Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER 40

5:02 PM

August 13

Dr. Reischtal locked the door to the women’s restroom behind him and put the square package on one of the sinks. Bright florescent lights buzzed overhead, which didn’t hurt, but Dr. Reischtal had chosen this particular restroom because of the full-length mirror next to the paper towel dispenser. He set a bottle of medical lotion and a Mini Maglite on the tray over the sinks. He tested the lock one more time, then began to strip.

He removed his clothes with a methodical resolve, folding them neatly and stacking the items carefully on the sink. First was the lab coat. Then the stiff white button-up shirt, then the white T-shirt. Next came his slacks. His socks. And finally his underwear.

He scrutinized his naked body for a few long seconds. He stepped closer to the mirror. He turned the flashlight on his skin and examined the reflection. He started with his skull, moving quickly through the short bristles of gray hair, checking behind his ears, then down to his neck, his chest. He spent a long time studying his armpits. He poked a finger in his belly button and ignored the bizarre signals from the cluster of nerves inside. That was normal. It was empty, and that was all that mattered.

He slowed down again when he got to his crotch, meticulously combing through his graying pubic hair. Nothing. He continued down his legs, and once he had peered between each toe, he turned and started over using a small mirror to inspect his back. When he got to his buttocks, he bent over and spread his cheeks apart, satisfying himself that no multi-legged horror had latched onto the sensitive skin around his anus.

When he was satisfied that no parasite was lurking on his skin, he opened the square package and unfolded the hazmat suit. After squirting a liberal amount of lotion into his palms, he slathered the lotion across his body, this time working from the ground up. When he was finished, the bottle was nearly empty. His skin shone under the fluorescent lights. He knew that he might be forced to wear the suit for a long duration, and the lotion would help.

He stepped into the hazmat suit and zipped it tight.

Sealed in now and secure, he felt his muscles relax slightly. It wasn’t much, about the same as relaxing your fist just enough to let an excited dog pull its leash through your grip, but it was enough for Dr. Reischtal to take a slow breath and let it out of his nose.

He was safe from the bugs.

When Sam woke, Ed was driving through an industrial wasteland on the West Side. Sam stretched and checked his watch. He rubbed his eyes and scraped his tongue against his teeth. He found his flask, took a long sip, and passed it to Ed. “Miss anything exciting?”

“Oh, sure,” Ed said. He took a long drink and handed it back.

Sam watched the abandoned factories slide past. “So what’s our next move?”

“Shit. I been driving all damn day and still haven’t gotten any closer to figuring any of this out.”

“Well, hell. We’re goddamn detectives. Let’s detect.”

“You’re a fucking genius. Wish I’d thought of that.”

Sam watched the cracked pavement, weeds, and sagging, abandoned buildings slide past the window for a while. “I’ll tell you what’s been troubling me. Where the hell are the two guys from Streets and San?”

“Cook County General.”

“Right. But why hide ’em away? Why not let us talk to them?”

Ed was quiet for a moment. “It’s the rats. They caught whatever the rats have?”

“But why cover it up? Why lie to us?”

“Something else is going on. Something they want to keep quiet. Whatever this rat flu bullshit really is, I’m betting it’s a hell of a lot worse than they’re telling us.”

“Where are we?” Sam sat up, got his bearings. “Tell you what. Let’s hit that bar where all the Streets and Sans boys hang out, see if we can’t find anybody who works with ’em. Maybe they can give us something.”

Ed nodded his head. “Okay. But it ain’t gonna work.” Despite having essentially the same employer, the City of Chicago, the public workers, the rat catchers, the electricians, the IDOT men, the garbage collectors, all of them didn’t mix much with the first responders, the cops, the firemen, the paramedics. The pay scales weren’t much different, but folks at the bar looked at it as a kind of class issue, and they were proud to consider themselves blue collar. Cops also saw themselves as being blue collar, but for whatever reason, the division remained.

“Maybe so.” Sam shrugged. “Try and convince ’em that all we’re doing is trying to find out what the hell happened to their buddies.”

Ed gave a tired smile. “Sure. Easiest thing in the world, trying to convince a city worker in this town to trust a damn cop.”

“Beats the alternative.”

“And what’s the alternative?”

“Shooting all the assholes in that hospital and making ’em tell us what the fuck is going on.”

Tommy blinked his way out of a dreamless sleep to find Dr. Reischtal sitting in the folding chair next to the door, quietly watching him. Tommy let his bandaged head fall back against the thin mattress. He wanted to let himself cry. He’d been hoping for a dream of his daughter, just so he could see her face when he slept, but sleep had been thin and elusive.

