Sleep Tight (26 page)

 

They spent the night at the bar until the bartender kicked them out at four. Ed, Qween, and Dr. Menard crashed at Sam’s apartment, while Sam sat in the kitchen, chewing nicotine gum and drinking ice water. When the sun filled the kitchen, he woke everyone up and they wordlessly piled back into the car.

Ed decided to go out for breakfast at The Golden Waffle. They filed inside, exhausted. The place was empty except for one cab driver who didn’t want to go home to his wife. A sleepy waitress gestured at the empty dining room and told them to sit anywhere they felt like. The cook eyeballed them from inside the kitchen as if they’d interrupted something important.

The meal was a quiet affair. When they were finished, Sam took the check and told the waitress, “More coffee.”

They sipped their coffee in silence. Qween finished her mug and snapped her fingers to get the waitress’s attention. She pointed at the empty cup and waddled off to the bathroom.

When she was out of earshot, Sam spread his hands, palms out, and looked Dr. Menard in the eye. “Sorry about the tap on the head there. I jumped to conclusions. I ah . . . sorry.”

Dr. Menard touched the raw spot on his forehead and winced. He shrugged. “I’ll live. Could have been worse, I guess.”

“Things can always be worse,” Ed said. “You’ll have to accept our unofficial apologies for the time being. You want to file a complaint or anything like that, I suppose somebody might get back to you in a couple of months. Or years. There’s not much rush to investigate things when cops overstep their bounds here, you understand.”

Dr. Menard shook his head. “Understood.”

The waitress refilled their mugs. More customers trickled inside. The place grew louder.

“So what now?” Dr. Menard asked.

“We find ourselves a bar, baby,” Qween said, settling back into the booth.

“Damned if I’ve got a better idea,” Sam said.

“I could go to the media,” Dr. Menard said. “Let people know what’s really going on down here. Get the public’s attention. You guys know somebody at the newspapers or one of the TV stations, right?”

Sam snorted and shook his head. As a general rule, detectives did not hang out with anybody associated with the media.

“Maybe,” Ed said. “I got maybe someone that would listen.”

Sam was curious. “Who the hell do you talk to?”

Ed said, “None of your damn business.”

Sam grinned. “Oh, now I know. It’s that short one, that poor girl they send out to car crashes and bad weather.”

“Yeah. So what.” A pause. “Don’t you dare tell Carolina.”

“Never.”

Ed wandered away to make the call. They heard him say, “Is this the famous hotshot girl reporter, Cecilia Palmers?” and laugh.

Qween said, “I already tried this, and nobody listened.”

Sam said, “I know, Qween. I know. It was a good plan. Wish to hell somebody had listened. Maybe things would be different. All we can do now is let folks know the inside story. Put some pressure on these assholes.”

Ed slid back into the booth. “It’s all set. We’re gonna meet Cecilia out in front of City Hall in an hour. Just so we’re clear, me and Sam won’t be anywhere near the cameras and you are not to mention our names under any circumstance, all right? All I want is for people to start wondering what’s going on in that hospital. Let’s put it out there, and let somebody else start poking around. We don’t need that kind of exposure. Like it or not, you’re gonna be the face of this thing. You ready, Doc?”

Dr. Menard rubbed his face. “I don’t know. I guess so.” “That’s the spirit.” Ed grinned. “Fuck it. You’re gonna be a hero. Go on
Oprah
.”

“Maybe she’ll give you a car,” Sam said.

Ed rapped on the table. “That’s it then. We’re gonna get your story out in front of the public, and damned if we’re aren’t gonna bring justice to the mean streets of Chicago.”

“Hell, that’s our job description,” Sam said.

Ed’s phone rang. He checked the number. It was Arturo.

Across the restaurant, the cook yelled, “Holy shit, turn that TV up.”

 

Kimmy awoke to pounding. At first, she wasn’t sure what was making the noise. She realized it must be Lee. He’d left his phone when he stormed out last night, and he must have left his keys as well. She just hoped he had burned off the anger.

