Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER 27

12:09 AM

August 12

The owner kicked the detectives and the homeless woman out when closing time rolled around. Qween took her cart and disappeared in the shuddering roar and squealing sparks from an overhead El train. Ed and Sam barely noticed.

Ed said he’d walk home and Sam hailed a cab. Vague promises were made to follow up with Qween the next day, but they both knew it was bullshit. Sam fell into the cab and promptly fell asleep.

Ed told the cabbie Sam’s address and knocked on the hood. He headed east, crossing Wacker, then the Chicago River. He lived in a condo on Clinton that overlooked the diesel-choked Metra and Amtrak train yard, the only reason he could afford the mortgage.

His girlfriend, Carolina, had been working the early-morning shift at a pancake place up on Belmont while Ed dropped her son off at his middle school. She would pick him up in the afternoon, spend time with him in evening, and if Ed was on duty, her mother would take over while Carolina went to law school at night. Ed whispered good night and gave Grandma a peck on the cheek and slap on her ass as the grinning woman left.

His wife had died years earlier and his own children were grown with families of their own, scattered out around the suburbs. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to sit on the patio. At night, the train yard wasn’t so bad. Only a couple of trains rolled by every half hour. He sat back, trying to focus on the reflections of the lights on the oily surface of the Chicago River—a dizzying array of spectral rainbows—and hoping he wouldn’t have any dreams about the subway tunnels, he fell asleep.

The cabbie woke Sam up and said, “Eighteen-fifty, please.”

Sam gave the guy a twenty and crawled out. He stood on the sidewalk and realized he didn’t want to go inside and sit in the darkness and listen to the drip in the sink, the whine from the air-conditioning unit in the bedroom window, and nothing else. Around three, the dripping would be overshadowed by the muffled industrial noises from the dry-cleaning business downstairs.

He checked the time as the cab left. He knew of a liquor store about six or seven blocks away and set off. The night was cooling off and the air smelled decent. After walking a block, he felt good. The nap in the cab had really paid off. It was the first real sleep he’d had in a week, at least. He bought a pint of vodka, walked another half of a block, and ascended the Western Brown Line station. He sat in the shadows and cracked his bottle, drank deeply.

After a while, the next inbound El came along, so he stowed the bottle and boarded. He got off at Belmont and watched the traffic for a while. He took a few more pulls from the bottle. The next southbound train was nearly empty. In his car, there was only a Latino couple whispering and giggling and an older Asian guy trying not to fall asleep. Sam took a seat in the back. No one else got on at Fullerton.

Just past Armitage, the train descended into the tunnels under Chicago.

Sam pulled out the bottle and spent the night riding the subway, watching his reflection bounce and flicker against the rushing darkness beyond the window, wondering how many dead rats were out there.

CHAPTER 28

8:15 AM

August 12

The maintenance man in charge of the day shift found Herman curled up under his desk. He frowned. This was not like Herman. As long as he’d known the man, Herman had never slept through the night on the job. He knew for a fact that Herman sometimes took a nap, but only after he had finished his work, and needed rest before heading off to drive a cab. The day shift man didn’t give a damn if Herman slept or not as long as the work was done, but he’d found the floor buffer in the middle of the hallway.

“Herman, Herman.” He shook Herman’s shoulder. “You can’t sleep here, man. Come on.”

Herman jolted awake and stared around, blinking rapidly, as if he didn’t know where he was. He tried to swallow. His eyes finally focused on the day shift man. He croaked out a question.

The day shift man didn’t understand him. “I don’t know what the problem is, man, but you’d better get up and finish the floor before anybody else gets in, you know?” He held out his hand.

Herman smacked it away and scrambled out from under the desk. He made a sound halfway between a whimper and a deep whine, and backed away from the other man.

“Herman, you okay? You want me to call somebody? A doctor, maybe?”

Herman spun and shuffled quickly down the corridor, disappearing into the shadows.

He raced up a utility staircase and burst into a corridor padded with thick carpet and bright fluorescent lights that burned his eyes. He stumbled along, hand slapping at door handles. They were all locked. He finally found a supply closet and fell inside. He crawled under the shelves to a dark corner and pressed his face into it, trying to quell the sobs threatening to erupt. The pain in his head was excruciating. The pain obliterated everything else, his job, his appearance, any rational thought. He couldn’t even follow a logical sequence of ideas to try and understand what was wrong with him. He scraped his fingernails against the rough paint and pushed his forehead even harder into the corner.

