Harry had done something in the dark and was now being punished for it.
I got to my feet and swung Frank Sinatra’s head at the head of the person who was kicking Harry.
There was a crack of plaster against skull, the bust fell to pieces, and Harry’s attacker fell to the floor.
I scrambled for the mini camera, cutting my hands on sharp shards until I found it. Overhead, thunder boomed like a Fourth of July finale followed by a flash of lightning against glass-block windows. The unmoving lump of body lay between me and the stairs, and I turned from it, groping toward the cellar doors instead. They had been locked from the outside since forever, but I was running on adrenaline and threw a shoulder like a linebacker, cracking apart the old wood. Cold bursts of rain hit my face, taking my breath away, and I was about to run across the yard when I remembered Harry. He’d saved my life and had taken a deadly beating to protect the Etch A Sketch because Lou commanded him to-because he loved my brother as much as I did. I listened, hearing only my labored breath, and then heard it-a faint whimpering and scratching at the floor.
Out of nowhere, I remembered Max counting backward on the train.
Ten seconds to zero. . nine, eight, seven. .
I scrambled back into blackness.
Harry’s whimper was my guide and I felt through the air like I was blindfolded until my foot bumped a body. My hands were shaking as I touched tight smooth fur over bruised bones. I lifted the small dog and took a step toward the door when the impact of a fist on my face put me on my back, with Harry rolling like a bloody wheel right out the cellar door.
There’s nothing worse than a sucker punch-the gasping explosion of red pain that rearranges reality and your face.
You get lost in its violation of decent human behavior, and then, if you’re a boxer, you get pissed. One of Willy’s rules is that a fighter who’s knocked down should always get right up and right back into the fight-give the other pug what he just gave you, times two. Trying to stand, I was assaulted by a hammering of double fists on my shoulders. I hit the floor again, this time face-first, feeling like my back was broken, but I ignored the pain and rolled as a boot crushed the empty place where I had been. I hooked an arm around an ankle and yanked as hard as I could. There was a bleat of surprise, legs in the air, and I leaped to my feet as the body hit the floor.
Then it was time to give him back what he had given to Harry.
He was trying to lift himself on a shoulder when I teed off on his face.
I couldn’t see quite who I was aiming at, but it didn’t matter, I drop-kicked his chin like I was going for an extra point.
He grunted and rolled over, and I saw the ski mask clinging to his lumpish head-nightmarish black with red eyeholes-which gave me a chilly pause before I went to work on him, using my foot like a jackhammer. I was bristling with the same sensation that I’d felt when I saw Max dancing with Mandi, a cold, calm fury that burned deep in my gut. Each blow was accounted for-that one for Harry, that for Lou, for my mom, my dad-and it seemed righteous, like a debt being paid. The best way to define it is that, as I kicked Ski Mask Guy into unconsciousness, I felt more like myself than I ever had in my life. Even as I came back to the moment-panting and sweating, my leg aching and the body not moving-it wasn’t fear that spiked my gut but caution. My chances of escape were lessening by the second, I knew instinctively, and I sprinted into the rain, scooped up Harry, and ran for the garage. My dad kept an extra set of keys to the Lincoln in an old coffee can. I fished them out and gingerly laid Harry on the backseat. He blinked up at me with something like gratitude, even comradeship-two furious souls who had saved each other’s lives, bound by love for my brother. He licked my hand, and it was covered in his own blood.
I jumped inside, clicked the seat belt, and pushed the remote control.
The garage door lifted slowly to rapids rushing down the brick alley.
The back tires spit smoke as I flew out of the garage.
And then I was speeding away without knowing where I was going, desperate to get away. My neck was raw and bruised, my forehead bore knuckle prints, and Harry was making a noise that sounded like his lungs were full of motor oil. The mini camera was on the seat next to me, sliding on leather, while my mind raced with the realization that someone-tried-to-kill-me-someone-tried-to-kill-me-someone-tried-to-kill-me! I flew through stop signs and bumped over curbs, my body racked with involuntary shivers. I needed to locate the odd inner calmness that had cooled my skin while I was kicking the crap out of the lunatic in my house or I was going to wreck the car. I pulled to the curb and rested my head in my hands, breathing slowly as the windshield wipers clicked at raindrops. All I had was the small purse that had been strapped across me all night holding a CTA card and my phone. When it rang I jumped out of my skin. I scrambled for it, pressed the green button, and said, “Mom?”
There was a pause and then a woman said, “Sara Jane Rispoli.” Not a query, but stating my name as a fact.
“Who is this?”
“Detective Dorothy Smelt,” she said. “Chicago Police Department. Are you all right, Miss Rispoli?” Her words were muffled and hard to understand, riddled with the static of a bad connection, which only added to the creepiness of the call.
“How did you know?” I asked cautiously.
“Someone called in a disturbance. Where are you?”
I was quiet because I was rattled and because the phone call confused me-how had she gotten my number? But then relief overcame suspicion since it was the police, an entire force dedicated to helping people, and no one needed help like I did. I was about to tell her when an El train rumbled past. It was too loud to answer the question, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, bad connection or not, I could hear the same train on her end of the phone. I swallowed hard and asked, “Where are you?”
Pause.
Silence.
She cleared her throat, and said, “In my office. At the sixty-third precinct.”
An ambulance ripped past with its siren screaming, and I heard that on her phone, too. I looked up at an unmarked car creeping down the street toward me while an anonymous van pulled to a halt around the corner. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw a dark police car inching up behind me. I turned the key, popped the headlights, and Detective Smelt said, “Why did you start the car, Miss Rispoli?”
The jittery shakes I’d had minutes ago dissipated.
I was calm again, and also pissed.
I said, “You heard that, huh? Or did you see me do it?”
“I only want to help you, Miss Rispoli. Remain where you are.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, dropping the car into drive. “I’ll wait right here for you to either kick my ass or kill me.” I leaned heavily on the gas as I fishtailed from the curb.
“She’s moving!” Detective Smelt shouted, and I realized other ears had been listening, too.
None of that mattered now.
All that mattered was speed and escape.
I flew past the unmarked car and van, both coming to life and going into squealing U-turns. The cop car lit up like a slot machine, its sirens beaming and blaring, and blasted after me. Streets in my neighborhood are thick with stop signs and speed bumps, and I ignored them all, Harry whimpering at each violent jolt while the Lincoln bounced and sparked. The other three vehicles were right behind me with the police car in the lead, so aggressively close to my rear bumper that I was sure he’d hit me at any moment. This was nothing like the countless car chases I’d seen in movies, those slick, choreographed scenes of airborne Chevrolets and slo-mo spinning tires; this was too fast and close and dangerous, the narrow Chicago streets lined with parked cars, the threat of collateral damage happening at any second.