Disintegration: A Windy City Dark Mystery Read online

  “I’ll scream,” she says.

  I take my left hand, gripping the gun, and shove it between her legs, wincing at my finger banging the inside of her thighs. For a moment her face shakes, and the picture jumbles, a wave of pain surfing over me.

  “Do it and you’re dead.”

  Her face goes cold, lower lip beginning to tremble, and Sam the bartender wanders over.

  “Smile,” I whisper in her ear, running my tongue up the side of her neck. She tastes like poison.

  “Hey, Sam, what’s the word?”

  “Since when are you two all chummy?” He beams.

  “Oh, you know, buy a girl a drink and it opens all kinds of doors.”

  He nods, looking at the girl.

  “Bud and Beam for me, what do you want, dear?”

  “I’m fine, for now—”

  “She’ll have the same.”

  Sam walks away.

  “Listen, party girl, we’re going to have some fun, got it?”

  She nods her head. The drinks arrive and I toss Sam some bills.

  “What is it you Russian whores say?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, say it. You know what I mean.”

  “Ostrovia,” she whispers.

  “OSTROVIA!”

  The glasses clink and we down the shots. I hand her a beer and she’s trembling. A long worm crawls around inside my guts, and I hesitate for a moment.

  “What’s a fair trade for a tasing, Pippi? What do you think? For a little time spent splayed on the sidewalk, soaked in my own piss, as you run through my pockets and steal my cash?”

  The door to the bar opens and her eyes shoot to the movement. Two skinny punks in leather motorcycle jackets come in, nobody she knows, if the slumping shoulders are honest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you tasered me and took my money. What’s a fair trade for that?”

  “I have the money,” she says. “Most of it. I mean, I can get it. I can give it back.”

  “That’s kind of beside the point, isn’t it, Pippi?”

  “My name’s not Pippi.”

  “It is tonight.”

  I reach across myself to grab my beer, the gun still nested between her legs. I drink down half, and set it on the counter.

  “Drink up,” I say.

  Bass throbs in the background, but I hardly hear it. Her heart is all I can feel, the rapid, scattered loping of its beat, a thin rivulet of sweat running down her neck past her collarbone to settle between her breasts.

  “You think you’re pretty tough, yeah? Bit of a gunslinger?” I ask.

  “Huh?” she questions.

  “You stomp around the neighborhood, tough girl, all fluffy sweaters and glitter, a hard candy shell, but I think you have a gooey center, I think you’re soft.”

  Her gaze goes blank.

  “No, I’m not,” she breathes.

  “Well, let’s see what you’re made of. Just the two of us—mano a mano. Let’s play a little game. Still got your taser, right?”

  “Yeah,” she whispers.

  “Let’s see how much you can take. Turnabout is fair play, right? We’ll start it low and take turns, I’ll tase you, and then you can tase me, and we’ll see who the last man standing is. Fair enough?”

  She looks down into her lap. I push the gun in a bit farther and she emits a small groan.

  “I don’t know,” she stammers.

  She takes a long pull at the beer bottle and turns to look at me.

  “You’re a real asshole,” she says.

  “You have no idea.”

  I can see the wheels turning. There’s a small black tear tattooed beneath her left eye. And suddenly, she seems hard.

  “Let’s go then, I don’t want to waste my whole evening on you.”

  She’s standing up before I can do anything, walking out the door. I put the gun in my pocket and follow her out. She makes a left turn at a graffiti-riddled wall, slanted blue letters and mushrooms six feet high dotted with glowing lights and half-naked fairies. Clouds run over a black sky, sliding in front of a pale moon, and off into a glittering row of ancient oak trees fly a swarm of bats, blending slowly into the dark expanse.

  She stands in the garbage, eyes gone cold, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, huddled back up in a recessed nook behind a row of garbage cans. She looks cold, and for a moment, fragile. I realize this isn’t me, isn’t what makes me tick—she’s just a girl. She has a family somewhere, no doubt. I wonder how much older she is than my own daughter. I sigh, and stuff my hands into my jacket pockets.

  “Fuck.”

  I can’t do it.

