Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER 35

7:56 AM

August 13

“Have you heard of the rabies virus?” Dr. Reischtal asked.

“Of course,” Tommy said.

“This new virus . . .” Dr. Reischtal trailed off, looking beyond Tommy. “It’s not exactly rabies though, is it?” It was clear Dr. Reischtal was asking a rhetorical question. “Similarities, oh, certainly. But something else, indeed.” He gathered his thoughts and pinned Tommy again with his gaze. “We believe you are hiding the virus.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That is, I believe the virus is hiding from you.”

“What?”

“You and your partner deliberately placed yourselves in a hot zone when you engaged in skin-on-skin contact with an infected rodent. You ruptured this animal’s body with . . . an aluminum baseball bat, I believe, releasing possible airborne toxins. Blood-borne pathogens as well, with the remains left on the wall. You—knowingly or unknowingly, it makes no difference—infected an entire building, no less than the government building of City Hall of Chicago and Cook County, Illinois. Whether or not you meant well or were being a bad boy makes no difference.”

He gave that rictus grin again. “And this is why I retreated. I could not risk having my team exposed to a new disease. We were not properly prepared. Now, we are.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Precisely. This is why it is important that you answer the following questions. It is my job to track this . . . virus. It is my sworn duty. My sacred duty.”

Tommy watched Dr. Reischtal warily.

“This city”—Dr. Reischtal sat on a wheeled lab stool and rolled closer—“this city is facing an invasion, do you understand this? The danger is there, waiting . . . waiting for us, to relent, to slip, to ignore it and turn our backs. If we fail to recognize the true signs, the pure signals, we are doomed. Organisms that exist, thousands of them, millions, within the dregs of your glass of water. A billion in the crumb of your donut. That breath you take between the kitchen counter and your refrigerator. The blood between you and a . . . partner.” He fixed Tommy with his tiny glasses. “Was your partner bit?”

“Bit? By what?”

“Do not play games with me, Mr. Krazinsky. We are out of time and it is imperative that we trace the path of infection. Do you understand?”

“I guess so, sure.”

“Was your partner bit?”

“No.”

“Were you bit?”

Tommy forced himself not to look down at the scratches on his hands. “No.”

“I am not a fool, Mr. Krazinsky. You cannot deny the evidence.”

“Okay, fine. I was bit. Not by that rat.”

“Where then?”

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t want to mention the house party. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

“Where did you and your partner go after leaving City Hall?”

“Nowhere. I mean, we did our job. Drove around, checked traps.”

“I see.” Dr. Reischtal pulled off his glasses and leaned in close. His eyes, without the glasses, appeared startlingly large and unblinking. “I will ask only one more time. Before you answer, consider this room carefully. It may be where you draw your final breath.”

He replaced his glasses, pulling the curved wires over his ears. “Your partner is infected with a virus that, until now, was unknown. We have since determined this virus possesses the capability to devastate our species. I implore you to consider the implications. Now, for the last time, where did you go last night?”

Tommy was a guy who spent his life following the rules. Listening to authority. Deep down, he truly believed that fate worked out in the end, that life really would reward his patience and understanding, his genuine kind-hearted virtues, and that nice guys didn’t necessarily finish last. He wasn’t naive enough to believe they might actually come out on top all the time, but he thought once in a while, God might recognize someone who lived an honorable life.

Despite this, one did not grow up in Bridgeport, in the shadow of downtown Chicago, and not learn the hard way about a few of life’s truths. Those in authority did not always have your best interests at heart. And some people simply cannot be trusted.

Tommy didn’t trust Dr. Reischtal.

He shrugged. “Like I said, we did our jobs.”

“You, sir, are a liar.” Dr. Reischtal ground his teeth together.

“Did you seriously think that we would not watch you? We know you went to a club with a clientele composed exclusively of city employees. Then you attended a private event in the southern suburbs. I want to know exactly what happened last night. I want to know who came into close contact with both you and your partner. I want names and I want them now.”

“You know so much, you tell me.” Tommy hoped that sounded a lot more badass than he felt.

Dr. Reischtal shook his head. “Very well. As I have stated, I believe you are hiding the virus. Perhaps there is more than one patient zero. Perhaps this virus is working with an unexpected dispersal rate.” He got up. Knocked on the door. “Unfortunately, the only way I can be sure is to obtain a sample of brain tissue. Fortunately, modern science renders this procedure non-life-threatening. This is good news for you, yes?”