“I trust you slept well,” Dr. Reischtal said.

Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was making a joke. Probably not. The man gave off the peculiar impression that he had somehow been born without a sense of humor.

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t say much these days.

He sure as hell didn’t sleep well. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it could even be classified as sleep, if that’s what you would call passing out from exhaustion for a few minutes at a time, on and off throughout the day. He was still strapped to the bed, for one thing. He had some kind of tube up his ass and a goddamn needle up his dick. The pain in his skull was constant, and with no medication, the dull ache clung to him like a stubborn shadow.

The hospital had been growing louder as well.

Especially at night. Tommy would lie in his bed, listening whether he wanted to or not, as more and more patients were brought to his floor. There was no shortage of screaming, as if demons chewed on their brains. And sometimes, when the doctors finished, giving up in disgust, the undisturbed silence was somehow worse.

Dr. Reischtal rose to his feet, crossed the small hospital room, and loomed over him. He now wore some kind of biohazard suit.

Dr. Reischtal’s cold, clinical eyes studied Tommy. “I still believe you know something. Something that you aren’t telling me.”

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He watched the almost imperceptible flickering of the fluorescent lights.

“There must be a reason.” Dr. Reischtal continued, as if Tommy was some kind of exotic plant, incapable of communication. “Some reason why you haven’t contracted the virus.”

Tommy’s head hurt. He said, “Must be God’s will.”

Dr. Reischtal drew back as if the virus itself had attacked his faceplate. “Do. Not. Mock. Me.” He placed one gloved finger on Tommy’s right temple, pushing against the bandage where he had drilled into the skull. The pressure increased.

Brilliant red and violet clouds unfurled in Tommy’s vision. The pain made his toes curl, his fingernails dig into his palms.

“I will fill you full of drugs that will render you incapable of movement. Of speech.” Dr. Reischtal did not pull his finger away. “I will paralyze you. I will rob you of everything except the ability to feel pain and leave you helpless on Lower Wacker for the rats to chew on at their convenience.”

Someone knocked at the door. One of the techs stuck his head inside. “The connections have been tested and we are online, doctor.”

Dr. Reischtal withdrew his finger.

Tommy tried not to gasp, and swallowed hard instead.

Dr. Reischtal nodded. “Very well. Notify Sergeant Reaves,” he told the tech. “Mr. Krazinsky is awake.”

The tech said, “Yes, doctor,” and left.

Dr. Reischtal looked back down at Tommy. “While I still believe that you are hiding something, others are convinced that you may be of some assistance in our war. Therefore, if you cooperate, I am willing to grant you limited freedom. We will remove your restraints, for one thing. Perhaps even a telephone call to your daughter.”

Dr. Reischtal saw the look in Tommy’s eyes that Tommy couldn’t hide and gave a thin, emotionless smile. “I will expect your full cooperation, yes?”

Despite himself, Tommy nodded.

They lifted Tommy off the bed and settled him into a sturdy wheelchair. Tommy was hoping they would remove the damn catheters, but no luck. They used the leather straps on the wheelchair to bind his hands and feet and hung his bags from the IV stand connected to the chair.

All in all, it was a nice change of pace from the bed.

Two techs, both wearing full biohazard suits, performed the task. Sergeant Reaves supervised. He wore a bulletproof vest, a blue surgical mask, and a holster on his hip, but never took the handgun out. Instead, he hung back, said nothing, and kept his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

They wheeled him out, and Tommy was shocked at the amount of movement in the hospital. He’d been listening to the increased activity from his room, but it was quite a different feeling to actually see the change. Plastic still lined the walls, floor, and ceiling. Biohazard suits rushed around, carrying equipment or laptops, or pushing gurneys. Most of the rooms appeared to be occupied.

They pushed him into the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. Tommy shifted in the wheelchair, trying to get more comfortable, and felt Sergeant Reaves stiffen beside him. One hand went to the holster. Tommy tried not to smile. It felt good to make the pricks nervous. He wondered if he might be able to use this to his advantage. The techs affixed a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

The doors to the second floor opened, and he was pushed out into much brighter light. No more rooms for patients—this was the lab floor. Tommy could only guess at what all the shit was used for. Only a few of the hospital personnel on this floor wore complete biohazard suits. Most only wore scrubs, rubber gloves, and surgical masks.