  “Change of plans. Here’s what we’re going to do, Pippi,” I say, as her eyes dart all over me, tracking the gun, which is put away now, watching my hands.

  “I’m going to close my eyes and count to three.”

  She looks up and down the alley, and back to me.

  “When I open them, I want to see you gone. Go home. Call your mother. When’s the last time you called your mother?”

  Her eyes blink and she studies me, shivering in the cold, great clouds of exhale filling the space between us.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know.”

  She takes a breath, wrinkling her nose. “Couple months?”

  “Is your dad still around?”

  “No. Not really.”

  I make two fists and then release them, rubbing my eyes for a second.

  “Go home, call your mother, and tell her the things she needs to hear. The things you need to say. Take a hot shower, sober up, put on some sweatpants, make a cup of tea, and remember who you used to be.”

  “Why the fuck should I do that?” she asks, the anger slipping back in, her guard going back up as she sees a way out of this alley, this night.

  “So you don’t end up like me,” I say.

  I close my eyes and start counting. I’m trusting she won’t decide to suddenly find her taser, and some courage, or scream for the police. I have no reason to do this, but I do it anyway.

  “One…”

  I take another breath. I’m so tired. Cars slip by on Damen Avenue, and I hear laughter, a cellphone ringing—but her hands aren’t on me yet.

  “Two…”

  There are heavy boot steps and a garbage can falls over, broken glass, and the cold air around me moves, a breeze pushing over my numb skin.

  “Three…”

  I open my eyes, and she’s gone.

  Chapter 91

  The tapes, those stupid fucking tapes. Something about them bothers me, so I go back one more time and I listen. I sit in the dark, my furry friend curled around my feet, waiting for the jackboots at the door, waiting for a red dot to appear on my forehead, the winds whipping around my apartment, snow and sleet chipping at my windows. I’m pouring whatever liquid I can find down my gullet, pushing my mind out into the space between the Antarctica that is my frozen wasteland and that moment years ago when I lost it all. I feel the ether with my many-tentacled mind’s eye, bruised gray matter sloshing around inside my skull, a stomach full of beer and bourbon, a handful of pills, a thin layer of sweat coating my body, and I listen. I hear their voices, the screaming, the metal wrenching, my wife’s panic, the urgency in her voice. And then there is silence. In the spaces between the static I pray for something, anything, a detail I missed. I sob into the blackness, empty and void, as the tape whirls on, my witness to their death for the hundredth time simply another poke in the eye, a jab in the ribs, a punch to the gut. And the tape whirls on, never ending, spinning out into the void.

  I let it unfurl. I let the tape spin and move, unraveling, and it might as well be my intestines slipping through my inept fingers to the floor below. I’m gutted, again, and yet, somehow, I still feel. I still have pain—I’m not immune. What has to happen before I can die inside, finally become the shell that I so eagerly long to be? When can I let it all go, and cease to exist? And what is
stopping me from pushing that razor blade just a little bit harder? Why don’t I just swallow the barrel of my gun and end it? Empty every pill bottle and guzzle all of my booze, and take an eternal sleep? What is stopping me?

  There is a tic, a tingle. Something. It’s always been there, at least, since the accident. And it won’t let me go. It whispers in my ear at night, this glimmer. It speaks the words of a god, a prophet, and it keeps me alive with one or two words, the weight a massive presence, always forcing me to my knees, bowing down, clinging.

  Don’t.

  It says.

  Not yet.

  It mumbles.

  Wait.

  It whispers.

  Wait.

  Wait.

  What was that?

  Right before the click, before the tape ends, I hear something. I leap up, dropping my beer, the cat shooting out of the room as if from a cannon, and I rewind it. I play it again. And again. How did I not hear this? Was I simply too far gone, or did I never let it play that far? How much static will a human being listen to before they finally push stop? Ten seconds? Thirty seconds? Two minutes? That seems way too long, unfathomable.