“Brain tissue?”

“Only a little bit,” Dr. Reischtal came back and leaned on the table next to the bed. “Relax. Only a tiny sample is required. We can obtain this without anesthetic, if you prefer. Only a needle is necessary.”

The door opened and three men walked in. One carried a tray, setting it up next to the table. The others interlocked their fingers over Tommy’s face, locking their elbows, and held his head perfectly still.

Dr. Reischtal pulled the blue cloth off the sterilized surgical tray, revealing a syringe the size of a robust cigar and a tiny drill. “Of course, we need to get through your skull first.” The needle on the syringe could suck up homemade spaghetti sauce. The drill made a whine like a dentist’s tool. He said, “See? Only a small hole. I find that if possible, it is far more useful to keep a subject alive, so we can talk. Perhaps after, you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.”

Sam could hear Arturo’s voice just as clear as Carolina’s. “Are you fucking serious? What is fucking wrong with you?”

Ed didn’t bother to answer. Arturo kept shouting. After a minute, Ed put the phone on the seat and started the car. He pulled into the early-morning traffic and they listened to Arturo the entire way home. He finally handed the phone over to Sam as he unlocked the front door to his building.

Sam said, “Listen, Commander, I know it looks bad—”

“Is this fucking Johnson? Is fucking Johnson trying to speak to me? I was in the middle of a conversation with Detective Jones. What the fuck are you doing on the phone?”

“We got some serious problems, Comm—”

“You’re goddamn right we got some serious fucking problems, Detective. How fucking astute.”

“When I say we, Commander . . . ah fuck. You know what I mean. This city. Us.”

“This city, Detective, has withstood almost a hundred and eighty years of everything God wants to hurl at it. How dare you align yourself with this city. And I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and involve your fellow brothers and sisters on the force.”

Sam hadn’t slept in thirty hours and he was stumbling through a fuzzy patch. He needed a moment. He needed a shower. He needed to sit quietly for about three hours and get up and make a pot of coffee. “Okay. Fine, absolutely,” and hit the END CALL button. He realized he was still standing on the sidewalk, long after Ed had gone inside. He tucked Ed’s phone into the inside pocket of his sport coat and stepped inside, firmly closing the door behind him.

The light above flickered and eventually broke apart in the reflections of a fluid sun on water. Tommy floated to the surface. They’d brought him out of his anesthesia and he had one hell of a headache, but he didn’t feel much of anything else. This was mostly because some tech had jammed a suppository in his ass, flooding his system with oxymorphone. He blinked as Dr. Reischtal loomed over him.

“We have samples of your brain now. We will learn the truth very, very soon.”

Tommy tried to move his mouth, hiss, anything. A low croak escaped his lips.

“You’re welcome,” Dr. Reischtal said and left.

CHAPTER 36

9:16 AM

August 13

Carolina poured coffee, then served them eggs, bacon, and toast. She said, “So. Sam. You got a girl yet?”

“No.”

“That’s your fault and you know it. Guy like you, you choose to, you can get a girl.”

“Sure.”

“Ed here, he’s got himself a girl. Too dumb to know how good he’s got it.” She slammed eggs on Ed’s plate. “But I bet you’d be a little more thoughtful, wouldn’t you, Sam?”

“Sure,” Sam agreed. He wasn’t an idiot.

Carolina turned to Ed. “Hmm-mmm. See that. Man smart enough to go out and find himself a woman, he oughta treat her with respect. Don’t you think?”

Ed nodded. He was no idiot either. “Sure.”

The TV on the kitchen counter caught Sam’s eye. Cecilia Palmers stood in front of County General with her concerned expression, the one she usually saved for major car accidents. The news crawl at the bottom read, BREAKING NEWS—POSSIBLE VIRUS OUTBREAK IN CHICAGO. SPREAD BY RATS, BUT IS NOT FATAL IN HUMANS. THOSE WITH COMPROMISED IMMUNE SYSTEMS SHOULD SEEK TREATMENT IMMEDIATELY. A PRESS CONFERENCE HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TEN A.M.

Sam said, “Turn it up.”

Carolina caught the edge in his voice and didn’t argue.

“—want to stress that this is not contagious, nor overly dangerous to most adults. However, young children and the elderly can be susceptible. Authorities are simply warning the public to remain vigilant and report any rat sightings to the police.”

The male anchor broke in, “And Cecilia, is it true that they have taken to calling this the ‘rat flu’?”

