Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER 41

5:33 PM

August 13

Ed parked in the middle of the countless Streets and Sans vehicles. “All right, let’s give this a shot. Put on your friendly face.” Sam did his best to pull his features into a soft smile. Ed sighed and shook his head. “Do me a favor. Don’t fucking smile. You’re gonna scare the hell out of people.”

They got out and walked through the August heat that reverberated off the blacktop with a vengeance. By the time they stepped into the air-conditioning of the bar, they were soaked in sweat. They knew they would be under scrutiny the second they stepped inside, knew they would be made as cops instantly. There was nothing for it, nothing they could do. Just order a beer and make a general announcement explaining their position.

The bar was packed, but not one patron turned to look at them. Everyone was glued to the televisions. All seven were on news channels. Anchors stumbled as they read their lines. “—authorities can neither confirm nor deny any of these random killings are related.” Sam wandered over and watched WGN above the bar.

WGN cut to a reporter down in a subway station. His expression was grave. “At this point, Jim, we just don’t know.”

“Well, we know that no official statements have been released at this time, but have you heard anything? What can you tell us about the authorities?” Jim, the anchorman, was getting impatient. “I mean, what are they doing to—wait a minute, Chester. I’m being told—what? Wait.” Jim broke from his lines and looked away from the teleprompter directly under the camera. “I’m sorry, but this is too—too—this is the news, for god’s sake. They can’t tell us what to—”

The director cut back to Chester, who was busy adjusting his tie.

Ed was drawn to two different news reports across the room, his attention torn between CNN and Fox News. CNN had a correspondent outside of the White House saying that the president was aware of the elevated number of deaths in Chicago, and was monitoring the situation, but that was all for now.

Fox News speculated about possible rioting and looting in Chicago. They cut to a fat white guy, an American flag pinned to his lapel. “Mark my words, you will have people wanting to take advantage of the chaos caused by a particular nasty version of the common flu bug. But that’s all. It’s just your common cold. Bird flu. Swine flu. Big deal. Look folks, there is no cause for alarm. We humans are a resilient bunch.” Everybody at Fox enjoyed a good chuckle.

WGN cut to the reporter down in the subway holding his mike and talking to the cameraman and sound guy for a moment. “Any interference this way? I like the lights over here. Put me in profile. Okay. I can do another take. No sweat. And in three-two-one.” His pitch dropped while his cadence quickened. “I’m Chester Hackensack, deep in the Washington subway station. During any weekday rush hour, thousands of commuters use this particular station every five minutes at peak capacity. Tonight, it is practically empty. It is literally a ghost town.” The camera panned over to show two or three people standing in the brightest light in the middle of the station. “The soldiers up top won’t authorize any audio or video, so we’re shooting down here. No one is here, and yet, no one is talking.” As if he realized that made no sense at all, he took a breath, giving time for someone to jump in. No one did. Chester nodded. “At this time, these few commuters are waiting for a presumably vacant train. Back to you in the studio, Jim.”

Chester waited another beat. “Wish I could tell you more. Back to you, Jim.”

CNN and FOX News had cut from the experts and were now showing the same shaking, blurry footage. The shot was from overhead, definitely from a helicopter, of police chasing a frightened, scurrying figure into a playground. From the angle, it was impossible to tell if it was somewhere in the city itself or out in the suburbs. The figure, a woman, raised her arms, and kids started falling around her. There was no audio, but Ed didn’t need it. He knew only too well that he was watching a woman with a gun. Parents scooped up children and fled. The woman crawled under the slide, out of view of the helicopter. Chicago cops moved in. They surrounded her, all firing.

The CNN anchor said in halting tones, “This video was taken approximately thirty minutes ago in Chicago’s Near North neighborhood. Few details are known at this time. We can tell you that the attacker has been shot to death by the police. It is believed that at least four children are dead, with several more in critical condition in area hospitals. The names of the deceased have not been released, nor are authorities speculating about a motive.”

Fox News kept showing the footage, over and over, zooming in when the woman started shooting, while experts debated what exactly had driven the shooter to the playground. They kept repeating the word “terrorist,” sometimes with a question mark, sometimes not.

A record of fifteen homicides and counting. A husband bludgeoned his wife to death with her own clothes iron. A woman stabbed her youngest child to death with a seven-inch stainless steel knife designed to chop vegetables. A man drove his car into a line of people waiting for the bus at the corner of Michigan and Adams.

