Set the Night on Fire (9 page)

B
y the time Lila headed back to her car, the icy rain that wasn’t quite sleet had stopped. Even so, there were few cars on the road, and fewer pedestrians. Lila kept her eyes on the jumble of shoeprints on the snow-covered sidewalk. Usually the sight of random patterns was unsettling, and she’d mentally rearrange the imprints into neat lines and geometric shapes. Tonight, though, they didn’t bother her. In fact, she felt buoyant.

It had worked. She had the name of someone who knew her mother. She couldn’t wait to get back to Danny’s to Google Dar Gantner. She’d track him down and pay him a visit, just like she’d done with the Redakers. He would know something about her mother. He had to.

She hiked to the corner, trying to avoid any hidden black ice. James Redaker obviously didn’t approve of Dar Gantner, that was clear. Redaker had been a jock. Jocks and hippies didn’t mix.

To be honest, Lila was surprised, too. She’d always believed her father was a practical businessman who, by spotting and growing new businesses, was nurturing capitalism. She’d gone into finance largely because of him. It was hard to imagine him with hippies and war protestors as friends. Then again, a lot of Baby Boomer businessmen claimed to be hippies during the Sixties. Maybe it was her mother’s influence. Maybe she’d drawn him into that culture.

And what about Dar Gantner? Was he steeped in the politics of the past? When they met, would he lecture her about the evils of the establishment and the imperialist state? Lila drew herself up. If he had information about her mother, she’d have to deal with it.

The darkness outside was relieved by a pool of light from a streetlamp a few feet away. She was just turning the corner, absorbed in her thoughts, when an engine exploded into life behind her. She spun around. A figure on a motorcycle rode slowly towards her. The bike seemed to have materialized from nowhere. It appeared to be more high-tech than most bikes, with lots of shiny blue metal and gray plastic extending from the front. The configuration almost looked like the beak of a bird of prey.

A helmet covered the rider’s head, and the visor hid his features. He was wearing a heavy black leather jacket, leather pants, and black boots. But his hands gripping the handlebars were bare. It was bitter cold. He should be wearing gloves.

Lila turned back and continued down the street. A tall man was walking toward her. He wore a pea coat and jeans. A muffler was tied around his neck, and his face was covered by a ski mask. His hands were in his pockets, and his head was slightly tilted, as though he was watching both her and the man on the motorcycle.

It was then that the incongruity of someone gunning a motorcycle on an icy street hit her. Motorcycles were for warm weather. Summer rides. Fall outings. Why was someone cruising the Gold Coast in the middle of winter?

The whine of the motor intensified. Lila spun around. The rider slowed to a crawl and came close enough for her to see his visor was tinted. He stopped and anchored the bike between his legs. Light spilled onto his visor and split into a shiny rainbow, like an oil slick. She couldn’t see his face. He kept one hand on the throttle and slipped the other inside his jacket, which was partially unzipped. When it reappeared, it was holding a gun.

Lila froze. Time slowed, unfolding in a diffident, detached way. The rider aimed the gun. She took a breath, expecting it to be her last. A flash of light tore the night. A loud crack followed. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the pain to rip through her body. Confusion swept over her. She opened her eyes. She was still standing, very much alive. He’d missed. But he was so close. How had that happened?

She ordered herself to move, but her feet were rooted to the pavement. Like a rabbit, if she kept absolutely still she would be invisible. Oddly enough, however, the gunman paused as well. For a split second, he and Lila were motionless, both of them limned in the light from the streetlamp. Then he raised the gun again.

Just as he was taking aim, a presence flew at Lila, knocking her off her feet. A heavy weight pinned her to the sidewalk. She squirmed and wriggled, trying to free herself, but the weight bearing down on her made it impossible. As she gulped down air, another gunshot rang out.

Then came an eerie moment of silence. Lila smelled wet wool. The pea coat. Had someone been hit? Nothing moved.

A sudden growl from the motorcycle broke the silence. She might have heard someone grunt. Then the bike accelerated and sped off, its tires spraying wet snow and slush. As the roar of the bike faded, the man on top of her shifted. He was alive. She lay still. He was trying to get up, but his arms flailed, and his movements were awkward. Finally he pushed himself off and lurched to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Lila croaked. Then she caught herself. What if he was in league with the motorcycle man? Maybe he was there to finish the job his partner had started.

