1947Chicago, In the basement

"In the basement!" Kowalski shouted as he pounded down the stairwell, hot on the heels of the killer. I had only a minute to see that the basement was dark before the door swung shut in Kowalski's face. He moved to one side and put his back against the wall.

I fetched up against the wall on the other side of the door. We both had our guns out, breathing hard from the chase.

The next step, barrelling through the doorway, might get us killed. There was no other stairwell out of the basement. He was cornered. If he wasn't waiting to shoot us when we came through the door, he was a fool -- and we had ample proof that whatever else Donnelly might be, he was not stupid. Still, we had to follow him in, and the sooner the better, before he found the coal chute or some basement window that I might have overlooked.

Kowalski grinned at me. "Go high." He whispered, hoarse with the effort of breathing. "On three." He put on his glasses.

Something unfamiliar churned in my gut. A strange sort of excitement, different from the usual thrill of the chase. Elation, perhaps, at working with a partner. I nodded back to him, readied myself for his signal.

Then we sprang through the door, him low and rolling, myself leaping through higher. I would present a larger target, and for longer, but he would be covering me before I'd touched ground.

The silence within the basement was unexpected. I yanked at the chain for the overhead light. It took us only a moment to discover that he was not in the room. I turned my attention to seeking exits. And, for the second time in as many days, I tripped over evidence. "Ray? There are train tracks here."

Ray took one look and began to swear, "Sonufabitch! He's gone into the tunnels. Got a flashlight?"

"An electric torch? Yes."

"Good, we'll need it. There'll be an elevator someplace around here. . . the building gets it's coal through the freight tunnels. They run under all the streets around here. I've heard of them, but never been down here." We ran along the rails, "If he gets to a tunnel intersection, we've lost him," Kowalski explained, "He could get out anywhere."

The tracks ended on a platform, an industrial elevator. Kowalski headed for a rusty ladder leading into the stygian darkness. If Donnelly was intent on murder rather than escape, our backlit bodies at the top of the ladder would be an even more tempting target than our entrance through the basement door.

"Ray!" I whispered urgently, "Wait while I turn off the lights." I turned and sprinted back to the light chain. By the time I'd returned to the ladder, Kowalski was already well on his way down.

In silence, and with a sense of foreboding, I followed. I'd been averse to places below ground ever since, as a youth, I accidentally blew up an abandoned diamond mine during an attempted tryst with a girl from the next settlement over. It was months before either of us grew hair again on the backs of our heads, and to this day she won't speak to me. I now associate mines and tunnels with that first of many disastrous dates. With age, I've come to agree with my grandparents' insistence on chaperones for courting, if only because chaperones can supply prompt medical attention and limit the property damage liable to occur when the two sexes converge.

The ladder was remarkably long. I estimated we were three stories below the basement when I reached the bottom. Below Chicago's water table, certainly. The air was cool, musty, but not as damp as I would have expected. I could hear what might have been trains, weirdly distorted by the tunnels, in the distance. I could see a slightly less black spot in one direction.

Kowalski put a hand on my shoulder and whispered near my ear. "Tunnel's 'bout six feet across, rails right in the middle. Electric line for the trains is over our heads. You shine the light, I'll cover ya."

A fine plan, but Donnelly was nowhere in sight. He'd most likely headed towards lit portion of the tunnels. We followed, again at Ray's not-quite-a-sprint. The light we'd seen came from a lit tunnel at the first intersection.

"Left, right, or straight?"

The concrete floor gave up no prints or sign of his passing. I pulled out my compass, but it was useless, surrounded as we were by metal. I longed, uselessly, for my lupine companion. "Which way is the river?"

"East. To the right."

"He's gone left." I opined.

"Naw, I think he's gone straight."

"Back into the dark?"

"Gimme your light. We'll each go one block and then meet back here." Ray took the torch and headed into the darkness. I pulled my gun again, turned left, and ran down the lit tunnel. Parts of it were quite dim, a number of light bulbs had burnt out and gone unreplaced. I was guessing that Donnelly would seek egress closer to his home south-west of the Loop.

Because I could move faster in the lit tunnel than Kowalski in the dark one, I assumed I'd have time to go two blocks to his one. That was my undoing.

At the end of the second block, I took a moment to peer down the south-bound tunnel, and as I did so, the lights went out. Something hit me, a plank to the side of my head. I fell, and falling, heard Donnelly as he ran, as I'd guessed, to the south.

I don't believe I passed out, but it was a moment before I could push myself up from the floor. I was dizzy, and promptly sat. The horror of these tunnels, unnatural and unknown, which I'd ignored during the chase, came over me.

"This is no time to panic, son."

"No, Dad, I know that." I replied. "If I panic I won't be able to find the light switch."

"And without the lights, you and the Yank will both be lost down here. Where's your torch? Don't tell me you came down here improperly equipped!"

"I lent it to Ray, Dad."

I often thought I could hear my father's voice when I was in stressful situations, but he seemed unusually real to me now.

"Well here, use mine."

"Dad? Where are you?"

"Hm? Oh, right here, son." And he lit up with a milky glow, in his dress uniform. He was holding out his torch.

"Dad? How are you?"

"I'm dead, son. Other than that, you mean?"

"No. No, that was what I meant." Delusional. "Dad, I think I hit my head quite hard."

"No son, the criminal hit you. it does appear to be bleeding a fair bit, but then head wounds usually do. I wouldn't be surprised if it was concussed. Still, can't let a minor thing like that keep you from upholding the law. Up and at them, son. You're a Mountie, the sole force for law and order in the Territories, and that malfeasant needs to be brought in."

"Dad," I explained, "We're not in the Territories, we're in Chicago. We're in a series of badly maintained freight tunnels forty feet below the streets of downtown Chicago. "

"Really? Well, that would explain all those American accents."

"Whose accents, Dad? I can't hear anybody."

"Really? Well, I suppose they don't talk to just anybody. I suppose being alive must be a handicap. Don't let it worry you. I don't imagine you'll survive much longer if you let criminals get the jump on you like that."

My head was aching, and I found it increasingly difficult to think. I was getting worse, not better. "Dad, I don't want to die."

"No? Well, can't blame you, I didn't either. If you want to get out of here, and to a proper hospital, I'd suggest you turn the lights back on so that Ray can find you."

I'd heard the switch click, just before Donnelly'd hit me. It had to be someplace nearby. But I was disoriented and it was dark. I tried to remember which direction I'd heard Donnelly go. Then I started to crawl the other direction. My balance was going.

"No, no son, not that way. The switch is over here." He stood, about three yards off, his ghostly glow illuminating a knife switch mounted on the wall. I headed towards it. I suppose I reached it before I passed out, because when I awoke, the lights were on and Ray was next to me. My father, not surprisingly, was gone.

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