Cecilia stuttered a moment, her eyes flicking to someone off camera. “Uh, this has not been confirmed at this time. . . .” She trailed off helplessly, waiting painfully for someone to say something to fill the void.

The female anchor recognized her panic and said, “We would like to repeat that this is nothing Chicago’s citizens should pan—for people to worry . . . unnecessarily about. This is simply a general warning, to keep everyone fully aware of the situation.”

The male anchor wouldn’t let up, though. “Is it true, as sources here at the station have said, that this is related to the escaped rat at City Hall two days ago?”

Again, Cecilia didn’t know how she should answer. “We cannot confirm anything at this time. . . .” Her eyes checked with her off-screen contact again. “But that event, at this time, would appear to be an isolated, unrelated incident. Again, I have been told that the authorities are emphasizing that this is a general precaution and should not interfere with anyone’s plans or daily routine.”

Carolina asked, “Is this bullshit? Or should I be worried?”

For several seconds, Ed and Sam didn’t answer. Finally, Ed said, “I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know. But I want you and Charlie to pack and leave as soon as possible. Get out of the city. Go visit your mother. I don’t care. Just get out.”

Work hadn’t been quite the same for the two paramedics, Scott and Vince, since they picked up the Streets and Sans guy. Ever since they’d gotten the call to bring the patient to Cook County General, not Northwestern, they seemed to get all the sketchy calls. They weren’t the only ones, of course, but pretty soon it seemed like the only calls they got were the weird ones.

First off, they always seemed to be the only guys who took care of the meatloaf calls. These were the traffic accidents, where there wasn’t enough left of the poor sonofabitch to fill the body bag. It’s tough to determine a pulse when you can’t even identify body parts from the pile of slick meat scattered across the asphalt. Sure, they’d scraped their fair share of corpses off the streets over the years, but during these past weeks, something was off. It was like they were the only paramedics on duty when it came time to shovel the remnants of some poor bastard into the thick black bags. And the statistics were skewed. A hell of a lot of people in Chicago suddenly seemed to be driving the wrong way down the Kennedy or Ike, intentionally slamming into concrete dividers or semi trailers at seventy miles an hour.

Usually, this time of the year, the total deaths were somewhere between five hundred and six hundred. They had seen the death toll mount over the past few days to around fourteen hundred.

And it wasn’t like Scott and Vince didn’t notice that everybody else kept their distance when it came time for the wet work. The paramedics upgraded to thicker, heavy-duty rubber gloves and started wearing cotton surgical masks.

Then there were the calls that took them to single-family homes, sometimes apartments, and they had a ride-along. The ride-along was usually some silent military guy, pretending to blend in by wearing surgical scrubs. The guns the guys carried tended to give it away. It was a different feeling, riding with a guy who never talked and carried a goddamn machine gun.

These military guys always rode with them when some psycho had butchered their family or roommates and had invariably barricaded himself in a bathroom or closet. The psycho was either shot or held down long enough to snap cuffs on his wrists and ankles, then hustled out to Scott and Vince’s ambulance.

The next stop was always the CCG. Never any other hospital. They didn’t know why. But they knew that dead-eyed bastard in the Hawaiian shirt probably had something to do with it. They would unload the patient, and drive off to the next tragedy, and once in a while, they would hear about the suspicious fires that had somehow erupted in the neighborhoods and suburbs they had just visited.

The days became a blur. Whenever they dealt with one of these calls, they had to wear a hazmat suit. Pretty soon, every call required these special requirements. Their hazmat suits were coated in some noxious liquid that burned if it touched their skin. Then a rinse. They peeled out of the suit helmet first, the first step in a long, complicated process. It was sometimes better and easier to simply sleep in the suits. Scott and Vince stewed in their own filth, sleeping at the hospital on the visitor benches. The body bags were sealed and placed in dry ice, then shipped to God knows where. They watched more and more soldiers come and go.

Until that night.

That dead-eyed bastard in the Hawaiian shirt had been waiting in the break room, wrinkling his nose at the awful coffee. He noticed Scott and Vince. “Hey, you guys want some real coffee? I know they’ve got some decent sandwiches upstairs. No reason for you two to try and survive on this shit.”

It sounded awfully tempting for Scott and Vince. Something inside told Scott that it wasn’t a good idea, something about it felt wrong somehow, but he was so damn tired and hungry. They followed the man in the Hawaiian shirt to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt didn’t get off the elevator. He said, “There’s plenty of food and coffee down there, down at the end of the hall.”

