Barbara D'Amato - [Cat Marsala 09] Read online

"Oh."

  "Sound like a Chicago municipal-style, moronic, pointless, unnecessary demand to you?"

  "It really does."

  "I gotta get out of here for a couple of minutes. Otherwise I'll freak." He slapped the pile of finished papers down next to the larger stack of unfinished ones. "Let me show you what's new."

  I had not spent much time with Plumly and didn't know him well at all. He seemed pleasant but maybe a little harried. He had been a Chicago cop for twenty-five years, then retired at the age of fifty and formed his own security firm. That had been only four years ago, and yet he had landed this plum job, so I assumed that he had some clout someplace. While clout was a true Chicago phenomenon, I didn't much like it.

  We walked out of the Emerald City castle into a beautiful sunny afternoon. In the three days since I had last been there in the park, a whole lot had been accomplished. Most of the extra landscaping was now in place. The paths were painted yellow, although the brown overlay depicting the brick grid pattern hadn't gone down on top yet. Several of the rides were up, and the Kansas Tornado was being tested. Like a theatrical load-in, the festival had to move in all at once. You don't tie up public space any longer than you have to.

  "Been a lot of last-minute work, I suppose," I said to Plumly, just to get the conversation going.

  "Oh, jeez, yes! Everything that could go wrong went wrong."

  "What are you doing right now?"

  "As you say, last-minute stuff. We're checking staff applicants' backgrounds through Lexis, Nexis, and public databases. Half of these vendors didn't know who-all would be working for them until this week. Their own staff is mostly needed at their regular stores. We prevent crime. I hope. It's not just clearing the employees, although that's big. You don't really want serial killer John Wayne Gacy working in the popcorn booth."

  "No."

  "These days there are a lot of lawsuits about what's now called negligent hiring. There's no national database of non-hirables yet. So you have to cybersearch every person individually on several databases. We also do preventive design. You can set up the physical space so that crime is less likely. For instance, I'm sure you realize the food stands are not part of the ticket system. The tickets are for rides. The customers pay for specific food when they buy it."

  "Actually, I hadn't thought about it."

  "Well, anyway. They do. So, unlike the rides, the food stands take in hard cash. I make the stands all keep their cash register more than an arm's length from the counter."

  "Oh, I see. So the customer can't reach over and snatch cash out of the cash drawer."

  "Right. It's perfectly simple, but people don't think of it. Especially restaurants that are used to doing it their own way on their own premises. They aren't always thrilled, either, when I tell them they have to do it my way here. Tomorrow they'll be finishing the setup of the booths. Even though I told them several times, I'll go around and find out that half of them didn't conform."

  "So you actually train the vendors."

  "Sure. We do all kinds of things. Preplanning, for instance, so that the space is kind of cut up and foot traffic is organized for small groups, so that you don't encourage mobs. Fire prevention. We wander around eyeballing everything and asking ourselves, How could that particular booth or ride or whatever catch on fire? A lot of the hot-food booths have serious fire potential. There's LP gas for cooking and hot fat for frying and so on. There's huge barrels of wastepaper. We get somebody from the fire department in to take a look, of course. Other duties? We install security cameras. And once the festival opens, we'll get into the ever-popular policing of alcohol and drugs."

  "You can buy beer at the BluesFest."

  "But not at the Oz Festival. This is a child-oriented event. Still, there will be plenty of people selling prohibited substances under the table."

  "A security firm must need multitalented people."

  "We have to have a lot of different specialists these days. We even do corporate liability consultation. Security in the United States is a thirty-billion-dollar business. But it's like any other business. To grow, you have to have a track record, credits. Unfortunately, you have to have a track record to get hired and you have to get hired to develop a track record. We did the JazzFest. And one of the art festivals. And we've done a lot of smaller jobs around the Chicago area. But this assignment is very important for us as a company. The Oz Festival is going to be our biggest credit. It's gotta be perfect."

  "So you're being extra thorough."

  "Yeah. Check and recheck. Back and forth. Round and round. Man! I wish I had wheels like a Wheeler."

  "You know about the Wheelers?" I said without thinking. In Ozma of Oz, Dorothy washes ashore in a chicken coop after an accident at sea. She finds herself on a strange coast, where the hostile natives have wheels instead of hands and feet. Naturally, they are able to pursue her faster than she can run, but she evades them by running up a rock-studded hillside.

  Plumly studied my face. "You're surprised I know about Wheelers, aren't you?"

  "Um, frankly, I guess I am."

  He stopped in his tracks, standing on the Yellow Brick Road. "You're a reporter, Ms. Marsala. You know my company is relatively new. I'm sure you think I paid somebody off to get this job. Chicago politics as usual?"

  "Well, it wouldn't be unusual, would it?"

  "Nope. But I didn't. I got the job through nepotism; that's a fact. My brother's married to the— Oh well. You could look that up, if it matters to you, although I can't imagine why it would. I got preference, yes, but I didn't pay anybody off. I draw the line at payoffs. In fact, I hate them." From the clench of his jaw, I thought he was telling the truth.

