"Mr. Kendall, we were coming out of the restaurant...just getting a cab...those guys came out of nowhere. They grabbed Zoe...forced her into a car..."
It was kidnapping, plain and simple. But why? Richard knew he had no enemies, at least nobody who would deliberately harm his daughter. Then again, there was that new development deal announced just last week. A three-block stretch of abandoned buildings just south of downtown destined to become a showplace of commercial and residential ventures.
Richard had to admit to the cops that he suspected a few protestors who heckled him and his investors that day of the televised new conference. "Save Our Neighborhood," was the rallying cry, but they hardly seemed the type to kidnap Richard Kendall's daughter.
"These people were mostly street folk: bag ladies and dopers. They hardly seem the type to negotiate a ransom demand," he reasoned to the investigating officer. Richard couldn't understand it. Why would these people kidnap his daughter? No, it has to be a professional job; the perpetrators are out for easy money, simple as that.
"Mr. Kendall," said the investigating detective on the scene, "we've got description of the vehicle and the license number from Ms. Springs and the other eyewitnesses. Whoever snatched your kid will be apprehended. I've already put out an APB on the car."
The detective further stated that whoever has Zoe, "May have not yet left town, or the state for that matter. If they do..."
Richard grew impatient, saying, "I know, I know. The Feds take over. Whatever it takes, please find my daughter."
******
Donna Flynn pulled her thin jacket around her body in efforts to warm herself. She silently cursed her partner in crime for suggesting they bring their captive here, to an old theater that has seen better days. It was dark, cold, and musty.
They got in the place through a narrow opening in the rear; somehow the stage door was slightly ajar. Donna simply shrugged and thought that the door obviously has rusted itself open.
With their captive securely bound in the confines of a cramped storage closet, the pair discussed their next steps.
"Andy, this place gives me the creeps," Donna said, looking around the stage area. The once-luxurious burgundy velvet curtain was now tattered and threadbare. The stage itself was littered with yellowed playbills and production schedules. Disintegrating sets, props, and backdrops now graced the very spot where performers once plied their craft.
It was once a lecture hall, then a vaudeville house, a neighborhood movie palace, then home to a local thespian troupe which disbanded more than a decade ago. This place, whose walls reverberated with the words of Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams, the music of Gershwin and Beethoven, the comedy of Jack Benny and Red Skelton, and countless legends of the silver screen, was now an eerie testament of changing tastes and times.
The surrounding area, with its boarded-up storefronts, crumbling tenement buildings, and what spotty business remained, had declined over the years. Too many people who were this neighborhood's life's blood, moved on to the suburbs, leaving behind the homeless and criminal class.
Donna could swear she heard and saw ghosts, but Andy wasn't swayed.
"Come on, Donna. There ain't such things as ghosts. OK, you got the ransom note ready?"
Donna begrudgingly produced the note, to be delivered to Richard Kendall by midnight.
"Here, Andy, but I don't see how we're gonna get away with this. I told you I didn't like doing this, but you said it was foolproof."
Andy Ford simply snatched the note from Donna without ceremony. Puffing on his cigarette, he read the ransom demands then told Donna, "Look, I'm sorry I got you into this, but they wanted someone who could pull off this job. I need you because you won't throw suspicion on us. Besides, you want your share of the loot, don't you?"
Donna sighed, then looked at Andy as he smiled when reading her words. She was a pretty girl of twenty-two with pale complexion, light auburn hair and green eyes. Donna – just shy of five feet-one inch – wasn't ready for a life of crime. She had a good job at Jewel, still lived with her parents, contributed to home expenses, and generally lived a fairly boring life.
While not a party girl by nature, Donna did like an occasional good time. Unfortunately, she did have a knack for latching onto the wrong men. She met Andy six months ago at a friend's birthday party; she had no idea he had a criminal record. When she found out, it was too late; Donna had already fallen in love with him. Not that she minded too much since Andy's offenses were petty traffic and larceny, nothing as major as kidnapping.
She looked hard at Andy, a tall, lean, twenty-five year old with thick dark blond hair sweeping the shoulders. He was a handsome man, with his serene blue eyes and clean-shaven "pretty boy" features. Andy could pass for Brad Pitt or that cute blond guy who played Lucky on General Hospital.
Too bad Andy couldn't put his talents to good use, thought Donna. Unlike his current girlfriend, Andy didn't have a steady job; he drifted from one thing to another. He just got fired from his last job; the boss found out about Andy's record, and he suspected Andy of stealing merchandise.
