Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

I’m fine,” I said, for the fourth time in the last minute and a half. The inside of my mouth tasted like dry wool. I reached for a paper cup and felt the pul of an IV in my arm. The water slipped down my throat, but seemed to have no discernible effect.

“You realize how close you came to dying?”

Rachel was standing beside the ambulance, head bandaged, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. She had been in the middle of Lake Shore Drive, talking to Rodriguez, when I cal ed over on the radio. Then came a report that I’d been hit. She hitched a ride in a squad car and bitched at the cops the whole way. At least, that’s what they told me later.

“The bul et caught my vest,” I said, showing her the four stitches in my side. “Nothing more than a scratch.”

“It’s a little more than that, Mr. Kel y.” That was the EMT, not making things any easier, so I ignored her.

“How’s your head?” I said.

Rachel touched the white bandage at her temple. “My head’s fine.”

She’d been in the wrong place on the Drive at the wrong time. Unlucky in some ways, incredibly fortunate in others. Either way, it wasn’t my fault, even if I felt like it was.

“Someone taking you down for X-rays?” I said.

She nodded. “Rodriguez said he’d drive me over.”

“You okay?”

A smile limped across her face and back into her pocket. “Just tired, Michael.”

I took her hand. “I’l cal you later.”

“Maybe make it tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“You’re going to have your hands ful here and I just need some sleep.”

I kissed her, then watched her walk away. Rodriguez was waiting by his car. He caught my eye and held it. Then he touched Rachel’s shoulder. She got in the passenger’s side and leaned back against the headrest. Rodriguez climbed in the other side, and they drove off. I unplugged myself from the IV and stood up. A couple of police choppers stil hovered over the lagoon, an effort to keep the flying media away. A police boat had tied up to the kayak. They were offloading the body in a bag. I began to walk toward the shoreline.

“Mr. Kel y, I can’t just let you go.” The EMT was fol owing me. “You could go into shock and there’s a risk of infection.”

“Is he giving you a hard time?”

Katherine Lawson trudged up the slope from the lake. Three more agents trailed behind her. Lawson pul ed off a set of latex gloves and threw them into a bag that had the word HAZARD stenciled on it.

“What did you find?” I said.

Lawson held up a finger and huddled with the EMT for a moment. Lawson came back alone. “Thank me, Kel y. I just got you a hal pass.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She held out a bottle of pil s. “Take four immediately and two a day after that until they’re gone. Prevents infection.”

“Four right now?”

“That’s what she said. How’s the side?”

“Your protective vests suck.”

Lawson looked over at the garment, folded and lying inside the ambulance.

“That’s Chicago PD issue.”

“And if I’d been wearing yours?”

“I’d probably be helping Rachel Swenson pick out a black dress. By the way, how is she?”

“She just left. Got banged up a little by the air bag, but otherwise, fine.”

“I like her.”

“So do I,” I said. “Let me ask you a question. Any reason to think she was the target here?”

“You mean was he targeting Rachel to get at you?”

“Something like that.”

Lawson shook her head. “Unlikely. If he was, why waste bul ets on anyone else? And she was the only one he missed. By the way, here’s your gun.”

The agent pul ed my nine-mil imeter from a bag by her feet.

“Thanks.” I tucked it into my belt. “So you’re thinking Rachel was another coincidence?”

Lawson nodded. Usual y I hated to agree with the feds. This time, not so much. We walked a little more until we reached a line of police tape. A notso-smal crowd had gathered beyond.

“I’m guessing you’d like to get out of here?” Lawson said.

“You here to make that happen?”

“Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

We drove five blocks to a bar cal ed Four Farthings. Twenty years ago, it was a big singles joint in Lincoln Park. Then the crowd got old, which was okay except they forgot to leave. Now the place was mostly fil ed up with dusty conversations about the good old days from a dried-up clientele who tended to fal asleep after three drinks.

At five in the afternoon there were six people at the bar, al crowded around a flat screen, watching the news and talking about Chicago’s shoot-out on the Drive. We found a table in a corner. Lawson told me I shouldn’t drink with the meds they gave me. I thanked her for the advice and got a Fat Tire on draft. Lawson shook her head and ordered an Absolut with a twist. I took a deep draw on my pint and sat for a moment in the happy state of being alive. Lawson took a smal sip and watched me.

“What did you find in the kayak?” I said.

“Short-barrel thirty-eight revolver. Recently fired.”

“How about the rifle?”

“Nothing yet, but we’l find it. He had a key to the boathouse along the lagoon. We figure he shot you, then let himself in and grabbed the boat.”

“And what? He was going to just paddle away.”

Lawson shrugged. “Maybe. Tel you the truth, we weren’t exactly looking for a guy in a kayak.”

“Any ID?”

“We’re running the prints now.”

“And you think that’s it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Who shot him, Lawson?”

She slipped her elbows onto the table and crowded forward in her seat. “I thought you might have an idea on that.”

“You think it was me? Jesus Christ.” My cel phone buzzed and I flipped it open. “Yeah?”

“Nice job, Kel y. Very nice job.”

I held up a finger to Lawson and walked out the back door onto Cleveland Street. A drunk was sleeping in the cold. I watched him scratch himself as the mayor congratulated me for having the bal s to play judge, jury, and executioner.

“You took care of things. Nice and simple. Took care of our city.”

“Mr. Mayor-”

“It’s something I don’t forget, Kel y. Make no mistake about that.”

“Mr. Mayor, I never fired my weapon.”

“I understand, son.”

“I drew down on him with my handgun, but I didn’t fire.”

“Say no more. We’re on an open line here. Not a problem. Whatever happens, don’t worry about it. No one’s throwing a rope around your neck. You understand me? Where are you?”

“In a bar.”

“By yourself? You want me to send someone down there to drink with you?”

“No, I’m with Agent Lawson.”

“The FBI broad?”

I could sense the mayor’s sex drive pop up from whatever dark place it slept, head moving, tongue flicking. Not a pleasant image in an already unpleasant conversation. But there it was.

“Yes, Mr. Mayor.”

“Jesus, I’d like to throw a shot in her. You gonna throw a shot in her?”

I didn’t respond. The mayor, of course, took that as acquiescence.

“You fucking Mick bastard. That’s great. You deserve it. You real y do. I can’t say this publicly because of the tragedy on the Drive today, but you know what? It could have been worse. Much fucking worse. And I say that with al due respect and a heavy heart. You’re a hero, Kel y. Nothing less. I gotta run. We’re doing a press conference tonight. Listen, have a couple drinks on the city. Celebrate that piece of shit being dead. And, Kel y?”

“Yes, Mr. Mayor?”

“Stick it up her ass for me, wil ya?” The mayor’s voice cracked at the seams with sudden laughter, before bursting over into some sort of demented fucking chuckle. I cut the connection and headed back into the bar.