I tell Callum my theory that Du Pont was aiming for him, not Yafeu Solomon. Aida doesn’t like that idea one bit. But Callum looks relieved to at least know who’s been taking shots at him.
“You think he wants revenge for Jack Du Pont?” he says, frowning.
“Yeah, I think maybe he does. He was overseas when Jack was killed—so who knows what version of the story he was told by their family. They don’t know what really happened themselves. When he looked into it, it probably appeared like we were covering it up. Like we might have been responsible.”
“I am responsible,” Callum says, quietly.
“That’s not true—” Aida tries to say, but he interrupts her.
“Yes, it is. Jack worked for me. I brought him to that ransom drop knowing it was dangerous, knowing it was probably a trap, knowing we were outnumbered and at a tactical disadvantage.”
“Jack knew that, too,” Aida says, firmly. “He went along willingly.”
Callum just shakes his head, not willing to forgive himself for getting his friend killed.
“So what now?” Aida asks me.
“You two need to lay low,” I tell them. “You can’t give Du Pont another chance to take a shot at you. That means no public appearances, and especially no planned events. You give this guy advanced notice of where you’re going, and the next time he won’t miss.”
“It was only dumb luck he missed last time,” Callum says, darkly.
“Yes, you’re welcome,” Aida says, “For once your wife’s clumsiness paid off.”
She’s trying to make a joke like she usually would, but her face looks strained and pale. Her hand is pressed against the side of her belly, like she feels a pain there.
“I don’t want to wait for him to find me again,” Callum says. “Let’s track this fucker down and put an end to this.”
“I’ve got an idea of where he might be,” I tell Cal. “But I don’t think you should come with me. Stay with Aida, stay out of sight. We don’t want to tip him off just yet that we know who he is. Let him think you’re hiding out.”
Callum frowns. I can tell he doesn’t like the idea of hiding. He wants to take action just as much as I do. Probably more.
But Aida is clinging to his arm. She definitely doesn’t want him stepping foot out of the house.
“Please, Cal,” she begs, looking up at him.
Aida never begs for anything.
Callum looks as surprised as I am.
“Please,” she says again.
“Alright,” he agrees, reluctantly. “I’ll stay put for now. But call me the minute you find anything, Dante.”
“I will,” I promise him.
I’m acting like I don’t want to bring Cal along so we can lull Du Pont into a false sense of security. But the truth is, I want to keep him safe. If Aida were to lose her husband right before the baby was born, it would destroy her. For the sake of my little sister, I have to protect Callum, whether he likes it or not.
I’d like to take Nero along with me, but he’s working on the hard drive I stole from Kenwood’s house. Even though I don’t think Kenwood hired Du Pont anymore, I still want Nero to crack the encryption so we can see what kind of shit Kenwood has been secretly recording inside his house.
Instead, I call Seb as I’m climbing into my SUV. He picks up after two rings.
“Hey, big brother.”
“Hey. You free this afternoon?”
“Depends. What’s on the menu?”
“Exploratory mission.”
“Long drive?”
“Less than an hour.”
“Alright. Come pick me up—I’ll text you the address.”
Seb sends me an address I don’t recognize. It turns out to be a fancy condo building in the Loop. I wait in the car, and he comes down five minutes later, looking flushed and slightly out of breath.
“What the hell were you doing?” I ask him.
He grins. “What do you think?”
“You got some girlfriend living there?”
“Somebody else’s girlfriend who gets lonely from time to time.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake—you taking lessons from Nero?”
Seb shrugs. “He’s settled into monogamy. Aida’s about to have a baby. And you’re perpetually boring—so somebody’s got to have a little fun,” he says, buckling his seatbelt and flipping on the music.
I know he’s joking around, but he doesn’t actually look like he’s having that much fun.
Seb’s been in a rough state the last year or two, since his leg got fucked up. He’s been bouncing around, sometimes helping us with work, sometimes disappearing for days or even weeks while he drinks, parties, and does who the fuck knows what else. Apparently banging girls who are already in a relationship.
He’s unshaven today, messy-haired, shirt looking like it hasn’t been washed. Dark circles under his eyes. I had hoped he’d latch onto this South Shore project like Nero did, and it would give him something different to focus on. But Seb has never been as interested in the family business as the rest of us.
