the air personality. He could talk himself, and Dani, out of jobs.

The first Red Rant attempted by Crash Kradich was universal in talk radio. It happened September 17, 2001, the first day back on the air after continuing coverage of the worst terrorist attack on America. Kradich was indignant, hurt, saddened and angry, just as most Americans and many throughout the world. But he was not ready for the swirl of information that flowed, and he made a conscious decision to turn the pain on his listeners. The observation was made about how many flags were flying around Chicago and everywhere else in the country. That is when he asked the question: why weren’t you flying your flag on September 10th? It took everyone by surprise and left most speechless, so he pressed on. He called the new patriots, borne in the face of tragedy, phony and it was all about the show of unity, not the sincere feelings of fellowship with those who died and the heartbreak and fear felt by those who survived. There was an entire hour when Kradich compared the citizens of the United States with those, “lambs from my mother-country, who waited for the slaughter at the hands of the prince, or the dictator; never standing up for their own freedom until it was nearly too late, or until some other country came to their aid.” Kradich was calculating that his incendiary words would stand him apart from field of talk shows that rose from the ashes of that horrible day.

He was right.

The calls were steady and violently polarized. He was called everything from unpatriotic to Thomas Jefferson. There were movements to have him removed from the air and repealing Article II, Section 1, Clause 5 of the Constitution that states only natural born citizens of the United States can be elected President. These ultra-fans seriously wanted to draft Crash – the Yugoslav immigrant - for President.

“You should try eating something more substantial.” The big man filled the air with the sour smell of recently smoked cigarettes. “Salads are for rabbits and college girls.” Harris Richards looked around, mentally surveying the property in the conference room and instantly calculating its depreciation and cost to operate.

“You got a corned beef on you? I’ll eat it.” Dani managed a weak smile.

“That sounds like sexual harassment, young lady, you’d better watch it. You’re management now.” The general manager pulled out the chair normally reserved for Kradich and dropped his large, square frame into the seat.

“Temporarily management. Which means I can temporarily harass you and get temporarily sued.”

“Yes, but I will get permanently sued. So watch it.” Richards smiled and looked at the table as though he needed an ashtray. “I guess we’ll just have to make you permanent.” His eyes slid to meet Dani’s. He was pleased with her expression of surprise.

“You’re giving me the job? Even with all that’s happened?” She lifted her head off of the palm of her hand. The arm and hand remained frozen in place.

“Dani, according to in-house research we’ve had the best week we’ve ever had. For every client that cancelled last week, three more were falling all over themselves to get on, for twice the price.” Richards pulled a stick of gum from his inside suit pocket and folded it into his mouth. “Revenue not withstanding, it’s been a bad week for this station and the town. But we managed to stay in the eye of the hurricane, it seems to me. And I have to attribute much of that to your leadership skills, especially when dealing with that maniac on nights.”

Being reminded of her greatest challenge lowered her gaze. “He is a handful.”

“And I want him to stay that way.” The large man tried to find a comfortable position in the normal sized chair. It was not possible. “Do you remember, a few years back, when some fool welfare warrior actually had a full sized male lion in his Cabrini Green tenth-floor apartment, the west side one, on Division?” Dani smiled and nodded. “The cops had a hell of a time. No other building around to position snipers, no way to get into the apartment without guns blazing. Zoo pinheads and PETA whacko were all over the goddamn place, trying to tell the cops how to do their job.” The grin on her boss’s face was contagious. “It was a real ghetto public housing circus, but there were people from all over the near west side standing around watching. The yuppies from up Clybourn, the upper middles from north of the tracks off Sedgwick, even the office workers came out of the Loop to see the wild animal giving the cops and emergency workers fits.”

“I remember that, it was a big story, couple people got hurt.”

“You’re goddamn right they did, we’re talking about a goddamn lion here, over three hundred pounds of teeth and claws the size steak knives. But the more important revelation was the crowd. I was there. I know. There were crack heads and welfare moms, mixing and laughing with white guys from the Y who pull down six figures and Navigator driving entrepreneur babes, all because some poor out-of-place animal was thrashing around in a three room roach trap.” Richards’ small, blue eyes examined every part of Dani’s face, but stayed away from her form fitting black tee shirt. “These people don’t talk to each other on the El, don’t make eye contact in the many overlapping spots, even though the neighborhoods butt right up against each other.”

“You could call it casting against character, and a potential disaster.” Dani tried to visualize the scene. “Why wouldn’t it attract attention. Are you suggesting that Crash is like a lion in the projects?”

“There are some similarities, you have to admit. But what I’m asking for is a lion tamer for the wild animal we do have caged every night from 7 to 10. If you can do that, the job is yours.”

Dani pushed the salad away and took a deep breath. “One seventy five? That’s what Jerome was making.”

“Tell you what, I’ll do one fifty and hold the quarter in reserve, pending you can get us over this hump and into the Fall Book without anymore adverse headlines.” Harris touched at his silver temple, careful not to disturb the plastered comb-over.