Gradually, a new sensation crept up underneath the pain. Something bubbled mischievously under his skin. For the briefest moment, he almost felt relief, as this new feeling tipped the balance and he found that he could focus on something other than the agony spiking through his head.

But the sweet reprieve was gone in the time it took to exhale.

And then he wished he could have the pain back.

A sinister itch crawled up his back, starting just under his buttocks and snaking its way along his spine. He’d never felt anything like it before. It was maddening, as if a spider with feathers for legs was gently pulling itself along the inside of his skin.

He twisted his right arm back and frantically clawed at the whispering, teasing irritation. The second his fingers dragged the fabric of his shirt across the bare skin, disturbing the thick hair on his back, the itch got a thousand times worse. He heard something, something indistinct from a great distance, and didn’t realize it was his own moan of despair.

He ripped his shirt over his head and dropped it. Twisting, he tried to reach the bad spots, his thick, stubby fingers failing to provide any relief. The blunt fingernails finally tore the surface of skin, and blood trickled down his back.

It made the itch worse.

He was openly sobbing now, slapping, clawing, raking his nails across the skin on his back as far as he could stretch. The itch, though, kept dancing away, waiting mockingly just out of reach. He struggled to his feet, pawing through the shelves for something, anything that he could use to scratch.

His fingers closed over a pair of industrial scissors with foot-long shears.

Without hesitation, he shoved the sharp points up into the spot between his shoulder blades. He rubbed them vigorously back and forth. A curious burning relief slowly spread along his spine and he closed his eyes. His breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the cramped closet.

The itching under his buttocks grew worse. He shifted his grip on the scissors, gripping them halfway up the shears. He stabbed the back of his right thigh, and raked the points from side to side. The blades tore through his pants and flesh like a fork sinking through the skin that forms on pudding as it cools. He paid no attention to blood seeping down the back of his legs, staining the khaki fabric a dark red.

The closet door opened.

A woman stood there. She gave a startled gasp at finding someone inside. She’d been working as an office administrator for over five years, and she’d never, ever been shocked like this at work before. She blushed and started to apologize. Then she saw the look in Herman’s eyes. And when she saw the blood, she started screaming.

The scream pierced the insanity of itching, driving a bolt of fear directly into his skull, right between his eyes. The itching and pain from the headache cracked and fell away, leaving nothing but raw, naked panic. Adrenaline exploded throughout his system, and he lashed out with the scissors.

The two tips, spread slightly apart about an inch, like the jaws of a bored, not very hungry shark, sank into her side between the lower ribs, just under her left breast. Her scream caught and broke apart sharply as she struggled for another breath.

Herman yanked the tips of the scissors out, reversed his grip, curling his fingers through the round holes of the handles.

The woman found another breath as she stumbled backwards into a cubicle wall, and produced an even louder scream. Herman stayed close, raised his arm, and brought the scissors down across her face. The points slid through the plump tissue of her cheek, scraped along her jawbone, until finally plunging into the soft skin above her collarbone. He ripped them out and drove the blades into her skull again. This time, the shears sank four inches into her left eye, popping it like a squashed grape.

She kept screaming.

He did not relent, even as she fell to the floor. Again and again, he drove the scissors into her eyes. Her mouth. When she finally stopped making noise, her face looked like she’d fallen headfirst into a wood chipper.

He left her twitching in the hall and ran.

Herman burst out of the spinning doors into the August heat, full of sticky air and exhaust fumes. He stumbled, falling to his knees on the sidewalk in the midst of a throng of early-morning commuters. He had no comprehension that he was shirtless and covered in blood. Nothing existed for him except the liquid fear that was quickly hardening along his nerve endings into teeth clenching hate.

The roar from a northbound Orange Line train grew louder as it passed, clattering along above Wells a block away. Herman clapped his hands to his ears and howled.

Most everyone approaching stopped once they saw all the blood. Except for one businessman, striding purposefully down the sidewalk, yammering into a cell phone. He wasn’t paying attention and was nearly on top of Herman before he noticed anything. All he saw, though, was a shirtless man, which undoubtedly meant he was inebriated, rocking back and forth, hands on his head for some reason.

“Hang on, Bob. There’s some kind of moron—”

Herman sprang at the man and stabbed him in the throat. The scissor blades hit the businessman’s carotid artery, and when Herman yanked them out, blood erupted in a fine mist, spraying four feet across the sidewalk. The man took a step back, but something about his inner drive, his desire to dominate, remained in his posture, keeping him on his feet. His brain wouldn’t let him drop his cell phone either.

