Set the Night on Fire (2 page)

T
he next day Dar headed to the Army-Navy Surplus store and bought a pair of faded khakis, a blue shirt, and a pea coat. Then, wearing his new clothes, he boarded a bus for Grand Haven. The ride around the eastern shore of Lake Michigan took over six hours, with stops in Gary, St. Joseph, and Holland. He’d grown up near Detroit, and although Grand Haven was on the other side of the state, he was familiar with the area. One of the most popular resorts in Michigan in summer, the town now looked November bleak. A gunmetal sky threatened snow, and an icy lake breeze penetrated his jacket.

He tried to hitch a ride to the estate—Rain said it was off the road to Ferrysburg. But traffic was thin, and no one picked him up. He ended up making the three-mile trip on foot. He kept the lake in his sights to guide him, its angry whitecaps a grim reminder of why he had come. He was rounding a bend when he had the sensation he was being watched. He spun around. Nothing—except the desolate landscape.

It had been a while since he’d hiked this far, and he had to stop to catch his breath. His eyes watered. He had no gloves, and he’d forgotten how bitter the wind off the lake could be. Part of him wanted to catch the bus back to Chicago. Despite the gassy smell and cramped seats, it would be blessedly warm.

It took over an hour to reach the estate. He halted in front of a double iron fence. On one side was a small wooden gatehouse. Rain had said there was a twenty-four hour security guard, but no one was there. He grasped one of the iron bars and pulled. Nothing. He blew on his hands and tried again. Still nothing.

He walked to the gatehouse. It was unlocked. Inside, the booth wasn’t heated, but there was some shelter from the elements. He stamped his feet, then slid onto a metal stool beneath a window. His nose had started to drip, and he rubbed his wind-burned skin, wondering if he would ever be warm again. All his energy had been devoted to getting this far; now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do. He looked around for a phone or intercom. There was nothing inside the gatehouse, but a small box was attached to the opposite side of the gate. He sighed. He wasn’t anxious to go back out.

He closed his eyes, willing his mantra into his thoughts. Forty years ago he’d taken up transcendental meditation, and he still used it occasionally. It relaxed him, and at the same time fueled him with energy. The inherent contradiction of the mind. He started to mentally chant the syllables. A moment later the crunch of wheels on gravel made his eyes fly open.

A black Cadillac rolled to a stop on the other side of the gate. Two men were in the car. Both wore dark suits. The driver wore shades, though there was no sun. The man in the passenger seat held a phone to his ear. Neither seemed to notice Dar. The man in the passenger seat nodded. As he did, the gate swung open and the Cadillac glided through.

Dar waited until the car had turned onto the main road and was out of sight. Then he jumped off the stool and hurried out. The gate was swinging shut. He slipped through before it closed.

He trudged another half mile past a colorless wooded area. Tree branches shivered in the wind, producing sharp angles of black against the sky. As he drew closer, he smelled the faint scent of evergreens—white pine, he thought.

The woods ended unexpectedly, and a house came into view. It was old, and irregularly shaped, as if it had been added onto several times. Gabled roofs were pitched at different angles, and the occasional turret sprang up at their intersections. There seemed to be three main wings, but they folded back on each other so that it was difficult to tell where one stopped and the next began. Landscaping concealed much of the exterior, but the walls he could see were a faded white.

He walked up to a red door, the only bit of color he’d seen since he got off the bus. There was no buzzer, so he lifted a brass knocker and let it thump against the wood. Footsteps sounded almost immediately, as if someone was waiting for him.

The man who opened the door was about six feet tall and slim. He had a full head of thick white hair, but his eyes were small and hooded, and puffy pockets of skin lay underneath. He wore tailored wool slacks, and his gray sweater looked so soft and warm Dar wished he could wrap himself in it.

“What did you forget?” he asked irritably.

Dar spread his hands. “Sorry?”

Startled, the man stepped back. “You’re not . . . ” As he inspected Dar, his eyes turned quizzical. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“My name is Dar Gantner, and I came through the gate when the Cadillac went out.”

The man didn’t move, but his eyebrows rose in what looked like mild surprise. After a moment, he said, “Well, well. We finally meet.”  He looked Dar up and down. “You look frozen. Why don’t you come in?”

Dar nodded. “Thank you.”

As he stepped inside, the man said, “I’m Philip Kerr. But you already knew that.” He turned around and pressed a buzzer on the wall beside the door. “Manuela, please bring tea for us in the study.”

A heavily accented female voice replied through the intercom. “Hokay.”

Kerr turned around. “Follow me.”