Dani thought about the horribly flawed plan that seemed to start the most violent week of her life; her culpability in the whole mess, and the unpredictable and explosive character of Bill Crash Kradich. Recovery was the only option, but it was the biggest hurdle. Change you mind, change your life, she was convinced she could make the leap and land on her feet. “Deal.” Dani held out her hand and grabbed the beefy appendage, even as it began twitching from lack of nicotine.

“I’m counting on you, young lady. This will be no walk in the park, I hope you know that.” Harris pulled to a stand, partially taking advantage of the petite, yet strong young arm and Dani strained slightly against the effort. “By the way, that lion? They had to shoot him to get him out of the apartment. It wasn’t pretty.”

“I got it, Harris.” Dani held onto his hand until she was certain the big man was steady on his feet. “We’ll be back and better than ever.” The words were conclusive, definite, and hid the weak conviction behind her pronouncement.

The Straight

It was a great source of concern, but like so many things, Chief Herman Jeffries was able to keep his gambling submerged. There were a few legal and celebrated casinos in the Chicago area and he was on a first name basis with all the pit bosses, poker and roulette dealers. Herman Jeffries was not the type of man who showed weakness; he was the head of the CPD Bureau of Investigative Services, among other things, the top detective in the second largest police force in the United States. But his growing addiction to the cards and the wheel was starting to show a bogey on his sonar. That’s how the chief, a long time submariner, thought of the problem; just something to deal with before it gets out of hand. Jeffries never let a situation get out of control. When he met Torsha Lofton, he knew she was the first woman smart enough and strong enough to qualify as his mate. He pursued her with calculated flare, always maintaining a dignified respect for both their careers and personal space. It was not until their fourth date, a visit to a famous Chicago Independent Film Festival and an intimate dinner, that the two made love. Even then it was her choice and they explored their post sixty-year-old bodies like teenagers. They were both fit; she, a life-long tennis player, and he maintain the discipline he learned in The School of The Boat. They were in each other’s arms and sweated through every possible angle of entry. Torsha did things to her man that she didn’t think she would ever do, and he maintained control like never before. It was an amazing night and the first of many. But it only took that night for Herman Jeffries and the KCI news director to fall in love and become deeply committed to one another.

On this Thursday afternoon the chief was sitting in the office of Lt. Stacy Crenshaw at the 4th District station house and the headquarters for Area Two detectives. He had set up a satellite command there since the former captain was injured in the line of duty, and demoted to lieutenant because of her cover-up of an affair with a homicide victim. The A-2 investigators were working the cases surrounding an expanded murder conspiracy that began with a simple home abduction nine days earlier. Jeffries lost a good man in the course of the investigation and he and the rest of the brass took that very seriously. Detective Sergeant Mick Molnar was killed while rescuing the children of the original DOA, and who were threatened by the same man who killed their father: Peter Janich of Hyatt, Indiana. The sergeant’s team, detectives Freddy Blakely and Jerzy Stempowski were in the office with the chief going over the running info complied since the initial murder. It was the kind of case that had plenty of steam and no rudder, in the chief’s nautical worldview, and the latest turn of events had the men baffled.

“We finally got the tape of the show.” Stempowski, known to everyone as Stemp, bounced the corner of a CD jewel case on the top page of his two-inch thick leather binder. “Took ‘em long enough.”

“Do you believe there’s anything new, anything evidentiary?” The chief sat arrow straight.

“We all heard the damn thing.” Freddy, slouching in the conference chair opposite his partner, rubbed his bald head. “I doubt even the 4-Comm lab can tell who the shooter was.” Freddy referred to the Forensic Communications lab that was one of the innovations brought to BIS by the chief.

“Perhaps, but we can get a better crime picture with a complete examination.”

“Chief, why did it take almost three days to get this, don’t you have any pull with your lady anymore.” Freddy smiled.

“Detective, you have, what, three daughters and a wife? You tell me.” Jeffries’ face did not change, but the shared light moment was implied and understood.

“Remind me never to play chess with you, chief. That was a classic break move.” Stemp let the CD case fall and picked up his pen with long fingers of his left hand. His blond brows and reading glasses barely disguised the loser-look aimed at his partner.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Stempowski? You wait ‘til you have kids. Oh, I forgot, you gotta have a woman, first.” Freddy glared.

“If only you knew, Fredrico, if only you knew.”

“Yeah, you been on a steady diet of palm sandwiches, that’s what I know.”

“All right, gentlemen. We have a shooter on the loose. Can we get back to work.” The chief had way of putting a question in the form of a command.

“We ought to give this guy a medal, is all I know, chief.” Freddy brought his heavy midsection in line with the chair. “Why are we wasting time on this? Bennett’s dead, Lani’s dead, and frankly, I don’t give a shit who done her, just as long as she’s not out there killing cops and wiping out families anymore.”

