Chapter 8 - The Standing Ghost
What happened next entered the folklore of the Chicago underworld, whispered in backrooms and cigar lounges for twenty years afterward.
Caleb Mercer placed his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair.
He planted his feet firmly on the floorboards.
And then, with the slow, terrifying deliberation of a monument coming to life, Caleb Mercer stood up.
Owen Pike’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. His mouth fell open, a strangled, wordless sound escaping his throat as he stumbled backward. His knees struck the edge of the low coffee table, and he fell hard onto his back, his silver pistol clattering across the floor.
“No...” Dr. Keller whimpered, backing against the wall until his head struck a framed oil painting. “The cord was damaged... the MRI showed complete compression... it’s scientifically impossible...”
Caleb did not answer with words.
He took a step forward.
His right boot came down with a heavy, solid thud that reverberated through the limestone floor. Then his left boot. There was no limp; there was no hesitation. The agony that had torn through his nerves for four nights had burned away the weakness, leaving behind a man who had walked through hell and returned with fire in his stride.
He walked over to where Owen lay sprawling on the Persian rug.
Caleb looked down at him. At six feet two inches, broad-shouldered, clad in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his scarred forearms, Caleb looked like the angel of death delivered straight to Owen’s doorstep.
“You asked about my legs every morning, Owen,” Caleb said, his voice dropping into a register that made the windowpanes vibrate. “You wanted to know if the sensation was coming back.”
Caleb reached down, grabbed Owen by the lapels of his three-piece charcoal suit with one hand, and hoisted the hundred-and-eighty-pound man off the floor as if he were an empty coat.
He slammed Owen against the heavy limestone mantel above the fireplace, holding him pinned with a single, iron forearm across his throat.
“I can feel everything now,” Caleb whispered into Owen’s ear. “I can feel the heat from the fire. I can feel the weight of my boots on my floorboards. And I can feel how soft your windpipe is under my arm.”
Owen clawed desperately at Caleb’s wrist, his face turning a deep, mottled purple, his feet kicking uselessly in the air six inches above the rug. “Caleb... please... please... Moretti... Moretti made me do it...”
“Moretti didn't hire Dr. Keller,” Caleb said coldly. “Moretti didn't put chloral hydrate in my broth. Moretti didn't try to kill my maid.”
Caleb turned his head slightly toward Leo Vance. “Leo.”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Call the captains. Tell them to assemble in the grand ballroom downstairs in twenty minutes. Every capo from the North Side to the Indiana border. If anyone hesitates, tell them Caleb Mercer called the meeting himself.”
“Understood, Boss,” Leo said, a grim smile touching his scarred face.
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Caleb looked back at Owen, whose eyes were rolling back into his head from lack of oxygen.
“You’re going to stay alive for one more hour, Owen,” Caleb said, loosening his grip just enough to let the traitor draw a ragged, wheezing breath. “You’re going to sit on the floor of my ballroom, and you’re going to tell every man in Chicago exactly what happens to a fox when it tries to steal from a sleeping wolf.”