  Chapter 92

  “Hey, baby, I guess you’re working late again. Taylor wants Daddy’s Special Chicken, and Robbie, well you know twins, they either totally agree, or don’t agree at all. He wants macaroni and cheese, so we’re going to hit the grocery store real quick. I’ll get you some Ben & Jerry’s, sweetheart, New York Super Fudge Chunk. I have the cellphone, call me if you get home before we do. I miss you, honey, you’ve been working too hard lately, and I miss you so much. If you want to meet us at the store, we’ll be there for a bit, so come catch up with us. The kids would love to spend a little time with you. Wait, somebody’s honking at me, what the hell…

  “…oh my God, what happened, where am I, Taylor? Robbie? Oh my God, say something, talk to me, I can’t see, I have to get out of here, ugh, the belt, Taylor? Robbie? Answer me! Oh, that smell, I’m wet, what is that, gas?”

  …clicking, whirring

  …(a whisper)

  …a van door slides open, ever so quietly

  …a voice

  …a man’s voice

  …I know that voice

  …a hush at the end of the tape, in the final seconds

  …(get them out)

  …(now)

  …click.

  Chapter 93

  His reach is long, this man I call Vlad. He reached all the way to the banality of the suburbs, and not just once. Many times, I’m sure of it now. Maybe those with the most to lose have the farthest to fall. Maybe the ones with everything, the American dream realized, they become the best soldiers. Because without love, there cannot be hate. Without a fullness, there cannot be a void. To be fractured, you must be solid once, a presence, a rock, complete. Before he could build me up, or at least, build me, create me, mold me, he had to break me down, as far as I could go, just this side of useless.

  He succeeded, I think.

  You son of a bitch. You motherfucker.

  There will be no drawn-out war here, no secrecy, no finesse. I’m coming for you now, Vlad, in a straight line. And I will burn all my bridges behind me, leaving nothing in my wake. I will erase my life here, this weak pulse and feeble mind. And I’ll bring everything I have down on you, Vlad. I’ll tear you apart piece by piece, limb from limb. I will inflict on you a slow steady pain until you beg me to end it, beg me to kill you, to set you free. And I will relish every moment, allowing the darkness to wash over me, to wipe out whatever was left, whatever glimmer of hope, or peace, or life is left in me. I will surrender to myself. God help those who come near me or get in my way. I’m losing my last scraps of humanity, and I have no love for life, mine or anyone else’s.

  Chapter 94

  Before I leave, I’ll warn Paulina, upstairs, while I still have control. And whatever beast lurks in 3F, I will set it free or take it down. I’m clinging to something, a sliver of a conscience, so I’ll get the punks out downstairs too, clear this building out before I burn it to the ground. These are my neighbors, strangers, there’s no need for them to suffer at the hands of Vlad. The innocent can be spared. I think I can manage that.

  I start upstairs with Paulina. I knock on her door expecting it to open with her radiant smile, a tilt of her head, the television on in the background, soap operas maybe, something on the stove. She’s making lasagna today, the layers of noodles stacked up on the cheese, the meat sauce rich with the smell of garlic and basil, oregano and thyme. Maybe a loaf of French bread cut in half, butter smeared across it, ready for the oven.

  No. That’s not what I find.

  I knock again, and wait. Silence. I turn the knob. Locked.

  Fuck it. I kick the door open, my boot at the lock splintering it open, banging the fractured wood against the far wall.

  Jesus Christ.

  The room smells of vanilla and plastic, cheap perfume and vomit, sex and blood and despair.

  It’s the exact same layout as my apartment—living room straight ahead, kitchen to the right, and French doors opening to a bedroom. To the left is a wall of old vanities, rummaged from Salvation Army or the Brown Elephant, mismatched in shape and color. Pictures are taped to the edges of the mirrors. I walk over to get a closer look, a cord unplugged from the wall. I plug it in and the room is filled with light. Bulbs ring mirrors, some half-assed attempt at lighting, as if a drunken carpenter had raided an old theater, metal sleeves framing round stage lights that are bolted or clipped to the edges. The pictures are primarily of women and children, some old, dating back twenty, thirty years. Some are recent—down by Buckingham Fountain, or the lakefront, Wrigley Field, and farmers markets. Upturned faces of little boys and girls, standing next to their mothers. In some, parts of the photos have been cut off, or faces snipped out, colored over with marker, or sliced to shreds, the white of the paper peeking through, razor blades removing whatever lurked beneath. I imagine abusive husbands, absent fathers, the men in their lives that let them down. Scattered amongst the family photos are pictures of iconic women, torn from magazines, printed from the Internet—Marilyn Monroe, Jennifer Beals, Betty Grable, Angelina Jolie, Anna Nicole Smith, Bettie Page, Dita Von Teese. There is a calendar on the wall of classic Vargas girls. On the vanities are lipsticks, hairbrushes, hair spray, and other makeup. I pick up a couple of tubes of the lipstick, they look familiar—Raisin Hell, Tramp, XPose, and Bruise. I hold the last one for a moment. Bruise. That was Holly. Tell me she never worked here.