Scott and Vince looked down the empty hall. It didn’t look inviting.

“It’s down there. Trust me,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said. He hit a button and the doors closed.

Vince shrugged. Scott started down the long hallway, wondering if he had time to get out of the damn suit. As he passed each room, he noticed every single door was open. From what he could see, the rooms were empty, but he couldn’t help but feel as if there were people on this floor, people hiding out, people waiting for the right moment to appear.

A low, keening moan. Down on the right.

Some kind of banging, way down at the far end of the left side.

Nothing else. Just those horribly empty hospital rooms.

Scott said, “Fuck this.”

Vince turned to the elevator, wanting to hit DOWN. He found the control panel open, hanging broken and limp. Inside, every wire had been cut. He slapped the panel aside in frustration.

It banged into the wall and the sound echoed along the corridor.

Scott found a chair on its side, used it to fling at the video camera, a clear fuck-you to whoever left them on this floor.

The chair hit the ceiling, missing the camera, and crashed back to the floor.

A few howls and screams echoed in answer.

Scott turned back to Vince, started to ask, “Where’s the goddamn stairs?” when the first one came out of one of the rooms.

By the time they saw the running woman, it was too late. She had cracked under the strain to maintain the quiet, and came at the noise, bludgeoning Vince, the closest, with a wooden chair leg.

The rest came screaming out of the rooms. They swarmed the paramedics, striking, slashing, biting, sometimes each other, in a frantic effort to silence their world.

CHAPTER 37

10:23 AM

August 13

Ed drove. South on Canal. Left onto West Monroe, heading east, to the lake. The morning sun hung in the sky in the upper right corner of the windshield. After showers, breakfast, two pots of coffee, and surviving his girlfriend’s wrath, Ed explained that they were not to go within ten blocks of the hospital. Seemed that the word from above had come down on Arturo, with the weight of none other than the federal government, and this time, there was no way he would stick up for the two detectives.

“I guess we better find Qween,” Sam said.

“How?” Ed asked.

“We go looking for folks that look like they live under a rock. See if they know her.”

“That’s a hell of a plan.”

“It’s been a hell of a couple of days,” Sam said, readjusting his bulletproof vest, tightening the Velcro straps.

“Which way?” Ed looked north and south along State, then west along Madison.

“Let’s hit the river. Should be plenty of folks along there that know her.”

They parked on the sidewalk along Upper Wacker. Nobody would mess with the Crown Vic.

At the stairs down to the River Walk, Sam sank onto the top step to catch his breath. He pulled out his flask and Ed sat down heavily next to him. They passed the flask back and forth for a while, not saying anything. When it was empty, they got up and descended the rest of the stairs. They headed east along the river, moving almost as slowly as the water as it sluggishly flowed away from the lake.

Most of the usual haunts, the man-made caves and hollows, were vacant. They could see the remnants of the inhabitants, such as empty bottles, food wrappers, old blankets, stacks of old newspapers. But everything was empty until they passed under the Wabash Bridge.

Sam saw the man’s shoes first. He whistled at Ed, who was down near the water, peering over the edge. The shoes, a warped and cracked pair of black wingtips, ended in surprisingly clean white socks. Black wool suit pants disappeared in the darkness of the narrow culvert. Sam tapped the shoes. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Fuck you.” A rasping voice from inside the shadows. “Ain’t hurting nobody. Leave me alone.”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need to ask you a question.”

“Got nothin’ to say.”

Ed was short on patience. “Listen, pal, I know there’s all kinds of bad shit going on around here, but we need some help and we don’t have much time. You want to stick your head out of your hole and help us, or am I gonna have to drag you out on your ass and throw you in the goddamn river?”

The wingtips didn’t move, but the voice said, “Whatchu want?”

“We’re looking for Qween,” Sam said. “And before you jump to conclusions, she’s helping us. She’s not in trouble. Tell you what, I got ten bucks here if you help us out.”

“What I gotta do?”

“Nothing. Just tell her, if you see her, that we need to talk. That’s all.”

The wingtips were still for a moment, then withdrew into the shadow as the man shifted position in the narrow space. Pretty soon, he stuck his head out. He was old, and it was impossible to tell his race. His oddly expressive features, like a clown in a silent movie, looked exotic one moment, and the next, like the perfectly ordinary lined and pitted face of a homeless man. The grime on his face didn’t help.