The man hovered above her. The ski mask still covered his face, and the only thing she could see were his eyes. Dark, intense. And something else. Lila wasn’t great at decoding feelings, but she thought she saw a gleam of satisfaction. Then he tore his gaze from hers, and, without a word, jogged away.

“Wait! Stop!” Lila yelled as she pushed herself up. “Who are you?”

The man headed east towards Lake Michigan. Before the night swallowed him, she noticed he was wearing sneakers. Sneakers in winter?

She stood up gingerly, stretching and flexing her limbs. Everything seemed to be working, physically, but her pulse was pounding, and she started to shake uncontrollably. She’d never felt so cold. She pulled her coat more tightly around her. She spotted her purse on the ground a few yards away. She was amazed it was still there. She grabbed it and fumbled inside for her cell.

“
S
o you’re not sure if he was attacking or rescuing you?” the cop asked. His partner handed Lila some coffee. She was in the back seat of a patrol car a block away from the “incident,” as they called it, in front of a coffee house. Lila would rather be downing a belt of scotch from the bar next door, but she didn’t have the chance—or the nerve—to suggest it. She knew from the cops’ attitudes that they weren’t sure what they were dealing with and didn’t much care. Drive-bys were an unfortunate fact of life in Chicago. Even on the Gold Coast.

The cop who’d bought the coffee slid back into the driver’s seat and twisted around. Although she’d already told them the basics, she started to explain again. The cop in the passenger seat cut her off with questions. No, she couldn’t identify the motorcycle. No, she couldn’t describe the rider. No, she couldn’t even describe the man who fell on top of her. She didn’t know where the bullets or shell casings might be.

The cop in the passenger seat clicked his ballpoint pen. In, out. In, out. The sound of the clicks was mesmerizing. “So what happens next?” she asked. “Do you need me to come down to the station?”

His voice was impassive. “That won’t be necessary. We have everything we need. We’ll file the report.”

She eyed him. “And?”

He shrugged. “You haven’t given us much to follow up on. A guy, on a bike you can’t describe, shoots at you. Another guy in gym shoes attacks you. A gun goes off that no one else seems to have heard.”

She looked at the cop in the driver’s seat. “There’s got to be other people who heard the shots. I mean, they were loud. Maybe if you interviewed people nearby . . . ”

The cop who was clicking the pen replied, “No one called in. We checked. And we don’t have the time or manpower to canvas the entire neighborhood. Especially when we don’t have a . . . well . . . ” His voice trailed off.

A body. That’s what he was going to say. She wanted to rip the pen out of his hand. “The problem is I’m still alive, isn’t it? If I were dead, you’d be all over this.”

“Miss . . . what I’m trying to tell you is . . . ”

“Listen.” The cop in the driver’s seat finally spoke up. “If you feel someone’s after you, get yourself some protection. A bodyguard, something like that . . . ”

Lila gazed from one cop to the other. “So that’s it? As far as you’re concerned, it’s over?”

The cop with the pen shook his head. “We’ll file a report. Beyond that . . . well . . . I’m sorry.” He didn’t look it.

The cop who brought her coffee got out and opened the door. He walked her to the parking lot. They exchanged cool farewells.

She got in her car, pulled out, and cut over to Lake Shore Drive. She was a financial manager. She’d never had a brush with the law; she’d never even been stopped for speeding. Yet, since she’d come back to Chicago, a fire had killed her family; a man followed her on State Street; she thought she’d been followed in Evanston; and now someone was shooting at her. And she had no one to turn to. Even Val was away. She was alone.

Except for the man who’d fallen on top of her. She glanced out at Lake Michigan. Long fingers of ice extended from the shore, surrendering to the dark, turbulent water. He was somewhere out there, white gym shoes and all. He hadn’t hurt her, and she’d seen the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He probably wasn’t the motorcycle rider’s accomplice. But how was it he’d been walking down the street at the precise moment a gun was pointed at her? If he really was a good Samaritan, why didn’t he stick around and let her thank him? 

She gripped the wheel. The heater was blasting, but she shivered. Tonight wasn’t just a dog snuffling in the garbage. What if the man on the motorcycle knew where she lived? Could he be there, waiting for her?  Maybe she shouldn’t go back to Danny’s. But where else could she go? She’d become a target. And she had no idea why.