Still, he’s useful for a job like today.
I had Nero look up all the properties owned by various members of the Du Pont family. There were three within a two-hour drive of Chicago. One was a little house in Evanston owned by MaryAnne Du Pont, now MaryAnne Ghery. Since she’s a schoolteacher with three small children, I crossed that one off the list. The second was an apartment downtown owned by Charles Du Pont. That’s a definite possibility. Charles Du Pont is only distantly related to Christian, but he’s an older man who seems to live alone, so he could be hosting his third-cousin. But the third place is the one I’ll be checking out first.
It’s a country estate outside of Rockford. It’s actually owned by Irene Whittier, who’s even more distantly-connected to Christian than Charles Du Pont. But Callum pointed it out to me on the list. He said that Jack used to visit the estate in the summer, to ride dirt bikes out in the hills, and help his great-aunt Irene exercise the horses. Jack never mentioned if his cousin Christian used to go there, too. But it seems possible, since both were the same age, and about equally related to Irene.
It takes Seb and I an hour and a half to drive there. It’s funny how different everything looks once you get outside the city. Sometimes I don’t leave Chicago for months at a time. I forget how flat the rest of the state is. In the city, the high rises are like mountains, creating a sense of structure and direction, no matter where you are. You can always tell which way you’re facing based off the river, the lake, and the buildings. Out here, you only have the sun for a guide. The roads and fields look the same in almost any direction.
The Whittier estate is large and beautiful, but extremely rundown. The closer we get to the main house, the more obvious the chipped paint and broken shutters become. I don’t see any other cars parked out front. Most of the windows look dark.
“What do you want to do?” Seb asks, eyeing those windows nervously. I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing I am—that we’re not keen to get out of the car if Christian might be up in one of those rooms, rifle at the ready.
“Stay in the car,” I tell him. “Watch out for me.”
“Alright,” Seb says, eyes on those windows.
I climb out of the Escalade, feeling exposed in the empty front yard.
The paving stones are cracked and the yard is full of weeds. I feel a little better once I’m in the portico, sheltered from above at least.
I knock on the door, then ring the bell. There’s a long wait during which I hear a couple of dogs barking in the house.
At last, footsteps shuffle toward the door. I’ve got my gun in my hand, inside my jacket, in case I need it. When an old woman opens the door, I release the trigger, and drop my hands to my sides.
“What do you want?” the woman demands.
She’s stoop-shouldered and broad-faced, dressed in a man’s cardigan and rubber boots. Her hair is so thin that I can see the pink scalp underneath. She’s carrying a bucket of seed mix and her boots are crusted with mud—it looks like she was feeding chickens out back when I rang the bell.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” I say. “I was wondering if I could speak to Christian.”
She squints up at me like I’m insane.
“Christian?” she squawks. “Why in the hell would you come here looking for Christian?”
“I thought he might be staying with you,” I say, calmly.
“You thought wrong.”
She goes to shut the door, but I stop it easily with the toe of my boot.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” I ask, trying to keep my tone polite.
“I haven’t seen Christian in eight years,” she says. “NOT that it’s any of your damn business, whoever you are. And not that I’d tell you if I had.”
She’s peering up at me suspiciously. She might be old and frail, but she’s sharp enough to know that a friend of Christian wouldn’t come knocking unannounced.
Still, I think she’s telling the truth. Her outrage at being bothered seems genuine enough.
“Alright,” I say, releasing the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“ ‘Thank you’ he says,” she shakes her head. “As if I had a choice!”
With that, she slams the door in my face.
I’m not offended. I like ornery old ladies. They’ve lost the desire to hide how they actually feel about things, and I respect the honesty.
Irene is right to mistrust me. I’ve got no goodwill toward her grand-nephew. In fact, I have a hard time picturing a face-to-face meeting between the two of us where both of us walk away alive.
I’ve got to find him sooner than ever now, because Irene might call him, if she’s got his number. It won’t take him long to figure out who the giant on her doorstep was.
I’m about to head back to the Escalade, when I have one more idea.
I text Seb:
One second. I’m gonna check around the back of the property.