Dar was surprised. Based on the one dinner he’d shared with Kerr’s father many years ago, the son wasn’t what he expected. Then again, he didn’t really know the Kerr family—or Rain or Casey—any more. He followed Kerr down a long hall. Kerr’s shoes clacked on the terracotta floor. Dar’s sneakers were silent. Kerr led him into a small, cozy room with a view of Lake Michigan. He motioned to two comfortable leather chairs in front of the window. “Please. Sit.”

Dar sat and gazed out the window. A lonely pier extended out from the shore. Angry waves pounded its moorings. He could get lost in those waves.

Kerr cleared his throat. “So, what can I do for you, after all these years?”

Dar brought his focus back. “I’m grateful you’re seeing me. I don’t think your father would have been as civil.”

Kerr let out a small smile. “I am not my father.”

“I see.” Dar straightened. “I don’t think I need to go over my past. You know it. But I got a letter while I was inside, and I wanted to ask you about it.”

Kerr cocked his head.

“It was from Joanna Kerr.”

Kerr froze for a moment. “My ex-wife.”

Dar nodded. “The letter said that Sebastian Kerr changed his will on his deathbed. That he always regretted the way he treated his daughter. And that he wanted to make amends and willed half his fortune to Alix’s children.”

Kerr tilted his head.

“The letter also said that you covered it up. Made it all go away.”

Kerr looked like he was going to say something, but the maid came in balancing a tray filled with a teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate of shortbread biscuits. She set the tray down on a small table between the chairs. Her face was an empty mask. Hired help were like that, Dar knew. Hiding their bitterness or ambition or resignation under the guise of servitude.

“Thank you, Manuela,” Kerr said, with just a touch of superiority.

The woman retreated.

“You were saying?” Kerr took a bite of a biscuit.

“I’m not here for myself, you understand,” Dar said. “Or the past. I’m here to advocate for the next generation.”

Kerr took his time pouring the tea. He placed a biscuit on both of their saucers. He stirred his tea, picked it up and sipped. “In that case I’m afraid your trip has been a waste of time, Mr. Gantner.”

Dar eyed Kerr as he picked up his own tea. “How so?”

Kerr set his cup down. “My wife and I divorced several years ago. It was a . . . well . . . it was contentious. She made all sorts of accusations about me that weren’t true, in an effort to ensure she got what she believed was her due. I’m afraid that was one of the charges.” He took another bite of his biscuit. “It was all made up. Total fiction. We never had any children, you know. Maybe that played a role in her . . . behavior. You know, the barren mother.” He sighed. “In any event, it became clear she’d say anything to discredit me. You know how that goes.”

Dar winced.

“Pardon me. I apologize.” Kerr looked contrite. “It was evident she wanted revenge. For what, I’m not sure. She was . . . unstable.”

Dar kept his mouth shut.

Kerr went on. “People are strange, you know? For years, I encouraged my father to make peace with the past.” He gave a little shrug. “But he was stubborn. He wouldn’t go there.”

“He continued to blame me?” Dar asked.

“I’m afraid he did.” Kerr gave him another small smile. “Such a waste of energy, don’t you agree?” He sighed. “You’ve come a long way. I just wish I had better news.”

* *

What had he expected, Dar wondered on the bus back to Chicago. That it would all fall together without a hitch? He wasn’t that naïve. Truth was he’d never responded to Joanna Kerr’s letter. At the time he received it, he didn’t trust anyone whose name was Kerr. He gazed out the window. At least he had tried.

He thought about calling Rain but decided against it. He didn’t sense that she wanted to reconnect in any significant way. She was just fulfilling an obligation. Exhausted, still feeling the cold deep in his bones, he stared at the deepening dusk until the thrum of the bus’s motor lulled him to sleep.

Back in Chicago, he walked from the bus station to the El, got off at Loyola, and headed to his lodgings. A small room in a shabby apartment-hotel on Broadway, the place was due to be torn down, which was why he’d been able to snag a room—someone hoping to squeeze out a few more bucks before the building was razed. He didn’t mind. The privacy, after so many years of communal living, was priceless.

He pushed through the door and walked past the desk. The place was supposed to have a twenty-four-hour attendant. He occasionally spotted a young African man, a Loyola student probably, who spoke English with a British lilt. Tonight, though, no one was there. He bypassed the rickety elevator and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He should have picked up something to eat, but he was too tired and cold to go back out. He fished out his key and inserted it into the lock.

The door was unlocked. Dar clearly remembered locking it before he left.

He pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t on the other side. He tried to recall who knew where he was. Rain, of course. Casey, if Rain had told him. He’d left a message for Teddy, too.

Uneasiness rippled through him. Maybe it was the street gangs. He knew they were a problem in neighborhoods like this. Maybe they’d broken in. The conveniently AWOL desk attendant might be their accomplice.