Sam caught Ed’s eye, tilted his head at the door.

They got in their car and drove east, toward the lake, toward the Loop.

Tommy clutched the phone so hard he heard the plastic crack. He forced himself to unlock his fist. The cell phone fell from his rigid fingers to the thin, industrial carpet. Deep in his mind, he knew he should have tried to keep hold of it, tried to smuggle it back to his room. Maybe he could figure out a way to make it work, to call outside the hospital, or at least text something to alert the outside world.

A single television in the center of the wall went from a blue screen to an overhead shot of a patient strapped to a bed. It was a man, a large man, and as he writhed against the restraints, his tremendous gut rolled back and forth. Tommy recognized Don almost immediately.

Don was in agony. There was no sound, but Tommy could see the open, screaming mouth. Fingers scrabbled at the mattress. The toes curled. Don’s back arched in one unending spasm. Tommy kept waiting for him to stop, to fall back slack against the bed, to collapse with fatigue, but Don never showed any sign of release. It was as if he was connected to a live wire that was sending a relentless, unbroken high-voltage stream through his battered body, and the torturer had fallen asleep at the switch.

It was exhausting just watching him.

A second TV switched over to another overhead shot of a patient. Tommy didn’t know this one. The man was ragged and thin and dirty. Maybe some homeless guy. It didn’t matter. The unsettling body language mirrored Don’s thrashing. This man’s mouth opened and closed, broken teeth crunching together. A glimpse of gauze inside the mouth meant that the irregular teeth had snapped shut on the man’s tongue.

A third television blinked; another patient, this one also in the grip of agony. A fourth TV, a fifth. Soon the whole wall was alive with pain. The soundless cries filled the quiet room and Tommy recoiled in silent horror.

Dr. Reischtal whispered in his ear, “Do you see?”

Tommy flinched. He hadn’t heard Dr. Reischtal enter the conference room.

“Everyone else around here calls it a dreadful disease. A horrible tragedy. A supervirus. How absurd. They don’t see this for what it really is. They don’t see it as corruption of the spirit. But you, you see the truth. You can see that these hosts, they are not victims. They are not simply infected. They have been consumed by the darkness. They are all lost souls. You can see this. You know this to be true.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. With his luck, he’d try and say something that the lunatic would agree with, but would end up being the absolute worst thing to say. Tommy would end up cementing his compliance with the virus, driving Dr. Reischtal deeper into madness. Tommy knew that his very life teetered on the edge of this doctor’s insanity, hanging precariously on a thread in the cobwebs of Dr. Reischtal’s poisonous mind. So he kept his mouth shut.

“Why doesn’t this”—Dr. Reischtal nodded at the wall of TVs—“live within you?”

Tommy didn’t bother to say anything. He figured it was another rhetorical question.

Dr. Reischtal leaned in close, tiny glasses focusing his eyes like black lasers. “Obviously, there is still much we do not know. Therefore, you will be placed in close proximity to your partner, and we will observe the results.” Dr. Reischtal drew himself to his full height and gazed down at Tommy. “We will find out, once and for all, what you are hiding.”

CHAPTER 42

6:11 PM

August 13

A riot of swirling blue and red lights and irritated horns surrounded the Loop. Ed and Sam found that Upper Wacker was a parking lot, so they tried Congress and found it blocked as well. Ed finally turned on the radio. WBBM was talking about the murders, of course, but took a break every ten minutes to give updates about the weather and traffic. As it turned out, Chicago police had restricted all of the interior streets in the Loop down to one lane in cooperation with a special unit acting as liaisons with a branch of the CDC.

“Sounds like more horseshit to me,” Sam said.

“This is why I don’t turn on the radio,” Ed said. He flashed his lights, hit the siren, and whipped a U, heading south. He tore down Halsted to Roosevelt, turned to the lake. Left on Lake Shore Drive, this time heading north. Ed left the windows down. Sam cranked the air-conditioning.

Ed kept the siren and lights going as he raced up LSD, drifting across lanes with an almost drunken confidence. He turned left on East Monroe, heading west, back into downtown. They turned right on Michigan, then tried to go left on East Madison. A mass of cars blocked the intersection, all vying to be the next in line. Sam took the bullhorn and yelled at the driver of a silver Lexus. “Stop that car fucking right there, douche bag.”

