Joliet, Illinois, is approximately forty miles southwest of Chicago and light years away from the opulence of Lake Shore Drive. It boasts a population of about a hundred thousand people, but it’s unclear whether or not that number includes the occupants of the two prisons located there.
Statesville Correctional Penitentiary, a maximum security facility, is known to its inhabitants as Hotel Hell. The slightly less forbidding-looking Illinois Youth Correctional Center is known as Statesville Prep.
Some say the streets of this small city are as dangerous as the cellblocks.
Jack McCarthy drove with caution, not from fear but a desire not to be noticed. The car, a battered grey 2001 Camry he had picked up for under three grand, had little to recommend it, save for the fact that it ran. He chose it because there was little chance of anyone noticing it, let alone wanting to steal it.
Jack’s appearance was as nondescript as his car. He had ditched the smart blazer and slacks he had worn yesterday to an archipelago of offshore islands in the Caribbean. Those sorts of places were known for crystal blue water, balmy breezes and banks that didn’t ask questions.
Jack had delicate business to take care of there. He flew in and out of the islands in a private jet and his transactions were completed in less than seven hours. He hadn’t even had time to take off his jacket.
Now he wore workman’s clothes purchased at an army and navy store on the south side of Chicago. He could easily have been just another guy who had completed his shift at Caterpillar Tractor Company. Except, of course, for the fact that his car held millions of dollars: Margo’s money.
Jack pulled into a service station far from the Interstate. He got out and stretched while he scanned the area for something, anything that looked out of place.
All clear.
He locked the car and headed for the shabby minimart adjacent. A handwritten sign in the window proclaimed:
ANYTHING YOU WANT, WE GOT.
The place smelled of old grease and stale coffee. Tired-looking frankfurters rotated endlessly on an ancient grill. Jack helped himself to one as he casually checked out the space. He popped the meat into a soggy-looking bun, slathered it with mustard, and ate with gusto.
‘Need a couple cases of motor oil,’ he said to the bored attendant. ‘What’s on special?’
‘You mean what’s cheap?’ The young man didn’t look up.
‘Yeah, that’s what I mean. You got a problem with that?’ There was enough danger in Jack’s tone to cause the kid to tear himself away from his television rerun and get to his feet.
‘We don’t do specials but we do a lot of cheap,’ the attendant said. ‘How much do you want?’
Within minutes, Jack and the kid had loaded five cases of motor oil, a plastic trash can, and four giant bags of cat litter into the boot of the Camry.
‘You like cats?’ the attendant asked, eyeing the litter.
‘Yeah, I like cats.’ Jack’s face was blank.
The kid backed off a step. ‘Me, too. I like cats,’ he lied. ‘A lot.’
‘That’s nice.’ Jack paid in cash and the attendant hurried back to his television programme. As Jack left the gas station, the back bumper of the old car scraped the street from the weight in the trunk.
To reach the public storage facility, Jack had to drive north, past Statesville. The prison was surrounded by impenetrable concrete walls over thirty feet in height. Jack wondered idly if many inside had committed a crime as monstrous as the one he had just pulled off.
He forcefully pushed away thoughts of Margo. Best not to go there, he told himself. That part of his life was over.
He parked in front of the large ground-floor storage unit he had chosen earlier in the day and pulled open the doors. He had paid a year’s rent in cash and purchased the most formidable lock available. It would take time and skill for someone to break into this unit.
Jack backed the old car into the space, got out and closed the door. He lifted the bonnet, opened one case of oil and splashed the contents of several bottles on the floor in front of the car. It now appeared as if a not-so-handy man had been changing his own oil.
He placed the battered tool box he had purchased, fully stocked, at a lawn sale, on the floor and scattered a few wrenches around. He examined the scene.
Satisfied, Jack pulled a large carton from the back seat and carefully checked the contents. It was all there: bundles of cash, stock certificates, negotiables. Also records of the accounts he had opened yesterday in five different banks on three islands.
He did a quick tally of the balances. Everything was worth exactly what it was worth when he’d emptied Margo’s accounts. Well, technically, their accounts. Someone could live very well for a very long time with this stash.
He set the carton aside and double-wrapped the papers and cash in heavy plastic. He placed the bulky package in the bottom of the trash can he had just bought.
The next step was to cover the package completely by emptying the heavy bags of cat litter on top. He then opened bottle after bottle of motor oil and emptied the contents into the gravelly substance. Soon the mixture took on the consistency of molasses. And finally, he piled the empty oil containers on top of the mess.
Jack carefully wiped the oil from his hands and opened an envelope he took from the glove compartment. He checked the sheets of stationery covered in his slanted handwriting.
Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he carefully extracted a photo of Margo he had taken on board the cruise ship shortly after they had met. The wind had whipped her hair into a wild tangle, and freckles from the sun had dotted her nose. She looked filled with joy.
Jack had never meant to fall in love with anyone. He was determined not to. But love, he learned on that ship, doesn’t follow orders.
He tore his eyes away from her face and quickly put the photo into the envelope. Some people were not meant for happy endings. He worked his wedding ring from his finger, buried it in the sheets of notepaper and sealed the envelope. On the front he wrote:
TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.
Although it wasn’t easy he managed to lift the heavy trash can just enough to slide the letter underneath.
He surveyed his handiwork and was satisfied. Even if someone broke into the locker unit and stole the car, they were not going to bother with the smelly mess in a garbage can that now weighed upwards of two hundred pounds.
He lifted the door of the storage unit just enough to slide underneath and closed it behind him. After locking it securely and pocketing the key, Jack stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and trudged into the darkening winter afternoon.