Without waiting for him to respond, I cut around the side of the house. The property isn’t fenced, so it’s easy to cross Irene’s grounds. However, I’m mindful of the dogs I heard barking in the house. I don’t know if there’s more prowling around, and I don’t want to have to choose between shooting an innocent dog, or losing a chunk of my leg.
Irene’s grounds are mostly untended—several open fields, an old horse paddock that looks like it hasn’t been used in years, a tumbledown barn, and a few wooded lots.
I’m about to turn back to the car, when I see what I was looking for, way out on the edge of the grounds: a tiny cabin. Large estates usually have a house like that for the groundskeeper—out of sight of the main house, but close enough to watch over the bulk of the property.
This one looks as untended and overgrown as the rest of the grounds. But I’m still going to take a look. It would be the perfect place to hide if you wanted to stay at your great-aunt’s house, without actually being bothered by that aunt.
Irene is too old to come tramping all the way over here. Christian could stay for months without her noticing.
As I get closer, I see a rear access road winding up to the cabin. You could drive right up and park without being noticed. There’s no vehicle around at the moment, but I think I see fresh tracks in the mud next to the cabin.
I approach the hut warily, looking for cameras. Looking for tripwires, too. We had plenty of those in Iraq. The insurgents used fishing line, transparent and set up at shin-level. Almost impossible to see until you blundered right through it and set off an incendiary device. Or one of those damn bounding mines—you trip it, and the propelling charge launches the body of the mine three feet in the air, where it explodes, spraying fragments in all directions at just the right height to rip open your guts.
Yeah, we didn’t love those.
We carried around Silly String to spray the area. The string would hang suspended on the trip wires, without detonating the bombs. But I don’t have any Silly String right now. So I just watch where the fuck I’m walking, carefully picking my way through the overgrown grass.
As soon as I get to the cabin door, I become certain that Christian has been here. I can see the arcing line through the dust where the front door swung open. I check all around the frame for boobytraps, then turn the knob and step inside.
It’s not locked. I doubt Christian expected us to figure out his identity, let alone where he was staying.
I can smell the scent of his soap, over the mildew and dust. He’s been washing up at the sink. And sleeping in the cot in the corner. The bed is neatly made, corners pulled tight and the blanket tucked in all around, military-style. I’d recognize that technique anywhere—six inches between the top edge of the blanket and sheet, four inches of folded material, four inches from pillow to fold.
The cabin’s been swept clean, and a single plate, mug, and fork sit drying next to the sink.
There’s no TV or stereo—just an old cabinet against one wall, with a couple moldy books and a battered teddy bear high up on the top shelf.
I’m not interested in any of that. I’m drawn straight to the neat stacks of paper next to the bed. The folders and clippings are set atop an upside-down crate. I scoop them up, flipping through the pages one by one.
Chicago Library Welcomes Imogen Griffin as Newest Board Member . . .
Fergus and Imogen Griffin are pleased to announce the engagement of their eldest son Callum, to Aida Gallo, daughter of Enzo and the late Gianna Gallo . . .
Callum Griffin Voted in as Alderman of 43rd Ward . . .
Alderman’s Bodyguard Slain in Cemetery . . .
Dante Gallo Arrested for Murder of Walton Miller . . .
Jack Du Pont, son of Horace and Elena Du Pont, was laid to rest at Rosehill Cemetery on . . .
Shooting at Harris Theater . . .
Gallo Construction Announces Massive Redevelopment Project on South Shore . . .
Old South Works Steel Plant Rezoned for Commercial and Residential Real Estate . . .
Anti-Trafficking Rally Hosted by Freedom Foundation to Be Held At Grant Park. Speakers will include . . .
I scan the headlines, the clipped articles, and the screenshots printed off social media. It forms a timeline of the Griffins and the Gallos over the last two years. A few things are missing—for instance, Christian apparently didn’t link our families to the break-in at the Alliance vault, which was written about in the papers, but only briefly, since the bank manager was careful to keep secret the more interesting details of the theft. And of course, nobody in the press knew who the thieves had been.
The clippings mention the shooting of Bratva boss Kolya Kristoff at the ballet, but not the kidnapping of Nessa Griffin that preceded it. The Griffins never made that information public. They always knew they’d have to get their daughter back on their own.
