"How you holding up?" Ronald eased the screen door shut behind him.
"People keep asking me that." He shook his head. "Okay, I guess."
Ronald nodded. They stood and looked at the evening. A car rolled by, a low-slung custom Mustang. Bass rattled the windows. Two men sat inside, nodding slowly to the beat. They wore blue bandannas and hard expressions, hitting Jason with their best thousand-yard stares. He met their eyes, feeling tired inside. Worn down.
"You know what started this whole thing?"
Ronald nodded. "That woman cop, Cruz, she told me."
"A power play. That's all. The man in the number two seat wanted to move up, so he scraped together a file on his boss's sins, and sent it to someone else so his hands stayed clean."
"Maybe he just wanted to stop something he saw goin' on."
"Nah. If that was all, why not blow the whistle himself?" Jason shook his head. "Funny thing is, I saw all this before. I saw it in Afghanistan and I saw it in Iraq. Everybody fighting to cut out their little piece of the pie. Their politicians, our politicians. Contractors and CEOs, mullahs and warlords and generals. Sometimes they did it with a document, sometimes with a bullet. But win or lose, the people playing the game never got hurt like the regular people in the middle."
Ronald shrugged. "Don't know about Iraq, but that sounds 'bout right for Chicago."
"I just…" Jason straightened, held his arms out. "I don't know. I just wonder what the point is. Of everything we've done. Taking down Kent and the alderman. It's been three days, and already there's a new alderman that's smarter and more ruthless. And there's probably a new Kent out there, too. So what was the point?"
Ronald turned, leaned against the railing. Patted his pockets, found two cigars. He handed one to Jason, bit the end off his own. "Remember the other night? That story Dr. Matthews told?"
"The Lantern Bearers." Jason nodded.
"He told that story before, lots of times. Truth is, I was kind of like you. Not sure I really got the point, you know, dying to light a lighthouse." He fired his cigar, spat a scrap of tobacco. "Now, though, I think maybe Dr. Matthews was saying that you can't get rid of the darkness. I mean, it's darkness, right? It's gonna fall. But still, you fight against it." He turned, gestured with his cigar. "Besides, even if it ends, ain't the day something to see?"
Jason snapped a match, held it to the end of his cigar, then took a drag and blew smoke into the evening air. The sky burned crimson and yellow. Behind him he could hear the noise of the memorial, the buzz of talk. The somber phase had passed, and now there was laughter and the clink of glasses. Someone had changed the music, soul with a good backbeat. He glanced through the screen, saw Cruz on the impromptu dance floor. Their eyes locked, and her lips formed a slow, sweet smile full of promise. They stared for what seemed like a long time before she winked and returned to swaying with the Oscar kid.
Jason raised himself up on tip-toes and breathed the night air, and with every breath it was as though he were letting something go. As if the Worm that had been eating him alive had gone to dust, and he was letting it out one exhale at a time. He had the feeling that when it was gone, this beast of guilt and shame and fear that had possessed him, when it had abandoned his chest for good, it would leave room for something else.
He didn't know what, exactly.
But he looked forward to finding out.
Author's Note
"Crenwood" doesn't exist.
In the year I spent researching and writing this book, I frequently wrestled with whether or not to use an actual neighborhood. I didn't need to make one up; poverty, gangs, and violence are very real problems, and while Crenwood is imaginary, it is closely based on a particular South Side area. However, in the end, I decided to rename it out of respect for the people who live there.
Also, because this is a novel rather than a sociological study, I significantly simplified the number and size of gangs. While a story must revolve around a small group of characters, real gangs have no such limitation. If you ever want to blow your hair back, try Googling "MS-13." If we don't make some changes as a society, and I mean quick, we're in for a world of hurt.
For narrative reasons it is sometimes necessary to create bad cops, and the rules of human nature assure that they occasionally exist in life, too. But in my experience, the vast majority of police are good people working a hard job, and getting paid too little for it.
Finally, as Winston Churchill said, "We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." No matter how we feel about the war, the administration, or the policy, we owe our soldiers a debt of gratitude.
I used to think that writers worked alone, sweating out their vision with nary a word to another human. Happily, I was wrong. This book wouldn't exist without help from a number of people.
Any author who doesn't first thank their agent clearly needs a new agent – or at least doesn't have mine. Deepest thanks to Scott Miller, a good friend and a remarkable advocate. Onward and upward, bro.
While most books have one editor, I was lucky enough to draw two, both among the best in the business. Ben Sevier said he loved it but that it could be better and gave me fourteen pages detailing how. Marc Resnick chimed in with stellar suggestions that took it to the next level, then shepherded the result with fierce energy, guarding and guiding the book for a year. If it were up to me, their names would be on the spine as well.
My sincerest gratitude to all the folks at St. Martin's Press, a publishing house of the first order, peopled by some of the most passionate and talented individuals I've ever met. Special thanks to Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, Sally Richardson, George Witte, Matt Baldacci, Dori Weintraub, David Rotstein, Christina Harcar, Kerry Nordling, and Lauren Manzella.
Assistant Director Patrick Camden of Chicago PD News Affairs and Commander Nick Roti of the Gang Intelligence Unit both had enormous patience for a barrage of foolish questions. A particular thank you to officers Dave Trinidad and Joe Perez, two cops who ride the front lines – and who lent me the bulletproof vest to join them. Finally, a shout-out to my friend Officer Jason Jacobsen, LAPD firearms instructor, South Central gang cop, and former Army Ranger, who gave me a mountain of material and corrected some embarrassing errors.
I'm also grateful for the expertise of Captain Robert Brechtl, an investigator with the South Bend Fire Department; Tim Cummings, a veteran with a keen eye for all things Army; and Dr. Vince Tranchida, New York City medical examiner.
When I couldn't figure out what happened next, when I had backed myself into a corner, when I was losing hope on the thing as a whole, my good friends Marc Paoletti, Michael Cook, and Joe Konrath took turns saving my butt with hours of beer and brainstorming. Thanks, boys.
I'm fortunate to have the finest, most tolerant group of early readers out there. Thanks to Jenny Carney, Tasha Alexander, Dana Kaye, and Pete Boivin for not flinging the manuscript across the room. And a special cheers to Brad Boivin, who gave me the hint about Jason's character that brought the whole thing together.
As always, my friends kept me going – yeah, y'all in Atlanta, too – and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
I owe more to my family than I will ever be able to repay. Mom, Dad, Matt: you guys are the reason.
Finally, love and thanks to my wife, g.g. I'm a novelist, but I don't have the words.
Marcus Sakey