She remembered the movie
Signs
. She’d gone to see it right after she moved to New York. The first half of the film had fascinated her, and she’d concluded the most terrifying thing in the world was to be pursued by someone you couldn’t identify, for a reason you didn’t understand. In the movie, though, once they discovered the enemy was simply your run-of-the-mill aliens, the story became dull, even tedious.

She wished she’d be that lucky.

* *

Lila did go back to Danny’s, but the first action she took when she got there was to take out all the knives and lay them on the counter. Just in case. She checked the phone to make sure it was working. Locked and unlocked the door several times.

She wrapped herself in a dark blue terrycloth robe that belonged to Danny. It still carried the faint scent of Aramis. She grabbed a bottle of bourbon in the kitchen, poured a drink, and tossed it down. It burned her throat, but a few minutes later, a welcome sensation of warmth seeped through her, and she thought she might be able to focus on something else. She ought to try. Distraction would do her good.

She sat down at Danny’s computer, turned it on, and entered the name “Dar Gantner” into Google. She blinked in surprise. The listing of websites and links stretched over ten pages. She started to read.

Dar Gantner had grown up in Hamtramck, a working-class suburb of Detroit. His father was a shop steward at Ford, his mother a housewife until his father lost his job during a UAW strike. Then she went to work at a paint factory.

Dar was a good student. He was a National Merit Scholar, and in the fall of 1967, he entered the University of Michigan on a full scholarship. The same year as her father, Lila realized. That must have been where they met.

Dar majored in history but apparently spent most of his time protesting the Vietnam War. In the fall of his freshman year he went to Washington to demonstrate at the Pentagon. By spring, he’d become one of the campus leaders for the Mobilization to End the War, a national coalition of groups formed in 1967 to stage large demonstrations. A couple of photos showed Dar with Tom Hayden, another Michigan MOBE member, and founder of Students for a Democratic Society.

In August of 1968, Dar helped organize busloads of students who drove from Ann Arbor to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. During the convention he was swept up in the riots and was beat up by the cops. He was arrested twice. Still, Dar and MOBE claimed they were committed to non-violence. In fact, Dar was quoted as saying he didn’t have much use for the Yippies—the Youth International Party headed by Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin—who endorsed more flamboyant, aggressive tactics.

Lila read on. After the convention, Dar went quiet, and information about him was scarce. He dropped out of Michigan. Just like her father. Judging from the Google citations, he might have stayed in Chicago. Again like her father. Lila tapped a finger on the mouse. Were they together? If so, what were they doing?

He resurfaced again in June 1970, about a month after the shootings at Kent State. It was then that everything blew up. Literally. On June 2
^nd
, sometime after midnight, a bomb exploded overnight in the Kerr’s department store in downtown Chicago. Along with Marshall Field’s, Goldblatt’s, and Carson Pirie Scott, Kerr’s was one of the bastions of State Street shopping. Although there were no shoppers in the store at that hour, two security guards were killed. A third person, a young woman, was found in critical condition in the rubble. She was taken to the hospital where she died. She turned out to be Alixandra Kerr, daughter of the department store owner. It was unclear how she came to be at the store in the middle of the night. Some speculated she was part of the bomb plot; others said not. One article even theorized that she’d been kidnapped by the bombers.

Lila winced as she gazed at photos of the devastation. The first floor of the store was destroyed. The ceiling had fallen down in large chunks, and beams dangled at odd angles. Glass was everywhere, and a layer of detritus, which had once been leather wallets, cosmetics, and clothing, covered the floor. One photo showed a gauzy haze in the air.

Kerr’s was owned by Sebastian Kerr, a political conservative and generous Republican contributor. Although he was grieving the death of his daughter, he vowed to rebuild promptly, and, despite the fact that the store was not in any way responsible for the tragedy, he created a fund to help the families of the dead security guards. “We will not be cowed by thugs and murderers, whoever they may be,” he was quoted as saying.

Lila kept reading. The FBI took the lead on the investigation. They scoured the country for leads, conducted extensive and intrusive (at least to civil libertarians) interviews, and kept close watch on anyone who might have had a connection to the crime. Six weeks later, in late July, they arrested Dar Gantner, who’d been hiding out in Lanedo, an abandoned Colorado mining town near Aspen.