The driver reluctantly stopped and refused to make eye contact as Ed got ahead of him. “That’s right, asshole,” Sam yelled into the bullhorn, aiming it at the Lexus. “Next time you see lights, you fucking remember to pull over.”

Streets inside the Loop were squeezed down to one lane, blocked with red and white sawhorses. The few pedestrians moved with an urgent purpose along empty sidewalks. They certainly moved faster than the vehicles. Ed and Sam’s car crept forward with the pace of some old lady with a walker out on a sunny day in no particular hurry.

Ed squeezed the steering wheel until Sam was afraid it might snap. Ed said, “This is gonna take all night. We’re never gonna find her going this slow.”

“Fuck it then,” Sam said. He tapped his badge. “We got ourselves an all-access backstage pass. Park anywhere you feel like. Let’s go for a walk.”

Ed pulled into the right hand turn lane at the intersection of Madison and State and killed the engine. Ed and Sam got out and stretched. The cars behind them waiting to make a right immediately started honking, but Ed reached back in and hit the spinning lights. The rest of the drivers behind him didn’t like it much, but at least they stopped hitting their horns. They angrily waited for their turn to pull back into traffic and finally turn right once they were past the detectives’ car. Sam waved as they went past.

Lee emptied the rest of the bottle of red wine into his glass. He set the bottle down harder than he’d intended, making a loud thunking noise on his glass dining table. Kimmy glanced at the empty bottle, but said nothing, focusing on her own plate. Good. She’d been a bitch lately, and he was in no fucking mood to listen to her nag, tonight especially.

He hadn’t hit her. Yet. Their relationship wasn’t that far along. But if she kept pushing him, by God, she was going to find out in a fucking hurry that he expected his women to keep their mouths open in the bedroom and zipped shut everywhere else.

Grace pushed soggy spaghetti noodles around her plate and made a face. “I wanted chicken strips,” she said for the third time that evening.

“I’ve already told you,” Kimmy said, “no one is delivering tonight. You’re lucky that I had enough to make spaghetti. Now be quiet and eat your dinner.” She looked up at Lee. “I hope it turned out okay. My mom made it all the time for us growing up. It’s not as good as hers, but I hope it’s okay.”

Lee gave a noncommittal grunt. The meal had been awful. Who the fuck serves peas with spaghetti? But there was no point in making things worse. He slid his plate away, making room for his elbows. He swirled the wine in his glass, just for something to do. It beat checking his phone yet again for a call from his uncle.

Grace said quietly, “I hope Daddy is okay.”

That about tore it. Lee drained his glass, went to pour another, and realized the bottle was empty. He couldn’t remember if he had another bottle in the wine cabinet in the pantry or not. Typical. The fucking city was falling apart around him and he was stuck with this stupid cunt and her kid without any alcohol.

“I told you to be quiet and eat your dinner,” Kimmy said. She tried to break the tension with Lee. “I used the whole-wheat noodles from Whole Foods, you know, to try and keep it healthy for you.”

“I was wondering why it tasted like shit,” Lee said. He threw his linen napkin at the table, knocking over the empty glass, and stomped into the living room. This room was the whole reason he’d bought the condo. All he could think of when he first took in the view was how much he wanted to bring people up to his place and show it off.

Harbor Point was perched at the north end of Grant Park. Lee’s condo was on the fifty-first floor and had a southwestern view. The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed him to watch the sun set over Chicago’s skyline every night. Tonight, the sun was nearly down, leaving the buildings of the Loop in silhouette. The remaining sunlight behind them was still strong enough to wash away any lights in the individual windows, giving the impression that Chicago was constructed of monolithic monuments, standing silent guard along the lake.

He blinked, shifting his focus from the darkening city to his own reflection as it grew stronger and more defined in the fading light. He didn’t like the furtive, hunted look in his eyes so he turned his attention to the sixty-inch plasma above the fireplace and watched the news for a while.

Things hadn’t gotten any better. Every goddamn channel in the world was focused on Chicago. It made the city look bad.

Fucking rats.

At least the federal government was in control. It wasn’t official yet, and it might never be official, but the CDC owned Chicago right now. So whatever went down, Lee wasn’t responsible. He couldn’t be held accountable. Shit happens. It wasn’t his fault. There was no way it could come around to bite Lee on the ass. And if things went real south, the boys in power always pinned everything on some pissant, second cousin to somebody low, and crucified him in the media. They’d do anything they could to aim the public’s hate at one guy while the rest scurried for cover.

