Bob kept asking, “Hello? You still there? Hello?”

More screaming erupted around Herman. He threw himself into the crowd in a berserk frenzy, slashing and stabbing at anyone within reach. People fled in all directions. Behind him, the businessman’s body finally gave up and sagged to the sidewalk.

Herman zeroed in on a shrieking woman in a gray suit. She darted into the empty street. Half a block away, the light had just changed, and the vehicles surged forward. All the drivers saw was some executive trying to beat the traffic.

Herman darted between a FedEx truck parked at the curb and a Streets and Sans van and chased her into the street. He focused solely on the running woman, utterly unaware of the giant black SUV that was racing up the street.

The driver was intent on beating a cab that had been irritating her for blocks, and when she saw the shirtless, hairy man dash out into the street, it was too late. The driver used her three-inch heels to stomp on the brakes, locking the tires up, rubber howling as it burned into the pavement, but the SUV had been travelling at nearly thirty-five miles an hour. All it did was slow down enough so that when the left headlight struck Herman, it knocked him forward a dozen feet, but then the fender caught him up and drove him into the pavement, grinding him along for a while. Eventually his legs drifted back and were caught under the front tire, and his entire body was ripped in half. Both halves tore loose and were crushed under the back tires.

Later, when they found his arm, his hand was still clutching the scissors.

CHAPTER 29

6:01 PM

August 12

Don didn’t show up for work. Tommy wasn’t particularly surprised at first. They’d spent the night before drowning in beer. He figured Don would stumble in soon, so he clocked in, changed into his overalls and boots, and waited. At 6:30, Don was a half-hour late. He had never been this late since Tommy had started work at Streets and Sans. At 7:00, Tommy called him. Nobody answered.

They’d started the night before pounding Old Styles, sure, but it hadn’t been any different than any of the other countless nights they’d spent at the bar with no name, except Don kept showing off the torn rubber glove, the marks on the leather gloves underneath, and finally, his unscathed hand. Everybody had wanted to hear the whole story as they came in, so Don and Tommy hadn’t paid for one beer.

Around ten, Don had heard about some house party one of his nephews was throwing, so they drove down to Blue Island and found the place full of community college students. Don had tried to impress the girls, but somehow, tales of catching rats hadn’t done much for them. Don’s nephew heard the stories, and started bitching about a goddamn raccoon that had torn a hole in the roof and moved into the space above the attic. Full of a beer and fueled by the eyes of the coeds, Tommy had volunteered to climb up under the roof and catch the critter. He promised not hurt the poor animal, something he later regretted.

He’d found the raccoon, no problem, but the damn thing hissed at him and snapped at his grasping hands, slicing the shit out of his fingers and palm. Finally, a hour later, bleeding from both hands, Tommy gave up and crawled out from under the eaves. Don laughed, and told his nephew quietly that they’d leave some poisoned bait later in the week and the problem would be solved. Tommy wrapped his hands in paper towels soaked in hydrogen peroxide and waited for the girls to come and talk to him. It never happened. Don and Tommy didn’t leave because there was still beer left in the keg, and hung out in the empty backyard, sitting in the cracked swing set for the rest of the night, until the beer was gone. The last Tommy had seen of Don was the man giving a drunken wave as he pulled into early morning traffic.

The supervisor couldn’t have cared less if Don was late or not. He was caught up in a Sox game. Around 8:00, Tommy took the van and went for a ride. He’d been to Don’s place just once, and wasn’t sure he could recognize it.

The AM news stations were full of speculation about the motives behind a series of brutal attacks downtown that morning. Tommy, like most people who lived in a large city, shrugged off these tales of horror and tragedy, acknowledging that they lived in an insane, violent world, but if you dwelled on it too long, hopelessness might overtake you. It was better to pause a moment in silent reflection for the victims, then move on.

Don lived in a garden apartment off of Milwaukee near Roscoe; the “garden” part was bullshit for “basement.” Don had an old little mutt, Rambo, that ran around like a berserk puppy for a while when he came home, then would find a spot and sleep for the next ten hours.

Tommy found the building, or at least what he thought might be the building, and double-parked, yellow flashers going. It was a brick three-flat that looked like a million others in the city. Don didn’t answer his doorbell. Tommy leaned on the buzzer. Nothing. He went down the street and around to the alley and counted buildings as he walked. The night that Tommy had been there, Don had shown him how he didn’t bother with the key to the garage; all he had to do was lift the loose door and pull the dead bolt free.

Tommy let himself into the garage and slipped through the inky blackness. He opened the inner door, crossed the backyard in two paces, and went down the cement steps to knock on Don’s door. By now, Tommy didn’t expect an answer. He heard Rambo’s yips and paws on the other side. He tried the door.

It opened. Rambo was there, happy, as usual, to see somebody, anybody.

“Don? Don? You in here?” Tommy called. He took hold of the door and knocked again, louder. Rambo jumped at his legs and he picked up the dog. “Don?”

Still nothing. Tommy stepped into the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and scratched Rambo’s ears. The layout was a shotgun shack, a straight shot down the hallway, with rooms and bathrooms on either side. The kitchen sat at the back end, the living room in the front.

“Don?” Down the dark hall, light seeped out of the crack around the bathroom door. Tommy found the light switch for the hall and flicked it on. He turned Rambo loose, and the dog went trotting down into the shadows of the living room. He opened the bathroom door and found it empty. Don’s bedroom was also empty.

Tommy’s shadow stretched across Rambo as the dog turned in slow circles on the couch before settling into another nap. Don’s ancient thirteen-inch television flickered in the corner, sending dancing patterns of colors across the scuffed wooden floor.

Tommy crossed the darkness of the living room and was just about to twist the switch on the lamp when he stepped on something and realized it was Don’s hand.

There was no music tonight. Sam and Ed weren’t in the mood. They cruised up and down the one-way streets through the Loop, windows down, Sam driving and glaring at the tourists. By now, most of the secretaries in their gym shoes and the computer programmers in their wrinkled button-up short-sleeve shirts and all the rest of the suits had either gone home or hit the bars. Traffic was sparse.

“Brother, we don’t find her, I don’t see how we’re gonna wriggle off this time,” Ed said.

“You don’t think Arturo’ll bat for us?”

Ed shook his head. “Not this time. We fucked up. Should’ve taken her to lockup.”

“No,” Sam said flatly. “And let those fucks track her down inside? If they took a chance sweating her inside the goddamn sheriff’s office in City Hall, no telling what would happen in County.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have turned her loose.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Story of my fucking life,” Sam said, spitting his nicotine gum out of the window.