She wanted to slip into some lingerie, coax him back into bed, see if she couldn’t improve his mood, but she didn’t want to risk enraging him further if she made him wait. She threw on a silk robe instead, deciding that she could always make him coffee and then change. She closed Grace’s door as she passed, and hurried to the front door.

It was Phil. “I need to talk to Lee. Immediately.”

“He’s not here.”

“Then where the fuck is he? He won’t answer his phone.”

Kimmy shrugged. “He took off last night. I think he broke his phone before he left, so he didn’t take it.”

“Jesus Christ.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You sure he’s not here? You’re not covering for his dumb ass, are you?” He pushed past roughly past her and banged on the walls with his fist. “Lee! Lee! You better not be hiding, you stupid sonofabitch.” He poked his head in the master bedroom, even checked the bathroom. On the way back, he opened Grace’s door, stuck his head inside.

He circled the living room, squinting at the brilliant sunlight sizzling through the floor to ceiling windows. He whirled on Kimmy in the kitchen. “Goddamnit, I’ve been up all fucking night, trying to save his career.”

Kimmy crossed her arms. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. “I told you. I don’t know where he is. He left without saying anything.”

Phil ran a shaking hand through his wild hair. “Make me some coffee. I need to sit and think a minute.” He dragged a chair back from the dining table and collapsed into it.

Grace appeared, rubbing her eyes. “Mommy, can I watch TV?”

Kimmy shook her head and muttered, “Goddamnit.” She threw Phil a furious look, then turned to her daughter. “Go back to bed. No TV. Not now.”

“But Mommy,” Grace whined.

Kimmy smacked her on the butt. “I said get back into your bed. Now!”

Grace started to cry.

“Go! Now!”

Phil’s phone rang. He checked the number. “Shit.” It wasn’t Lee. He flipped it open. “Yeah, what?” He was silent for a moment. “You’re shitting me.” He snapped the phone shut, stood up, and strode into the living room.

He stood for a second, scratching his head again. He finally located the remote and turned on the TV. “What happened to your TV?”

The picture worked, despite the spiderweb of cracks in the center. Phil flipped to one of the news networks. The president’s face appeared. He had a grave look on his face, but Phil couldn’t hear anything. He shouted, “Sound, goddamnit! Where’s the sound?”

Grace muttered, “I wanna watch
Kipper
!”

Kimmy shot Phil a withering look as she walked over and hit the POWER button on the audio receiver. The president’s smooth baritone voice came out of all eight speakers, sounding as if he was there in the room with them.

“—unprecedented scale. Drastic measures must be implemented to counteract this unparalleled threat to our American way of life. I have appointed a special task force to work in conjunction with the CDC response team already in place in downtown Chicago.”

“Aw . . . fuck.” Phil looked like someone had just cut a small hole in a blow-up doll and it was slowly but steadily losing air. He took a step backward and looked like he might just sink to the floor, everything inside of him gone.

The president continued. “Evacuation of the Loop is scheduled to begin in less than two hours. I want to emphasize that this is strictly a precautionary measure, one that will ensure that this virus does not spread beyond the confines of the Chicago Loop. Our thoughts and prayers are with everyone within this magnificent city. To repeat—”

The front door open and Lee stumbled in. His tie was gone, shirt untucked. He spotted Phil. “Fuck you want?” he said. His breath made Kimmy’s eyes water.

In the hall, Grace burst into tears, squeezing her fists.

“Shut that fucking brat up,” Lee said, rubbing his temples. He blinked at Phil, trying to refocus his bloodshot eyes. “I asked you a question.”

Kimmy smacked Grace again and dragged her back to the bedroom.

Phil drew himself up, set his jaw, and found the strength in his legs. He waved a hand at the table. “Sit down before you fall down. Then get your girlfriend to make some coffee. We got a lot to talk about.”

“Why? Thought you were finished with me.”

“You’re not dead yet, not as far as the public is concerned. Believe me, you ain’t on the front page anymore. You been watching the news?” Phil gestured at the TV. “All hell is breaking loose. Maybe we can make it work for us.”