Lee turned back to his reflection in the windows. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to the real power in the federal government. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. All these guys had to do was snap their fingers, and entire streets got shut down like it was nothing. His reflection didn’t reassure him. It had the opposite effect. He looked weak. He looked finished.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it suddenly occurred to him that to these feds, he might be a small fish. Small enough that he could be the scapegoat. For the first time, Lee faced the uncomfortable truth that they could blame everything on him.

He wished his uncle would call.

CHAPTER 43

8:41 PM

August 13

Sam drank in the relative peace and quiet of the city. The horns had tapered off, and all the flashing police lights gave the darkening city a festive feel, like it was some obscure holiday, the offspring of Halloween and the Fourth of July. And normally, at this relatively early time of night, eight o’clock, the pedestrian walkway, over twenty feet above the river, would be half-filled with smokers, getting those last puffs in before they got to their cars after a long ride home on the Metra. Tonight it was empty.

Sam popped a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth and relaxed on the bench, enjoying the view. Ed waited next to him, staring at the blacktop under his feet, ignoring the view. Ed was troubled, Sam could see tell, but he didn’t know what to say.

They’d passed Cook County General on their walk. The place was now surrounded by sawhorses with blinking lights, all wrapped in razor wire and supported with sandbags. It looked more like a barrack in Afghanistan than a hospital in Chicago.

“Where’s the goddamn media for this shit?” Ed had asked.

They watched as several ambulances pulled into the emergency drive. Sam whistled low, as soldiers, not paramedics, hopped out and escorted the gurneys into the emergency room. The ambulances took off, lights flashing, sirens going.

It was Sam who noticed the late-model sedan with the tinted windows parked at the intersection of Wacker and Monroe. He caught the silhouettes of hulking figures inside as the ambulance roared past. Ed wanted to go over, show them his badge, see what the hell they were doing. With everything going on, he was feeling powerless, and wanted to bust some skulls.

Sam cautioned against it. He got a bad vibe from the car. If they went over, shoving their badges around, they might make themselves more of a target. All they’d do is give those soldiers an excuse to fan out through the streets and hunt them down. And there was no way they would stand a chance against that kind of firepower.

Ed reluctantly agreed that Sam might have a point. So they kept walking. Two more blocks until they crossed Adams and found all the benches empty. They had been sitting there for over an hour before they heard the rattle of the shopping cart.

“You seen Old Henry?” Qween appeared in the dim glow of the streetlights.

“Earlier,” Ed said. “We need to talk to you.”

“Damn right you do,” Qween said, leaning on the handles to her cart. “’Bout time you figured that out. Where’d you see Henry?”

“Down by the river.”

“When was this?”

“This morning sometime. Why?”

“He gone. We ain’t talked all day. Ain’t like him.”

“I don’t know about that. But this,” Sam said, pointing at the hospital. “This is a problem.” He stood and paced. “The government has taken over in that place. We stick our heads inside, we ain’t gonna make it five feet. You say the rats are sick. The news is now saying the rats are carrying some kinda disease. And meanwhile, people are going bug-fuck crazy.” Sam spread his hands. “So. Let’s start with the rats. What’s wrong with ’em?”

Qween worked her mouth, chewing on something for a while. Sam and Ed weren’t sure if it was gum or something left over from dinner. She finally said, “I don’t know if it’s the rats or not. But if you wanna know about the rats, then go talk to the people that see ’em, day after day.”

“Streets and Sans, they’re not exactly cooperating.”

“No, not them. You need to talk to some folks that are out on the streets, day in, day out.” She looked from Ed to Sam. They didn’t get it. “Folks like me.”

“Foul-mouthed and cranky?” Sam asked.

The Man himself stared into the camera. “Doctor . . . Reischtal, is it?”

Dr. Reischtal said, “Yes, sir.” He sat alone in the conference room on the top floor. He had pulled back the hood of his hazmat suit and taken off the faceplate and twin filtration bulbs. It rested on the table within arm’s reach.