They wheeled him down the wide hallway. The rooms were mostly open on either side, filled with a dizzying array of medical equipment. They passed a table piled high with what looked like clear garbage bags. As he rolled past, Tommy realized that the bags each contained a dead dog. At the far end, he thought he recognized one, and he said, “Wait, stop!”

The tech, startled by the first words he had heard Tommy say all day, actually stopped.

Tommy stared through thick plastic at Don’s dog, Rambo. It looked like Rambo’s throat had been cut. The top of its skull had been removed, and most of his brain was missing.

Sergeant Reaves gave the tech a hard stare and they were off and rolling again, moving faster this time. They pushed Tommy into a conference room at the end of the hall. The room was empty, save for a large square table and a row of televisions, each tuned to a blue screen. A small video camera on a tripod had been set up in front of the TV. Cables snaked away to a computer in the corner. They left Tommy in front of the camera. Tommy heard the techs leave the room.

Sergeant Reaves, standing as always right behind the wheelchair, said, “Mr. Krazinsky is ready.”

A red light appeared on the camera.

One by one, the televisions blinked into shots of various people in lab coats, surgical scrubs, even a few in biohazard suits. Some of the people appeared to be set up in labs, and Tommy wondered if they were in some other room in the hospital, instead of an office, like the rest. A TV near the top displayed an image of a young man with dark, sunken eyes. A yellowing bandage was wrapped tightly around his head, just above his eyebrows.

With a start, Tommy realized he was looking at himself.

A woman, with glasses and hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, spoke first.

“Good morning, Mr. Krazinsky. My name is Dr. Halsey. First off, let me apologize on behalf of some of my colleagues. You must understand the hazards in the hospital there; the risk of infection on a large scale has everyone on edge. Those in charge of this operation feel force is necessary for the safety of the nation. Some of us do not. However, time is short. We need to speak to you regarding the incident at City Hall two days ago. The official report has yet to be released, and reports from the scene are thin to say the least. We need to ask you about the rat.”

Tommy found the camera and stared into the lens. “I’m not talking to anybody until I hear my daughter’s voice.”

Dr. Halsey looked flustered. “Mr. Krazinsky, I can appreciate your situation—”

“I don’t think you appreciate shit, lady.”

Dr. Reischtal spoke up. “Perhaps I can solve this problem.” He was on a TV on the bottom, his biohazard helmet on the desk in front of him. He held up a cell phone, dialed, and hit another button. The digital ringing from the phone popped out of the speakers.

“Ahh, hello?” It was his daughter’s voice.

Tommy took a long shuddering breath through his nose, struggling not to let any tears out.

“Hello. Is this Grace?” Dr. Reischtal asked.

“Umm, yes? Uh-huh.”

“Grace, this Dr. Reischtal. I am your father’s doctor. You father is very sick, did you know that?”

“Ummm? Is my daddy at the hostable?”

Tommy knew that Grace didn’t understand. God only knew what Kimmy had told her. He suspected that Kimmy was in the same room as Grace, probably being coached through her own cell phone by somebody from the CDC team here at the hospital.

“Grace, I want you to hang on to that phone because I am hoping your father will be well enough to call you in a little bit. Do you understand that? I am sure that he will want to speak with you.”

“Can I talk to Daddy?”

“I certainly hope so.”

The confusion in his daughter’s voice hit him cold in the gut and he could only imagine the flurry of half-formed questions in her eyes as she said, “Ahh, okay?”

Dr. Reischtal hung up. He stared out of the TV. “Now. You have heard your daughter’s voice. Do not ask me again. I will give you a chance if you answer the questions honestly and without delay. This is my proposition. Does it suit you?”

Tommy nodded. He took a deep breath, then went through the entire thing once again, starting with pulling up to City Hall. He went into detail about the state of the rat, describing the near-starvation, the foam in the mouth, the way it had initially appeared dead, and the look in its eyes when it attacked. He talked about when they went to the bar after City Hall and how Don showed off the torn leather glove. He even talked about how they went down to Blue Island and how he was bitten by the raccoon. He answered every single question. He did not hesitate when they asked him to repeat details.

He was a model of cooperation.

A large man with scraggly hair and an unkempt beard squinted out of the TV. “Is there anything else about the rat, anything about how it moved, maybe the sounds it made, anything at all that you noticed? We’re trying to figure this virus out, and we need—”

Dr. Reischtal broke in, his voice sharp and direct. “I will remind all of you that this operation is working with classified information. I am afraid Mr. Krazinsky is here in a debriefing capacity, not as a consultant. Please refrain from disclosing any sensitive information during this interview session.”