Dar was flown back to Chicago and held at Cook County Jail in solitary confinement. Meanwhile a tussle between the U.S. Attorney and the Illinois State’s Attorney broke out. The Feds wanted to make the bombing a cause célèbre, thinking that the charges of conspiracy—once they found the other people involved—and the use of explosives would make a dramatic statement. But the Illinois State’s Attorney’s office, mindful of Mayor Daley’s influence, and the fiasco of the Federal “Chicago Seven” trial, fought for the case. Innocent people from our city were killed, they argued, and the monsters responsible ought to be punished.

The state, backed by Daley, won, and an indictment was handed down a week later, charging Dar Gantner with three counts of murder. Punishable by death. He was also charged with arson and criminal damage to property.

The challenge for the prosecution was finding the other conspirators. No one believed Gantner planned and executed the crime alone, and rumors surfaced about a deal to withdraw the death penalty if he gave up his associates. Other rumors hinted at a not-guilty plea, and some journalists were predicting a lengthy trial, one that, hopefully, wouldn’t sink to the level of the Chicago Seven.

But Gantner surprised everyone. Two weeks after the indictment, he pled guilty to murder and criminal damage to property. His sentence was one hundred to three hundred years. He made no public statement, and he did not identify his associates. He was sent to Stateville, the maximum security prison near Joliet.

Lila got up from the computer and poured another drink. Why Kerr’s? Granted, Kerr was a Republican, and a conservative, but Kerr’s only had one store in Chicago. The rest were scattered around the Midwest. If someone was going to make a political statement, wouldn’t they bomb Field’s, or Carson’s, or even Sears, with its reputation as America’s foremost retailer? Why target a less known, regional merchant? She went back to Google to find out.

Sebastian Kerr was the son of an Irish immigrant farmer who settled in central Indiana. But Sebastian had no interest in farming, and at eighteen he moved to Indianapolis to work in a small variety store. He eventually became its manager, and when the owner passed away, took out a loan to buy the store from the man’s wife. Kerr paid off the loan in three years, then took out a larger loan to expand into clothing for women and children.

He changed the store’s name from Green’s to Kerr’s. It doubled in size, and, a few years later, Kerr erected a six-floor building on Maryland Street. Ten years after that, seven more Kerr’s had opened in places like Des Moines, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Detroit, and the location he called his “diamond”—the Chicago Loop. Kerr was now wealthy, and the family, consisting of Kerr, his wife, their daughter, and a son, bought a summer home on the Michigan shore. Lila couldn’t find much information about either sibling online. Someone had done a good job preserving their privacy.

Lila closed the browser. She still didn’t know why Dar Gantner and his theoretical friends bombed Kerr’s. Like everyone else, she could only speculate. Did Kerr’s daughter target her own family? Some radicals during the Sixties did. Maybe Kerr’s was easier to get into than Field’s or Carson’s. Or maybe, since it was smaller, the bombers assumed the damage would be less severe. Maybe they knew there would be fewer security guards. No. That made no sense. Whether they killed two people or two hundred, they had to know they would spend the rest of their lives in jail. It was the statement. The act. That was the point.

She went to her bag and pulled out the photo of her parents. Was Alixandra Kerr the other woman in the photograph with her mother? The one with granny glasses and long, ashy hair? She studied the faces in the picture, finally resting on the image of Gantner. Any way you parsed it, Dar Gantner was evil. There was no way she could talk to him about her mother. Even though forty years had passed, even though she would be in the well-protected confines of the Stateville visitors’ room, she couldn’t see herself chatting with a confessed murderer. For the first time since she’d found the photo, she felt a sense of betrayal. How could her parents have befriended someone like Gantner? What did that make them?

She studied the photo again. Perhaps she shouldn’t try to track down her mother’s family. She didn’t have enough time, anyhow. Someone was trying to kill her. She should focus all her energy on finding out who and why. Digging up her mother’s past could wait.

She put down the photo and took her empty glass to the kitchen. She remembered how, as a little girl, she was afraid to swim in deep water. Who knew what creatures lurked below the surface, their tentacles ready to capture and drag her down? Her father had spent hours patiently teaching her how to float, to tread water, eventually to swim. He’d shown her how to protect herself.