LITMIR.BIZ

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had failed. The enemy was well equipped and on the move, cutting in from the left and right underneath the barrage and preparing to steamroll across the Allied defences. Thick, acrid smoke blanketed the field. Jack lost sight of Billy.

      As the mortar eased up the artillery grew heavier, pulverizing the battlefield, churning up a gruesome sea of rubble, mud, and broken bodies. It became impossible to make heads or tails of anything. When the artillery became sporadic again, Jack could hear the injured soldiers’ shouts for help. He located the trench he had leapt out of, or what was left of it. The walls had collapsed and there was water streaming into it. He saw limbs. Some were still attached. He moved a piece of wood frame and saw an arm. When he pulled it the body followed. It was Billy, semi-conscious and badly bruised.

      Jack pulled his brother’s arm across his shoulders and dragged him back through the gunfire to a foxhole behind the line. He made Billy as comfortable as possible and then looked around for help. He saw a paramedic wasting time trying to revive something that looked like it should have been hanging from a meat hook in a butcher shop. Jack gave a shout and waved him over. While the medic tended to Billy, Jack tried to catch his breath.

      His moment’s peace was shattered by an unearthly cry. He peaked over the edge of the foxhole and saw a shadow zigzag across the field. It vanished in a cloud of smoke and then reappeared just a few yards away. It was Jigsaw. His uniform was scorched and tattered. He jumped into a foxhole. There was a terrible noise and a German soldier crawled out holding his belly. Another one of the Kaiser’s boys feebly threw himself over the edge. Jigsaw dragged him back down, finished him off, and then climbed out to survey the chaos. He was like an angel of death, terrifying to behold. Jack instinctively ducked back into his foxhole, even though he knew he had nothing to fear. After all, Jigsaw was on his side.

      ‘He’s gonna make it.’

      The medic stabilized Billy and was bringing him to.

      Billy blinked. ‘Am I dead?’

      ‘You should be so lucky.’

      ‘Now what?’ asked the medic. They were pinned.

      McCloskey looked down at the stinking pool of filth and human remains they were standing in. Cold, wet death seeped into the cracks of his boots and chilled him to the bone.

      ‘We get the fuck out of here.’

      ‘What about the reinforcements?’

      ‘There won’t be any. We’re going find out who’s left and we’re going head back to where we blew up that bridge.’

      ‘You gotta be kidding,’ said the medic.

      ‘We’ll wade across the river at sundown.’

      Monday, 4:50 a.m.

      McCloskey was lying on his bed thinking, remembering, and blowing smoke rings at the ceiling when a set of knuckles came rapping on his door. He grabbed his revolver and pressed himself against the adjacent wall.

      “Jack? Jack McCloskey — you in there?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Telephone.”

      He eased the door open. One of the porters was standing outside.

      “I didn’t know you was back in town, Jack.”

      “Then you’re not reading the society columns.”

      McCloskey tucked his revolver in his belt, threw on his jacket, and walked with the porter down the stairs. The desk clerk was holding out the telephone.

      “Hello?”

      “It’s Fields.”

      “You got anything?”

      “A little while ago we brought in a drunk that was found staggering down Tecumseh near Crawford.”

      “And?”

      “To make a long story short, he was the driver.”

      “What?”

      “He drove the car to Ojibway last night.”

      “I’ll be right over.”

      “Don’t bother. He’s speaking Italian with a thick Scotch accent. So far all we’ve been able to get out of him is that his gangland friends are hanging out at the Elliott and they owe him money.”

      “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

      “Calm down, McCloskey. There are a couple uniforms and a detective at the Elliott right now. I’ll let you know if —”

      Fields heard the line disconnect. “Damn.”

      After he hung up a call came into the station. The police at the Elliott needed reinforcements. One of the constables was down and the detective was being taken to hospital. Fields immediately headed out with another officer.

      Meanwhile McCloskey ran out into the street and spotted a Yellow Cab turning around at the ferry dock. He jumped in before the driver came to a full stop.

      “Elliott Hotel — fast.”

      They climbed the hill then turned right onto Riverside Drive. When McCloskey looked over and saw the Detroit skyline in the pre-dawn light, it made him think of Montreal. He imagined Sophie asleep in her own bed, her cheek pressed against her pillow. Was she thinking of him? Part of him hoped that he was the furthest thing from her mind right now, or at most a bit player in a bad dream. Her life was hers again, uncomplicated with guys like him or Brown. He on the other hand had just spent a sleepless night in a hotel room, and while he may have been unencumbered, he still didn’t feel his life belonged to him. Maybe today would be the day he’d finally win it back.

      As they approached Crawford, the cabbie slowed for the left-hand turn.

      “No,” said McCloskey, “not the front door. I’d like to keep a low profile.”

      “Gotcha.”

      The cabbie continued past Crawford and the railway ferry terminal, turning up McKay instead. A few minutes later they were pulling into the Michigan Central station, where gunshots could be heard coming from the direction of the hotel, which was just on the other side of the tracks.

      “Thanks.”

      McCloskey got out and tossed a note through the passenger window. As soon it touched the front seat the cabbie mashed the pedal and tore through the parking lot. This was obviously more excitement than he was looking for this morning.

      McCloskey started towards the hotel. Boxcars were passing back and forth between him and the hotel, and he used them for cover as he made his way across the tracks. He could see police shooting from behind a vehicle parked to the left up on Wellington Street, and to the right, near Tecumseh Road, two motorcycles were parked.

      A metal fire escape zigzagged down the back of the hotel. McCloskey pulled down the ladder and climbed up to the second-storey window, where he saw a man in a suit sitting with his back against a blood-splattered wall and a constable face-down on the floor. As soon as he stepped through the window a shot echoed through the building. It sounded like it came from the stairwell at the front of the hall. McCloskey wasn’t anticipating a shoot-out. He checked the Webley; it held six rounds.

      He heard more shots upstairs as he crept along the hall. McCloskey paused for a moment to think about not just what side he was on, but what side everyone else might think he was on. And then he stopped thinking. He sprinted down the hall and slid shoulder-first across the floor. A gunman positioned on the landing below turned and fired where he expected someone would be standing while McCloskey buried a round in his shoulder, sending him tumbling backwards down the stairs and into the lobby. Maybe now the way was clear for the cops.

      McCloskey ran up to the next floor. The door to the corner room was slightly ajar. He was easing it open further when he heard the clatter of the fire escape.

      Shit.

      He ran down the hall to the window

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