the Gingerbread Man. It made me reconsider the copycat angle.
Herb slowed for the toll. We were about to get on the Skyway, Chicago’s largest bridge. It ran about eight miles long, and high enough to see deep into Indiana. Our view proffered a smattering of factories, their gigantic chimneys spitting copious amounts of smoke and filth, staining the overcast sky. Industry wasn’t pretty.
We drove in silence for a few minutes before Herb finally spoke.
“I’m scared.”
I reached over and touched his arm.
“You’ll be fine, Herb. Even if it is cancer, you’ll get through it.”
“That’s what Bernice says.”
“Smart lady.”
“I’m the homicide cop, and she’s stronger than I am.”
“People deal with death in different ways, Herb.”
Drizzle accumulated on the windshield. Herb hit the wipers, causing a dirty rainbow smear.
“Do you ever think about death, Jack?”
“Sometimes. I almost died yesterday, in the fire.”
“Were you afraid?”
“At first. Then I accepted it, and I was just sad.”
Herb’s voice, normally rock solid, had a quaver in it. “My father died of cancer. Strongest man I ever knew. By the end he weighed ninety pounds, had to be spoon-fed.”
I thought of my mother, steadily losing weight despite the feeding tube. I pushed away the image and tried to be jovial.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Herb. You’ll never weigh ninety pounds.”
My joke fell flat. Herb looked out of his side window. We passed a particularly ugly factory, its smokestack belching flames like the great Oz’s palace.
“What scares me the most is no longer existing. Everything I am, everything I think, everything I feel, all of my memories and thoughts and dreams—erased. Like I’ve never been here at all.”
“You’ve got family, Herb. And friends. They’ll remember you.”
Herb’s face was a mask of sadness. “But when I’m dead, I won’t remember them.”
We continued down I-90 east for another twenty minutes. The expressway was newer, and the asphalt better, on the Indiana side. It ran parallel to a train track for a while, and then we turned north on Cline and west on Gary Avenue, and we were soon on the plains, no buildings for miles.
I checked the MapQuest directions.
“We’re looking for Summit. Should be coming up.”
“Nothing’s coming up. Except some cows. Hey!”
Herb pointed to the right. I followed his finger to a large bale of hay.
I didn’t laugh, but at least he’d snapped out of his funk.
Summit turned out to be a dirt road, and it ended at a 1950s prefab ranch, the front yard overgrown with weeds. Ancient appliances and rusty old farm equipment peppered the property, and an old barn that looked like Godzilla had stepped on it sat behind the house.
“Is this it?” Herb asked.
“Has to be. There’s no place else.”
“It looks like the shack from
The
Beverly Hillbillies.
”
“Or
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
”
Herb parked next to a Ford pickup truck that looked old enough to run on regular gas.
“Ready to meet the monster’s father?”
Herb nodded and we got out of the car. The closer we walked, the worse it looked. The roof was missing half its shingles. Several boards on the front porch had rotted away. So much white paint was flaking off the sides, the house looked like a paper birch tree.
I took out my badge, and noticed Benedict already had his in hand. Wouldn’t be smart to surprise the occupant. It was too easy to picture him crouched behind the front door with a shotgun, waiting for strangers to trespass.
Herb hesitated before getting onto the porch, eyeing it dubiously. I went first. The warped wood groaned, but it took my weight. Benedict followed, stepping gingerly.
I knocked, a thin, hollow sound.
“Bud Kork? This is the police.”
We waited.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Mr. Kork? We see your truck outside. We know you’re home.”
A voice filtered through the closed door. “Come on in. I’m getting dressed.”
I
Herb slowed for the toll. We were about to get on the Skyway, Chicago’s largest bridge. It ran about eight miles long, and high enough to see deep into Indiana. Our view proffered a smattering of factories, their gigantic chimneys spitting copious amounts of smoke and filth, staining the overcast sky. Industry wasn’t pretty.
We drove in silence for a few minutes before Herb finally spoke.
“I’m scared.”
I reached over and touched his arm.
“You’ll be fine, Herb. Even if it is cancer, you’ll get through it.”
“That’s what Bernice says.”
“Smart lady.”
“I’m the homicide cop, and she’s stronger than I am.”
“People deal with death in different ways, Herb.”
Drizzle accumulated on the windshield. Herb hit the wipers, causing a dirty rainbow smear.
“Do you ever think about death, Jack?”
“Sometimes. I almost died yesterday, in the fire.”
“Were you afraid?”
“At first. Then I accepted it, and I was just sad.”
Herb’s voice, normally rock solid, had a quaver in it. “My father died of cancer. Strongest man I ever knew. By the end he weighed ninety pounds, had to be spoon-fed.”
I thought of my mother, steadily losing weight despite the feeding tube. I pushed away the image and tried to be jovial.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Herb. You’ll never weigh ninety pounds.”
My joke fell flat. Herb looked out of his side window. We passed a particularly ugly factory, its smokestack belching flames like the great Oz’s palace.
“What scares me the most is no longer existing. Everything I am, everything I think, everything I feel, all of my memories and thoughts and dreams—erased. Like I’ve never been here at all.”
“You’ve got family, Herb. And friends. They’ll remember you.”
Herb’s face was a mask of sadness. “But when I’m dead, I won’t remember them.”
We continued down I-90 east for another twenty minutes. The expressway was newer, and the asphalt better, on the Indiana side. It ran parallel to a train track for a while, and then we turned north on Cline and west on Gary Avenue, and we were soon on the plains, no buildings for miles.
I checked the MapQuest directions.
“We’re looking for Summit. Should be coming up.”
“Nothing’s coming up. Except some cows. Hey!”
Herb pointed to the right. I followed his finger to a large bale of hay.
I didn’t laugh, but at least he’d snapped out of his funk.
Summit turned out to be a dirt road, and it ended at a 1950s prefab ranch, the front yard overgrown with weeds. Ancient appliances and rusty old farm equipment peppered the property, and an old barn that looked like Godzilla had stepped on it sat behind the house.
“Is this it?” Herb asked.
“Has to be. There’s no place else.”
“It looks like the shack from
The
Beverly Hillbillies.
”
“Or
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
”
Herb parked next to a Ford pickup truck that looked old enough to run on regular gas.
“Ready to meet the monster’s father?”
Herb nodded and we got out of the car. The closer we walked, the worse it looked. The roof was missing half its shingles. Several boards on the front porch had rotted away. So much white paint was flaking off the sides, the house looked like a paper birch tree.
I took out my badge, and noticed Benedict already had his in hand. Wouldn’t be smart to surprise the occupant. It was too easy to picture him crouched behind the front door with a shotgun, waiting for strangers to trespass.
Herb hesitated before getting onto the porch, eyeing it dubiously. I went first. The warped wood groaned, but it took my weight. Benedict followed, stepping gingerly.
I knocked, a thin, hollow sound.
“Bud Kork? This is the police.”
We waited.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Mr. Kork? We see your truck outside. We know you’re home.”
A voice filtered through the closed door. “Come on in. I’m getting dressed.”
I
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