Bob kept asking, “Hello? You still there? Hello?”

More screaming erupted around Herman. He threw himself into the crowd in a berserk frenzy, slashing and stabbing at anyone within reach. People fled in all directions. Behind him, the businessman’s body finally gave up and sagged to the sidewalk.

Herman zeroed in on a shrieking woman in a gray suit. She darted into the empty street. Half a block away, the light had just changed, and the vehicles surged forward. All the drivers saw was some executive trying to beat the traffic.

Herman darted between a FedEx truck parked at the curb and a Streets and Sans van and chased her into the street. He focused solely on the running woman, utterly unaware of the giant black SUV that was racing up the street.

The driver was intent on beating a cab that had been irritating her for blocks, and when she saw the shirtless, hairy man dash out into the street, it was too late. The driver used her three-inch heels to stomp on the brakes, locking the tires up, rubber howling as it burned into the pavement, but the SUV had been travelling at nearly thirty-five miles an hour. All it did was slow down enough so that when the left headlight struck Herman, it knocked him forward a dozen feet, but then the fender caught him up and drove him into the pavement, grinding him along for a while. Eventually his legs drifted back and were caught under the front tire, and his entire body was ripped in half. Both halves tore loose and were crushed under the back tires.

Later, when they found his arm, his hand was still clutching the scissors.

CHAPTER 29

6:01 PM

August 12

Don didn’t show up for work. Tommy wasn’t particularly surprised at first. They’d spent the night before drowning in beer. He figured Don would stumble in soon, so he clocked in, changed into his overalls and boots, and waited. At 6:30, Don was a half-hour late. He had never been this late since Tommy had started work at Streets and Sans. At 7:00, Tommy called him. Nobody answered.

They’d started the night before pounding Old Styles, sure, but it hadn’t been any different than any of the other countless nights they’d spent at the bar with no name, except Don kept showing off the torn rubber glove, the marks on the leather gloves underneath, and finally, his unscathed hand. Everybody had wanted to hear the whole story as they came in, so Don and Tommy hadn’t paid for one beer.

Around ten, Don had heard about some house party one of his nephews was throwing, so they drove down to Blue Island and found the place full of community college students. Don had tried to impress the girls, but somehow, tales of catching rats hadn’t done much for them. Don’s nephew heard the stories, and started bitching about a goddamn raccoon that had torn a hole in the roof and moved into the space above the attic. Full of a beer and fueled by the eyes of the coeds, Tommy had volunteered to climb up under the roof and catch the critter. He promised not hurt the poor animal, something he later regretted.

He’d found the raccoon, no problem, but the damn thing hissed at him and snapped at his grasping hands, slicing the shit out of his fingers and palm. Finally, a hour later, bleeding from both hands, Tommy gave up and crawled out from under the eaves. Don laughed, and told his nephew quietly that they’d leave some poisoned bait later in the week and the problem would be solved. Tommy wrapped his hands in paper towels soaked in hydrogen peroxide and waited for the girls to come and talk to him. It never happened. Don and Tommy didn’t leave because there was still beer left in the keg, and hung out in the empty backyard, sitting in the cracked swing set for the rest of the night, until the beer was gone. The last Tommy had seen of Don was the man giving a drunken wave as he pulled into early morning traffic.

The supervisor couldn’t have cared less if Don was late or not. He was caught up in a Sox game. Around 8:00, Tommy took the van and went for a ride. He’d been to Don’s place just once, and wasn’t sure he could recognize it.

The AM news stations were full of speculation about the motives behind a series of brutal attacks downtown that morning. Tommy, like most people who lived in a large city, shrugged off these tales of horror and tragedy, acknowledging that they lived in an insane, violent world, but if you dwelled on it too long, hopelessness might overtake you. It was better to pause a moment in silent reflection for the victims, then move on.

Don lived in a garden apartment off of Milwaukee near Roscoe; the “garden” part was bullshit for “basement.” Don had an old little mutt, Rambo, that ran around like a berserk puppy for a while when he came home, then would find a spot and sleep for the next ten hours.

Tommy found the building, or at least what he thought might be the building, and double-parked, yellow flashers going. It was a brick three-flat that looked like a million others in the city. Don didn’t answer his doorbell. Tommy leaned on the buzzer. Nothing. He went down the street and around to the alley and counted buildings as he walked. The night that Tommy had been there, Don had shown him how he didn’t bother with the key to the garage; all he had to do was lift the loose door and pull the dead bolt free.