"So that's why you took the kidnapping job," Donna said under her breath.
"What, babe?," Andy asked.
She replied in a clearly audible voice, "I said I hope the cops don't find us. You did stash the car, didn't you?"
Andy merely smiled, looked at his watch and said, "Don't sweat it, babe. I got rid of the car. I even tore the plate off. If the cops find that car, they can't prove it's the car, get it?"
Donna nodded tentatively. To this Andy said, "OK, it's almost ten. Let's grab something to eat then make that phone call. Do you remember what to say?"
"Yeah, Andy. I remember. Andy, what about...er...her? You think it's OK to leave her here by herself?"
Andy grinned in a way that always melted Donna's heart, replying, "Hey, Ms. Zoe Kendall is tied up real good in that closet. Ain't no one gonna look in there, and she ain't going anywhere either."
******
They called him Bud, but his real name was Eldon Bigbee, and he once made a good living in the steel mills of Gary. Now jobless, aging, infirm, homeless, Bud ekes out an existence on Chicago streets. To many people in the 'hood, Bud was a little "weird".
Always babbling incoherently to himself while scouring the alleys for trash and cans, Bud knew all the places he could call "home" without the cops chasing him away. Right now, Bud hurriedly hobbled through darkened alleys toward the stage door of the old Centralia. Most of his possessions were stuffed into a large knapsack; the rest, what he couldn't easily carry all day, stayed behind in the theater.
Bud remembered the slightly opened door and took measures to make sure no one "broke in." So he fastened a wire around the rusted latch where the padlock used to be. A slight bend told Bud that someone was here, and not long ago.
"Probably them damned crackheads," he muttered as he jimmied open the door. Maneuvering through the pitch blackness of the Centralia, Bud found his special "home": a dressing room at the top of the spiral staircase.
Once in his room, Bud lit a candle and surveyed his unusual lodgings. Nothing taken, thank God for that, he thought. Onto the vanity table, he emptied his knapsack. These were among the treasures he found during his daily rummaging: old jewelry, several dinner plates (thankfully unbroken), fabric remnants, a ratty but still working transistor radio. He brought out the remains of his dinner, courtesy of the church on the other side of town.
"Good eats tonight," he announced out loud with a wide smile, staring at the blue crystal ball he found a few months ago. "Roast beef, mashed potatoes and brown gravy, green beans, and bread. Even pie for dessert. I brought that home."
Bud sat at the vanity table and consumed the remains of apple pie, oblivious to the reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror. His mahogany face was wrinkled and weathered, his eyes sunken, his teeth nearly gone. He had clean clothes on for a change, even had a shower this morning at the shelter. Bud wore a hodgepodge of items: heavy black pants, a white T-shirt, red flannel shirt, old work boots, a heavy fake-fur trimmed coat and a black woolen cap.
The usually brutal Chicago winter was fast approaching, and Bud wondered if he should abandon the comfort and privacy of the Centralia for the warmth of the shelter. Of course, he knew he would have to leave anyway; the Centralia's days were numbered, that is once spring comes with the wrecking ball.
Bud polished off his pie, saying aloud,"They ain't gonna tear this here place down, too many memories. Lots of history. Kids should know their history."
Suddenly he heard a thump. At first he thought it was rats, but the thumps came stronger and more regular.
"Sounds like next door," he muttered. Arming himself with a two-by-four he gleaned from a construction site, Bud ventured out into the corridor. He heard it again, along with what sounded like a muffled voice. He pressed his ear to the door, shook his head, then started back to his room. Must be dreaming things, he thought. Then he heard something else:
"Please help her, Eldon."
Something made him return to the old costume room. Humph!, he thought as he managed to turn the doorknob. Whoever tried to lock it didn't do a good job. Once the door opened, Bud cautiously entered. He looked about the dimly lit room and found the thumping sound's source. Bud's eyes registered disbelief. How can this be? he exclaimed.
"I'll be damned! Where did you come from? Why you all tied up like that?"
******
"Thank you, Mr..."
"Just call me Bud."
"Thanks, Bud."
The young woman, newly freed from her forced captivity, graciously accepted the cup of coffee Bud poured for her. In the comfort of Bud's lodgings, she wondered how this street man got in; in fact, she asked him outright.