The Man got tired of waiting for Dr. Reischtal to say something else. “Understand the situation is critical. I’ve seen the news footage. Looks like things are going to hell in a handbasket.” He was the placid eye in a hurricane of activity. Aides rushed around him, and high-ranking officials like the secretary of defense flanked him. Everybody else had a cell phone glued to his or her ear, but the Man ignored all of this, and barely moved as he watched Dr. Reischtal’s video image.

Dr. Reischtal nodded. “The infection is reaching pandemic levels, yes. We are collecting and isolating individuals exhibiting any of the symptomology, as well as anyone else that may have been exposed. They are currently being treated at this hospital. However, we are running out of room.” He clasped his long skeletal fingers and stared back at the Man. “If we do not destroy the root cause, the origin of the virus, we have no chance of containing it.”

“Worst case?”

“Entire world. Within four or five months.”

“Best case?”

“Isolate it and destroy it. Downtown is already lost, I firmly believe this.”

“That’s not what we’re hearing from this end,” the Man said.

“Your end is not here. I am here. I know what is coming. I know how the virus is spreading.” Dr. Reischtal smiled. It did not contain warmth. “This is a species-ending virus, something that will latch on to anything you have in the way of a brain, and will live with the short-sighted goal to simply procreate and survive, even if it burns out an entire planet and ultimately kills itself.” He struggled not to say the word “God” or especially “wrath.”

The Man was silent for a moment. “Are you serious?” He turned to the secretary of the interior. “Is there any way what he’s talking about is even close to the truth?” He looked back at Dr. Reischtal. “You people are supposed to be the best in the business. How did it get this far?”

“Until recently, we were unable to determine the exact transmission method. Now we know. Therefore, I need authorization to begin an evacuation of downtown Chicago in response to the virus outbreak. “

“Is that really necessary? I mean, extreme measures have already been taken, have they not? I understood that downtown was already restricted.”

“I don’t think you understand the ramifications of not taking decisive action immediately. The situation has escalated, and it makes no matter whether we want it to stop when convenient. We are about to engage in a war here, make no mistake, where we are fighting for our lives, our very souls.”

Dr. Reischtal stood up and raised his voice. “It. Will. Spread. Of that I have no doubt. Have your people described, in detail, exactly what happens when one is infected with this particular virus? Have they explained that after a brief coma, anywhere from twelve hours to one or two, the victim awakes to some of the most intense skin irritation I have ever witnessed? An irritation so severe it invariably leads to the victim clawing his or her own skin off? I have personally witnessed a victim take a corkscrew to their thighs and chest in an attempt to satiate the irritation.” He did not mention that the corkscrew was, in fact, a scalpel, and the blade had been provided to the patient for the sole purpose of observing the reaction. “And then”—he spread his fingers flat on the table—“the victim becomes hypersensitive to any kind of sound, and reacts violently. You do understand that these infected patients will not stop. They will attack and kill anyone in their paths, using anything at their disposal. Do you not see the possible consequences if this particular virus spreads beyond Chicago?”

“You said that you now know how the virus is transmitted. Can you . . . enlighten us?”

Dr. Reischtal paused a moment. When the arm of his hazmat suit rubbed against his torso, it squeaked like a children’s bath toy. “Very well. But I believe this information should be kept from the public. It will only serve to hinder our primary focus, which is isolating the virus, studying it, and ultimately finding a vaccine.” He took a deep breath. It was time to reveal the truth. “The virus is being transmitted by parasitic insects, commonly known as bedbugs.”

The Man raised his eyebrows.

“Again, I must urge you to keep this information as quiet as possible. If you were to tell the general population what is really happening here, that death is crawling up through the cracks in the walls and hiding in their beds and couches, biting them when they sleep, feeding on them while they are hypnotized by their televisions, you would witness an unprecedented panic that will rip this country apart.”

Dr. Reischtal wasn’t the least surprised that the Old One had surfaced in a parasite, hiding in a bug that had once fed on the blood of mankind’s ancestors as they slept in caves and trees. He faced the camera and tried not to let anything into his voice or escape through his face as he fought to control what he said out loud. It was so obvious. Why could they not see it? The Ancient One, the End Foretold, No Rebirth without Death. “You asked if an evacuation was really necessary to stop this, this abomination. It is. In fact, it is the only way to burn this virus out with all the fury of our Lord.”