Tommy let himself into the garage and slipped through the inky blackness. He opened the inner door, crossed the backyard in two paces, and went down the cement steps to knock on Don’s door. By now, Tommy didn’t expect an answer. He heard Rambo’s yips and paws on the other side. He tried the door.

It opened. Rambo was there, happy, as usual, to see somebody, anybody.

“Don? Don? You in here?” Tommy called. He took hold of the door and knocked again, louder. Rambo jumped at his legs and he picked up the dog. “Don?”

Still nothing. Tommy stepped into the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and scratched Rambo’s ears. The layout was a shotgun shack, a straight shot down the hallway, with rooms and bathrooms on either side. The kitchen sat at the back end, the living room in the front.

“Don?” Down the dark hall, light seeped out of the crack around the bathroom door. Tommy found the light switch for the hall and flicked it on. He turned Rambo loose, and the dog went trotting down into the shadows of the living room. He opened the bathroom door and found it empty. Don’s bedroom was also empty.

Tommy’s shadow stretched across Rambo as the dog turned in slow circles on the couch before settling into another nap. Don’s ancient thirteen-inch television flickered in the corner, sending dancing patterns of colors across the scuffed wooden floor.

Tommy crossed the darkness of the living room and was just about to twist the switch on the lamp when he stepped on something and realized it was Don’s hand.

There was no music tonight. Sam and Ed weren’t in the mood. They cruised up and down the one-way streets through the Loop, windows down, Sam driving and glaring at the tourists. By now, most of the secretaries in their gym shoes and the computer programmers in their wrinkled button-up short-sleeve shirts and all the rest of the suits had either gone home or hit the bars. Traffic was sparse.

“Brother, we don’t find her, I don’t see how we’re gonna wriggle off this time,” Ed said.

“You don’t think Arturo’ll bat for us?”

Ed shook his head. “Not this time. We fucked up. Should’ve taken her to lockup.”

“No,” Sam said flatly. “And let those fucks track her down inside? If they took a chance sweating her inside the goddamn sheriff’s office in City Hall, no telling what would happen in County.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have turned her loose.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Story of my fucking life,” Sam said, spitting his nicotine gum out of the window.

“You got any ideas on how to fix this, I’m open to suggestions.”

“Find her. Take her in. Make Arturo give her protective witness status.”

“Arturo ain’t gonna get within ten miles of this. You know that.” Ed looked out the passenger window. “Maybe she should turn a rat loose in his office. Might get his attention then.”

CHAPTER 30

8:20 PM

August 12

The paramedics, Scott and Vince, weren’t in a big hurry. They pulled up behind the Streets and Sans truck and took their time getting their bags ready, before sauntering up the sidewalk and ringing the buzzer. 911 had told them that the patient wasn’t conscious, but was breathing steadily. That meant that there was no point in rushing. Some Polack kid was waiting impatiently in the foyer. He practically dragged them into the crappy little basement apartment.

All the lights were on. The patient, Don, another fucking Polack, was lying between the coffee table and the couch. He looked like he was just sleeping off a bad drunk.

Vince snapped on some purple surgical gloves and checked Don’s vital signs. Scott sighed heavily and cornered Tommy. “You guys live here together?”

“What? Uh, no. No.” Tommy caught the paramedic’s leer.

“It’s not like that. We work together.”

“Okay, fine. Sure. Whatever. Your name?”

“Tommy Krazinsky.”

Vince spoke up. “What kind of drugs were you guys taking tonight?”

“What?” Tommy asked. “Drugs? No, no. Don never did any drugs.”

“Look, I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with your friend. It might mean the difference between life and death here. Now, what was your friend on?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. As far as I know, he never took anything stronger than beer and aspirin.”

There was a knock, and a Chicago cop stood in the front doorway. The cop was white, pushing forty. His mustache was in better shape than his body. “Who called it in?”

“I did.” Tommy stepped forward.

The cop pulled out his notebook. “Name?” he asked, clicking his pen like he was cocking his handgun. Tommy gave his name and a statement. Scott poked around Don’s apartment, looking for drugs, but came up empty. He held his hands up to the cop.

The cop walked over and got a better look at Don. Writing in his notebook, the cop said aloud, “Possible heart attack. Older white male. Drug angle looks less likely.”