I’m sure Christian knows more than what he has here. To prove that point, the final paper in the pile includes a list of names:
Mikolaj Wilk
Marcel Jankowski
Andrei Wozniak
Kolya Kristoff (Russian boss)
Ilya Yahontov
Callum Griffin
Dante Gallo
Nero Gallo
All people who were present in the cemetery the night Jack died.
I don’t know where Christian got that information. So I don’t know if he’s aware who actually killed Jack. It was Marcel Jankowski who cut his throat, on Mikolaj’s orders. But unless one of the people on that list has talked to Du Pont, he probably doesn’t know if it was the Polish Mafia, the Bratva, myself, or my brother who struck the killing blow. I assume he knows that Cal wouldn’t do it, but he obviously blames him anyway.
I’m so absorbed in the papers that I almost forget I’m in Du Pont’s cabin and he could come back any second. I almost jump out of my skin when the door abruptly opens.
“It’s just me!” Seb says impatiently, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“I drove the car around so you wouldn’t have to walk back.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”
“What’s all that?” he nods his head at the papers.
“Stalker clippings,” I tell him. “Du Pont has been researching all of us.”
“Oh yeah?” Seb says. “Did he get my game against Duke where I scored forty-two points?”
“No,” I shake my head. “You’re not in here at all.”
“Well that’s some bullshit,” Seb scowls.
I know he’s joking, but only sort of.
“Isn’t he supposed to pin those all over the walls, connected by red string?” Seb says.
“Nah, he’s the tidy type,” I say, shuffling the papers together again so I can put them back where I found them.
“You can say that again,” Seb says, eyeing the tightly-made bed. “Nothing laying around except that old bear.”
He goes over to the shelf to pick it up.
“Don’t touch anything!” I bark.
Too late—Seb has already taken it down off the shelf. Most people wouldn’t be able to reach up there without a step ladder, but Seb doesn’t even have to tip-toe.
“It’s heavy,” he says, frowning. “Dante . . . I think it’s a whattayacallit . . .”
I already realize even before he says it.
It’s a nanny cam.
Seb points the bear at me. A little red light flickers on behind the glassy left eye.
The camera is live. Someone’s watching us right now.
“Put that back,” I say, quietly.
“He already saw us—”
“Shh!”
I hear a soft, near-silent hissing noise. The sound of an aerosol releasing as chemical components mix.
“RUN!” I shout to Seb.
We race for the door, reaching the splintered frame at the same moment. I shove him out ahead of me. Right as my hands meet his back, a force like a thunderclap hits me from behind. It throws me out of the cabin. Like a log caught in a flash flood, I slam into Seb, and we both go flying. We tumble down into dry grass while the cabin becomes a raging fireball behind us.
“FUCK!” Seb grimaces, clutching his leg. He came down hard on his bad knee.
“You okay?” I say, rolling over.
He groans something in reply, but I can’t hear it, because my ears are ringing. I’m gonna be deaf by forty if I keep this up.
“What?” I yell.
“I said are you okay?” Seb shouts back, staring at me wide-eyed.
I look down at myself. I’ve got a shard of wood the size of a pencil sticking out of my right bicep. As I move, I can feel more pieces of wood and metal embedded in my back.
“God damn it.”
I grab Seb and throw his arm around my shoulder, helping to hoist him up.
“I’m okay,” he protests, but I can tell he’s favoring his good leg.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m sure that old bird’s calling the cops.”
Seb and I hobble back toward the SUV. I’m heartily glad he drove it over here, because neither of us could run all the way back across the property at the moment. Also, if he hadn’t come in and picked up that bear, I wouldn’t have noticed the camera, or heard the bomb activating. First thing I would have known about it was the whole place exploding around my ears.
Too many close calls. I can feel my luck running out.
As we climb into the car, Seb says, “You better go to the hospital.”
“What time is it?” I say.
“Five forty-two.”
I’m all too aware that the last time something blew up in close proximity to me, I was late to meet Simone.
That’s not happening again. Not even if the whole city goes up in flames.
“We’ll just stop at a store,” I tell Seb.
“What kind of store?” he says.
I grimace.
“One with pliers and alcohol.”