The shaggy man threw up his hands in disgust.

Dr. Reischtal said, “Mr. Krazinsky, you may answer the question.”

Tommy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Look, me and Don, we never had much experience with live rats. We pretty much only put out poisoned bait, then collected the dead ones. All I can tell you is this one was seriously pissed off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any animal with that much . . . rage, aggression, whatever you want to call it. It looked like the only thing this rat wanted was to kill us.”

Eventually, they reached a point where Tommy had no way of answering any more questions. He did not know where the homeless woman was who had found the rat. He did not know the age of the rat. He did not know why the Streets and Sans workers’ quotas had been lowered or eliminated completely.

Dr. Reischtal said, “I believe the questions have run their course. Unless there is any other pressing business, this interview is over. Mr. Krazinsky needs his rest.”

“Very well,” Dr. Halsey said. “The interview regarding the rat situation may be over, but I believe there is still the matter of Mr. Krazinsky’s civil rights to be discussed.”

“Of course,” Dr. Reischtal said. “But not at this juncture. Thank you.”

Some of the doctors and scientists started to protest, but their voices were silenced as the televisions blinked over to a blue screen, one by one, until only two images remained. Dr. Reischtal and Tommy.

Dr. Reischtal said, “Very well. Sergeant Reaves?”

From somewhere behind him, Tommy heard Sergeant Reaves say, “Yes, doctor.”

“Give this man the phone.”

Sergeant Reaves placed a cheap cell phone in Tommy’s right hand. He figured it to be some pre-paid, disposable phone. Something with no paperwork. He turned it over and opened it with his thumb. The phone was fully charged and waiting. He wondered if he could dial nine-one-one before Sergeant Reaves took it away.

Dr. Reischtal said, “I feel . . . compelled to inform you that the outgoing call function has been disabled.” He checked his watch. “In less than thirty seconds, you are to get a phone call from you daughter. Sergeant Reaves will observe. So please remember that your daughter’s well-being is at stake here as well as your own.” Dr. Reischtal’s picture disappeared, leaving only a blue screen.

A moment later, the red light on the camera winked out.

The phone rang.

Tommy tried to stop his hand from trembling. He didn’t recognize the number. He hit the CALL button. Since he couldn’t lift it to his ear, he hit SPEAKER. He croaked out, “Hello?”

No answer. Some sound. Breathing maybe.

“Hello? Grace?”

A soft laugh. “Jesus, you’re a fucking moron.”

Tommy froze. He knew that voice.

It was Lee.

Tommy whipped his head around to glare at Sergeant Reaves. But the man simply stared straight ahead, face set in stone.

Lee’s voice continued. “Nah, Grace isn’t here right now, asshole. Want to leave a message?” Another laugh. “I don’t know what kind of deal you had with that wack job at the hospital, but let me explain a few things. You work for me. I tell you to shit, and you ask how much. You are mine. You and that fucking idiot Wycza caused me so many goddamn headaches, you have no idea. Jesus Christ. I got half a mind to go beat it out of your daughter. Maybe make myself feel better.”

“You touch her, and I will kill you.”

Lee laughed again. “Oh, yeah? You gonna take me on? Ten minutes with me and my boys, you’ll be wishing you was back in that fucking hospital. So think very carefully about that, tough guy.”

Tommy resisted the overwhelming urge to hurl the phone at the televisions. He pictured Grace, sleeping somewhere in this sonofabitch’s condo. “What do you want?”

“Shit. I want you right there. I want you with a hundred needles in your eyes. I want you in pain, day and night. I want you to regret the day you ever went to work for me. I want you to die a slow, painful death. How’s that sound?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

“I want . . . I want you to understand how bad you fucked up. I want you to know that when I’m done with this fine piece of ass, your ex-wife, I want you to know that I’m putting her on the street. See how badly she wants to make rent for her and that bitch daughter of yours. I want you to know that soon, very soon, I’m gonna sell this daughter of yours to a couple of very bad customers. People that truly enjoy young flesh, if you catch my meaning. I want you to say good-bye to everything you loved in your pathetic life.”

Lee paused, enjoying himself. “I want you to know that you do not fuck with me. I want you to be an example. I want people in this town to whisper your name and know that if you fuck with me, I will destroy you. I will destroy your family. I will destroy your soul. You got that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Lee hung up.