Vince finally decided that he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with the patient, so they went back to the ambulance and brought back a collapsible gurney.

The kid, Tommy, asked if he could ride with them to the hospital.

Scott and Vince looked to the cop.

The cop asked the paramedics, “Where you taking him?”

Scott said, “Northwestern is closest.”

The cop nodded, said to Tommy, “He’ll be at Northwestern. You can drive your own vehicle slowly and safely there, and ask for him in the emergency room.” He headed to his car, tilting his head, speaking in a bored tone into the mike on his shoulder.

The paramedics loaded Don into the ambulance. Vince slammed the door shut and got in on the passenger side. Scott hit the lights and sirens and headed for Milwaukee Avenue.

The supervisor’s voice came out of the phone, abrupt and out of breath. “Tommy? That you?”

“Yeah,” he said as he clenched the phone against his shoulder, trying to buckle the seat belt with one hand and steer with the other. He picked up speed, following the ambulance.

“You know that Lee is looking for you guys? Is Don with you?”

“No. He’s in the ambulance. He’s sick.”

“Sick? Sick how?”

“I don’t know. He’s unconscious.”

There was a pause while the supervisor talked with somebody else. He came back on. “You say he’s in an ambulance?”

“Yeah. They’re taking him to the hospital right now.”

“Which ambulance is this? What’s the company?”

“I can’t tell. A red and green one.” Tommy weaved around vehicles that had pulled over for the ambulance, and were just starting to pull back into their lane again.

“Is there a number or a name on the side?”

“I don’t know. They’re taking him to Northwestern. Call there.”

“Is there a number or a name on the side?”

Tommy hit SPEAKERPHONE and threw the phone on the dash. “I. Don’t. Know,” he yelled while scooting through an intersection against the light, trying to keep up with the ambulance. Other drivers hit their horns. To them, he was just another asshole trying to steal the road in the ambulance’s wake.

Tommy followed as it turned left onto Division and crossed over the North Branch of the Chicago River. His phone was quiet for a minute. He heard the supervisor’s voice, talking to someone else. “You got it? Okay. Fine. Better this way. Absolutely.” Tommy hit his horn at drivers impatient to pull back into traffic, ignoring their rearview mirrors and his flashing yellow lights.

Tommy’s phone flashed CALL ENDED.

The ambulance’s brakes flickered uncertainly, and turned south on LaSalle. It seemed to Tommy they went slower, even though this was a four-lane street. The ambulance was far more cautious when it came to crossing streets. Tommy found it was easy to catch up. When they passed Chicago Ave, Tommy was confused. The ambulance continued going south on LaSalle, leaving Northwestern farther and farther behind.

He relaxed when he realized they were taking Don to Cook County General. Maybe they’d radioed ahead. Maybe they’d been told that Cook County General had better equipment for Don, with a team of specialists, ready and waiting for Don. Hell, maybe Cook County General dealt with this kind of thing everyday.

Maybe it was all going to be okay.

Sam pulled over to the curb and waved a homeless guy over.

The guy, a man in his thirties with wild hair, waved off imaginary insects. “Wasn’t doing nothin’, officer.”

“What makes you think I’m an officer? Might be I’m just a tourist, trying to find my hotel.”

“Whatever you says, officer.”

Sam unwrapped more gum. “You seen Qween around?”

“Queen?” The man cocked his head, listening to phantom radio transmissions. “Of England?”

“Don’t fuck with us, pal,” Ed said, surprising Sam. Ed was usually happy playing the good cop. “I don’t have much patience tonight. Got half a mind to come out and beat the living shit out of you for resisting arrest.”

“Tell you what,” Sam said, thinking it might be his turn to play good cop. “I got ten bucks if your memory improves.”

The homeless man cocked his head the other direction, as if receiving conflicting transmissions. “Well, now. Maybe I know, maybe I don’t. Let’s see the money.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, found a ten-dollar bill. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

The man looked offended. “Shit. Ever’body knows Qween.” He took the ten. “Ain’t seen her in two days.”

“Know where she stays?”

The man shook his head. “Used to have a spot on Lower Wacker. Up and took everything somewheres else. Don’t know where.”

“You know why?”

“Have to ask her.”

“You’re not exactly earning your money here,” Sam said.

The man shrugged. “Whatchu want? I don’t know.”

Ed leaned over, fixed the man with his dead eyes. “What’s the story with the rats?”

The man didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “The rats? They sick, man. Ever’body knows that. You stay away from ’em. Ever’body knows that.”