“I would like to know who’s behind this, I mean really behind this.” Stemp absently jotted a note in his binder: Mr. Big?

“As would I, and the mayor and the super and everyone with a star in this town. We still have the alleged other coins and Howard Murad’s potential involvement. Where are we on that?”

“Murad’s burying his wife and daughters today. Figured we’d give him a chance to catch his breath before pressing him.” Stemp said.

“Understood. But we need to talk to him.” The chief looked at Freddy

“I’m going over to see Stacy and see if there is anything else she can remember. Professor Crenshaw might be ready to talk later. I’ll drop in on him, too.”

“Why not let Jerzy handle the professor.”

“Oh yeah, a little egghead salad. That’ll work.” Freddy was only mildly indignant. The professor made him uneasy; perhaps it was the memory of his time in Vietnam, an experience the two men shared. Perhaps it was the professor’s condescending manner. “I can never understand either one of them.”

“Good.” The chief stood, nearly at attention with the exception of a slight wince from the sharp pain charging through his right thigh. Stemp gathered his binder and stood with ease. Freddy needed the fulcrum of the chair arms and a little rock in place to get to his feet. “We’ll meet here the beginning of tour tomorrow. But call me if anything breaks.”

Jeffries knew that his presence in an office just off the detective pool and windowed for the squad’s supervisor was added pressure on an already burdened unit. He tried to stay busy with district reports and other important paperwork that endlessly passed through his days on the job. When he could, he kept the wide vertical blinds closed, not so much for his privacy, but for the benefit of the men and woman investigators. It was a vein attempt to help them forget that their top commander was stationed just a few feet away.

Phone calls were another constant in the day of a chief administrator for the crime solving section of the Chicago Police. So when the line flashed, it should not have given the chief a second thought to pick up the phone and answer it in his usual all business manner. He did not. There was tightness in the pit of his stomach, the same kind that would nearly push his bowels free when an opponent, one who bumped him down to the felt, would muck his hand while the chief was holding spikes. The chief had started to think that way, too. The poker-speak was replacing the odd terms and colorful twists of the language learned on many undersea missions in his twenty-five years in the fleet. It was there, on those months at sea with little or no contact with the outside world, that he mastered the game. It was now, years later, that the game was mastering him.

“Jeffries.” The spit-shine baritone returned to his ear in the receiver.

“Chief? I heard you run in fast company these days.” The chief could not recognize the voice. He pulled the phone from his face and saw the call listed as number unknown. But the subject was no stranger.

“Who is this?”

“Chief of police, even the chief of dicks should not play at Goulash Joints, I don’t care how live the game is.”

“I’m hanging up now, and you should know that it’s a crime…”

“It’s a crime the run you’re having, Herm. My friends are holding a hefty little note on you. And honestly, they’re starting to worry.”

“This is not the time…”

“It was time when you marked up, deputy superintendent, and the number is well into six figures. Now how’s a man on a military pension and a city job gonna cover that? Sure as hell don’t look like it’ll be in the cards, now does it chief?”

“I always cover my bets.” Jeffries demurred, though remained indignant.

“We’re beginning to doubt that, chief. But we are not unreasonable people.” The caller chuckled. “Could give a whole new meaning to case money, eh chief? We’ll be in touch.” The line went dead. The phone nearly slipped from the chief’s hand, loosened by the sweat on his palms. The tacit threat was not taken lightly. The chief had run into some bad luck and was moving from the carpet rooms of the legal casinos to the backrooms – goulash joints – that have dotted the city since the days of Capone. Herman Jeffries was not one to panic. He had seen action in the fleet that would melt most men into a quivering mass. But the thought of complete humiliation, before Torsha, the woman he loved and who trusted him, and the city - the men and women under sworn duty – was more than he could manage. The chief was looking for one more pot, one big hand that would bring him back. He knew that such motivations were the beginning of a criminal mindset, but that won’t happen, that can’t happen. He rubbed the welling pain in his leg and managed to become convinced, with surprising ease, that he could play out these troubles.

The South

“Ten thousand dollars a second!” Bill Kradich talked into the space above his leather steering wheel. “That’s what Major League Baseball charges for use of their footage. Now that doesn’t include the grainy stuff from the stone age, the Babe bouncing one off the face of Yankee Stadium or big nose Joe DiMaggio with that long swing of his.”

“Crash…” Dani Drabek’s surround-sound voice was ignored.

“But try to get a shot of the ‘89 series, the earthquake series, or the ‘86 Boston debacle. Or even some file footage with the brother’s Afros poofing out from under their hats in the 70’s or some of the stiffs from the 90’s. Ten grand a second!” He dominated his rolling segment of the Dan Ryan Expressway in his creamy white Escalade pickup truck, one-handing the luxury vehicle from the left lane to the middle, passing a BMW and drawing a horn and a finger from the irate driver.