"Oh, I always stay here. Yep, come in here every night. Don't like the shelters 'cept for meals and a shower. Least this place got electricity and water still on. I got that there bag of coffee at the church. Lady let me have it for free. The pot, too."
Bud chattered on and on. The young woman paid him no mind as she concentrated on ways to escape. Wait a minute! I don't have to "escape". I've been rescued! Now, to get this man to call Pop or, at least, the police.
"Sir, I mean, Bud. Some people grabbed me off the streets, tied me up, kept me prisoner. They might come back and find us. I think they'll–"
"Don't worry, honey. Them folks won't hurt you. I won't let them and neither will..."
He stopped talking momentarily, peered into the young woman's face, then continued.
"Say, you're that Kendall gal. Yeah! I seen you in Ebony and The Defender. Your daddy's one cool bigshot brother."
Zoe Kendall smiled slightly at the recognition but suddenly panicked. What if this guy really works for the kidnappers? What if he's just making nice talk, pretending to help me only to report my "escape" to my captors?
Bud picked up on Zoe's fears, saying, "Honey, why don't you come with me. I know a place where you'll be safe. No one knows where it is 'cept me. Come on."
With a shrug, but out of desperation, Zoe followed Bud as he guided her down the darkened staircase. She had no idea where he was taking her. All she thought was that this homeless man is obviously not working for the kidnappers; he actually wants to help her.
They reached the open stage, picking their way over scattered props and sets. Bud held her hand and guided her down the stage steps which led to the orchestra pit.
"What's down here, Bud?"
"You'll see, honey. Come on."
Below the stage, the pit, with its empty chairs and music stands still in place, had a curious feature: a locked door.
"Only," said Bud with a chuckle, "it's not really locked."
He produced that blue crystal ball from his coat pocket and placed it on a strange symbol on the door. As if by magic, the door flew open, exposing a narrow, cobweb-laden tunnel.
"What is this place?," Zoe asked.
"You'll see," replied Bud.
The old man, armed with that crystal which served as a guiding light, led Zoe through the tunnel. Zoe wondered what could possibly be down here. Perhaps it is a secret room a la "Phantom of the Opera". Maybe it served as a hideout for a deranged actor or musician who haunted the theater years ago. No, she reasoned, it can't be that, because there isn't such things as ghosts or spooks.
Yeah, maybe it was a hideout for those 1920's bad boys and bootleggers, such as Capone and Nitti. Perhaps those early Chicago crime bosses conducted their business down here. A million thoughts and theories swam through Zoe's mind as she and Bud descended countless winding, narrow steps.
The end of the tunnel loomed brighter as Bud and Zoe traveled deeper. Certainly, she considered, we must be far beneath the building itself. Why, since the place is to be razed next spring, didn't anyone discover this secret tunnel by now?
When they reached the end of the tunnel, another, far heavier, more ornate, door greeted them. Bud rhythmically knocked six times. As the door creaked open, a bright light burst forth, forcing Zoe to shield her eyes. The distinct odor of phosphorus stung her nostrils; it smelled of spent matches. Had this place been on fire?
Bud laughed as he answered, "On fire? Well, in a way, yes." He ushered Zoe in. "Ladies first."
Zoe tentatively entered the chamber, at least that's how it appeared to her; her eyes dazzled with wonderment. What greeted her was a room made almost entirely of quartz crystal and fine wrought iron. Zoe marveled at the chamber's high-vaulted ceiling. Massive quartz rods in a myriad colors suspended overhead. It was indescribedly beautiful, as out of a fairy tale.
This she told to Bud who laughed even harder as he replied, "Honey, you ain't seen nothing yet."
Into the chamber's depths he called, "Neva! I got someone you should meet. She needs a safe place to stay till I can get her home."
Who is Neva?, thought Zoe. Is she one of Bud's homeless friends? Why does she live here, in this lovely place?
Her answers came soon enough as the woman approached. Odd, the footsteps don't even sound human. What or who is this approaching? The odor of phosphorus grew stronger; the air became decidedly warmer as if from an advancing fire.
Imagine Zoe's shocked expression as the one Bud called Neva came into view. This is impossible! Can't be!
A very dazed Zoe Kendall turned to Bud, saying in disbelief, "How can this be? A dragon? In Chicago? In 2003? I thought they were make believe! They only exist in fairy tales! Bud, why did you bring me here?"
TO CHAPTER 3!....