  I turn to the bedroom, where there is a queen-sized mattress on the floor. Directly across from it, at the foot of the bed is a tripod, empty. It’s where the video camera must have gone. The sheets are a neutral beige and the wind and snow outside rattle the windows, the room still in shadows. I click on the tall standing lamp that hides in the corner and the room fills with a sickly yellow light. The sheets are dotted with blood, a long red smear up the middle. On the nightstand closest to me is a smattering of lubes and gels—K-Y, Vaseline, baby oil. I pull open the drawer and find an assortment of vibrators and dildos in every shape and size imaginable—long, slender, and pink; short and wide, in magenta, riddled with bumps around the base of the shaft; a bent fleshy thing with two heads. I walk over to the other nightstand and there are candles seated on it—Red Currant, Sandalwood, Linen. I open the drawer. It’s filled with other rougher items—handcuffs, a box of razor blades, ball gags and paddles, spiked collars and nipple clamps, and restraints in silk and leather.

  I head to the kitchen. The refrigerator is filled with bottled Evian water, cheap white wine, and champagne. The freezer holds several bottles of vodka, and that foul clear liquid that Vlad enjoys. I open the cabinet doors and there’s no food to be found anywhere, the shelves are empty. In the bathroom there is a box of tampons on the top of the toilet tank, and the medicine cabinet holds Midol, aspirin, Band-Aids, and a smattering of prescriptions. Behind a clear shower curtain are shampoo and conditione
r, family size, cucumber and green tea, and bars of Oil of Olay soap. It’s the shea butter.

  Quite the little setup. Either Paulina was in charge of the whores, the filming, the sex and snuff, or she worked for Vlad too. The place feels abandoned. There’s still urine in the toilet, so I flush it. The room reeks. The stove is empty, cobwebs scattered between the burners. There is a fine layer of dust in front of the back door, as if it hasn’t been opened in weeks.

  I head out into the hall and down to 3F. It’s quiet, with the faint smell of curry floating under the door. I knock. The longer I stand there, the more I don’t like it. The curry fades away and something bitter and sharp drifts out. I try the knob. Locked.

  I kick the door in.

  A wave of chemicals hits me in the face and stings my eyes. I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m afraid to touch anything or turn on a light, but I do it anyway. I find a switch to the left and flick it on. Nothing explodes. I squint my eyes to try and see, the fumes making my eyes water. It’s the same layout as Guy’s apartment but it’s much different. Along the wall are white buckets with tubes running out of them. Large brown bottles sit next to them. On a metal table in the middle of the room sit beakers and more tubes, smaller plastic bottles scattered over the counter, empty beer bottles, and a bizarre mixture of chemicals. There is a bag of rock salt leaned against the table, brake cleaner, rubbing alcohol, drain cleaner, a large tank of propane gas, lye, and acetone. It’s some sort of lab—meth maybe. It also seems abandoned. I take a step in and lean forward to peek into the kitchen. There are large black trash bags lying on the floor, a small table littered with what looks like marijuana stems and seeds, a thin coating of white powder on everything, a chair tipped over. There’s popcorn scattered across the floor, empty liters of Diet Dr Pepper, paper towel rolls, half undone, the back window cracked.

  I turn back to the living room and notice the massive fan bolted to the wall. It must be six feet wide and six feet high. It faces out, ventilation, no doubt. There’s no window at this spot in my apartment, or Guy’s; this must be a custom job. Maybe that was the source of the constant buzz I felt, the humming in the walls and floors, a squadron of bees that never arrived, slowly driving me insane.