It was clear he had been homeless for a long, long time. He didn’t strike the detectives as the kind of bum who would sit with his back against a building, shaking a cardboard coffee cup for spare change. He would never beg out in public. Too proud. An unlit, half-smoked cigarette was clamped between the first two knuckles of his fore and middle fingers.

“The fuck you want with Qween?”

Sam said, “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”

“Qween ain’t gonna want to talk to no cops.”

“You tell her that Detectives Jones and Johnson are looking for her. We’ll try and stick near the river, by Adams Street, Union Station.” Sam pulled out a bill. Snapped it in front of the guy to get his attention. “You tell her if you see her, got it?”

“I ain’t stupid, white boy.”

“Never said you were. Making sure you’re honest.”

The old guy cracked up at that. “Shit. Nobody alive is honest.”

Ed asked, “You heard about the rats?”

“Ever’body heard ’bout the rats.”

Ed leaned closer. “What’s wrong with ’em?”

“Damned if I know. Why’nchu watch the news? They got all the answers.”

Ed caught sight of somebody on the Dearborn Bridge aiming a long lens in their direction. “Time to go. Some asshole’s taking pictures.”

“You just remember,” Sam told the old man, “you see Qween, then you tell her we need to talk. We’ll hang near Union Station as much as we can.”

“Fine, fine. I’m finna go up thataway m’self sometime.” He held his hand out.

Sam slapped a folded twenty into the old man’s palm.

Dr. Reischtal stepped into Tommy’s room and stood over the patient for a while, silent. He kneeled at the side of the bed. Put his elbows on the mattress. The gloved hands came together and interlaced over Tommy’s waist.

“Oh, Lord. Hear me. Hear me, oh Lord.” Dr. Reischtal didn’t say anything else for a while.

Eventually, Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was waiting for an answer.

“Oh, Lord. You are the one, true god. Let me smite him, oh Lord. Let me smite him.”

It got so quiet Tommy could hear the fluorescent lights’ faint buzz behind the plastic. He decided that if Dr. Reischtal so much as picked up a syringe, Tommy was going to yell as loudly as possible. Beyond that, he couldn’t move.

The silence stretched out several minutes, until finally, Dr. Reischtal took a deep breath. His voice was low and ragged. “I understand now. If that is your will, then so be it. He will lead us to the vector. Thy will be done. Until further reconsideration is necessary. Amen.” He stood, and watched Tommy.

Again, he refused to say anything. Tommy would be damned if he showed any weakness to this asshole. It became almost a game, to see who would break the quiet first.

Dr. Reischtal seemed not to notice. Thoughts bubbled up and he merely said, “It will be interesting to observe your condition in the coming hours.”

Tommy ignored the ominous aspects of this remark, and tried to push his luck. “You think you could turn me loose? I gotta take a leak fucking awful.”

At first, Dr. Reischtal refused to answer. He walked to the door and knocked. It opened almost immediately. “Mr. Krazinsky is in need of a Foley catheter,” Dr. Reischtal told the tech. “See that it is done and soon. I would hate to think that he is in any discomfort.” He stopped and looked back at Tommy. “One more thing. Upon further review of his case, Mr. Krazinsky will not need any further sedatives. I want him . . . alert.”

“God is not in the details,” Mr. Ullman was fond of telling his subordinates. “I am. And if you want to remain employed with this hotel, you will do well to remember me.” This was true. Employees had found themselves in the unemployment line with a suddenness that made their heads spin for something as seemingly simple as an unshaven chin, an unequal portions of risotto, or missing a single pubic hair on the black tiles under the toilet.

In the six months since the grand opening, it had become clear that the name of the building had irrevocably become The Fin, and although the owners had initially balked at the simplistic nickname, they had since come to recognize the value of such a branding. In the first few months, they had quietly co-opted the name, trademarked it, and now they embraced it.

The incident involving the homeless and the resulting bedbug infestation had nearly ended Mr. Ullman’s own career. After an unpleasant discussion with the CEO and board of directors, he had been allowed to keep his position, but he been placed on probation. Grateful for his second chance, he redoubled his efforts in making the Serenity the cleanest hotel in Chicago, if not the nation. He was merciless. His eyes would zero in on details such as a scuff mark on the inside of an elevator, a stray thread on a pillowcase, or a smudged fingerprint on a vase of flowers in the lobby. Every single employee in the building knew his name and feared his wrath.