Lee glared at the president, who was saying, “—information we have received, information that is currently being confirmed by no less than the U.S. Army’s Infectious Disease Center. At the moment, however, it does appear that the virus, initially thought to be spread by rats, is actually being spread by the common bedbug. Again, I want to emphasize that everything able to be done is being done, and there is no need to panic.”

“Fuck did he just say?” Lee demanded.

Phil ignored the question. “Remember that freak from the CDC? Dr. Reischtal? Turns out he wants a meet. Needs some help. From you.”

“What? Okay? When?”

Phil checked his watch. “Just under an hour. You’ve got just enough time to shower and shave. This might be just the break we need, so look sharp.” He indicated the TV. The president was still justifying drastic measures. Phil shook his head. “I wouldn’t dillydally. No telling what the big boys have got cooked up.”

 

“Here’s the deal,” Ed said as he raced south down Clark, lights blazing, siren going, weaving around people and blindly sailing through intersections. “We’re fucked.”

While Sam, Qween, and Dr. Menard had wandered over to the counter to watch the president’s news conference, Ed took the call from Arturo. Arturo laid everything out. Word was that the president was about to call a press conference and declare martial law in downtown Chicago. The feds were about to evacuate the Loop and Arturo needed Ed and Sam back on the job. Immediately. All past sins would be forgiven if they pitched in and helped Arturo out. Arturo had a lot of shit to coordinate and zero time. Ed didn’t have much of a choice. He said yes, hustled everyone out to the car, and took off.

“We, the CPD,” Ed said in a flat, official voice, hammering the Crown Vic’s horn at a guy in a white van that wouldn’t move over at a light, “are working in conjunction with special representatives of the forces of the federal government.” They flew through the intersection at forty-five miles an hour, missing the van’s bumper by less than four inches. “That’s what they’re forcing on Arturo. CPD and CFD are responsible for executing a mass evacuation of downtown, using some plan they drew up after oh-one. Platoons of soldiers are responsible for the bugs and rats. And don’t ask me what the fuck that means, ’cause I don’t have a clue.”

“It’s easy,” Qween said. “Uncle Sam just declared war on that virus.”

Sam said, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. There’s no fucking way they’re gonna get all the fucking rats, let alone a billion bugs.”

“Maybe so.” Ed shrugged. “But apparently this Dr. Reischtal believes he can make a serious dent in the bug population, get this virus under control.”

“How the hell are they gonna do that? They’re gonna have to seal off every goddamn tunnel and sewer and drain.... What about the fucking river?” Sam was livid. “Nobody’s figured out that rats can swim?”

“I guess they got themselves a plan.”

“It’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Sam repeated. “This Dr. Reischtal, he needs his head examined.”

“I told you,” Dr. Menard said, trying to pull his seat belt tighter.

Ed said, “That’s not the scary part. The scary part is, your Dr. Reischtal, he’s in charge now. The president has just declared martial law in Chicago.”

The color left Sam’s face. He stared at Ed. “You’re shitting me.”

Ed shook his head, weaved around a long line of cars and went barreling down Clark in the oncoming lane. “They’re not gonna call it that. They’re gonna use something like a state of emergency or whatever, but it’s the same damn thing. It’ll never make the news, but Arturo said it’s been made quite clear to all the concerned parties. The federal government is in charge, but they’re handing the ball over to a special branch of the CDC. Dr. Reischtal is the last word. We’re supposed to steer clear.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “What are we supposed to do then? Aren’t we helping out with the evacuation?”

Ed got back in on their side of the yellow lines and hit the horn again, trying to get a cab driver’s attention. “Sort of. We got ourselves a special assignment to make sure that some VIPs get out without any trouble.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam perked up. “Politicians? Celebrities? Athletes?”

Ed gave a grim smile. “We get to babysit all those bad boys and girls at the MCC, make sure they get out of the city okay.”