  "Just theoretically, what's the difference between payoffs and nepotism, morality-wise?"

  "In one case money changes hands; in the other, it doesn't."

  "I know that." Unfortunately, I couldn't stop myself from frowning.

  "Okay. Maybe there's not much difference. But I think when you introduce cold cash into a situation, it's just more corrupting." He heaved a sigh and changed the subject. "Anyway, I suppose you think a former cop who gets a job through favoritism doesn't have the sensitivity to read books?"

  "Oh, great," I said. "When I came here a few minutes ago, I was just curious about what was new in Oz. Now I'm superficial, hasty, and biased."

  "Know thyself."

  I laughed. "All right. I guess that's fair in a way. So you tell me. What sort of person are you?"

  "A person who admires whimsy. You know, of all the delights of L. Frank Baum, I think whimsy was the most important. Remember the Gump, from The Land of Oz? He was a flying creature made up of two sofas, some leaves from a potted palm, and the stuffed head of an elklike animal? Wonderful!" He smiled. "People rarely do whimsy anymore. Nowadays it's all plotting or characterization or— gasp! —social significance."

  I said, "I would think a security specialist like you would prefer reality."

  "If you can build a safe reality, you will have time and space for your whimsy. But I like this work. I'm very happy to have this job. My company needs it badly, if we're going to survive. Still, the festival is quite commercial. And there's something a little non-Oz about that."

  "Commercial? Of course. Somebody has to pay for all this. How would you get people to put up Flying Monkey merry-go-rounds if they weren't at least being paid for their work?"

  "I understand the problem. Somebody has to pay me and my staff, after all. I just wonder—"

  "What?"

  "Whether the right people are making the decisions."

  * * *

  The Oz Festival was going to be a big credit for his company? Oh, lord! Now he was dead and the festival had a killer loose. I suppose it's a good thing we don't know what's lying in wait for us.

  Thinking about Plumly, I wished now that I could introduce Jeremy to him, to show him that, however commercial the festival might be, a child loved it. Too late.

  * * *

 
Down in the tunnel, I cuddled Jeremy. The silhouette up in the lighted end, the vague figure that reminded me of the Tin Woodman, moved, his head angling as if looking into the shaft. He couldn't possibly see us, because we were in darkness, but he suspected we were here.

  The figure was distorted by the odd perspective, us looking up through a tunnel at him. Also the shape was illuminated from the back with yellow Winkie-country light so it was impossible to see features.

  I couldn't even begin to guess whether it was Barry or not, or even a man or a woman.

  I whispered into the child's ear, "Jeremy, be very quiet, and take my hand. We're going to move out of here."

  He did exactly what I told him. What a good little guy he was. We walked carefully, first along the level area, then down another slope, watching out for trash and mud, both of which increased in quantity as we went downward.

  The slope was gentle, though, and even after five minutes of picking our way, we were probably only ten or fifteen feet below the ground surface. That was my best guess, but it was terribly hard to tell.

  On a level floor again, Jeremy and I felt our way into a smaller tunnel that led off the big sloping one. There were concrete groins here, and they formed alcoves behind themselves that offered shallow hiding places. The light from the outside hardly reached us. The damp air smelled horrible.

  "Aunt Cat," Jeremy whispered in my ear, "I don't like this place."

  "Neither do I, but let's wait here just a few minutes and see if the bad guy gives up and goes away."

  After a couple of minutes something altered. The distant light, now barely visible far off, changed in intensity. Someone was moving through the tunnel.

  Jeremy and I slipped into one of the alcoves and found that it had a still smaller space behind it formed by an old iron pillar. These iron supports are all over Chicago— under Chicago, really— because the city was built on what had been a swamp. In the late 1800s, many of the downtown streets were raised above swamp level on cast-iron stilts, the roadways and sidewalks laid over iron grids. In the century since then, many of the tunnel spaces underneath have simply been forgotten.

  We huddled behind the pillar. It was rusty and flaky and something damp was running down one side, making dripping sounds as it hit the floor, but I was grateful for the icky pillar's existence.

  Very little glow of light reached into our alcove. But the dim light was a lifeline. I couldn't imagine how horrible it would have been down here if we had been in total darkness. When I saw the glow dim slightly, my heart sank. I squeezed Jeremy's arm, hoping he would be silent.

  If it were Barry moving around out there in the tunnel, wouldn't he call out to us? Wouldn't he call for Jeremy?

  And if he called, should I answer?

  If he called, would I be able to stop Jeremy from answering?

  5

  LIONS AND TIGERS AND BEARS

  If I caught sight of the man, and if it was Barry, I decided I would cover Jeremy's eyes. He mustn't see his father trying to kill him. And what we could do about it later, assuming we survived, would just have to be decided when and if that time came.