In addition to the unprecedented levels of sanitation, he also went to war on the insect population. An army of contractors went through the skyscraper, injecting a silicone sealant in every gap, every crack. Entire floors were repainted to hide these efforts. Each room was then sealed off in a rotating basis and blasted with highly pressurized steam. Professional-grade insecticide was now standard issue along with the rest of the cleaning products. The union didn’t like it much, but after one short meeting with the general manager, the hotel now included new heavy-duty rubber gloves and a surgical mask for the staff.

With Mr. Ullman in charge, the bugs didn’t stand a chance.

Back in the car, Ed turned left onto Wacker immediately after crossing the bridge. They cruised along the emergency side of the hospital, noting the shadows of soldiers within the doors. He circled the block, slowed down, timing it so he’d hit a yellow stoplight, then red. That way, they could take a full thirty seconds to watch the hospital.

But they saw nothing.

They kept circling, weaving around a five-to-seven-block radius several times before they saw any movement. A bus had pulled up in the empty emergency lane, discharging a group of tired, confused-looking people, all struggling to haul medical equipment and small luggage bags inside.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that a bunch of doctors or scientists or folks like that just got off that bus,” Ed said.

“Good thing you know better,” Sam said.

Ed drove down Monroe a few blocks, then circled around to Adams, and parked in the shadow of the Willis Tower. “I’m getting sick of driving in circles.”

Sam nodded, watching the late morning commuters shuffle to work.

“We’re not gonna see anything from the outside. Not anything that they don’t want anybody to see.”

Sam nodded again. “You wanna go inside?”

“Not especially.”

“Me neither. Not yet, anyway.”

“Any ideas?”

Sam sat for a moment and didn’t answer. He shrugged. “Make some calls. Check email. Listen to the radio. Go for a ride.” They said together, “What the hell, I ain’t paying for gas.”

Ed plotted a course west out of downtown to Lake Shore Drive and turned south when he hit the lake. They passed the Field Museum and Soldier Field.

Sam yawned. It surprised him. He turned his radio off. “I think I’m gonna try to sleep,” he said.

Ed nodded, turned down his own radio, and found a talk-radio AM station on the car’s stereo, the frenzied hosts doing whatever they could to make everything sound like the world was about to crash into chaos and death. He turned the volume low, so it could serve as soothing white noise for Sam. Ed knew the truth.

Sam had never talked about his insomnia, but he’d never tried to hide it either. He adjusted his seat back, getting just enough of a incline to rest his skull against the doorframe, just out of sight of the side window. He held his notebook in his lap, and sunglasses so he could close his eyes and no one could tell he was asleep.

Ed drove while Sam slept. Since his partner was out, he tried to look at the world with both of their eyes. Problem was, Sam was more paranoid than a meth addict on a seven-day bender; but he still had this preternatural sense of who was dangerous and who wasn’t.

Ed never could find that fine line; almost always he was either too disbelieving or too trusting. He drove slowly, letting the motions of the car help Sam get some sleep. They passed hulking shells of empty project homes. This was August, and nature ran rampant through unkempt concrete. Trees, bushes, grass all exploded with life, as if the warm, thick air acted as a kind of steroid.

He kept the AC on for Sam, but rolled down the driver’s window. When he was thinking and driving through the city, he preferred to breathe the same air as everybody else on the streets. He wanted to hear everything, to feel the heat.

Nothing was happening, at least as far as this new threat was concerned, though. Oh, there was the usual shit, of course. Gangbangers swaggering down their blocks, itching for any excuse to prove their manhood. Certifiably brain-dead patients behind the wheels of vehicles. Public intoxication. Crack passing hands in the open sunlight. Zombies, almost always women, stumbling along, clear victims of domestic abuse, all bruised up. Some with blood still in their hair. If Ed felt like it, he could park the damn car on one corner and arrest five people inside of fifteen minutes.

But there was nothing concrete he could put his finger on, nothing that he could stop and wake Sam for, nothing that he could point to with clear conviction and say yes, there, right there is irrefutable evidence of the problem. So he kept driving. Up and down avenues along the South Side. Through areas that resembled nothing more than bombed-out wasteland where people eked out a living, once step ahead of homelessness and starvation.

The unwelcome cousins of paranoia and frustration started creeping into his thoughts and he decided that a possible solution was simply to become more paranoid, like Sam. So he found a quiet street lined with limp, lifeless trees and ravaged three-flats, pulled over, and fished in his sport coat for a blunt. He fired it up, took three deep hits. He stubbed the end out and stashed the blunt back in an inside pocket.