He bent down, looking for a telltale sliver of light under the door. Nothing. If someone was in his room, they were in the dark. He straightened. If he threw the door open, he’d have the element of surprise. He grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and shoved open the door. It swung wide. The light switch was to his right. He snapped it on.

No one was there, but someone had been. His mattress was pulled off the frame, half of it now slumped on the floor. Bits of orange clung to it. Drawing closer, he saw they were tufts of foam rubber. Someone had slashed through it, and the stuffing had spilled out. The drawers to the bureau were pulled out, too, and his few items of clothing were balled on the floor. The backpack he’d picked up a few days ago was in a corner. In the bathroom, the door to the medicine cabinet was open, his toiletries scattered.

He leaned against the wall, willing his pulse to slow. He had nothing of value. They certainly hadn’t made a secret of their visit; they hadn’t even locked the door when they left. Maybe they wanted Dar to know they’d been here. That they could—and did—find him.

But why?

He took another breath. He was exhausted, hungry, and wanted to sleep. Instead, he picked up his backpack, threw in his clothes and toilet articles. He added the two books he’d checked out of the library. He dropped his key on the bureau. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he exited the room and crept down the steps. The desk was still unoccupied. He walked to the front door, then changed his mind and turned down a hallway. He pushed through a side door into the alley.

As casually as he could, he strolled back to Broadway, all the while searching the shadows. His left hand brushed against his cell phone in his pocket. He pulled it out. The screen indicated two missed calls. There was some kind of tracking device in cell phones these days, he’d read. With the right kind of equipment, you could figure out exactly where the cell phone—and its user—were. Across the street he spotted a large metal dumpster at the mouth of another alley. He crossed over. A couple was walking down the sidewalk, arm in arm. Neither paid any attention to him. He glanced around. Then he lifted the dumpster’s metal cover and dropped in the phone.

December

Y
ou can’t un-ring a bell, Rain thought, as she pulled up to Casey Hilliard’s home. But that doesn’t keep some people from trying. The gravel under her wheels crackled as she eased up the driveway. Casey had done well. Something to do with venture capitalism, she recalled. If his house was any indication, this was beyond well. A red brick Georgian with white columns, set back from the road on one of those Winnetka streets you had to know was there in order to find it. Woods hugged three sides of the lot. 

She parked her dusty Corolla in between a Jeep Wrangler and a blue sports car and climbed out. It was a frigid night, and a stiff lake breeze swirled the leaves into tiny eddies before they sank to the ground. She buttoned her jacket and padded to the enormous paneled door. Her Birkenstocks hardly made any noise. She smiled. From Birkenstock to Birkenstock in forty years. Like that French saying, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” Who said that, she wondered. Voltaire? Montaigne? Or some obscure philosopher whose name was forever lost to history?

She ran her hands down her thighs, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her jeans. She’d only talked to Casey once over the years, after Payton had his “accident” and they’d agreed to stay below the radar. She took in a breath and pressed the doorbell. She hoped he would see her. He had to. Things had changed.

* *

Casey Hilliard leaned on his cane as he hobbled to his desk. Despite the dim light from a lamp, Rain could see he hadn’t changed much. His hair was mostly silver, but there was still plenty of it. Craggy lines weathered his face, but he had the same blue eyes, eyes that always looked cheerful even during solemn occasions. She remembered how he used to make her feel—that life was an adventure and you wanted to share it with him. He was seductive that way. He knew people from all walks of life, and the connections he made were his greatest gift. Look how he’d brought them together.

“When was he released?” Casey asked.

“A few weeks ago.” She leaned back in a well-worn leather chair.

“You saw him?”

She nodded.

“How?”

“He found me. I haven’t made a secret of my life,” she said. “I’m all over the Internet.”

“What did he want?”

She ran a hand through her hair—she’d always been vain about it. Her best feature, long and straight, it was an unusual color—an ashy, almost silver, blonde that looked bright or dark, depending on the light.

“It’s the color of rain,” Alix had pronounced one night, all of them high in the Old Town apartment.

Casey had jerked his head up. “Far out, Alix. You’re right!”

“From now on, you are no longer Julie. We dub you Rain.” Alix giggled. “Bow your head.”

Rain had complied, and Alix touched her shoulders with a stick. “It is done,” she said triumphantly.

And it was. From that day on, no one ever called her Julie again. And from that day on, Rain made sure her hair stayed the same color. Even now, forty years later, it was the same silver blonde.

“Rain,” Casey repeated now. “What did Dar want?”

“I think he wanted to see you.”

Casey didn’t react.

“I know, Casey,” Rain said. It was the closest she could come to compassion. She took a breath. “He also wanted to know where Alix’s family was. Something about a letter he got that could change things.”