  But, in my heart, I could not believe the killer was Barry. He was a gentle man. He had never shown the least sign of violence, beyond a certain childhood fascination with the high school wrestling team. In fact, he was probably back at the festival offices, handling the crisis and coordinating with the police. He would assume we had left the park, since Jennifer had told him we would. He would think we were halfway home by now, safe and sound.

  We held absolutely quiet and perfectly still. I was so scared Jeremy might twitch, or call out, or sneeze, or just whimper, that I felt nauseated. Then, when he didn't, I was so proud of him, I kissed the top of his head.

  If we ever get out of this, kid, you can have all the ice cream I can afford.

  Why, in heaven's name, had I left my cell phone in the car? How stupid could I be? Oh well, like sour grapes thinking, I decided it probably wouldn't have worked down here anyway. Of course it certainly couldn't work if I didn't have it.

  We waited. The dim light had returned, but the stalker could still be very near. He could have come into this smaller tunnel. Then I heard something rattle nearby, something like a tin can. I tried not to tremble.

  Whoever it was, he was certainly in our tunnel now, somewhere beyond the alcove. Had he come in silently and then walked beyond, passing us? If so, was he now turning and creeping back? He couldn't be sure where we were, could he?

  Jeremy whimpered. I froze. Oh, gee! Had the man heard the sound? I squeezed Jeremy's arm, telegraphing, "Be quiet."

  Something ran past my feet. A rat? I almost screamed. But I held the scream inside, and Jeremy apparently hadn't felt the animal brush past.

  Whatever it was slunk across the floor. I saw it go, and it looked too big to be a rat, but in the darkness I couldn't really be sure. Then from a few feet away I heard a man whisper, "Shit!"

  We held still. An eon later, I realized that I had seen no shadow shift, no change in light intensity, for quite some time. Had he moved away? Maybe. Scared of the rat? Or more likely, convinced the rat had been the source of the sound Jeremy had made. I had not heard him walk away. Had he slipped farther into the dark tunnel? Or gone back the way he had come?

  Was he lying quietly in wait? Possibly inches away?

  Did I know whether he was ahead of us— or behind us?

  No.

  What now? We couldn't very well go farther into this smaller tunnel, if the stalker had gone past. He'd probably double back eventually, when he didn't find us. We couldn't go back the way we had come, to the larger tunnel. He could be waiting there for us to try to get out. Near us, somewhere to the south, was the Grant Park Underground, a very large, two-level subterranean parking garage that could house six thousand cars and had lots of guards and cashiers and real, live people. If we could find it, we might get help. For now, we had to hold still.

  While we waited, the bigger-than-a-rat creature came padding back. This time I looked carefully, trying to make use of the thin, almost colorless glow.

  It was a cat! Only the general shape and the slinky movement told me. "You may have saved our lives," I whispered to it.

  It didn't care. It sat down and licked a paw.

  When I decided that our stalker couldn't still be nearby or we'd have heard him, I whispered to Jeremy. "Come with me. We have to be very quiet."

  If I'd been alone, I might have been able to hunker down silently here behind the pillar all night, and hope the pursuer would give up and leave. Or maybe that he'd have to give up because otherwise his absence from the festival would be noticed, and as a result he'd later have no alibi. But we couldn't wait any longer. I didn't believe Jeremy could stand it. He'd been wonderful so far, but he was a little child, and he was very scared.

  Not without reason.

  I peered around the pillar as well as I could, but unless the man was using a flashlight somewhere down deep in the tunnel, my chance of seeing him was pretty close to nil. I listened, and listened some more. Once or twice I thought I picked up very distant, very faint sounds. But face it, the sounds could be rats. There might even be traffic noise from up above. No question there were ventilation grates a lot of places along these tunnels.

  Holding Jeremy's hand, I ventured out of the alcove. "Be careful not to kick any trash," I whispered directly into his ear. He squeezed my hand instead of responding aloud.

  Must remember later, when we've survived, to tell him that he's not only brave but also smart.

  * * *

  We must have looked like two cats ourselves, our body language softly sinuous, as we slunk along the tunnel. I had decided to take the small tunnel into the unknown, rather than go back to the bigger tunnel, reasoning the stalker most likely would eventually return the way he had come. He would probably try to trace us back to the vent where we had entered. Also, I was quite sure that Grant Park Underground was somewhat south of where we went
into the grid. At the very least, most of it was south. To the east was Lake Michigan and to the west was Michigan Avenue. I was pretty sure we hadn't gone far enough west to be under Michigan Avenue in the old freight tunnels, but why take a chance? South it was.

  The cat followed.

  With eyes completely adapted to the dark by now, I could see a very faint hint of yellowish light ahead. Maybe I'd made the right choice.

  Holding hands, we tiptoed along the cement floor of the tunnel, toward the distant illumination. If our stalker was sneaking up behind, he'd see us against the glow. But what else could we do? We had to find either some people or a way out of here, and where there's light, there should be people.