Stunned silence from Sam. Qween chuckled. Dr. Menard was confused, but decided it was best to keep quiet. Finally, Sam managed to get out, “You said yes to that job? What’s wrong with you?”

Ed shrugged. “We don’t do it, a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

Sam said, “And if we do it, there’s a damn good chance we might get hurt.”

Ed lifted his eyebrows. “Never knew you to be scared.”

“Not scared, brother. Just . . . concerned. Driving busloads of hate ain’t my idea of a good time.”

“Me neither, but you got something better you’d like to do with your time?”

“Yeah. How about driving a bus full of swimsuit models out of the city?”

“Shit,” Qween cut in. “You boys be driving me around. What else you want?”

Sam watched the warehouses and fast food joints give way to the bars and upscale shops and tourist honeypots of the Near North Side. They drew closer to the bridge. On the other side of West Kinzie, two police cruisers were cutting off both lanes, directing people to take alternate routes. Ed flashed his star at them and they moved aside.

As they hit the incline for the Clark Street Bridge, they saw that instead of another police car and sawhorse like they had seen last night, constricting the bridge down to one lane, there was now a Stryker and sandbags, blocking both lanes between the faded purple trusses.

The Stryker was a no-nonsense military vehicle, no less than eight wheels slapped under a wedge of gray, riveted steel, with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top like some cherry on a sadistic birthday cake.

“Fuck me sideways,” Sam said. It was one thing to hear about some military force taking over the Loop and quite another to witness it firsthand. Ed pulled up to the gap between the walls of sandbags. A soldier stepped away from the Stryker, holding his assault rifle casually, though it was still pointed in their general direction.

Three more soldiers materialized, ready behind the sandbags. The first soldier said, “Please roll your window down, sir.”

Ed rolled the window down and held up his star. “We’ve got urgent business downtown. You make us late, you can talk to my commanding officer, Commander Arturo Mendoza. You go ahead and take the time to ask him, you feel it’s necessary. Don’t blame me when he rips you a new one, dickhead.”

The soldier eyeballed Qween and Dr. Menard. “You all cops?”

“My partner just explained that we have urgent business downtown. You born this stupid, or did you have to work at it?” Sam said.

A belligerent cabbie pulled up behind the Crown Vic and hit his horn. He rolled down his window and started yelling. “Hey! Hey! You have no right, no right, to block traffic. I am a man making a living here. Hey! I am talking to you. I pay taxes. I am a legal immigrant. Legal! You cannot cut off the streets! Hey! You listening to me?”

“What Detective Johnson means to say is that these people would not be with us at this particular moment unless their services were required,” Ed said. “Seems to me you got your hands full with more important problems.”

The soldier finally stepped back. “Drive safe,” he said, and waved them through.

The cab tried to follow close behind, but the soldiers formed a line across the bridge. Another soldier was now behind the .50 caliber. He racked the bolt back and settled the crosshairs on the cab’s windshield. That got the driver’s attention.

As they crossed over the bridge, a deep thrumming sound reached them. Ed hit the brakes. They twisted in their seats to watch as the bridge, split in the middle, began to rise. It took less than two minutes. The Clark Street Bridge was up. A quick glance up and down Upper Wacker revealed that every bridge in sight had been raised.

As they headed south down Clark, Ed noticed lines of CTA buses, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, lining the streets that ran east and west. More Strykers and low walls of sandbags had been set up during the night at nearly every intersection.

“Better call Cecilia. Neither one of you is making that interview,” Sam said, nodding at the clusters of soldiers at the corner of each block. “It’s already a done deal. This city has given up.”

“The real question is, for the moment at least,” Dr. Menard spoke quietly from the backseat, “is what are we going to do? You two have a job. Personally, I’d like to get closer to the hospital. See if I can’t grab anything that looks like it might indict Dr. Reischtal. Records. Videos. Something.”

“Doc, you want to go after him, fine,” Ed said. “I don’t know how you can, but understand this—we can’t help you.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

Qween said, “You’re kinda cute, sugar.” She gave Dr. Menard a wink. “I’ll show you a few shortcuts.”