Casey frowned. “Her parents are gone.”

“Her brother’s still around.”

“Of course.” He nodded wearily. “Did you tell him?” 

She chose her words carefully. “It . . . it was difficult not to.”

Casey’s eyes flashed. “Did he threaten you?”

“No.” She hesitated. “But he said he called Teddy.”

A stricken look came over Casey. “Why the hell did he do that?”

“He said they had ‘unfinished business.’”

He lowered his head in his hands. “Oh, god.”

“You had to know this could happen at some point.”

He shook his head. “I thought . . . well, I’d hoped . . . ”

“Hope makes you ignore reality.”

He shot her a glance, as if she’d overstepped her bounds. It was her first indication that perhaps Casey had changed in some subtle, indefinable way.

“What was he like?” he asked. “Dar, I mean . . . ”

“He . . . he didn’t say much.” She glanced around the room, taking in the antique desk, the fancy computer, the watercolors on the walls. Casey had done very well indeed. “It’s strange, you know? For years we thought it was Alix’s father. Or Teddy’s. We were wrong.”

“I guess we can thank Payton for that.”

Rain kept her mouth shut. She didn’t feel vindicated.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Casey said. “What?”

Again she hesitated. “I tried to find Dar again. After we talked . . . but I couldn’t.”

The color drained from Casey’s face. “What do you mean?”

“The cell he’d been using was disconnected. So I drove to the place where he said he was staying. He was gone. No forwarding address. Nothing.”

“Jesus. Do you think . . . ”

She cut him off. “If they did, they didn’t waste any time.”

“They can’t afford to.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Casey said, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking time doesn’t change people, Casey. And when you have something to lose . . . ”

“And you have the resources . . . ” He sat down at the computer. She could tell his mind was racing. “Rain,” he said, finally looking up. “You need to be careful.” 

“Likewise, Casey.” She got up and started toward the door. She stopped and called over her shoulder. “By the way, Merry Christmas.”

* *

Rain turned onto I-94 for the drive back to Wisconsin. She’d done the right thing—she owed Casey that much. She’d always been the “go-to” girl, the person who tried to fix their problems. Until the end when everything spiraled out of control. She’d been Alix’s friend from the beginning. Alix needed someone to like her just for who she was. God knows it wasn’t hard. Despite everything, Alix was a sweet girl. And dogged, once she decided what she wanted.

Rain remembered the night they met at Oak Street Beach. They’d hit it off right away, she and Casey and Alix. They’d met Dar—then Payton and Teddy—later that night in Grant Park, and they’d hooked up for the convention.

She remembered their conversations, discussions that went on all night. How the military-industrial complex had imposed its will on a quiet little country with no provocation. How no one should accept the hypocrisy and corruption of the establishment. How the Movement would transform society into something equitable and wholesome and good.

Everything was possible back then. As long as they were focused on the same goals. And Dar made sure of that. He’d been eloquent. And persuasive. When he spoke, it felt right—the way it should be. The others felt it too. Together, they were invincible, a bright light rallying against the darkness.

Now, Rain sped past the Mars Cheese outlet, so swept up in her memories that she didn’t notice the headlights behind her. She was passing a dark stretch of highway, one of the few not dotted by neon lights and signs, when she looked in the rearview mirror. The headlights behind her seemed higher up than cars’. Must be a truck or a van. She thought she saw a logo of some sort above the cab.

She shielded her eyes. The van was close. Too close. Annoyance flashed through her. “Back off, buster.”

She pulled to the right. But the other driver did too, staying on her tail. Who was this jerk? She had half a mind to veer off the road at the next exit. She looked for a highway sign, but—of course—just when she needed one, there was nothing.

The lights drew closer, turning the rearview into a rectangular bar of light. Then something thumped the rear of her car. The Corolla lurched, and Rain nearly lost control of the wheel. What the . . .? Another whack. The car slipped sideways. The jerk was trying to run her off the road!

She floored the gas, but the creep was still locked on her tail. Her pursuer hit the bumper again. The sensation made her realize how light and fragile her Toyota really was.

Shit! She was losing control. She frantically wrenched the wheel to the right, but nothing happened. Somehow the vehicle on her tail was preventing her from turning. Then, without warning, something snapped, and the Corolla veered sharply right. The forward momentum pitched the car over the shoulder to a ditch, where it flipped over. It finally stopped at the edge of a field a few yards from a large “This Property Under Development” sign.

* *

The van slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. A man opened the driver’s door, jumped down, and ran back to the Corolla. The engine was still running, but he saw no movement inside. He pulled something from his pocket, lit it, and tossed it. He was heading back to the truck when the car exploded.