The Man shook his head. “I don’t know if you can comprehend what factors are involved in such a decision. The consequences can be far-reaching and quite unpleasant to contemplate. I do not need to remind you that an election is imminent. This is unacceptable.”

“And watching an entire city, then the entire country, fall victim to this virus, that would be acceptable?”

“Stop right there. I—”

“Listen to me!” Dr. Reischtal shouted, and if he felt any trepidation about interrupting the most powerful man in the free world, none of it showed on his face. He looked positively possessed. “This is what will be necessary.”

Dr. Reischtal began to tell the president exactly what was necessary.

Qween insisted on bringing a bowling ball bag that she had pulled from under the cart. She left her cart on Monroe, taking only the wheels and the bag. God knew what was inside. Ed didn’t think she could physically carry an actual bowling ball, but damned if he could figure it out; whatever it was, it was heavy.

She put her bag on the floor, stretched out in the backseat of the car, and made herself at home. She said, “Go south. Stop when you get to Roosevelt.”

The bag made Ed nervous. He said, “If there’s something you ain’t telling us, I will not appreciate it. I will take you in and make sure they put you in a hole for a long time. If this a wild goose chase, I will make it my purpose in life to make you unhappy.”

“You need to relax, Ed Jones.”

“What’s in the bag, Qween?”

“Stop when you get to Roosevelt.”

“Okay. Have it your way.” Ed didn’t say a word until they passed Eleventh Street. “Left or right.”

“Right. We heading west.”

Ed got into the right lane. They rode in silence for a while. Qween said slowly, “It used to be my mother’s. We spent a lot of time at Providence Hospital when I was young. Had some problems. ’Course, we didn’t start out there. Mama took me to the closest hospital first. Bunch of white doctors. Mama said that they took me in, but wouldn’t tell her the name of the disease. A white doctor prescribed a bunch of pills. She never did like to admit it, but years later, Mama told me I came outta there worse off. Said she tried to take me back, but they wouldn’t readmit me. I had been in there one night. That’s all Mama would say.

“Had to hear the rest from my aunt, who went with us. She said we first tried to get in to see the doctor through the front entrance. The whites acted as though we oughta be embarrassed for making the white folks actually come out and say that the hospital was filled, and that we should try Provident, down on Fifty-first.” She was quiet for a long time.

Sam and Ed didn’t say anything. They knew that Provident Hospital had been established to care for black folks in the late 1800s, since none of the other hospitals would.

Qween said, “So we waited for the doctor to leave his hospital. Mama saw him on the sidewalk. Confronted him right there in front of all the other people, other doctors, nurses, everybody. She said, ‘My girl hasn’t been right since. Something is wrong, doctor.’ Well, he just looked at her and said, ‘I saved your daughter’s life. Good day.’ And that was that. I’ll never forget Mama. He’s walking away, and she screamed at him, ‘You should have let her die.’

“I think she always felt bad for saying that. At least, saying it in front of me. So after we were done at Provident, we had to go back, over and over I remember, and so afterwards, she always took me bowling, down on Sixty-third Street. They had special hours for us black folks. We’d throw this nine-pound ball down the lane, praying it wouldn’t end up in the gutter, you know. I remember it real clear. Like it was last week. Mama had this look on her face, flinging this big old heavy black ball at the white pins.”

Qween gave a sly grin. “That’s how I got the bag, Ed Jones.” She gave him a few more directions, and they worked their way a few blocks south. Pretty soon they pulled past a big neon cross at the center of a long two-story building. HIS NAME BE PRAISED HOLY MISSION was spelled out below the cross in white neon letters. Ed pulled into the alley behind the mission.

“You better not be yanking our chain, Qween. This place—you know damn well what’s really going on here. Last chance to tell us the truth.”

“Yeah, yeah. You done warned me.” She got a solid hold on the handle of her bag. “We here ’cause of the spacemen.”

“The spacemen, Qween?” Ed asked and killed the engine.

“Spacemen. This place, they be selling people to the spacemen.”

“Good enough for me,” Sam said and got out.

He slammed his door to find three young black gentlemen in sharp suits and close-cropped hair. They all carried Bibles and gave him tight-lipped smiles. One of them said, “Evening, brother.”

Sam grinned right back and flashed his star and his handgun. The three gentlemen faded back to the front of the building, joining a couple of others in shouting upbeat slogans at passing cars. Sam shook his head and spit his nicotine gum on the sidewalk.